emerson, r. fretz, r. shaw, l. - writing ethnographic notes

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OBERT M. EMERSON is professor emeritus in theDepartment of Sociology at the University of California,

os Angeles. He is the author of Contemporary Field esearch: Perspectives and Formulations , now in its

econd edition. RACHEL I. FRETZ is a lecturer in theWriting Programs unit at UCLA. LINDA L. SHAW isrofessor in and chair of the sociology department atalifornia State University, San Marcos.

he University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637he University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 1995, 2011 by The University of Chicagoll rights reserved. Published 2011.rinted in the United States of America

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SBN-13: 978-0-226-20683-7 (paper)SBN-10: 0-226-20683-1 (paper)SBN-13: 978-0-226-20686-8 (e-book)

ibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

merson, Robert M.Writing ethnographic fieldnotes / Robert M.Emerson, Rachel I. Fretz, Linda L. Shaw. — 2nd



ed. p. cm. — (Chicago guides to writing, editing,and publishing)ISBN-13: 978-0-226-20683-7 (pbk.: alk. paper)ISBN-10: 0-226-20683-1 (pbk.: alk. paper)1. Ethnology—Authorship. 2. Ethnology— Fieldwork. 3. Ethnology—Research. 4. Academicwriting. I. Fretz, Rachel I. II. Shaw, Linda L. III.Title.GN307.7.E44 2011808′.066305—dc22

2011016145

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).



WRITINGETHNOGRAPHICFIELDNOTES

ECOND EDITION

Robert M. Emerson

Rachel I. FretzLinda L. Shaw



WRITINGETHNOGRAPHICFIELDNOTES

ECOND EDITION



n Writing, Editing, and Publishing acques Barzun

elling about Societyoward S. Becker

ricks of the Tradeoward S. Becker

Writing for Social Scientists

oward S. Becker

ermissions, A Survival Guideusan M. Bielstein

he Craft of Translationohn Biguenet and Rainer Schulte, editors



he Craft of ResearchWayne C. Booth, Gregory G. Colomb, and Joseph M.Williams

he Dramatic Writer’s CompanionWill Dunne

Glossary of Typesetting Termsichard Eckersley, Richard Angstadt, Charles M.

llerston, Richard Hendel, Naomi B. Pascal, andAnita Walker Scott

Writing Ethnographic Fieldnotesobert M. Emerson, Rachel I. Fretz, and Linda L.

haw

egal Writing in Plain Englishryan A. Garner

rom Dissertation to Book William Germano

Getting It Published William Germano

he Craft of Scientific Communicationoseph E. Harmon and Alan G. Gross



torycraft ack Hart

Poet’s Guide to Poetry

Mary Kinzie

he Chicago Guide to Collaborative Ethnographyuke Eric Lassiter

ow to Write a BA Thesisharles Lipson

ite Right harles Lipson

he Chicago Guide to Writing about Multivariatenalysis

ane E. Miller

he Chicago Guide to Writing about Numbersane E. Miller

apping It Out Mark Monmonier

he Chicago Guide to Communicating Science



cott L. Montgomery

ndexing Booksancy C. Mulvany

evelopmental Editing cott Norton

Getting into Print

Walter W. Powell

he Subversive Copy Editor arol Fisher Saller

Manual for Writers of Research Papers, Theses, and issertations

Kate L. Turabian

tudent’s Guide for Writing College Papers

Kate L. Turabian

ales of the Field ohn Van Maanen

tyleoseph M. Williams



Handbook of Biological Illustrationrances W. Zweifel



To our friend and colleague, Mel Pollner (1940–2007)



Contents

Cover CopyrightPreface to the Second EditionPreface to the First Edition

Fieldnotes in EthnographicResearchEthnographic ParticipationThe Complexities of DescriptionInscribing Experienced/ObservedRealitiesImplications for Writing FieldnotesReflections: Writing Fieldnotes andEthnographic Practice

In the Field: Participating,



Observing, and Jotting NotesParticipating in Order to WriteWhat Are Jottings?

Making Jottings: How, Where, andWhenReflections: Writing andEthnographic Marginality

Writing Fieldnotes I: At the Desk,Creating Scenes on a PageMoving from Field to Desk

Recalling in Order to WriteWriting Detailed Notes: Depiction of Scenes

Narrating a Day’s Entry:Organizational StrategiesIn-Process Analytic Writing: Asidesand CommentariesReflections: “Writing” and “Reading”Modes



Writing Fieldnotes II: MultiplePurposes and Stylistic OptionsStance and Audience in Writing

Fieldnotes Narrating Choices about PerspectiveFieldnote Tales: Writing Extended

Narrative Segments

Analytic Writing: In-Process MemosReflections: Fieldnotes as Products of Writing Choices

Pursuing Members’ MeaningsImposing Exogenous MeaningsRepresenting Members’ MeaningsMembers’ Categories in Use:Processes and ProblemsRace, Gender, Class, and Members’MeaningsLocal Events and Social ForcesReflections: Using Fieldnotes toDiscover/Create Members’ Meanings



Processing Fieldnotes: Coding andMemoingReading Fieldnotes as a Data Set

Open CodingWriting Code MemosSelecting ThemesFocused Coding

Integrative MemosReflections: Creating Theory fromFieldnotes

Writing an EthnographyDeveloping a Thematic NarrativeTransposing Fieldnotes intoEthnographic TextProducing a Completed EthnographicDocumentReflections: Between Members andReaders

Conclusion



NotesReferencesIndex



Preface to the Second Edition

Over the past twenty-five years or so,thnography has become a widelyecognized and generally acceptedpproach to qualitative social research. Butronically, in the years since theublication of the first edition of Writing thnographic Fieldnotes in 1995, the

urge of interest in ethnographic writingwe noted at that time seemingly haseceded. Sociologists and anthropologistso longer take up the complexities oepresentation in ethnography asrequently as they did in the 1980s and990s; they offer fewer considerations ohe nature and effects of writing in



thnographic research than in thoseecades, although these issues seem toemain lively concerns in community

tudies and writing programs. But thearlier concern with the processes owriting fieldnotes, as opposed to polishedthnographic articles and monographs,

oes appear to have made significantmarks on the practice of ethnography:

ome ethnographers now publish articlesn key issues and processes in writingieldnotes, including Warren (2000) and

Wolfinger (2002). In addition, androbably more significantly, somethnographic anthologies (e.g., Atkinson,

Coffey, Delamont, Lofland, and Lofland’sandbook of Ethnography ) and qualitative

esearch guides (e.g., Lofland, Snow,Anderson, and Lofland, Analyzing Social

ettings, fourth edition; Warren and



Karner, Discovering Qualitative Methods:ield Research, Interviews, and Analysis,

econd edition) now provide extended

iscussions of how to produce and work with fieldnotes. These developmentsrovide some indication that addressingolicies and practices for writing fieldnotes

s increasingly part of ethnographicraining for many social scientists.

These developments provide part of themotivation for a second edition of Writing

thnographic Fieldnotes. But our ownxperiences teaching ethnographicieldwork to another generation of studentslayed a much larger role in this decision.

As we continued to work with bothndergraduate and graduate students inieldwork courses, we were struck againnd again by the pivotal role that writingieldnotes plays in introducing



thnography and in molding andeepening students’ research experiences.

And we remain intrigued by the varieties

f writing issues that students have torapple with and try to resolve in order toreate lively, detailed, and accurateieldnote depictions of the social worlds

hey are trying to comprehend.Teaching in large part from Writing

thnographic Fieldnotes had another ffect: As the result of continuing studentuestions and confusion, we saw at closeand some of the limitations in parts of theook. These student reactions led us to

make changes at a number of points in theext, although we have tried to retain as

much continuity as possible with the firstdition. In particular, we have substantiallyeorganized chapters 3 and 4 on strategiesnd tactics for writing fieldnotes to more



losely mirror the sequencing of stageshrough which beginning ethnographersass in learning to write fieldnotes. In

hese chapters, we deepened our discussionf point of view, in particular, focusing onhe shifts between first and third person as

well as showing the benefits of writing in

ocused third person. We also clarified themany ways that fieldnote writing is a kindf narrating, both in creating a looselytructured day’s entry and in composing

more cohesive fieldnote tales within thosentries. We have made fewer and lessrastic changes in the other chapters,lthough we have provided a fuller iscussion of the issues of race, class, andender as well as the relationship oieldnotes and ethnography to broader ocial patterns and structures. Throughout,

we have updated our references to reflect



ontributions to ethnographic practiceince the publication of the first editionnd included new student fieldnote

xcerpts that exemplify our concerns andecommendations.In terms of the actual substance of these

hanges, in our teaching we now place

trong emphasis on beginning analysis asarly as possible. Developing theory fromieldnote and interview data is not an easyr straightforward process and should betarted early enough to allow theieldworker to look for, find, and write upbservations that will advance suchnalysis. The new edition reflects theseoncerns: We now urge writing briesides and more elaborate commentariesrom day one in the field, one-paragraphummary commentaries at the end of eachet of fieldnotes, and lengthier in-process



memos within a matter of weeks. Weontinue to distinguish these forms of in-rocess analysis and analytic writing from

he full-bore processes of coding andmemo writing that best occur after aubstantial amount of field data has beenollected.

We want to acknowledge the help andupport of a number of students from our ourses who have contributed feedback on

he first edition and/or fieldnotes that weave incorporated in this second edition.

These students include Diego Avalos,Caitlin Bedsworth, Stefani Delli Quadri,Marie Eksian, Katie Falk, Christy Garcia,Graciella Gutierrez, Blaire Hammer, BrianHarris, Heidi Joya, Eric Kim, Jaeeun Kim,

orma Larios, Grace Lee, Nicole Lozano,Miles Scoggins, Sara Soell, and Jennifer Tabler.



We would also like to thank theollowing family, friends, and colleaguesor their intellectual and personal support

n this project: Bruce Beiderwell, SharonCullity, Amy Denissen, Sharon Elise,helley Feldman, Bob Garot, Jack Katz,

Leslie Paik, Mary Roche, Garry Rolison,

Bob Tajima, Erin von Hofe, and CarolWarren.



Preface to the First Edition

n recent years many ethnographers havemphasized the central place of writing inheir craft. Geertz’s (1973) characterizationf “inscription” as the core of ethnographicthick description” and Gusfield’s (1976)issection of the rhetorical underpinningsf science provided seminal statements inhe 1970s. Subsequently, Clifford and

Marcus’s edited collection, Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics o

thnography (1986), Van Maanen’s Talesf the Field (1988), and Atkinson’s Thethnographic Imagination (1990) havedvanced consideration of ethnographic

writing.



Yet examinations of ethnographicwriting remain partial in scope: All beginwith already written fieldnotes and move

n to examine matters such as thehetorical character of these fieldnotes or he more general structure of the whole,inished ethnographies built up from them.

n so doing, they neglect a primal occasionf ethnographic writing— writing ieldnotes. Thus, they ignore a key issue inhe making of ethnographies— nderstanding how an observer/researcher its down and turns a piece of her livedxperience into a bit of written text in theirst place.

Indeed, most analyses of the “poetics othnography” (Clifford and Marcus 1986)ake as their subject matter the polishedccounts of social life provided inublished monographs. But such finished



exts incorporate and are built up out ohese smaller, less coherent bits and piecesf writings—out of fieldnotes, many

omposed long before any comprehensivethnographic overview has beeneveloped. Moreover, fieldnotes ininished ethnographies are reordered and

ewritten, selected and molded to somenalytic purpose. They thus appear in veryifferent forms and carry very differentmplications than the original corpus oieldnotes that the ethnographer producedn the field. In these respects, writingieldnotes, not writing polishedthnographies, lies at the core oonstructing ethnographic texts.

On the practical methodological level,ield researchers have similarly neglectedssues of how to write fieldnotes. “How too it” manuals of fieldwork provide reams



f advice on how to manage access andelations with unknown others in differentultures and settings. But they offer only

ccasional, ad hoc commentary on how toake fieldnotes, what to take notes on, ando on.

1 Field researchers, in general, have

ot given close, systematic attention toow fieldnotes are written in particular rojects. Nor have they considered how toffectively train fieldwork novices to write

more sensitive, useful, and stimulatingieldnotes. Instead, fieldwork manualsirect practical advice toward how to work

with existing fieldnotes in order torganize and write finished ethnographies.

For example, Strauss (1987) and hisoworkers (Strauss and Corbin 1990)rovide detailed treatments of how to code

otes and how to work with codings toroduce finished ethnographies. But this



ocus on coding assumes that thethnographer has completed writing a setf fieldnotes and now faces the task o

nalyzing, organizing, and making sensef them. These guides say nothing aboutow ethnographers wrote these fieldnotesn the first place or about how they might

ave written notes differently. Similarly,hree practical guides to field research—

Fetterman (1989), Richardson (1990), andWolcott (1990)—devote primary attentiono developing and writing finishedthnographic analyses in ways thatresuppose the existence of a set oieldnotes.

In the past few years, however, somethnographers have begun to redress thisroblem, giving serious attention to theature and uses of fieldnotes. In 1990,anjek’s edited volume, Fieldnotes: The



aking of Anthropology, brought together collection of papers written in response

o a symposium call “to examine what

nthropologists do with fieldnotes, howhey live with them, and how attitudesoward the construction and use oieldnotes may change through individual

rofessional careers” (Sanjek 1990b:xii).The collection includes an extendedistory of “fieldnote practice” in Westernnthropology (Sanjek 1990d), as well asnalyses of the research and personal usesnd meanings of fieldnotes tonthropologists (Jackson 1990b; Sanjek 990c; Ottenberg 1990), of fieldnotes as

means of describing and representingultures (Clifford 1990; Lederman 1990),nd of reading and using others’ fieldnotesLutkehaus 1990).

At the same time, Atkinson’s The



thnographic Imagination (1990) began toxamine the textual properties of classicnd contemporary sociological

thnography. Although he focuses on thehetorical structure of completedthnographies, Atkinson does call attentiono the importance of analyzing fieldnotes.

Emphasizing that at the moment “fieldotes remain private documents”navailable for analysis, he urges theuture importance of close study of “thetylistic features of field notes fromarticular authors or sociological schools”1990:57) and takes an initial step in thisirection by analyzing two fieldnotextracts originally published in Junker’sield Work: An Introduction to the Social ciences (1960).

Several factors underlie this long-term,f perhaps now dissipating, neglect o



thnographic fieldnotes. To begin with,thnographers are often uneasy or mbarrassed about fieldnotes. Many seem

o regard fieldnotes as a kind of backstagecribbling—a little bit dirty, a little bituspect, not something to talk about toopenly and specifically. Fieldnotes seem

oo revealingly personal, too messy andnfinished to be shown to any audience.

For these and other reasons, scholars doot have ready access to original, uneditedieldnotes but only to completedthnographies with the selected, reorderedieldnotes they contain. As a result, howthnographers write fieldnotes remainsargely hidden and mysterious.

In contrast, later stages of ethnographicwriting, centered around producinginished ethnographic monographs, are

more theoretically driven and less



bviously personal. With a body oieldnotes assembled, the ethnographer

withdraws from the field to try to weave

ome of these strands into an ethnographictory. At this point, the ethnographer andles fieldnotes more impersonally asata—as objects to be studied, consulted,

nd reordered in developing a tale for other udiences. The issues and procedures that

mark this phase of ethnographic writing— oding, developing an analytic focus, ando on—are closer to the finished,ublished product and, thus, moremenable to presentation to others.

Furthermore, field researchers show noonsensus on what kinds of writing to termfieldnotes,” when and how fieldnoteshould be written, and their value for thnographic research. These diverse, andt times discordant views of the nature and



alue of fieldnotes, have stymied self-onscious consideration of how to writeieldnotes.

In the first place, field researchers mayave a variety of different forms of writtenecords in mind when they refer tofieldnotes.” A recent inventory (Sanjek

990c) found that ethnographers talkedbout all of the following: “headnotes,”scratch notes,” “fieldnotes proper,”fieldnote records,” “texts,” “journals andiaries,” and “letters, reports, papers.”

Hence, there is wide variation in whatthnographers characterize as fieldnotes.ome field researchers, for example,onsider fieldnotes to be writings thatecord both what they learn and observebout the activities of others and their ownctions, questions, and reflections. Othersnsist on a sharp distinction between



ecords of what others said and did—thedata” of fieldwork—and those notesncorporating their own thoughts and

eactions. Yet deep differences also existetween those who emphasize thisistinction between writings about othersnd writings about oneself: Some view

nly the former as fieldnotes and consider he latter as personal “journals” or diaries”; others “ contrast fieldnotes withata, speaking of fieldnotes as a record one’s reactions, a cryptic list of items tooncentrate on, a preliminary stab atnalysis, and so on” (Jackson 1990b:7).

Second, field researchers may writeieldnotes in very different ways. Manyompose fieldnotes only as “a running log

written at the end of each day” (Jackson990b:6). But others contrast suchfieldnotes proper” with “fieldnote



ecords” that involve “informationrganized in sets separate from theequential fieldwork notes” (Sanjek

990c:101). Furthermore, some fieldesearchers try to write elaborate notes asoon after witnessing relevant events asossible, typically sitting down to type up

omplete, detailed observations everyvening. Others initially produce lessetailed records, filling notebooks withandwritten notes to be elaborated andfinished” upon leaving the field. And stillthers postpone the bulk of writing untilhey have left the field and begun torapple with writing a coherentthnographic account.

Finally, ethnographers disagree aboutwhether fieldnotes are a resource or barrier o understanding. While some see them ashe core of the research enterprise, others



uggest that they provide little more thanrutches to help the field researcher deal

with the stresses and anxieties of living in

nother world while trying to understand itrom the outside. Indeed, some contendhat fieldnotes stymie deeper nderstanding. As one anthropologist

uoted by Jackson noted (1990b:13):[Without notes there is] more chance tochematize, to order conceptually . . . freef niggling exceptions, grayish half-truthsou find in your own data.”

In sum, ethnographers have failed tolosely examine the processes of writingieldnotes. While this failure arises in partrom differing views of what fieldnotesre, it also results from disagreementsbout the skills needed for ethnographicbservation and writing and about howecessary skills can be acquired. At one



xtreme, many field researchers assumehat almost any literate, adventurouserson can simply go to the field and do

ieldwork; technical skills, if any, can beearned on the spot in a “sink or swim”ein. At another extreme, others contendhat ethnographic research, particularly

writing fieldnotes, involves God-givenalents and sensitivities that simply cannote taught. Some argue, for example, thatnly those with the special abilities of an

Erving Goffman can become insightfulield researchers. Training is not an issueo those so innately skilled.

Still others seem to concede that aspectsf field research should and can beearned, but they exclude writingieldnotes from these teachable skills.

They view fieldnotes as so deeplydiosyncratic and personal as to preclude



ormal instruction. Both what theieldworker does with those under studynd how she understands and recounts

hese events will vary from one person tonother. Thus, different researchers writeery different notes depending uponisciplinary orientation, theoretical

nterests, personality, mood, and stylisticommitments. Writing fieldnotesupposedly resists formal instructionecause the sense and meanings o

whatever ethnographers write draw upontacit knowledge” and direct experienceshat are not explicitly included in the notes.

We reject both the “sink or swim”method of training ethnographers and thettitude that ethnography involves nopecial skills or no skills beyond those that

college-educated person possesses. Weake the position that writing fieldnotes is



ot simply the product of innateensibilities and insights but also involveskills learned and sharpened over time.

ndeed, we maintain that ethnographerseed to hone these skills and that theuality of ethnography will improve withelf-conscious attention to how to write

ieldnotes.Furthermore, we contend that

thnographers can move beyond thempasse created by differing conceptionsf fieldnotes by making explicit thessumptions and commitments they holdbout the nature of ethnography as a set oractical research and writing activities.uch assumptions and commitments haveirect implications for how to understandnd write fieldnotes. If, for example, oneees ethnography as collecting informationhat can be “found” or “discovered” in



much the same way by any researcher, onean reasonably separate the “findings”rom the processes of making them and

data” from “personal reactions.”imilarly, the sense that fieldnotes get inhe way of intuitive understanding andeeper analytic insight reflects a

heoretical commitment to grasping thebig picture” and to identifying broadatterns of activity rather than to trackingay-to-day routines and processes. Thisiew, in turn, assumes that achieving theseualities can get lost beneath “too manyacts” or “too much detail.”

Thus, while universal guidelines for writing fieldnotes are quixotic, one canevelop specific guidelines appropriate toparticular understanding of ethnographic

esearch. In this book, we assume andraw upon an interactionist, interpretive



nderstanding of ethnography that derivesrom the traditions of symbolic interactionnd ethnomethodology in order to

laborate one approach to fieldnotes and tohe processes of writing them. Clearly, weffer only one among many possiblepproaches; field researchers starting with

more positivist commitments or informedy other traditions within ethnography

would approach many of the issues androcedures we discuss very differently.onetheless, we expect that much of what

we recommend will be useful anduggestive for anyone beginning to doield research and to write fieldnotes.

We pursue a further goal in this book: toemystify writing fieldnotes, givingxplicit attention to the processes oransforming observation and experiencento inspectable texts. To do so, it is



ritical to look at actual working,unfinished” fieldnotes rather than atublished, polished fieldnotes and to

onsider how such notes are composed,ewritten, and worked into finished texts.Thus, we focus on writing fieldnotes in itswn right, considering a variety o

echnical, interactional, personal, andheoretical issues that arise with such

writing. We also examine the processesnd the practicalities of working withieldnotes to write analytic memos andinal ethnographic accounts for wider udiences.

Our goal is not only practical. We alsowant to bridge the gap that divideseflections on ethnographic texts from thectual practice of ethnography. Byxamining the practices actually used to

write fieldnotes, we hope to advance



nderstanding of the nature of ethnographyn calling attention to the fundamentalrocesses entailed in turning talk,

bservations, and experiences into writtenexts. It is misleading to try to grasp theransformation of experience into text byooking only at finished ethnographies and

he fieldnotes they rely on. The problemsnd processes of writing initial, unpolishedccounts of observations and experiencesiffer significantly from those involved ineviewing, selecting from, editing, andevising fieldnotes in order to produce ainished ethnography. Published fieldnotesre not only polished; they are also highlyelected because they have to be tied to thepecific themes used to construct thethnography as a whole. In contrast,nfinished fieldnotes, written more or lessontemporaneously with the events



epicted, are not theoretically focused or ntegrated, not consistent in voice or urpose, or even always clear or

tylistically compelling.Our attention to issues of writingieldnotes grew out of our own experiencesn teaching field research to undergraduate

nd graduate students. In the early 1980swo of us—Robert Emerson and Lindahaw—began teaching a UCLAndergraduate course on field research

methods. Organized as a practicumocused on fieldnotes and the fieldxperiences they depicted, the coursensisted that all students go to a fieldetting and immediately begin to writeieldnotes about what they saw and heard.n addition to intensive small groupiscussions of students’ notes, we devotedlass time to examining a xeroxed page or



wo of students’ “notes of the week”— xcerpts selected to illustrate key issues inield relations, writing strategies, or

heoretical focusing. Throughout theourse, students posed endless questionsbout writing fieldnotes, beginning withuch matters as “What do I write about?”

nd concluding with problems of “How dowrite it all up in a final paper?” Emersonnd Shaw increasingly sought thexperience of faculty in the Writing

Programs at UCLA for advice in thesematters. They met with Rachel Fretz, aolklorist with extensive field experiencen Africa. These consultations led to theecision to coordinate a course on writingthnographic fieldnotes with the existingield research methods course.

This manuscript began to take shapewhile team teaching these courses as part



f an Immersion Quarter program atUCLA in the mid-1980s. Students in thisrogram participated in internships while

nrolled in a cluster of three courses—fieldesearch methods, ethnographic writing,nd a variable topic substantive coursemental illness; control of crime; gender,

ace, and ethnicity in schools). The fieldmethods and writing courses were tightlyntegrated, with coordinated topic,eadings, and field assignments. Asnstructors, we met regularly to discuss theroblems and successes of our students.

We pooled our experiences and problem-olved, giving one another ideas for better

ways to work with students as they learnedo subject real world experience toociological analysis. The ideas thatomprise the core of the manuscripteveloped early on as a result of these



meetings and their collective processes.Junker’s Field Work: An Introduction to

he Social Sciences (1960) provided a

model for assembling and presenting our materials. Field Work resulted from aollection of materials, “Cases on Field

Work,” created at the University o

Chicago in a project organized by EverettC. Hughes to conduct “field work on fieldwork” (Hughes 1960:v). This projectnvolved “putting together what we hadearned from [having taught methods to]everal hundred students about theearning and doing of field work” (vii).imilarly, in order to illustrate usefulractices and alternate possibilities for

writing fieldnotes, we saturate the chaptershat follow with “raw” fieldnotes.

We rely heavily upon fieldnotes andthnographic extracts written by both



ndergraduate and graduate students whoave taken our courses on field researchnd ethnographic writing at UCLA,

California State University, San Marcos,nd Cornell University. Some might objecto the use of student fieldnotes on therounds that these are not the writings o

rofessionally trained researchers. In part,ur preference for student notes reflectshe way we began to develop this book— y reading and commenting upon such

writings, clarifying and articulating whatmpressed us as effective, exciting notes,nd collecting examples of particular ssues for teaching purposes. But inddition, we desire to demystify fieldnotes,n end better achieved by showing whatan be done by students like those who

will read and use this book. And finally,very quarter we found ourselves



mpressed by the quality, excitement, andreshness of the fieldnote accounts our tudents provided on ordinary and

xceptional events in a variety of socialettings.In addition to student fieldnotes, we also

raw examples from our own unpublished

ieldnotes, which were compiled during aumber of different research projects.

These projects include Robert Emerson’study of litigants applying for domesticiolence restraining orders, carried out inhe late 1980s and early 1990s;

2 Rachel

Fretz’s ethnographic fieldwork ontorytelling among the Chokwe in Zaire in976, 1977, 1982, and 1983 and in Zambian 1992–93;

3 and field research carried out

n a psychiatric facility for ex–mental

atients by Linda Shaw in the early 1980s.We address issues of writing fieldnotes



or two general audiences. One audiencencludes those concerned with ethnographynd field research primarily for academic

esearch purposes. Here, we seek toevelop practical guidelines for writingieldnotes that will prove helpful to bothndergraduate and graduate students in

everal academic disciplines. Theseisciplines include sociology,nthropology, folklore, oral history,ducation, and ethnomusicology, in whichield research and ethnographic methodsave a prominent place; and disciplinesuch as political science, businessdministration, communication,omposition studies, social welfare, andublic health, in which ethnography andield research may be offered as secondary

methodological options.But in this book, we also address



eal detail about their observations. Theyend to be “crisis focused,” attending to theramatic and remarkable rather than to the

veryday and routine; therefore, they leado very general accounts or toecontextualized accounts of “criticalncidents” that inhibit reflection and in-

epth understanding of daily processes.We maintain that writing ethnographic

ieldnotes, rather than journal entries,romises to strengthen and deepen thentegration of experience with classroomnowledge. Writing fieldnotes wouldncourage experiential education studentso observe more finely and systematically,o consider both the mundane and theramatic, and to attend to others’ activitiesnd concerns as closely as their own.

Furthermore, systematic,ontemporaneously written fieldnotes



rovide a means for capturing the distincthases or stages of an intern’s adaptationo a particular setting. Such fieldnotes

llow close documentation of the explicitnd implicit instruction given to internsbout what things are important and howhings should be done. Such instructions

re a major mechanism by whichewcomers are socialized to any particular etting; instructions reveal both the

working skills and knowledge and also thectual priorities, assumptions, andommitments of those in the setting.

Obviously, points of strain will remainetween the practice of ethnographic fieldesearch and experiential education. For xample, writing extensive fieldnotes

might require more commitment toesearch than is common to manyxperiential education students who are



ften motivated—at least initially—by aesire to serve others or to assess thettractions of a particular career. Yet, a

ersuasive case can be made to those whoold such priorities that ethnography canontribute a deeper understanding of theersonal, work, and organizational

rocesses likely to be encountered. Thus,he approach to ethnographic participationnd writing developed here opens up muchommon ground between two traditionshat have long gone their separate ways; itoes so by providing a means to convertxperiences into textual forms that can berought back into the classroom andlosely examined for their bearing onroader issues of social and intellectual lifecf. Bleich 1993).

We have set ourselves a very specificask in this book: to examine the different



rocesses of writing involved in producingnd using ethnographic fieldnotes. Hence,

we do not intend this book to stand on its

wn as an introduction to the practice othnographic field research. In particular,we do not treat in any detail either theeeper theoretical groundings o

thnography or the intricacies andilemmas of actually carrying out aieldwork project. Rather, we complementxisting overviews of the premises androcedures of ethnographic inquiry 4 byooking specifically at key practical issuesnvolved in writing and using fieldnotes.

We do consider, moreover, how writingieldnotes is inextricably intertwined with

methodological and theoreticalommitments.

The chapters that follow are organizedn ways that reflect our dual concerns with



earning to write ethnographic fieldnotesnd with understanding the relevance ohese practices for ethnographic research

more broadly. We use as our point oeparture the experience and practice otudents actually learning to writeieldnotes rather than an idealized or

rescriptive version of how fieldnotesought to be written.” After an overview ohe nature and place of fieldnotes inthnographic research, successive chaptersddress step-by-step processes andractices for writing and working withieldnotes. Each chapter concludes withReflections” on the implications of theractices and processes we have beenxamining for more general issues othnographic theory and method.

Substantively, we begin in chapter 1 byonsidering the centrality of writing



ieldnotes to ethnographic research and bypecifying the assumptions andommitments that underlie our approach.

Chapter 2 examines the distinctive stancef the ethnographer—that of participatingn and observing the ongoing life of aatural setting in order to produce written

ccounts of events observed there; it thenonsiders issues of jotting phrases or notes

while in the setting. Chapter 3 exploresrocedures for writing up fieldnotes, either rom memory or from previous jottings.

Chapter 4 discusses various writingtrategies for envisioning scenes on a page,or describing observed events, for rganizing extended descriptions, and for

writing in-process analytic ideas abouthese scenes. In chapter 5 , we address

ways of writing notes and developingnalyses that effectively capture and



onvey what events mean to participants.Chapter 6 turns to working with lengthyets of “completed” fieldnotes, considering

ow to read, sort, and code notes and howo begin analysis. Chapter 7 considers thethnographer’s choices about how torganize and write more polished, coherent

thnographies for wider audiences. Finally,n chapter 8 , we reflect on the need inthnographic writing to balance oftenontradictory requirements and concerns— oyalties to those studied with obligationso future readers, self-conscious reflection

with getting accounts written down onaper, and sensitivity to indigenous

meanings with analytic relevance.

We wish to acknowledge our gratitude tohe Field Studies Program at UCLA for ncouraging and supporting the Immersion

Quarter program from which this book



merged. We owe special thanks in thisegard to Jane Permaul, Rob Shumer, and

Parvin Kassaie. We also wish to thank the

ollowing colleagues for comments anduggestions on this manuscript: TimothyDiamond, Dianne Dugaw, ShelleyFeldman, Jan Frodesen, George Gadda,

Dwight Giles, Claudia Ingram, Michael O.ones, Jack Katz, Susan McCoin, Anita

McCormick, Melvin Pollner, AnitaPomerantz, Amanda Powell, JudithRichlin-Klonsky, Mike Rose, Ruth M.

tone, Carol Warren, Randy Woodland,nd two anonymous reviewers for the

University of Chicago Press. And we wisho thank our copyeditor, Richard Allen,

who promised he would “give us a hardime” and who did so in ways that pusheds to clarify our concerns and specify our rguments.



Finally, we wish the thank the followingtudents from our field research courses

who have generously given us permission

o use their fieldnote and ethnographicwritings as exemplars and illustrations:Karin Abell, Teri Anderson, Jim Angell,Erin Artigiani, Ben Beit-Zuri, Nancy S.

Blum, Paul Brownfield, Jennifer Cheroske,Rebecca Clements, Cabonia Crawford,ohn Cross, Maria Estrada, Julie Finney,

Robert Garot, Mauricio A. Gormaz,Heather W. Guthrie, David Hillyard,

uzanne Hirsch, Ronald X. Kovach,hawn Lemone, Wendy Lin, Storm Lydon,

Francisco “Chuck” Martinez, MarthaMoyes, Deanna Nitta, Phil Okamoto, Blair Paley, Kristin Rains, Lisa Ravitch, Joanna

aporito, Kristin D. Schaefer, Joecheuermann, Cliff Spangler, Lakshmirinivas, Martha Stokes, Kathryn L. Tatar,



Laura Miles Vahle, Linda Van Leuven,Karina Walters, David Whelan, NicholasH. Wolfinger, and Terri Young. We

specially thank Lisa Holmes and MarthaMillison, not only for allowing us to usexcerpts from their fieldnotes, but also for roviding a “student response” after

eading an earlier draft of the manuscript.



1



Fieldnotes in EthnographicResearch

Ethnographic field research involves thetudy of groups and people as they gobout their everyday lives. Carrying outuch research involves two distinctctivities. First, the ethnographer entersnto a social setting and gets to know theeople involved in it; usually, the setting isot previously known in an intimate way.

The ethnographer participates in the dailyoutines of this setting, develops ongoingelations with the people in it, andbserves all the while what is going on.

ndeed, the term “participant observation”s often used to characterize this basic



esearch approach. But, second, thethnographer writes down in regular,ystematic ways what she observes and

earns while participating in the dailyounds of the lives of others. In so doing,he researcher creates an accumulating

written record of these observations and

xperiences. These two interconnectedctivities comprise the core othnographic research: firsthandarticipation in some initially unfamiliar ocial world and the production of writtenccounts of that world that draw upon sucharticipation.

However, ethnographers differ in howhey see the primary benefits of participantbservation and in how they go aboutepresenting in written form what theyave seen and experienced in the field.

How we understand and present processes



f writing and analyzing ethnographicieldnotes in this and subsequent chapterseflects our distinctive theoretical

rientations to these differences. Here, wewant to present briefly our core theoreticalssumptions and commitments; we willurther specify and elaborate these

ssumptions and commitments as weddress the processes of writing andnalyzing fieldnotes in subsequenthapters.

We approach ethnography as a way tonderstand and describe social worlds,rawing upon the theoretical traditions oymbolic interaction andthnomethodology. Common to both theseraditions is the view that social worlds arenterpreted worlds: “Social reality is annterpreted world, not a literal world,lways under symbolic construction”



Altheide and Johnson 1994:489). Theseocial worlds also are created andustained in and through interaction with

thers, when interpretations of meaningsre central processes. Symbolicnteraction, insisting “that human actionakes place always in a situation that

onfronts the actor and that the actor actsn the basis of defining this situation thatonfronts him” (Blumer 1997:4), focusesn “the activities of people in face-to-faceelations” as these affect and relate toefinitions of the situation (Rock 2001:26).

The result is a distinctive concern withrocess, with sequences of interaction and

nterpretation that render meanings andutcomes both unpredictable andmergent. Ethnomethodology, inspired, inart, by Schutz’s (1962, 1964) analyses ohe taken-for-granted meanings and



ssumptions that make interactionossible, can be understood as proposing,n effect, “that society consists of the

easeless, ever-unfolding transactionshrough which members engage onenother and the objects, topics, andoncerns that they find relevant” (Pollner

nd Emerson 2001:120). Such transactionsepend and draw upon a number ogeneric processes and practices,”ncluding unarticulated “backgroundnderstandings,” a variety of distinctiveinterpretive practices,” and members’rocesses of “practical reasoning” (Pollner nd Emerson 2001:122). These generalmphases on interpretation and interaction,n the social construction andnderstandings of meaning in differentroups and situations, underlie our pproaches to ethnographic participation,



escription and inscription, and thepecific implications we draw from theserocesses for writing fieldnotes. 1

THNOGRAPHIC PARTICIPATION

Ethnographers are committed to going outnd getting close to the activities andveryday experiences of other people.Getting close” minimally requireshysical and social proximity to the dailyounds of people’s lives and activities; theield researcher must be able to take upositions in the midst of the key sites andcenes of others’ lives in order to observend understand them. But given our mphasis on interpretation, getting closeas another, far more significant,omponent: The ethnographer seeks a



eeper immersion in others’ worlds inrder to grasp what they experience as

meaningful and important. With

mmersion, the field researcher sees fromhe inside how people lead their lives, howhey carry out their daily rounds octivities, what they find meaningful, and

ow they do so. In this way, immersionives the fieldworker access to the fluidityf others’ lives and enhances hisensitivity to interaction and process.

Furthermore, immersion enables theieldworker to directly and forciblyxperience for herself both the ordinaryoutines and conditions under whicheople conduct their lives and theonstraints and pressures to which suchiving is subject. Goffman (1989:125), inarticular, insists that field researchnvolves “subjecting yourself, your own



ody and your own personality, and your wn social situation, to the set oontingencies that play upon a set o

ndividuals, so that you can physically andcologically penetrate their circle oesponse to their social situation, or their

work situation, or their ethnic situation.”

mmersion in ethnographic research, then,nvolves both being with other people toee how they respond to events as theyappen and experiencing for oneself thesevents and the circumstances that give riseo them.

Clearly, ethnographic immersionrecludes conducting field research as aetached, passive observer; the fieldesearcher can only get close to the lives ohose studied by actively participating inheir day-to-day affairs. Such participation,

moreover, inevitably entails some degree



f resocialization. Sharing everyday lifewith a group of people, the field researcher omes “to enter into the matrix o

meanings of the researched, to participaten their system of organized activities, ando feel subject to their code of moralegulation” (Wax 1980:272–73). In

articipating as fully and humanly asossible in another way of life, thethnographer learns what is required toecome a member of that world and toxperience events and meanings in wayshat approximate members’ experiences. 2ndeed, some ethnographers seek to doield research by doing and becoming—tohe extent possible—whatever it is they arenterested in learning about.

Ethnographers, for example, have becomekilled at activities they are seeking tonderstand (Diamond 1992; Lynch 1985;



Wacquant 2004) or, in good faith, haveoined churches or religious groups (Jules-

Rosette 1975; Rochford 1985) on the

rounds that by becoming members, theyain fuller insight and understanding intohese groups and their activities. Or,illagers might assign an ethnographer a

ole, such as sister or mother, in anxtended family, which obligates her toarticipate and resocialize herself to meetocal expectations.

In learning about others through activearticipation in their lives and activities,he fieldworker cannot and should notttempt to be a fly on the wall. 3 No fieldesearcher can be a completely neutral,etached observer who is outside andndependent of the observed phenomenaEmerson and Pollner 2001). Rather, as thethnographer engages in the lives and



oncerns of those studied, his perspectiveis intertwined with the phenomenon

which does not have objective

haracteristics independent of thebserver’s perspective and methods”Mishler 1979:10). But, the ethnographer annot take in everything; rather, he will,

n conjunction with those in the setting,evelop certain perspectives by engagingn some activities and relationships rather han others. Moreover, often relationships

with those under study follow politicalault lines in the setting, exposing thethnographer selectively to varyingriorities and points of view. As a result,he task of the ethnographer is not toetermine “the truth” but to reveal the

multiple truths apparent in others’ lives. 4Furthermore, the ethnographer’s

resence in a setting inevitably has



mplications and consequences for what isaking place, since the fieldworker mustecessarily interact with and, hence, have

ome impact on those studied. 5 Butconsequential presence,” often linked toeactive effects (that is, the effects of thethnographer’s participation on how

members may talk and behave), should note seen as “contaminating” what isbserved and learned. Rather, these effects

might provide the very source of thatearning and observation (Clarke 1975:99).

Relationships between the field researcher nd people in the setting do not so muchisrupt or alter ongoing patterns of socialnteraction as they reveal the terms andases on which people form social ties inhe first place. For example, in a village

where social relations depend heavily oninship ties, people might adopt a



ieldworker into a family and assign her ainship term that then designates her rightsnd responsibilities toward others. Hence,

ather than detracting from what theieldworker can learn, firsthand relationswith those studied might provide clues tonderstanding the more subtle, implicit

nderlying assumptions that are often noteadily accessible through observation or nterview methods alone. 6 Consequently,ather than viewing reactivity as a defect toe carefully controlled or eliminated, thethnographer needs to become sensitive to,nd perceptive about, how she is seen andreated by others.

To appreciate the unavoidableonsequences of one’s own presence stripsny special merit from the highly detached,unobtrusive,” and marginal observer roleshat have long held sway as the implicit



deal in field research. Many contemporarythnographers assume highly participatoryoles (Adler and Adler 1987) in which the

esearcher actually performs the activitieshat are central to the lives of thosetudied. In this view, assuming realesponsibility for actually carrying out core

unctions and tasks, as in service learningnternships, provides special opportunitieso get close to, participate in, andxperience life in previously unknownettings. The intern with real work esponsibilities or the researcher articipating in village life activelyngages in local activities and is socializedo, and acquires empathy for, local ways octing and feeling.

Close, continuing participation in theives of others encourages appreciation oocial life as constituted by ongoing, fluid



rocesses of interaction and interpretation.Through participation, the field researcher ees firsthand and up close how people

rapple with uncertainty and ambiguity,ow meanings emerge through talk andollective action, how understandings andnterpretations change over time, and how

hese changes shape subsequent actions. Inll these ways, the fieldworker’s closenesso others’ daily lives and activitieseightens sensitivity to social life asrocess.

Yet, even with intensive participation,he ethnographer never becomes a member n the same sense that those who arenaturally” in the setting are members. Theieldworker plans on leaving the settingfter a relatively brief stay, and hisxperience of local life is colored by thisransience. As a result, “the participation



hat the fieldworker gives is neither asommitted nor as constrained as theative’s” (Karp and Kendall 1982:257).

Furthermore, the fieldworker orients tomany local events, not as “real life” but,ather, as objects of possible researchnterest and as events that he may choose

o write down and preserve in fieldnotes.n these ways, research and writingommitments qualify ethnographicmmersion, making the field researcher ateast something of an outsider and, at anxtreme, a cultural alien. 7

HE COMPLEXITIES OF DESCRIPTION

n writing about one’s experiences andbservations deriving from intense andnvolved participation, the ethnographer



reates descriptive fieldnotes. But writingescriptive accounts of experiences andbservations is not simply a process o

ccurately capturing as closely as possiblebserved reality, of “putting into words”verheard talk and witnessed activities. Toiew the writing of descriptions as

ssentially a matter of producing texts thatorrespond accurately to what has beenbserved is to assume that there is but onebest” description of any particular event.

But, in fact, there is no one “natural” or correct” way to write about what onebserves. Rather, because descriptionsnvolve issues of perception andnterpretation, different descriptions oimilar or even the same situations andvents are both possible and valuable.

Consider, for example, the followingescriptions of express checkout lines in



hree Los Angeles supermarkets, eachwritten by a different student researcher.These descriptions share a number o

ommon features: all describe events fromhe point of view of shoppers/observersmoving through express checkout lines; allrovide physical descriptions of the

heckout counter and players in the lines— heckers, baggers, other shoppers—and ot least some of the grocery items beingandled; and all attend closely to some

minute details of behavior in express lines.Yet, each of these descriptions is writtenrom a different point of view; each shapesnd presents what happens on the expressine in different ways. In part, differencesrise because the researchers observedifferent people and occasions; butifferences also reflect both distinctiverientations and positionings taken by the



bservers, different ways of presenting thebserver’s self in “writing the other”Warren 2000), and different writing

hoices in creating and framing differentinds of “stories” in representing whathey observed happening.

Mayfair Market Express LineThere were four people in line with their purchases separated by an approx. 18” rectangular black rubber bar. I put my frozen bags down onthe “lazy susan linoleum conveyor belt,” and Ireached on top of the cash register to retrieve oneof the black bars to separate my items. The cashier was in her mid thirties, approx., about 5′2″ dark skinned woman with curly dark brown hair. Icouldn’t hear what she as saying but recognizedsome accent in her speech. She was in a white

blouse, short sleeved, with a maroon shoulder tomid thigh apron. She had a loose maroon bow tie,not like a man’s bow tie, more hangie and fluffy.Her name tag on her left chest side had red writingthat said “Candy” on it.

[Describes the woman and three men in frontof her in line.] . . . Candy spent very little timewith each person, she gave all a hello and then told



escription highlights spatial aspects ohe grocery line, contrasting in an aside theare taken to separate grocery items and

he seeming disregard of personal space asne shopper moves in to succeed an about-o-depart one.

In contrast, in the following excerpt, the

bserver focuses on her own position andxperience in line, highlighting her ownocial and interactional concerns inelating to those immediately in front ond behind her.

Ralph’s Express Line, Easter MorningI headed east to the checkout stands with my

romaine lettuce to garnish the rice salad I was bringing to brunch and my bottle of Gewürztraminer, my new favorite wine, which Ihad to chill in the next half hour. As I approachedthe stands, I realized that the 10-items-or-less-cash-only line would be my best choice. I noticed

that Boland was behind the counter at the register —he’s always very friendly to me—“Hey, how



you doing?”I got behind the woman who was already [in

the ten-items-or-less line]. She had left one of therubber separator bars behind the things she wasgoing to buy, one of the few personal friendlymoves one can make in this highly routinizedqueue. I appreciated this, and would have thankedher (by smiling, probably), but she was alreadylooking ahead, I suppose, in anticipation ochecking out. I put my wine and lettuce down.There was already someone behind me. I wantedto show them the courtesy of putting down arubber separator bar for them too. I waited untilthe food in front of mine was moved up enoughfor me to take the bar, which was at the front othe place where the bars are (is there a word for that? bar bin?), so that I wouldn’t have to make alarge, expansive move across the items thatweren’t mine, drawing attention to myself. Iwaited, and then, finally, the bar was in sight. I

took it and then put it behind my items, looking atthe woman behind me and smiling at her as I didso. She looked pleased and a bit surprised, and Iwas glad to have been able to do this small favor.She was a pretty blonde woman, and was buying a

bottle of champagne (maybe also for Easter brunch?). She was wearing what looked like anEaster dress—it was cotton and pretty and



nto a minicommunity:

Boy’s Market Express Line. . . I picked a long line. Even though the store wasquiet, the express line was long. A lot of peoplehad made small purchases today. I was behind aman with just a loaf of bread. There was a cart tothe side of him, just sitting there, and I thoughtsomeone abandoned it (it had a few items in it). A

minute later a man came up and “claimed” it bytaking hold of it. He didn’t really try to assert thathe was back in line—apparently he’d steppedaway to get something he’d forgotten—but hewasn’t getting behind me either. I felt the need to

ask him if he was on line, so I wouldn’t cut himoff. He said yes, and I tried to move behind him— we were sort of side by side—and he said, “That’sokay. I know where you are.”

At this point the guy who I’d spoken to earlier,the guy who was right in front of me, showed alook of surprise and moved past me, over to anabandoned cart at the end of the aisle. He waslooking at what was in it, picking up the few itemswith interest and then put them back. I thoughthe’d seen something else he wanted or hadforgotten. He came back over to his cart, but thena supermarket employee walked by, and he called



out to the man, walking over to the cart and pointing at it, “Do you get many items like this left behind?” The employee hesitated, not seeming tounderstand the question, and said no. The guy online said, “See what’s here? This is formula (cansof baby formula). That’s poor people’s food. Andsee this (a copper pot scrubber)? They use that tosmoke crack.” The employee looked surprised.The guy says, “I was just wondering. That’s veryindicative of this area.” The employee: “I livehere, and I didn’t know that.” The guy: “Didn’tyou watch Channel 28 last night?” Employee:“No.” Guy: “They had a report about inner-city

problems.” Employee, walking away as he talks:“I only watch National Geographic, the MacNeil-Lehrer Hour, and NPR.” He continues away. . . .

Meanwhile the man with the bread has paid. Ashe waits momentarily for his change, the “guy”says, “Long wait for a loaf of bread.” Man says,“Yeah,” and then adds, jokingly (and looking at

the cashier as he says it, as if to gauge hisreaction), “these cashiers are slow.” The cashier does not appear to hear this. Man with breadleaves, guy in front of me is being checked outnow. He says to the cashier, “What’s the matter,end of your shift? No sense of humor left?”Cashier says, “No. I’m tired.” Guy: “I hear you.”Guy then says to the bagger: “Can I have paper



and plastic please, Jacob” (he emphasizes the useof the bagger’s name)? Jacob complies, but showsno other sign that he’s heard the man. Guy iswaiting for transaction to be completed. He’ssitting on the railing, and he is singing the wordsto the Muzak tune that’s playing, something byPeabo Bryson. Guy’s transaction is done. He saysthank you to the bagger, and the bagger tells himto have a good day.

n these notes, the observer picks up onnd accents the informal talk amongustomers waiting in the line. He

potlights one particularly outgoingharacter who comments to a storemployee on the meaning of an abandonedhopping cart, expresses sympathy to the

man in front of him for having to wait soong just to buy a loaf of bread (a movehat this customer, in turn, uses to make airect but careful criticism of the cashier’s

peed), and then chats with the cashier. Heepresents this express line as a place o



ngoing exchanges between those in line,which draw in a passing store employeend culminate in interactions between this

haracter and the checker and the bagger.Writing fieldnote descriptions, then, isot a matter of passively copying downfacts” about “what happened.” Rather,

hese descriptive accounts select andmphasize different features and actions

while ignoring and marginalizing others.ome fieldworkers habitually attend tospects of people and situations that otherso not, closely describing dress, or hair, or emeanor, or speech hesitations that othersgnore or recount in less detail. In this way,escriptions differ in what their creatorsote and write down as “significant,” and,

more implicitly, in what they note butgnore as “not significant” and in whatther possibly significant things they may



ave missed altogether. But differencesetween fieldnote descriptions result notimply from different ways of selecting or

iltering observed and experienced events;ifferent fieldnote accounts also invokend rely on different lenses to interpret,rame, and represent these matters.

Descriptive fieldnotes, in this sense, areroducts of active processes onterpretation and sense-making that framer structure not only what is written butlso how it is written. Description, then,elies on interpretive/constructiverocesses that can give different fieldnotesistinctive shapes and feel.

Inevitably, then, fieldnote descriptionsf even the “same event,” let alone theame kind of event, will differ, depending pon the choices, positioning, personal ensitivities, and interactional concerns o



he observers. By way of example,onsider the following fieldnote accountsf initial portions of an intake interview

with a client named Emily, a Ugandanwoman with a seven-year-old child, whoought a restraining order against her usband, written by two student interns

who were working together in a domesticiolence legal aid clinic helping people fillut applications for temporary restrainingrders. 8 In this interview, the first internlicited and entered on a computer form aourt-required narrative “declaration”etailing a recent “specific incident obuse”; the second acted as aovice/observer sitting beside androviding emotional support to the client.

CB’s Account

[Paul, a more experienced staff member, tellsEmily:] You indicated on your intake form that themost recent abuse was on April 1. Why don’t you



tell Caitlin what happened on that day? Emilysays, He says I owe him money for our marriage,that my family never paid the dowry. Paul presses,

but what happened on this day? He called me“bitch,” she says, and “whore.” I type these twowords. She continues, he had a bottle in his handand was trying to hit me, but my brother and hisfriend grabbed his arm and took the bottle fromhim. As she says this, she raises her arm up as if there is a bottle in it, and then acts out the part oher husband by raising her arms up and flailingthem. I ask, a glass bottle or a plastic bottle? Emilystutters, “G-g-glass.” (It seems like she has tothink back to the incident to remember moreclearly.) I write, “RP [respondent] was trying tostrike me with a glass bottle, but my brother grabbed hold of his arm and took the bottle away.”

Emily continues, they took him away in a car and locked me in the house. Paul asks, what

provoked this incident? Emily says, I told him I

don’t want marriage anymore, and he go berserk.Paul clarifies, so you told him you did not want themarriage to continue, and that made him angry?Emily agrees. She says that she went to the policetwo days later, and they gave her an emergency

protective order, which Paul asks to see. He looksat it with squinted eyes (the paper does not look like what we usually see), and all of a sudden, they



open up again. You were in Uganda at this time?he asks. Yes, Emily replies. Our families weretogether to try to make good our marriage.

NL’s AccountWe are ready for the declaration. Caitlin asks E

how long she has been married to RP. We were

together for 9 years, she says in a low voice, butmarried for 4. Caitlin then asks her to tell us abouther most recent incident of abuse which accordingto the paperwork she filled out occurred on April1st. He tried to hit me she said. Paul then says,

right with a bottle like you told me outside. Whathappened? Her voice gets loud again as she saysthat her family thought that she and RP should talk about their marriage at their house (at this point Iam thinking that she is talking about her house inCalifornia). Paul asks, whose family and friendswere there? Were they yours, his, or both? Shequickly responds, His friends. Paul asks, so your friends weren’t there. She pauses for a brief second and says my friends. Paul asks, so bothyour friends were there? She nods. Looking atCaitlin, then back at Paul, she tells us that RP gotangry when she asked for a divorce. He tried to hit



her with a glass bottle. She grabs my arm andlooks straight at me as she tells me that “brothers”grab his arms, hold him down, and take him awayin his car. “Whose brother?” asks Paul. She saysthat it was her brother and his friend. They lockedme in the house so that RP wouldn’t hurt me, shesays as she gently grabs my hand once more.

She pulls out a form from her pile of papers,and looks at it, saying that the police gave it to her two days later. What is it? Paul asks. She looks atit for a few seconds, and I look at it from over her shoulder. I look back at Paul and ask him if it is anemergency protective order. She looks up andsays, Yes that’s what it is! A—A—She motionsher hand in my direction as she tries to find theword that I had said. Paul looks at it and says thatit is like a Ugandan equivalent to an emergency

protective order (now I understand that thisincident occurred in Uganda).

These excerpts include many commoneatures. Both accounts make clear that thencident arose from family differences over he client’s marriage, that she reported her usband as trying to hit her with a glassottle, that her brother and a friend



estrained him from doing so, and that shewent to the police and obtained anmergency protective order. In addition,

oth accounts reveal that staff had initiallyssumed that these events took place inCalifornia but changed their interpretationpon realizing the police restraining order

ad been issued in Uganda.But the descriptions also differ on a

umber of counts. First, there areifferences in the substance of what getsncluded in each account. For example, CBeports Emily’s complaint that “he called

me ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ ” and that thisncident was provoked when “I told him Ion’t want marriage anymore, and he goerserk.” While NL mentions neither ohese incidents, she reports that theusband was restrained and taken away byoth her brother and his friend and that she



Paul’s question about the emergencyrotection order, “You were in Uganda athe time?” NL, in contrast, recounts this

rocess in detail, describing the client ander own initial uncertainty about just whathis piece of paper is, a similar query from

Paul (“what is it?”), his conclusion that “it

s like a Ugandan equivalent to anmergency protective order,” and her ownealization that this whole incidentoccurred in Uganda.”

While many descriptive writing choicesre conscious and deliberate, others reflect

more subtle, implicit processes oesearcher involvement in, and orientationo, ongoing scenes and interaction. Here,

CB was responsible for turning the client’swords into a legally adequate account for urposes of the declaration; her escriptions show an orientation toward



ontent and narrative coherence, and sheotes at several points her decisions about

what to enter on the computer (“bitch,”

whore”; “RP was trying to strike me withglass bottle, but my brother grabbed holdf his arm and took the bottle away”). NL,n contrast, had no formal responsibilities

or conducting the interview and becomesnvolved as a sympathetic supporter; her otes seem attuned the client’s emotions“low voice”) and bodily movementshandling the emergency protection paper),nd she reports two particularly stressful

moments in the interaction when the clientgently grabs” her arm or hand. Whileoth researchers were present at the “samevent,” each participated in a differentashion, and these different modes onvolvement lead to subtle, but significant,ifferences in how they wrote about what



f, and reflect conventions for,ransforming witnessed events, persons,nd places into words on paper. In part,

his transformation involves inevitablerocesses of selection; the ethnographer writes about certain things and therebyecessarily “leaves out” others. But more

ignificantly, descriptive fieldnotes alsonevitably present or frame events inarticular ways, “missing” other ways thatuch events might have been presented or ramed. And these presentations reflectnd incorporate sensitivities, meanings,nd understandings the field researcher hasleaned from having been close to andarticipated in the described events.

There are other ways of reducing socialiscourse to written form. Surveyuestionnaires, for example, recordresponses” to prefixed questions, often



educing these lived experiences toumbers, sometimes preserving somethingf the respondents’ own words. Audio and

ideo recordings, which seemingly catchnd preserve almost everything occurringwithin an interaction, actually capture but alice of ongoing social life. This means

hat what is recorded in the first placeepends upon when, where, and how thequipment is positioned and activated,

what it can pick up mechanically, and howhose who are recorded react to itsresence.

Further reduction occurs with theepresentation of a recorded slice of audiond/or video discourse as sequential linesf text in a “transcript.” For while talk inocial settings is a “multichanneled event,”

writing “is linear in nature, and can handlenly one channel at a time, so must pick



roduct of a transcriber’s ongoingnterpretive and analytic decisions about aariety of problematic matters: how to

ransform naturally occurring speech intopecific words (in the face of naturalpeech elisions); how to determine when tounctuate to indicate a completed phrase

r sentence (given the common lack olear-cut endings in ordinary speech);eciding whether or not to try to representuch matters as spaces and silences,verlapped speech and sounds, pacetresses and volume, and inaudible or ncomprehensible sounds or words. 9 Inum, even those means of recording thatesearchers claim as being closest toealizing an “objective mirroring”ecessarily make reductions in the livedomplexity of social life similar, inrinciple, to those made in writing



ieldnotes. 10Given the reductionism of any method

f inscription, choice of method reflects

esearchers’ deeper assumptions aboutocial life and how to understand it.Fieldwork and ultimately fieldnotes areredicated on a view of social life as

ontinuously created through people’sfforts to find and confer meaning on their wn and others’ actions. Within thiserspective, the interview and theecording have their uses. To the extenthat participants are willing and able toescribe these features of social life, annterview may prove a valuable tool or ven the only access. Similarly, a videoecording provides a valuable record o

words actually uttered and gesturesctually made. But the ethos of fieldwork olds that in order to fully understand and



ppreciate action from the perspective oarticipants, one must get close to andarticipate in a wide cross-section of their

veryday activities over an extendederiod of time. Ethnography, as VanMaanen (1988:ix) insists, is “the peculiar ractice of representing the social reality

f others through the analysis of one’s ownxperience in the world of these others.”

Fieldnotes are distinctively a method for apturing and preserving the insights andnderstandings stimulated by these closend long-term experiences. Thus,ieldnotes inscribe the sometimes inchoatenderstandings and insights theieldworker acquires by intimatelymmersing herself in another world, bybserving in the midst of mundanectivities and jarring crises, and by directlyunning up against the contingencies and



onstraints of the everyday life of another eople. Indeed, it is exactly this deepmmersion—and the sense of place that

uch immersion assumes and strengthens—that enables the ethnographer to inscribehe detailed, context-sensitive, and locallynformed fieldnotes that Geertz (1973)

erms “thick description.” 11This experiential character of fieldnotes

s also reflected in changes in their contentnd concerns over time. Fieldnotes growhrough gradual accretion, adding oneay’s writing to the next. The ethnographer

writes particular fieldnotes in ways that areot predetermined or prespecified; hence,ieldnotes are not collections or samplesecided in advance according to setriteria. Choosing what to write down isot a process of sampling according toome fixed-in-advance principle. Rather, it



s both intuitive, reflecting thethnographer’s changing sense of what

might possibly be made interesting or

mportant to future readers, andmpathetic, reflecting the ethnographer’sense of what is interesting or important tohe people he is observing.

MPLICATIONS FOR WRITING FIELDNOTES

We draw four implications from our nterpretive-interactionist understanding othnography as the inscription oarticipatory experience: (1) what isbserved and ultimately treated as “data”r “findings” is inseparable from thebservational processes; (2) in writingieldnotes, the field researcher should givepecial attention to the indigenous



ndependently of the interactions andelations with others that comprise these

methods; what the ethnographer finds out

s inherently connected with how she findst out (Gubrium and Holstein 1997). As aesult, these methods should not begnored; rather, they should comprise an

mportant part of written fieldnotes. It thusecomes critical for the ethnographer toocument her own activities,ircumstances, and emotional responses ashese factors shape the process observing and recording others’ lives. 12

From this point of view, the veryistinction between fieldnote “data” andpersonal reactions,” between “fieldnoteecords” and “diaries” or “journals”Sanjek 1990c), is deeply misleading. Oourse, the ethnographer can separate whate says and does from what he observes



thers saying and doing, treating the latter s if it were unaffected by the former. 13

But such a separation distorts processes o

nquiry and the meaning of field “data” ineveral significant ways. First, thiseparation treats data as “objectivenformation” that has a fixed meaning

ndependent of how that information waslicited or established and by whom. Inhis way, the ethnographer’s own actions,ncluding his “personal” feelings andeactions, are viewed as independent of,nd unrelated to, the events andappenings involving others that constitutefindings” or “observations” when writtenown in fieldnotes. Second, this separationssumes that “subjective” reactions anderceptions can and should be controlledy being segregated from “objective,”mpersonal records. And finally, such



ontrol is thought to be essential becauseersonal and emotional experiences areevalued, comprising “contaminants” o

bjective data rather than avenues onsight into significant processes in theetting.

Linking method and substance in

ieldnotes has a number of advantages: Itncourages recognizing “findings,” not asbsolute and invariant, but, rather, asontingent upon the circumstances of their discovery” by the ethnographer.

Moreover, the ethnographer is prevented,r at least discouraged, from too readilyaking one person’s version of whatappened or what is important as thecomplete” or “correct” version of these

matters. Rather, “what happened” is oneccount made by a particular person to apecific other at a particular time and place



or particular purposes. In all these ways,inking method and substance buildsensitivity to the multiple, situational

ealities of those studied into the core oieldwork practice.

he Pursuit of Indigenous Meanings

n contrast to styles of field research thatocus on others’ behavior without

ystematic regard for what such behavior means to those engaged in it, we seethnographic fieldnotes as a distinctive

method for uncovering and depicting local

nterpretations or indigenous meanings.Ultimately, the participating ethnographer eeks to get close to those studied in order o understand and write about what their

xperiences and activities mean to them. 14Ethnographers should attempt to write



ieldnotes in ways that capture andreserve indigenous meanings. To do so,hey must learn to recognize and limit

eliance upon preconceptions aboutmembers’ lives and activities. They mustecome responsive to what others areoncerned about in their own terms. But

while fieldnotes are about others, their oncerns, and doings gleaned throughmpathetic immersion, they necessarilyeflect and convey the ethnographer’snderstanding of these concerns andoings. Thus, fieldnotes are writtenccounts that filter members’ experiencesnd concerns through the person anderspectives of the ethnographer;ieldnotes provide the ethnographer’s, nothe members’, accounts of the latter’sxperiences, meanings, and concerns.

It might initially appear that forms o



thnography concerned withpolyvocality” (Clifford and Marcus986:15), or oral histories and feminist

thnographies (Stacey 1998) that seek toet members “speak in their own voices,”an avoid researcher mediation in itsntirety. But even in these instances,

esearchers continue to select what tobserve, to pose questions, or to frame theature and purpose of the interview moreenerally, in ways that cannot avoid

mediating effects (see Mills 1990).

Writing Fieldnotes Contemporaneously

n contrast to views holding that fieldnotesre crutches, at best, and blinders, at worst,

we see fieldnotes as providing the primary

means for deeper appreciation of how fieldesearchers come to grasp and interpret the



ctions and concerns of others. In thisespect, fieldnotes offer subtle andomplex understandings of these others’

ives, routines, and meanings.As argued earlier, the field researcher omes to understand others’ ways byecoming part of their lives and by

earning to interpret and experience eventsmuch as they do. It is critical to documentlosely these subtle processes of learningnd resocialization as they occur. In part,uch documentation limits distortions o

memory loss in recalling more distantvents. But furthermore, continuing time inhe field tends to dilute the insightsenerated by initial perceptions that arisen adapting to and discovering what isignificant to others; it blunts earlyensitivities to subtle patterns andnderlying tensions. In short, the field



esearcher does not learn about theoncerns and meanings of others all atnce but, rather, in a constant, continuing

rocess in which she builds new insightnd understanding upon prior insights andnderstandings. Researchers shouldocument how these emergent processes

nd stages unfold rather than attempt toeconstruct them at a later point in light oome final, ultimate interpretation of their

meaning and import. Fieldnotes provide aistinctive resource for preservingxperience close to the moment occurrence and, hence, for deepeningeflection upon and understanding of thosexperiences.

Similar considerations hold whenxamining the ethnographer’s “findings”bout those studied and their routinectivities. Producing a record of these



ctivities, as close to their occurrence asossible, preserves their idiosyncratic,ontingent character in the face of the

omogenizing tendencies of retrospectiveecall. In immediately written fieldnotes,istinctive qualities and features areharply drawn and will elicit vivid

memories and luminous images (Katz001c, 2002) when the ethnographer ereads notes for coding and analysis.

Furthermore, the distinctive and uniqueeatures of such fieldnotes, broughtorward into the final analysis, createexture and variation, avoiding the flatnesshat comes from generality.

he Importance of Interactional Detail

Field researchers seek to get close to othersn order to understand their ways of life.



To preserve and convey that closeness,hey must describe situations and events onterest in detail. Of course, there can

ever be absolute standards for etermining when there is “enough detail.”

How closely one should look and describeepends upon what is “of interest,” and

his varies by situation and by theesearcher’s personality, discipline, andheoretical concerns. Nonetheless, mostthnographers attend to observed events inn intimate or “microscopic” manner Geertz 1973:20–23) and in writingieldnotes seek to recount “whatappened” in fine detail.

Beyond this general “microscopic”ommitment, however, our specificallynteractionist approach leads us to urge

writers to value close, detailed reports onteraction. First, interactional detail helps



ne become sensitive to, trace, and analyzehe interconnections between methods andubstance. Since the fieldworker discovers

hings about others by interacting withhem, it is important to observe andminutely record the sequences andonditions marking such interactions.

econd, in preserving the details onteraction, the researcher is better able todentify and follow processes in witnessedvents and, hence, to develop and sustainrocessual interpretations of happenings inhe field (Emerson 2009). Field research,

we maintain, is particularly suited toocumenting social life as process, asmergent meanings established in andhrough social interaction (Blumer 1969).

Attending to the details of interactionnhances the possibilities for theesearcher to see beyond fixed, static



ntities, to grasp the active “doing” oocial life. Writing fieldnotes as soon ands fully as possible after events of interest

ave occurred also encourages detailedescriptions of the processes of interactionhrough which members of social settingsreate and sustain specific, local social

ealities.

EFLECTIONS: WRITING FIELDNOTES ANDTHNOGRAPHIC PRACTICE

Ethnography is an active enterprise, and itsctivity incorporates dual impulses. On the

ne hand, the ethnographer must make her way into new worlds and newelationships. On the other hand, she mustearn how to represent in written form

what she sees and understands as the resultf these experiences.



It is easy to draw a sharp contrastetween these activities, between doingieldwork and writing fieldnotes. After all,

while in the field, ethnographers mustrequently choose between “join(ing)onversations in unfamiliar places”Lederman 1990:72) and withdrawing to

ome more private place to write abouthese conversations and witnessed events.

By locating “real ethnography” in the timepent talking with and listening to thosetudied, many ethnographers not onlyolarize participating and writing but alsoiscount the latter as a central componentf fieldwork. “Doing” and “writing”hould not be seen as separate and distinctctivities, but, rather, as dialecticallyelated, interdependent, and mutuallyonstituitive activities. Writing accounts o

what happened during face-to-face



ncounters with others in the field is verymuch part of the doing of ethnography; asGeertz emphasizes, “the ethnographer

inscribes’ social discourse; he writes itown” (1973:19). This process onscribing, of writing fieldnotes, helps theield researcher to understand what he has

een observing in the first place and, thus,nables him to participate in new ways, toear with greater acuteness, and to observe

with a new lens.While ethnographers increasingly

ecognize the centrality of writing to their raft, they frequently differ about how toharacterize that writing and itselationship to ethnographic research.ome anthropologists have criticized

Geertz’s notion of “inscription” as toomechanical and simplistic, as ignoring thathe ethnographer writes not about a



passing event” but, rather, about “alreadyormulated, fixed discourse or lore”;ence, inscription should more aptly be

ermed “transcription” (Clifford 1990:57).Inscription” has also been criticized aseing too enmeshed in the assumptions osalvage ethnography,” which date back to

Franz Boas’s efforts to “write down” oralultures before they and their languagesnd customs disappeared (Clifford986:113). Indeed, ethnographers haveuggested a number of alternative ways oharacterizing ethnographic writing.

Anthropologists frequently usetranslation” (or “cultural translation”) toonceptualize writing a version of oneulture that will make it comprehensible toeaders living in another. Richardson1990), Richardson and St. Pierre (2005),nd other sociologists describe the core o



ranslating into text what she sees, evenwhen writing notes for herself. Of course,n composing the final ethnography, the

writer not only translates concepts but alsowhole way of life for a future audiencewho may not be familiar with the worldhe describes. Second, narrating often

ptly characterizes the process of writing aay’s experiences into a fieldnote entry.

However, not all life experiences are wellepresented as cohesive stories: A narrativeould push open-ended or disjointednteractions into a coherent, interconnectedequence that distorts the actual experiencef the interaction. Thus, while manyieldnotes tell about the day in atorytelling mode, recounting whatappened in a chronological order, mostntries lack any overall structure that tieshe day’s events into a story line with a



oint. As a result, the storytelling oieldnotes is generally fragmented andpisodic. Finally, textualization clearly

ocuses on the broader transformation oxperience into text, not only in finalthnographies, but especially so in writingieldnotes. Indeed, such transformation

irst occurs in the preliminary and variedwritings in the field, and these fieldnotesften prefigure the final texts!

In sum, the fluid, openended processesf writing fieldnotes resonate with themagery of all these approaches and, yet,iffer from them in important ways. Never simple matter of inscribing the world,

ieldnotes do more than recordbservations. In a fundamental sense, theyonstitute a way of life through the very

writing choices that the ethnographer makes and the stories that she tells; for



hrough her writing, she conveys her nderstandings and insights to futureeaders unacquainted with these lives,

eople, and events. In writing a fieldnote,hen, the ethnographer does not simply putappenings into words. Rather, such

writing is an interpretive process: It is the

ery first act of textualizing. Indeed, thisften “invisible” work— writing thnographic fieldnotes —is the primordialextualization that creates a world on theage and, ultimately, shapes the finalthnographic, published text.



2



In the Field: Participating,Observing, and Jotting Notes

Ethnographers ultimately produce awritten account of what they have seen,eard, and experienced in the field. Butifferent ethnographers, and the samethnographer at different times, turnxperience and observation into writtenexts in different ways. Some maximizeheir immersion in local activities and their xperience of others’ lives, deliberatelyuspending concern with the task oroducing written records of these events.

Here, the field researcher decides where to

o, what to look at, what to ask and say sos to experience fully another way of life



nd its concerns. She attends to eventswith little or no orientation to “writing itown” or even to “observing” in a

etached fashion. Indeed, an ethnographer iving in, rather than simply regularlyisiting, a field setting, particularly in non-

Western cultures where language and daily

outines are unfamiliar, may have nohoice but to participate fully and touspend immediate concerns with writing.

A female ethnographer studying localwomen in Africa, for example, may finderself helping to prepare greens and careor children, leaving no time to produce

many written notes. Yet in the process ohat involvement, she may most clearlyearn how women simultaneously work ogether, socialize, and care for children.

Only in subsequent reflection, might sheully notice the subtle changes in herself as



he learned to do and see these activities ashe women do.

Field researchers using this

thnographic approach want to relateaturally to those encountered in the field;hey focus their efforts on figuring out— olistically and intuitively—what these

eople are up to. Any anticipation owriting fieldnotes is postponed (and inxtreme cases, minimized or avoidedltogether) as diluting the experientialnsights and intuitions that immersion innother social world can provide. 1 Only atome later point does the ethnographer urn to the task of recalling and examininger experiences in order to write themown.

But the ethnographer may alsoarticipate in ongoing events in ways thatirectly and immediately involve



nscription. Here, the fieldworker isoncerned with “getting into place” tobserve interesting, significant events in

rder to produce a detailed written recordf them. As a result, participation inaturally occurring events may come to bexplicitly oriented toward writing

ieldnotes. At an extreme, the fieldworker may self-consciously look for events thathould be written down for researchurposes; he may position himself in thesenfolding events to be able to observe and

write; and he may explicitly orient tovents in terms of “what is important toemember so that I can write it downater.”

Each mode of field involvement hastrengths and drawbacks. The former llows an intense immersion in dailyhythms and ordinary concerns that



ncreases openness to others’ ways of life.The latter can produce a more detailed,loser-to-the-moment record of that life. In

ractice, most field researchers employoth approaches at different times,ometimes participating without thoughtbout writing up what is happening and, at

ther times, focusing closely on events inrder to write about them. Indeed, theieldworker may experience a shift fromne mode to another as events unfold inhe field. Caught in some social moment,or example, the field researcher may comeo see deep theoretical relevance in a

mundane experience or practice.Conversely, a researcher in the midst observing in a more detached, writing-riented mode may suddenly be drawnirectly into the center of activity. 2

In both approaches, the ethnographer



writes fieldnotes more or lessontemporaneously with the experiencend observation of events of interest in the

pirit of the ethnographer who commented,Anthropologists are those who writehings down at the end of the day”Jackson 1990b:15). In the experiential

tyle, writing may be put off for hours or ven days until the field researcher

withdraws from the field and, relyingolely on memory, sits down at pad or omputer to reconstruct important events. 3n the participating-to-write approach,

writing—or an orientation to writing— egins earlier when the researcher is still inhe field, perhaps in the immediateresence of talk and action that will benscribed. The ethnographer may not only

make mental notes or “headnotes” 4 tonclude certain events in full fieldnotes, but



e may also write down, in the form oottings or scratch notes, abbreviated

words and phrases to use later to construct

ull fieldnotes.Furthermore, in both styles, fieldesearchers are deeply concerned about theuality of the relationships they develop

with the people they seek to know andnderstand. In valuing more natural, openxperience of others’ worlds and activities,ield researchers seek to keep writing fromntruding into and affecting theseelationships. They do so not only to avoidistancing themselves from the ongoingxperience of another world but alsoecause writing, and researchommitments more generally, mayngender feelings of betraying those with

whom one has lived and shared intimacies.Ethnographers who participate in order to



write, in contrast, pursue and proclaimesearch interests more openly as anlement in their relationships with those

tudied. But these field researchers oftenecome very sensitive to the ways inwhich the stance and act of writing areery visible to, and can influence the

uality of their relationships with, thosetudied. And they also may experience

moments of anguish or uncertainty aboutwhether to include intimate or humiliatingncidents in their fieldnotes.

In the remainder of this chapter, weocus on a participating-in-order-to-writeieldwork approach that confronts writingssues directly and immediately in theield. This approach brings to the fore thenterconnections between writing,articipating, and observing as a means onderstanding another way of life; it



ocuses on learning how to look in order towrite, while it also recognizes that lookings itself shaped and constrained by a sense

f what and how to write. We will beginy examining the processes oarticipating in order to write in detail,onsidering a number of practices that

thnographers have found useful inuiding and orienting observations madender these conditions. We then take upssues of actually writing in the presence ohose studied by making jottings about

what we see and hear, even as thesenteractions are occurring. Here, we firstresent illustrations of actual jottings maden different field settings and discuss aumber of considerations that might guidehe process of making jottings. We thenonsider choices confronting fieldesearchers in deciding how, where, and



when to make jottings in field settings.

ARTICIPATING IN ORDER TO WRITE

n attending to ongoing scenes, events, andnteractions, field researchers take mental

ote of certain details and impressions. For he most part, these impressions remainheadnotes” until the researcher sits downt some later point to write full fieldnotesbout these scenes and events. In the fluxf their field settings, beginning studentsre often hesitant and uncertain about whatetails and impressions they should payttention to as potential issues for writing.

We have found a number of procedures toe helpful in advising students hownitially to look in order to write.

First, ethnographers should take note o



heir initial impressions. Thesempressions may include those thingsvailable to the senses—the tastes, smells,

nd sounds of the physical environment,nd the look and feel of the locale and theeople in it. Such impressions may includeetails about the physical setting, including

ize, space, noise, colors, equipment, andmovement, or about people in the setting,uch as their number, gender, race,ppearance, dress, movement,omportment, and feeling tone. Writingown these impressions provides a way toet started in a setting that may seemverwhelming. Entering another culture

where both language and customs arencomprehensible may present particular hallenges in this regard. Still, thethnographer can begin to assimilatetrange sights and sounds by attending to



nd then writing about them. 5Furthermore, this record preserves these

nitial and often insightful impressions, for

bservers tend to lose sensitivity for nique qualities of a setting as theseecome commonplace. Researchers whore familiar with the setting they study,

erhaps already having a place in theetting as workers or residents, have lostirect access to their first impressions.

However, such fieldworkers can indirectlyeek to recall their own first impressionsy watching any newcomers to the setting,aying special attention to how they learn,dapt, and react.

Second, field researchers can focus onheir personal sense of what is significant r unexpected in order to document keyvents or incidents in a particular social

world or setting. Particularly at first,



ieldworkers may want to rely on their ownxperience and intuition to selectoteworthy incidents out of the flow o

ngoing activity. Here, for example, theieldworker may look closely at somethinghat surprises or runs counter to her xpectations, again paying attention to

ncidents, feeling tones, impressions, andnteractions, both verbal and nonverbal.

Similarly, field researchers may useheir own personal experience of eventshat please, shock, or even anger them todentify matters worth writing about. Aieldworker’s strong reaction to aarticular event may well signal that othersn the setting react similarly. Or aieldworker may experience deeplyontradictory emotions, for example,imultaneously feeling deep sympathy andepulsion for what he observes in the field.



These feelings may also reflectontradictory pressures experienced byhose in the setting.

To use personal reactions effectively,owever, requires care and reflection. Onemust first pay close attention to how othersn the setting are reacting to these events; it

s important to become aware of when andow one’s own reactions and sensitivitiesiffer from those of some or most

members. But in addition, in taking note others’ experiences, many beginningthnographers tend to judge the actions oeople in the setting, for better or worse,y their own, rather than the others’,tandards and values. Prejudging incidentsn outsiders’ terms makes it difficult toultivate empathetic understanding and toiscover what import local people give tohem (see chapter 5 ). The field researcher



hould be alive to the possibility that localeople, especially those with very differentultures, may respond to events in sharply

ontrasting ways. For example, anthnographer in a Chokwe village mayeact with alarm to an unconscious manrugged by an herbal drink in a trial-for-

orcery court, only to realize that othersre laughing at the spectacle because theynow he will soon regain consciousness.

Yet, fieldworkers should not go to thether extreme and attempt to managetrong personal reactions by denial or imply by omitting them from fieldnotes.

Rather, we recommend that thethnographer first register her feelings,hen step back and use this experience tosk how others in the setting see andxperience these matters. Are theyimilarly surprised, shocked, pleased, or



ngered by an event? If so, under whatonditions do these reactions occur, andow did those affected cope with the

ncidents and persons involved? Whether n ethnographer is working in a foreign or n a familiar culture, she needs to avoidssuming that others respond as she does.

Third, in order to document key eventsnd incidents, field researchers should

move beyond their personal reactions tottend explicitly to what those in theetting experience and react to assignificant” or “important.” The fieldesearcher watches for the sorts of thingshat are meaningful to those studied. Thections, interactions, and events that catchhe attention of people habitually in theetting may provide clues to theseoncerns. Specifically: What do they stopnd watch? What do they talk and gossip



bout? What produces strong emotionalesponses for them? “Troubles” or problems” often generate deep concern

nd feelings. What kinds occur in theetting? How do people in the settingnderstand, interpret, and deal with theseroubles or problems? Such “incidents”

nd “troubles” should move the fieldesearcher to jot down “who did what” andhow others reacted.”

Often, however, a researcher who isnfamiliar with a setting may not initiallye able to understand or even to identifyocal meanings and their significance.

Hence, the researcher may have to writeown what members say and do withoutully understanding their implications andmport. Consider, for example, theollowing fieldnote written by a studentthnographer making her first visit to a



mall residential program for ex-rostitutes:

We walk inside and down the hallway, stopping infront of the kitchen. One of the girls is in there,and Ellen [the program director] stops to introduceme. She says, Catherine this is our new volunteer.She says, “Oh, nice to meet you,” and thanks mefor volunteering. We shake hands, and I tell her it’s nice to meet her as well. Ellen adds, “Wellmost people call her Cathy, but I like the wayCatherine sounds so that’s what I call her.”Catherine is wearing baggy, navy blue athleticshorts and a loose black tank top. Her thick, curly

hair is pulled into a bun resting on the side of her head. She is barefoot. She turns to Ellen, and thesmile leaves her face as she says, “Julie cut her hair.” Ellen responds that Julie’s hair is alreadyshort, and asks, “Is it buzzed?” Catherine responds

no, that it’s cut in a “page boy style and looksreally cute.” Ellen’s eyebrows scrunch together,and she asks, well, is she happy with it? Catherinesmiles and says, “Yeah, she loves it.” To whichEllen responds, “Well, if she’s happy, I’m happy,”and that she’s going to finish taking me around thehouse. I tell Catherine, “See you later.”



Here, the program director’s response toCatherine’s report treats Julie’s haircut asimply a decision about personal style and

ppearance—“is she happy with it?” On itsace, it does not seem to be an important or ignificant statement and could easily haveeen left out in the write-up of this

ncounter. 6But events immediately following this

ncounter made it clear that Julie’s haircutad important implications for thenstitution and its program. Leaving

Catherine, the program director continuedo show the ethnographer around theome:

[In an upstairs bedroom] Ellen tells me to take aseat while she “makes a quick phone call.” She

begins the conversation, “Hey, so I just got home,and Catherine told me that Julie cut her hair.” She

listens for awhile, and her voice becomes moreserious as she says, “Yeah, I know. I’m just



thinking she’s headed toward the same bullshit aslast time.” [Later in her office] Ellen explains tome that Julie used to be a resident of the house butleft and went back into prostitution. When Juliewanted to come back “we took her back on onecondition, that she doesn’t focus on her physicalappearances but works on what’s inside instead.”That is why she was so concerned about thehaircut: “It seems like she’s going back to thesame things as before,” because this is how itstarts.

The program director’s phone call,mmediately reporting Julie’s haircut toomeone else connected with the program,isplays the local importance of this event.

Later, the program director explains to thebserver that, given Julie’s history in therogram, her haircut is a likely indicator o

troubled psychological state andweakening commitment to the program.

As this incident illustrates, the fieldesearcher discerns local meanings, not so



much by directly asking actors about whatmatters to them, but more indirectly andnferentially by looking for the

erspectives and concerns embedded andxpressed in naturally occurringnteraction. And in gleaning indigenous

meanings implicit in interaction, the

thnographer is well placed to apprehendhese meanings, not simply as staticategories, but, rather, as matters involvingction and process. This requires not justhat the ethnographer describesnteractions but that she consistentlyttends to “when, where, and according to

whom” in shaping all fieldnoteescriptions. Those in differentnstitutional positions (e.g., staff andlients) may evaluate different clients asoing well or poorly in “working therogram” and may do so by invoking



ifferent evaluative criteria. Indigenousmeanings, then, rarely hold across theoard but, rather, reflect particular

ositions and practical concerns that needo be captured in fieldnote descriptions.Fourth, ethnographers can begin to

apture new settings by focusing and

writing notes as systematically as possible,ocusing on how routine actions in theetting are organized and take place .

Attending closely to “how” somethingccurs encourages and produces “ luminousescriptions ” (Katz 2001c) that specify thectual, lived conditions and contingenciesf social life. Consistent with our nteractionist perspective, asking how alsoocuses the ethnographer’s attention on theocial and interactional processes through

which members construct, maintain, andlter their social worlds. This means that



“need” for gas would not explain the extent towhich I fill the tank, nor why I pay with a creditcard instead of cash, nor which of the pumps Ichoose, nor whether I accept the automatic cut-of as ending the operation or top up with a finalsqueeze. As the description of how the act isconducted improves, the less convincing becomesthe initially obvious answer to “why?” (Katz2001c:446)

Finally, ethnographers’ orientations towritable events change with time in theield. When first venturing into a setting,

ield researchers should “cast their nets”roadly; they should observe with an eyeo writing about a range of incidents andnteractions. Yet, forays into a setting must

ot be viewed as discrete, isolatedccasions that have little or no bearing onwhat will be noted the next time. Rather,bserving and writing about certain kinds

f events foreshadow what will be noticednd described next. Identifying one



ncident as noteworthy should lead toonsidering what other incidents areimilar and, hence, worth noting. As

ieldwork progresses and becomes moreocused on a set of issues, fieldworkersften self-consciously document a series oncidents and interactions of the “same

ype” and look for regularities or patternswithin them.

Even when looking for additionalxamples of a similar event, the fieldesearcher is open to and, indeed, searchesor, different forms of that event, and for ariations from, or exceptions to, anmerging pattern. Beginning fieldesearchers are often discouraged by suchiscoveries, fearing that exceptions to aattern they have noted will cast doubtpon their understanding of the setting.

This need not be the case, although noting



ifferences and variations should prod theield researcher to change, elaborate, or eepen her earlier understanding of the

etting. The field researcher, for example,might want to consider and exploreossible factors or circumstances that

would account for differences or

ariations: Are the different actions theesult of the preferences and temperamentsf those involved or of their differentnderstandings of the situation becausehey have different positions in the localontext? Or the ethnographer may begin touestion how she decided similarity andifference in the first place, perhapsoming to see how an event that initiallyppeared to be different is actually similar n a deeper level. In these ways, exploring

what at least initially seem to beifferences and variations will lead to



icher, more textured descriptions andncourage more subtle, grounded analysesn a final ethnography (see chapter 7 ).

In summary, ethnographic attentionnvolves balancing two differentrientations. Especially on first enteringhe field, the researcher identifies

ignificant characteristics gleaned from her irst impressions and personal reactions.

With greater participation in that localocial world, however, the ethnographer ecomes more sensitive to the concernsnd perspectives of those in the setting.he increasingly appreciates how peopleave already predescribed their world inheir own terms for their own purposes androjects. A sensitive ethnographer drawspon her own reactions to identify issuesf possible importance to people in theetting but privileges their “insider”



ctions and dialogue. A word or twowritten at the moment or soon afterwardwill jog the memory later in the day when

he attempts to recall the details oignificant actions and to constructvocative descriptions of the scene. Or,

more extensive jottings may record an

ngoing dialogue or a set of responses touestions.

In order to convey how field researchersctually write and use jottings, we providewo illustrations. Each identifies specificcenes, observed actions, and dialogueather than making evaluations or sychological interpretations. But eachesearcher approaches interaction in their ettings in different ways, noting differentensory and interpretive details. (We willonsider the full fieldnotes written fromoth these sets of jottings in chapter 3 .)



Too Many Sexual References”

A student ethnographer jotted theollowing notes while sitting in on an after-chool staff meeting attended by aontinuation school principal, four

eachers, and the school counselor:

exual Harassmentndy—too many sexual references

PE frisbee game “This team has too manysausages”eynaldo—( Carlos—in jail for stealing bicycle, 18 yrs

old ) [circled]aura → Wants to propose sexual harassment forms

Thinking about detention for these students butalready too much work for keeping track of tardies/truancies/tendencies

Here, the observer begins by marking of

ne of the topics that came up during thismeeting—“sexual harassment.” His



ffenders, but this idea is countered by thebservation that staff already has too muchaperwork in dealing with students in

etention.You Can Call His Doctor”

n contrast to the focus on namedndividuals and a variety of events linkedo them, the following jottings focus

trictly on dialogue, recording bits of talk n a formal court proceeding. The casenvolved a woman seeking a temporaryestraining order against her two landlords,

ne of whom is not present in theourtroom. The landlord who is presentisputes the woman’s testimony that the

missing landlord is “well enough to walk”

nd, hence, could have come to court:



you can call his doctor at UCLA andhe can verify all thisI just don’t call people on thetelephone—courts don’t operate that way— it has to be on paper or (in person) 7

Here, only spoken words are recorded;pecific speakers are not indicated but cane identified by content—the landlordefendant in the first two lines and theudge in the last four lines. The wordsepresent direct quotes, written down asccurately as possible when spoken; anxception occurs in the last line where thebserver missed the judge’s exact wordsnding this sentence (because of jottingown the preceding dialogue) and inserted

paraphrase “in person” (indicated byarentheses). As in the prior illustration,

here is no indication of what thethnographer had in mind in noting these



ieces of the flow of social life; theyspeak for themselves,” making noeference as to why they were recorded or

bout their possible implications.Each of the jottings in these illustrationss “a mnemonic word or phrase [written] toix an observation or to recall what

omeone has just said” (Clifford 1990:51).As preludes to full written notes, jottingsapture bits of talk and action from whichhe fieldworker can begin to sketch socialcenes, recurring incidents, localxpressions and terms, members’istinctions and accounts, dialogue amonghose present, and his own conversations.

Making jottings, however, is not only awriting activity; it is also a mind-set.Learning to jot down details that remainharp and that easily transform into vividescriptions on the page results, in part,



rom envisioning scenes as written.Writing jottings that evoke memoriesequires learning what can be written about

nd how. We have found the followingecommendations helpful for makingottings useful for producing vivid,vocatively descriptive fieldnotes. 8

First, jot down details of what you sensere key components of observed scenes,vents, or interactions. Field researchersecord immediate fragments of action andalk to serve as focal points for later

writing accounts of these events in asmuch detail as can be remembered. Theield researcher studying the continuationchool staff meeting, for example, reliedn the jotted names of two youth,upplemented by one direct quote, to recallwo accounts provided by the complainingeacher about students’ “inappropriate”



exual comments. In this way, jottingserve to remind the ethnographer of what

was happening at a particular time,

roviding a marker around which to collectther remembered incidents. But theieldworker does not have to have apecific reason or insight in mind to make

jotting about what she has seen andeard. For example, one field researcher eaching in a Headstart Program described

series of incidents that occurred whileupervising children playing in a sandbox.ncluded in her jottings, but not in her fullieldnotes, was the phrase, “Three newags of sand were delivered to theandbox.” In discussing this scratch noteater, she commented: “I don’t think it is somportant as I would want to include it in

my notes because I think it is just—I wrotet down to remind me more what the day



was like, what was happening.” 9Second, jot down concrete sensory

etails about observed scenes and

nteractions. Sensory details will later helpo reconstruct the feel of what happened.Pay particular attention to details youould easily forget. Since jottings must

ater jog the memory, each field researcher must learn which kinds of details that theyest remember and make jottings abouthose features and qualities that they mightasily forget. Thus, fieldworkers come toevelop their own jotting styles reflectingheir distinctive recall propensities,

whether visual, kinetic, or auditory. Someocus on trying to capture evocative piecesf broader scenes, while some jot downlmost exclusively dialogue; others recordonverbal expression of voice, gesture,nd movement; still others note visual



worker performance. Similarly, jottingshat a probation officer “lectures aboutchool” and that a youth is “very

ompliant—always agrees” during arobation interview are overly general;uch summary statements are not helpfulor writing close descriptions of how the

robation officer and the youth actuallyalked and acted during a particular ncounter.

Fourth, fieldworkers use jottings toapture detailed aspects of scenes, talk,nd interaction; short or more extendedirect quotes are particularly useful for apturing such detail, as reflected in therevious two illustrations of jottings. Ineneral, field researchers note concreteetails of everyday life that show, rather han tell, about people’s behavior (seehapter 3 ). By incorporating such details,



ottings may provide records of actualwords, phrases, or dialogue that the fieldesearcher wants to preserve in as accurate

form as possible. It is not enough, for xample, to characterize an emotionalutburst simply as “angry words.” Rather,he ethnographer should jot the actually

poken words, along with sensual detailsuch as gestures and facial expressions,uggesting that the speaker’s emotionalxperience involved “anger.” Jotting these

words should evoke recall, not only of theetails about what happened, but also ohe specific circumstances or contextnvolved: who was present, what they saidr did, what occurred immediately beforend after, and so on. In this way, jottings

may be used to reconstruct the actual order r sequence of talk, topics, or actions onome particular occasion.



Fifth, use jottings to record the details omotional expressions and experiences;ote feelings such as anger, sadness, joy,

leasure, disgust, or loneliness asxpressed and attended to by those in theetting. Beginning ethnographersometimes attempt to identify motives or

nternal states when recording observedctions. Having witnessed an angryxchange, for example, one is oftenempted to focus on the source or “reason”or this emotional outburst, typically bymputing motive (e.g., some underlyingeeling such as “insecurity”) to one or bothf the parties involved. But suchsychologized explanations highlight onlyne of a number of possible internal stateshat may accompany or contribute to thebserved actions. Anger could, for xample, result from frustration, fatigue,



why something may be important. Sucheelings might signal a key element that inhe future could enable the field researcher

o see how incidents “fit together” inmeaningful patterns. For example, atnother point the ethnographer in the

Headstart Program made a jotting about a

tudent, “Nicole showing trust in me,”which she decided not to write up in her ull notes: “It was just an overall feeling Iad throughout the day; . . . at that point

when I wrote the jottings I couldn’temember an exact incident.” But thisotting served as a mental note,ubsequently stimulating her to appreciateand record) the following incident as aevealing example of “children trustingeachers”:

At one point, Nicole got on the swings without her shoes on and asked me for a push. I told her that I



would push her after she went and put her shoeson. Nicole paused and looked at me. I repeated mystatement, telling her that I would save her swingfor her while she was gone. Nicole then got off othe swing and put her shoes on. When she came

back to the swing, I praised her listening skills andgave her a hug. I then gave her a push. I found thisincident to be a significant accomplishment for

Nicole, as usually she doesn’t listen to theteachers. 11

Through thinking about whether or not towrite this jotting up as full notes, thistudent developed sensitivity to the issuef “trust.” The jotting later acted as atimulus to observe and write up aconcrete event” involving such “trust.”

In summary, by participating in a settingwith an eye to making jottings, anthnographer experiences events asotential subjects for writing. Like any

ther writer, an ethnographer learns toecognize potential writing material and to



ee and hear it in terms of writtenescriptions. Learning to observe in order o make jottings thus is keyed to both the

cene and to the page. Ethnographers learno experience through the senses innticipation of writing: to recall observedcenes and interactions like a reporter; to

emember dialogue and movement like anctor; to see colors, shapes, textures, andpatial relations as a painter or hotographer; and to sense moods,hythms, and tone of voice like a poet.

Details experienced through the sensesurn into jottings with active rather thanassive verbs, sensory rather thanvaluative adjectives, and verbatim rather han summarized dialogue.

MAKING JOTTINGS: HOW, WHERE, ANDWHEN



Making jottings is not simply a matter owriting words on a notepad or laptop.

ince jottings are often written close to or ven in the immediate presence of thosewhose words and deeds are at issue,roducing jottings is a social and

nteractional process. Specifically, hownd when an ethnographer makes jottingsmay have important implications for howthers see and understand who she is and

what she is about. There are no hard andast rules about whether to make jottingsnd, if so, when and how to do so. But

with time spent in a setting and byenefitting from trial and error, a fieldesearcher may evolve a distinctive set oractices to fit writing jottings to theontours and constraints of that setting.

One initial choice involves the selectionf writing materials. Traditionally,



ieldworkers have relied on pen and paper.Many have used small notepads that fitasily into pocket or purse. Others prefer

ven less obtrusive materials, using foldedheets of paper to record jottings aboutifferent topics on specific sides. Writerslso frequently develop idiosyncratic

references for particular types of pens or encils. But with the spread and commonse of electronic and computer echnologies in many contemporaryettings, many field researchers now avoiden and paper entirely and make jottingsirectly onto laptop computers, netbooks,martphones, or audio recorders.

Field researchers actually write jottingsn different ways. It is timeconsuming andumbersome to write out every word fully.

Many fieldworkers use standard systemsf abbreviations and symbols (for pen-and-



aper ethnographers, a formal transcribingystem such as shorthand or speed writing;or those using electronic devices, the

volving codes of texting). Others developheir own private systems for capturingwords in shortened form in waysppropriate to their particular setting; in

tudying highly technical judicialmediation sessions, for example, Burns2000:22) “developed a system ohorthand notation and abbreviations for ommonly used terms” that allowed her toroduce minutely detailed accounts ohese events. Abbreviations and symbolsot only facilitate getting words on a page

more quickly; they also make jotted notesncomprehensible to those onlookers whosk to see them and, hence, provide a

means for protecting the confidentiality ohese writings.



Field researchers must also decidewhen, where, and how to write jottings.Clearly, looking down to pad or keyboard

o write jottings distracts the fieldesearcher (even if only momentarily),making close and continuous observationf what may be complex, rapid, and subtle

ctions by others very difficult. Buteyond limited attention, jotting decisionsan have tremendous import for relations

with those in the field. The researcher works hard to establish close ties witharticipants so that she may be included inctivities that are central to their lives. Inhe midst of such activities, however, she

may experience deep ambivalence: On thene hand, she may wish to preserve themmediacy of the moment by jotting down

words as they are spoken and details ocenes as they are enacted, while, on the



ther hand, she may feel that taking out aotepad or smartphone will ruin the

moment and plant seeds of distrust.

Participants may now see her as someonewhose primary interest lies in discoveringheir secrets and turning their mostntimate and cherished experiences into

bjects of scientific inquiry. 12 Nearly all ethnographers feel torn at

imes between their research commitmentsnd their desire to engage authenticallyhose people whose worlds they haventered. Attempting to resolve these thornyelational and moral issues, manyesearchers hold that conducting anyspect of the research without the full andxplicit knowledge and consent of thosetudied violates ethical standards. In thisiew, those in the setting must benderstood as collaborators who actively



work with the researcher to tell the outsideworld about their lives and culture. Suchmutual collaboration requires that the

esearcher ask permission to write aboutvents and also respect people’s desire noto reveal aspects of their lives.

Other field researchers feel less strictly

ound to seek permission to conductesearch or to tell participants about their ntention to record events and experiences.ome justify this stance by insisting that

he field researcher has no specialbligations to disclose his intentions sincell social life involves elements oissembling with no one ever fullyevealing all of their deeper purposes andrivate activities. Other researchers pointut that jottings and fieldnotes written for neself as one’s own record will do noirect harm to others. This approach, o



ourse, puts off grappling with the toughmoral and personal issues until facingubsequent decisions about whether to

ublish or otherwise make these writingsvailable to others. Finally, some advocatewithholding knowledge of their researchurposes from local people on the grounds

hat the information gained will serve thereater good. For example, if researchers

want to describe and publicize theonditions under which undocumentedactory workers or the elderly in nursingomes live, they must withhold their ntentions from the powerful who controlccess to such settings.

Many beginning researchers, wanting tovoid open violations of trust and possiblywkward or tense encounters, are temptedo use covert procedures and to try toonceal the fact that they are conducting



esearch; this practice often requireswaiting until one leaves the field to jototes. While these decisions involve both

he researcher’s conscience and pragmaticonsiderations, we recommend, as aeneral policy, that the fieldworker informeople in the setting of the research,

specially those with whom he hasstablished some form of personalelationship. In addition to making theseelations more direct and honest, opennessvoids the risks and likely sense oetrayal that might follow from discoveryf what the researcher has actually been upo. Concerns about the consequences— oth discovery and ongoing inauthenticity

—of even this small secret about researchlans might mount and plague theieldworker as time goes on and relationseepen.



Of course, strained relations and ethicalilemmas are not completely avoided bynforming others of one’s research

urposes. While participants might haveonsented to the research, they might notnow exactly what the research involves or

what the researcher will do to carry it

ut.13 They might realize that theieldworker is writing fieldnotes at the endf the day, but they become used to hisresence and “forget” that this writing isoing on. Furthermore, marginal andransient members of the setting may note aware of his research identity andurposes despite conscientious efforts tonform them.

By carrying out fieldwork in an overtmanner, the researcher gains flexibility inwhen, where, and how to write jottings. Inmany field situations, it may be feasible to



ot notes openly. In so doing, theieldworker should act with sensitivity,rying to avoid detracting from or

nterfering with the ordinary relations andoings-on in the field. If possible, theieldworker should start open jottings earlyn in contacts with those studied. If one

stablishes a “note-taker” role, jottingotes comes to be part of what peoplexpect from the fieldworker. Here, it helpso offer initial explanations of the need toake notes; an ethnographer can stress themportance of accuracy, of getting downxactly what was said. People oftennderstand that such activities are requiredf students and, therefore, tolerate andccommodate the needs of researchers

who, they believe, want to faithfullyepresent what goes on. When learning aew language in another culture, the field



esearcher can explain that she is writingown local terms in order to remember hem. By saying the word as she writes,

eople might offer new terms and becomeurther interested in teaching her.Although taking down jottings may at

irst seem odd or awkward, after a time, it

ften becomes a normal and expected partf what the fieldworker does. In theollowing excerpt from a Housing and

Urban Development (HUD) office, theffice manager and a worker jokinglynlist the fieldworker as audience for aelf-parody of wanting to “help” clients:

Later I’m in Jean’s office and Ramon comes upand waxes melodramatic. Take this down, he says.Jean motions for me to write, so I pull out mynotepad. “I only regret that I have but eight hoursto devote to saving” . . . He begins to sing

“Impossible Dream,” in his thick, goofy Brooklynaccent. . . . “Feel free to join in,” he says. . . .



Here, the ethnographer and his note-takingrovide resources for a spontaneousumorous performance. 14

Yet even when some people becomeamiliar with open writing in their resence, others may become upset whenhe researcher turns to a notepad or laptop

nd begins to write down their words andctions. Ethnographers may try to avoidhe likely challenges and facilitate open,xtensive note-taking by positioninghemselves on the margins of interaction.

Even then, they may still encounter uestions, as reflected in the followingomment by a field researcher observingivorce mediation sessions:

I tried to take notes that were as complete as possible during the session. My sitting behind theclient had probably more to do with wanting to geta lot of written notes as unobtrusively as possibleas with any more worthy methodological reason.



While taking copious amounts of notes(approximately 50 pages per session) did not seemto bother the clients, a few mediators became quitedefensive about it. One mediator wanted to knowhow I “decided what to write down and what notto write down.” At staff meetings, this samemediator would sit next to me and try to glanceover to see what I had written in my notebook.

Given the delicacy of this and similar ituations, fieldworkers must constantlyely upon interactional skills and tact toudge whether or not taking jottings in the

moment is appropriate. 15Furthermore, in becoming accustomedo open jotting, people may developefinite expectations about what events

nd topics should be recorded. People mayuestion why the fieldworker is or is notaking note of particular events: On the oneand, they may feel slighted if she fails to

make jottings on what they are doing or ee as important; on the other hand, they



may react with surprise or indignationwhen she makes jottings about apparentlyersonal situations. Consider the following

xchange, again described by the fieldesearcher studying divorce mediation,which occurred as she openly took noteswhile interviewing a mediator about a

ession just completed:On one occasion when finishing up a debriefing, . .. [the mediator] began to apply some eye makeupwhile I was finishing writing down someobservations. She flashed me a mock disgustedlook and said, “Are you writing this down too!”indicating the activity with her eye pencil.

Open jotting, then, has to be carefullyalibrated to the unfolding context of thengoing interaction. 16 Open jottings notnly may strain relations with those whootice the writing, but, as notedreviously, jottings can also distract the



thnographer from paying close attentiono talk and activities occurring in theetting. A field researcher will inevitably

miss fleeting expressions, subtlemovements, and even key content innteractions if his nose is in his notepad.

Taking open jottings is not always

dvisable for other reasons as well. Inome settings, the fieldworker’sarticipation in ongoing interaction mighte so involving as to preclude takingreaks to write down jottings; in suchnstances, he may have to rely more upon

memory, focusing on incidents and keyhrases that will later trigger a fuller ecollection of the event or scene. For xample, in a setting where only a feweople write and do so only on rareccasions, an ethnographer who writesnstead of participating in an all-night



illage dance might be perceived as failingo maintain social relationships—a seriousffense in a close-knit village.

As a result of these problems, eventhnographers who usually write openottings may, at other times, make jottingsrivately and out of sight of those studied.

Waiting until just after a scene, incident, or onversation has occurred, thethnographer can then go to a private placeo jot down a memorable phrase. Here, it isften useful for the fieldworker to adopthe ways members of the settinghemselves use to carve out a moment orivacy or to “get away.” Fieldworkersave reported retreating to private placesuch as a bathroom (Cahill 1985), desertedunchroom, stairwell, or supply closet toecord such covert jottings. Dependingpon circumstances, the fieldworker can



isit such places periodically, as often asvery half hour or so, or immediately after particularly important incident. Another

ption is to identify the natural “time-out”paces that members of the setting alsoely on and use as places to relax andnwind, to be by oneself, and so on. Thus,

ieldworkers can often go to thenstitutional cafeteria or coffee shop, toutside sitting areas, or even to waitingooms or hallways to make quick jottingsbout events that have just occurred. Other esearchers avoid all overt writing in theield setting but immediately upon leavinghe field, pull out a notepad or laptop to jotown reminders of the key incidents,

words, or reactions they wish to include inull fieldnotes. A similar procedure is toecord jottings or even fuller notes onome kind of recording device while



riving home from a distant field site.These procedures allow the fieldworker toignal items that she does not want to

orget without being seen as intrusive.Finally, an ethnographer may writeottings in ways intermediate between opennd hidden styles, especially when note-

aking becomes a part of her task or role.n settings where writing—whether pen onaper or on a computer or laptop—is aequired or accepted activity, fieldworkersan take jottings without attracting specialotice. Thus, classrooms, meetings whereote-taking is expected, organizationalncounters where forms must be filled outas in domestic violence legal aid clinics),r in public settings such as coffee shopsnd cafeterias where laptops are common,ottings may be more or less openly

written. Those in the field may or may not



now explicitly that the fieldworker iswriting jottings for research purposes.Though many activities do not so easily

end themselves to writing jottings,ieldworkers can find other naturallyccurring means to incorporate jottings.

For example, fieldworkers often learn

bout settings by becoming members. For he fieldworker who assumes the role of aovice, the notes that as a beginner he isermitted or even expected to write mayecome the jottings for his first fieldnotes.

Strategies for how, where, and when toot notes change with time spent in theield and with the different relationshipsormed between fieldworker and people inhe setting. Even after the ethnographer hasstablished strong personal ties, situations

might arise in fieldwork when visiblyecording anything will be taken as



nappropriate or out of place; in theseituations, taking out a notepad or laptop

would generate deep discomfort to both

ieldworker and other people in theetting. 17 One student ethnographer tudying a campus bookstore who hadrown quite friendly with bookstore

workers—with whom she had spokenpenly about her study—nonethelesseported the following incident:

One of the younger cashiers came up to me after having seen me during two of my last observationsessions. She approached me tentatively with aquestion about me being a “spy” from the other campus bookstore or possibly from theadministration. Trying to ease the situation with a

joke, I told her I was only being a spy for sociology’s sake. But she didn’t understand the

joke, and it only made the situation worse.

ometimes people may be uncomfortablewith a jotting researcher because they have



ad little experience with writing as a partf everyday life. Especially in oralultures, watching and writing about

eople may seem like a strange activityndeed. In other instances, people havenpleasant associations with writing andind jottings intrusive and potentially

angerous. On one occasion, an elder in aZambian village became very hesitant toontinue speaking after the ethnographer otted down his name on a scrap of paper imply to remember it. She later learnedhat government officials in colonial timessed to come by and record names for taxurposes and to enlist people intoovernment work projects.

Finally, even with permission to writepenly, the tactful fieldworker will want toemain sensitive to and avoid jotting down

matters that participants regard as secret,



mbarrassing, too revealing, or that puthem in any danger. In other instances, theeople themselves might not object and, in

act, urge the researcher to take notesbout sensitive matters. Even though shehinks they may be embarrassing or bringhem harm if they were to be made public,

he researcher might take jottings but thenater decide not to use them in any final

writing.All in all, it is a defining moment in

ield relations when an ethnographer egins to write down what people areaying and doing in the presence of thoseery people. Therefore, fieldworkers takeery different approaches to jottings, their trategies both shaping and being shapedy their setting and by their relationships.

Hence, decisions about when and how toake jottings must be considered in the



ontext of the broader set of relations withhose in the setting. In some situations andelations, taking open jottings is clearly not

dvisable. In others, fieldworkers decide toake jottings but must devise their ownnique means to avoid or minimizewkward interactions that may arise as a

esult. When deciding when and where toot, it is rarely helpful or possible topecify in advance one “best way.” Here,s in other aspects of fieldwork, a goodule of thumb is to remain open, flexible,nd ready to alter an approach if itdversely affects the people under study.

EFLECTIONS: WRITING ANDTHNOGRAPHIC MARGINALITY

tarting as outsiders to a field setting,many fieldworkers find themselves pulled



oward involvement as insiders in wayshat make maintaining a research stanceifficult. The student-ethnographer

working in a bookstore, for example, notedhis tension:

There were times when I wanted to be free tolisten to other individuals talk or to watch their activities, but friends and acquaintances were so“distracting” coming up and wanting to talk that Iwasn’t able to. Also, there was this concern on my

part that, as I got to know some of the staff people better, their qualities as human beings would become so endearing that I was afraid that I wouldlose my sociological perspective—I didn’t want tofeel like in studying them, I was exploiting them.

Many field researchers similarly findhemselves unable to consistently sustain a

watching, distancing stance toward peoplehey are drawn to and toward events thatompellingly involve them. 18 Indeed,



ome may eventually decide to completelybandon their commitment to research (aossibility that has long given anxiety to

nthropologists concerned about theangers of “going native”). Others maybandon their research commitment in a

more limited, situational fashion,

etermining not to write fieldnotes aboutpecific incidents or persons on therounds that such writing would involveetrayals or revelations that the researcher inds personally and/or ethicallyntolerable (see Warren 2000:189–90).

But more commonly, ethnographers tryo maintain a somewhat detached,bservational attitude, even toward people

whom they like and respect, balancing andombining research commitments withersonal attachments in a variety o

ways. 19 One way to do so is to take



ccasional time-outs from research, notbserving and/or writing fieldnotes aboutelected portions of one’s field experience

while continuing to do so about other ortions. When living in a village on aong-term basis, for example, anthnographer may feel drawn into daily,

ntimate relations as a neighbor or perhapsven as a part of a family. On theseccasions, she may participatenaturally”—without a writing orientationr analytic reflection—in ongoing socialife. But on other occasions, shearticipates in local scenes in ways that areirected toward making observations andollecting data. Here, her actionsncorporate an underlying commitment to

write down and ultimately transform intodata” the stuff and nuances of that life.

Several practical writing conflicts arise



rom these opposing pressures towardnvolvement and distance. The inclinationo experience daily events either as a

natural” participant or as a researcher hows up in writing as shifts in point oiew as well as in varying kinds of detailsonsidered significant for inscription. Even

where and when to jot notes depends onhe person’s involvement, at a particular

moment, as a participant or as an observer.Whether a researcher-as-neighbor in theillage or as a researcheras-intern on a job,thnographers experience tension betweenhe present-oriented, day-to-day role andhe future-oriented identity as writer; thisension will shape the practical choiceshey make in writing both jottings and

more complete notes.While a primary goal of ethnography is

mmersion in the life-worlds and everyday



xperiences of others, the ethnographer nevitably remains in significant ways anutsider to these worlds. Immersion is not

merging; the ethnographer who seeks toget close to” others usually does notecome one of these others. As long as,nd to the extent that, he retains

ommitment to the exogenous project otudying or understanding the lives others, as opposed to the indigenousroject of simply living a life in one wayr another, he stays at least a partialtranger to their worlds, despite sharing

many of the ordinary exigencies of life thathese others experience and react to (see

Bittner 1988; Emerson 1987).Writing fieldnotes creates and underlies

his socially close, but experientiallyeparate, stance. The ethnographer’sieldnote writing practices—writing



In sum, in most social settings, writingown what is taking place as it occurs is atrange, marginalizing activity that marks

he writer as an observer rather than a full,rdinary participant. But independently ohe reactions of others, participating inrder to write leads one to assume the

mind-set of an observer, a mind-set inwhich one constantly steps outside ocenes and events to assess their “write-ble” qualities. It may be for this reasonhat some ethnographers try to put writingut of mind entirely by opting for the moreully experiential style of fieldwork. Buthis strategy simply puts off, rather thanvoids, the marginalizing consequences o

writing, for lived experience mustventually be turned into observations andepresented in textual form.



3



Writing Fieldnotes I: At theDesk, Creating Scenes on aPage

After hours participating in, observing, anderhaps jotting notes about ongoing eventsn a social setting, most fieldworkers return

o their desks and their computers to begino write up their observations into fullieldnotes. At this point, writing becomeshe explicit focus and primary activity o

thnography: Momentarily out of the field,he ethnographer settles at her desk, or ther preferred spot, to write up a detailedntry of her day’s experiences and

bservations that will preserve as much asossible what she noticed and now feels is



ignificant. At first glance, such writing upmight appear to be a straightforwardrocess to the fieldworker. It might seem

hat with sufficient time and energy, shean simply record her observations withittle attention to her writing process.

While having enough time and energy to

et her memories on the page is aominant concern, we suggest that theieldworker can benefit by consideringeveral kinds of basic writing choices.

To view writing fieldnotes simply as amatter of putting on paper what fieldesearchers have heard and seen suggestshat it is a transparent process. In this view,thnographers “mirror” observed reality inheir notes; they aim to write withoutlaborate rhetoric, intricate metaphors, or omplex, suspenseful narration. Writing aetailed entry, this view suggests, requires



nly a sharp memory and conscientiousffort.

A contrasting view insists that all

writing, even seemingly straightforward,escriptive writing, is a construction.Through his choice of words, sentencetyle, and methods of organization, a

writer presents a version of the world. As aelective and creative activity, writinglways functions more as a filter than a

mirror reflecting the “reality” of events.Ethnographers, however, only graduallyave deepened their awareness andppreciation of this view; they see howven “realist” ethnographies areonstructions that rely upon a variety otylistic conventions. Van Maanen1988:47) draws ethnographers’ attentiono a shift from “studied neutrality” in

writing to a construction through narrating



onventions. He identified studiedeutrality as a core convention in realistthnography; through this convention, the

arrator “poses as an impersonal conduit,who unlike missionaries, administrators,ournalists, or unabashed members of theulture themselves, passes on more-or-less

bjective data in a measured intellectualtyle that is uncontaminated by personalias, political goals, or moral judgment”1988:47). The increasing awareness o

writing as a construction, whether in realistr other styles, has led to closer xamination of how ethnographers write.

While these analyses of ethnographicwriting focus primarily on completedthnographic texts, fieldnotes also draw on

variety of writing conventions.Ethnographers construct their fieldnotentries from selectively recalled and



ccented moments. Whether it be anncident, event, routine, interaction, or isual image, ethnographers recreate each

moment from selected details andequences that they remember or haveotted down: words, gestures, body

movements, sounds, background setting,

nd so on. While writing, they further ighlight certain actions and statements

more than others in order to portray their ense of an experience. In other words,thnographers create scenes on a pagehrough highly selective and partialecountings of observed and re-evokedetails. These scenes—that is, moments re-reated on a page—representthnographers’ perceptions and memoriesf slices of life, enhanced or blurred byheir narrating and descriptive skills in

writing. An ethnographer’s style of writing



whether describing, recounting/narrating,r analyzing) inevitably draws ononventions in order to express and

ommunicate intelligibly to readers,whether they be simply the ethnographer erself or others.

This chapter explores the relations

etween an ethnographer’s attention toeople’s sayings and doings, processes for ecalling these moments, and writingptions for presenting and analyzing them.

Of course, no writing techniques enable anthnographer to write up life exactly as itappened or even precisely as sheemembers it. At best, the ethnographer re-creates” her memories as writtencenes that authentically depict people’sives through selected, integrated details.

But in mastering certain descriptive andarrating techniques, she can write up her



otes more easily in that first dash oetting everything down; and she canepict more effectively those scenes that

he intuitively selects as especiallyignificant. Whether she writes up keycenes first or goes back to them to fill inetails, more explicit awareness and

xploration of writing strategies enableser to more vividly and fully create thosecenes on the page.

In this chapter, we focus on howthnographers go about the complex tasksf remembering, elaborating, filling in, andommenting upon fieldnotes in order toroduce a full written account of witnessedcenes and events. We begin by discussinghe process of writing up full fieldnotes asthnographers move from the field to desk nd turn their jottings into detailed entries.ext, we explain various writing strategies



hat ethnographers often draw on as theyepict remembered slices of life inieldnotes and organize them in sequences

sing conventions of narrating andescribing. Although we discuss depictingnd organizing strategies separately, inctual fieldnote writing, one does both at

he same time. Finally, we discuss severalnalytic options for reflecting on fieldnoteshrough writing asides and/or morextended commentaries in the midst of or t the end of an entry. Whereas strategiesor “getting the scene on the page” create aense of immediacy that allows readers—

whether self or others—to envision aocial world, analytic strategies explore thethnographer’s understandings about that

world but do not portray it. Thus, thesetrategies complement each other, assistinghe ethnographer both to recall events and



lso to reflect on them.Throughout the chapter, we make

uggestions and offer examples in order to

ncrease fieldworkers’ awareness of their ptions for writing. For example, first-timeieldworkers typically have little difficultyn writing snippets about brief interactions;

owever, they are often uncertain aboutow to write about more complex, keycenes by sequencing interactions, creatingharacters, reporting dialogue, andontextualizing an action or incident withivid, sensory details. Though we offer

many concrete suggestions and examples,we do not attempt to prescribe a “correct”tyle or to cover all the writing options anthnographer might use. Yet, we douggest that one’s writing style influencesow one perceives what can be written.

Learning to envision scenes as detailed



writing on a page is as much aommitment to a lively style of writing ast is to an intellectual honesty in recording

vents fully and accurately.

MOVING FROM FIELD TO DESK

n this section, we discuss several practicalssues that surround the shift of contextrom the field to desk (or other preferred

writing spot). Here we answer some of theovice ethnographer’s most basicuestions: How much time should onellow for writing fieldnotes? How longhould one stay in the field before writingieldnotes? What is the most effectiveiming for writing fieldnotes after returningrom the field? What writing tools andquipment does one need? How does the



oal of “getting it down on the page,”uickly before forgetting, shape one’s

writing style?

Writing requires a block of concentratedime. Sometimes, incidents that span a fewminutes can take the ethnographer severalours to write up; he tries to recall just

who did and said what, in what order, ando put all that into words and coherentaragraphs. Indeed, an ethnographic

maxim holds that every hour spentbserving requires an additional hour to

write up.Over time, fieldworkers evolve a rhythm

hat balances time spent in the field andime writing notes. In some situations, theield researcher can put a cap on timeevoted to observing in order to allow aubstantial write-up period on leaving theield. Limiting time in the field in this way



essens the likelihood that the fieldworker will forget what happened or becomeverwhelmed by the prospect of hours o

omposing fieldnotes. We recommend thateginning ethnographers, when possible,eave the field after three to four hours inrder to begin writing fieldnotes.

In other situations, the fieldworker might find it more difficult to withdraw for writing. Anthropologists working in other ultures generally spend whole daysbserving and devote evenings to writing.

Field researchers who fill roles as regular workers must put in a full workday beforeeaving to write notes. In both cases,onger stretches of observation requirearger blocks of write-up time and perhapsifferent strategies for making note writing

more manageable. For example, onceaving described basic routines and daily



hythms in the first sets of notes, thethnographer who spends hours in the field

might focus subsequent notes on

ignificant incidents that occurredhroughout the day. At this stage, longer eriods spent in the field might in factrove advantageous, allowing greater

pportunities for observing incidents onterest.

Alternatively, the field researcher withegular workday responsibilities might findt useful to designate certain hours for bserving and taking jottings, givingriority to these observations in writing upull fieldnotes. Varying these designatedbservation periods allows exploration oifferent patterns of activity throughout theay. Of course, while using this strategy,he fieldworker should still write notes onmportant incidents that occur at other



imes.More crucial than how long the

thnographer spends in the field is the

iming of writing up fieldnotes. Over time,eople forget and simplify experience;otes composed several days after bservation tend to be summarized and

tripped of rich, nuanced detail. Hence, wetrongly encourage researchers to sit downnd write full fieldnotes as soon asossible after the day’s (or night’s)esearch is done. Writing fieldnotesmmediately after leaving the settingroduces fresher, more detailedecollections that harness thethnographer’s involvement with andxcitement about the day’s events. Indeed,

writing notes immediately on leaving theield offers a way of releasing the weightf what the researcher has just



xperienced. It is easier to focus one’shoughts and energies on the taxing work f reviewing, remembering, and writing. In

ontrast, those who put off writingieldnotes report that with the passage oime, the immediacy of lived experienceades, and writing fieldnotes becomes a

urdensome, even dreaded, experience.Often, however, it is impossible for an

thnographer to find time to write up notesmmediately upon leaving the field. Longr late hours, for example, often leave himoo tired to write notes. Under theseircumstances, it is best to get a goodight’s sleep and turn to writing up firsthing in the morning. Sometimes, even thisest is impossible: A village event mightast through several days and nights,onfronting the anthropological researcher

with a choice between sleeping outside



with the villagers or taking time outeriodically to sleep and write notes.

When a researcher has been in the field

or a long period and has limited timemmediately afterward for writing fullieldnotes, she has several alternatives.

First, she could make extensive,

andwritten jottings about the day’svents, relying on the details of these noteso postpone writing full fieldnotes, oftenor some time. 1 Second, she could dictateieldnotes into a tape recorder. One cantalk fieldnotes” relatively quickly and canictate while driving home from a fieldetting. But while dictation preserves vividmpressions and observations immediatelyn leaving the field, dictated notesventually have to be transcribed, a time-onsuming, expensive project. And in the

meantime, the field researcher does not



ave ready access to these dictated notesor review or for planning her next steps inhe field.

When writing immediately or soon after eturning from the site, the fieldworker hould go directly to computer or otebook, not talking with intimates about

what happened until full fieldnotes areompleted. Such “what happened today”alk can rob note writing of itssychological immediacy and emotionalelease; writing the day’s events becomes atale recounting rather than a catharticutpouring. 2

Ethnographers use a variety of differentmeans to write up full notes. While theypewriter provided the standard tool for

many classic ethnographers, someandwrote their full notes on pads or inotebooks. Contemporary ethnographers



trongly prefer a computer with a standardwordprocessing program. Typing noteswith a word-processing program not only

as the advantage of greater speed (slowypists will soon notice substantial gains inpeed and accuracy) but also allows for the

modification of words, phrases, and

entences in the midst of writing withoutroducing messy, hard-to-read pages.

Fieldnotes written on the computer are alsoasily reordered; it is possible, for xample, to insert incidents or dialogueubsequently recalled at the appropriatelace. Finally, composing with a word-rocessing program facilitates coding andorting fieldnotes as one later turns to

writing finished ethnographic accounts.In sitting down at a desk or computer,

he ethnographer’s most urgent task or writing purpose is to record experiences



while they are still fresh. Thus,thnographers write hurriedly, dashing

words “down on the page.” Their notes

ead like an outpouring, not like polished,ublishable excerpts. Knowing that amemorable event fades and gets confusedwith following ones as time passes, a

ieldworker writes using whatever hrasing and organization seems mostccessible, convenient, and doable at theime. He need not worry about beingonsistent, and he can shift from one style,ne topic, or one thought to another asuickly as the fingers can type. In thatnitial writing, the field researcher oncentrates on a remembered scene morehan on words and sentences. If thethnographer focuses too soon on wording,he will produce an “internal editor,”istracting her attention from the evoked



cene and stopping her outpouring omemory. The goal is to get as much downn paper in as much detail and as quickly

s possible, holding off any evaluation andditing until later. But in this process, thethnographer tries to strike a balanceetween describing fully and getting down

he essentials of what happened. Onetudent explains her struggle to describe anncident:

Here I’m going to stop and go back later because Iknow what I’m trying to say, but it isn’t comingout. . . . So there’s a little more to it than that, but Ihave to think about how to say it, so I’m just goingto leave it. When I write my fieldnotes, I just try toget it all down, and I go back through and edit,take time away from it and then come back andsee if that’s really what I meant to say or if I couldsay that in a better way, a clearer way.

Fieldworkers may write down all thewords that come to mind and later choose



more evocative and appropriate phrasing.Many writers produce a first rounduickly, knowing that they will make

dditions, polish wording, or reorganizearagraphs at some other time. Thus, inhat first rush of writing, finding thebsolutely best word or phrase to persuade

future audience should not be of suchoncern that it slows down the flow oetting words to paper.

Beginning ethnographers should not beurprised to experience ambivalence in

writing fieldnotes. On the one hand, theutpouring of thoughts and impressions ashe writer reviews and reexperiences thexcitement and freshness of the day’svents might bring expressive release andeflective insight. Having seen and heardntriguing, surprising things all day long,he fieldworker is finally able to sit down,



hink about, and relive events whileransforming them into a permanentecord. On the other hand, after a long,

xciting, or draining stint in the field, ausy schedule might inhibit findingnough time to write up notes, turning the

writing-up process into an intrusive,

umdrum burden. This experience is moreikely to occur after the ethnographer haspent weeks or months in the field; writingotes more selectively and/or focusing onew and unexpected developments notescribed in previous writings can provideome relief to these feelings.

ECALLING IN ORDER TO WRITE

n sitting down to compose fieldnotes in aluid, “get it down quickly” fashion, the



ieldworker seeks to recall in as muchetail as possible what he observed andxperienced earlier that day. This process

f recalling in order to write involveseimagining and replaying in one’s mindcenes and events that marked the day,ctively repicturing and reconstructing

hese witnessed events in order to get themown on a page. Sometimes replaying andeconstructing are keyed to jottings or listsf topics written earlier; at others, thethnographer works only with “headnotes”nd other memories to reconstruct detailedccounts of the day’s events. In both cases,he descriptions that result must makeense as a logical, sensible series oncidents and experiences, even if only ton audience made up of the fieldworker imself.

Ethnographers often use a mix o



tandard practices for recalling the day’svents in order to organize and composeetailed, comprehensive fieldnotes. One

trategy is to trace one’s own activities andbservations in chronological order,ecalling noteworthy events in theequence in which one observed and

xperienced them. Another strategy is toegin with some “high point” or anncident or event that stands out asarticularly vivid or important, to detailhat event as thoroughly as possible, andhen to consider in some topical fashionther significant events, incidents, or xchanges. Or, the ethnographer can focus

more systematically on incidents related topecific topics of interest in order to recallignificant events. Often ethnographersombine or alternate between strategies,roceeding back and forth over time in



tream-of-consciousness fashion.As noted, ethnographers often compose

ull fieldnotes without any prior writings,

working strictly from memory and theecollection of what was seen and heard inhe field. In other cases, they can work rom jottings made in the field or soon

fter. Some ethnographers also find itseful, on moving to the desk inreparation for writing, to write up a list oopics—brief references to key events thatnfolded that day or to the sequence oction that marked a key incident—usinghe list to get started on and to organizeotes on these events. In these later nstances, the fieldworker fills in, extends,nd integrates these abbreviated bits andieces of information by visualizing andeplaying the events, incidents, andxperiences they refer to. Jottings and lists



f topics, then, can anchor the writingrocess, providing links back to the field;he fieldworker simply turns to the start o

hat day’s jottings or topics and moveshrough in the order recorded, filling innd making connections between segmentsn the basis of memory.

To explore the process of using memorynd abbreviated writings to construct fullieldnotes, we consider how fieldworkersurn brief jottings into extended texts.

Looking at the movement back and forthetween jottings and the fuller, richer ecollection of events in the finalieldnotes provides a grounded way oxamining the generic processes oecalling in order to write. Here, we returno the two illustrations of jottings providedn chapter 2 , examining how each wassed to produce sets of full fieldnotes.



. “Too Many Sexual References”

A. Jottingsexual Harassmentndy—too many sexual references

PE frisbee game “This team has too manysausages”

eynaldo—( Carlos—in jail for stealing bicycle, 18 yrsold ) [circled]

aura—Wants to propose sexual harassment forms Thinking about detention for these students butalready too much work for keeping track of tardies/truancies/tendencies

B. Full Fieldnotes Next Laura goes off topic and mentions that

some of the students keep making sexual

comments that are “inappropriate.” She says thatAndy is particularly bad and recounts an instancewhere the class was out on the PE field and shesplit the class into teams for Ultimate Frisbee. Isplit the boys and girls evenly but you know how

the girls tend to just switch teams so they can betogether. Most of the boys ended up on one team,and the other team, the team with Andy, had a lot



of boys. Andy says, “Jezz, this team has too manycocks!” right in front of me! Then Laura focuseson Reynaldo. Someone used lotion at my desk andit squirted out onto the table in front of my desk.Reynaldo comes in and says, Wow, somebody hadan accident over here! Don’t worry, Laura, I’llclean it up for you. And he did, he took someKleenex and cleaned it up, but still, do you reallythink that it’s appropriate to mention to me,someone in her 50s, that someone excretedejaculatory fluid on my desk?! I mean, I’m in my50s, I have three sons, and I have a Master’sdegree!

The other teachers nod their heads and agreethis is wrong. Marie says, I feel exactly the sameway. She wanted to say something else but Ms.Diaz interrupts her: The other day I was trying toteach Jerry something and he yelled at me, “Getoff my nuts!” Can you believe that? The principalmentions, Oh yeah, I remember you came down to

tell me about that. Laura then says, We need asystem to control this. I think that we should typeout a statement that shows exactly what they saidand have the student who said it sign and date it. Ithey have three of those, we punish themsomehow. The teachers debate the merits of thissystem and ask what kinds of punishment theycould realistically enforce. Laura says they could



give students detention. Rose says, Yeah, but look at how much paperwork we already have to do for the students who are already in detention, so youwant to make more work in general for all of us?

No, we can’t give the students detention, it’d haveto be something else. In the end, there is aconsensus that this system is good but has kinks towork out. (The punishment of the students iscontingent on the workload of the staff.)

Note the contrasts in content, texture,nd comprehensibility between the initialottings and the full fieldnotes. The

ieldworker uses the references to Andynd Reynaldo to recollect and reconstructhe teacher’s accounts of inappropriatesexual references” recently made by each

oy. Nothing is written here from theotting about Carlos being in jail for tealing a bicycle; presumably one of thetaff mentioned this as a side issue in the

midst of this talk. That these words wereircled suggests that they have been



ncluded elsewhere in the notes, perhaps toocument staff plans to dismiss students

who were eighteen or older whom the

chool was not legally mandated to retain.The second paragraph fills in theiscussion generated by Laura’s proposalo create “sexual harassment forms” and to

unish students who accumulate three suchorms. Note that it is only here that thechool staff use the term “sexualarassment,” although the ethnographer as used this heading to mark and recallhese exchanges in his jottings.

Furthermore, a discrepancy between theottings and the full notes is evident: in theormer, Andy is reported to have referredo “too many sausages,” while in the fullotes Laura quotes Andy as having saidtoo many cocks.” The studentthnographer explained what happened



ere (personal communication): “Reynaldoold me Andy used the words ‘too manyocks.’ I got mixed up when creating the

ieldnotes. It should have been Laura ‘toomany sausages’ and Reynaldo ‘too manyocks.’ ” 3

. “You Can Call His Doctor at UCLA”

A. Jottings[case number]Snow, MarciaThomas

atty—AIDS MikeMurphy

legal guardian

are you prepared to proceed againstthe one individual—(both)massive doses of chemother(apy)



I don’t think he’s ever going to come inhere

I know he’s well enough to walk– came in (returned heater)—when?you can call his doctor at UCLA andhe can verify all thisI just don’t call people on thetelephone—courts don’t operate that way—it

has to be on paper or (in person) ——

Mr. M returned my heaters– was walking

——

Let me be clear You don’t want to proceed againstonly one of these individuals?I want to proceed against (no, but)

—if he is his guardian both—but

—— unravel itDept 10—J(udge) Berkoff Ms. S, hold on just a



B. Full FieldnotesMarcia Snow has longish, curly, dark brown

hair, in her 20s, dressed informally in blue blouseand pants. No wedding ring, but with a youngishlooking guy with glasses. Robert Thomas is in his40s, light brown hair, shaggy mustache, jacketwith red-black checked lining.

Judge begins by asking RT if he has an atty; hedoes, but he is not here. He explains that his

business partner, Mike Murphy, who is also namedin the TRO, is not here today; he has AIDS and isvery ill. “I’m his legal guardian,” so I canrepresent his concerns. J asks MS: “Are you

prepared to proceed against this one individual?”MS answers that she wants the order against bothof them. RT then explains that MM has had AIDSfor three years, has had “massive doses ochemotherapy,” and adds: “I don’t think he’s ever going to come in here.” J asks MS if from whatshe knows that MM is this sick. MS hesitates, then

says: “I know he’s well enough to walk.” I sawhim walking when he returned the heaters thatthey stole. J: When was this? (I can’t hear her answer.) RT: He’s had his AIDS for three years.He’s very sick. “You can call his doctor at UCLA,and he can verify this.” J: “I just don’t call peopleon the telephone. Courts don’t operate that way. Ithas to be on paper” or testified in person. RT



nto relatively full descriptions of the twoitigants (but not of the judge or other egular courtroom personnel). In addition,

he notes tell a story about one specificopic—the problems arising from thebsence of a codefendant, the questions theudge raises about this absence, and a

equence of responses to this problem byhe petitioner and defendant. The story,owever, is missing key elements (for xample, the fact that this case involves aenant-landlord dispute) and containslements of unknown meaning (for xample, Marcia’s comment about how thebsent defendant “returned the heaters thathey stole”).

Also consider the handling of directuotations in moving from jottings toieldnotes. Only those words actually takenown at the time are placed in quotes; a



ortion of the direct speech missed at theime is paraphrased outside the directuotes. Thus, the jotted record of the

udge’s remark, “it has to be on paper or in person),” is written in fieldnote form as‘It has to be on paper’ or testified in

erson.” As a general practice, speech not

written down word for word at the timehould either be presented as indirectuotation or paraphrased (see discussion odialogue” below).

Ethnographers rely upon key words andhrases from their jottings to jog their

memories. But writing fieldnotes fromottings is not a straightforwardemembering and filling in; rather, it is a

much more active process of constructingelatively coherent sequences of action andvocations of scene and character (seeelow). In turning jottings and headnotes



nto full notes, the fieldworker is alreadyngaged in a sort of preliminary analysis

whereby she orders experience, both

reating and discovering patterns onteraction. This process involves decidingot simply what to include but also what toeave out, both from remembered

eadnotes and from items included inottings. Thus, in writing full fieldnotes,he ethnographer might clearly remember r have jottings about particular incidentsr impressions but decide, for a variety oeasons, not to incorporate them into theotes. The material might seem to involve

matters that are peripheral to major ctivities in the setting, activities that

members appear to find insignificant, or hat the ethnographer has no interest in.

However, in continuing to write up theay’s fieldnotes or at some later point in



he fieldwork, the ethnographer might seeignificance in jottings or headnotes thatnitially seemed too unimportant or

ninteresting to include in full fieldnotes.The student ethnographer who, in writingull notes, had initially passed over aotting about the “delivery of three new

ags of sand” to the sandbox at a HeadstartProgram ( chapter 2 ) saw relevance andmeaning in this incident as she continuedo write up and reflect on the day’sbservations:

Now that I’m thinking back, when we got thesand, it was a really hot day so that actually that

jotting did help me remember because it was sowarm out that Karen, the teacher, said that thechildren could take their shoes off in the sandbox.This became a really tough rule to enforce becausethe children aren’t allowed to have shoes of anywhere else. They would just run out of the

sandbox and go into the parking lot, and so it wasa really tough rule to enforce. And I have an



incident about that.

n the comments made here, the studentomes to appreciate (and construct) ainkage between the three new bags oand included in her jottings and what sheees as significant issues of rule

nforcement and control in the setting;with this appreciation, she decides toncorporate the delivery of the sand as anncident in her notes. Moreover, this focus

n enforcement and control leads her toeview her memory for “relevant” eventsr “incidents”; here she recollects “anncident about that,” signaling her intent to

write up this incident in her notes.In light of the ways “significance” shiftsnd emerges in the course of writing notesnd thinking about their import, we

ncourage students to write about as manyf these “minor” events as possible, even i



hey seem insubstantial or only vaguelyelevant at the moment. They might signalmportant processes relevant to other

ncidents or to emerging analytic themes inways the ethnographer can only appreciatet some later point. Even when writing thetory of one rather cohesive event, writers

hould include apparently tangentialctivities and comments, for they mighturn out to provide key insights into the

main action.

WRITING DETAILED NOTES: DEPICTION OFCENES

The ethnographer’s central purpose is toortray a social world and its people. Butften beginning researchers produceieldnotes lacking sufficient and livelyetail. Through inadvertent summarizing



nd evaluative wording, a fieldworker failso adequately describe what she hasbserved and experienced. The following

trategies—description, dialogue, andharacterization—enable a writer tooherently depict an observed momenthrough striking details. As is evident in

everal of the included excerpts,thnographers often merge severaltrategies. In this section, we explain androvide examples of these writingtrategies; in the next section, we discussarious options for organizing a day’sntry.

escription

Description” is a term used in more than

ne way. Thus far, we have referred towriting fieldnotes as descriptive writing in



ontrast to analytic argumentation. 4 Here,we refer more specifically to description as

means of picturing through concrete

ensory details the basic scenes, settings,bjects, people, and actions theieldworker observed. In this sense,

writing descriptive images is just one part

f the ethnographer’s storytelling about theay’s events.

As a writing strategy, description callsor concrete details rather than abstracteneralizations, for sensory imagery rather han evaluative labels, and for immediacyhrough details presented at close range.

Goffman (1989:131) advises theieldworker to write “lushly,” makingrequent use of adjectives and adverbs toonvey details. For example, detailsresent color, shape, and size to createisual images; other details of sound,



imbre, loudness, and volume evokeuditory images; those details describingmell or fragrance recreate olfactory

mages; and details portraying gestures,movements, posture, and facial expressiononvey kinetic images. While visualmages tend to predominate in many

escriptions, ethnographers find that theyften combine these various kinds omages in a complete description.

When describing a scene, the writer elects those details that most clearly andividly create an image on the page;onsequently, he succeeds best inescribing when he selects detailsccording to some purpose and from aefinite point of view. For example, the

writer acquires a clearer sense of whatetails to accent if he takes as his projectescribing, not the office setting in a



eneral sense, but, rather, the officenvironment as a cluttered place to work,erhaps as seen from the perspective of a

ecretary who struggles with her boss’sisorder every day. However, frequentlyhe fieldworker sits down to write about aetting he does not yet understand. In fact,

he beginning ethnographer often faces theilemma of not knowing what counts as

most important; under these circumstances,is purpose is simply to document thempression he has at that time. Wanting toecall the physical characteristics and theensory impressions of his experience, aieldworker often describes the setting andocial situations, characters’ appearances,nd even some daily routines.

Ethnographers often select details toescribe the ambience of a setting or nvironment that is important for



nderstanding subsequent action. For xample, during initial fieldwork in aillage in southeastern Congo (formerly

Zaire), an ethnographer might reflect onhe spatial arrangement and social relationss she has observed them thus far. In her ieldnotes, she might describe how the

ouses all face toward an open, clearedrea; that the village pavilion where menisit is situated in the center; that the

women cook by wood fires in front of their ouses, often carrying babies on their acks as they work and are assisted byounger girls; and that some men and boysit under a tree in the yard near two other

men weaving baskets. How she perceiveshese details and the way she frames thems contextualizing social interactionsetermines, in part, the details she selectso create this visual image of a small



illage in the late afternoon.An ethnographer should also depict the

ppearance of characters who are part o

escribed scenes in order to contextualizections and talk. For example, in lookingt how residents adapted to conditions in asychiatric board-and-care home, Linda

haw described someone who othersiving in the home thought was especiallycrazy”:

Robert and I were sitting by the commissarytalking this afternoon when a new resident namedBruce passed by several times. He was a tall,extremely thin man with straggly, shoulder-length,graying hair and a long bushy beard. I had heardthat he was only in his thirties, even though helooked prematurely aged in a way that remindedme of the sort of toll that harsh conditions exactfrom many street people. He wore a long, dirty,gray-brown overcoat with a rainbow sewn to the

back near the shoulder over a pair of torn blue jeans and a white tee shirt with what looked likecoffee stains down the front. Besides his



disheveled appearance, Bruce seemed extremelyagitated and restless as he paced from one end othe facility to the other. He walked with a lopinggait, taking very long strides, head held bent to hischest and his face expressionless, as his armsswung limply through the air, making a wide arc,as though made of rubber. As Bruce passed by onone of these rounds, Robert remarked, “That guy’sreally crazy. Don’t tell me he’s going to berecycled into society.”

Here the ethnographer provides a detailedescription of a newcomer to the home,roviding the context necessary tonderstand a resident’s comment that thiserson was too crazy to ever live outsidef the home. In fact, the final comment,Don’t tell me he’s going to be recyclednto society,” serves as a punch lineramatically linking the observer’setailed description of the new resident

with the perceptions and concerns of anstablished resident.



While describing appearance mightnitially seem easy, in fact, many observersave difficulty doing so in lively, engaging

ways. Part of the problem derives from theact that when we observe people whomwe do not know personally, we initiallyee them in very stereotyped ways; we

ormally notice and describe strangers inerms of gender, age, or race, along withther qualities in their physicalppearances. 5 Thus, beginningieldworkers invariably identify charactersy gender. They frequently add one or twoisible features: “a young woman,” “aoung guy in a floral shirt,” “two Latina

women with a small child,” “a woman iner forties,” “a white male withrown/blond medium length hair.” Indeed,

many fieldnotes present characters asisual clichés, relying on worn-out,



requently used details to describe others,ften in ways that invoke commontereotypes: a middle-aged librarian is

implistically described as “a bald manwearing thick glasses,” a youth in auvenile hall as having “slicked back hair,”

lawyer as “wearing a pin-striped suit”

nd “carrying a briefcase.” Such clichésot only make for boring writing but also,

more dangerously, blind the writer topecific attributes of the person in front oim.

The description of a character’sppearance is frequently “categoric” andtereotyped for another reason as well:

Fieldworkers rely upon these clichés not somuch to convey another’s appearance tonvisioned readers but to label (and thusrovide clarity about) who is doing what

within the fieldnote account. For example,



o that the image can be clearly visualized.For example, one fieldworker described aman in a skid row mission as “a man in the

ack who didn’t have any front teeth ando spoke with a lisp.” Another described aoy in a third-grade classroom aswiggling his butt and distorting his face

or attention” on entering the classroomate. Such images use details to paint morepecific, lively portraits and avoid as muchs possible vague, stereotypic features.

Ethnographers can also write more vividescriptions by describing how charactersress. The following excerpt depicts a

woman’s clothes through concrete andensory imagery:

Today Molly, a white female, wore her Africanmotif jacket. It had little squares on the frontwhich contained red, yellow, green, and black colored prints of the African continent. Imposedon top was a gold lion of Judah (symbol o



Ethiopian Royal Family). The sleeves were bright —red, yellow, and green striped. The jacket back had a picture of Bob Marley singing into amicrophone. He is a black male with long black dreadlocks and a little beard. Written in red at thetop was: “Rastafari.”

This description advances thethnographer’s concern with ethnicdentity and affiliation. The initialentence, “Today Molly, a white female,

wore her African motif jacket,” sets up annexpected contrast: Molly is white, yethe wears an item of clothing that theesearcher associates with African

American culture. “African motif ” directsttention to particular attributes of theacket (colors, insignia, and symbols) andgnores other observable qualities of theacket, for example, its material, texture,

tyle, cleanliness, or origins.Consequently, this description frames the



acket as an object publicly announcing itswearer’s affiliation with AfricanAmericans. 6

Furthermore, rather than simply telling he reader what the ethnographer infers,his passage shows affiliation with African

Americans in immediate detail through

ctions and imagery. Contrast thisescriptive strategy with the followinghypothetical) abstract and evaluativeepiction that generalizes, rather thanpecifies, details: “Today, Molly, a whiteirl, assertively wore her bright Africanacket. She always shows off in theselothes and struts around pretending to actike a black. ” Not only does this summaryely on a vague adjective (“bright”), but itlso obscures the actions with evaluativedverbs and verbs (“assertively,” “struts,”nd “shows off ”) and categorizing labels



ppears in word choice, implicitomparisons, and even in rhythms as in thetaccato of a curt dismissal. A self-

eflective ethnographer should make hisudgments explicit in written asides. But,he best antidote to these evaluativempulses is to keep in mind that the

thnographer’s task is to write descriptionshat lead to empathetic understanding ohe social worlds of others.

In addition to describing people, places,nd things, an ethnographer might alsoepict a scene by including action. For xample, she might portray a character’salk, gesture, posture, and movement. Inontrast to describing a person’sppearance, action sequences highlight aharacter’s agency to affect her world; aharacter acts within a situation in routine

ways or in response to set conditions. The



ollowing fieldnote excerpt of a grocerytocker working in a nearly empty storeeveals how sensory details about action

an create a vivid description of a scene:As I conclude my first “lap” [around the store] and

begin my second, I find myself slowly making myway through the frozen food aisle when I come

across a female “stocker.” She seems to be prettyyoung (college age) and is thin with dark, heavilylined eyes. Although her eyes are dark, themakeup is not to the point where she looks gothic.Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and

she is in the process of restocking TV dinners intothe freezer. She is like a robot: she seems to be inher own space as she opens the freezer door and

props open the door using her body. She thengrabs a few TV dinners from their original boxedcontainer and sorts and loads them into the newand appropriate location within the freezer. As sheturns around to reload, she fails to prop open thefreezer door with something other than her body.This causes the door to involuntarily close whenshe shifts her body in order to grab more boxes.This action causes the freezer door to slam shutwith a loud “snap” sound. As strange as it may



seem, the sound that the door makes is almost as ithe freezer is mocking the female stocker. But thisdoes not seem to distress her as she turns aroundand repeats the whole process, again and again.

Here, the ethnographer sets the scene,sing an evocative image (eyes are dark,ut the makeup is not gothic-looking) to

nable the reader to visualize the stocker’sppearance. Notice how she uses a familiar metaphor, for example “robot,” as atarting point to call up a visual image, but

he avoids creating a stereotyped character y providing the details of actions to create

fuller, in-depth picture of what thetocker is doing. She employs visual

mages of the stocker’s physical movementusing her body to keep the freezer door pen), as well as auditory images (thereezer door slams shut with a loud “snap”ound), to give the door a human-likeharacter (the ability to mock the stocker).



Thus, she effectively portrays both thehysical and emotional effort required tolace the TV dinners in the freezer. When

thnographers occasionally use figurativeanguage, such as this robot metaphor, theylways should supplement the image withescriptive detail as this ethnographer

oes. Otherwise, later on when reading her ieldnotes, she might not remember whyhe chose this metaphor or what actions itepresented.

ialogue

Ethnographers also reproduce dialogue— onversations that occur in their presencer that members report having had withthers—as accurately as possible. They

eproduce dialogue through direct andndirect quotation, through reported



she changed it.” She said that girl had a “badattitude” and shook her head.

Writing up this conversation asredominately indirect quotation preserveshe back-and-forth flow of the spokennteraction. Interspersing quoted fragmentsivens up the dialogue and lends a sense ommediacy. By clearly marking the directuotation, indirect quotation, and reportedpeech, we can see how they work ogether.

Direct: “Did you see that girl?”ndirect: I told her I had . . .ndirect: . . . and Polly confided that the girl had hassled

her. Polly said that the girl tried to leave schoolwithout permission and had started arguing.She said the principal had been walking by andhe had tried to deal with the disturbance.

eported speech, direct: And the girl had answered,“This is my school. You can’t control me!” andthen she called the principal a “white MF.”

Direct: “It’s usually a black MF, but she changed it.”



ndirect: She said that the girl has aDirect: “bad attitude” . . .

Indirect quotation more closelypproximates dialogue than paraphrasingoes. Paraphrasing this conversation with

Polly might have preserved the basicontent. But in paraphrasing, a writer ranslates speech into her own words andoo readily starts to summarize. For xample, a paraphrase of the last portion ohis excerpt might read: “The girl talkedack to the principal and called himames. . . . She has some attituderoblems.” This paraphrasing obscures the

lavor of chatting and offeringonfidences, and it fails to voice thetudent’s remarks to the principal, whichhus would have been unheard.

Clearly, this ethnographer has a livelytyle that moves easily because the



ieldnote varies the phrasing and only usesshe said” as needed. In writing direct or ndirect quotations, ethnographers do not

eed to repeat “she said that . . .” each timehey introduce dialogue. Instead, one caneep the pace of the dialogue moving bymmediately stating the verbatim-recalled

wording or the approximately recalledhrase. For example, “Polly said that theirl had hassled her,” could also be writtens, “Polly replied, the girl hassled me,” or,ometimes when it is clear who ispeaking, simply as “the girl hassled me.”

Too many repetitions of “she said” or “heaid” begin to echo and, thus, detract fromhe flow of the dialogue.

Members’ own descriptions andstories” of their experiences arenvaluable indexes to their views anderceptions of the world (see chapter 5 )



nd should be documented verbatim whenossible. Writing this exchange as astory” told verbatim to the fieldworker

reserves two different kinds onformation. First, it shows thatsomething happened” between a student,

guard, and the principal. Second, the

ccount provides the guard’s experience ohat something. As the guard’s story, thisieldnote conveys more about the teller ander concerns than it does about the girl ander trouble.

Writing up dialogue is moreomplicated than simply remembering talk r replaying every word. People talk inpurts and fragments. They accentuate or ven complete a phrase with a gesture,acial expression, or posture. They sendomplex messages through incongruent,eemingly contradictory and ironic verbal



nd nonverbal expression as in sarcasm or olite put-downs. Thus, ethnographers

must record the meanings they infer from

he bodily expression accompanying words—gesture, movement, facial expression,one of voice. Furthermore, people do notake turns smoothly in conversations: They

nterrupt each other, overlap words, talk imultaneously, and respond with ongoingomments and murmurs. Such turn takingan be placed on a linear page byracketing and overlapping speech.

Although accurately capturing dialoguen jottings and full fieldnotes requiresonsiderable effort, ethnographers have aumber of reasons for peppering their otes with verbatim quoted talk. Suchialogue conveys character traits, advancesction, and provides clues to the speaker’social status, identity, personal style, and



nterests. Dialogue allows the fieldesearcher to capture members’ terms andxpressions as they are actually used in

pecific situations. In addition, dialoguean point to key features of a culturalworldview. The following excerpt comesrom a discussion in an African American

istory course:Deston, a black male with Jheri curls, asked Ms.Dubois, “What’s a sellout? I hear that if you talk toa white person—you sell out. If you go out with awhite girl—you sell out.” She replied that some

people “take it to the extreme.” She said that asellout could even be a teacher or someone whoworks at McDonalds. Then she defined a sellout as“someone who is more concerned about making it

. . . who has no racial loyalty, no allegiance to people.”

The writer uses direct quotation to capturen ongoing exchange about racial identitynd to retain a key member’s term.



The use of indirect, along with direct,uotation also allows an ethnographer toepresent the back-and-forth character o

veryday interaction in accurate andffective ways. In the following excerptrom a swap meet, for example, directlyuoting the actual negotiations over price

ighlights and focuses the reader’sttention on this aspect of the interaction.

She (swap meet vendor) had many different itemsincluding a Sparkletts water dispenser, some bigoutdoor Christmas lighted decorations, a blanket,wooden shoes from China, salt and pepper shakers, a vacuum cleaner, mini wooden mantels,clothes, small pieces of furniture, and shoes. I seea beaded curtain jumbled up on the tarp and walk toward it. I point to it and ask the vendor howmuch she wants for it. She takes a moment to think and then says, “Ummm, five dollars.” She standsup slowly and walks over to it. She picks it up off the ground. She shows us that it is in good

condition by holding it up high and letting all the bead strands hang down. “Will you take three?” I



ask as I look it over. It has a fancy top that the beads hang off of. It is all one color—ivory or light brown. “How about four?” she says. “Alright,I’ll take it,” I say. She tells me that she will bag itup for me, and she turns around to get a plastic bagfrom the inside of the van. I rummage through my

pockets looking for the one dollar bills. All I haveleft are three ones and a five. I hand her the fiveand she gives me the bag. She puts the five dollar

bill into her fanny pack and withdraws a one dollar bill. She hands it to me and says thank you. I saythank you back and turn to leave.

n addition to contributing to a lively

escription of a scene at the swap meet, theresentation of dialogue furthersensitivity to the interactional processeshrough which members construct

meanings and local social worlds in suchoutine exchanges.

These issues and choices in writingialogue become even more complex whenhe local language differs from theesearcher’s. How well the researcher



nows the language certainly determineshe extent of verbatim quoting. When thethnographer hears slang, nonstandard

English, or grammatically incorrecthrasing, she should resist correcting thiswording but, instead, put such expressionsn quotation marks. In addition, when a

ieldworker does research in a secondanguage, not only will she frequently miss

what someone said because she did notnderstand a particular word, but she also

will have difficulty capturing the verbatimlow of a dialogue even when she doesnderstand. By working with a localssistant and checking to make sure shenderstands correctly what people areaying, she can compensate for some oer difficulty. Similar problems arise when

working in English in a setting with muchechnical lingo or other in-group



xpressions such as slang. Unable toollow all the talk, the researcher araphrases as much as she can and

ccasionally includes the snippets oerbatim talk she heard and rememberedlearly.

In response to these language

ifficulties, many ethnographersupplement their fieldnotes by tapeecordings. They might also makeecordings in order to preserve as detailed

record of naturally occurring talk asossible so that they can pursue particular heoretical issues. For example, fieldesearchers interested in recurrent patternsf interaction in institutional settings might

make special efforts to tape-record at leastome such encounters. 7 Still, mostthnographers do not regard recordings asheir primary or exclusive form of data;



ather, they use them as one way amongthers for closely examining the meaningvents and experiences have for those

tudied.By way of illustration, consider howRachel Fretz worked with recordings otorytelling performances among the

Chokwe people in Bandundu, Congoformerly Zaire). She recorded andarefully transcribed all verbal expressionsf both narrators and audience, sinceisteners actively participate in thetorytelling session. The following is anxcerpt from the beginning of one sucherformance; the narrator (N), a young

man, performs to an audience (A) owomen, men, and children one eveninground the fire (Fretz 1995a).

: Once upon a time, there were some young boys,myself and Fernando and Funga and Shamuna.



: Is it a story with a good song?: They were four persons. They said, “Ah. Let’s go

hunting.” Pia they went everywhere. Pia they went

everywhere.: Good.: They went this way and that way, this way and that

way. No game. “Let’s return.Let’s go.” They saw a large hut.Inside there was a container with honey in it.“My friends, this honey, mba, who put it here?”He said, “Who?”Another said, “Who?”[Another said,] “Let’s go. We can’t eat this.”Then, fwapu, Funga came forward and said, “Ah!

You’re just troubled. Even though you’re sohungry, you won’t eat this honey?”

“Child. The man who put the honey here is not present. You see that this house was builtwith human ribs, and you decide to eat this

honey.”He [Funga] said, “Get out of here. I’ll eat it. Go onahead. Go now.” He took some honey; heate it.

“Shall we wait for him? We’ll wait for him.”He came soon. “Let’s go.”

Liata, liata, liata, they walked along. “We’regoing a long way. We came from a great



distance.” They arrived and found, ah! Kayanda [my goodness], a large river.

“My friends, what is this?”“My friends, such a large river. Where did it come

from?”He said, “Ah! Who can explain it?”“We can’t see its source or where it’s going.”“Let’s cross the river. I’ll go first.

irst Singing: Oh Papa. Eee, Papa, it’s I who ate the honey.: This large river God created, I must cross it.: Papa! Eee, Papa, I’m going into the water.

: This large river God created, I must cross it.: Papa! Eee, Papa, I didn’t it.: This large river God created, I must cross it.: Papa! Eee, Papa, I’m crossing to the other side.: This large river God created, I must cross it.

Transcribing a performance involvesatching all the teller’s words and audienceesponses (often requiring the help of aative speaker) despite such interfering



ounds as a dog barking and childrenrying. Accurate transcription also requireslose attention to the rhythm and pauses in

peaking so that the punctuation and linereaks reflect the storytelling style (cf.Hymes 1991; Tedlock 1983).

But transcribing and translating the tape

s only one part of the ethnographer’sfforts to learn about and understandtorytelling performances. She also wrotextensive fieldnotes describing theituation and participants. 8 For example,he noted that the storytelling session took lace by the fire in the chief’s pavilion atn informal family gathering including thehief, his seven wives, and their childrennd grandchildren. She observed that the

women participated primarily by singinghe story-songs and by answering withxclamations and remarks. The



thnographer also recorded her onversations with these participants andhe general comments Chokwe people

ffered about telling such stories, calledishima. She found out that in thiserformance, listeners know that theouse-made-of-human-ribs probably

elongs to a sorcerer, that eating his honeys dangerous because it will cast a spellver them, that the river that appearedrom nowhere across their path had beenreated by the sorcerer, and that Funga

who ate the honey most likely will drowns a consequence of not listening to hislder brother. She learned that theecurring song, sung four times during theerformance, created a tension betweenope and panic about the consequences oating the honey and between trusting thatt was a natural river created by God



“This large river God created”) andearing that it was a sorcerer’s invention“Eee, Papa, it’s I who ate the honey”).

Thus, a transcription of recorded speechs not a straightforward and simple meansf documenting an event. Thethnographer needs to observe and listen to

more than the words; she needs to ask many follow-up questions and write downwhat she learns. As a result, much fieldesearch uses a variety of recording andncoding processes, combining fieldnotes

with audio and video recording. 9

haracterization

Ethnographers describe the persons theyncounter through a strategy known as

haracterization. While a simpleescription of a person’s dress and



movements conveys some minimal sensef that individual, the writer more fullyharacterizes a human being through also

howing how that person talks, acts, andelates to others. An ethnographer mostffectively characterizes individuals inontext as they go about their daily

ctivities rather than by simply listing their haracteristics. Telling about a person’sraits never is as effective as showing howhey act and live. This entails presentingharacters as fully social beings throughescriptions of dress, speech, gestures, andacial expressions, which allow the reader o infer traits. Traits and characteristicshus appear in and through interaction withthers rather than by being presented assolated qualities of individuals. Thus,haracterization draws on a writer’s skillsn describing, reporting action, and



counted each glass out loud. She took particular pride in the coffeepot she uses to fix Jay’s morningcoffee and a warmer oven where they sometimesheat take-out pizza.

Terri tried very hard to demonstrate all theyhad done to make their apartment like one that anymarried couple might have; yet, the harder shetried, the more apparent it became how differenttheir lives really were. Terri spoke of the futilityshe felt in spite of all these efforts: “All the noise,the screaming, the tension really bothers me. I’mmarried, and I can’t even be a normal wife here. Iwant to get up in the morning, fix my husband

breakfast—a cup of coffee, eggs, bacon, orange juice—before he goes to work, clean the house,take care of the kids and then fix him a nice dinner and drink or whatever he wants when he getshome. Here, I get up and can fix him a cup oinstant coffee. You know, it’s not as good to just

pick up the apartment, but then there’s nothing

else to do.”

Terri comes across as a fully humanndividual whose actions and talk reveal

er character. She has done her best toreate the normal way of life she wishes



or but cannot sustain in this quasi-nstitutional setting. Through her actionsnd words, we see her struggle in vain to

onstruct this private space as a refugegainst the debilitating forces onstitutional life.

Pressed to finish his notes, a writer

might be tempted to characterize by usingome convenient label (“a retardederson,” “a homeless person,” alack/white/Asian, etc.) rather thanooking closely at that person’s actualppearance and behavior. Such quick haracterization, however, produces atock character who, at best, comes acrosss less than fully human and, at worst,ppears as a negative stereotype. For xample, one student, in describing peoplen a shopping mall, characterized an older

woman as a “senile bag lady” after noting



hat she muttered to herself while fumblingbsentmindedly in a shabby, oversizedurse. Such labeling sketches only a pale

ype and closes the writer’s attention tother relevant details and actions.While ethnographers try to avoid

haracterizing people by stock characters,

hey do include members’ remarks andctions that stereotype or mock others. Theollowing excerpt describes a student who

mockingly acts out typical gestures andostures of a Latino “cholo” before somelassmates:

As the white male and his friend walked away, he

said “chale homes” [eh! homies] in a mock Spanish accent. Then he exaggerated his walkingstyle: he stuck his shoes out diagonally, placed hisarms at a curved popeye angle, and leaned back. . .. Someone watching said, “Look at you fools.”

n this group of bantering young men, the



white teenage male enacts a ludicrousaricature of a Latino “cholo.”

Ethnographers take care to distinguish

members’ characterizations from their owny providing details that clearlyontextualize the talk and behavior aselivered from a member’s point of view.

An ethnographer usually characterizesn detail those persons who act centrally in

scene. Although the full picture of anyerson develops through time in a series oieldnotes, each description presents livelynd significant details that show a primaryharacter as completely as possiblehrough appearance, body posture, gesture,

words, and actions. In contrast, aeripheral figure might indeed be referredo simply with as few details as necessaryor that person to be seen doing his smallart in the scene.



A number of criteria shape the fieldesearcher’s decision about who is centralnd who is peripheral. First, the

esearcher’s theoretical interests will focusis attention toward particular people. For xample, the central characters in a studyf teamwork among “support staff” in a

ourtroom were courtroom clerks andailiffs rather than attorneys, witnesses, or he judge. Second, methodologicaltrategies also focus the ethnographer’sttention. For example, a strategy for epicting a social world by describingistinctive interactional patterns mighthape his decision to focus on someone

who presents a particularly vividllustration of such a pattern. Finally, i

members in a scene orient to a particular erson, then a description that makes thaterson central to the scene is called for.



Conversely, even those who are centraligures in a setting might get slightttention from the field researcher if they

re so treated by those in the scene. For xample, in a scene focusing on studentsalking in the quad at lunchtime, theprincipal walking across the courtyard

nd looking from side to side” might note described in much more detail if no oneeems to notice him.

As a practical matter, an individuallready well known through previousntries does not need to have a fullntroduction each time he enters a scene.

Even for a main character, one describesnly those actions and traits relevant to theurrent interaction or those that werereviously unnoted. But continuingontacts with people greatly expand theield researcher’s resources for writing



uller, richer characterizations; greater amiliarity enables the researcher to notend to write about qualities that are harder

o detect. Yet many ethnographers tend toescribe even main characters only uponirst encountering them, leaving that firstharacterization unchanged despite coming

o know more about that person. Hence,we suggest taking time as researchrogresses to periodically reflect on andry to capture on paper the appearance andeel of major characters, now known asersons with unique features and specialualities. Each entry is only a partialecord, and as notes accumulate,ieldworkers notice that they havessembled enough observations to presentome persons as full-fledged individuals“rounded” characters), leaving others asess well-known figures (“flat” characters),



nd a few individuals as types such as aus driver or a policeman (“stock”haracters).

Fieldnotes should also include thethnographer as a character in thenteractions. The presence of thethnographer who truly stands at the side

watching might only be noted to identifyhe position from which the event is seen.

But an ethnographer who directlyarticipates in the action becomes aelevant character in the fieldnote,specially when a member clearly interacts

with him. Indeed, a researcher might act ascentral character in the incident in

nanticipated ways. He might shift fromis stance as an outside observer andecome fully engaged in the interactions.n the following excerpt, students in aeaf-and-hard-of-hearing class encourage



ach other to speak while playing anducational game. The fieldworker, havingad a stuttering problem all of his life,

learly empathizes with the students.Though essentially an outsider in the class,e becomes a pivotal figure at oneuncture:

Lynn keeps on telling Caesar to say what theanswers are by speaking (rather than through signlanguage). The teacher says, “Very good Lynn. . . .That’s right, Caesar, you should try to speak what

the answers are as well so that we can allunderstand you.” Caesar looks over at me a littlered in the face and looks down at his desk with ahalf smile. The teacher asks him (while pointing atme), “Are you afraid of speaking because he ishere?” Lynn and Jackie and Caesar all seem toanswer at once in sign that he is afraid of havingme hear him speak. I tell Caesar, “You don’t haveto be afraid of what I think. I have a hard timespeaking too.”

Caesar seems interested by my statements and points a finger at me questioningly. The teacher says, “Yes, it’s okay, you speak fine. You don’t



have to be afraid of what anybody thinks aboutyou. Just say one sentence, and he’ll tell you if hecan understand you.”

Caesar reluctantly says something and thenlooks at me, his head still slightly down and hisface still red. A faint smile lines his lips as hewaits for my answer. I had not understood a singleword and was feeling desperate. What if theyasked me to repeat what he had said? I reply,“Yes, that was fine. I understood you.” Theteacher quickly turns to Caesar and gives him theappropriate signs for my answer and goes directlyinto saying that he shouldn’t be so intimidated bywhat other people think. Caesar looks at me andsmiles. The game continues, and Caesar startsanswering in both sign and speech. And I began tounderstand some of the things they were saying.

Clearly, this ethnographer’s past

xperiences and presence played a centralole in this scene, and his empatheticesponses color the description in essential

ways. Had he tried to write up these notes

without including himself—his ownnteractions and feelings—the scene would



ave been deeply distorted.When describing their own participation

n scenes, field researchers generally write

n the first person (see chapter 4 ). If thisbserver had described the scene in thehird person, referring to himself by name,

much of the impact would have been lost:

Caesar reluctantly says something and looks atPaul, his head still slightly down and his face stillred. A faint smile lines his lips as he waits for hisanswer. . . . He replies, “Yes, that’s fine. I

understood you.” The teacher quickly turns toCaesar and gives him the appropriate signs for Paul’s answer and goes directly into saying that heshouldn’t be so intimidated by what other peoplethink. Caesar looks at Paul and smiles. The gamecontinues, and Caesar starts answering in both signand speech.

n the original segment, the writer arefully stuck to Caesar’s observableehavior (“looks over at me with a redace” and “looks down at his desk with a



alf smile”) and did not attributeervousness. But in the third-personccount, we miss an essential part o

Caesar’s struggle to speak. This strugglewas conveyed through the ethnographer’smpathetic and self-revealing comment, “Iad not understood a single word . . . ,”

nd by his closing observation, “And Iegan to understand some of the thingshey were saying.” Through the writer’sareful attention to details of behavior andalk, as well as through his own revealedersonal feelings, readers can sense theear and later the relief in speaking and ineing understood.

Finally, along with writing in the firsterson, we also recommend thatthnographers use active rather thanassive verbs. Some researchers useassive verbs because they think that it



larity of the moment-by-moment sense owho did what with/to whom that thethnographer portrayed so effectively in

he original excerpt. Hence, weecommend the use of active verbs to showmore vividly, clearly, and directly who isngaged in an activity, the meanings that

thers in the setting give to it, and howhey use meanings to shape subsequentnteractions.

ARRATING A DAY’S ENTRY:RGANIZATIONAL STRATEGIES

When first returning from the field to her esk, an ethnographer, worried aboutetting everything down, writespontaneously, hurriedly, and inragments. But at the same time, in order o describe scenes and actions effectively,



he needs to balance speed and clarity byrganizing her writing into units that createoherence and mark beginnings and

ndings. While some ethnographersonsider these units as descriptive writingin contrast to analytic writing), we find iteneficial to discuss these units as

arrating or recounting the day’sxperiences. By drawing on narratingonventions, ethnographers can sustainheir memories by grouping andequencing details and interactions intooherent units. When they remember bserved interactions as a series o

moments to be narrated, they can moreasily sustain that memory as a perceived

whole or unit.Perhaps the most general unit of writing

s simply the day’s entry—thethnographer’s telling of the day’s



xperiences and observations in the field.eeking to document fully all remembered

nteractions with no specific point or

heme in mind, the ethnographer relates hisxperiences in the field, implicitly drawingn narrating conventions. In this sense, theay’s entry is an episodic tale with many

egments—perhaps telling about annteraction, next transitioning to a differentocation, now sketching in the scene of theew context, then recounting another pisode of action—on and on untilinishing by returning from the field as theale’s ending. Within this overall narrativef the day’s entry, the ethnographer mightlso create other tales that stand out as

more focused sequences of interconnectedctions and episodes (see chapter 4 ).

The most basic unit within the day’sntry is the paragraph, used to coherently



epict one brief moment or idea. Byonvention, a paragraph coheres becausehe writer’s attention focuses on one idea

r insight. 11 When he perceives somections as a gestalt and concentrates onhem, he writes about them in a paragraph.

While continuing to write, he also shifts

ttention from one recalled moment tonother, for example, from one person or ctivity to another within a classroom.

These slight shifts are often indicated byaragraph breaks.

In narrating an entry, ethnographerswork with a number of differentrganizing units that build on thearagraph. Sketches and episodes, which

may be several paragraphs, create larger nits of detailed scenes and interactions

within that day’s fieldnotes. In this way,he writer coherently sequences moments



—those remembered interactions andpecific contexts. Though these units or egments have no explicit connections

etween them, the ethnographer mightwrite a few transitional sentences, brieflyummarizing what happened in the interimr explaining that he shifted his focus to

nother activity or person to observe.ketches

n a sketch, the fieldworker, struck by aivid sensory impression, describes acene primarily through detailed imagery.

Much as in a photograph, sequencing octions does not dominate. Rather, the

writer, as a more distanced observer ooking out on a scene, describes what she

enses, pausing for a moment inecounting the action to create a



escriptive snapshot of a character or aetting. As a result, sketches might behort paragraphs or a few sentences within

he overall narrative. Such static snapshotselp orient the reader to the relevant detailsf the contexts in which actions take place.

While the term “sketch” employs a

isual metaphor, this form of organizingwriting need not rely only on visual detailsut can also incorporate auditory or kineticetails as well. For example, notppearance but the sense of smell might behe primary criterion for recalling andonveying the merits of a particular food.n describing people, settings, objects, ando forth, the writer must evoke all thoseenses that recall that moment as sheerceived it. Often, the sense of visionominates, however, simply because theieldworker observes at a distance or aims



o give a brief overview of the setting. Itlso dominates, in part, because the

English language for vision is much more

etailed and developed than it is for thether senses. 12 Hence, the ethnographicwriter might have to expend special efforto evoke and write about nonvisual sensory

mages.A sketch typically is a brief segment,

which unifies descriptive details about aetting, an individual, or a single incident.

Because it is primarily static, it lacks anyense of consequential action (of plot) andny full characterization of people.

Consider the following sketch of a Latinotreet market that presents a close-upicture of one particular character’s

momentary behavior at a stall with toys:

An older Latina woman is bent over looking at thetoys on the ground. Behind her she holds two



plastic bags of something, which she uses to balance as she leans over. She picks up severaltoys in succession from the ground, lifting them upseveral inches to turn them over and around in her hand, and then putting them down. After a minute,she straightens up and walks slowly away.

Organizing details into a sketch in this wayermits the writer to give a quick sense ohe setting by presenting a close-up picturef one particular character’s engagement

with it.Often, sketches contextualize

ubsequent interactions, placing them intolarger framework of events or incidents

nd allow the reader to visualize moreeadily the setting or participants involved.

On some occasions, however, these entriesmight stand as independent units owriting. In the following sketch, for

xample, an ethnographer describes thecene in a high school during an



neventful, uncrowded lunch hour in away that documents how students grouphemselves:

Even though it was cold and windy, there werestill about one hundred black students clustered inthe central quad. On the far left, one short black male wearing a black starter jacket was bouncing a

ball. Next to him, seven black females and two black males were sitting on a bench. Further to theright stood a concentrated group of about thirty or forty black students. I counted about twenty whowere wearing different kinds of starter jackets.Further up the quad stood another group of fifteen

blacks, mostly females. At the foot of quad, on thefar right, was another group of maybe twenty

black students, about equally male and female.Some were standing, while others were sitting on ashort concrete wall against the auditorium. To the

right of this group, I noticed one male, listening toa yellow walkman, dancing by himself. His armswere flung out, pulling as though he were skiing,while his feet ran in place.

This ethnographer was especiallyoncerned with ethnic relations and wanted



o track how, when, and where studentsocialized and with whom. Even when heould not hear or see exactly what the

tudents were doing, he depicted theseroupings in an almost snapshot fashion.Although the paragraph includes visualnd kinetic details, it creates the scene as a

till life rather than as an event in whichctions could be sequenced.

In general, sketches are useful for roviding an overall sense of places andeople that sometimes stand as aackground for other fieldnoteescriptions. Descriptive sketches oeople standing around or of a person’sxpression and posture as she looks atomeone, for example, can reveal qualitiesf social relations even when apparentlyothing much is happening.

pisodes



Unlike a sketch, which depicts a “still life”n one place, an episode recounts action

nd moves in time to narrate a slice of life.n an episode, a writer constructs a briencident as a more or less unified depictionf one continuous action or interaction.

Consequently, when recalling an incidenthat does not extend over a long period oime or involve many characters,thnographers often write up that memory

s a one-or two-paragraph episode. 13The following excerpt consists of a one-

aragraph episode in which the writer escribes an interaction between twotudents during the beginning of classime:

A black female came in. She was wearing a white puffy jacket, had glasses and straight feathered black hair. She sat down to my right. Robert andanother male (both black) came in and sat down.



They were eating Kentucky Fried Chicken whichthey took out of little red and white boxes.Robert’s friend kept swiping at the black female,trying to slap her. She kept telling him in anannoyed voice to leave her alone. After a minuteof this exchange, the black teacher said to the guy,“Leave her alone, brother.” He answered Ms.Dubois with a grin on his face, “Don’t worry.She’s my sistah.” The girl said “Chhh,” looking

briefly at him. He had gone back to eating hischicken.

Here, the students’ and teacher’s actionsre presented as a sequence, each seemingo trigger the next; the girl responds to theoy’s swiping, and the teacher responds toim, and so on. Thus, these actions areinked and appear as one continuousnteraction, producing a unified episode.

Not every episode needs to build to alimax as the one above does. Manyieldnote episodes minutely recount oneharacter’s routine, everyday actions. In



act, in many entries, ethnographers findhemselves writing primarily about

mundane activities. In the following

xcerpt, for example, the ethnographer ecounts how several students in an ESLlass worked together to complete a groupctivity:

One group consisted of six people: two Koreangirls, one Korean boy, two Mexican boys, and oneRussian girl. Like all of the other groups, theyarranged their chairs in a small circle for the

assigned activity. Ishmael, a Mexican boy, heldthe question card in his hand and read it to the restof the group: “List five things that you can do on adate for less than $10.00 in Los Angeles.” (HisEnglish was heavily marked by his Mexicanaccent, but they could understand him.) Placing hiselbows on the desk and looking directly at thegroup, he said, “Well?” He watched them for aminute or two; then he suggested that one could gofor drinks at Hard Rock Café. The others agreed

by nodding their heads. Ishmael again waited for suggestions from the group. The other Mexican

boy said “going to the beach” and the Russian girl



said “roller skating.” The Koreans nodded their heads, but offered no other suggestions. (I think that Ishmael waited for others to respond, eventhough he seemed to know the answers.)

n describing this classroom scene, thethnographer filled six pages with a seriesf such more or less isolated episodes

ccurring during that hour. Thus, she wasble to present the small groups asworking simultaneously on variousctivities. The episodes belong together

nly because they are situated in the samelass during one period. Fieldworkersften write up such concurrent actions,oosely linked by time and place, as a

eries of discrete episodes.Since episodes present action as

rogressing through time, a writer shouldrient the reader to shifts in time, place,nd person as the action unfolds,articularly in longer scenes or those



without obviously interconnected actions.Writers sequence actions in an order (e.g.,irst, second, third) and mark action shifts

with transitions (e.g., now, then, next,fterward, the next morning). They alsoocate action with situational markers (e.g.,ere, there, beyond, behind). In the

ollowing excerpt, a researcher studying anutpatient psychiatric treatment facilityonnects actions through transitionalhrases (“as he continues talking” andransitional words (“then,” “as”):

I sat down on the bench in the middle of the hall.And as I sat waiting for something to gain myattention, I heard the director yell out, “Take of your clothes in the shower!” as he shuts the door to the shower room. . . . Remaining outside thedoor of the shower room, the director speaks withRoberta, one of the staff members assigned to look after the clients. Then Karen approaches them with

a small, dirty Smurf that she found outside. “Look at it, how pretty, kiss it,” she says talking to the



director, but he doesn’t pay any attention to her.As he continues talking to Roberta, he glancesover and notices that I am observing them. As our eyes lock, he opens up his arm toward Karen andrequests a hug. Karen, in her usual bashful way,giggles as she responds to his hug.

n this episode, the writer focuses onmovement—sat, shuts, approaches,lances, opens—interspersed with talk:the director yell(s) out, ‘Take off your lothes in the shower!’ ” In observing andeporting actions, ethnographers interestedn social interactions view action and talk s interconnected features of what peopledo.” They write about “talk” as part oeople’s actions.

Ethnographers often write episodicather than more extended entries becausehey cannot track a sequence of actions and

earn all the outcomes within one day.They may write an episode about an



nteraction simply because it bears upon aopic they are interested in. They often

write without knowing whether that

ieldnote will later be important in the fullnalysis. Yet, writing these episodes over ime might enable the ethnographer to findatterns of behavior and connections

etween people’s actions through differentieldnotes.

Many fieldnote episodes stand on their wn, barely associated with others.

Particularly in initial entries organized asarratives of the researcher’s activities andbservations for the day, writingransitional summaries can link differentpisodes. A transitional summary provides

succinct bridge between detailedpisodes, enabling a reader to understandow the ethnographer got from one eventr episode to another. How the



thnographer got from the school office tohe classroom with a brief personal stop inhe bathroom, for example, can simply be

oted in this summary fashion if there is aeed to show continuity. Of course, iomething interesting occurred during this

movement—a student stopped her to talk

bout a school fight—then writing detailedotes is advisable.

N-PROCESS ANALYTIC WRITING: ASIDES

AND COMMENTARIES

As the field researcher participates in the

ield, she inevitably begins to reflect onnd interpret what she has experienced andbserved. Writing fieldnotes heightens andocuses these interpretive and analyticrocesses; writing up the day’sbservations generates new appreciation



nd deeper understanding of witnessedcenes and events. In writing, a fieldesearcher assimilates and thereby starts to

nderstand an experience. She makesense of the moment by intuitivelyelecting, highlighting, and orderingetails and by beginning to appreciate

inkages with, or contrasts to, previouslybserved and written-about experiences.

Furthermore, she can begin to reflect onow she has presented and ordered eventsnd actions in her notes, rereading selectedpisodes and tales with an eye to their tructuring effects.

To capture these ruminations,eflections, and insights and to make themvailable for further thought and analysis,ield researchers pursue several kinds onalytical writing that stand in stark ontrast to the descriptive writing we have



hem as heuristic devices that can sensitizehe fieldworker to both momentary and

more sustained concentration on analytic

writing while actively producingieldnotes. Asides are brief, reflective bits o

nalytic writing that succinctly clarify,

xplain, interpret, or raise questions aboutome specific happening or processescribed in a fieldnote. The ethnographer ashes off asides in the midst oescriptive writing, taking a moment toeact personally or theoretically toomething she has just recounted on paper nd then immediately turns back to the

work of description. These remarks may benserted in the midst of descriptivearagraphs and set off by parentheses. Inhe following example, the ethnographer ses a personal aside to note his uneasy



eeling that someone is watching him:

I turn around, away from the office, and face thewoman with the blondish hair who is still smiling.(I can’t shake the feeling that she’s gazing at me.)“I’ll see you Friday,” I say to her as I walk by her and out the front door.

Fieldworkers often write somewhat morelaborate asides, several phrases in length,gain triggered by some immediate piecef writing and closely tied to the events or cenes depicted in that writing. In theieldnote below, the fieldworker describes

moment during her first day at a crisisrop-in center and then reacts to that

xperience in a more extended aside:Walking up the stairs to the agency office, Inoticed that almost every step creaked or moaned.At the top stands an old pine coat hanger, piled

high with coats. Behind it is a bulletin boardcontaining numerous flyers with information aboutorganizations and services of various kinds.



(Thinking about the scene as I climbed thosestairs, I think that if I were an upset, distraughtclient, I would most probably find it difficult tofind helpful information in that disorganizedmass.)

n providing her own “lived sense” of thegency, the student incorporates in her escription the meaning of physical space,

while allowing for the possibility thatthers might perceive it differently. Asides

may also be used to explain something that

would otherwise not be apparent or to offer ome sort of personal reflection or nterpretive remark on a matter justonsidered. Ethnographers frequently use

sides, for example, to convey their xplicit “feel” for or emotional reactions tovents; putting these remarks in asideseeps them from intruding into the

escriptive account.The ethnographer may also use brie



sides to offer tentative hunches when themeaning of an incident to members is notlear or may only be inferred. In the

ollowing excerpt, the ethnographer asksuestions about the meaning and import on incident at a food bank in which ahopper rejects an item given to her as part

f a preselected grocery cart full of food.She had a package of frozen turkey meatballs inher hand and said that she didn’t want the package

because the contents were expired. The meatballshad apparently expired two days prior to today,and she said that she did not like taking expiredfood to her house. (Why the emphasis on “myhouse?” Self-respect? Could it be that if she took the expired meatballs, she was somehow accepting

hand-me-downs? Just because she is not payingfull price doesn’t mean she can’t receive up-to-par food?)

Using a question in this brief aside toeflect upon the possible meaning of thencident helps the ethnographer avoid



eaching premature or unsupportedonclusions. The aside also marks thencident as important, reminding her to

ook for further examples that will clarifynd deepen her understanding of similar or ontrasting examples.

A commentary is a more elaborate

eflection, either on some specific event or ssue or on the day’s experiences andieldnotes. Focused commentaries of theirst sort are placed just after the fieldnoteccount of the event or issue in a separatearagraph set off with parentheses. Aaragraph-long summary commentary ohe second sort should conclude each set oieldnotes, reflecting on and raising issuesnd questions about that day’sbservations. Both types of commentariesnvolve a shift of attention from events inhe field to outside audiences imagined as



aving an interest in something theieldworker has observed and written up.

Again, in contrast to descriptive fieldnotes,

ommentaries might explore problems occess or emotional reactions to events inhe field, suggest ongoing probes intoikely connections with other events, or

ffer tentative interpretations. Putting aommentary in a separate paragraph helpsvoid writing up details as evidence for reconceived categories or interpretations.

Focused commentaries can raise issuesf what terms and events mean to

members, make initial connectionsetween some current observation andrior fieldnotes, and suggest points or laces for further observation, as in theollowing excerpt:

M called over to Richard. He said, “C’m here lil’Homey.” Richard came over to sit closer to M. He



asked Richard about something Richard saidearlier (I couldn’t completely hear it) . . .something to do with weight lifting. Richardreplied, “Oh, I could talk about it for hours . . .” Masked Richard if there was a place where he couldlift weights on campus. Richard said there was aweight room, but only “hoops” could use it today.M then asked Richard what “hoops” was. Richardanswered that “hoops” was basketball. (Is theword “homey,” possibly derived from homeboy,somebody who is down or cool with another

person? It seems to me that M, who apparentlydidn’t know Richard, wanted to talk to him. Inorder to do that, he tried to let Richard know Mthought he was a cool person? “Homey” appearsto be applied regardless of ethnicity. . . . Their interaction appeared to be organized aroundinterest in a common activity, weight lifting.Judging by the size of M’s muscles, this wassomething he excelled in.)

This ethnographer has been noticing theways blacks use the terms “cool” anddown” to refer to inclusion of nonblacks

n their otherwise black groupings. In thisommentary, he reflects on other terms



hat also seem to be inclusive.Focused commentaries can also be used

o create a record of the ethnographer’s

wn doings, experiences, and reactionsuring fieldwork, both in observing-articipating and in writing up. Aesearcher-intern in a social service

gency, after describing an incident withtaff, wrote the following commentarybout this moment as a turning point in her elationship with staff members:

Entering the kitchen, where staff often go tosocialize alone, I began to prepare my lunch. Soon,several staff had come in, and they began to talk among one another. I stood around awkwardly, not

quite knowing what to do with myself. Iexchanged small talk for a while until D, thedirector, asked in her typically dramatic tone loudenough for everyone to hear: “Guess where A (astaff member who was also present) is going for

her birthday?” There was silence in the room.Turning in her direction, I realized that she wasspeaking to me. “Where?” I asked, somewhat



surprised that she was talking to me. “To HersheyPark!” she exclaimed. “No way!” I said, andfeeling embarrassed, I started laughing. “Yeah,” Dexclaimed. “She’s gonna dip her whole body inchocolate so R (lover) can eat her!” The roomfilled up with laughter, and I, too, could notrestrain my giggles.

(With that, the group broke up, and as I walked back to my desk, I began to feel that for the firsttime, I had been an active participant in one otheir kitchen get-togethers. This experience mademe believe that I was being viewed as more than

just an outsider. I have been trying to figure outwhat it takes to belong here, and one aspectundoubtedly is to partake in an occasional kitchenget-together and not to appear above such

practices.)

n this commentary, the researcher not

nly reports her increased feeling occeptance in the scene but also reflects onhe likely importance of these informal,ometimes ribald “get-togethers” for

reating a general sense of belonging in therganization.



In writing a summary commentary, theieldworker takes a few moments to

mentally review the whole day’s

xperiences, selecting an important,memorable, or confusing issue to raise andriefly explore. Here, ethnographers haveound it useful to ask themselves questions

ike the following: What did I learn today?What did I observe that was particularlynteresting or significant? What wasonfusing or uncertain? Did somethingappen today that was similar to or adically different from things that I havereviously observed? In the followingxcerpt, an ethnographer used commentaryt the end of his day in the field to reflectis growing understanding of largelypanish-speaking day laborers’

nteractions with employers in their effortso get work.



English seems to be an important resource toacquire work, but even more interesting is theillusion of knowing English because even though

Jorge does not speak English, he goes about actingto employers as if he does [know English] toincrease his chances for hire. Something that wasalso intriguing was the employer searching for daylaborers with legal documentation. It is interesting

because day laborers are stigmatized as all beingundocumented but employers seem to know thatthere are many that are documented . . . Jorge

believes that when folks are undocumented,employers threaten them with Immigration. Jorgeseems to be at odds with this dynamic because as a

person with documentation, he is held responsible[by employers] for information on others who maynot be documented. And, due to hisdocumentation, he seems to have a sense oentitlement [to work] due to his legal status.

The ethnographer uses this day’sommentary to build on his growingnderstanding of both the strategic wayshat day laborers use their knowledge oharacteristics desired by employers to



ompete among themselves for work anday laborers’ sense that legal status bring

with it extra entitlement to work.

Summary commentaries are also usefulor comparing and contrasting incidentshat occurred on the same day or earlier inhe field experience. In the following

ommentary, the ethnographer compareswo incidents that occurred during theay’s observations to further understandarent-child interactions in a publicetting, in this case a grocery store:

Both of these incidents help illustrate how twovery different parents choose to deal with their children in a public setting. Both children showed“bratty” behavior in two different ways: the first

by illustrating his discontent in being forced to goshopping when he would have preferred stayinghome and the second by making the need to

purchase an item within the store known. In both

situations, the moms tried to ignore their childrenin what seemed to be the hope that their kids



would realize that they were in a public setting andconsequently stop their behavior. However, thiswas not the case. I believe that just as the momsknew that they were in a location where outsideforces (i.e., limits on the ways that they couldexercise control of their kids within a public storesetting) influenced their ability to discipline the

behavior of their children, the children knew thisas well. This is all hypothetical, but the childrenalso seem to know that they could continue to pushtheir moms’ buttons because the course of actionthat their parents could have taken at home wouldnot occur in this public place. The first mom’sresponse of “unbelievable” to her son is anindication that she is fully aware that her motherlyduties are limited when considering theenvironment and the forces within it.

The ethnographer uses commentary to

uggest possible patterns of parent-childnteractions in public places, taking care tovoid “overinterpreting” and drawingonclusions too quickly based on

meanings she attributes to just twoxamples. The understandings gleaned



rom these incidents should remainuggestive of avenues for further nvestigation and ongoing comparison.

Finally, daily summary commentariesmight identify an issue that came up in theourse of the current set of fieldnotes anduggest practical, methodological steps for

xploring that issue in future observations.ndeed, it is often useful simply to ask:

What more do I need to know to follow upn a particular issue or event? Asking suchuestions helped a researcher in a battered

women’s shelter identify gaps in her nderstanding of how staff viewed andccomplished their work:

The goals staff have talked about so far o“conveying unconditional positive regard” for clients and “increasing their self-esteem” seemrather vague. How does the staff know when they

have achieved unconditional positive regard? Is it based on their interaction with the client or by



their refraining from being judgmental or criticalof them during staff meetings? I will attempt todiscover how they define and attempt to achievethe goal of “increasing a woman’s self-esteem.” Ithas been made clear that this goal is not only seento be achieved when women leave their abusiverelationships. If leaving their abusive partnerswere the primary indicator of achieving raisedself-esteem, the organization would be largelyunsuccessful, since most of these women go back to their abusive relationships. Yet, while I havelearned what raising self-esteem is not, I have yetto learn what it is.

n this series of comments and questions,he fieldworker identifies two matters thathelter staff members emphasize as goalsn their relations with clients: “conveying

nconditional positive regard” andncreasing client “self-esteem.” She thenonsiders ways she might look tonderstand how these general

olicies/values are actually implementednd how their success or failure is



ractically assessed in interactions withinhe shelter. These questions and tentativenswers helped direct the ethnographer’s

ttention, focusing and guiding futurebservations and analysis.

EFLECTIONS: “WRITING” AND “READING”

MODES

To characterize fieldnotes as descriptions

nitially conveys the prospect of simple,traightforward writing. But once weecognize that description involves morehan a one-to-one correspondence between

written accounts and what is going on,writing fieldnotes raises complex,erplexing problems. Descriptions arerounded on the observer-writer’sarticipation in the setting, but no twoersons participate in and experience a



etting in exactly the same way. Moreover,here is always more going on than thethnographer can notice, and it is

mpossible to record all that can beoticed. Description inevitably involvesifferent theories, purposes, interests, andoints of view. Hence, fieldnotes contain

escriptions that are more akin to a seriesf stories portraying slices of life in vividetail than to a comprehensive, literal, or bjective rendering. 15

The ethnographer, however, needs tovoid getting drawn into the complexitiesf fieldnote descriptions while actually

writing fieldnotes. She must initially work n a writing mode, putting into words andn paper what she has seen and heard asuickly and efficiently as possible. In thisext-producing mode, the ethnographer ries to “get it down” as accurately and



ompletely as possible, avoiding too muchelf-consciousness about the writingrocess itself. She stays close to the events

t issue, rekindling her excitement abouthese events and inscribing them beforememory fades. The writing ethnographer ries to “capture what is out there,” or more

ccurately, to construct detailed accountsf her own observations and experience o

what is “out there.” At this point, too mucheflection distracts or even paralyzes; oneries to write without editing, to produceetailed descriptions without worry aboutnalytic import and connections, and toescribe what happened without too muchelf-conscious reflection.

Only subsequently, once a text hasctually been produced, can thethnographer really step back and begin toonsider the complexities that permeate



ieldnote descriptions; only with fullyetailed fieldnotes can the ethnographer dopt a reading mode and begin to reflect

n how these accounts are products of hiswn, often implicit, decisions about how toarticipate in and describe events. That is,nly with full notes in hand does it make

ense to view these writings as texts thatre truncated, partial, and perspectivalroducts of the ethnographer’s own stylesf participating, orienting, and writing. It ist this point that the ethnographer canegin to treat fieldnotes as constructionsnd read them for the ways they createather than simply record reality.

One key difference between initiallyworking in a writing mode andubsequently in a reflective reading modeies in how the ethnographer orients tossues of “accuracy,” to “correspondence”



etween a written account and what it is anccount of. In the moment of writing, thethnographer must try to create some close

orrespondence between the writtenccount and his experiences andbservations of “what happened.” Themmediate task in writing fieldnote

escriptions is to create a detailed,ccurate, and comprehensive account o

what has been experienced. But once notesave been written, this correspondenceriterion loses salience. This shift occursecause “what happened” has been filteredhrough the person and writing of thebserver as it was written onto the page.

The resulting text “fixes” a social reality inlace but does so in a way that makes itifficult to determine its relationship withealities outside that text. Readers mightttempt to do so by invoking what they



now from having “been there” or fromxperience with a similar reality. Buteaders are heavily constrained by what is

n the page; they usually lack any effectivemeans of gaining access to “what actuallyappened” independently of the writtenccount. In such a reading mode, then,

onscious, critical reflection on howwriting choices have helped constructpecific texts and textual realities becomesoth possible and appropriate.



4



Writing Fieldnotes II:Multiple Purposes andStylistic Options

Ethnographers have multiple purposes inwriting fieldnotes; these goals both shapend reflect their choices about styles o

writing. So far, we have focused on onenitial purpose: to quickly and immediatelyget down on the page” the ethnographer’sirst-time observations and new

xperiences. But in “getting it down,” fieldesearchers also decide how to represent aarticular scene, event, or interaction,ecisions that involve choices, often

mplicit, about writing strategies. Theyevelop a range of writing styles in order



ften referred to as writing or literaryconventions”—and with the differentffects that these conventions can produce.

Though ethnographers sometimesonsciously draw on certain conventionsnd aim for certain effects in using them,t other times, they employ writing

trategies almost unthinkingly, as a matter f reflex and writing habit. In using termsike “choices,” “purposes,” and “goals,”

we seek to increase awareness of theifferent ways that social life can beepresented in written texts, to enhanceieldworkers’ ability to invoke ways o

writing that effectively capture the subtlerocesses and complex issues they want toocument. In brief, we contend thatwareness and understanding of writingtrategies enable fieldworkers to moreasily make writing choices that realize



heir ethnographic purposes.In this chapter, we explore writing styles

nd conventions that facilitate more

omplex purposes beyond quicklycapturing it on the page.” We begin byxamining how different stances or rientations toward research and toward

nticipated future readers also influencehe writing of fieldnotes. We then discuss

writers’ choices about perspective byxamining how “point of view” determines

whose view appears more fully representedn the page and how time perspective“real time” or “end point”) shapes what isevealed. Next, we turn to the possibilitiesnd constraints in writing more cohesivearratives, namely, those extendedarrative segments that depict an ongoingxperience or event. Finally, we close thehapter with a consideration of in-process



memos whereby the ethnographer reflectsnalytically about experiences andbserved events.

TANCE AND AUDIENCE IN WRITINGIELDNOTES

itting down to write full fieldnotes,thnographers make decisions: what to

write, in what order, and how to express

what they have to say. While some ohese decisions are relativelytraightforward, others are more implicit,rising from the particular stance adopted

n writing fieldnotes. On a fundamentalevel, a researcher’s stance in fieldwork nd note writing originates in her outlook n life. Prior experience, training, anommitments influence this stance,redisposing the fieldworker to feel, think,



nd act toward people in more or lessatterned ways. Whether from a particular ender, social, cultural, political, or

heoretical position or orientation, theieldworker not only interacts with andesponds to people in the setting from her wn orientation but also writes her

ieldnotes by seeing and framing eventsccordingly. The effects of thisundamental stance appear in fieldnote

writing in subtle ways. These range fromow she identifies with (or distanceserself from) those studied and thus writesbout them sympathetically (or not), to theinds of local activities that draw her ttention and result in more detailedescriptions, and to the way she prioritizesnd frames certain topics and writes moreully about any events she sees as relevantr salient (Wolfinger 2002).



By self-consciously recognizing hisundamental orientation, the fieldworker an write fieldnotes that highlight and

oreground issues and insights madevailable by that orientation. Thisecognition might also make him moreensitive to the ways his orientation shapes

ey interactions with others. For example,n writing up fieldnotes about a school for ays and lesbians, one heterosexual maleften wrote about the ways studentsressed him to reveal his sexual orientationnd watched for his responses to their okes and teasing. But an openly identifieday male researcher in the same field siteecame sensitive to how studentssexualized” stories about their xperiences as they constructed gaydentities in everyday talk. Indeed, he thenegan to ask and write about students’ talk



bout sexual activities, as in the followingieldnote:

“Wait,” I said, interrupting his story. “Where wasthis?” “Over by Circus Books,” Adam said. “Andwhat was he doing?” I asked as I leaned forwardsmiling slightly. “He was cruising,” Adam said.“What’s that?” I asked. “It’s a meeting place,”answered John. “And this is at a bookstore,” I saidsounding a bit confused. “Yeah,” they both saidreassuringly.

The more the field researcher

cknowledges those factors influencing hisundamental stance toward people in theetting, the more he can examine and usehe insights and appreciations opened up

y this stance in fieldnote writing.Furthermore, he can better guard againstny overriding, unconscious framing ovents—for example, by avoiding

valuative wording or by focusing onmembers’ views of events.



As fieldwork progresses, theesearcher’s stance toward people andssues often changes. As she learns

hrough interactions with individuals in theetting to look at activities, events, andssues in new ways, she might adjust her rior views and reorient herself vis-à-vis

thers. Having readjusted her stanceoward people in the setting, she morerequently can write fieldnotes in ways thatot only highlight members’ views but thatlso reveal her ongoing resocialization.

Over time, a fieldworker’s personal viewsnd theoretical commitments often veer nd transform; her stance in writingieldnotes shifts accordingly, particularlys she more frequently comes to see andespond to events as members do.

Another key component determining thetance expressed in written fieldnotes is



ntended or likely audience. How a fieldesearcher writes about observed events isinked to often unacknowledged

ssumptions about those for whom he iswriting. We first consider anticipatedctual readers and then turn to the subtle,ut significant, relevance of more diffusely

nvisioned audiences.Under most circumstances, a researcher

writes fieldnotes immediately for herself asfuture reader. This absence of an actual

eader allows the researcher to write inelaxed and shifting styles, moving fromudience to audience without worrying (athat point) about consistency or coherence.n this sense, fieldnotes should be writtenloosely” and flowingly. If and whenieldnotes are shown to another reader— sually in a more comprehensive paper or rticle—the field researcher at this time



an take control of this process; she canelect, focus, and edit any notes before

making them available to others. As a

uture reader of her own fieldnotes, theesearcher anticipates a detailed reading inrder to code and analyze the notes for aaper or article.

In practice, however, the researcher-writer might have in mind actual readersther than herself. Student researchers, inarticular, ordinarily submit their ieldnotes to an instructor and write notesor that reader. Similarly, field researchersn team projects (Douglas 1976) writeotes to be read by coworkers andolleagues. Here, field researchers mightelf-consciously write with actual readersn mind, producing accounts explicitlyriented to these others’ knowledge andoncerns. One common effect of writing



with such readers in mind is to includemore details of background and context tomake fieldnotes more accessible. The

thnographer should, nonetheless, try tomaintain a loose, flowing, and shiftingpproach without trying to write withonsistency of voice and style. 2

The effects of envisioned audiences onwriting fieldnotes are more subtle andomplex than those of actual readers. 3 Thethnographer’s stance in writing fieldnotesnvolves trying to convey something abouthe world she has observed to outsideudiences made up of those who arenfamiliar with that world. In this sense,ieldnotes are ultimately intended for utsiders of one sort or another. Indeed, its in this respect that fieldnotes differ frompersonal diary. Fieldnotes are not merely

he personal reactions of the writer,



ntended to heighten self-awareness andelf-insight; rather, they are moreundamentally accounts framed and

rganized to be read—eventually—byome other, wider audience.Many ethnographers envision and write

or a professional audience, forming their

ieldnotes with eventual publication inmind. These sorts of notes often need someolishing and smoothing, but the writing isntended to be comprehensible to other rofessionals who are unfamiliar with theeople and customs being written about, sohere is less need for it to be further dapted for its audience. To the extent thathe researcher-writer is self-consciousbout writing for an ultimate, broader udience, notes will be richer; they willrovide more background, context, andetail.



This is not to say that fieldnotes inraw” form would be immediatelyomprehensible to professional or other

utside readers. Fieldnotes are anccumulating body of writings, and theense of later portions often depends upon

what has been written earlier. People or

vents described in earlier notes, for xample, need not be described in later nes. And indeed, just who the people aren particular incidents might not be evidento outside readers because of abbreviatedames and lack of socially identifyingnformation. 4 Only with filling in andontextualizing would such a fieldnotectually become comprehensible toomeone other than the writer. Thus,ccumulating fieldnote entries have anpen-endedness that allows for newnformation and insights and an



nfinished, in-progress quality that callsor editing later on.

In writing fieldnotes, most

thnographers shift between self andutside readers as envisioned futureudiences. When writing in the first personbout one’s own direct involvement in

ield events, or when reflecting on one’smotional reactions or intuitions aboutext steps to take in the field, for example,he ethnographer assumes that theseccounts will only be read by, and, hence,nly need to be comprehensible to,neself. In contrast, when writing up anvent that was deeply “important” to thosen the setting and that is likely to bexcerpted for the final ethnography, the

writer often strives for completeness andetail.

In sum, stance and envisioned audience



ignificantly prefigure the way a researcher omposes fieldnotes, even though bothake on heightened salience when the field

esearcher self-consciously prepares textsor wider audiences. Writing fieldnotesnvolves a series of intricate, moment-by-

moment choices in abstracting and

rocessing experience. These choicesnvolve not only what to look at anderhaps jot down but also for whom.ntended and anticipated audiences, as wells the theoretical commitments theyeflect, linger as an influential presencever every ethnographer’s shoulder.

ARRATING CHOICES ABOUT PERSPECTIVE

n using narrative strategies, anthnographer not only draws on



onventions for sequencing episodes (seehapter 3 ), but also makes choices abouterspective. In our approach to

thnography, we do not ignore theresence of the ethnographer as both thebserver of, and often participant in, thenteractions occurring in the field site. Nor

o we try to obscure the consequentialffects of that presence in fieldnotes,cknowledging the ethnographer’sresence, both explicitly as a character nteracting with people in the field site andmplicitly in stylistic choices that reveal,ather than obscure, the writer’serspective. Our approach to ethnography,herefore, shapes the following suggestionshat we offer about different points of viewas revealing some voices and views moreo than others) and about time perspectivewhether writing in “real time” or from an



end-point” orientation).

ultiple Voices and Points of View

n writing fieldnotes, an ethnographer notnly remembers and envisions a scene; he

lso presents that scene from a selectedngle that highlights some of its featuresmore than others. As noted in our iscussion of stance above, this angling

rises, in part, from theoretical concerns ohe researcher’s discipline; it also resultsrom the nature of his participation in theield, for example, from his selective

ositioning and from identifying withertain members’ experiences. In writing,he ethnographer thus reconstructs

memories, prompted by jottings and

eadnotes, which privilege certainbservational perspectives and certain



members’ experiences and voices over thers.

The selective tendencies of field

articipation and memory construction areugmented by the fact that ethnographers,ike all writers recounting events, mustnavoidably tell their story through a

articular “point of view.” By convention,oint of view refers to the writingechniques that express the narrator’s (herehe ethnographer’s) perspective on events,amely, through whose eyes events areeen as well as through whose voicesvents are described. Point of view, then,s the writing perspective (and techniques)hrough which a story gets told, through

whose view the characters, actions, setting,nd events are presented to the reader. 5

Although authors have developed variednd complex ways to tell a story, the most



eneral distinctions are between first-erson, third-person, and omniscient pointsf view (Abrams and Harpham 2009:144–

8). Each of these points of viewrivileges different “voices”: First personoregrounds not only the perspective butlso the “I” voice of the narrator; third

erson highlights the perspective andoices of others from the field site. 6

In the following discussion, we explainnd adapt the conventions of point of viewo fit the purposes of writing fieldnotesrom a participant observer perspective.

When writing fieldnotes, an ethnographer navoidably documents events from thiserspective and, in that sense, always is

writing from a first-person orientationeadily expressed through “I” statements.

However, since the ethnographer’s primaryoal is to recount the activities of others in



he setting and to reveal their meanings,he also often writes segments using theechniques of the third-person point o

iew. We suggest that through anwareness of the conventions oerspective (those techniques commonlyinked with each point of view), the

thnographer more readily can choose theption that expresses her purpose in any

moment of writing. We invitethnographers to remain flexible and to

maximize their choices as they write.

IRST-PERSON POINT OF VIEW . In fieldnotes,he first-person “I” recounting the day’sntry is the ethnographer himself. A first-erson mode “limits the matter of thearrative to what the first-person author nows, experiences, or finds out by talking

with other characters” (Abrams andHarpham 2009:274). Since this perspective



most readily encourages the writer toecount his own experiences, responses,nd commentary, as well as the actions and

alk of others, we suggest that anthnographer often write in the firsterson. However, as noted above, we areot advocating that fieldnotes resemble

ournals or travelogues with the impliciturposes of personal understanding andxpression of one’s own views andxperiences; instead, first-personieldnotes focus on the “ethnographer as aool” for understanding members’ worlds.

Writing in the first person is particularlyffective when the ethnographer is a

member of the group she is studying.eeing incidents through her eyes allows

he reader to see an insider’s view octions as filtered through her concerns asn ethnographer. In addition, the first-



erson point of view allows thethnographer to present the naturalnfolding of experience as seen from her

articipant’s viewpoint. The followingieldnote, written in the first person,llustrates these qualities. In this excerpt,n observer employed in an upscale

yeglass establishment recounts anpsetting incident of sexual harassment byne of the owners of the store:

About halfway through the day, I am standing inthe front section with Richard, one of the owners,and Al, the manager, who’s on door duty. I reachdown to get a sunglass to try on and say, “Oooo,these are great,” as I pull out the plastic stop-signshaped frames. Richard mutters something like“No” to tell me that they won’t be good on me. Inotice that they are Lunettes, the manufacturer oVVO glasses, and am surprised that I’ve never seen these and that Richard is so quick to judge theresult. I put them on and ask Richard, “What doyou think?” He looks at me and says, “You’ve gotreally great tits, don’t you.” I think he has said,



“You’ve got really great taste, don’t you,” so I say,“Yeah, these are great,” as I look at myself in themirror. (I also believe that when I don’t have myglasses on, and I can’t see, that I also cannot hear.I have reconstructed Richard’s words as he saidthem, from his next clarifying statement and didnot just put in my interpretation.) I look atRichard. He says, “They’re really great tits.” Iutter a low “Huh?” (I now go back to his firststatement in my mind, and understand that I hadmisheard his suggestion of my great taste ineyeglasses. Maybe on some level, I heard himcorrectly the first time but recast it as somethingelse; denial restores equilibrium.) He continues,“Really firm and high—really firm,” gesturing atthis point with his hands like he’s feeling breasts. Iam stunned and cross my arms over my chest (Idid this unconsciously, as it wasn’t until Richard’snext line that I had realized I had done this gestureof protection.) He continues, “You cover yourself

up.” He folds his arms: “Never seen you get shy before.” He then puffs up his chest as if to strut (asif to show me what I usually do, or what heexpects me to usually do). “That’s notappropriate,” I say softly.

By writing in the first person, this



thnographer not only can present what theffender, Richard, said and what she saidnd did in response, but also she can reveal

ow she felt and thought about her xperience: “I am stunned . . .” In thisnstance of abusive remarks inserted inton otherwise innocuous conversation, the

thnographer’s expression of her feelingsf withdrawal and self-protection reveal,

more fully than any mere record of hiswords ever could have, how trulyistasteful and offensive his remarks wereo her. If it had been written in the thirderson, the fieldnote would have lost her nner thoughts and feelings and how theyhanged as the incident unfolded. Nor

would the fieldnotes have revealed the wayhe owner’s insistence in repeating theffensive remark transforms her earlier earing of the comment and causes her “to



ross my arms across my chest” in agesture of protection.”

In addition, by using the first person, the

ieldnote can portray both the author’sxperience as a member and her reflectionss a writing ethnographer. For example,he reconstructs and presents her

xperience of sexual harassment so that weee how she initially experienced it as aalesperson talking to the store owner,

mishearing him to say “You have greataste,” a remark more appropriate to their

work relationship and to presenting glasseso customers. But we also hear her ommentary on her experience, inserted inn aside, on why she initially misheard hisffensive comment: “Maybe on someevel, I heard him correctly the first timeut recast it as something else; denialestores equilibrium.”



HIRD-PERSON POINT OF VIEW . Althoughuch first-person fieldnotes allow theesearcher to express her thoughts and

eelings well, the primary aim othnography is to describe what others areoing and saying. Writing in the third-erson point of view is particularly

ffective for conveying others’ words andctions. When using the third person, the

writer narrates as an observer of the scene,ocuses fully on others, and refers to allharacters as “he,” “she,” and “they.”ometimes known as an impersonal arrator, the third-person writer “reportsrom the outside what can be seen but

makes no effort to get inside the minds ony characters” (Beiderwell and Wheeler 009:393). The techniques of third personighlight others’ activities and their oncerns by attending to their interactions



ut without implying (or commenting on)heir motivations and thoughts. We suggesthat, in addition to first person,

thnographers also write many segmentsf their fieldnotes from this perspective toeport what they see others doing andaying.

When using any of the third-personariations, the writer-narrator speakshrough others in the narration, in effect,bscuring her presence as writer by never sing the first-person pronoun “I” or nvoking her interpretation. One novicethnographer who had an internship with arobation officer commented that when

writing in the third person, she “was ableo focus more on what members wereeeing and how they were reacting toertain situations that would arise duringhe interview with clients. . . . I can see



myself take a step back and pay attentiono details and words in a different manner than in first person]. It’s almost as if my

writing becomes more observant.” Whenhis ethnographer writes about a probationfficer interviewing a potential probationer nd her mother, she uses third person.

Ms. Brown begins the interview and tells them both that she’s putting the seventeen-year-old girlin probation. Then she starts asking Taqueshawhat her crime was. She explains that she went

into a store with two friends to pick up some itemsand take them without paying. When Taqueshawalked out of the store, she was detained by store

personnel, and when the other two girls saw this,they left their items and walked out of the storewithout being arrested. At that point, the mother starts telling Ms. Brown that one of the girls istwenty-three years old and turns to look at her daughter, and says, “I don’t know what she bedoing hanging out with them twenty-three-year-olds.” Ms. Brown asks who this person is, andTaquesha tells her it’s her friend’s cousin. Then,Ms. Brown tells her, “Oohh, so you’re the only



one who got arrested?” Taquesha nods and smilesa little. Her mother starts saying she got caught

because she is a “child of God,” and the Lord hasdone this in order to set her daughter straight. Ms.Brown asks the girl in a serious tone, “Is this whatyou want? A life of crime? Stealin?” The girl turnsto look at her and says “Nooo.” Then Ms. Brownasks what classes she took last quarter, and shesays she can’t remember. Ms. Brown asks her if she’s on drugs or something because that would bethe only way she wouldn’t remember. The girllaughs.”

The ethnographer’s careful attention to the

nteractions of the probation officer, themother, and the daughter unfold clearly inhis third-person account. The writer staysocused on what others are doing and

aying, catching nuances of the back-and-orth between the characters.

Uninterrupted by the writer’s first-personomments, the third-person point of viewreates a sense of immediacy and a flow onteractional exchanges.



OCUSED THIRD-PERSON POINT OF VIEW . Fieldesearchers might self-consciously write in

ways that convey the point of view of one

erson directly involved in the scene or ction. They can do so by describing anvent from that person’s actual physicalocation, by focusing on what the person

aw, did, and said, by selecting details theerson seems to notice, and by includinghe person’s own words describing thevent. Such accounts are written from aocused third-person point of view. For xample, in telling about a fight betweenarents from the child’s point of view, a

writer might not only narrate using manyf the child’s words but also describe onlyhose details a child might notice, such ashe loud voices, threatening movements,nd the large size of those fighting.

Though the researcher might make



nferences about thoughts and feelings, hewould base them on observable facialxpressions, gestures, and talk, and

escribe these from the child’serspective. 7An ethnographer writing about a

omestic violence legal aid clinic often

hose to write with a focus on the womaneing interviewed by the intake officer. Inhe following excerpt, she effectively usesocused third person to reveal the distressf the woman, Graciela, struggling to tell

Meredith, the intake officer, about themost recent incident of abuse.

Graciela pauses for a moment and rubs her earlobes. She looks up at Meredith and beginsspeaking: “On January 21st, 2010, Robert calledme on the phone and told me he wanted to see hisson. I told him he could see him on the 21st but

not on the weekend . . .” He then called me a“dumb B” and hung up the phone. Meredith pauses, looks at Graciela, and says, “Okay, I need



you to be as specific as you can, so that meansyou’re going to have to tell me what he called you,exactly.” Graciela smiles, laughs slightly, and saysthat she wants to avoid using “foul language” infront of her son because he tends to “repeateverything I say.” Meredith nods her head andsays, “I understand.” She takes out a piece ogreen paper and pen from the desk drawer and

places it on top of the desk. “Why don’t you writeit, that way I can know what he said—exactly,”says Meredith. Graciela grabs the pen and writesdown, “Dumb Bitch.” She points to the paper andsays, “That’s what he called me,” and lets out asigh while shaking her head. “Okay, go on,” saysMeredith. Robert called back a second later and“insisted that I change my plans for him” in whichhe said _________. Graciela picks up the pen andwrites: “Fuck that.” . . . Robert then arrived at myhouse that day to see our son and upon leavingsaid, “I’ll see you in court you Dumb B.” She once

again points to her written words. . . . Gracielahands her son in the stroller a stuffed animal thatshe pulls out from her diaper bag. She continues

by saying that she asked Robert to leave after heused foul language, but he insisted on staying and“kept on calling me a trick.” “I decided to call the

police because I wanted him to leave my house.He got scared and left,” Graciela says, as she



blinks several times. She says that when the policecame, “they told me to get a restraining order.”

This ethnographer uses focused thirderson to stay centered on Graciela, her

words and gestures: her nervous smilesnd laughter, her sighs, her hesitancy toctually repeat the foul language directedt her by her partner. These details,nderscored by her gesture of pulling out atuffed animal for her son, depict the

woman as a distressed mother. AlthoughMeredith is present in the scene, her uestions do not detract from thethnographer’s focus on Graciela’s

esponses during the intake interview.Using the focused third person effectivelyonveys Graciela as struggling andervous while making a litigant’s claim.

Many ethnographers find that use of theocused third person in writing enables



hem to more fully sense an individualmember’s outlook and to pursue questionsnd issues of interest to that person. For

xample, while studying traditional healingmethods in an African culture, theesearcher might track the activities of aealer for a day: going with him to make

is medicines, sitting beside him as hereats his patients, and resting with himfter his duties (cf. Yoder 1982). Bytaying closely involved in one member’sctivities and then describing what thaterson pays attention to, does, and says,he ethnographer is more likely to get aense of his perspective. Moreover, byaking up different observational positionsnd participating empathetically withifferent people, the field researcher canffectively write from different focusedhird-person perspectives and document



he multiple voices in the setting. Intudying traditional healing, for example,he ethnographer can easily shift position

nd focus, tracking the experiences andalk of particular patients. 8

OMNISCIENT POINT OF VIEW . In taking an

mniscient point of view, thewriter/narrator “knows everything thateeds to be known about the agents,ctions, and events, and has privileged

ccess to the characters’ thoughts, feelings,nd motives; also the narrator is free to

move at will in time and place, to shiftrom character to character, and to reportor conceal) their speech, doings, andtates of consciousness” (Abrams and

Harpham 2009:272). Writing from thisoint of view, ethnographers use anobjective” tone and style to report eventss “realist tales” (Van Maanen 1988), a



tyle much more prevalent in pastthnographies.

However, writing from an omniscient

oint of view often introduces seriousistortions into writing fieldnotes. For xample, had Rachel Fretz, the fieldworker tudying mukanda rituals in Zambia, taken

n omniscient perspective, she would haveecounted the intense and frenziedancing, drumming, and singing of the

whole village throughout the prior night.Then she might have described the feelingsf the young boys—perhaps fear andxcitement—waiting to be rushed at dawnnto the camp for circumcision. Certainly,he masked figure dancing to therumming would also have drawn her ttention, and she would have describedis raffia costume and the black-and-redecorations on the mask. From her



nlimited perspective, she also might haveescribed the circumcision taking place inhe boy’s camp out in the bush, with the

athers, brothers, and uncles attending (her escriptions of this gender-delineated, all-male place would have had to be based onnterviews). Next, she might have turned to

he mothers, other women, and childrenack in the village to report not only theinging and the ritual pouring of water onhe mothers’ heads but also to describeheir thoughts—whether nervousness or oy—as they waited to hear from the campeader that their sons had been successfullyircumcised. Narrating these events fromn omniscient perspective, she would havereated a realist tale with an objective toneut at the cost of obscuring how thesectivities and meanings unfolded for

members and how she came to understand



hem. Of course, this ethnographer did notctually write her fieldnotes in such anmniscient manner.

In sum, our interactionist andnterpretive approach, along with our resence in the fieldnotes, militates againstsing an omniscient perspective in writing

ieldnotes. The omniscient style producesieldnotes that merge the ethnographer’sarticipatory experience with reports fromthers; conceal the complex processes oncovering the varied understandings o

what an event is about; reduce and blendmultiple perspectives into accountselivered in a single, all-knowing voice;nd ignore the highly contingentnterpretations required to reconcile and/or rioritize competing versions of the event.n fact, because this point of viewositions the writer as a detached observer



bove or outside events, it encourages her o depict characters and actions with near-ivine insight into prior causes and

ltimate outcomes. For these reasons, weecommend against narrating fieldnotesrom an omniscient point of view. 9

HIFTING POINTS OF VIEW—FIRST-AND THIRD-ERSON VARIATIONS. As emphasizedreviously, fieldnotes provide less aicture of the daily life and concerns o

thers than a picture of this life and theseoncerns as seen, understood, andonveyed by the participant observer thnographer. As a result, the ethnographer

ends to write from a stance thatcknowledges self as the lens throughwhich one sees and that, at the same time,tays focused on depicting others. He

mplements this bifurcated stance inractice by moving back and forth between



ecounting participant experiences in theirst person and observations of others inhe third person. But, in shifting between

irst-and third-person points of view, thethnographer faces an ongoing challengen handling the tensions of this bifurcatedractice. On the one hand, he attends to

nd writes about routine events that occur requently in that setting with an eyeoward what events mean to members,ften using a focused third-person point oiew and frequently quoting members sohat their voices can be heard. On the other and, he cannot neglect his ownnvolvement in observed scenes in makinghe observations and in writing them up.

These recurring shifts of attention fromelf to others appear as substantive shiftsn point of view marked by either arequent use of “I” or a predominance o



he,” “she,” and “they” and then back gain. While these shifts are based inarticipant observations, the ethnographer

—as writer—also can make choices aboutoint of view that highlight the details andoices they experienced in the field. 10

This bifurcated approach, however, does

ot necessarily result in precise divisionsetween different points of view, namely,n discrete first-person and third-personegments of writing; rather, thethnographer as writer might shift fromirst to third person and back again withinsingle segment or episode. Writing frompredominantly third-person point of viewoes not demand that the ethnographer ntirely avoid first-person pronouns or nvariably absent herself from her ieldnotes. Within primarily third-personieldnotes about others, for example, the



writer might include herself as aystander-participant who frames thecene; or as a witness throughout the

cene, she might insert her own responseso the action in first-person asides. If thewriter shifts intentionally to more fullyxpress views from a different perspective,

he writing is revelatory and clear, not aonfusing “mish-mash” of first and thirderson.

For example, one intern doing researchn a home for recovering prostitutesommented that writing in third personelped her get “a better sense of the scenend what the dialogue meant” to the young

women; however, she could not avoid her resence in the predominately third-person

writing, as the house had only sixesidents, and her interactions were aignificant part of the conversations. In the



ollowing fieldnote, she begins bymentioning her presence with the residentwomen, chatting together in the garage,

ut then switches entirely to focusing onhem.

Silvia, Kelly, Sandra and I sit out in the garage. . .. Silvia is holding a beanie doll and says, Check this out. Silvia is wearing a blue sweater jacketwith a red tanktop underneath. . . . Her hair is anew color this week, a shade of purple. The v-neck tank top reveals her tattoo. The name, “Mookie,”goes across her chest with a star above it. She is

shorter, Latina-looking, with large, pink lips. Shelooks younger (than the others), in her latetwenties. Kelly looks at the doll, laughs, and says,That looks just like you! Silvia says, I know, it’smy sister. Kelly asks her, Where’d you get that?

Silvia tells her, Julie found it for me in thedonation. . . . They smoke their cigarettes, andSandra asks, How was your day, Silvia? . . . Silviasays, Okay I had to do a bunch of stuff, and I lostten dollars. Sandra says, Oh, that sucks, I’m sorry.Kelly opens her eyes wide, raises her eyebrowsand says, You lost ten?? Silvia nods. She mumblesquietly, I’m losin money like it grows on trees or



something. She looks down at the ground andfiddles with the cigarette in her hand.

The fieldnotes continue with theonversation between the women,epicting the women’s clothes, gestures,nd small talk as they relax in the garage.

Only when the conversation turns tonclude her, does the ethnographer’sresence become more obvious in theieldnotes. For example, when the womeneave the garage and join the others back inhe house, the case manager asks thethnographer for help in figuring out theinancial complexities facing a resident:

Jennifer, the case manager, walks back in the roomand says, Catherine, did you figure out your financial stuff ? Catherine says, Yeah, kinda.Jennifer looks at me and says, Can you help usfigure out some of it? I tell them, Sorry, I don’thave much experience with that kind of stuff.Jennifer nods and heads back into the staff office.



These third-person fieldnotes focus oneporting about others and only bring thethnographer into the scene as a framing at

he beginning and end: She sits in thearage and listens to the women talk; shewalks back into the house with them andnswers the case manager’s question. The

rimary attention remains on the women;er use of the third person centers moreully on others than does the first-personerspective and portrays the activities o

members of the community more so thaner own experiences. 11

Sometimes an ethnographer focuses onn account as a witnessed event,mphasizing her close-up view andnvolvement even though she is not anctor in the scene. Thus, the attention staysn others, offering what initially seems toe a predominately third-person report.



Yet, because she offers her occasionalesponse in an aside (such as “I wasorrified,”), one has the sense of watching

he scene with her. This rhetorical strategyraws the reader closer and convinces onehat this “really happened as I saw it.” Thethnographer might include features and

ccurrences that are unexpected, that standn contrast with what she is used to, or thatenerate strong emotional reactions. In

writing such fieldnotes, the ethnographer ften interjects first-person asides whenhe focuses on her reactions to events andeople. For example, in observing andarticipating in the mukanda ritualsinitiations for boys) in Zambia, Rachel

Fretz often wrote fieldnotes that describedhe activities of others. 12 In the followingxcerpt, she looks out at what others areoing and occasionally inserts “I”



tatements in recounting moments of morective involvement and in describing her esponses.

That afternoon we heard the women and childrenhollering as though a lyishi had come and we[another researcher and I] ran down [to the center of the village] with our cameras. It was Kalulu, therabbit mask. He is a small, lithe figure dressed in agrass skirt and grass shirt around his neck. On hisarms and legs he wears the usual fiber costume, anet-like fitted body “overall,” and his mask is asmall red and white painted face with two largecloth ears. He calls out a nasalized, “Wha, wha.” Itsounds like a child’s cry. He hopped around theyard and half-ran toward the children. Then theHeadman told the women to dance with him; so D,his daughter, called some women and childrentogether and they turned their backs toward the

Rabbit, Kalulu, and sang and danced . . . Now andthen Kalulu rather listlessly chased a woman or child. And then all of a sudden, he used his smallswitch and ran right up to a girl and switched her.The children ran away shrieking, and the Rabbit

ran over to J’s house. Shortly it came back.And then it seems that the Headman calledJohn over and gave him some directions because



after that, John went and found Kianze, the eight-year-old girl who lives with N (she’s her grandchild) and grabbed her firmly by the arm andheld on and dragged her screaming over toward

Kalulu, the Rabbit, who reached to catch her.She ran screaming in the other direction and

John went after her again and grabbed her and pulled her toward the Rabbit. Kianze, looking over her shoulder, seemed thoroughly terrified andscreamed and screamed with tears running downher face. (I felt horrified as I watched.) This timethe Rabbit swatted her and she ran still screaminginto her house. And the mask ran after her andentered the house. But she managed, I was toldlater, to hide under a bed.

Then, Kalulu ran after Jinga and he caught her and picked her up in his arms. Jinga screamed too,

but she did not seem so terrified and did not cry.Someone said later that N [her grandmother]yelled at him to get her back, for the mask had

started to carry her down the path toward themukanda camp.The next day I asked John why he grabbed

Kianze and Jinga; he said it was because they weresupposed to go to school, but that they just lefthome but did not actually go into the school everyday. After a while, the mask ran off down themukanda path, and I went home, still shocked by



ieldnotes thus add a sense of immediacy.By convention, the inclusion of “I”

makes this a first-person tale, as told

hrough the narrator’s experience of thevent. But it is not the first-person use weescribed above, through which weearned the ethnographer’s first-person

eelings and insights as an insider articipating in the exchange. Rather it isnother use of first person as one whopeaks as the witness about other centralharacters and thus portions appear to behird person. The writer-narrator “I” shiftsetween her own responses and her closettention to others who are the centralharacters; as a consequence, the narrator-s-witness becomes a persuasive presencen the fieldnotes. The juxtaposition ooices—here the ethnographer-as-witnessnd the persons-running-from-the-mask—



as a rhetorical effect that convinces (cf.Atkinson 1990:82–103).

In closing, we contend that the degree to

which the researcher becomes involved ineople’s doings implicitly shapes theerspective from which he can write aboutncidents. Choices about perspective go

eeper than the use of pronouns; how onewrites creates an overall impression of thethnographer’s understanding andppreciation for another world. For nstance, involvement can allow thethnographer to write from a “near”erspective and to present details as seeny a member and, by quoting, to present a

member’s voice. In contrast, even whenwriting in the first person, a physically or motionally “distant” stance often resultsn more generalized descriptions presentedn a reportorial and impersonal tone.



Finally, shifts in point of view also mark he nature of fieldnotes as unfolding, in-rocess writing rather than polished, edited

work in which a consistent point of viewims for a certain effect. Thus, evenhough an ethnographer might writearticular segments from a single point o

iew, the fieldnotes as a whole shift. Theieldworker moves from depicting eventsbserved at one position, point in time, anderspective to fieldnotes constructed fromther points of view.

Real-Time” and “End-Point” Perspectives

n writing descriptive accounts,thnographers face an additional choice:

whether to describe an event “in real

ime,” from a perspective of incomplete or artial knowledge, or to describe it from



ome end point of more completenowledge.

In real-time descriptions, the writer

eeks to characterize events using onlywhat she knows moment by moment as thevent unfolds; thus, the writer tries tovoid using information that will

ltimately come out but, as of yet, is notvailable for describing what happened athose prior moments. By way ollustration, consider the way in which theollowing description of approaching akid row mission excludes key meaningsntil they are actually discovered by the

writer:

The whole area around the Mission, including thealley, was dense with people, more so than thesurrounding blocks. Probably eighty percent of these people were black; about ninety percent were

male. People lay, sat, or stood all along the aquacolored walls of the Mission. . . . The people on



the left-hand side of the door gave the impressionof being in line: they all were standing at fairlyuniform distances, and the same people werestanding in line throughout the several hours I wasaround the Mission. When I later read theMission’s literature, I realized that these peoplewere likely waiting in line for the privilege ospending the night in the Mission. The literaturenoted that “sleep tickets” were given out at 12:30

pm and that the line formed early. Interesting,there were many more people in back of theMission in what I perceived to be the lunch linethan were in the sleep line.

This real-time account preserves thewriter’s experience of seeing anssemblage of people and not quitenowing what they are doing. That they

re “in line” and there for a particular urpose, the ethnographer does notnitially use to characterize the scene but,ather, presents as an in-process discovery;

he writer makes some effort to describehe initial grounds for showing these



eople as “in line,” for example, “uniformistance,” continuity over time. The later iscovery of the “purpose” of these

ctivities—to get a “sleep ticket” allowingne to spend the night in the Mission—isxplicitly described only when thethnographer discovers it; only then, does

e characterize this assemblage as “theleep line.”

In contrast, field researchers mightescribe events from an “end-point”osition by making full use of what theyltimately came to know and understandbout them. This procedure incorporatesfacts” or understandings established atome later point to describe what wasoing on at earlier stages of observationnd understanding. In describing a formalusiness meeting in this way, for example,n observer would, from the very start o



valuation inferred later from an ongoingourse of interaction: To characterize her s “crazy” from her initial appearance in

he scene obscures these processes andtrips the written account of anyonsideration of how her disorientationecame visible to the observer or to

members of the setting.But, it might have been that her

resenting appearance and initialemeanor made this passenger’scraziness” evident “at a glance” to theieldworker (and presumably to anyulturally competent member of Americanrban society). In this case, to characterizehis person as “crazy” right from the startaises an issue of adequate descriptionather than of retrospective interpretation;crazy” is a highly evaluative term thathould be accompanied by some



escription of whatever observableeatures led to such a judgment in the firstlace. In general, descriptively effective

ieldnotes enable a reader to distinguishnitial understandings from retrospectiveeinterpretations.

In many situations, as a practical matter,

etrospective reinterpretations are usefulnd unavoidable. For many purposes, were not interested either in the initialnterpretations that an observer made oeople based on woefully incompletenformation or in just how the observer igured out who and what these people

were and what they were doing. In manyases, ethnographers decide that it isufficient to characterize matters in termsf meanings that have ultimately beenstablished as true or accurate; trackingxactly how this occurred is often simply



oo cumbersome, timeconsuming, or oittle or no relevance to understanding

members’ core activities and concerns.

Yet, there are times and occasions whenhe field researcher wants to preservenitial understandings—even if misguided

—and to document the actual process o

etermining meaning. In practical terms,reliving” the events of the day and writingbout them in real time as they unfoldedan assist the ethnographer to recall detailsnd result in more lively and completeescriptions of people and events in theetting. In terms of methodological self-onsciousness, real-time descriptions allowthnographers to identify and explicateheir own processes for discovering or ttributing meaning. For example, aieldworker in a business meeting mightocus on describing just what information



nd cues she attends to in actuallyetermining the identities and status ohose present, writing notes in a way that

reserves the initial lack of definiteness inhese matters. These descriptions coulderve not only as documentation of her rocesses of identifying others but also

uggest how ordinary participants in themeeting work out these meanings. Theseescriptive procedures would then allowhe reader to share at least part of thebserver-writer’s and members’ actualxperience of discovering meaning. It alsorings the observer-writer to the center ohe process of establishing meaning and,ence, “de-objectivizes” the description; aescription of how a “sleep line” outside akid row mission came to be discovered asuch shows the observer-writer to be anctive interpreter of the social world.



Similarly, ethnographers can use real-ime descriptions to highlight members’ rocesses of inquiry and inference for

etermining “facts” and attributingmeaning, helping to identify subtlyonsequential processes that are glossed or bscured in end-point versions. For

xample, real-time descriptions provideseful tools for describing situations in

which meanings remain ambiguous or ndeterminate for members and/or theesearcher. Consider this episode writteny an ethnographer examining interactions

with a stranger on a train:

I made a motion, like moving my stuff from theseat next to me to allow the man to sit down, buthe just looked at me and smiled. Then he said,“How’s it going?” I said, “Good, thanks.” He wascarrying a black plastic grocery bag and asked me,

“Would you like a pomegranate?” As he took itout of his bag to hand it to me, he said, “I just picked them from my tree.” I said, “Sure, thanks!”



I asked, “Are you from here?” He said, “Yes, I amgoing from here to San Marcos to visit a friend.”He started talking about going to see a play at thecivic center. I tried as much as I could to followwhat he was saying (I was being bombarded by alot of information. He talked to me like I knew the

people he was talking about.) He talked about thetwo who were in the play. . . . I noticed he hadmissing teeth and crooked yellow teeth. . . . Hewas wearing sandals and I could see he had callousfeet. He was talking about the two friends thatwere in the play at the Civic Center. I asked, “Howold are they?” He said, “The girl is 18 years oldand the boy 16 years old.” I asked, “So you aregoing there to see the play?” He said, “Yeah, I sawit yesterday. I was very impressed with them that Iam treating them to pizza today after their Cinema.” While he was talking, he mentioned hisage in comparison to the kids, “I am 49 years old.”He started telling me bus numbers, like “302,”

“309” . . . , bus routes that he would often take. Hekept talking without me asking questions; I oftenrepeated some key words of his conversation tomake sure that I was following him.

The train was approaching my station, and as Igot up to move toward the open doors of the train,the man moved to the lower level. He got off at theCivic Center like he said, but he just sat down on



the bench and put his hands on his temples,communicating anguish and distress. (It made methink, I wonder if he was just making that story upabout going to see his friends. Later, I looked upthe San Marcos Civic Center calendar of events tosee if they were having a play that weekend, butno play was playing. Sometimes, we don’t knowhow much we can trust in a conversation. Wedon’t know the strangers we interact with until wetalk to them and ask questions, but even then, it ishard to know and judge or interpret their meaning.Who knows—this man could have had a mentaldisorder that created these scenarios for himself. I

just don’t know.)

As this encounter with the man on the trainnfolds, the ethnographer reveals aspectsf his appearance and talk that alternately

make his story seem credible but then castslight doubt on what he says about the

urpose of his journey. By writing in realime and showing her own attempts to put

he sometimes discrepant bits and pieces ohe man’s story together in a way that



makes sense, she recreates, from her ownxperience, the feeling of uncertainty for he reader (This seems plausible, but

hould I believe him? How do I know?).When the man gets off of the train at theppropriate stop, yet sits down holding hisead in anguish, the ethnographer remains

pen to varied interpretations, continuingo recognize that the meaning of whatappened remains unclear. Rather thanoncluding that the man is mentally illased on the accumulating discrepanciesnd inconsistencies in his story, she takeshe opportunity in asides to raise further uestions that, as her observationsccumulate, could provide deepenednderstanding about interactions amongtrangers. In general, we recommend thatthnographers avoid the temptation torematurely decide “what happened” for



he sake of bringing closure. Thus, real-ime descriptions can be equally importantor revealing how members, as well as

thnographers, sometimes struggle tomake sense or give meaning—does aituation or a person mean this or meanhat?—to the ambiguity and uncertainties

hat are often important features of socialnteraction.

In summary, compact and definite, end-oint descriptions are effective ways toecount what goes on in the field much ohe time. However, they tend to ignore or loss crucial interactional processes, thusbscuring what might be consequential

ways for working through initiallyontradictory, confusing, incomplete, or ncertain meanings or assumptions. Real-ime descriptions, in contrast, documenthe processes through which members



rrive at what they regard as definitivenderstandings of meanings, facts, or equences of events. In so doing, these

escriptions preserve the qualities oncertainty and indeterminacy thatharacterize much of social life.

IELDNOTE TALES: WRITING EXTENDEDARRATIVE SEGMENTS

When an ethnographer organizes her earlyieldnotes into a day’s entry of looselynterconnected episodes, the narrationoheres primarily through the writer’s

erspective—as something that she saw or eard (see chapter 3 ). But right from thetart in doing field research, thethnographer also perceives somectivities as intrinsically cohesive, not onlyue to her interested attention but, more so,



ecause these interactions cohere for members. In writing fieldnotes about suchctivities—many of which, like court cases

r ritual performances, extend through aession or even several days—thethnographer still writes vivid sketches andpisodes but does so as part of a more

ocused, unified representation of the flowf social life. She writes such a segment ascohesive sequence, creating a sustained

arrative that documents “what happened”rom the beginning to the end of thectivity or event. Such extended narrativeegments, sometimes called “fieldnoteales” (Van Maanen 1988), recountequences of interconnected episodes andely more explicitly on the conventions oarration.

Writing a fieldnote tale allows thethnographer to present an event or



ctivity as unfolding over time andmerging through members’ interactions.

Often, ethnographers begin their day’s

ntry by first writing such a narrativeegment, eagerly relating an incident or vent that appeared fascinating or centralo members. As only a part of the day’s

ieldnotes, these narrations easily becomehe most extended units of writingmbedded within an entry. Occasionally,uch a fieldnote tale expands into an entirentry; rarely, a tale might spread througheveral days’ entries.

In composing these fieldnote tales, thethnographer finds (and creates)onnections, not so much by using his ownxperiences to shape his narrative, but,ather, by constructing a narrative focusedn moments that mark the activities in theives of others. Of course, narratives do not



ell themselves; inevitably, thethnographer-as-narrator constructs theseales and their coherence, even when they

epict events in the lives of others.Ethnographers can identify and create sucharrative coherence in two different,hough related, ways. First, they can build

xtended narratives directly aroundequences of interaction as members in theield site orient to the actions. For xample, in many legal and social serviceettings, “the case” stands as one suchnatural” unit; interactions in courtearings, intake interviews, and probationupervising are all organized around therocessing of targeted individuals.imilarly, in school settings, “the classeriod” stands as a unit oriented to byeachers and students and demarcates other onclassroom units, such as “nutrition”



reaks, lunch, all-school meetings, and son. Second, ethnographers can constructoherent sequences by selectively focusing

n a series of events involving the sameharacters or similar activities over timewithout directly invoking how membersrganize or refer to these matters. For

nstance, ethnographers might organizearratives around the “more interesting”ortions of “the workday,” showing how

members’ actions progress, develop over ime, and sometimes seem to lead tosomething happening.” But thethnographer does not abandon all concernor the “natural units” of members. Thoughe selects and interconnects the activitiese chooses to narrate, he does so with anwareness of the broader scope o

member-recognized categories. For nstance, he might recount certain



tudents’ actions as leading to someonflict; or he might tell about the

workers’ recurring breaks during a day.

In a basic sense, coherent narrativesemarcate explicit “beginnings” andendings”: a “case” begins when the courtlerk calls the case and the relevant players

ake their respective positions in theourtroom, and it ends when they leavehose positions; a class period begins andnds with the sounding of a bell or buzzer.

These beginnings and endings areelatively clear-cut if the narrative segmentirectly represents a member-used unit,uch as the “case” or “period.” Beginningsnd endings tend to be more variable whenhe ethnographer selectively tracks ahematic thread and more actively createsarrative coherence, as in choosing wheno begin her account of the member’s work



r workday. But even in delineatingmember units, narrative “beginnings” andendings” are never absolute. From the

erspective of the defendant, for example,he “beginning” of his case might be thenformal consultation with his publicefender in the hallway minutes before his

earing; the “ending” might be aebriefing with his attorney, setting up arobation appointment, or paying a finefter the court’s decision. Thus, theeginnings and endings that mark xtended narratives are heuristic devices,llowing the ethnographer to organize andnify sequences of interactions within her ow book-ended tale. Indeed, throughxploring what occurs before thiseginning and after the chosen ending, thethnographer can find useful strategies for xpanding and deepening her fieldnote



ales.As a result of these two narrative

trategies—using a delineated member-

nit or following a thematic thread toreate the narrative—fieldnote tales rangerom more cohesively to loosely integratedarrative segments within a day’s entry.

nevitably, most fieldnote tales are looselytructured; the writer reports only what heaw and as much as he remembers. For nstance, having selectively tracked certaineatures of the workday, the ethnographer

might narrate a series of episodes thatighlight several characters or thatoncentrate on similar activities. Heonstructs them as an episodic tale becausee infers the actions to be looselynterconnected. He writes one episode after nother, including all actions he observednd remembers, even though he might not



ee how they fit in while writing abouthem. He makes what connections he cant the moment, guided by an intuitive

ense for what belongs in this tale, for what goes with what.” Often, the importf an “extraneous” detail or episodeecomes clear only later when rereading

he tale.At other times, ethnographers tend to

write fieldnote tales as more tightlytructured narratives—for very goodthnographic reasons. Committed to

members’ perceptions of events, thethnographer writes about the links andequences of events that members enact or resent as a unified series of actions: for xample, as activities that have more or ess clear-cut beginnings, or progressionsn which one action causes the next andeads to consequential endings. As noted,



many criminal court hearings in Americanociety are structured in these ways,llowing a researcher to write cohesive

ales about them. Similarly, the researcher might hear people telling accounts to eachther about their day’s experiences, talkingbout past incidents in response to the

esearcher’s queries, or recounting mythsnd legends learned from their elders.

In writing up such cohesive narratives,he ethnographer appropriately writesieldnotes with a unified narrative structuren which one action leads to the next anduilds to an outcome. Clearly, writinghese fieldnote tales or extended narrativeegments differs from composing aramatic narrative through which thearrator intends to make a point. Well-rafted stories not only narrate actions sohat a reader can follow them, but they also



uild suspense into the unfolding action. 13uch plot-driven narratives makesomething happen.” Characters act in

ways that have consequences and that leado an instructive, often dramatic outcome,which invites readers to infer a thematicdea. But most everyday incidents and

vents do not happen like dramaticarratives in which one action neatlyauses the next and results in clear-cutonsequences; instead, much of lifenfolds rather aimlessly. Making allxperiences fit the formal demands of alotted tale falsifies them. Therefore, theautious ethnographer—wary of imposing

suspenseful narrative structure on allvents—avoids overdetermining theonnections between actions and their

movement toward an outcome.Depicting life in a cohesive narrative



orm is highly interpretive writing. Yet,when telling about experiences andbservations, narrating conventions offer

ery effective ways—perhaps the best—ohowing interactions as they unfold and ashey become the context for the nextnteractions, thus allowing one to track

ow members’ meanings emerge throughnteractions. We suggest thatthnographers narrate when they track vents and incidents unfolding through

member interactions and arching over aeriod of time. But recognizing thatarrating is highly interpretive (like other orms of coherent writing), we offer theseuggestions: Ethnographers should avoiduperimposing their own sense of narrativetructure and movement on others’ wordsnd actions; when writing up stories that aommunity member tells about local



vents, the ethnographer should stick losely to the teller’s sequencing andeport carefully the connections the teller

makes between actions. In addition,thnographers should resist crafting eventsnto complex, dramatic sequences or intoetter-sounding, more convincing tales:

They should not revise or rearrange actionso make them lead (inevitably) to aarticular ending or a climactic outcome;nd they should not build suspense intoveryday events that lack this quality.nstead, ethnographers should recountnteractions as they unfolded, telling thevent as they saw it happen. Whenarrating, they should mute any “great-toryteller” impulse to create dramatic,uspenseful, highly crafted stories. As aonsequence, fieldnote tales tend to bepisodic, a string of action chunks put



own on the page one after another, aequence of often loosely interconnectedpisodes that reveal interactions unfolding

nd whose meanings might emergehrough the telling.

In the following pages, we present twoieldnote tales as extended narrative

egments. Both tales present a series opisodes as the researchers saw andemembered them. Though both talesresent activities as they unfolded, theyxemplify the two different tendencies inarrating we have discussed in this section:racking the activities of the sameharacters and tracking a member incident.n telling the first tale, the ethnographer ecounts the activities of a policeman andolicewoman over a period of time, onlyoosely interconnecting their actions. Thispisodic tale coheres only because the



writer has an interest in the activities of thewo officers; that is, the episodes hangogether by a thematic thread. In contrast,

n telling the second tale, the ethnographer racks an incident driven by oneharacter’s concern, namely, a school deaneeking to locate and discipline a student.

The incident unfolds as a member casebout how the dean handles the student

who broke school rules. Thus, this talechieves a tighter narrative structure byinking the series of episodes about theean and student in which one action leadso another and, ultimately, to some sort oesolution.

eldnote Tale One: Activities of Police Officers on a Night Patrol

n this first tale, a student ethnographer writes about events he observed while



iding one night on patrol with two policefficers, Sam and Alisha. He recounts aeries of consecutive, but otherwise fairly

iscrete, episodes. Although these episodesll involve police activities, they are onlyoosely related to one another and containeveral possible “somethings that

appened.” To discuss these episodes, weabel them a through e.

a) As we were driving, Alisha was telling Sam aboutwomen officers in another department. “I can’t believe what some of the women and the womentrainees have done, and I hate it cause it’s alwaysthe women that do the stupidest things. And that’swhat gives a bad name to the women officers. So

—”“You know what the problem is, don’t ya?” Sam

ays. “Women think on the wrong side of the brain.”“What?”“They think out of the wrong side of their brain.”“Or is it because we don’t have a penis to think

om?” Alisha burst out laughing.



“NOOO!”“Is that what you think, Sam?”“No. I’ll probably tell my wife that. She’ll get a

ick out of it.” We pulled down an alley and passed aHispanic guy about twenty. “That guy was stealing those

res that were down here.”“The kid’s bike ones?”“Yeah.”“Maybe.”“Um, sure. They were back there and they’re not

here no more.”“I don’t know.”“They were there last night, pieces to a bicycle.”“Oh. Should we go get ’em?”“No, they’ve been there forever.”

b) We pulled out of the alley and were waiting to make aright-hand turn. “I’m gonna stop that.” I looked upand there was a white jeep without its lights on.We zoomed ahead and got behind the car. The car got in the turning lane as did we. After the light

changed, and we were proceeding through theintersection, Sam flipped on the lights. The jeep pulled into a gas station. . . . Sam walked up to thecar and Alisha walked up and flashed her flashlight in the windows. She walked back andstood next to me. The people in the gas station allwatched us. The girl (Caucasian) got out of her car, walked to the back and looked at her taillights.



fireworks? In retrospect that seems like such adumb thought, but having never heard gunshotsexcept at a range, I guess I’m not used to assumingsomething is gunshots. Sam said something abouta car I hadn’t seen and it having only one taillight.He floored the car, the engine raced and we flewdown the street. Alisha threw her coffee out thewindow and both she and Sam pulled their gunsout. “Get ready to duck if I tell you” she told me.She then called in that we would be out in the areaon possible gunshots. “That fucker split.” We flewdown the street. At one point, we came up on a car coming toward us, and we met the car as it wasdriving through a narrow spot with cars parked oneach side of the road. Sam locked up the brakes,the tires squealed and somehow we made itthrough. Sam floored it once again and, onceagain, we were flying down the street. We hit a

bump and I flew out of my seat. I heard the thingsin the trunk bang on the top of the trunk. “I want to

find that car Alisha!”“Did you see the people in it?”“No. They were just hauling ass and it’s got a

uckin’ taillight that’s out and I don’t even know whatind of car it is.” We drove around for a while and thenave up the search. “Damn. I want a felony tonight. Weave to find a felony tonight, Alisha. I want to point myun at someone. Where are all the felons? That was a



retty close call there.”“Yeah. But I trust your driving Sam. I had to

hrow my coffee out though. Maybe we should go see if ’s still there.” [Sam teases Alisha for having to thrower coffee out the window.]

“How was I supposed to get my gun out and holdmy coffee?”

“I did it and I was driving.”“That’s because Sam, you’re such a stud.”“I kept mine.” I said jokingly and they laughed.“So you’re talking to me about not littering and

ou go and throw your coffee cup out the window.”“Correct me if I’m wrong, I did realize my mistake

fterward, and I requested that you go back so I couldetrieve my coffee.”

“No you said, ‘Go back and get my COFFEE!’ iswhat you said.” We all laugh.

“But the coffee had to be in a cup in order for meo get it.”

“Would you do some police work and run this

late?” (It was a little surprising how fast the atmospheread transformed from total intensity to carefree joking inminutes.)e) Sam began to follow an old beat up American car. He

sped up and told Alisha to call it in for wants andwarrants. As he pulled in closer, I saw that theregistration said 1991 [it’s now January 1993].“Come on. Come back Code 36 Charles.” Sam



said, hoping the plate would come back withfelony wants on it. The plate came back all clear,expired reg. The car made a left off of the mainstreet, and as we turned to follow, Sam flipped onthe lights. The driver was a black male. Alishashined her flashlight in the back seat and Samwalked up to the driver’s window. The driver handed Sam his license and registration. Samspoke with the man for a minute and then walked

back to the car. As he got in he said, “That’s aresponsible father. I’m not going to write up aresponsible father. He had his kids’ immunizationrecords in his glove box. That’s not our crack dealer.”“Just cause someone’s a father doesn’t mean he

oesn’t deal.”“That’s not what I meant. Fathers can be drug

ealers, but responsible fathers aren’t drug dealers.”

n this fieldnote tale, two patrol officersrive around and react to events observedutside the car and to topics raised in talk

within the car. The episodes reveal their ow-teasing, now-supportive work elationship. The tale also conveys the



enor of routine police patrol work— ngoing ordinary talk, endless driving,ccasional breaks—punctuated by

moments of excitement during a chasehat, in turn, dissipates as the officers slipack into normal work activities. Clearly,he quick shifts interest the writer who

omments in an aside how suddenly thefficers turn from tense excitement tonformal joking.

These actions clearly provide thematerial for a narrative or perhaps moreccurately several possible narratives. Oneale might be of a night’s work for twoatrol officers; another might be about thethnographer riding along with twofficers, his efforts to figure out what theyo and why, and his hopes to gain somecceptance from them. But it is not at alllear that these were narratives the



thnographer intended to tell at themoment of writing. Rather, his concernswere to write up “what happened” as he

emembered it. He does so by constructingseries of episodes. Not all of these episodes are closely

onnected. Obviously the writer links

ome actions in one episode to actions inubsequent episodes: For example, theoffees purchased at the 7-11 store (inpisode c) play a key role in theubsequent chase episode ( d ). But noxplicit connections are apparent betweenther episodes. Even though the policetop two cars, there are no indications thathe second car-stop was in any wayonnected to the first, although a reader

might well be able to suggest connectionsfor instance, that the black father in theecond stop had to be let off with a



warning, since the white woman in the firsttop also had been simply warned).

In writing this tale, the ethnographer

dvances the narrative through time byrouping actions into discrete episodes; inact he has no need to use an explicitransition term (“then,” “immediately,”

next”) to mark the shift into a newpisode. He also avoids using causalransitions such as “because” or consequently” or “despite” to forward thection and more clearly establish linksuilding to an outcome. Such interpretiveransitions overly determine the reasons for ctions; this fieldworker, for example, didot know why each person acted the waye or she did. To avoid such interpretation,e simply juxtaposed related actions tohow how the interaction developed. Ineneral, transitions should only orient a



kids out for gang involvement. Most of them goover to Southside. But, then again, we receive a lotof the same type of students from uptown, too.” Iasked him, “So a lot of the problems are just beingshifted back and forth between schools?” Hereplied, “Well, the idea is that once a student is ina new environment, he might be more inclined tochange. So if we can’t seem to do anything for himhere, we ship him off somewhere else where hemight be away from some of his bad influences.”

c) But, flipping through his files, he finds one that hewas looking for and stops. “Here’s one right here.Yep, second time caught smoking. That meanssuspended.” He turns to me and says with aconfidential air, “You know, it can really ruin astudent’s future to get suspended, because it canlead to not being admitted elsewhere. We try to letthem know it’s serious.” The student’s name isSokoloff (or something very similar and distinctlyRussian-sounding). He looks at the schedules to

see where Sokoloff is during second period, andwe head up there.d) Walking into the room where Sokoloff was supposed

to be, I see all the kids looking around at eachother seriously. Mr. Jones asks the teacher, amiddle-aged white man, if he knows if Sokoloff ishere. The teacher had to ask the class if there wasanyone there by that name. Many of the students



look over to a short, white male with long hair anda heavy metal T-shirt. He stood up andacknowledged his name. Mr. Jones looks at himsternly and says, “Get your bags, you’ll be needing’em.” We walk out of the room. (I was actuallyonly in the doorway, trying to remain asinconspicuous as possible.)

e) The kid has a Russian accent. He seems panickedonce we are in the hallway. He is walking side byside with Mr. Jones and looking up at him. In a

pleading voice, he asks him, “What did I do?” Mr.Jones responds, “You got caught smoking for thesecond time. That means we have to suspend you.”The kid lets out an exasperated sigh of disbelieand whines, “But that was last semester. I don’teven smoke [now]. Please do me a favor.” Mr.Jones goes into explaining the state policy andtells him there’s nothing he can do but suspendhim. The kid starts talking about a Ms. Loges who“. . . told me it [the rule] was going to change this

semester. You can ask Julio [a classmate].” Mr.Jones seems to be getting frustrated and says, “Ihave enough trouble. Look! I’m activating school

policy.” With this, we walked into the attendanceoffice.

) (A little uncertain about how I should position myself

to be unobtrusive, I sit down at the desk oppositeMr. Jones’s and start acting like I’m looking at



some of the papers on his desk. The kid is startingto take notice of me now and keeps looking at mynotebook.) He keeps on pleading with Mr. Jones todo him a favor. Mr. Jones inquires, “Don’t youread what smoking does to you?” He gets on the

phone and tells him, “I’m calling your mother.Does she speak English?” The kid repliesaffirmatively. As he talks to a receptionist wherethe mother works, he retains his authoritarian tonein introducing himself: “This is Mr. Jones, Dean oDiscipline at the High School. Is Mrs. S. there?”The mother is not at work yet.

g) The kid pleads a little more calmly, “Do me a favor.”Mr. Jones replies authoritatively, but with lessvigor, “I’m not going to do you a favor. Not sinceI don’t know what Ms. Loges said.” The kidcontinues to plead, while Mr. Jones stays silent for awhile. The kid tells him, “My friend, Igor, gotsuspended on the third time.” Finally, Mr. Jonessays, “Well, it is a new policy this year, so I

suppose Ms. Loges could have gotten some of her facts turned around.”h) As he says this, a short, middle-aged Asian woman

walks into the room and seems amused by what isgoing on. (She sees me sitting at the desk andimmediately I get the impression that it is hers. Istand up quickly, looking back down at it and then

back up at her.) She seems to know exactly what is



going on with the student. She turns to him andstarts saying, “You’ve been smoking, hah? Well,don’t you know how bad that is for you?” She askshim, “Do your parents smoke?” He says, “Yes,and my cousins. My whole family.” (He seemsnoticeably relieved and more than willing to talk about the acknowledged evils of smoking.) Hesays, “I have been trying to stop, and I have beendoing pretty good. But it’s hard, you know?” TheAsian woman says, “Ah, you just have to put your mind to it. I used to smoke.” Mr. Jones adds, “Metoo. I used to smoke.” He nods his headknowingly. In a softer voice, he says to her, “I toldhim I wouldn’t suspend him this time because hegot some wrong information. But next time, that’sit.”

) Then, the Dean dismisses him with a slight wave ohis hand. The kid leaves the office.

n writing this tale, the ethnographer nterconnected the separate episodes—thealk and doings—to show actions asnfolding and developing in ahronological order. The tale moves fromn opening that initiates the action (dean



xamines pile of smoking infractions),hrough a middle that advances actions ashey develop (finding a delinquent student,

hreatening him with punishment) andlimaxes in a turning point involving ahange in action (offering student another hance), to an end that indicates an

utcome or brings the actions to a restingoint (student leaving).

But even though this tale, unlike therevious one, moves to a specific ending,he writer does not foreshadow thisutcome by building it into his writing. Inhe last episodes ( h and i), we learn onlyhat the male dean and the femaledministrator work together and that sheiscusses the smoking habit in greater etail with the student. She might havenfluenced the dean to change his mindimply through her presence since he



hanges after she enters. But, we never getclear sense of why the dean relents or

ppears to relent: He might, after all, have

een intending all along to simply scarehe youth rather than to actually suspendim. The ending merely writes a closing tohe fieldnote tale and is almost

nticlimactic: The student simply exits thecene. But a more definitive ending that

makes a point (about discipline or theean’s and student’s actions) would haveistorted the incident, attributing importhat those involved did not or ypothesizing consequences that might or

might not occur. Remaining true to hisbservations, the writer squelched anynclination to craft a more emphaticnding.

eldnote Tales as Temporary and Conditional Narrations



Composing these tales often highlights aundamental tension felt by many

thnographers as they write fieldnotes. Theesearcher wants to write the actions as sheerceived them in the moment observation and to include as many details

s possible. However, writing is a way oeeing, of increasing understanding, and,ltimately, of creating scenes. Indeed,

writing on a page is a process of ordering;

he writer, perforce, selects this and nothat, puts details in this order and not thatne, and creates a pattern out of otherwiseragmented or haphazard details. Narrating is a particularly structured

way of seeing and ordering life and,onsequently, can heighten the strainetween trying to write “everything” andreating an intelligible slice of life on theage. The more unified and climactic the



arrative he envisions writing, the moreompelled the ethnographer feels tonterconnect actions and to exclude any

etails that the building story line renderseripheral or irrelevant. For example, inhe story about the dean disciplining thetudent, only episode b about graffiti does

ot bear directly on the story line about themoking infraction. Had the ethnographer

written down other details more extraneouso this story line, the tale would have been

more episodic and less driven by annternal consistency. The tale might havencluded, for example, extraneous dialogue

with a secretary who remarked after sheot off the phone, “Your wife called to sayou forgot your lunch,” or incidentalctions such as a student waiting at theffice door holding a balloon in her hand.

However, he did not include such



rrelevant details; his tale has few gaps.In telling a fieldnote tale, the

thnographer must juggle these

ontradictory impulses: to include eveneripheral actions and to create an orderedrogression telling the “something thatappened.” If she truly writes

everything,” she likely will create mumboumbo on the page; but if sheverdetermines the connections in her tory, she might close her mind to other ossible interpretations. Faced with thisilemma, we suggest that the ethnographer im to write a more loosely structuredieldnote tale. Such a tale tends to bepisodic: it describes seemingly extraneousctions that happen during the incidentecounted; it might have gaps betweenpisodes with no apparent connectionseading from one set of actions to the next;



r it often begins in the midst of action andloses without necessarily arriving at anyonsequences or resolution.

Such a fieldnote tale reflects thethnographer’s perceived experience at themoment of writing. It tells the story as henderstands it that day. But every fieldnote

ale is embedded not only within the day’sntry but also within the context ongoing fieldwork and note-taking. Theesearcher returns to the field the next dayo further explore his hunches about therevious day’s events. He sees a character n various situations over time and deepensis understanding of that person’selationships and patterns of action. Thus,s writing continues and fieldnotesccumulate, the ethnographer might begino see earlier tales differently than when he

wrote them. He might reexamine the



mplicit connections, the gaps he did notnderstand, and the endings he inferred,nd, consequently, he asks himsel

uestions that stimulate a closer look whene returns to the field.The cohesion of fieldnote tales, then, is

emporary and conditional: Ethnographers’

nderstandings of recounted events oftenhange as fieldwork continues. In the lightf further observation of related activitiesnd reappearing characters, thethnographer might reassess connectionsnd disjunctions between episodes in aieldnote tale. After observing the dean

many times, for example, the writer of thisale might come to see the dean’s talk bout graffiti as an essential unit in what,fter all, seems to be a rather cohesivetory: the dean talks about graffiti as aerious infraction in order to highlight the



minor nature of smoking violations. Hewould then understand the tale asollowing this common pattern: an

uthority threatens punishment for nfraction; the student exhibits properlyeferential behavior, offers an excuse, andromises to do better; the authority relents

nd lets the student off with a warning. Inhis version of the story, the student willot be suspended as long as he isooperative.

In reviewing his tale, the ethnographer ot only should reflect on the implicitonnections he made but also reconsider he gaps between (and within) episodes.

The apparent gap in the dean’s story— etween the suspension threat and theemission—might have variousnterpretations. The ethnographer, for xample, could infer any one of the



ollowing: (a) that the dean lets allmoking students off the hook if they areeferential; (b) that the dean generally

efers to the opinions of the female, Asiandministrator; or (c) that the Asiandministrator intervenes often for foreigntudents. To locate grounds for choosing

etween these possibilities, thethnographer would further observe theean as he disciplined students.

Finally, continuing fieldwork and notewriting might lead to revisednderstandings about the ending of a tale,or there is an element of arbitrariness inoth the beginnings and endings of stories.

The writer begins the tale at the point sheegan observing an event, key characters,r an interesting situation. She ends her tory either when that incident concludesthe dean dismisses the student) or when



he shifts her attention to other characters,ctivities, or situations. Initially, the

writer’s experience and attention creates

he parameters of the fieldnote tale. But ashe rereads a tale and thinks about it, shemight realize that this tale is inextricablyinked to others involving the same

haracters. The specific endings are mereesting points. For example, although thisne police patrol tale ends, Sam and Alishaontinued their patrolling for several moreours that evening and during other ubsequent observations; and, the storyontinues through many more pages. 14 Inhis respect, fieldnote tales have temporaryndings because the story about people’sives continues the next day andhroughout the fieldnotes.

In sum, ethnographers write fieldnoteales that reflect daily experience, rather



han crafted, artful, suspense-drivenarratives. They draw on narratingonventions that order actions so that a

eader can visualize them and that,evertheless, remain true to their mmediate sense of the incident. But thenderstanding that a researcher has of any

ne event often fluctuates and develops ase continues to write and reread his notes.

By considering alternate interpretations otale in the light of his ongoing research,

he ethnographer opens up the tale to morencisive questions. Therefore,thnographers commit themselves onlyentatively to the version they write today,ince the “something that happened” might

well change. Thus, each narrative links to,nd comments on, other episodes and tales

within a set of fieldnotes. In that sense,ach tale—as one version among many—



emains open-ended.

ANALYTIC WRITING: IN-PROCESS MEMOS

As noted in chapter 3 , while writingetailed, descriptive fieldnotes,

thnographers simultaneously begin to penrief, analytically focused writings— sides and commentaries—to identify andxplore initial theoretical directions andossibilities. But in addition to creatinghese analytic comments and leads in the

midst of composing a set of fieldnotes,ieldworkers should also devote time andffort to more systematically developnalytic themes from their data.

Ethnographic fieldworkersharacteristically seek to collect andnalyze data simultaneously, allowing



nalytic concerns generated by initialbservation and interviews to guide andocus the collection of new data (Charmaz

001). 15 Developing potential analysesequires writing: The ethnographer turnsrom mentally noting theoretical insightsnd connections to putting these ideas into

written form. When insights are simplyhought or communicated orally, rather han being put on paper, they remain loosend fluid. As Becker insists, “First onehing, then another, comes into your head.

By the time you have thought the fourthhing, the first one is gone” (2007:55). Inontrast, “a thought written down . . . istubborn, doesn’t change its shape, can beompared with other thoughts that comefter it” (2007:56). Thus written-downnalyses acquire structure, depth, anduance.



Writing in-process memos allows theieldworker to develop these analytic leadsnd insights early on in the fieldwork

rocess. In comparison with asides andommentaries, in-process memos require amore extended time-out from activelyomposing fieldnotes in order to do more

ustained analytic writing; briefly steppingack from observed events and fieldoutines, the fieldworker shifts her ttention to outside audiences, beginningo clearly envision such future audiences indentifying, formulating, and elaboratinghe theoretical import or implications ouch events and routines.

In-process memos are not intended toroduce a final, systematic analysis but,ather, to provide insight, direction, anduidance for the ongoing fieldwork. 16

Careful thought and preliminary, tentative



nalyses can suggest finer-grained aspectsf interactions to focus on, new scenes andopics to be investigated, additional

uestions to be asked and followed up, andnteresting comparisons to notice. Writinguch memos becomes fruitful when theesearcher entertains such questions as the

ollowing: What was the sequence omoves and changes in meaning thatunctuated a typical or particularlyignificant event? Is there a relativelyonsistent pattern across a range of eventsr interactions? Are there differences,owever minute and subtle, betweenncidents or cases that, at first glance,ppeared the same? Are there similaritiesetween events that initially appear nrelated or different?

Although later memos are built onystematic coding of fieldnotes (see



hapter 6 ), many in-process memos areouched off by a particular event, incident,r comment that resonates with something

he fieldworker has previously observed.This resonance leads the researcher tohink about the connections and/or to makeomparisons between current and other

imilar (or different) matters. Indeed, atimes it is helpful to take a specific, “rich”ieldnote and explore its theoreticalmplications. An ethnographer studyingamily members caring for persons with

Alzheimer’s disease, for example,omposed the following memo as a seriesf “observations” on a single, brief, butsuggestive,” fieldnote excerpt:

Fieldnote: During the support group Fumikocomments on her husband’s behavior: “Once in awhile he is a pussycat” (laughter), “but he was araging bull when the VNA came to give him a

bath.” She adds that recently he has fought her



shaving him, but “this morning he let me do it.” Memo: Note how this description suggests that

caregivers recognize that cooperation can varyindependently of ability or condition for the personwith Alzheimer’s. Thus, it is one issue whether or not the person with Alzheimer’s can feed or bathehim/herself, shave himself, etc.; the stance the

person with Alzheimer’s takes toward thesehelping/caring for activities is another matter.

Note also how unpredictable these matters may be for the caregiver; bathing and shaving gosmoothly on some occasions but produce major hassles on others. And the caregiver does not seemable to find a reason or explanation for when andwhy one outcome rather than another occurs.

Furthermore, it may well be uncooperativenessor resistance in caregiving matters, rather than theamount or kind of help per se, that generatescritical problems and burdens for caregivers. Inthis respect, the core of a caregiving management

regime may rest on those devices and practicesthat inhibit, overcome, or sidestep resistance. Withsomeone with Alzheimer’s who is cooperative (or nonresistant)—in most matters—the caregiver cansay: “I can still guide him.” Similarly, a personwith Alzheimer’s who is cooperative is one whocan be “talked to,” i.e., convinced to make changesin his/her daily life, more or less “voluntarily.”



n this memo, the fieldworker identifieswo initial, somewhat unrelated issues inhe fieldnote: Some caregivers report that

atient cooperation can vary independentlyf physical condition and that cooperationan wax or wane unpredictably. In theinal paragraph, she speculates on the

ossible relevance of one of these issues— ooperation (and its counterpart,esistance)—in shaping the broader patternnd course of family caregiving for ersons with Alzheimer’s disease.

In-process memos are also useful for xploring connections between differentvents and processes or for developingew interpretations of previousbservations and understandings. In theollowing fieldnote, a student clarifies just

when staff came to classify late calls to ahelter crisis line as “nuisance calls”:



Several weeks ago, I wrote about a client whomstaff found to be quite aggravating and “annoying”

because she had been continually calling the crisis

line at all hours of the morning. At the time I had been under the impression that staff perceivedsuch calls as unnecessary unless they pertained toimmediate threats of physical injury. Through aconversation that took place today (included inearlier notes), I realize that this was an accurate

but oversimplified notion. Although the staff findslate night crisis calls quite aggravating, they alsoacknowledge the necessity of maintaining such anoption to deal primarily with violence of animmediate and physical nature. But even if thecaller’s situation does not fit into that category, shewouldn’t necessarily be identified as a “nuisance”unless she had called repeatedly and had enoughfamiliarity with the organization to know better.Each caller seems to be viewed as an individual

case and is treated accordingly. It is only whentheir issues become too time-consuming or chronicthat they are identified as nuisance callers.

Here, the student developed a moreomplex analysis by correcting and



xtending an earlier analytic claim.Writing this memo helped her clarify her deas and draw out subtle differences as

he reflected on the relevance of newnformation for her previousnderstanding.

Despite their value, writing analytic, in-

rocess memos can easily displace timend effort needed for writing coreescriptive fieldnotes. The field researcher

might experience uncertainty and strain ineciding when to concentrate on writingieldnotes and when to turn attention toeveloping and recording analytic insights.

There is no easy solution: New ideas, likehe descriptive details that make vividieldnotes, are fleeting; if not written downmmediately, they tend to “get lost” or emain underdeveloped. So, the fieldesearcher constantly must balance the



mpulse to write down ideas and insightswhen they occur against the compulsion toget it all down” as quickly and completely

s possible without interruption.In sum, ongoing reflection and analysis,ven as the fieldworker continues tobserve in the field and to actively write

ieldnotes, is crucial in ethnographicesearch. Writing in-process memos helpshe field researcher carry forward analysisontemporaneously with the collection oield data. Such reflective writing oftenncites the researcher to pay closer ttention to what she sees and, thus, to

write more detailed and vivid descriptions.n-process analytic writing, in turn,ncreases the possibility of making theinds of observations needed to developnd support a specific analysis. The sooner nd more explicitly analytic themes are



dentified, the better able the fieldworker iso “check out” different alternatives,

making and recording observations that

an confirm, modify, or reject differentnterpretations. In these ways, theieldworker lays the groundwork for eveloping analyses that are both complex

nd grounded in the data.

EFLECTIONS: FIELDNOTES AS PRODUCTS OFWRITING CHOICES

n writing fieldnotes, ethnographers haves their primary goal description rather

han analysis. A researcher writes noteswith a specific purpose in mind: to record

slice of life on a page. But theseontrasting terms—description andnalysis—refer more to recognized kindsf writing than to separate cognitive



ctivities. In that sense, writing fieldnotess a process of “analysis-in-description.”ndeed, all descriptions are selective,

urposed, angled, and voiced because theyre authored. To “write up life” in thisway, an ethnographer uses languageonventions to create an envisioned scene.

Accounts written from a particular point oiew and as real-time or end-pointescriptions, constructed and sequenced inxtended narrative tales, paint detailedortraits of settings, people, and actionsather than offering causal explanations or uilding explicit arguments.

All writing, by definition, is anbstracting and ordering process: Clear

writing always has internal coherence, theroduct of the writer’s attention to theubject as well as to the potential reader.

Ethnographers construct their fieldnotes in



process more accurately captured by thexpression, “writing up” than “writingown” or “getting down” people’s doings

nd sayings. Writers do more than inscribehe world. Just as the ethnographer-as-bserver participates with members inonstructing a social reality, so, too, the

thnographer-as-writer creates the worldhrough language.

In this chapter, we have seen that evenhough restricted to actual observed detailsnd members’ talk, an ethnographer lways “creates” the described action or arrated event. Writing fieldnotesrocesses experience, not only through aesearcher’s attention in the field, but alsohrough a writer’s memory andompositional choices at the desk. Anthnographer perceives interactions andelects significant details; in writing she



roups these details into coherent wholesccording to conventional writingtrategies. 17

Awareness of writing conventions,owever, is not meant to lead a writer to bemore craftily inventive through the use oersuasive rhetorical skills. Rather, it

nvites the ethnographer to make moreonscious choices when creating fieldnoteecords that portray social worlds asxperienced and perceived by others.

Consider the effects of writing: Not onlyoes a writer’s theoretical stance influenceompositional choices, but the reverse alsoappens. Even by inadvertently imitatingn “objective” social science style, for xample, with its measured wording,mniscient viewpoint, and use of theassive voice, descriptions reflect anffinity—though ever so subtle—for that



rientation. Certainly, a writing style tendso shape any writer’s vision. Howesearchers see in the field, in part, results

rom what they find noteworthy andwritable” as a fieldnote. Consequently,tudents concerned about research integrity

must develop a conscientious respect for

ow their writing choices influence bothieldwork and note-taking.

Whether carefully or haphazardlywritten, every fieldnote mirrors an author’shoices: to include these details rather thanhose in depicting scenes and characters, toroup selected events and actions intoketches and episodes, to represent talk inirect or more indirect and paraphrasedorms, to sequence actions in this way or hat way. These authorial choices, if onlyubliminal, result in on-the-pageescriptions with certain kinds of detail,



rganized and sequenced in particular ays, displaying and interweavingifferent voices. These day-to-day

enderings of scenes pile up, and writinghoices assume a cumulative effect: Theotes portray that world through thisarticular writer’s lens. In making writing

hoices, therefore, how ethnographerswrite fieldnotes becomes as consequentialor readers and those depicted as what they

write. Whether as privately filed resourcesr as public excerpts in final documents,ieldnotes persuade.



5



Pursuing Members’Meanings

At first glance, it might seem that theursuit of members’ meanings isundamentally a matter not of writing butf what one does in the field—of askinguestions and of positioning oneself toear and observe others’ concerns.

Members’ meanings, however, are notristine objects that are simply “out there”

waiting to be “discovered.” Rather, thesemeanings are interpretive constructionsssembled and conveyed by thethnographer. This process certainly

egins with looking, asking questions, andaying attention to what is relevant to



eople in some indigenous group. But theey to the process lies in sensitivelyepresenting in written texts what local

eople consider meaningful and important.Fieldnotes, then, are a major vehicle for eginning to capture local knowledge andndigenous understandings.

Given the complexities of pursuingmembers’ meanings, it is not surprisinghat field researchers’ efforts to do so haveeen partial or inconsistent in twoistinctive ways. First, some fieldesearchers blunt appreciation of members’

meanings by importing outside categorieso describe local scenes and actions. Thisort of imposition obscures indigenous

meanings. Second, some researchersresent static taxonomies of native terms.

The ethnographer’s task, however, is moreomplex: She must not only apprehend and



onvey members’ categories, but she mustlso explain how members use terms inpecific interactional situations and how

nvolved parties differentially evoke,nderstand, and act upon them.In this chapter, we discuss how to write

ieldnotes that effectively represent

member-recognized meanings. We seeroducing fieldnotes that identify andresent members’ meanings as a primarythnographic commitment. Howthnographers should incorporate such

meanings into their final analyses isnother issue, one about whichthnographers differ. Many maintain thatnalytic categories are fundamentallyncompatible with members’ meanings,hat ethnographic analysis must transcendndigenous categories (Burawoy 1991;

Wacquant 2002). Others, while



cknowledging the temptation to transformocal meanings into recognized analyticoncepts, remain committed to trying to

ncorporate such meanings into bothworking memos and polished ethnographicexts (Charmaz 2001; Tavory and

Timmermans 2009). In keeping with our

ommitment to understanding the socialrocesses through which membersonstruct and act upon meanings to shapeuture interactions, we maintain thatthnographers should initially writeieldnotes that depict and are sensitive toocal meanings. Of course, we recognizehat what the ethnographer writes is not apure” or literal presentation of the

meanings of events and interactions theway that members experience them.Rather, ethnographic writings arenevitably filtered through the perceptions,



xperiences, and commitments of thethnographer. And, ultimately, thethnographer writes about members’

meanings and the social processes shebserved in the field for particular outsideudiences whose substantive andheoretical interests differ from those o

members in the setting. But, in writing for uch outside audiences, ethnographerseek to begin with and build upon

members’ meanings and theories rather han their own, developing, in Geertz’s1983:57–58) terms, theories that areexperience-near” (rather thanexperience-distant”) to the concerns andategories of those studied.

In this chapter, we illustrate theserocesses using both students’ originalieldnotes as well as working memos andinal ethnographic papers. We begin the



hapter by considering how ethnographicccounts often obscure or suppress

members’ meanings by imposing outside

nderstandings of events. We then suggestways of writing about what is significanto members and explore the problemsnvolved in conveying local meanings.

Finally, we discuss strategies that allowthnographers to focus on race/ethnicity,ender, and class while remainingensitive and giving priority to members’

meanings.

MPOSING EXOGENOUS MEANINGS

All too frequently, ethnographic fieldnotesail to attend consistently to members’

meanings, instead importing outside or xogenous categories and meanings.



mposition of outside categories producesieldnote descriptions that fail toppreciate local meanings and concerns

Matza 1969:15–40) and that tend to framevents as what they are not (that is, byeference to categories or standards thatiffer from those recognized and used by

members). In general, field researchersoncerned with members’ meanings areeery of any classifications that do not refer o the categories that the people recognizend actually use among themselves.

Failures to appreciate members’lassifications arise from a number oources. First, lapsing into classicthnocentrism, researchers may take aategory, standard, or meaning from oneulture or locale and use it to describevents in another context. For example,ased on their own expectations,



Westerners in an African or Indian cinemar theater might describe as “disruptive”oud audience remarks to characters and

hus fail to appreciate such participation aslocally appropriate way of expressing anvaluation of the performance (Srinivas010). Or an observer may employ

xogenous criteria to evaluate schoollassrooms as “noisy” or “chaotic,”hereby ignoring teachers’ and students’ctual understandings of how classroomctivities should be conducted. Bothrocedures caricature, rather than describe,ehavior in its own terms.

Second, ethnographers may use a term,ategory, or evaluation that is recognized,sed, and honored by one group in aarticular social world to describe featuresr behaviors of another group in that

world. For example, psychiatric staff might



nterpret certain patients’ behaviors asacting out” or “denial,” even though theatients understand the actions as

ommon, everyday behavior or even asesistance to institutional control. Often, aield researcher who comes acrossifferent local understandings of the same

vent has a tendency to accept one view astrue,” thereby marginalizing competingersions. In one situation in Zambia, for xample, a diviner-healer determined thatn older man who suddenly could not walk ad been bewitched and, after treating himor a year with medicines and massage,ured him. However, the medical doctor athe local hospital, on hearing the accountnd later meeting the man, concluded thate had had a stroke resulting in paralysis.n writing fieldnotes, a Westernthnographer might be tempted to



rivilege, though ever so subtly, themedical doctor’s “scientific” account andhen to describe the diviner’s interpretation

s “belief,” thereby prioritizing oneractitioner’s explanations as moreaccurate” and implicitly more efficacious.

Third, field researchers may adopt a

ismissive stance toward members’meanings, treating such meanings aslawed, hypocritical, contradictory,allacious, or commonsensical. Suchtances are particularly tempting whenhey involve beliefs and practices thateem strange in contemporary Americanociety. For example, a studentthnographer working in Los Angelesbserved weekly meetings of a studyroup devoted to the philosophy of Edgar

Cayce. In the following fieldnote, sheescribes an incident recounted by a



worldview. Whether going to the police or etracing one’s steps would have been

more effective responses begs the issue; the

member’s account asserts that exactlyecause of her prayerful actions, the pursead been turned in, and nothing was taken.t is only by suspending her own beliefs

hat the ethnographer can begin tonderstand the beliefs and practices of aistinctive social group regarding thefficacy of action in everyday life. 1

Fourth, fieldnote descriptions andmemos may be framed in terms of atandard of what is “supposed to be” thaterives from official rules or nderstandings that are held to governction in some specific setting. For xample, noting a discrepancy between anlder’s account of the traditional meaningnd sequences of a ritual and the actual



erformance of that ritual, an ethnographer might describe this ritual as “in decline”ather than as subject to adaptation and

ariation. 2 Similarly, an ethnographer might describe and analyze police actionn the streets in terms of officialegulations for the use of force; how actual

olice officers evaluate specific streetituations and decide when and what kindsf force to use is thereby ignored. 3 In bothnstances, ethnographers implicitlyetermine whether actions should count asonforming to or departing from thetraditional” version or “official”egulations and, hence, whether thesections are “in fact” “authentic” ritualehavior or a “legitimate” use of force.

Fifth, the researcher may invoke a prioriheoretical categories, often those sacred tohe core of a particular discipline, to



haracterize events and settings. For xample, an ethnographer would want tovoid beginning a study of the homeless

y looking for their uses of “social capital”n the street because starting with such anxogenous concept prespecifies thealience of particular features and events

nd tends to marginalize members’nderstandings and use of relevantesources.

Likewise, in studies of traditionalarrating, past researchers relied heavilypon the analytic categories of “myth,”legend,” and “folktale” even in explainingon-Western traditions. Since theseategories often impose Eurocentricotions, and, thus, misrepresent a people’storytelling traditions and practices, manyontemporary folklorists now characterizetorytelling with the indigenous terms and



xplanations of the group studied andescribe how people use these terms inarticular storytelling events. 4

Indeed, a field researcher may implicitlympose such categories in askingxogenous questions rooted in an a prioriesearch agenda or theoretical framework.

ot only might a researcher impose ideaswhen questioning an “informant,” but shemight also impose an inappropriate formf expression whose constraints distortesponses. For example, a field researcher

who asks for a list of ingredients in curesr discrete steps in a ritual may getrbitrary lists intended to please theesearcher. Or, when asked questionsmposing external analysis and itemization,eople may offer “nonanswers” such asyes,” “no,” or “sometimes,” especially ihey usually describe these healing and



itual events by recounting the story of thexperience. 5 In sound ethnographicesearch, in contrast, “both questions and

nswers must be discovered fromnformants” (Spradley 1979:84). 6Finally, describing local settings or

ctions in terms of dichotomized variables

may involve an imposition of exogenousategories. For an ethnographer to describehose present in a bar as “regulars” andnonregulars,” particularly if theseistinctions are based solely on thethnographer’s observations, rather thann members’ references to these differentypes of bar patrons, may ignore a range other, more variegated distinctions that bar atrons may draw between one another. Ineneral, the reduction of ongoing socialife to dichotomized variables tends toroduce a radical decontextualizing and



estruction of local meanings.In all of these ways, ethnographers tend

o produce fieldnotes that ignore,

marginalize, and obscure indigenousnderstandings. In the following sections,we suggest alternative procedures for writing fieldnotes that avoid such

mpositions and that help developescriptions and preliminary analyses thatre sensitive to local concerns, meanings,nd categories.

EPRESENTING MEMBERS’ MEANINGS

A number of distinct moments in groupife highlight how members express, oriento, and create local meaning.

Ethnographers begin to constructmembers’ meanings by looking closely at



hat members say and do during suchmoments, paying particular attention to thewords, phrases, and categories that

members use in their everydaynteractions.

embers’ Terms of Address and Greetings

The way members address and greet eachther is one of the most immediately

oticeable and revealing kinds of talk.Ethnographers often begin by noting andearning the proper terms of address,specially when working in a foreign

anguage and culture. In manyommunities, the way people address onenother reflects their relative statuses;onsider, for example, the difference

etween first-name familiarity and theeference marked by formal titles such as



Dr.” or “Mr.” and “Ms.” Furthermore,ow people greet each other—both with

words and body language—often indicates

omething about the closeness,espectfulness, deference, or hostility ohat relationship. 7

In Chokwe villages, for example, people

ddress each other with kinship terms,uch as tata (father), mama (mother), yayaolder sibling of the same sex as speaker),

mwakwethu (younger sibling of the sameex as speaker), or ndumbwami (anyibling of the opposite sex of speaker)Fretz 1987:58–65). Listening to other eople call out to each other reveals their inship relationship and helps theesearcher learn local expectations for ppropriate speech and behavior. For nstance, Chokwe grandparents and their randchildren may be publicly affectionate



nd joke together about sexual matters inways deemed inappropriate for other elationships. In contrast, in-laws greet

ach other formally from a distance (theounger person must step off the path) andever eat together.

Similarly in American society, terms o

ddress and greetings can reveal distinctiveeatures of social relations. It may beignificant in classroom and psychiatricettings, for example, whether students andlients address teachers and staff by first or ast name. Anderson (1990:168–73) hasbserved that whether people exchangereetings with strangers encountered onrban streets, and how they do so, providesndications of locally significant ethnicffiliation and disaffiliation among African

Americans. Similarly, Garot (2010:69–91)escribes how inner-city gang members



nitiate street encounters with unknownouth by demanding “where you from.”

This begins a process of “hitting up”

imed at determining the other’s gangffiliation and possibly leading to violence.

veryday Questions and Answers

An astute ethnographer notices the kindsf questions local people frequently ask

nd the kinds of answers ordinarily given.For example, in many African societies,eople greet and ask each other theppropriate, basic questions many times a

ay. The Chokwe, for instance, inquirebout each other’s well-being, includinghe entire extended family ( Kuci kuzuwo? [How is it at home?]); they also

sk about their own and the family’s healthUnahindvuka, nyi? [Are you well?]).



These questions can open to conversationsbout health, work, money problems,uarrels in the family, births, deaths, eating

well or searching for food, or celebrations.Thus, learning to appropriately ask andnswer such questions can lead intoonversations about issues that members

onsider vital to their everyday success or ailure. 8

In some settings, ethnographersncounter unexpected questions. For xample, a Korean fieldworker studying amall Christian church in Los Angeles wasurprised when a youth group member (anthnic Korean from China), on first

meeting her, asked her the year she wasorn: “She said she was born in 1984, andhe could probably call me unni (meaninglder sister) since I was born in 1978.”

Youth group members not only commonly



sked newcomers this question but alsoegan their self-introductions in youthroup meetings by announcing their birth

ears. This differed from the researcher’sxperiences in Korea, where, althoughsking a person’s age is culturallyermissible, people rarely asked about

irth years directly: They instead ask nimal years (although young peoplearely do this these days) or the year oollege entrance (as a proxy for the other arty’s age), or perhaps even directly ask nother’s age.

Ethnographers sensitive to members’xperiences and views not only listen to

members’ questions; importantly, they alsosk questions that are intentionally open-nded to allow members to use their ownanguage and concepts in responding tohem. In doing so, they orient such



uestions to topics that members findmeaningful, that is, interesting, relevant toveryday concerns, and in keeping with

he ways they act and talk. Similarly, byrienting questions to mutually observedctions and overheard speech, anthnographer is more likely to ask

uestions that make sense to members; hemight ask a question about an incidenthey both witnessed, about the member’sxplanation of a term he just used, or aboutcomment someone else made during a

onversation. Such questions allow peopleo answer with familiar forms oxpression, embedding responses in aontext that makes sense to them, therebyevealing their concepts—their members’ rientation to the “information.”

aturally Occurring Members’ Descriptions



escribes his work to the researcher,mphasizing that he usually does not havehe “luxury” of being able to make

ndividualized contact with applicants for ederally subsidized housing:

“The larger a bureaucracy is, the less luxury a professional working within that bureaucracy hasof making human contact. If I’m interviewing 20or 25 people per day, I don’t have time to break through. I have to do the job, and I have to moveon to the next. Sometimes, that’s truly a case of numbers, why people in government jobs act the

way they do. We’re a small agency, we sometimeshave that luxury. Other times we don’t.”

This description does more than orient the

esearcher to the setting; it also reveals theaseworker’s views about his work, as heignals that he would like to make personalontact with clients but is frequently

nable to do so as a practical matter ecause of “high numbers.” In so doing, he



lso provides an “account” to an outsider bout what he considers to be good work nd a plausible reason for why he may be

ailing to live up to that standard. Naturally occurring descriptions canlso arise more informally in the course ongoing talk about significant events in the

etting. Here, for example, a fieldesearcher may want to pay close attentiono how any other newcomers arentroduced to and taught about “how thingsre done.” Since newcomers are learninghe ins and outs of what to do, they oftensk questions and make mistakes thateveal, through their own ignorance ohem, the implicit knowledge, skills, andnwritten rules that most longtime

members take for granted.Since members often socialize and

nstruct researchers, just as they do any



ther newcomer (or their own children),he ethnographer may want to record inetailed fieldnotes how she learns to make

er way into and through a setting. Indeed,n many situations, such socialization isnavoidable. For example, when firstiving in a Chokwe village, every move the

ieldworker made as she learned to cook utdoors on a charcoal burner—down toxactly how to stir the pot—was subject toaughter, commentary, and correction by

watching neighbor women. Since peopleegularly work together and freely teaseach other about mistakes, they enjoyedhe researcher’s awkwardness and jokinglyold her she seemed like a child. Theieldworker not only learned appropriateehavior but also was able to notice theind of expressions—laughter, reprimands,nd corrections—through which people



ocialize others. 10Special problems arise in eliciting

members’ descriptions of what incidents

nd events mean when a researcher hasirectly observed a particular event, sincethers in the setting could assume thatecause the researcher saw something

appen, or is generally familiar with theetting, he now knows what it means. Oneption for dealing with this situation is toisten to how members talk about thisvent with others. Thus, a fieldworker whoas observed a complaint-filing encounter etween a district attorney and policeetective can record fieldnotes detailingow the former recounted “whatappened” to a colleague either in the

moment or later over lunch. Alternatively,s noted earlier, it may be possible throughndirect and cautious questioning to elicit



members’ descriptions and accounts of anbserved event. Having observed arobation officer interview a delinquent

outh and her parents, for example, aieldworker might ask the probation officer what she found to be significant (andwhy), what statements or stances surprised

er, or how this interview compared withther interviews. Such questionsccentuate the member’s expertise andxperience and, conversely, play down thethnographer’s local knowledge. Similarly,he ethnographer can directly suggest hisack of knowledge of a particular matter bysking for relevant backgroundnformation about an observed incident or vent. Indeed, it is sometimes usefulxplicitly to fall back on the researcher’sole, telling the other something like “Ihink I know what this means, but I want



o be sure that I am getting it right. Soould you walk me through what justappened?”

One important and distinctive type omembers’ description arises when peoplexplicitly name, characterize, or ummarize the meaning and import o

ome issue, event, or incident. Throughuch formulations (Garfinkel and Sacks970; Heritage 1984), people identify thegist” of something that has been said or one, in this way characterizing andescribing it in a distinctive way. For xample, to say “you interrupted me”ormulates the character and meaning onother’s prior utterance in a way thatsserts that the spate of talk that justccurred was, in fact, an “interruption” andmplies that this is a matter of immediatemportance and relevance in the



onversation (Sacks 1992:637).Formulations thus assert particular meanings or understandings, shaping up

he meaning of something that hasccurred in a new and subtly differentway. For example, in the continuationchool staff meeting discussed earlier, the

eacher recounted two occasions wheretudents had openly used sexual terms inalk to her and others; she then formulatedhese two incidents (and the generalroblem they represented) as “sexualarassment”; this formulation transformedhe meaning of what the two youths hadaid from playful obscenities to a known,egal form of abuse appropriately subjecto punishment. In general, field researchershould note both when formulations areroffered and the work that they do inreating or shifting meanings on these



ccasions. Since any event may beormulated in a variety of different ways, aarticular formulation reveals something

bout the concerns and relevancies of theerson making it.In everyday and institutional settings, it

s important to appreciate formulations as

ocial constructions rather than as simplyhe ethnographer’s statements onproblematic “facts.” By way of example,onsider the following fieldnote describingprobation officer’s interview with Tom, a

ixteen-year-old, white surfer enrolled in apecial probation school. Having looked at“progress report” from the special school

he youth was attending, the researcher wrote the following fieldnote:

Overall, his progress report has improved a little.

But there was one day when Tom was sent home.Shelly asked him about this.



Here, the researcher offers “improved aittle” as his own characterization of theouth’s recent period of probation. In

oing so, he is clearly repeating the viewf the probation officer, since a bit later inhe notes, the latter characterized the reportn just these terms. But, in uncritically

aking over a member’s description in thisway, the researcher treats “improved aittle” as a fact, failing to appreciate itsharacter as a formulation. He alsoeglects considering both how therobation officer interpreted “progress”nd “improvement” and what “facts” or evelopments she attended to in makinghese determinations. Furthermore, treatingimproved a little” as a “fact,” rather thans a formulation, ignores the possibilityhat this meaning was constructed in apecific context for a particular reason; for



xample, the probation officer may haveeen sensitive to the youth’s presence and,n order to keep up the latter’s morale,

ffered this characterization to tone downmore negative evaluation. 11In general, it is particularly tempting to

rivilege descriptions provided by official

ocuments, viewing them as a simpleecord of relevant “facts” recorded inransparent and unproblematic ways. Butthnographically, it is more useful toecognize that descriptions incorporatednto such documents are both highlyelective and rife with formulations. Arobation report and recommendation, for xample, is not a simple factual record of aouth’s behavior but, rather, a highlyelective summary and interpretation thateduces complex and often contestedvents to one particular form. Thus, rather



han simply treating reports as objectiveecords, an ethnographer should seek tonderstand how such documents are

onstructed, read, and interpreted bymembers. In practice, this requires lookinglosely at what members see as significantn a report, how they characterize its “gist”

r “bottom line”; it also requires writingieldnotes that recount both what is in theocument (and, if possible, what gets leftut) and how the member interprets andesponds to it. 12

embers’ Stories

People may present extended descriptionsf events they witnessed or directlyxperienced, or of the reported doings o

thers (e.g., “gossip”), organized by meansf some narrative strategy into a personal



tory. 13 Such members’ stories mayrovide insight into the people and eventshey describe. However, such stories are

lways partial, being told for manyifferent reasons and adjusted to fitifferent relationships and situations. Inhis sense, they may provide insight into

he teller’s momentary concerns andircumstances. Consider, for example, thisxtended story told to a researcher by arobation officer:

“You been missin’ the action, man,” Jim said tome. I replied, “What happened?” Jim walked over to the vending machine to get his staple snack.

Then he started to tell me that parents of a twenty-one-year-old male called him today, and theywanted their son arrested. The son had just gottenout of the “house” [jail] and had evidently notshown up for his first appointment for probation.

His father said he was already back on crack and“bingeing hard.” Doing nothing all day except for smoking crack, he would stay in bed . . . only



getting up to eat and go to the bathroom. And thefather said in the phone conversation that his sonshould not be given the choice of jail or rehabilitation because he would always choose

prison. (By choosing jail, the convict can be back on the streets smoking crack again in only amonth.)

Jim continued to tell me that he went over thereto arrest him because he was “crashing.” . . . Whenhe arrived, he had the parent sign all the legal

papers. And, when he opened the door to arresthim, Jim noticed “he had a strawberry with him”(a whore who sells her body for drugs, notmoney). He said that the arrest went smoothly

because the son “was so out of it”; he was “in thehouse right now.”

While this story is about a young man onrobation, it reveals the probation officer’s

rdinary work practices and concerns andhe distinctive perspectives andommitments that underlie them. 14 In thisense, ethnographers do not take a

member’s story as a factual account but,ather, as an expression of the speaker’s



xperience and views at a particular moment in time before a specific audiencehat is intended to accomplish particular

urposes. He values and documents thesetories as revealing a member’s experiencend perspective.

Ethnographers should also look out for

nd record different stories told about theame events. These different versions

might be grounded in some of the sameetails, but each account is likely tonclude details not present in the other, torder actions in slightly different ways,nd to offer different interpretations oause and responsibility. Thus, a teacher’sccount of a “disruptive” classroom fightold to a field researcher might sound veryifferent from the version the teacher ubsequently relates to his peers over unch. In writing fieldnotes, the researcher



hould preserve these differences if she isortunate enough to hear both versions.

Diverse versions provide insights into

he ways different members construct andmake meaning of the same event as well ashe meanings that they hope the telling ohe story will convey to others. 15 For

xample, in a study of personal experiencetories about the Los Angeles riots thatollowed the acquittal of the police officers

who beat Rodney King, an AfricanAmerican student researcher highlightedhe diverse voices of African Americansalking about their similar experiences. Inhe following story, for example, the teller xults in the camaraderie between differentaces and the “sense of community” he felt

with those helping each other “take the sh—, the stuff”:

“I remember—hearing the verdicts were in, and—



this was at school, and—uhmm, also being in astate of disbelief, that, uhmm, they came back notguilty, the cops.

“And, uhmm, I went home, and my friendswere coming by, and I didn’t know that they wereabout to go out. So, I went with them, and we wentout into downtown, and—we started taking things.

“And I just remember that it was like a unifiedeffort and everyone was in the streets. And peoplewho were gangbangers and everything else were,like, helping you take the sh—, the stuff. Like, ‘Ohyou want that, man? Here, I’ll get that for you.’And it was like, I felt, a, a, sense of communitythere, with different races. I mean, these wereHispanics and everything else, and we were allthrowin’ up the power sign and goin’ in takingwhat we wanted. And, uhmm—basically, that’swhat went on after I had first heard.”

udy, a married, African Americanroperty-owning woman, talked aboutimilar events and her own experiences inery different terms:

“I talked to a lot of the neighbors. And, I askedthe, the Latinos, why is you stealin’ all this stuff,



you know. It’s bad, you know, you know.“And me and my husband, we went walkin’.

We just went walkin’, you know, we wasn’thurtin’ nobody, ’cause you could easily walk upand down the streets and see what was goin’ on.

“And, you know, the funniest thing, you know,one of the neighbors said, ‘You know, my clothesis in the cleaners around there.’ And so theystarted walkin’ over there to see had they messedup the cleaners. And when they got around there— they was at the cleaners. And there was her clothes, one of the Mexican guys had them—Andmy husband told them to ‘put that stuff back there.’ And [the neighbor] said, ‘You ain’t gonnatake my clothes. You ain’t gonna take my clothes.You ain’t gonna take my clothes.’ ’Cause that wasthe main reason we went around the corner.”

n the first story, the African American

arrator identifies himself as an activearticipant in “taking stuff,” along withgangbangers,” “Hispanics,” and everyonelse. He narrates the experience as a

onding between people, as a “sense oommunity there, with different races.” In



ontrast, from the very beginning of theecond story, another African Americaneller depicts the conflicting stances people

ook in the street activities: Some are outwalking around just to look, while othersre actively “stealing.” She begins tellingbout watching and rebuking the Latinos

or “stealin’ all the stuff.” Then, sheontinues by recounting her neighbor’sxperience as a near-victim of suchtealing: The teller, her husband, and theeighbor go to check on the local cleanersnd find “one of the Mexican guys” takinghe neighbor’s clothes; they insist that the

man “put that stuff back there.” The twotories reveal the narrators’ strikinglyifferent alignments toward thearticipants and, more implicitly, their ifferent understandings of the nature andignificance of the incidents. In writing



bout these stories, the ethnographer— erself an African American presenturing the riots—pointed out that this

thnic community did not respond as aomogeneous group but, rather, voiced aariety of views. In fact, though somealled it a “riot,” others referred to it as a

rebellion” to more emphatically expressheir political interpretation of the fires andooting. By carefully documenting multipletories, this researcher was able to examinehe different ways people make meaning ocollective event.

embers’ Terms, Types, and Typologies

Ethnographers give close attention to theerms or phrases that members regularly

se to characterize people and events.Many ethnographers are less concerned



with the formal, technical terms that reflecthe demands of bureaucracy, publicelations, and front-stage civility than they

re drawn to everyday, colloquial, andften evocative terms that may be graphicr earthy (e.g., “shit work” in Emerson and

Pollner 1976; “assholes” in Van Maanen

978) and that reflect and expressractical, mundane concerns.

Consider some of the types recognizedmong those living in a residential facilityor ex–mental patients (Shaw 1988:282– 20). On the one hand, staff identifiedome residents as “together” or “movers,”mplying that they would benefit fromherapy and eventually find a job and setp independent living situations. Theyontrasted this type with “losers”—chronicatients with minimal skills and resources

who are deemed unlikely to ever get out o



he system of mental health care. On thether hand, residents recognizedistinctions based on whether one

mphasized ties with some other residentsr oriented toward developing ties andeceiving favors from staff. The former ncluded “gadflies,” “therapists,”

spiritualists,” “nice guys,” and thosenown to hang out with the “drug group.”

Residents called those peers who wereriented to staff and staff concerns the “oldowerhouse” and “top dogs.” Clearly, theifferences between these various termsuggest important differences between theractical concerns of staff and differentroupings of residents.

The ethnographer who hears such nativeerms should not assume that they haveingle, discrete meanings but, rather,hould explore their various shades o



meaning and differing import as well ashe uses made of them by membersositioned differently within the setting.

For example, a student ethnographer bserving in a cottage for delinquent girlst the Reyes Reform School heard bothtaff and inmates talk about “buzzes”—

ersonal letters written by one inmate tonother that were officially banned by staf s an expression of gang affiliation. In theollowing incident recorded in her ieldnotes, she presents an inmate’soncern about staff searches for “buzzes”:

Then Kate started talking about how she was so

excited that there wasn’t a room search today because she remembered during 4th period thatshe had 7 illegal buzzes in her room.

But “buzzes” had very different

ignificance for staff and inmates. Staf aw buzzes as a form of gang activity that



might well escalate tensions between gangmembers. The girls described buzzesimply as “love letters” without

mplications for gang affiliations andctivities. Consider, for example, theseomments taken from an analytic memo

written by the ethnographer:

Three girls in the cottage described buzzes in thefollowing ways:

Claudia: “It’s like a regular letter . . . like alove letter we write to boys, or they write to us.”

Kate: “Illegal letters—not passed through POsand we get 24s” [24 hour seclusion in their room].Dani: “A small note that is passed to any other

minor in the form of communication and if caughtwith one, you must suffer consequences, such as ina 24.”

ot only do these descriptions lack anyeference to gangs, but they also conveyhat buzzes are significant to the girlsxactly because they comprise the focal



oint of the staff’s stringent searches andxpose those caught to a standard houseunishment (“24s”).

To explore and convey broader meanings, it is useful to pay attention toow a term’s use compares with, andiffers from, the uses of related terms. For

xample, the Chokwe have terms for everal different kinds of “tellings.” 16

They distinguish between these tellings bysing various cognitive categories, whichre marked by distinctive terms, expressiveeatures such as diction and style, andocial behaviors appropriate to differentituations. 17 For example, kuta pandeefers to informal talking and telling aboutecent personal experiences—usually in anxaggerated, dramatized manner—aseople visit together in the late afternoonsnd evening. However, kulweza sango



efers to telling about community news or vents that people know to have happened;eople tell such news often as a part o

reetings or when visiting. In contrast,uta yishima refers to telling traditionaltories (and sometimes proverbs), 18upposedly based on real events the

ncestors experienced and reported tothers long ago. People describe kutaishima as “coming from the ancestors”nd as “told to make us wise,” but theyecognize that these tellings are a sort oictionalized truth often manipulateduring the performances for persuasiveurposes.

Indeed, ethnographers should attend tomomentary and situational distinctionsetween terms as well as to more pervasivenes. Although these distinctions may notecome evident during any one



bservation or interview, over time bywriting fieldnotes and memos, suchistinctions become increasingly evident to

he researcher. By noticing members’istinctions between related terms, anthnographer is less likely to impose her wn ethnocentric distinctions. Paying

lose attention to the situated use of termsften reveals finer distinctions within theognitive categories than the terms may atirst appear to indicate.

ember Invoked Contexts and Contrasts

Ethnographers can effectively understandnd represent members’ meanings byeing sensitive to the ways in which

members invoke relevant contexts for

articular actions and relevant contrasts for ome feature or quality of their setting.



In terms of context, how membersnterpret an action and event is intricatelyied to how they understand the context o

hat action or event (Schegloff 1997). For xample, how a person understands andnterprets the statement “that’s a nice one”epends upon what she takes to be the

ontext of the remark (Heritage 1984:142);that” acquires different meanings whenhe context is “a photograph in familylbum, a diamond ring in a jeweler’s

window, or a lettuce in a shop.” Thus,what “that” refers to and the possiblemeanings and implications of “nice one”epend upon what is known or assumed toe the relevant context; such matters canonly be grasped by seeing who waspeaking, or when, or where it was said, or y knowing what had been said justreviously” (Heritage 1984:142–43).



While researchers generally recognizehat the meaning of actions depends uponheir social context, they often conceive o

uch a context as “a static set of influentialircumstances—a set of variables thaturround persons, actions or situations”Holstein and Gubrium 2004:269). An

thnographic approach, in contrast, insistshat context is “never fixed, but instead isctively brought to bear in the ongoingourse of social life.” In trying to identifynd understand members’ meanings, then,

we need to understand how membersetermine the relevant context of particular ctions and utterances; thus, the goal is tolook at how context is used by actorshemselves” (Holstein and Gubrium004:269).

For example, for decision makers innstitutional settings, who refers a case and



nder what circumstances often provides aelevant context for deciding how urgentlyhat case will be handled. Thus a middle

chool mediator explained:“Priority comes by crisis.” One time I was settingup a mediation, sending out call slips, had somestudents in the room already, and then I got a call

from Mr. Garcia asking for a mediation right now!He said he had the girls in his office, and he didn’twant to have to call the police, but they needed to

be mediated immediately to de-escalate their problem because it resorted to physical fighting. . .

. She looks at me and says, “If it’s from anadministrator, and especially if it’s the principal, Iwill most likely have the mediation go through.Physical fighting involved is number one though.”She adds, “It depends on the immediacy of thecrisis. If it’s between two good friends, I might letit take more time to get going.”

Here, the mediator accords priority toases on the basis of two contextualeatures: whether an administrator,specially the principal rather than a



eacher or a student, refers the case and theimmediacy” or seriousness of the conflict,fighting” needing a quicker and more

erious response than problems or squabbles” between “good friends.” 19Similarly, in criminal and juvenile

ustice settings, assessments of the

eriousness of an offense and the character f an offender are regularly shaped by theepiction of the relevant context of anffense. For example, in an interview withstudent ethnographer, a usually tough-

minded police officer depicted what heaw as the relevant context of an incidentn which a youth had been arrested for ringing a knife to school:

“Thirteen year old kid. Fat as a blimp, big roundroly-poly guy, his hair is messy, can’t fit hisclothes. . . . Every day the other kids pick on him.Knock his books down. When he picks them up,they kick him in the butt. Every day he gets this



kind of abuse so one day he decides he’s gonna bring a knife to school . . . because he’s tired of theabuse he’s getting, tired of people hitting him,calling him fat, pushing him. So he brings a knifeto school . . . I asked him, what were you gonna dowith the knife, and he said I don’t know, I justwant them to leave me alone. . . . He’s getting beatup every day Monday through Friday, he gets

picked on for being a fat boy, and he is—what elsecan he do? He says he can’t fight because he’s tooslow. . . . He has to equal the playing field and hisreasoning is if I have a weapon, they’ll leave mealone. That’s where I would consider this a goodkid just trying to do the right thing, but he gets

picked on. That’s when I would consider he’s justa good kid.

This officer dramatically recounts what heees—having accepted and honored the

outh’s explanation for the act—as theelevant context for possessing aangerous weapon in a school: The youths subject to constant teasing and abuse,

getting beat up every day Mondayhrough Friday.” This context (and



ackground) neutralizes the offense and itsossible dangerousness, allowing thefficer to depict bringing a knife to school

s a “stupid” reaction by a “good kid” whoad been pushed to his “breaking point.”Significant members’ meanings are

evealed in another way through

ndigenous contrasts 20 that people offer toxplain important differences in theituations they are now in compared tohose they have previously experienced.

These sorts of member-generated contrastsmay provide useful insights into localerceptions and evaluations. For example,n talking to a student ethnographer, arobation officer compared the Reyes

Reform School and its residents witheveral other juvenile halls and their esidents:

Having worked previously in detention halls



for juveniles, she was struck by the differences atReyes. At Reyes they are less stringent than in thehalls. “The big thing here is buzzes, which are likenothing to me.” In the halls, pens and pencilsaren’t allowed, but they are in Reyes. Metal isn’tallowed in either; she took a metal splint that shefound in Kate’s room for fear that it could be usedas a weapon. . . .

She described Reyes as a “placement center”where the kids receive “treatment.” “These kidsaren’t terribly sophisticated.” The kids in the hallswould hide things in Noxzema or baby powder,

but that wasn’t as big a concern here. In the halls,“potential danger’s always present.” Here, the girlsmostly just want to talk to the boys.

Here, the researcher picks up on and writesn her fieldnotes about the contrast that ataff member draws between this reformchool and juvenile hall. This indigenousontrast highlights several differencesetween these two work settings that areelevant to this staff member: less staf oncern with danger, more relaxed forms



f surveillance, and more effort to “help”he kids. On other occasions as well, localtaff made similar comparisons between

Reyes and juvenile hall, emphasizing theormer’s “leniency” relative to the latter.Similarly, in police patrol work, officers

requently contrast those who “hustle a

ot” to “burn outs” who are just “putting inheir time.” A student ethnographer laborated this contrast in the following

memo:

The term “hustling” is used by [sheriff’s] deputiesto refer to an officer who is always looking for crime, for a “good shake,” for someone to take to

jail. A “good shake” refers to someone whose

search by the police will lead to a “good arrest.” A“good arrest” typically refers to most felonyarrests and some misdemeanor arrests (i.e.,

possession of a concealed weapon). One deputydescribed some recent good arrests: “The rapist I

got yesterday was pretty fun. A couple of weeksago, I got a biker with a 45 automatic. He also hada bulletproof vest and some drugs. That was a



pretty good arrest.” . . .[In contrast], hustlers characterize burnouts as

making “bullshit” arrests; that is, he arrests peoplefor crimes not considered to be serious by hustlers

but merely for the sake of “stats.” “Stats” are amonthly record of which deputies at the station aremaking the most arrests. Burnouts are thought to

be concerned merely with the quantity, not thequality, of their arrests. One deputy remarked thathe didn’t want to work with another deputy, Al,

because he feels Al arrests people for “pettyshit”—drunkenness and traffic warrants.

Drawing contrasts not only attributes

meaning but may also serve micro-politicalurposes that seek to advance the interestsf one group in the setting over another.

Here, patrol officers contrast two general

rientations to patrol work—activelyooking for serious crime and “goodrrests” as opposed to making easy, “pettyhit” arrests in order to build up monthlystats.” In that the former is clearly valuednd the latter explicitly demeaned, this



ontrast is one-sided and partisan, drawingn “us”-versus-“them” distinction betweenypes of officers. Such a contrast, then,

ells us less about the differences betweenypes of patrol offices and more about thearticular concerns, perspectives, andriorities of the “hustlers” who provided

he types. 21 “Burnout” may be completelyn imposed category in that those sodentified might not classify themselves asharing a distinctive approach to patrol

work. Furthermore, “burnouts” mightharacterize their work style as a productf experience and maturity in contrast tohe violence-prone, “gung-ho” attitude oome younger, more aggressive officers.

Finally, members may invokendigenous contrasts highlightingndividual, personal changes over time.

One such contrast involves drawing



istinctions between the self someone usedo have and the one they have now.

Consider, for example, how an ex-

rostitute and ex-addict who had beenlean for some months described theroblems she encountered from currentontact with her family:

Your mom came to visit you Sunday right? Noelreplies, Yeah I was really upset because of that.She pauses and then continues, “Well I wasn’tupset because of my mom it was my older sister . .

.” She pauses and then says, “Also before when I’dsee my mom I’d be high, and this was the firsttime I wasn’t high.” I nod my head, and Noel says,“My parents bug the shit out of me, and the wayI’d deal with them was to get high, and now thatI’m not high, I have to actually deal, and that’snew to me.”

This woman contrasts how she used toandle contact with her parents—bygetting high”—with what she has to doow that she is not high when she sees



hem—“actually deal” with the stresses sheeels in their presence. She uses thisontrast to mark her progress in working

n her problems with drugs and relatedssues.In sum, indigenous contrasts do not

rovide reliable ways of characterizing

ifferences in settings, orientations, or eople that the ethnographer shouldnderstand as representing what is “real,”true,” or “the facts.” Rather, suchontrasts tend to offer distinctive insightnto what a particular group or collectionf people perceive and value as central to

whom they are and what they do.

embers’ Explanations and Theories

While earlier we recommended againstmposing researchers’ theoretical



ategories, an ethnographer should look or and seek to convey members’ moreomplex explanations for when, why, or

ow particular things happen. In effect, thethnographer puts aside his ownnclinations to explain when and whyarticular events occur in order to

ighlight members’ accounts of them. Inhis way, the ethnographer seeks to elicitr distill members’ theories of the causesf particular happenings.

By way of illustration, consider a studyf the door-to-door canvassing activities ohe local chapter of a feminist politicalction committee. The committee soughtontributions and signatures on petitionsupporting state legislation on behalf o

women. Canvassers were assigned toerritories or “turfs” in crews of four toourteen persons under the supervision of a



ield manager, and they were paid aercentage of the contributions theyrought in above a preset minimum.

Canvassers varied widely in theontributions they collected: Some workedfull shift and brought in little or nothing,

while others working the same tur

ollected hundreds of dollars in anvening.

These variations might well haveempted the researcher to come up with her wn explanation or theory for whyanvassers differed so drastically inollecting contributions. Instead, shettempted to understand what issues weref most concern to those involved in theampaign. In asking this question, sheoted that participants in the fund-raisingffort were themselves deeply andractically interested in differences in



anvasser performance and that thexplanations offered varied dependingpon one’s position in the organization.

Canvassers emphasized distinctionsetween “good turf ” and “bad turf,”ontending that no one could raiseignificant amounts of money when going

oor-to-door in neighborhoods where mosteople were predisposed against their

message. The researcher wrote of onencident:

It had been a hard week canvassing in Beach City,and no one was making any money. The crew wasvocally complaining and wanted to leaveimmediately because it was “bad” turf and was

upset at management’s unresponsiveness to their plight.

upervisors supported differentxplanations, generally honing in on someailure in the canvasser’s technique. For



xample, the researcher quoted oneupervisor’s comments on how to getanvassers to focus on improving a weak

money rap”:“People want to attack and blame the turf becauseit is the most varying condition. This is the mostnatural reaction. But, we need to make them

realize that there are other factors going on whileone is canvassing that they can control. If a personhas a lot of signatures and talked to a lot of people

but got small contributions, then they areconnecting with people, and it’s just a matter o

working on the money rap.”

Supervisors and frontline canvassersame into recurrent conflict over exactly

which theory was most accurate and,ence, what could be done to alleviate theroblem. Management strategies for raining supervisors, for example,

mphasized practices that would preventanvassers from “blaming the turf ”:



A consultant advised a prospective field manager:“When someone has done shitty, get them awayfrom blaming the turf even when they are

emotional. Act as an emotional lightning rod, buthold firm.”

The officer manager urged her field managers:

“When you pick all the canvassers up at night, youshould do what are called ‘trunk talks.’ When you pull up to a person’s pickup spot, pull a few feetaway from them, and hop out to debrief them. Ithey did well, ask them what was going good for

them that made the evening successful. If they did poorly, take a moment to look at their turf sheetand do a quick analysis of what went on out there.This trains them to analyze the evening instead of automatically blaming the turf.”

n this instance, then, the ethnographer roceeded exactly by tracing out differentmembers’ theories.” As she made the

iffering nature and location of theseworking theories her analytic focus, she



went on to explore their practical,nteractional, and organizational uses.

Finally, the field researcher should

ealize that people may offer more thanne explanation for an occurrence and,ndeed, may express what appear to theesearcher as “contradictory explanations.”

Particularly in multicultural andmultilingual communities, peoplerequently shift between languages,ultural expectations, and differingrameworks for perceiving and assessingehavior. In contemporary Africa, thislexibility is not uncommon. For example,n Northwest Province of Zambia, the

Lunda, Luvale, Chokwe, Luchazi, andMbunda peoples intermingle andntermarry. In addition, many younger eople have completed grammar schoolaught in the official national language,



English. In this multilingual context,eople regularly invoke contrastingultural frameworks. For example, when

alking about illnesses and deaths causedy wanga (sorcery/witchcraft), youngeople often shift between traditionallyased views and biomedical explanations

earned in school. Talking in Ki-Chokwewith the ethnographer and several other eighbors, a man reflected on a young

woman friend’s untimely death, concurringwith the local diviner’s claim that she hadied from wanga. Later on, explainingetails of her life to the ethnographer andne of his brothers in English, he talkedbout her long-term symptoms asharacteristic of “TB” and “AIDS.” Sincee did not see these explanations as

mutually exclusive, in foregrounding one,e did not negate the other one: Wanga



was the cause of death, though TB or AIDS was the disease. Recognizing that,s their social identity, situation, or

anguage shifts, human beings readilydjust their explanations, an ethnographer hould carefully document in fieldnotes

when, how, to whom, and, if possible, for

what purposes people explain their rises. 22

MEMBERS’ CATEGORIES IN USE: PROCESSES

AND PROBLEMS

Members’ descriptions, stories, types, and

heories, no matter how rich and evocative,rovide only a starting point for thnographic fieldnotes. Deeper, fuller

memos and analyses in a final ethnographyequire examining not simply what terms

members use but also when, where, and



ow they use them and how they actuallyategorize or classify events and objects inpecific situations.

By way of illustration, consider theollowing fieldnote provided by a studentthnographer with extensive gymnasticxperience, in which he identifies terms for

hose attending an “open gym night” at aocal university campus:

At open gym nights, there are different classes andsubclasses of people attending. The major classesinclude the regulars, the visitors, and the walk-ins.Of these, there are many subclasses too. In theregulars’ class, there are the novice, the ex-gymnasts (old-timers), and the advanced amateur.The novices are people that have never takengymnastics, classes or lessons, and are people that

just walked in one day due to interest. Theadvanced amateurs are people who were never onany gymnastics teams but have taken classes or lessons or used to be walk-ins. Finally, the old-

timers are those who competed at either the highschool or college level. . . . Walk-ins are students



who have had a longterm interest in gymnasticsand would like to learn from the old-timers.

This description provides a typology ohose coming to the gym: “regulars”subtyped into three further classes

—“novices,” “advanced amateurs,” andold-timers”), “visitors,” and “walk-ins.”

But based on the notes, it appears that thisypology identifies only categoriesecognized by the ethnographer; it is notlear that people in this setting actuallypply these categories to others (andhemselves) and, if they were to do so,

when, where, and under what

ircumstances. Thus, the problem with thisypology is twofold: We do not knowwhether or not members recognize and useerms such as “regular” and “walk-in”;

nd, more fundamentally, if they do usehese terms, we do not know exactly how,



when, and for what purposes they do so.In insisting on considering members’

ctual situated use of specific terms or

ategories, the issue is not the “validity” or reality” of these categories in aonventional sense. Rather, any object or vent can be categorized in multiple ways

Heritage 1984:144–50); and the fact thatome objects/events might be classed inne way or another (e.g., on the basis oaving this or that trait or attribute inommon) is not adequate grounds for ecommending a particular classification,ince we can always invoke or imaginether traits that would produce veryifferent sorts of classifications. 23 Gymarticipants might indeed, at some timesor some purposes, recognize “regulars,”visitors,” and “walk-ins” as meaningfulategories. But, we cannot tell from this



escription, since no effort is made to look t how members actually talk about anddentify others on specific occasions; that

s, the types are presented withoutnteractional context as always andverywhere relevant. Rather, thethnographer, alerted to possibly relevant

ocal categories, should look closely atow members actually classify events onarticular occasions and for particular urposes.

Ethnographic fieldnotes, then, shouldot simply report indigenous termsiscoverable in a setting. Rather, fieldnoteshould more fundamentally detail

members’ actual, situated uses of sucherms. The following pages provide twoxtended examples of how fieldesearchers can make their notes and other

writings more sensitive to the interactional



ses of member-recognized categories.

Storytelling” as “Doing”

tories, as noted above, are told for pecific purposes. Indeed, people may tell

story to convey and support a particular nterpretation of past events or to defineurrent relations in order to shape futurections. Thus, what stories are “about”

must consider the kind of speech, to whomhe teller is speaking, and the stated or mplicit purposes as well as other ontextual influences. 24

Consider the following incident thatccurred in Zambia as Rachel Fretz wasreparing to leave a Chokwe village in

which she and a local assistant, Mwatushi,

ad been working for several weeks.Mwatushi’s father called his wife, son, and



he ethnographer into his house for aarewell discussion and well-wishes for ravel:

We greeted each other and then chatted about our leaving. . . . He [the father and host] said that hewas very pleased that I had come to stay here andthat they did not know until yesterday that wewere leaving today. Otherwise, they could havesent something with us. Now they only have sweet

potatoes to send, and maybe when I come the nexttime, they can send something good, like achicken, with me.

Then he started to narrate. His voice shiftedinto the rhythms of storytelling and speeded up. . ..

“There was a chindele (foreigner/white person)who had two servants, and when he went back tohis country to get married, he left his house and all

his things with his servants to watch over themuntil he came back. Now the chindele stayedlonger than they expected, and so the one servantsaid, ‘Let’s leave, he’s not coming back.’ But theother servant said, ‘No, he told us to stay here until

he came.’ The one servant left, and when themaster came back, only one servant was there—”He paused: “Ah no, I made a mistake. Both



servants stayed until the chindele came. He camewith his wife and he said, ‘I am very pleased thatyou stayed here until I came, and because of that, Iwill give you each a small present. It is only asmall present for you to take back to your villageto your wives. It is small because I used all mymoney to get my wife, but please take these small

bundles of grass as presents.’ Then he gave eachone a very small bundle of grass.

“Halfway home, the one man said, ‘Ah wehave much grass at home and here I am carryingthis small bundle. No, I will not carry it. I’ll throwit away.’ But the other man said, ‘No, I amcarrying mine to the village.’ So they went.

“When they arrived in their village, the oneman gave his wife the bundle of grass and said, ‘Itis a small present from the chindele because Istayed until he came back. Here, put it in thehouse.’ So she saved it. Then later that day it

began to rain, and it came through the holes in the

roof, so the man took his grass and repaired hisroof. That night they slept well.“In the morning, the other man—the one who

threw his grass away—got up and looked out hiswindow. He called his wife and said, ‘Come seethe house of our relative, the one who repaired hisroof with the chindele’s grass.’

“They saw a large house with a tin roof and



windows and many rooms. In the yard, they sawtwo vehicles, one for the man and one for thewoman, who just then came out wearing goodclothes.

“Then the man who threw his grass away said,‘Wife, let’s go back on the road to where I threwthe grass away so that we can bring the grass andhave a fine house, too.’ But when they got to the

place where he had thrown the grass, they foundthat the bundle was scattered and all the grass

broken.”The father (narrator) continued, “Thus even

though we do not have much to give you—wehave no chicken to send with you—we give youthese small words to keep and not throw away:May God bless you and carry you well on your

journey. May He keep you where you are (live).”Then he said, “It is good that you are taking our

son with you. He should do everything you tellhim. If you call him to come with you, he will

come. If you tell him to stay, he will stay.Whatever you tell him, he should do.”

Together with the sweet potatoes, thistory is a gift presented to the ethnographer n lieu of a chicken. The father implies that



his seemingly small gift, like the grass inhe story, may turn out to be of exceptionalalue if one has the sense to receive it

roperly.Furthermore, the story is a misendeparable) through which people addressach other indirectly (Fretz 1994) and

which here provides a context withinwhich to hear the subsequent conversation.The father uses the parable to introduce aonversation about reciprocal relations:

Mwatushi, his son, will not only work verywell for the researcher and follow her irections exactly, but the ethnographer

must become his family in the distantillage where she lives:

“So it is for you to keep him. . . . It is for you toadvise him so that he lives well. Because he isalone over there [without relatives in the villagewhere the researcher lives and works], you arenow his mother, his father, you are his



grandmother and his grandfather. You are his brother and his sister. It is for you to keep him.”

The parable provides connotations for theword “servant,” suggesting that someonewho stays with the chindele will (andhould) be rewarded like the servant in thetory who exactly followed the directionsf the master. But in the subsequentonversation, the father suggests that

Mwatushi as “family” will be even morelosely allied and loyal to the researcher han a “servant” would be, perhapsraveling a great distance with her. Havingstablished these relationships, the father

hen asks for a gift that the ethnographer might bring in the future should she returnrom America to Zambia. According to the

Chokwe, people in a close relationship not

nly give each other gifts, but theyespectfully ask each other for gifts and



avors in order to establish and solidify aood relationship. As a respectful form opeech, the parable graciously created an

pening for his comments and requests.In sum, the parable—heard in context— ubtly reinforces and extends throughonnotation the father’s courteous remarks

nd questions about reciprocalelationships. His story is not only anmmediate gift and blessing for the road,ut it also connotes an ongoingelationship. The father’s creation oamily ties with the ethnographer would,ndeed, have longterm benefits to her. But,nly by recognizing the storytelling as a

misende through which the father ddressed her indirectly could thisthnographer truly hear what he wasaying.

embers’ Terms in Everyday Interaction



Through experience in commission sales,tudent ethnographers have found that

alespersons in some contexts whoegularly or blatantly “steal customers” areermed “snakes” or “sharks” by coworkersnd are generally subject to a variety o

ressures, rebukes, and sanctions for their ehavior. It is tempting for a fieldesearcher to simply accept theseefinitions of particular salespersons as

snakes” and then to draw contrastsetween how they work the floor or deal

with customers and how those notategorized as “snakes” do so. Butthnographers who proceed in this way

will produce truncated, rather thanomplex and nuanced, descriptions andnalyses of relations among workers inhese settings. Specifically, they will fail toully appreciate and document the micro-



olitical, interactional processes throughwhich some workers determine that othersre “snakes” and attempt to convince

oworkers that this is, indeed, the case.And they will fail to fully trace out thentricate local knowledge (Geertz 1983)hat underlines any competent use o

members’ terms in specific situations.To illustrate the depth and complexity

hat can be added by looking closely atow members actually use indigenousategories, consider the following fieldnote

written by a salesperson/researcher whoworked in an expensive, high fashionwomen’s clothing store and who hersellayed a major role in the workplaceispute she describes:

I was helping a woman who was shopping with

her husband, and I had taken her to the back dressing room where she was trying on a lot of clothes. Whenever a customer is trying on a lot o



clothes, all the salesgirls notice the customer andwho is helping her. While I was fitting her in thedressing room, the husband . . . asked Ellen at thecounter about a pretty sweater hanging above thecash drawer. It was a $710 Iceberg sweater with a

beaded picture of Tweety and Sylvester on it. Hequickly told Ellen that he wanted to buy it as a

present for his wife and to wrap it before she cameout of the dressing room. As soon as I came out, Isaw Ellen writing up this sale. I was furious. I washelping the wife, and they were a unit. If I amhelping her, then I am helping him also. Ellen saidthat she didn’t know that I was helping his wife inthe back when I asked her why she didn’t get meto help him. I didn’t believe her. The sale was too

big and easy for her to pass up. So when the wifecame out with about $500 worth of clothes to buy,Pat and Jane, watching over the counter, gave meeyes like they can’t believe what Ellen had justdone. . . . Ellen had snaked my customer, and we

all knew it.I confronted Ellen and said that what she didwas wrong, implying that she was a snake. She

became very defensive. She said, “Hear me out,and then I’ll listen to you.” After I heard her out, Istarted to talk but she cut me off in the middle omy sentence and said, “Let’s see Sammie” [themanager]. Meanwhile, Pat and Jane both told me



that I should have the whole sale. I went upstairsto speak to Sammie alone first, and she asked meif I wanted the whole sale or half of the sale. I saidthat I believe I deserve the whole sale, but I willsplit it if she understands what she did wrong.Sammie then told Ellen that she must split the salewith me. When I went up to Ellen to say that itwas not fair that she cut me off earlier, she cut meoff again saying, “It’s over!”

nitially, note the explicit one-sidedness ohis fieldnote account; its author does notake the stance of a neutral, uninvolved

arty but clearly presents herself as one ohe story’s two major protagonists. Theccount is explicitly political in that it ismaking the case” that Ellen “snaked my

ustomer.” The accusation appears at leastartially contested by Ellen, who isndirectly quoted as saying she did notnow “I was helping his wife in the back”

nd who clearly refused to relinquish her laim to the commission. 25 The author



gnores these possibilities in laying outpecific grounds for her claim: anyompetent salesperson should “know” that

husband and wife are a “unit” and wouldotice a promising customer trying on a lotf clothes; other parties in the settingnterpreted the event in the same way as

he author; and the local authority figurectually settled the conflict in a way thatonfirmed the author’s version.

The circumstances described in thisieldnote account also direct attentionoward the interactional work that took lace to get this incident defined andreated as “snaking.” While this incidentnds up being treated interactionally bythers in the setting as an instance ostealing a customer,” this result is notredictable in advance. Rather, it emergess the interaction unfolds with the various



arties advancing their respective claimsnd accounts in order to appeal to, andlicit support from, coworkers. In general,

t is important for ethnographers to look eyond the simple use of such members’erms to appreciate the underlying micro-olitical character of these processes. In

he case of “snaking,” this author, as aareful ethnographer, pushed beyond the

mere claim that another “stole a customer”o look at how salespeople establish claimso specific customers, when and how suchlaims are ignored or bypassed, how theyeassert and sustain these claims, and howonflicting claims and interpretations areresented and resolved.

Furthermore, this account points theway toward appreciating the extensive,ocal knowledge required to makeonvincing accusations of “snaking.”



pecifically, the claim that another alesperson “stole my customer” presumesnowledge of a whole set of local practices

or “claiming customers.” Elsewhere, thetudent researcher began to sketch theseractices in the following terms:

Having asked a customer if she would like anyhelp, you stand nearby; if any other salesgirlmakes a move toward the customer, then we cansay that person’s name out loud. When she looksover, we can point to the customer, signaling thatwe have already asked them if they would like anyhelp and implying that they are “my” customer.This is how we preserve our claim to the averagecustomer who walks in off the street.

Stealing a customer” thus assumes that aalesperson specifically ignored this sort osserted claim. Indeed, the account of theceberg sweater incident underlines how

he accused culprit “must have known”hat the customer had been tagged:



Whenever a customer is trying on a lot olothes, all the salesgirls notice theustomer and who is helping her.” In this

ense, a members’ term presupposes andncodes specific local knowledge andractice that the ethnographer wants todentify and describe.

As ethnographers pay close attention tomembers’ meanings, they begin toppreciate how much interactional andolitical “work” it takes for people toreate their meanings. In so doing, theareful ethnographer learns to explore thenowledge that undergirds the implicitlaims that people make about events.

These often unstated purposes and claimsmake it clear, however, that fieldesearchers cannot fully determine

members’ meanings through interviews or nformal questioning. Ethnographers must



iscern local knowledge, not simply on theasis of people’s talk, but, rather, throughheir “talk-in-interaction,” that is, they

must notice what people do in relation tothers in order to produce specific, situatedmeanings.

ACE, GENDER, CLASS, AND MEMBERS’MEANINGS

Because they are committed to members’meanings and experience, ethnographersreat the relevance of gender, race, or classas well as other consequential

haracteristics, e.g., age, sexualrientation, disabilities, etc.) for everydayife in ways that differ significantly fromommon theoretical approaches. Often,uch approaches slight or obscure

members meanings by setting forth a priori



ssumptions and definitions about theignificance and meaning of theseackground characteristics for members’

ives. Even though, like such theorists, thethnographer may assume from the starthat these are significant matters thathould always be attended to in

nderstanding social life, she placesriority on how people themselves sociallyonstruct and deal with gender, ethnicity,nd class within the dynamics of specificnteractions, situations, and socialonditions.

This ethnographic stance toward issuesf gender, ethnicity, and class has beenriticized on several counts. One line oriticism insists that ethnographic researchs uninformed by theories that mightnable the fieldworker to transcend theimited view of specific events and



members’ understandings of them to allower to write about more generallyignificant and sometimes unrecognized

ocial forces. Another line of criticismolds that ethnographic treatments oender, ethnicity, or class are narrowlyestricted to empirical observations: That

s, ethnographies describe specific localesnd situations as isolated from the broader ocial structures and forces that criticallyetermine specific events and individualives.

Certainly, both criticisms highlight areasn which an ethnographic approach toender, ethnicity, and class differs from

more encompassing theoreticalpproaches. Committed to members’

meanings and experiences, ethnographersre more attracted by what Geertz (1983)ermed “experiencenear,” as opposed to



experience-distant,” concepts; thus, theyenerally give priority to these meaningsver a priori, received theories and

esearchers’ assumptions about thealience and import of these backgroundharacteristics. Valuing the local and thepecific, field researchers look in a focused

way at daily life rather than in a broad andweeping manner at general patterns.

Ethnographers certainly prefer to see theirect influence of social structures rather han to assume their relevance and effectst the outset. At first glance, thisexperience-near” approach seems toreate tensions between ethnography andheories about the effects of broader socialtructures. However, some of thesepparent tensions lessen, and perhaps evenisappear, by looking closely at several

ways that ethnographers can and should



ridge their commitment to members’meanings with their concerns for gender,thnicity, and class.

At the most basic level, thethnographer with strong interests inender, race/ethnicity, and/or class shouldarefully select a site for field research

where he expects one or more of theserocesses to be particularly salient. Inhoosing such a site, the researcher shouldook for a setting where gender, ethnic, or lass diversity not only seems clearlyighlighted but also where these issuesoncern the members. Examples wouldnclude police forces with increasingumbers of women or ethnic recruits or chools with ethnically diverse studentopulations. In addition, a researcher

might choose to study events in whichmembers directly address these issues. For



xample, an ethnographer interested inender issues in traditional societies mighttudy occasions in which elders teach the

ext generation how to behave inppropriately gendered ways. In manyocieties, for example, initiationeremonies explicitly focus on instructing

outh about gender roles andesponsibilities. Among the Chokwe in

Zambia, such rituals as mwadi for girlsfter they begin menstruating and

mukanda when boys are circumcised areentral village events that provide explicitnformation about gender construction.

Indeed, an ethnographer not only canelect a setting and events that focusirectly on gender, ethnicity, or class, buthe might also design a field researchroject exactly for its relevance to aheoretical issue derived from these



oncerns. To study class, racial, andender differences in child-rearingractices, for example, Lareau (2003)

arried out intensive observations of theaily lives of six black and six whiteamilies with third-grade children focusedn the differences between poor, working-

lass, and middle-class families. Frohmann1991, 1997) compared the prosecution oexual assault cases in district attorneys’ffices in a middle-class white communitynd a low-income, minority area; whileases in the former typically involveddate rape,” and in the latter drug dealing,rostitution, or gang activities, prosecutorsn both offices processed cases in a veryimilar fashion, keying on assessments oictim credibility and constructingonvincing accounts of the offense to beresented to juries.



Once in a setting, the ethnographer’sirst concern should be to explore theignificance of gender, race/ethnicity, or

lass matters for those studied. A first stepn this direction requires paying closettention to any occasion upon whicheople explicitly invoke race, gender,

nd/or class as a relevant context for alking about and/or acting toward eachther. For example, rather than assuminghat ethnicity is invariably a causal factor roducing a behavior or event, thethnographer seeks to describe, in detail,ny interaction in which ethnicdentification becomes a matter ottention. In the following fieldnote, atudent ethnographer describes whatappened when an African American highchool teacher opened a discussion o

whiteblack relations in an African



American history class:

Ms. B picked Dapo next. Dapo said that he had just moved to the Valley, Southland Hills. Thiscomment drew a couple of “woo’s.” Dapo grinned.He said the area he moved to is a “whiteneighborhood.” One time he was walking downthe street by his house and passed a white child

playing there. The child’s parents saw Dapo and

grabbed the kid and dragged it inside. Dapo waskind of laughing as he said this. He said he wantedto tell the people, “I’m black, but I’m not going tokill you.” Some classmates burst into laughter andtalked among themselves. Dapo continued, “My

parents are Creole. . . . They’re all (lowers voice toan aside) ‘you’re not really black.’ My cousinshave blue eyes and blonde hair and all that. . . .”He continues, his voice firming up, “I’m black.I’m a black person. . . . I’m proud to be black.”

This account conveys a number oimensions and contradictions of ethnicdentity that are meaningful to a high

chool student. For example, we see theomplex tensions that exist between who



is parents tell him he is (“You’re noteally black”) and who he is to those inhis neighborhood and for this class (“I’m

lack”).However, the significance that peoplettribute to gender, race, or class may oftene difficult for ethnographers to document

ecause people are not always aware of or o not always directly reference them. Onome occasions, an ethnographer may feelhat people regularly act toward onenother in “classed” or “gendered” ways;et, they may not be able to pinpoint howhis is so or to record specific scenes or ctions in which members explicitly alludeo these features. It may thus be extremelyifficult to identify and tease out these

matters in writing fieldnotes. In other ituations, a researcher might expectender, race, or class to be important but



ind that members fail to acknowledge, or may even deny, these factors. In suchnstances, the ethnographer must push

eyond explicit use of relevant terms tomake more systematic observations todentify patterns of activities that reflecthe relevance of gender, ethnicity, or class.

For example, in her study of storytellingn a Chokwe village, Fretz wasonsistently told that “anyone may tellishima. ” And, indeed, in most villages,

men and women, adults and children toldtories around the family firesides. But iner own research in the village of theighest chief, after one initial evening in

which a woman narrated in the chota (thehief’s pavilion), she could not get any

woman to tell a story. With continuedbservation and reflection, she eventuallyealized that not only did the chie



onsistently dominate the storytelling, bute also requested that all storytelling takelace in his pavilion, a locale where men

meet to talk and where women, if invited,articipated by responding and singing.Thus, questions about women’s roles intorytelling did not reveal the status and

ender impact of “storytelling rights” inhe pavilion because the answers to theseuestions were not linked to storytellingut, rather, to other relational andituational factors. Only repeatedbservation and comparison betweenimilar situations finally led to annderstanding of the complex web oituational, gender, and status influences

working in this context. 26On other occasions, specific talk by

members will provide a useful startinglace for further inquiry to trace out the



elevance of race/ethnicity, gender, or classn wider realms of local life. For example,

when a group of students set out to study

elations between students in an ethnicallyiverse high school, one of the groupmembers came back with the followingalk about different “groups” on campus:

Around the lunch table today, a bunch of guyswho hang around together were talking. I thoughtthey could help me understand the different groupsat Central. They used a lot of terms I’d heard

before to describe the kids. One guy talked about“trendy people” and how I could recognize atrendy person if I saw one. Someone else saidthere’s “ballers,” which are people who play

basketball, and then there’s “footballers,” peoplewho play football and then people who “kick”[hang around with] all the groups. And thenthere’s “posses.” They said a posse is a group ostudents who hang around together, kick ittogether, and they do it because it gives them asense of belonging. One black guy goes, “It’s justa coincidence that all the people in my posse are

black.” We were all laughing so hard. He goes,



“No, no, we all come from the sameneighborhood. Some of them are interracial.”Then, there’s the “swim team,” those are thedruggies because they use so many drugs that their eyes are always bloodshot so it’s like they wereswimming. Then there’s the “GCP,” the GreenCard Posse, they go, “Oh, the Wetbacks.” A“cool” person wears nice clothes. I asked, What iyou don’t have money for nice clothes, does thatmean you’re not cool? They said, If you have agood personality. But if your personality is thesame way you dress, then forget it. “This place is afashion show.”

Here, we see that students invoke a rangef local categories in distinguishing andategorizing one another. Some of theseategories make direct and explicit

eference to ethnicity, for example, “theGreen Card Posse.” Ethnicity is alsoirectly mentioned with reference toposses.” But specifically how it is

elevant appears more open: One speaker dentified his posse as all black; and



nother claimed that some posses areeighborhood based and, hence,interracial.” In contrast, another speaker

minimizes ethnicity as the basis for groupormation. Finally, most of the categoriesre not explicitly identified with anyarticular ethnicity, for example, “ballers,”

druggies,” and “cool” people. Anthnographer in this setting would want toollow up and seek to establish thethnicities of students identified aselonging to each of these variousategories. This inquiry would berimarily a matter of observing the ethnictatus of students identified with eachategory, then perhaps talking to studentsbout observed ethnic patterns.

An ethnographer could also use thisncident as a starting place for tracing outonnections between these student



ategories and gender or class. It appearshat this talk about groupings occursmong, and is about, boys; but the field

esearcher would want to find outpecifically if any of these categoriesnclude girls and to ask further questionsbout similar or different groupings among

irl students at the school. Here, inarticular, the ethnographer should traceut gendered patterns of segregation andifference, as well as of integration andverlap, among students and their ctivities.

Handling issues of social class may beven more complex depending on theultural context in which the ethnographer onducts her study. Compared to gender nd race/ethnicity, class in Americanociety is often an “experience-distant,”ather than an “experience-near,” concept



Geertz 1983). As a result, ethnographersarely encounter members explicitlyalking about “class” per se. But people

mploy a number of terms that refer tolements or components of the concept oocial class. For example, identifying “cooleople” as those who have nice clothes

irectly involves a kind of naturallyccurring “ranking” of persons that mirrorsne concern of the social class concept.

Furthermore, these students discussmoney,” “nice clothes,” and the school as“fashion show,” suggesting that parental

ncome and conspicuous consumptionmight bear on how one is categorizedwithin the school. Thus, the fieldesearcher might further question andbserve these matters in order to describe

what students consider “nice clothes,” theare they take to display them, where these



lothes and the money needed to purchasehem come from, and the differences these

make in shaping social relations within the

chool.Ethnographers have long beenoncerned with the significance of theesearcher’s own race/ethnic, gender, or

lass background for what he can learn andwrite about members’ meanings in aetting. 27 Some hold that differences inackground characteristics of theesearcher and those they study are barriershat limit rapport and trust, leading theatter to control or censor what they allowhe ethnographer to see and understandRiessman 1987). Such “outsider” research

—university researchers studying poor or working-class people, white researcherstudying people of color, or malethnographers trying to find out about



women’s lives—has also been criticized onolitical grounds for advancing the careersf researchers while distorting, and some

would say exploiting, the lives of thosender study, and sometimes for exposingllicit activities key to the survival of someuch groups (Andersen 1993; Baca Zinn

001; Duneier 1999; Gearing 1970; Young008). Such concerns have led toecommendations that research onociety’s marginalized groups should beonducted only by members of thoseroups; this “matching strategy” wouldncrease access and enhance trust andngoing insight into the nuances oehavior and meanings that could be

written about in these social worldsBhopal 2001; Papadopoulos and Lees002).

Yet, ethnographers have found this



pproach to be troubling as well asdvantageous (Gunaratnam 2003).

Myerhoff (1978), for example, in studying

n elderly Jewish retirement community,elt plagued with guilt about the privilegesn her life as a young, educated Jewish

woman that were not enjoyed by those in

he setting, and she experienced a strongmotional burden to provide an adequateortrait of their lives. In her study o

marital relations among Latino families,Baca Zinn (2001) found that her Latinadentity failed to provide access to

working-class mothers who were initiallyistant and distrustful, becoming morepen only when they discovered sheacked sewing skills that they felt every

Mexican woman should have and took her n as their student. And Zavella (1996),

while sharing ethnic identity and working-



lass background with the women farmworkers she studied, still encounteredrofound differences and distrust based on

er education, university position, andtrong feminist commitments. Hence,matching backgrounds can, in somenstances, be grounds for exclusion rather

han greater access to important aspects omembers’ lives. Moreover, researchers,ike those they study, are

multidimensional, and matching on onlyne characteristic may not be sufficient topprehend and write about members’ waysf life (Aitken and Burman 1999;

Riessman 1987). Finally, race, class, andender are not static, self-evident attributes

whose influence on interaction can benown beforehand (Ahmed 2000). Rather,hey are qualities and attributes that are

mutually constructed and negotiated. The



meaning, salience, and value given to oneackground characteristic may differ etween the researcher and members and

etween different members in the settingver time and in different circumstances.Indeed, rather than enhancing access

nd ongoing understanding of what may be

written about, matching backgrounds mayesult in researchers overlooking issuesecause they are familiar and taken-for-ranted aspects of life shared betweenhemselves and those they study; or just as

members may be reluctant to revealspects of their lives with outsiders, theylso may not talk about topics about whichhey expect the researcher who is a

member of their community to be familiar.n the following memo, Linda Shaweflects upon the complexities of trying toet direct access to members’ meanings



sing the matching strategy in a study othnic relations among newly immigrated

Taiwanese and longtime Latino and Anglo

members of the community:In some cases, our strategy of matching researcher

backgrounds seemed to work well, as when Anglomembers of the community conversed easily with

us at city council meetings. Yet, in other cases, our strategy of matching researcher backgrounds tothose of members of the community took unexpected turns. We hoped, for example, that as aTaiwanese immigrant, Yen might learn how

members of that community responded to theimmigrant experience. So freely did she appear tomove about and talk to them that we were

perplexed when they refused her repeated requeststo talk about experiences as newcomers, insteadoffering her advice about how to become a goodAmerican while maintaining her Chinese identity.At first thinking our efforts to achieve trust andrapport by matching ethnic backgrounds hadfailed, only later did we understand that in refusingto talk to Yen about their experiences as newimmigrants, they were, in fact, instructing her about the ways of being a good American. We



realized that members of the Chinese communityhad, indeed, opened themselves to her based onethnicity. But they had done so indirectly byinvoking cultural practices for incorporation onewly immigrated Chinese to American societythat precluded talking directly about difficultiesthey had encountered.

These reactions suggest the possibility

f moving beyond treating class, ethnic, or ender differences simply as barriers to be

minimized or overcome; rather,thnographers can focus on what socialraits or attributes people consider mostalient in their relations with thethnographer and on what can be learnedrom their responses to both theseifferences and similarities. For example,esearchers from diverse class or acial/ethnic backgrounds who are

welcomed into settings may learn abouthe resources—either material or social—



hat they bring that those in the settingalue. Or efforts—whether successful or ot—to gain acceptance or to engage

members in conversation about particular opics may reveal unspoken rulesoverning membership, gatekeeping, anduthority within the group. And, finally, in

eeping with our interactionist perspective,t is important for ethnographers toemember that race, class, and gender (andheir meanings)—both of researchers andhose they study—are not static, fixedategories; rather, they are constructedhrough interaction and may vary over ime as circumstances and charactershange within the setting (Morris 2007).

In sum, many ethnographers nowecognize that they “are almost alwaysimultaneously insiders and outsiders”Zavella 1996:141). Race/ethnicity, class,



nd gender similarities and differences doot neatly and predictably determineccess to writing about members’

meanings as “fieldwork relations, in fact,nvolve whole persons, socially constituteds bundles of situationally relevant traits”Emerson 2001:122–23). As a result,

thnographers should not orient simply toifferences or similarities in these mattersut, rather, to “the social location of thethnographer and informants” and thengoing negotiations of differences andimilarities between them (Zavella996:140–41). This has lead Gunaratnamo argue for the value of a move from anmphasis on “commonality” to the ways in

which “connectivity” is establishedetween the researcher and members oettings (2003:97). Similarly, Duneier 1999, 2004)—a white, Jewish, upper-



middle-class ethnographer—believes thatace, class, and religious differences suchs those between himself and the African

American street vendors he studied canever be overcome. Nonetheless, he wasble to develop a practical, workingapport with many of these vendors: While

hey suspected his motives as a whiteewish researcher, they nonetheless, for heir own reasons and purposes, accepteis presence and, in so doing, providedccess, although inevitably partial, toatterned routines and goings-on of their veryday lives. The goal, then, is to try tonderstand and write about how “aifferent social position can have a seriousffect on one’s work” (Duneier 1999:354).

Finally, white, middle-class researchersoncerned with gender, race/ethnic, andlass inequality can also pursue a very



ifferent strategy: They can “study up”Nader 1969), focusing fieldwork onominant, rather than marginalized,

roups. Katz (2001b:367–70), for xample, identifies “getting behind thecenes” of the “social worlds of the elitend the admired,” challenging the distance

reated “by respectability and a privilegednsularity,” as one of the distinctive

warrants for ethnographic fieldwork. Inhis way, ethnographers may examine the

ways that institutional actors or membersf dominant groups produce, perpetuate,nd challenge gender, race/ethnic, or classelations in daily interactions.

OCAL EVENTS AND SOCIAL FORCES

Field researchers can employ a number o



ifferent strategies to try to link the importf more distant social settings as well aseneral trends and patterns, such as

nequality related to race/ethnicity, gender,nd class, to local events and specificutcomes. Katz (1988b), for example,rgues that it is critical to first understand

he interactional and phenomenal realitieshat provide the “foreground” for variousinds of criminal acts, only then taking uphe relevance and impact of “background”actors such as ethnicity, class, and gender.

And while ethnography itself cannotrovide direct access to large-scaletructural forces, ethnographers can seeatterns of race, class, and gender nequality, for example, as part of theterrain on which interaction unfolds”DeVault 1995) and aim to write fieldnoteshat show how structural patterns



nvolving race, class, or gender are sociallyonstructed and produced in daily life. Toccomplish this requires that the

thnographer avoid viewing gender,thnicity/race, and class as reifiedariables or forces that act upon peoplend social settings to “cause” outcomes

uch as social inequality. Rather, wencourage ethnographers to write about thedoing” of gender (West and Zimmerman987), ethnicity/race, and class and toxamine how large-scale patterns related toender, race, and class are “enacted,” thats, produced, reproduced, maintained, andhallenged in and through socialnteraction.

To accomplish this initially requires thathe ethnographer look for specificonnections within the setting to outsideocial influences. 28 The ethnographer



hould write about how the peoplenvolved talk about and understand their onnections with these outside entities and

orces, but he would not be limited to thesemember-recognized understandings. Fieldesearch on the homeless, for example,

might well begin by recording how people

iving on the street understand and copewith the conditions of their daily existencen a day-to-day basis, including how theyee their relationship to the wider societye.g., Snow and Anderson 1993). But theesearcher would also observe relationsetween homeless people and the variousersons, agents, and institutions with

whom they have recurrent contact: for xample, missions, hotels, and other placeshat provide occasional residence; regular eeding lines and informal arrangements

with restaurants as sources of food;



elations with police patrol officers andailers; and caretaker agencies and

welfare/relief workers. Then, a researcher

or other researchers) might move out toxamine these institutions and agents andheir conditions of existence. 29

Ethnography can also explore links to

roader social processes by observingeople and settings as they change over ime. Long-term, continuous field researchs necessary, for example, in order tonderstand how working-class youth reacto, and are affected by, their contacts withchools. Introducing a longitudinalomponent to field research, whileractically difficult, allows the researcher o describe different life chances and tonderstand how these chances are shapednd determined. Field researchers, for xample, often examine particular



institutional careers” (Goffman 1961) andhe factors that shape them, whether thesenvolve moving through schools to

ifferent outcomes or through processingy the police or courts to different fates.The limited “breadth” of manythnographies can be improved through

bservations that span longer time periods,ecording changes that are not evident intemporal renderings that that provide a

mere snapshot of social life.

EFLECTIONS: USING FIELDNOTES TOISCOVER/CREATE MEMBERS’ MEANINGS

n this chapter, we have proposedtrategies for writing ethnographicieldnotes that collect and represent

members’ meanings in a rigorous,rounded manner. These strategies require



he ethnographer to bracket preconceptionsbout what is important in order to attendo people’s indigenous ways of ordering

nd interpreting their worlds. In so doing,thnographers assume that members’meanings are consequential and that howeople act is based on their understandings

f their local social worlds. In pursuingmembers’ meanings, ethnographers beginy looking at how members describe andategorize people and events; they try toiscern their terms, phrasings,lassifications, and theories. Butndigenous categories provide only atarting point; the ethnographer’s task isot simply to identify memberrecognizederms and categories but also to specify theonditions under which people actuallynvoke and apply such terms in interactionith others. No term or category is self-



pplying to actual situations, and itselevance to specific circumstances cannote determined in advance. Hence, the

thnographer should not describe socialcenes by applying member-recognizederms and categories to situationsndependently of members’ actual

pplications.Several implications flow from

ecognizing that the ethnographer whowrites fieldnotes about indigenousmeanings should specify the conditionsnder which members’ meanings arenvoked and applied. First, such fieldnotes

must incorporate not words and phrasesbstracted out of context but, rather, thectual interactional occasions in whichhese members’ terms are used. Fieldnotesseful to appreciating members’ meanings,hen, will be interactionally, rather than



ognitively, focused in order to documentow members construct meaning throughnteractions with other members of the

roup and how they actually interpret andrganize their own and others’ actions.Some methodological implications

ollow. Many ethnographers seem to

ssume that the pursuit of members’meanings is equivalent to interviewingeople about what is important to them.

But ethnographers collect materialselevant to members’ meanings byocusing, not on members’econtextualized talk, but, rather, onaturally occurring, situated interaction in

which local meanings are created andustained. Writing ethnographic fieldnoteshat are sensitive to members’ meanings isot primarily a matter of asking but, rather,f inferring what people are concerned



with from the specific ways in which theyalk and act in a variety of natural settings.

Thus, interviewing, especially asking

members directly what terms mean to themr what is important or significant to them,s not the primary tool for getting at

members’ meanings. Rather, the

istinctive procedure is to observe andecord naturally occurring talk andnteraction. It may, indeed, be useful or ssential to interview members about these and meaning of specific local termsnd phrases, but the researcher’s deeper oncern lies in the actual, situated use ohose terms in ordinary interaction. 30

Finally, focusing on interactionallyituated uses of indigenous termseightens the ethnographer’s sensitivity tohe intricate processes of situated judgmentnd skilled interpretation that characterize



members’ use of local categories.Members’ categorizations are not invariantnd transcendent but, rather, are tied to

pecific situations and used for varyingurposes. Extensive local knowledge andudgment-making skill are necessarilynvolved in their use. In the gym, for

xample, those about to undertake aarticular gymnastic routine requiring aspotter” may have a practical interest inecognizing and distinguishing betweenhe experience and skill level of othersresent. Indeed, experienced gymnasts canee at a glance how much training another as had on the basis of her performancend actions. In general, a deeper ppreciation of indigenous meaningsequires learning when and how membersctually make such assessments and whatnowledge they rely on in so doing.



6



Processing Fieldnotes:Coding and Memoing

At some point—after weeks or perhapsmonths of writing notes—the ethnographer eeds to draw back from the field and toease actively writing notes. He must shiftears and turn to the written record he hasroduced with an eye to transforming thisollection of materials into writings thatpeak to wider, outside audiences. Effortso analyze now become intense,oncentrated, and comprehensive: Theieldworker begins to sift systematicallyhrough the many pages of fieldnote

ccounts and initial in-process memos,ooking to identify threads that can be



woven together to tell a story (or a number f stories) about the observed social world.

The ultimate goal is to produce coherent,

ocused analyses of aspects of the socialife that have been observed and recorded,nalyses that are comprehensible to readers

who are not directly acquainted with the

ocial world at issue. 1The prospect of creating coherent,

ocused analyses from a mass of materialsfieldnotes now several hundred pages andn-process memos several dozen)verwhelms many students. Butieldworkers have found that the task cane handled effectively by recognizingeveral distinct practices involved inarrying out analysis.

Initially, writing fieldnotes gives way toeading them. First, the ethnographer readshrough all fieldnotes as a complete



orpus, taking in the entire record of theield experience as it has evolved over ime. She begins to elaborate and refine

arlier insights and lines of analysis byubjecting this broader collection oieldnotes to close, intensive reflection andnalysis.

Second, the researcher combines thislose reading with procedures for nalytically coding fieldnotes.

Ethnographic coding involves line-by-lineategorization of specific notes. In thisrocess, the researcher’s stance toward theotes changes: The notes, and the personsnd events they recount, become textualbjects (although linked to personal

memories and intuitions) to be considerednd examined with a series of analytic andresentational possibilities in mind.

Qualitative analytic coding usually



roceeds in two different phases. In openoding, the ethnographer reads fieldnotesine-by-line to identify and formulate any

nd all ideas, themes, or issues theyuggest, no matter how varied andisparate. In focused coding, theieldworker subjects fieldnotes to fine-

rained, line-by-line analysis on the basisf topics that have been identified as beingf particular interest. Here, thethnographer uses a smaller set oromising ideas and categories to providehe major topic and themes for the finalthnography.

Reading through and coding fieldnotesn a line-by-line basis inundates thethnographer with new ideas, insights, andonnections. While continuing to code andeview initial memos, she elaborates thesensights by writing more systematic



heoretical code memos (Strauss andCorbin 1990). These memos are generatedy, and are closely tied to, phenomena,

opics, and categories created by rereadingnd closely coding fieldnotes. Later, as theieldworker develops a clearer sense of thedeas or themes she wants to pursue,

memos take on a more focused character;hey relate or integrate what werereviously separate pieces of data andnalytic points. These integrative memoseek to clarify and link analytic themes andategories. 2

We present analytic practices thatarallel methods developed by sociologistsaking the grounded theory approach tonalyzing qualitative data. 3 Groundedheorists give priority to deriving “analyticategories directly from the data, not fromreconceived concepts or hypotheses”



Charmaz 2001:336–37). They maintainhat if the researcher minimizesommitment to received and preconceived

heory, he is more likely to develop newnalytic categories and original theoriesrom his data. By making frequentomparisons across the data, the researcher

an formulate, modify, and extendheoretical propositions so that they fit theata. At the actual working level, theesearcher begins by coding data in close,ystematic ways so that he can generatenalytic categories. He further elaborates,xtends, and integrates the properties andimensions of these categories by writingheoretical memos.

The earliest versions of the groundedheory approach depicted analysis as alear cut, almost autonomous activity withhe researcher “discovering” theory in



ieldnotes and other qualitative data. Thispproach seemed to imply that conceptsnd analytic categories lurked in fieldnote

ata, waiting to emerge and be discoveredy the field researcher. But contemporaryrounded theory practitioners, whileemaining strongly committed to inductive

rocedures, no longer emphasize thediscovery” of theory (Charmaz001:335); rather, they recognize thatnalysis pervades all phases of the researchnterprise—as the researcher makesbservations, writes fieldnotes, codes theseotes in analytic categories, and finallyevelops explicit theoretical propositions.n this sense, then, analysis is moreccurately described as both inductive andeductive, what some have termedretroductive” (Bulmer 1979; Katz 1988a).

The process is like someone who is



imultaneously creating and solving auzzle or like a carpenter alternatelyhanging the shape of a door and then the

hape of the door frame to obtain a better it (Baldamus 1972:295).In this chapter, we develop an approach

o analyzing fieldnotes based on these

deas. Initially, we suggest ways to beginhe analysis of fieldnotes: close reading,pen coding, and writing memos thatormulate and clarify the ideas and insightshat such coding produces. We thenonsider procedures that are helpful inarrying out more specific, fine-grainednalyses: focused coding and writingntegrative memos. While we discusseading, coding, and memoing as discreteteps in analytically processing fieldnotes,

we want to emphasize that the researcher isot rigidly confined to one procedure at a



ime or to undertaking them in anyarticular order. Rather, she moves from aeneral reading to a close coding to writing

ntensive analyses and then back again.aid another way, from reading comesoding and written memos that direct andedirect attention to issues and possibilities

hat require further reading of the same or dditional fieldnotes.

EADING FIELDNOTES AS A DATA SET

The ethnographer begins concentratednalysis and writing by reading hisieldnotes in a new manner, lookinglosely and systematically at what haseen observed and recorded. In so doing,e treats the fieldnotes as a data set,eviewing, reexperiencing, and



nd events by reviewing the completed setf notes. Based upon what hasubsequently been learned, initial

nterpretations and commentaries noweencountered may seem naive or rroneous. This contrast between initialnd later understanding is often striking

when working in a totally unfamiliar ulture and language. The fieldworker mayome to feel that foreign concepts anderms have no equivalent in English. Andatterns and tendencies recognized wheneading all of the notes may suggestlternative interpretations of actions or talk reviously understood in another way.

Finally, working with a corpus oieldnotes allows the ethnographer to taken, for the first time in a relativelyoncentrated time stretch, everything thathe has been able to observe and record.



Reading notes as a whole also encouragesecognizing patterns and makingomparisons. She begins to notice how an

ncident is like others in previouslyeviewed notes. Conversely, she alsoegins to note important differencesetween incidents previously seen as

imilar.To undertake an analytically motivated

eading of one’s fieldnotes requires thethnographer to approach his notes as ihey had been written by a stranger.ndeed, many fieldworkers find it difficulto achieve the sort of emotional distanceequired to subject to analysis those with

whom he has been deeply immersed. Someieldworkers report discomfort atexamining under a microscope” the livesf people with whom they have becomeeeply involved and, in many cases, care



bout. For some, analysis comes close ton act of betrayal; many fieldworkerseport having taken several weeks or

months after they stopped writingieldnotes before they could begin their nalyses. Some researchers resolve thisnternal conflict by working

ollaboratively with people in the setting,ven occasionally coauthoring their

writing with a local assistant.Although the deliberate and self-

onscious analysis ethnography entailsmay contribute to feelings ostrangement, it may be helpful toemember that making sense of “what’soing on” is an activity that members ohe setting engage in and that it is one ohe usual and expected activities of socialife. And it is also sometimes helpful toemember that while our analysis o



atterns of social life in the field site isrdinarily for audiences and purposesutside of it, we seek to convey an

ppreciative understanding of the worldnd lives of persons under study.

PEN CODING

While subjecting fieldnotes to a careful,minute reading, the ethnographer begins toift through and categorize small segmentsf the fieldnote record by writing wordsnd phrases that identify and name specificnalytic dimensions and categories. Suchodings can be written in the margin nexto the pertinent fieldnote, on a separateheet of paper (with some marking of theocation of the relevant fieldnote), or in acomment” field in a wordprocessing



rogram or a keyword field in a textatabase. In such line-by-line coding, thethnographer entertains all analytic

ossibilities; she attempts to capture asmany ideas and themes as time allows butlways stays close to what has been writtenown in the fieldnote. She does so without

egard for how or whether ideas andategories will ultimately be used, whether ther relevant observations have been

made, or how they will fit together.Coding fieldnotes in this way differs

undamentally from coding in quantitativeesearch. In quantitative coding, theesearcher proceeds deductively byonstructing questionnaires with categorieserived from theory. He fits people’sesponses to the questionnaire into thelready established categories in order toetermine the frequencies of events within



hose categories. By contrast, qualitativeoding does not start from preestablishedr fixed analytic categories but, rather,

roceeds inductively by creating analyticategories that reflect the significance ovents and experiences to those in theetting. 4 Qualitative coding is a way o

pening up avenues of inquiry: Theesearcher identifies and develops conceptsnd analytic insights through closexamination of, and reflection on, fieldnoteata. Such coding is not fundamentallyirected at putting labels on bits and piecesf data so that what “goes together” can beollected in a single category; rather, thethnographer is indeed interested inategories but less as a way to sort datahan as a way to name, distinguish, anddentify the conceptual import andignificance of particular observations. In



ontrast to quantitative coding, then, inualitative coding we ask questions of datan order to develop, identify, elaborate, and

efine analytic categories and insights.In some situations, ethnographers mayenefit from using one of the increasinglyophisticated computer-assisted qualitative

ata analysis software (CAQDAS)rograms as a tool to help manage, code,nd analyze their data. If the ethnographer as accumulated hundreds of pages oieldnotes and interview transcripts, code-nd-retrieve software provides useful andfficient ways to organize and manageield data. With such a program, the fieldesearcher categorizes or labels “passagesf the data according to what they arebout or other content of interest in themcoding or indexing)” and can then collectr retrieve passages labeled in the same



way (Richards and Richards 1994:446).orting field data into general, coherentategories is essential when working with

arge, qualitative data sets. Fieldesearchers can also use more elaborateheory-building programs (Fielding 2001;

Kelle 2004; Weitzman and Miles 1995)

hat do not simply sort categorized data butlso facilitate the logic and application octual analytic coding. These programsnable the fieldworker to place verypecific and detailed codes on particular egments of fieldnotes and interviews, toink these codes to other codes andategories, and to retrieve all data recordednder any code. Theory-building programslso allow the field researcher to assemblend integrate all data, codes, memos, and

more finished analyses in one file. 5Despite their attractions and potential



dvantages (Corbin and Strauss 2008;Fielding 2001; Kelle 2004), computer-ssisted qualitative analysis programs also

ave a number of limitations. First, therere often heavy start-up costs as time andffort is required to put field data intoppropriate formats and to develop and

eview emerging code categories. Hence,hese programs are not usually helpful totudents collecting limited amounts of dataor research classes; in these cases, it isasier to use a standard word-processingrogram to sort data by simply creatingew files using highlight and copyunctions and to enter code categories as

marginal comments. Second, it is difficult,ven in theory-building programs, to

modify codes once applied to specificieces of data, even though such

modification is an important process.



Third, these programs may entice theesearcher into a superficial, “fit-it-in-a-ategory” sorting-oriented coding

rocedure; this facile categorizing shiftshe ethnographer’s attention away from thessential task of creating new codes andategories that requires actively reading

nd rereading notes on a sentence-by-entence basis and repeatedly rethinkingnd refining prior codes and categories.

Corbin warns against this danger in theollowing terms, “Computers can be usedo do coding, but the analyst must be veryareful not to fall into the trap of justixing labels on a piece of paper, thenutting pile of ‘raw’ data under that label.f a researcher does just this, he or she willnd up with a series of concepts withothing reflective said about what the datare indicating. Even with computers, the



esearcher must take the time to reflect onata and write memos” (Corbin andtrauss 2008:163). Despite the power o

he computer, only the ethnographer reates, changes, and reconceptualizesnterpretations and analyses.

Whether carried out by hand or by

omputer entries, open coding begins withhe ethnographer mentally askinguestions of specific pieces of fieldnoteata. In asking such questions, thethnographer draws on a wide variety oesources, including direct experience oife and events in the setting; sensitivityoward the concerns and orientations o

members; memory of other specificncidents described elsewhere in one’sotes; the leads and insights developed inn-process commentaries and memos;ne’s own prior experience and insights



ained in other settings; and the conceptsnd orientation provided by one’srofession or discipline. Nothing is out o

ounds!But the secret of coding lies in turninghe answers to these questions into aistinctive kind of writing—a word or

hort phrase that captures and signals whats going on in a piece of data in a way thatinks it to some more general analyticssue. Such writing is integrally linked tohe processes of thinking and interpreting,

whereby the ethnographer “comes upwith” a code to write down. In turn,writing down codes—putting an idea or ntuition into a concrete, relatively concise

word or phrase—helps stimulate, shape,nd constrain the fieldworker’s thinkingnd reflection. This mutually necessaryelationship between reflection and writing



s expressed in John Forester’s (n.d.) apthrase, “thinking with your fingers.”

We have found the following sorts o

uestions useful in beginning to examinepecific fieldnotes:

What are people doing? What are they trying toaccomplish?

How, exactly, do they do this? What specific meansand/or strategies do they use?

How do members talk about, characterize, andunderstand what is going on? What assumptions arethey making?

What do I see going on here? What did I learn fromthese notes? Why did I include them?

How is what is going on here similar to, or differentfrom, other incidents or events recorded elsewhere inthe fieldnotes?

What is the broader import or significance of thisincident or event? What is it a case of ?

uch questions reflect and advance severalpecific concerns linked to our approach tothnography and writing fieldnotes. First,



hese questions give priority to processesather than to “causes” or internalsychological “motives.” Specifically, this

riority means asking questions thatdentify what is occurring and in whatrder, rather than “why” questions that ask

what is causing or producing some

utcomes. In this sense, we view openoding as a means for developingnterpretations or analytic themes rather han specific causal explanations.

Second, these questions reflect aensitivity to the practical concerns,onditions, and constraints that actorsonfront and deal with in their everydayives and actions. This concern with theractical or the pragmatic requires payingttention to mundane, ordinary, and taken-or-granted routines and ways of life,ather than looking only, or primarily, at



he dramatic or exceptional action or event.Third, these questions can help specify

he meanings and points of view of those

nder study. We try to frame questions thatet at how members see and experiencevents, at what they view as important andignificant, and at how they describe,

lassify, analyze, and evaluate their ownnd others’ situations and activities. Yet, toet at these matters, it is initially crucial tolarify what the ethnographer felt wasignificant about what occurred by asking:Why did I include this item in myieldnotes?” It is then important to ask

whether or not, and on what basis,members seem to attribute this sameignificance to events or incidents. Theserocedures keep the ethnographer aware ohe complexities involved in pursuing

members’ meanings; in other words, they



emind the ethnographer that she alwayswrites her interpretation of what she feelss meaningful and important to members.

Finally, these questions provide ways omoving beyond a particular event or ituation recounted in the fieldnotes todentify more general theoretical

imensions or issues. As noted earlier,uch analysis is not a matter of trying to fitbservations into preestablished analyticategories. Rather, the ethnographer ngages in an active analytic process in

which he seeks to identify general patternsr categories suggested by eventsescribed in the notes themselves. Oneseful way of proceeding here is by askingow some current observation or incidentelates to other observations and incidents.

Close comparison of such incidents androcesses, attending to both similarities



nd variations, can often suggest keyeatures or dimensions in detailed, specific

ways. This process leads to identifying or

aming broader categories within whichhis specific instance stands as a “case,” inhis way helping to build more generalizednalyses.

Such questions will lead to codes thathe ethnographer writes in the margins oer fieldnotes. The following example,rom a student whose ethnographyxamined her work as an usher, illustrateshese processes:



This student ethnographer focused on theractical situation of ushers, implicitlysking how ushers understood and made

ense of behavior and events and how theynteracted with one another and with



ustomers to manage difficult situations.pecifically, the codes “holding outudience members” and “calming

atecomers” identify specific processes for ealing with and managing latecomers asractical work problems. The ethnographer hen asked herself how these activities

were actually done by ushers which led toseries of more specific codes for

calming,” for example, “keepingccupied,” “distracting,” “smiling,” andminimizing the wait.”

These codes begin to identify andlaborate a variety of analytic distinctions.

For example, the code “late arrivals”ames a particular “type of customer”; inraming “late arrivals” as a “type,” shesserts that coming late is a normal,outine event in this setting and that “laterrivals” are one among a range o



ustomer types. In identifying oneustomer type, this code raises theossibility that other customer types exist

nd, hence, opens the question of just whathese other “customer types” might be.That is, the process here is a dialectical onehat consists of asking, “What is this a case

f?” or “Of what more general category ishis an instance?” In answering thisuestion, the field researcher may drawpon a wide variety of experiences andifferent sorts of knowledge: her ownxperience as an usher, her awareness thatealing with people who come late is aractical matter that ushers must routinelyonfront, her experiences as someone whoas come late to a performance, and her amiliarity with sociological thinkingbout waiting as a key to power ifferences (e.g., Schwartz 1975).



But while latecomers are expected atance performances, the code “irate

waiters” distinguishes a particular

udience type, a latecomer who is a sourcef trouble and special concern. The codelatecomer claims exception” identifiesoth the responses with which ushers have

o deal and the categories and distinctionsdvanced by this particular latecomer. Theext codes—“mgr intervenes,” “passinghe buck,” “keeping occupied,” anddistracting”—identify additional forms obackup” responses. These responsesnclude the manager’s efforts to placate theisgruntled patron and the writer’sttempts to take waiting audience

members’ minds off the delay.Codes, then, take a specific event,

ncident, or feature and relate it to other vents, incidents, or features, implicitly



omparing and distinguishing this onerom others. By comparing this event withlike” others, one can begin to identify

more general analytic dimensions or ategories. One can do this by asking whatmore general category this event belongso or by thinking about specific contrasts

o the current event. For example, theesponse of “holding out” customers

would stimulate a concern with the reverseituation (e.g., “taking latecomers inuring a performance”) and, hence, woulduggest looking for observationsescribing how this would have to be

managed.While many of the codes used here

nvolve members’ concerns and terms, welso see attention to members’ meanings inhe code “latecomer claims exemption.”

This code tries to capture the actual



istinction that this audience member dvances in trying to get back in to see theerformance—that some people arrived

fter the show had begun, but he hadrrived before, had left temporarily, andwas now trying to reenter, and, therefore,was “not late” and should be treated

ifferently than those in the first category.n the staff response, we see the practicalrrelevance of this distinction; to the staff,

what presumably matters are notonsiderations of justice and fairness (suchhat “real latecomers” should be treatedifferently from those who had to leave

momentarily and, hence, were returning)ut the disruption that would be caused bynyone entering at this time.

Through an initial line-by-line readingf her fieldnotes, this student began tolarify the socially ordered work activities



f an usher for dance audiences. As sheontinues through her notes, asking theuestion, “What are the processes by

which the ushers accomplish their work?”he will generate more codes; some will beurther instances or elaborations of earlier odes, while others will suggest entirely

ifferent themes and lines of analysis.Having a code “waiters: irate,” for xample, implies that becoming irate isnly one response in the general categoryf audience responses and suggests theossibility of looking for others. She couldlso wonder: This goes on here, but does itlways to on? What are the conditionsnder which it occurs?

Similarly, the student may identify anrder or natural sequence of events or tages that make up the larger activity. Shean further develop themes along these



ines by continuing to look for expected or outine events that are problematic at eachtage and the kinds of skills and practices

sed to respond to them. For example, thetrategies noted in the codes—“keepingcustomers] occupied,” “distracting,” andsmiling”—suggest that she look for

urther instances to illustrate the generalssue of ways that ushers manage, respond,ontrol, or cope with different types oudience members.

In conclusion, this illustration revealsome of the distinctive qualities of openoding. While quantitative coding aims for eliability—different coders shouldategorize the same data in the same ways

—different ethnographers will code theame set of fieldnotes differently.

Disciplinary background and interests, inarticular, will exert a deep influence on



nalytic coding: Anthropologists workingwith the concept of culture, for example,might formulate different analytic

ategories than folklorists interested inerformance and the dynamics oerformer-audience interaction.

Theoretical differences within a discipline

may produce almost as marked variationsn coding. For example, two sociologicalield researchers studying households

might well write and code their fieldnotesuite differently (even, we would argue,

were they to carry out their studies in theame setting); one might focus her codingn household relations and the division oabor occurring in the context of particular conomic policies, while the other mightxamine women’s invisible work inamilies. In sum, there is no single, correct

way to code fieldnotes inasmuch as



thnographers ultimately decide which,mong a number of possible patterns anddeas, including member concerns and

nterests, to choose as a focus.pen Coding as Process

While it is often useful to begin coding byocusing on a term in the notes—whether he fieldworker’s or a member’s—the

ieldworker seeks to transform that term sohat it references a more general category.Yet, at the other extreme, it is not useful tose overly general categories as codes. For

xample, it would not be helpful to code associal control” staff procedures for earching residents’ rooms for “buzzes”nd other contraband in a reform school.

This category is too general and withoutpecific connection to the events and



ractices described in the notes. But, aode like “staff control—room searches”

would categorize these staff activities as a

pecific kind of control and perhapstimulate the field researcher to think bout and identify other forms of “staf ontrol.”

In open coding, the ethnographer alsoeeks to generate as many codes asossible, at least initially, withoutonsidering possible relevance either tostablished concepts in one’s discipline or o a primary theoretical focus for analyzingnd organizing them. In particular, codeategories should not be avoided becausehey do not fit with the fieldworker’s initialfocus”; this focus will change as he

moves through the notes. Rather, all ideasnd concepts that can be linked to, or enerated from, specific fieldnotes should



e treated as being of possible interest andhould be framed and expressed as clearlynd explicitly as possible. Hence, any

articular code category need notecessarily connect with other codings or with other field data; integrating categoriesan come later, and one should not ignore

r disregard codings because they suggesto obvious prospects for integration within

major focus or with other emergingategories.

To illustrate these processes, consider he following open coding of an incidentrom a support group for those taking caref family members afflicted with

Alzheimer’s disease:

trouble:memory loss;

bad driving dr does

Lucie says her husband is in good

health, but his symptoms includememory loss and poor and dangerous



not “help”asks

dvice

famressures dr

med est → noesults

driving. The doctor does nothing to stophim from driving. She asks, “What doeseveryone else think?” Some other members say, “Change doctors.” Lucieexplains the doctor is a friend of thefamily. Her son has stressed to the doctor that his father’s driving is dangerous, andthey could be legally involved. Thedoctor has done a catscan, but there is nodirection from that.

advice:e active

cger toDMV

no med dx preventsction

Pat, the group leader, recommends,“Take it into your own hands.” Shesuggests that Lucie go to the DMV. Lousays she thinks there is a new law thatstates anyone with a mental deficiency,including Alzheimer’s disease, is notsupposed to drive. Lucie says, “But Idon’t have a name on it—that’s whathinders action. I am so frustrated.”

advice: Vie says, “Isn’t it important for the



oalition w/dr

practical emedy:

deception

proposed emedy will

not work “talking

o”

doctor to tell him not to drive?” Luciesays, “Why won’t he do that? Maybehe’s too close, and he doesn’t want to getinvolved.” Lou: “What about Nicholson?He’s a geriatric psychiatrist.” Otherssuggest that she hide the car keys. Joeysays, “You need to lie to him.” Luciesays, “I must say, I have been doingthat.” Joey says, “We all have.” . . . Luciesays in terms of the car keys, he knowsthere is a second set. Another womansays she talked with her husband, and hedoesn’t drive anymore. “I’ve done this. Itis not working.” Someone says, “Youneed a good diagnosis from a medicaldoctor.” Lucie: “That’s what I think.”Others in the group agree.

Through these marginal codes, the

ieldworker has identified a variety ooosely related (or even unrelated) issues:

driving by Alzheimer’s patients may be dangerous;family caregivers may have to actively manage thosewho insist on continuing to drive;

medical diagnoses may play a critical role in



caregivers’ efforts to manage patient activities;caregivers may experience frustration with doctorswho fail to be sensitive to and support familyconcerns;

support group members may suggest ways of gettingaround obstacles presented by doctors; and

support group members may recommend various practical responses that will prevent the person withAlzheimer’s from driving.

ome of these codes reflect issues that theield researcher was interested in from thetart: practical “troubles” and how people

espond to or “remedy” such troubles (seeEmerson 2008; Emerson and Messinger 977). But many of these codes elaborater specify a prior concept in original and

nanticipated ways, for example, “hidinghe keys” as a practical response to preventangerous driving. Other codes identifyssues that are entirely unexpected, for

xample, doctors as both barriers andossible allies in handling unfit drivers.



By the time the ethnographer finisheseading the complete set of fieldnotes, her ategories and themes will have

undamentally changed. And many ohose initial categories will be dropped, inurn, as the researcher becomes moreocused and aware of other, more

nteresting and recurrent, issues.Furthermore, the process of generatingodes may help to clarify the meaning or mport of previous as well as upcomingotes, for coding shapes and may alter theieldworker’s sense of what the notescontained” in the first place. As onetudent commented: “You feel you knowour notes because you wrote them, buthe thing is, you wrote them so long agohat it doesn’t click.”

Many students report that the evolving,eemingly unending character of coding



nitially proved discouraging andpsetting:

The coding process, it happened once, and then ithappened again. I ended up coding again and againand again. . . . I had to get over the fact that Iwould do it the wrong way, or I wouldn’t reallyfind any good categories or things wouldn’t relateto one another. I had to get over the fear othinking that there was nothing there.

Coding is indeed uncertain, since it is amatter, not simply of “discovering” what is

n the data, but, more creatively, of linkingp specific events and observations to

more general analytic categories andssues. Although researchers inevitablyraw on concepts from their particular isciplines to develop linkages, codingeeps them focused on, and anchored in,heir data. This often means that theesearcher is already familiar with the keyoncepts and interests of her discipline and



uickly sees how a given piece of data iselevant to them; but at other times, theesearcher may have to turn to specific

writings that she has not previously read toind pertinent concepts. With time,ractice, and wider exposure within aiscipline, the researcher gains confidence

hat she can make analytic connections,nd coding becomes less threatening andncertain.

This open-ended approach can lead tonxiety on several different levels, andome students fear they may never comep with a specific focus for a paper.

Others, finding line-by-line coding timeonsuming and tedious, want to focus on amaller number of themes in order to movehead quickly without a lot of “wasted”ffort. Still others express concern over arocedure that, in seeking to generate so



many different codes, contradicts whathey have been taught about “logical” (i.e.,arefully planned in advance) thinking and

writing. Consider the comments of twotudents:

I didn’t have any categories before I began. I justwas looking at the notes and jotting down codes,

but it didn’t seem that I was going about it in avery logical way.

I went through two or three sets of notes and therewere so many random, recurring themes and notanything that was organized.

But the fact that fieldnotes seem unwieldy,

with codings leading in many differentirections, is actually a good thing at thistage; such codings will suggest a myriadf possible issues and directions.

Especially early on in the process of openoding, we recommend resisting these



nclinations to focus only on specifichemes and topics while continuing to gohrough the fieldnote record and generating

dditional codes.Yet, we have also found that continuouspen coding can generate a great deal orustration as ideas begin to coalesce;

ontinuous open coding may actuallyiscourage developing a specific focus

when it would be possible and useful to doo. Thus, a strategy of selective openoding, in which the fieldworker useshese procedures at different times and

with discrete sets of fieldnotes, mayherefore be advisable. For example, one

may begin with systematic open codingut then, after going through a significantortion of their fieldnotes, code remainingotes and recode previously coded noteselectively, focusing on “key,” “rich,” or



revealing” incidents.

WRITING CODE MEMOS

nspired by coding fieldnotes and byereading in-process memos, the

ieldworker begins to develop, preserve,nd elaborate these ideas by writingheoretical code memos (Strauss and

Corbin 1990). While the fieldworker hould try to read and code all fieldnotes,e may turn from the coding to writing

memos at any time, seeking to get ideasnd insights down on paper when theyccur. He may also reread in-process

memos, abandoning some, while revisingnd elaborating others in light oubsequent observations and the insightsenerated by coding. We encourage



writing memos about as many ideas,ssues, and leads as possible. While somef these ideas reflect concerns and insights

hat the fieldworker brings to the reading,thers grow out of reengaging the scenesnd events described in the fieldnotes.

One use of a code memo is to identify

nd write about core processes thatharacterize talk and interaction in aarticular setting. In the following memo,

fieldworker in a residential treatmentrogram for ex-prostitutes graduallyealized that the women involved usuallyharacterized their problem, not asrostitution, but, rather, as drug addiction.he then organized this memo around talk y one resident that illustrated this typicalriority placed on overcoming drugroblems:

Admission to the program rests on the women’s



outside identities as street prostitutes; however, theidentity that is presented at the foreground of their recovery program is that of drug addicts. Whendiscussing the bad behavior and the deviantidentities that resulted in their placement at thehouse, the women present their addictions, that is,their identity as addicts, at the forefront. Thefollowing interaction is between Melinda, atwenty-one year old resident, and me, theethnographer.

I nod my head in response and Melinda says,“I’m glad to be sober, I’m happy now, and I don’twant to use anymore. But for me, the first thirtydays were easier than the second seem to be.” Shelooks down at the floor and says, “I used to wakeup and be pissed off and depressed and need touse. I’d use just so that I could get through the day,through the shit . . . just to get through a day atwork.” She laughs and says with a grimace, “I

used to want to get high so bad that I’d makeexcuses to my pimp, I used to tell him that it was aslow day, just so I could get high.”

Melinda expresses her gratitude for the program

by expressing a positive opinion of sobriety, andindirectly, proposes that her role as a prostitute



was secondary to her desire to acquire and usedrugs. Melinda places the primacy of the drug

problem over prostitution when she says, “I usedto want to get high so bad that I’d make excuses tomy pimp.” We see here how Melinda mentions

prostitution as a behavior secondary to her desireto use. In this way, Melinda situates her identity asan addict at the forefront of her previous lifestyle.She also states, “Before, when I’d see my mom,I’d be high, and this was the first time I wasn’thigh.” Her roles as daughter and as prostitute are

placed secondary to her identity as an addict.Also, Melinda’s current identity at the house

revolves around her participation in the role of anaddict. She states: “I’m glad to be sober . . . Butfor me the first thirty days were easier than thesecond seem to be.” We see here how her time atthe house, or time “in recovery,” is not relative towhen she stopped hooking (which we will find outhad ceased a month earlier than her drug

dependency); rather, it is based on her “dayssober.” . . .Finally, Melinda continues to identify hersel

as an addict, or that drugs are still problematic,when she says, “the first thirty days were easier than the second seem to be.” She is in her secondmonth of “recovery” and is therefore emphasizingthat her addiction to drugs is a continuing struggle.



Therefore, we see that the identity of an addict is built and presented as the most important and problematic character “defect” the women in thehouse are struggling with.

ote the limited intent of this analyticmemo: It looks in detail at one piece oalk to establish the various ways in which

resident emphasizes her identity as anddict rather than as a prostitute. Althoughhe ethnographer presents this as aommon pattern among residents of the

rogram, she makes no effort here torovide evidence for this general claim, toxamine “exceptions,” namely, women

who do identify as having been prostitutes,

pecial circumstances in which womenwill emphasize prostitution rather thanrug use, and so on. Furthermore, she

makes no effort to locate either generaleasons for why this preference for addictather than hooker identity occurs, or its



roader implications for outcomes andesident fates in this or other programs.

Ethnographers also write initial memos

o try to identify and explore a generalattern or theme that cuts across a number f disparate incidents or events. Alonghese lines, consider the following memo

rom a study of support and interactionmong courtroom personnel (clerks,ecorder, bailiff) that explores patterns osustaining community and insideness” inourtroom proceedings:

Examples of “sustaining community andinsideness” tend to occur during dead time (recess)on easy days with little business and also after session ends for the day. . . . For example, after today’s session, all of the participants except the

judge, who always leaves, were actively lookingfor interactions. Their methods included makingeye contact with each other, walking toward each

other, making jokes, and interruptingconversations. In this way, information could be



shared, and opinions could be aired.This category can be distinguished from idle

chatter during recess by the involvement of the participants in the events. High involvementequals community and insideness; lowinvolvement, which is evidenced by briefness of interaction and lack of emotion and eye contact,equals idle chatter.

Here, the field researcher identifies aegular pattern of more intense, animatedalk and action between courtroom workershat she contrasts with other occasions o

ess engaging interaction (“idle chatter”).n her memo, she offers some initialbservations on when this pattern oelating occurs (during recesses, on slow

ourt days, etc.) as well as on what itnvolves (actively seeking out others,oking, etc.).

In sum, initial coding and memoingequire the ethnographer to step back fromhe field setting to identify, develop, and



modify broader analytic themes andrguments. Early on, these efforts shouldemain flexible and open as the

thnographer reads, codes, and analyzesieldnotes to foster a wide range of newdeas, linkages, and connections.

Eventually, however, the ethnographer will

move beyond these open, inclusiverocedures to pursue focused, analytichemes more intensively. Initially, thisarrowing and focusing process involveselecting a small number of core themeshat the researcher will subsequentlyursue through focused coding andntegrative memoing.

ELECTING THEMES

Through initial coding and memoing, the



thnographer identifies many more ideasnd themes than he will actually be able toursue in one paper or monograph. Hence,

e must decide which ideas to exploreurther and which to put on the back urner, at least for the moment.

Field researchers have different ways o

electing core themes. The ethnographer might begin by coding fieldnotes for hemes and topics that she has alreadydentified and begun to develop in writingn-process memos. During open coding,he ethnographer can elaborate, deepen,nd refine or discard themes developed atarlier points in time. But, because she isot bound by previous preliminarynalysis, open coding provides thepportunity for developing new themesnd insights as she views the entire corpusf her notes through fresh eyes. One



onsideration is to give priority to topicsor which a substantial amount of data haseen collected and which reflect recurrent

r underlying patterns of activities in theetting under study. Fieldworkers mightlso give priority to what seems significanto members, whether it is what they think

s key, what looks to be practicallymportant, or what engages a lot of their ime and energy. For example, one student

who wrote fieldnotes while an intern at aounty probation office described theollowing process:

I was going through [the notes] and kept thinking

of things like we have all this paperwork to do,and people have to sign this, and I started to getthe sense of this larger issue—how is thedepartment dealing with so much paperwork? Andas I went through it, I found, “Oh, well, a lot otimes we help each other out.” One probationofficer will say, I saw your client yesterday on theCommons; that will count as a collateral contact (a



kind of contact that must be noted in the paperwork) for you because I saw him. There areshortcuts that way. There are summary reportscalled “quarterlies” that summarize basically threeor four months’ worth of work into one sheet. Sothree or four things like that are subtopics of thislarger issue.

n going through her notes, this student

egan to notice the different tasks thatrobation officers must accomplish with aensitivity to the conditions and constraintshat accompany the work. Looking at whatrobation officers actually did amid theractical constraints and opportunitiesffered by other agencies—police, clinics,nd so on—provided a frame for drawingogether what had initially seemed likeiscrete tasks. Discovering additionalhemes of this sort provided a guide toeading and coding the rest of her notes.

The fieldworker must also consider how



selected theme can be related to other pparent themes. A theme that allows theesearcher to make linkages to other issues

oted in the data is particularly promising.Finding new ways of linking themesogether allows for the possibility thatome of the themes that might have been

een as unrelated and possibly droppedan, in fact, be reincorporated assubthemes” under more general thematicategories.

In the process of identifying promisinghemes and trying to work out possibleinkages, the fieldworker might, for the

moment, lose a sense of focus and have toework ideas until she can reclarify

matters. A student who studied the band atpublic high school started coding with a

ood sense of what her paper would bebout only to find her direction changed.



he reflected on these processes in annterview:

I first thought I would explain how, in the face o budget cuts, somebody could keep a program, anextracurricular program like this, going. And thenin listing the ways that the teacher does that, Icame across the idea that he has to do things to getall of these kids to be friends together. And then Ithought, wait a minute, that could be a whole topicof its own. There’s so many things going on. Howdo I explain in my paper the different socialcliques with 110 kids—there’s so many socialcliques? And then I just started looking at the

relationships that students have with each other inside band and outside. It was just the weirdestthing—I lost my paper! The more I coded, themore I lost my paper.

Eventually, this student shifted her focusrom the many differences between socialliques to how the teacher kept therogram going, both in the face oudgetary cuts and the divisive tendenciesf these different cliques. What she



nitially reported negatively as “having loster paper” really indicates an openness toew issues and ways of putting things

ogether.Students engaged in this process oftenalk about a particular theme “jumping outt them” or, alternatively, of the “focus”

or the ethnography “disappearing.” Thisxperience is so strong and pervasive thatt is important to recall two closely relatedssues that were touched on previously.

First, while the ethnographer oftenxperiences “something going on in theotes,” neither the fieldnotes nor their

meanings are something “out there” to bengaged after they are written. Rather, asreator of the notes in the first place, thethnographer has been creating andiscovering the meaning of and in theotes all along. Particular sensitivities led



o writing about some topics rather thanthers; these sensitivities may derive fromersonal commitments and feelings as well

s from insights gained from one’siscipline and its literature and/or theourse instructor. Second, when anthnographer thinks he has “a substantial

mount of data” on a topic, it is not somuch because of something inherent in theata; rather, it is because the ethnographer as interpreted, organized, and brought aignificant body of data to bear on theopic in particular ways.

Once the ethnographer has identified aet of core themes for further analysis, he

might find it useful to sort fieldnotes onhe basis of these themes. Here, theieldworker breaks down the corpus oieldnotes into smaller, more manageableets, collecting together, in one place, all



hose pieces that bear on each core issue.This sorting or retrieving procedurenvolves physically grouping segments o

he data on a theme in order to more easilyxplore their meanings. Sorting into onelace or pile facilitates analysis byoncentrating fieldnotes relevant to an

merging issue. 6In sorting fieldnotes, it is advisable to

se themes that are inclusive, allowing for otes that may have been identified withifferent but related codes to be groupedogether. For example, in the study oamily caregiving for persons with

Alzheimer’s disease, the researcher ecided upon management practices as aore theme based on her extensive openoding. Management practices includedny actions that caregivers took to managend control the patients’ circumstances and



ehaviors. This category was intentionallynclusive, and it allowed the researcher toncorporate fieldnotes given widely

arying codes, including incessantmonitoring of the patient; warning or talking to” the patient; and deliberatelyeceiving the patient in order to manage

roublesome behavior. The analysis at thistage is still preliminary, and the meaningnd significance of any fieldnote is open tourther specification and even fundamentaleinterpretation. For this reason, thethnographer should feel free to includeny particular fieldnote excerpt in multipleategories.

Sorting requires physical movement oata excerpts in ways that alter thearrative sequence of the fieldnotes. In theast, fieldworkers often cut up a copy oheir fieldnotes and sorted the pieces into



iles that would then be repeatedlyearranged as the analysis proceeded.

Word processing and programs

pecifically designed for processingualitative data can now perform the sortunction very quickly and efficiently,lthough some fieldworkers still prefer the

lexibility that an overview of fieldnotespread out on a table or the floor affords.

We strongly recommend that in usingither method, the ethnographer keep aomputer copy, (with a backup) andossibly an intact, hard copy, of theriginal notes for later reference.

OCUSED CODING

Having decided on core themes, anderhaps having sorted the fieldnotes



ccordingly, the ethnographer next turns toocused coding that is a finegrained, line-y-line analysis of selected notes. This

nvolves building up and, in some cases,urther elaborating analytically interestinghemes, both by connecting data thatnitially may not have appeared to go

ogether and by further delineatingubthemes and subtopics that distinguishifferences and variations within theroader topic.

As an example, the fieldworker whoseesearch focused on caregivers lookingfter family members with Alzheimer’sisease became aware of the stigmarequently attached to the latter’s conditionnd behavior. Sorting all fieldnotes ontigma (broadly conceived) into one longocument, she then reread and recoded allhese materials, and, in the process



eveloped a series of subthemes of stigma.For example, she distinguished “passing”efforts to prevent the stigma from

ecoming publicly visible) fromcovering” (efforts to cover up, normalize,r distract attention from visibletigmatizing behavior). She also

ecognized and coded for situations inwhich the caregiver cooperated with theerson with Alzheimer’s to manage stigmand for situations in which the caregiver ntered into some kind of “collusion” withthers to apologize for or manage thetigmatizing incident and its socialffects. 7 In focused coding, the researcher onstantly makes comparisons betweenncidents, identifying examples that areomparable on one dimension or that differ n some dimension and, hence, constituteontrasting cases or variations. When the



thnographer identifies such variation, hesks how the instance differs and attemptso identify the conditions under which

hese variations occur.By breaking down fieldnotes even moreinely into subcodes, the ethnographer iscovers new themes and topics and new

elationships between them. The samepenness to new ways to understand andit pieces of data together that wencouraged earlier applies to focusedoding as well. In some cases, this processenerates new issues or opens up newopics that carry the analysis in an entirelyifferent direction and may even require aethinking and regrouping of theieldnotes. One student ethnographer ngaged in this process reported:

You’re both discovering and creating the patternas you create the pieces—the initial codes—and



eparate them out into smaller subgroups.What I need to do is do them again.”Through the process of focused coding, the

thnographer begins to recognize a patternn what initially looks like a mass oonfusing data. With focused coding, thethnographer may also begin to envision

ossible ways of making an argument or elling a story about some aspect of theives of people in the setting.

Students often express concern whenhey have only one example of a particular ind of incident or issue. They areoncerned that writing about just onenstance may distort their analysis if iteflects the response of only a few of thosen the setting. Finding only one example

would be a problem if the fieldesearcher’s purpose were to make claimsbout frequency or representativeness. But



requency is only one dimension for nalysis. While the researcher delights inumerous examples of a theme or topic,

he goal in ethnographic analysis is notepresentativeness. Rather, thethnographer seeks to identify patterns andariations in relationships and in the ways

hat members understand and respond toonditions and contingencies in the socialetting. That there is “only one case” oftenoes not matter. 8 But, when thethnographer is fortunate enough to find

more than one instance, it is important toote how they are the same and how theyary. Useful questions to keep in mind athis point include the following: What arehe similarities and differences betweenhese instances? What were the conditionsnder which differences and variationsccurred?



NTEGRATIVE MEMOS

As the ethnographer turns increasinglyrom data gathering to the analysis oieldnotes, writing integrative memos thatlaborate ideas and begin to link or tie

odes and bits of data together becomesbsolutely critical. One approach towriting integrative memos is to exploreelationships between coded fieldnotes that

ink together a variety of discretebservations to provide a more sustainedxamination of a theme or issue.

Alternatively, the ethnographer may

eorganize and revise previously writtenn-process and code memos, identifying aheme or issue that cuts across a number ohese memos and pulling together relevant

materials.At this point, many ethnographers



ontinue to write primarily for themselves,ocusing on putting the flow of their houghts on paper and maintaining the

oose, “note this” and “observe that” styleharacteristic of several of the memos weave considered to this point. Others,owever, find it useful to begin to write

with future audiences explicitly in mind.For these researchers, integrative memosrovide a first occasion to begin toxplicate contextual and backgroundnformation that a reader who is unfamiliar

with the setting would need to know inrder to follow the key ideas and claims.magining this future readership within aarticular discipline spurs the ethnographer o write in a more public voice, that is, to

word ideas in concepts and language thatpproximate the analytic writing in a finalext. This becomes a first attempt to



ormulate a cohesive idea in ways thatwould organize a section of the finalthnography (see the discussion in chapter

). Thus, such memos sound moreolished than earlier memos.Substantively, integrative memos may

move through a series of fieldnote

ncidents, linking these incidents byonnecting sentences. We examine theollowing extended memo on “remedialovering” by family members caring for ersons with Alzheimer’s disease tollustrate these processes:

Remedial covering involves attempts to correct the

troublesome behavior once it has occurred.Caregivers take it upon themselves to watch over the family member and attempt to “smooth over things” in a variety of public places. For example,Laura explains what she does in the presence ofriends:

He may take the cup off the saucer and just



put it somewhere else on the table. And I’ll say, “Ithink you’d probably get that cup back over here

because it’ll get tipped over, and it’s easier if youhave it close to you like that.” . . . I try to smoothover these things.

In a similar case, Carol recounts how Nedembarrasses her by removing his dentures in arestaurant and how she handles this:

I got up real quick and stood in front of himand said, “Get your teeth in your mouth.” Then sheexplains to me, “I felt I had to protect him. What if the waitress came?”

n this first segment, the ethnographer inks two separate incidents occurring in

estaurants through the themes owatching over” and “smoothing over hings.” In doing so, differences betweenhe incidents—for example, in the first

nstance, that something untoward isrevented from happening, while in the



econd, the untoward action has occurredut is literally “covered” and thenorrected—are subordinated to these

ommonalities.The researcher then takes up a further imension of remedial covering,pecifying the contrast between covering

hat relies upon the cooperation of theerson with Alzheimer’s and covering thats carried out directly by the caregiver:

Remedial covering involves having to negotiatethe individual’s cooperation when he or she iscapable of doing so. For example, Laura describesher husband in a local restaurant, how she instructsand physically maneuvers him through variouseating tasks (“puppeteering,” Pollner andMcDonald-Wikler 1985) and how he responds.Her description of their interaction gives a realflavor of the minute detail to which the caregiver must attend:

I’ll say, “Now turn around some more so thatyour legs are under the table, and then move over



so that you’re in front of the placemat.” . . . Thenhe would set the beer out very perilously near theedge, and I’d move it back. . . . And then I’d haveto arrange things . . . he picked up the tortilla, andit wasn’t appropriate. And if anybody werewatching, they’d say, “Tsk tsk.”

While Laura suggests remedial practices toWilliam in the above example, Tess in her situation takes over and attempts to remedy thesituation on her own. She describes going to a

buffet restaurant with some of her coworkers,where she tries to cover her father’s mistakes sothe coworkers are less likely to notice:

Him and I go to buffets all the time . . . and Iwatch him. I make him go ahead of me so I can fixeverything he screws up. He like takes the spoon,

puts some cheese on his salad, puts the spoon onhis plate. . . . And I grab the spoon and put it back .. . all the employees that I work with are behindme.

Here, the ethnographer sets up a contrastetween two different responses to the



roblematic acts of a person withAlzheimer’s. First, she notes Laura’sandling of her husband by means o

rders; in so doing, she sees and marks aarallel with the concept of “puppeteering”eveloped in an article she is familiar

with. 9 Second, she examines Tess’s ways

f managing her father by directly “takingver.” She then continues by consideringhe conditions under which one or thether form of remedial covering is likely:

As the person with Alzheimer’s is less and lessable to cooperate with the caregiver in thesecovering practices, the caregiver is forced to takemore control of the situation. For example, Carol

states, “I’m more ready to be the ultimateauthority. . . . This is the way it’s going to be done.In other words, take total control.”

n composing this memo, then, the writer utlines a progression from milder to morective and restrictive forms of remedial



overing that are likely to occur as theisease progresses. She ends by arguinghat this progression fundamentally

nvolves increasing control over theehavior of the person with Alzheimer’sisease; she quotes a caregiver who talkspenly of her need to now “take total

ontrol.”In writing analytic, integrative memos

f this sort, the central task is to developheoretical connections between fieldnotexcerpts and the conceptual categories theymply. In so doing, the ethnographer onfronts difficult analytic choices. One

major issue is deciding which theme tomake the primary focus, which to includes subthemes, and which to excludentirely. Let’s return to the dilemma of thetudent who “lost her paper” whileocusing and sorting her notes: One



trategy was to divide the paper up intoifferent sections, such that the issues ohe teacher’s strategies for managing the

and and of the students’ groupinghemselves into cliques would be analyzeds topics unto themselves. Another ossibility was to see these strategies as

ifferent aspects of the more generalheme. Here, the paper would have focusedn how the teacher managed to keep anxtracurricular program going in the facef overwhelming odds—decliningesources and a large and heterogeneousroup of students. Specific subtopics

would have included how he tried tomotivate kids to spend extra time onweekends or extra time during the week nd how he managed the tensions andifferent interests between the varioustudent cliques.



Deciding how to frame an analysis oftenequires taking a step back from thearticulars of the analysis in order to

nswer the question, What is the larger,more encompassing question I amesponding to? One student who studied anlternative school, for example, was able,

nce she clarified the story she wanted toell, to incorporate themes from theollowing incident involving negotiationsver the use of a chair at an all-school

meeting:

The chair was just sitting there, and I was sitting behind a group of guys who were saving chairs,and this girl took this chair and started to put her feet on it, and the guy says, “Hey, someone’ssitting there.” She said, “Well, can’t I just use ituntil he comes back?” Then a student teacher comes along, and you can see him eyeing thechair, and he says, “Can I use your foot rest?” She

said, “Someone’s sitting there.” He said, “Well,I’ll just use it until he comes back,” and then he



sits down. But the first guy says, “Excuse me,someone is sitting there.” He says, “Well, I’ll giveit back when he gets back.” The student [whosechair it is] comes back and the teacher just got upand left.

The ethnographer saw in this fieldnoteways that the students at the schoolegotiated with one another and with atudent teacher over seating. But, whilehe found the incident and several like it toe of interest with regard to relations

etween students and between studentsnd teachers, she struggled with how toink such incidents to a variety of other hemes. She decided at this point to step

ack and attempt to relate the incidentmore broadly to what she knew and foundnteresting about the school. She thought,or example, about the pride that both

tudents and teachers at the alternativeublic school took in the ethic o



democratic decision making” and “sharedower.” She contrasted this with many

more traditional schools where teachers

eadily exert authority. With the moreeneral issue of this contrast in mind, thetudent saw that, on some occasions,eachers in the alternative school may not

old or choose to exercise authority but,ather, negotiate or defer to student claimso space. This led the student to see thathe could tie negotiating for space to aange of other incidents that were decidedn nonauthoritarian ways. She also begano look for contrasts in this theme and,pecifically, for examples of matters that

were closed to negotiation. By pursuinghis line of analysis, the student saw that

what initially might have seemed to be ansolated, mundane incident was related toarger questions of power and authority.



More fundamentally, finding a frame for his incident helped her not to take teacher nd student claims to “democracy” and

power sharing” at face value or as givensut, rather, as achievements that wereariously honored in the setting.

Again, there is no single, correct way to

rganize themes and subthemes. Part of theecision about which course to takeepends on the kind of data that has beenecorded. In the study of the high schooland, very rich and detailed notes on typesf students in the school would allowocusing on student cliques. But, if suchbservations are lacking, cliques must

move from the center of the picture andecome part of the context or background

with something else in the foreground. It issual for ethnographers to try on, modify,iscard, and reconsider several possibilities



efore deciding which tells the best story.As was the case when writing fieldnotes inhe first place, organizational decisions

will be influenced by factors that rangerom how inclusive an organizationalcheme is to how well it highlightsarticular theoretical and substantive

nterests and preferences.

EFLECTIONS: CREATING THEORY FROMIELDNOTES

This chapter has developed a grounded,pen-ended approach to ethnographic

nalysis, an approach keyed to the close,ystematic consideration of fieldnote dataimed at generating as many ideas, issues,opics, and themes as possible. Rather thanroceeding deductively with a theory thatxplains phenomena and attempting to find



nstances in the data that illustrate or isprove it, this form of ethnographicnalysis shifts through and pieces together

ieldnotes into a series of themes and moreustained analytic writings, at all timesttending “closely to what happens in thempirical world he or she studies”

Charmaz 2001:337) and to the everydaymeanings, underlying assumptions, andractical concerns of those who live andct in these worlds. As analyst, thethnographer remains open to the variednd sometimes unexpected possibilities,rocesses, and issues that become apparents one immerses oneself in the writtenata.

But this open-ended process does notmean that the fieldworker completelygnores existing theory or has noheoretical commitments prior to reading



hrough the notes. It does suggest,owever, that for the ethnographer, theoryoes not simply await refinement as he

ests concepts one by one against events inhe social world; nor do data stand apart asndependent measures of theoreticaldequacy. Rather, the ethnographer’s

ssumptions, interests, and theoreticalommitments enter into every phase o

writing an ethnography; theseommitments influence decisions rangingrom which events to write about to which

member’s perspective to privilege. Therocess is thus one of reflexive or ialectical interplay between theory andata, whereby theory enters in at everyoint, shaping not only analysis but alsoow social events come to be perceivednd written up as data in the first place.

Indeed, it is misleading to dichotomize



ata and theory as two separate andistinct entities, as data are never pure but,ather, are imbued with, and structured by,

oncepts in the first place. Fieldwork isontinuously analytic in character, asieldnotes are always products of prior nterpretive and conceptual decisions and,

ence, are ripe with meanings and analyticmplications. Thus, the analysis oieldnotes is not just a matter of finding

what the data contain; rather, thethnographer further selects out somencidents and events from the corpus oieldnote materials, gives them priority,nd comes to understand them inelationship to others. Sometimes thesensights seem to “emerge” as thethnographer reviews her accounts of localvents and actions as part of a larger

whole. But often ethnographers struggle to



ind meaningful, coherent analytic themesn their data, only with difficulty coming toake on a more active “ethnographic

oice.” As one student reflected on her xperience:

At first, I wanted the paper to emerge through thenotes in the sense that it had its own story, and Iwas supposed to tell its story. But I had to makethe shift from just wanting to talk about what wasin the notes to making something solid out of them

—my ideas, instead of thinking that it’s hiddensomewhere in the notes.

Rather than simply tracing out what theata tell, the fieldworker renders the data

meaningful. Analysis is less a matter oomething emerging from the data, oimply finding what is there; rather, it is,

more fundamentally, a process of creatingwhat is there by constantly thinking abouthe import of previously recorded eventsnd meanings.



In sum, in many instances of poringver fieldnotes, the ethnographer mayxperience coming up with theory as a

rocess of “discovery.” But theory onlyeems to jump out of the data and hit theesearcher in the face. This flash of insightccurs only because of the researcher’s

rior analytic commitments built into theotes, the theoretical concerns andommitments she brings to the reading,nd the connections she made with other similar events” that were observed and

written about. Thus, it is more accurate toay that the ethnographer creates, rather han discovers, theory. She does so, notimply in the culminating moment oeading and reflecting on what she haseen and written about previously, but alsohroughout that prior process of seeing ashe writes fieldnotes.



7



Writing an Ethnography

n moving from fieldnotes to writingthnographic texts, the ethnographer turnsway from local scenes and their articipants, from relations formed andersonal debts incurred in the field. Nown author working at her desk, she reviewser recordings of members’ everydayxperiences and reorients to her fieldnotess texts to be analyzed, interpreted, andelected for inclusion in a documentntended for wider audiences. Thus, theual awareness of members and outsideudiences, inherent but often muted in thearticipant observer role in the field,ecomes overt and insistent in writing a



olished ethnographic text.While field researchers may envision

ifferent outside audiences, most write for

ther scholars. 1 Having been trained in aarticular discipline (such as sociology,nthropology, or folklore), the fieldesearcher draws upon and develops ideas

hat make sense within the conceptualanguage of that discipline. Whileisciplinary concerns will already havehaped many fieldnote entries, in actuallyomposing ethnographic texts, theesearcher self-consciously makes hisbservations and experiences of particular ocal scenes speak to the concepts andraditions of a scholarly discipline. Thethnographer as author must represent thearticular world he has studied (or somelice or quality of it) for readers who lack irect acquaintance with it. To do so, he



moves back and forth between specificvents recounted in his fieldnotes and

more general concepts of interest to his

iscipline. An excessive concern for acholarly framework and general conceptswould distort and obscure the nuances overyday life; but to simply present

members’ categories exclusively in their erms would produce texts devoid oelevance and interest to scholarlyudiences.

In this chapter, we present an approacho writing finished ethnographies thateeks to use and balance this tensionetween analytic propositions and local

meanings. Rather than composing a tightlyrganized analytic argument in which eachdea leads logically and exclusively to theext, we advocate writing ethnographies asarrative “tales” (Richardson 1990; Van



Maanen 1988). Ethnographies are tales or tories, not in the sense that they areictional, but in that the writer uses

tandard literary conventions (Atkinson990) to construct from fieldnotes aarrative that will interest an outsideudience. Such tales weave specific

nalyses of discrete pieces of fieldnoteata into an overall story. This story isnalytically thematized but often inelatively loose ways; it is also fieldnote-entered, that is, constructed out of a seriesf thematically organized units of fieldnotexcerpts and analytic commentary.

We begin the chapter by examining theistinctive sort of ethnographic story weeek to produce—what we call a “thematicarrative.” Thematic narratives incorporateeveral analytic themes or concepts linkedy a common topic. 2 We then discuss a



eries of steps that move progressivelyoward creating a thematic narrative that isieldnote-centered. These steps include

writing out initial statements of analytichemes, then selecting, explicating,equencing, and editing fieldnote excerptsn order to build up a series of thematically

rganized units of excerpts and analyticommentary. Finally, we discuss the

writing of introductions and conclusionsecessary to produce the completedthnographic manuscript. 3

EVELOPING A THEMATIC NARRATIVE

n coding and memo writing, thethnographer has started to create andlaborate analytic themes. In writing anthnographic text, the writer organizes



ome of these themes into a coherentstory” about life and events in the settingtudied. Such a narrative requires selecting

nly small portions of the total set oieldnotes and then linking them into aoherent text representing some aspect or lice of the world studied.

Writing a thematic narrative differsundamentally from writing an analyticrgument, both in the process of puttinghat text together and in the structure of theinal text. Structurally, in a text thatresents a logical argument, the author setsorth a formal thesis or proposition in thentroduction as a stance to be argued, thenevelops each analytic point with evidenceogically following from and clearlyupporting the propositional thesis. 4 Inontrast, an ethnographic story proceedshrough an intellectual examination o



vidence to eventually reach itsontributing central idea. While a thematicarrative begins by stating a main idea or

hesis, it progresses toward fuller laboration of this idea throughout theaper. Indeed, the more precise, fuller tatement of the thesis is often most

ffectively presented at the end of the storyn a conclusion to the paper.

In addition, the structure of anthnographic story results from an orderedrogression of fieldnote excerpts. Theetails in the fieldnotes stand as thessential kernels of the story. That is,hematic narratives use fieldnotes, not asllustrations and examples of points thatave already been made, but, rather, asuilding blocks for constructing and tellinghe story in the first place. In this sense, the

main idea grows out of the process o



oding and selecting excerpts rather thanrefiguring the choice of fieldnotes tonclude. The excerpts in an ethnographic

tory are not so much evidence for analyticoints as they are the core of the story.In terms of writing processes,

eveloping a thematic narrative requires

onstant movement back and forthetween specific fieldnote incidents androgressively more focused and precisenalysis. To facilitate this process, we doot recommend beginning with a tentativehesis or working hypothesis. Instead, werge the writer to hold off formulating anxplicit thesis until the paper is finished, sohat even in the process of writing, she will

make discoveries about data and continueo balance her analytic insights with theemands of sticking close to indigenousiews. We suggest that the ethnographer



egin developing a thematic narrative bywriting out a statement of a general topicr question. A topic ties a broad analytic

oncern or sensitivity to the events thatccurred in the setting. For example,ethnicity as social construction in a highchool” and “parental involvement in

uvenile court hearings” provide such topictatements. 5 At this early stage, topictatements point to a concern or henomenon, but they do not pose apecific problem or question or propose aormal thesis or explanation. Rather, aopic or question identifies a more generalocus and helps the author to begin tyingieldnotes together into a coherent whole.

In general, the topic of the ethnographictory will incorporate several more specificnalytic themes, namely, claims about keyatterns, processes, or regularities within



he setting. Hence one way to develop aopic is to review earlier codings and

memos, identifying a number of the more

nteresting or relevant themes in one’sieldnotes. At this point, we advise thatne write out phrases stating possiblehemes clearly and explicitly. Initially, the

esearcher need not be concerned witheciding how these themes relate to onenother or with how they might be tiedogether; the writing is intended simply tolarify and specify themes of possiblenterest. But once several promisinghemes have been identified, thethnographer looks for ways of relatingome of these themes to one topic and thenecides to drop those themes that cannote tied to this topic.

Alternatively, the ethnographer mayome away from his coding and memo



writing with a clear sense of an interestingnd unifying general topic. He should

write out this topic as explicitly as possible

nd then attempt to specify more particular hemes that might develop that topic byeviewing his codings, memos, andriginal fieldnotes. For example, having

written the phrase, “I will show thatarents become involved in courtecisions,” the student ethnographer tudying juvenile court then asked in whatifferent ways parents might becomenvolved in these hearings. On reviewingis codings, he found two distinct patterns,ne in which the judge used parents as aource of information about youth andnother in which the judge sought to helparents control their children. He then

wrote out these two more specific themes:The judge sometimes uses parental



nformation against the minor in order toentence him” and “the judge also mightupport the parents in disciplining the

minor and, therefore, threatenunishment.”In either case, the ethnographer will

move back and forth between topic and

hemes, writing an overview statement thatelates themes to a topic and to one another nd/or develops explicit phrasings for eachdentified topic. The relations betweenhemes need not be tight and closelyeasoned; in thematic narratives, thehemes can be loosely integrated. Relatingnd ordering themes will usually requirehanges in wording and conceptualization.

Clearly, some themes may not “fit” withthers, even on these terms, and may haveo be dropped. In fact, even after eveloping an overall plan for a first draft,



t is quite common to revise both thepecific thematic statements and their nterconnections a number of times as

work progresses and the ethnographictory begins to take shape.Consider how one student began to

evelop a thematic narrative around the

eneral topic “ethnicity as socialonstruction” in a public high school. First,e wrote out an elaboration of his topic:Through people’s interactions ‘ethnicity’s constantly being recreated and modified

within a situation.” Then, he wrote out aumber of specific themes or issues that he

wanted to deal with. Finally, to presenthese themes, he worked out the followingrder for five specific sections of the text

—each centered on one theme:

An overview of some different ways ethnicity is usedin schools



Students refer to and recognize different social andethnic groups, but the composition of the groupsvaries

The use of black ethnicity and the ways black socialgroups maintain ethnic boundaries

People who use ethnic aesthetics of other people(whites’ use of black styles), in terms of boundarydefinitions

Ethnic conflict as a process of generating culturaldistinctions

n developing these themes, thethnographer does more than nameifferent situations; more fundamentally,e points out distinctions andnterconnections between relatedhenomena. For example, the theme oow students talk about and identifydifferent social and ethnic groups” notnly considers a range of ethnic (andocial) groups but also deals with the

thnic identities assigned to others. Inontrast, the theme addressing how “black



ocial groups maintain ethnic boundaries”will involve examining how groupmembers establish their own ethnic

dentity. Yet he also suggests importantinkages between these phenomena; for xample, exploring “whites’ uses of black tyles” suggests a concern with the

lurring and crossing of ethnic boundarieshat will elaborate and extend his interestn the maintenance of black ethnicoundaries.

To pick a topic and specific themes, thethnographer must make choices.

Fieldworkers regularly find that they havemany more themes than they are able tonclude in any particular manuscript. Therocess of developing a story is essentiallyne of selecting some themes that resonate

with personal or disciplinary concerns andhat recur in a number of specific



ieldnotes. In selecting these themes andhe data they make relevant, thethnographer inevitably ignores other

hemes and data, at least for this particular manuscript.In developing a topic and then

ssembling themes into a story, the

thnographer should make every effort toncorporate multiple voices anderspectives. To do so often requiresiving special attention to selecting andraming the topic and subsequentnterrelated themes, for how a topic or heme is named and developed canmplicitly privilege some voices anderspectives and exclude others. For xample, one student studying the relationsetween domestic workers and their mployers initially identified “hiring” asne topic in her ethnography. But “hiring”



rames events from the point of view of themployer, highlighting and privileging her oncerns with finding a worker who is

reliable” and “trustworthy.” “Hiring”mplicitly neglects the domestic worker nd her practices for “getting hired” or finding work.” A more relational framing

—for example, “the hiring situation”— would incorporate the perspectives of bothmployer and domestic worker.

In the following sections, we presentways of turning fieldnotes intothnographic texts. While recognizing thathe initial commitment to a general topicnd several initial themes informs thisrocess, we emphasize how thethnographer elaborates, specifies, andxcerpts fieldnotes—which may be onlyoosely associated with a common theme

—in order to develop a finished



thnographic story.

RANSPOSING FIELDNOTES INTO

THNOGRAPHIC TEXT

Atkinson (1990:103) argues that the

persuasive force” of an ethnographic texterives from the “interplay of concretexemplification and discursiveommentary.” We are explicitly concerned

with producing such fieldnote-centereexts —stories that stay close to, and areighly saturated with, bits and pieces oieldnotes. To create such a text, the

thnographer must conceptualize theelevance of local happenings so that theyelate to analytic issues; butimultaneously, the ethnographer mustemain sensitive to how these reframings

might distort the meaning of member



ategories.To begin this process, the fieldworker

must return to the fieldnotes that inspired

he story to look for potential excerpts thatould develop a story line. Thethnographer first identifies pieces oieldnote data and then writes interpretive

ommentary about these excerpts; she alsodits each excerpt and commentary unit sohat the analysis elaborates and highlightshe fieldnotes that are the kernels of thetory. Finally, the researcher must organizehese excerpt-commentary segments intooherent sections of the ethnography; thats, she orders them in a sequence thatreates a compelling story line that leadseaders to an ever fuller understanding ohe people and issues addressed.

electing Fieldnote Excerpts



With a topic involving a number of themesn mind, the field researcher can return to

he set of coded fieldnotes to identify thearticular ones most relevant to key issues.He returns to these sorted notes, creatingieldnote excerpts that will comprise the

uilding blocks of the emergingthnographic story. We suggest severaluidelines for deciding which fieldnotes toxcerpt.

Selecting fieldnote excerpts is not aimple matter of “picking the mostnteresting examples.” Rather, thethnographer has a variety of reasons for eciding which fieldnotes to include in theinal text. In introducing a setting, for xample, a field researcher may selectieldnotes because they aptly illustrateecurring patterns of behavior or typicalituations in that setting. Similarly, a field



esearcher may choose fieldnotesecounting commonplace happenings or oncerns. These excerpts may introduce

more specific analytic themes or identifyignificant variations from what is usual.The ethnographer also selects fieldnotes

or their evocative and persuasive

ualities. An excerpt may appeal because itortrays a rare or moving moment— omeone expressing deep anguish or twoeople in a poignant exchange. Or aieldnote description may seem likely tongage and persuade readers by enablinghem to envision scenes, hear voices, anddentify momentarily with thethnographer’s perspective on the action.n general, excerpts that contain close-up,ivid descriptions that portray actions andoices will situate readers in the scene;uch excerpts will often enable readers to



onsequential moments in interactions.In selecting evocative excerpts, the

thnographer does not need to have a

recise analytic idea in mind. But in mostases, she will come to discern analyticignificance in such excerpts. Anthnographer trusts her own intuitive sense

hat a particular written account isevealing, even if, at the moment, sheannot clearly articulate why this might beo. Continuing reflection on how and whyn excerpt is evocative, moving, or telling

may ultimately lead to a new appreciationnd a deeper, more insightful story.

When constructing a thematic narrative,he ethnographer also specifically seeksxcerpts that illustrate concepts anduggest ways of elaborating or specifyinghese concepts. Finding and selectingxcerpts clarifies and gives content to the



merging story. As ethnographers find andeview new excerpts, they further clarifydeas, and, in turn, consider additional

xcerpts they had initially ignored. Often,hese insights happen spontaneously: Ashey clarify a theme or concept, a relatednstance recorded elsewhere in the

ieldnotes comes to mind (“I remember nother instance of that!”) because it ties innalytically. And on finding and reviewinghat data, the ethnographer may further

modify the core idea. He looks again in hisieldnotes and memos for other excerptshat he may now see as relevant. 6

A critical starting place, then, may lie inhose fieldnote bits that touched of articular codings and memo writing onhemes of current interest. It is importanto review these previously thematizedieldnote accounts (and to related coding



irst, let’s take care of you.ulie: I know, you’re right.ina: It took a lot for her to come in. I had to drag her in.

She called me thismorning, crying, and I said, “That’s it, we’re going in.”

This friend’s account of getting the wife toome in for a restraining order against her usband typified a process whereby aupporter pushed a “victim” to seek legalemedy. Resonating with fieldnotes relatedo friends’ active participation in the

pplication for the restraining order, thisieldnote crystallized an appreciation othird-person support” in legal and other ureaucratic encounters.

In general, an excerpt may jog thememory, suggesting other “similar”nstances or events and, hence, provide atarting place for collecting a body o

xcerpts bearing on a common theme. Or,he ethnographer may begin to



ystematically review codings andieldnotes, looking for excerpts of thatsame thing.” One might then note a

ommon pattern or regularity captured inhe mass of fieldnote data. In a study orobation progress hearings in juvenileourt, for example, a field researcher

bserved that judges regularly solicitedarents’ views about their children’sehavior, as in the following instance:

Judge Smith answers [the minor] with a quiet butsharp tone: “I told you to get good grades. . . . Youhaven’t been getting good grades. . . . I also toldyou to be obedient to your mother.” He then asksthe mother: “Has he been obedient or disobedient?” “Disobedient. He doesn’t go toschool when I tell him to go . . .” she answerswhile looking at her son.

By collecting a number of such instances,

he ethnographer can see nuances within aheme and refine his interpretations o



articular excerpts.To do so, an ethnographer may begin to

ddress issues of the differences between

nstances she has observed and writtenbout. In the first place, she can look for ariations within the theme or pattern seenn different fieldnotes. For example, in

tudying the role of friends and supportersn interviews applying for a domesticiolence restraining order, one might firstook for instances in which the supporter ecomes actively involved in the interviewnd, second, in which the supporter saysittle and plays a secondary role. Similarly,ne might look for excerpts showingifferences in how parents respond toudges’ questions about their children’s

misconduct. Thus, the ethnographer coulduxtapose the excerpt in which the youth’s

mother reported that her son had been



disobedient” to the following one inwhich the mother supports her daughter— t least to some degree—by minimizing

eports of misconduct:A young girl sits down to the left of her attorney.The mother sits down in the back of the room in achair closest to the entrance. Judge Smith asks the

mother directly how the girl is doing. Shecomments that she has no problem at home “withher” but that school is “a problem.”

Considering variations within a context oimilarity helps the field researcher pursueurther comparisons and, thus, makedditional excerpts relevant.

In the second place, the ethnographer an select additional excerpts that involve

more profound differences. Here, he looksor instances that contrast with thereviously discovered pattern. In juvenileourt probation hearings, for example, an



thnographer might select an excerpt inwhich the judge does not ask the parent for er view of her offspring’s misconduct.

uch excerpts begin to reveal theircumstances that shape and limit thereviously noted pattern of interaction inhe first place. In the juvenile court setting,

his may occur in cases in which the parentas been discredited in some way or whenncarcerating the youth is a foregoneonclusion.

In this process, the ethnographer shouldctually write out all of the keyimensions, patterns, or distinctions.

While the phrase or word that coded anxcerpt implies an idea, an author’shinking often remains fuzzy until shectually writes it out in a sentence. In

writing out ideas, she continues mullingver her interpretations. Ultimately, she



will hone tentative ideas into more clearlyrticulated propositions in a final paper.

But at this stage, she tries to fully explore

ariations in, and exceptions to, the themehe is investigating. She aims for texturedichness and flow, rather than logicalightness, and leaves precise formulations

nd wordings to be worked out later.Throughout this process, an

thnographer continually refines her verall sense of the emerging ethnographicaper. Often, a main idea for thethnography becomes clear to her quitearly—while determining a topic or dentifying themes during coding. Other thnographers clarify the main ideas whileelecting excerpts. For still others, theentral idea comes into focus with the startf writing commentaries on the selectedxcerpts. And many ethnographers only



inally settle on the exact focus andwording of a thesis statement when writingn introduction. In the meantime, by

writing out a tentative statement of theentral idea, the ethnographer begins tohape the paper’s overall focus and sensef what this ethnographic story will tell.

But this tentative, central idea—not yet aontrolling thesis statement—oftenhanges during the process of explicatingieldnotes and revising sections of theaper. Some beginning ethnographers arencomfortable with this ambiguous,hifting nature of deciding on the centralocus of the ethnography. But, it ismportant to know that this uncertainty isn important, even necessary, aspect of thenalytic process, and that with persistence,he ethnographer will clarify the focus oer paper.



ptions for Explicating Fieldnotes

With a story in mind and a series oieldnote excerpts and memos in hand, thethnographer next begins composing morelaborated analytic commentaries that

xplicate each excerpt and link it to others.Proceeding in this manner—producing aeries of written segments combiningnalytic interpretation with fieldnote

xcerpts—builds up, piece by piece, aoherent, fieldnote-centered story.Ethnographers use two different textual

trategies for creating and presenting units

f fieldnote excerpts and interpretiveommentary. An integrative strategyweaves together interpretation and excerpt;t produces a text with minimal spatial

markings—such as indentation or singlepacing of fieldnotes—to indicate where



he fieldnote ends and interpretationegins. As an example, consider theollowing account of one way in which

mateur pyrotechnists—people whollegally construct and set off homemadeireworks and related devices—acquireheir working materials:

A second category of high-yield explosives thatare obtained primarily by the core pyrotechnistincludes such things as dynamite and variousliquid and plastic explosives used for both military

and industrial purposes. In certain areas, dynamiteis reportedly very simple to acquire. I wasinformed that in a neighboring state, anyone over eighteen years of age with a “respectable purpose”could make an over-the-counter purchase of dynamite. During the study, Arnold, Russell, andHank made an excursion to that state to buy,among other things, eight sticks of the explosive.As Arnold remarked: “We just said we had a minesouth of—that we were working, and the only

purpose we had in mind was to set it [thedynamite] off, just like anyone who usesfirecrackers—just for the entertainment of it.” He



further reported that he and the others proceededto detonate the dynamite in a remote spot to avoidthe risk of transporting the explosive across statelines back to their home state.

Here, the ethnographer employs fieldnotess illustrations or “exemplars” (Atkinson990) of a claimed pattern, selecting and

eworking them to explicate and documenthose claims. As a result, fieldnotes anddeas are merged into a single, flowing text

written in a single voice. The writer does

ot mark differences between fieldnotesecorded in the past and presentnterpretations through textual devices but,ather, indicates this shift through such

ransitional phrases as “for example” or “aelling episode.”

In contrast, an excerpt strategy visuallymarks fieldnote excerpts off fromccompanying commentary andnterpretation, usually by indenting and/or



talicizing the fieldnotes. Consider theollowing paragraph from an ethnographicection on “the difficulties which autistic

lients experience as they attempt tontegrate into the community.” The author egins the paragraph with the analyticoint that neighbors frequently treat them

n a “stigmatizing manner.” Then, sherovides an excerpt to illustrate the pointhe is making:

At times, people in the community respond moreinclusively to clients, although in a stigmatizingmanner. At a local bowling alley, a bartender attempted to accommodate John but patronizedhim instead:

I went with John to the bowling alley to get hiscoffee. John asked the man behind the bar if hecould have a “very large coffee.” The man gavehim a cup of coffee and then, when John went to

pay for it, the man handed back the dollar bill andsaid, “I forgot your birthday last year, HappyBirthday.” John put the dollar back into his pocket



and said, “Thank you,” to the man. When we got back into the car, John said, “It’s just my birthday.I’m going to get some things to open up.” Johncontinued to repeat these phrases (to“perseverate”) until another situation redirectedhim.

Although the bartender gives John positive socialreinforcement, he too treats him in adiscriminatory way. John in trying to “fit in” in hiscommunity receives a response showing that heremains locked out. The bartender’s “specialtreatment” of John reveals that he views him as“special”—different—deserving of or in need of a

break. In the bartender’s attempt to do a gooddeed, he further stigmatizes a person who alreadyhas to work hard to attain the minimal entrance hereceives into his own community.

Here, the particularized instance clarifieshe more analytic statement the author setsorth as the topic sentence. The fieldnoteescription inclines the reader to be

ersuaded by her analysis. Then, throughnalytic commentary following the



xcerpt, this ethnographer extends her nitial point by considering several featuresf the interaction found in the fieldnote:

ohn’s trying to fit in, the bartender’sositive reinforcement, and the subtlytigmatizing effect of special treatment.

The fieldnote is easily recognized as an

xcerpt since it is indented. This visualayout enhances the discursive contrastetween descriptive and analytic writing. Itlso produces distinctly dialogic text sincehe ethnographer speaks in two differentoices—as fieldworker describing thexperience depicted in the excerpt and asuthor now explaining those events toeaders.

Furthermore, by visually separatingxcerpts from commentary, this mode oresentation frames fieldnote excerpts asccounts composed in the past, close to



vents in the field. In this sense, excerptinghapes up fieldnote bits as “evidence,” as

what was “originally recorded,” standing

n contrast to subsequent interpretation.ndeed, through clear-cut excerpts, thethnographer adopts a stance toward theeader that says, “Here is what I heard and

bserved, and then here is the sense that Iow make of it.”

Many ethnographers develop areference for one or the other option andmploy it consistently throughout a givenext.7 But it is also possible to use bothntegrative and excerpt strategies atifferent places and for different writingurposes. The integrative style promotes amoother, more thematically focusedresentation of field data. It allows theuthor to convey many ideas in a concise,ocused manner, since the writer heavily



etting readers see for themselves thegrounds” for analytic and interpretivelaims. By textually distinguishing

ieldnote and analysis, the excerpt stylenvites the reader to assess thenderpinnings, construction, anduthenticity of the interpretations offered.

Clearly, this strategy relies heavily uponhe rhetorical impact of presentingieldnote excerpts as “evidence” collectedrior to, and perhaps independently of, theventual interpretation. Finally, the excerpttrategy allows for maximum presentationf unexplicated details and qualities ovents observed in the field. For thnographers need not, and in practice doot, explicate every aspect of the fieldnotexcerpts they incorporate into the text.

Rather, they often allow the scenes topeak for themselves. Containing more



han the ethnographer chooses to discussnd analyze, such excerpts give depth andexture to ethnographic texts. In fact, these

nexamined qualities or details contributeo readers’ tacit understanding of thecenes or events being described andnalyzed. In this strategy, the excerpts

voke as well as convince and, thus, standut as striking, central, key writing in thethnographic story.

Despite stylistic and other differences,ntegrative and excerpt textual strategieshare the common goal of interweavingortions of fieldnotes with analyticommentary. In this sense, both involve

writing coherent units combining analysiswith fieldnote data. We now address thepecific writing processes involved inreating excerpt-commentary units.

reating Excerpt-Commentary Units



To maximize the interplay betweennalytic idea and excerpt, a fieldnote-

entered analytic commentary does aumber of things. It focuses attentionhrough an analytic point, illustrates andersuades through a descriptive excerpt

ntroduced by relevant orienting nformation, and explores and developsdeas through commentary grounded in theetails of the excerpt. We use the term

xcerpt-commentary unit to characterizehis basic component of ethnographic

writing. While in some instances all theseomponents can be combined into a singlearagraph built around a particular piece oieldnote data, in others, full explication ohe excerpt may require a number oaragraphs. We examine howthnographers write such units using anxcerpt strategy; we would point out,



owever, that the integrative strategyenerally involves only minor variations inhe procedure.

Consider the following completexcerpt-commentary unit from anthnography of a storefront continuationigh school for gay and lesbian students.

Following a paragraph introducing theheme of the section—students subtlyndermine teachers’ power and role bysexualizing” exchanges—the author hasresented and interpreted a typical incidentf “sexualizing.” He then moves to thisnit:

analyticoint

orientingnformation

Furthermore, students sometimes position themselves as more powerfulthan the staff members by sexualizingthe staff members’ instructionalcomments. The following excerpt is

between Michael, the tutor, and Mark, astudent:



Excerpt

Soon after Michael had leftthe room, after his exchange withChris, he came back and looked atMark and said, “Come with me,Mark.” Mark, who at this pointwas putting some of his

belongings in his back pack, hadhis back turned to Michael andsaid, “I don’t want to come withyou.” While he said this, helooked up slightly toward Chrisand smiled. The others [allstudents] laughed

analytic

There are several aspects of thisexcerpt which are of particular importance. First is the sequence inwhich the comments occur. Theteacher’s command, “Come with me,” isa function of his authority as a staff member, and Mark’s subsequent

sexualization is a challenge to thisauthority. Second, Mark not only refuseshis authority command but also, bytreating Michael’s comment as a sexual

proposition which he then turns down,

further enhances his status. In essence,Mark had positioned himself as the more powerful of the two “potential partners”



ommentary by refusing the staff member’s“advance.” Finally, the fact that this wasdone in front of the other studentsgreatly affects the consequences of theinteraction. When the other studentslaugh at Mark’s comment, they areacknowledging the sexual component of his remark to the point that Michaelcannot simply overlook the sexual aspectas he could if they were alone. In other words, the students’ laughter makes thesexual component of Mark’s commentreal and consequential for Michael’s roleas staff member.

The author begins the segment with hisnalytic point —that students mayexualize staff orders as a way oedefining and resisting them. Thistatement not only links back to ideas inreceding paragraphs, thus contributing tohe theme of the section and to the overalltory of the ethnography; it also “instructs”he reader in how the writer intends for



im to read and interpret that excerpt byirecting attention to certain of its features.

Following the analytic point, the author

rovides orienting information by writingshort sentence that acts as a bridge to thexcerpt. This information identifies the

major characters in the scene by name and

ole. Since the author has alreadyescribed the physical structure and dailyoutines of this small school, he canssume that the reader understands that thection takes place in a classroom. He alsossumes that the reader can understand theignificance of the events that are about toranspire without knowing exactly whenuring the day this incident occurred or xactly what was involved in thenspecified encounter between the tutor nd another student, Chris. In manyircumstances, however, the author needs



o orient readers explicitly to the contextnd previous actions of about-to-be-ecounted events. Following this orienting

entence, the author presents his excerpt inndented form.Finally, the ethnographer discusses the

nteraction described in the excerpt in

more extended analytic commentary,aising three issues relevant to his theme:irst, that Mark’s remark represented ahallenge to the teacher’s authority;econd, that Mark pulled off this challengey interactionally reframing thenstructor’s command as a sexualroposition, playfully transforming their espective roles; and, finally, that other tudents made up an audience to thisxchange, their laughing responseonfirming and dramatizing the sexualized

meaning Mark had offered and making this



ncident a consequential challenge toMichael’s authority.

In analytic commentaries, then,

thnographers tell readers what they wanthem to see in the fieldnote. It is generallyelpful when writing analyticommentaries to consider such questions

s the following: What are the implicationsf the events or talk recounted in thexcerpt? What nuances can be teased outnd explored? What import does this sceneave for the analytic issues addressed inhe paper? Indeed, ethnographic writersften develop such commentary byxploring the tension set up between theocused idea and the more textured andomplex fieldnote. Rather than justonsidering outcomes, for example, the

writer might examine the negotiateduality of the interactions that lead to a



articular outcome (e.g., transforming anrder into a sexual proposition; examininghe role of other students as audience).

Although ethnographers may havewritten their fieldnotes in either past or resent tense, they usually write their nalytic points in the “ethnographic

resent.” This convention portrays thencident recounted in the excerpt asemporal and historical, whereas it presentshe analytic commentary as ahistorical andeneralizable. 9 Indeed, analysis inevitablyeneralizes specific individuals, uniquenteractions, and local events—at least toome extent. But these abstractions never eer too far when commentary staysrounded in fieldnote excerpts. Thepecificity and interactional dynamics, soividly clear in the excerpt, temper theeneralizability of abstract insights.



In writing an excerpt-commentary unit,he ethnographer must closely examine his

writing strategies to check whether idea

nd description reinforce each other. In aieldnote-centered ethnography, a creativeension exists between analytic points andllustrative excerpts; the ethnographer tells

he story through both excerpt andommentary, and, thus, ideas andescriptive details must support each other.

An excerpt should not only further a themer concept; it should also convince theeader that the ethnographer’s specificnterpretation and more general story areustified. Conversely, the ethnographer hould also ensure that the analytic pointighlights the details of the excerpt. Oftenn checking the fit of fieldnote andommentary, the ethnographer must revisehe latter to bring it closer to the excerpt.



n some instances, this revision so changeshe analytic commentary that it becomesrrelevant to the theme of the section;

onsequently, the entire excerpt-ommentary unit may have to be deleted or moved—at least for the moment—until itselevance becomes clear.

A discrepancy between idea andescriptive detail might also arise fromensions between the implicit point of viewn the excerpt and that implied by thenalytic claim. To be convincing, theerspectives of the analytic point and theescription must conform. For example, atudent-ethnographer studying a juvenileetention hall wished to focus histhnographic story on juveniles’ responseso staff authority. Yet, consider theollowing excerpt and the perspective itresents:



The boys sitting in the dayroom had expressionlessfaces. One Hispanic boy rested his feet on one othe plastic chairs, and L told him to take his feet

off. He took his feet off of the chair, and then Lwalked down the hallway. When she came back tothe control room a few minutes later, she noticedthat the boy’s feet were back on the chair, and shecalled him to the control room. He walked in witha grin on his face. She asked why he put his feet

back on the chair, and he shrugged and looked atthe ground. She then told him that when she tellshim what to do, he had better do it. She told him togo and sit down in the dayroom.

Despite an initial focus on “the boys sittingn the dayroom,” this excerpt quickly shiftsrom the point of view of an anonymous

bserver of the boys’ activities to that ohe adult probation officer charged withmaintaining control in this setting. Thistaff point of view conflicts with an

nalytic focus on the activities of the boysnd their responses to adult authority. 10



The fit between fieldnote excerpt andnalytic point should be seen as part of therogression of the whole ethnographic

tory. The author should think not onlybout writing an analytic point thatevelops the theme of this section but alsobout how this excerpt and accompanying

ommentary will convince through thenterplay of fieldnote details and ideas and,herefore, move the story along. In writingxcerpt-commentary units, the analyticoint does not so much govern the excerpts it highlights its features; the excerpttself—as previously constructed— onstrains what analytic points the author an now make and how to angle them. In aense, a thematic narrative progresseshrough incremental repetition. Each unitoth repeats the theme but also, throughmall increments, adds some further ideas



nd glimpses of people. The repeated look t the section theme from different angleseepens the reader’s understanding.

Finally, the ethnographer shouldonsider the implications of excerpt-ommentaries already included in thethnographic story for any additional such

nits that might be developed. Indeed,Katz (1988a:142) argues that well-craftedthnographies possess a “weblikeharacter,” allowing readers to use dataffered in support of one idea to confirmr disconfirm other ideas. Thethnographic author, aware of theseonfirming and disconfirming possibilities,hould be sensitive to the import onexamined features of other fieldnotexcerpts and analytic commentaries for urrent theoretical claims.

In sum, the ethnographer does not allow



preexisting theory or thesis to overlyetermine how fieldnote excerpts arenalyzed. Rather, she works back and forth

etween coding, potential excerpts, andnalytic points so that, together, they movehe story along. This process implants areative tension between excerpts and

nalysis which enhances the story andeepens the reader’s understanding of the

world it represents.

diting Excerpts

n writing an excerpt-commentary unit, the

thnographer reconstructs the relevantxcerpt. The researcher begins byeviewing the original fieldnote to decide

which portions to highlight and move to

reate a working excerpt. This decisionnvolves making an initial determination



bout exactly where to start and where tond that excerpt. Generally, leaving in,ather than cutting, a longer fieldnote

egment is a prudent policy in makinghese first cuts since the author can later liminate portions that prove extraneous.

The ethnographer continues to review

nd edit these initial excerpts as shelaborates an interpretive commentary. Ashis process continues, we recommendhoroughly editing an excerpt as part of therocess of writing an excerpt-commentarynit. Since the author is immersed in theetails of the excerpt and its variousnalytic possibilities, this moment is anpportune time for assessing whichortions of the fieldnote are pertinent tohese issues and which are irrelevant. Suchlose reflection concerning the excerpt

may push the researcher to new insights



nd analytic refinements. In building aomplete excerpt-commentary unit, theuthor often decides to modify his decision

bout the point at which the excerpt beginsnd ends, often deciding to make his pointmore economically by shortening thexcerpt and providing background details

s orienting information in the prior text.These editing decisions depend both

pon the purposes for including an excerpte.g., providing vivid detail) and upon thessues pursued in the analytic commentary.

But in editing excerpts, ethnographers alsoonsider a number of more general criteria,ncluding length, relevance, readability,omprehensibility, and anonymity onformants.

An excerpt should be held to anppropriate length. An excerpt should notamble on endlessly just because the



escription or talk might be interesting;eaders find it difficult to sustain attentionnd interest through long stretches—that

s, pages—of unbroken fieldnotes. Ieleting material is not advisable, thethnographer can break up the initialxcerpt into a series of smaller, separate

nits and write interpretive commentaryor each one. Relevance provides a primary concern in

diting fieldnote excerpts. In decidingelevance, the field-worker must weighoth what qualities are vital to theescriptions provided and what qualitiesontribute to the theme of the section or nalytic point of the unit. Thus, anthnographer begins by marking thoseeatures that are core to the interaction andhat reveal the point made. Then, she caneview the intervening material and reflect



n which portions can be deleted andwhich need to be retained to providearrative continuity or to evoke a sense o

cene and context. Following the editingonventions for elisions in a quotation, shehen replaces the deleted portions withllipses. Ethnographers should take special

are in editing interview dialogue not toelete their own questions. Since theseuestions shape the answers given, theyhould be preserved as the context for theesponses of the person interviewed.

Consider the decisions Rachel Fretzmade in excerpting and editing fieldnoteso include in an analysis of Chokwe tellingistorical accounts ( kulweza sango ) inorthwest Province of Zambia (1995b).he was interested in the ways in whichonventions common in narratingraditional stories were also employed in



elling historical accounts about events thatccurred in the recent past. 11 She focusedn one instance of Chokwe storytelling

bout an aspiring political figure, Mushala,who, failing to win legitimate power,ecame an outlaw leading a band ooldiers who terrorized the community.

Eventually, the government soldiers cameo the area to search for Mushala and toree the community from his raids. Severalisteners had witnessed these events, andthers had heard many reports of them;hey occasionally offered their remarks andnsights during the narration. Theieldworker tape-recorded the narrationnd audience comments; in her fieldnotes,he wrote primarily about theircumstances of the storytelling, theamily members present, and what their eactions were afterward that evening and



he next day. She began to work on her nalysis by listening to the tape and byereading the following extended fieldnote:

We asked Uncle John if he knew anything aboutthe events connected with Mushala. He paused andanswered, “Yes, I know it very well.” He began

talking slowly, in serious tone of voice. Henarrated about the way Mushala hunted and chasedthe Chokwe and Lunda peoples of this area: aboutthe burning of villages, the slaughter of farmanimals, about the villagers escaping into the bushto live there. He narrated for about one hour and ahalf. During the entire time, the family sat therevery still. Uncle Don joined the group, but sat tothe side with his own charcoal burner: Jerald, hisnephew, went over to join him. Only occasionallydid someone comment. [Listen to tape.] I noticedthat it was a very traditional scene there by thefireside: a grandfather, two maternal uncles, andtheir nephews. Except for Joe’s wife, Kianze, ayoung girl traveling with me, and myself, it was allmen. [Most of the women were sitting by a fire in

the kitchen house nearby and were also listeningattentively.]



Before the evening was over the women, Nyalona and Kalombo, went home across the road.And Nyakalombo, the grandmother, went inside tosleep. Mwatavumbi (grandfather) was dozing andwhen he woke up, he went to bed too. And stillUncle John narrated: as I sat there, I noticed thathe used the dramatic effects and dialogueconventions of storytelling and built his plot to

peak and end with the killing of Mushala.When he ended, everyone sat still for a while. I

said, “Thank you,” and then they started talking— Frank, Chester, and Uncle Don talked, each addingtheir personal knowledge of events. Don asked his

brother John a question and he narrated more: hisown father had known Mushala. He also talkedabout Chilombo, a neighbor, who was involved inthese events. (Chilombo is the well-dressed man— in suit and tie who came by one day to talk inKiChokwe to me near the chisambwe [the pavilionwhere the men and guests sit]. He asked me if I

would come to his village because he had storiesto tell. I said I would come some time. Now today,Jerald said that he met him in town and that heasked him why I had not come and that I had

promised. Jerald said that he—Chilombo—hadwaited for me. Next time!)

At the end of taping the narration, Mwatushiasked everyone to say his or her name. Even after



the recorder was off, people just sat there andtalked a while longer, rather spellbound by theshocking events. As we crossed the road toreturn to our village, Mwatushi, Uncle John,Chester, Jerald, Kianze, and I kept talkingabout it. They told me (and demonstrated) howthe villagers would cross the road backward, sothat their footprints would seem to be going inthe opposite direction so as to confuse thesoldiers.

It took me a long time to fall asleep—in mymind, I kept hearing the song, “Kanda uliyamwana, kanda uliya. Kaakwiza akuloze.” [“Don’tcry my child, don’t cry; they’ll come to shootyou.” It’s a song composed by contemporaryChokwe who crossed the river to escape from thewar in Angola—our earlier topic of conversationthat evening.] I felt as though there were peoplehiding in the bush from the soldiers. We all slept along time the next morning.

Today at lunch, Mwatushi said that it wasMushala’s wife who betrayed him to the soldiers because she saw that eventually he would kill her family and her whole village. When she was near childbirth, they called a midwife to come stay withher in the bush. After the birth, one day whenMushala was away, she decided to leave with themidwife, and then they ran into four soldiers. She



told them who she was and that she would tellthem where he was hiding. She also told themhis charms and that they would be protectedagainst them if they were naked, but they wereashamed, so she took off all her clothes, andthey all walked naked on the path. Then theycame to a pool of water, and she said you mustwash here so that he cannot see you coming.Then they heard Mushala coming, and theystepped back into the bush. He came carryinghis gun on his shoulder. He passed the firstsoldier who was shaking with fear and couldnot move. He passed the second soldier whoalso was shaking with fear and could not move.Then the third soldier shot him right in the eye

and then in the chest. Mushala tried to walk on,but could not. He fell down. Then they all cameand hit him with their bayonets. And that ishow he died. Thus, Mwatushi told the story othose events.

n reflecting on this extended fieldnote, theuthor came to see analytic issues in thewo highlighted passages. The first

uggested the possibility that, as part oheir response to storytelling, people might



eenact certain actions; such associationsre most likely when a detail in the presentandscape reminds them of traumatic

vents that had occurred there in theast. 12 The story of Mushala had evokedn listeners the memory of the abandonedillages, the surrounding bush where they

id, and the road that people had to crosss they sneaked back to their villageccasionally to get supplies. To develop anxcerpt-commentary unit, the author elected out and edited this brief accountf the reenactment of walking backward torick Mushala’s soldiers:

As we crossed the road to return to our village, . . .[we] kept on talking about it. They told me (anddemonstrated) how the villagers would cross theroad backward, so that their footprints would seemto be going to the opposite direction so as to

confuse [Mushala’s] soldiers.



he introduced the excerpt by saying thateople were going home in the eveningfter hearing the tale. Thus, she did not

eed to include that information in thexcerpt. She also deleted specific names opeakers but kept the real name of Mushalaecause he was a public figure—a

ommon convention in excerptedieldnotes; she also clarified in a brackethat it was Mushala’s soldiers, not theovernment soldiers, who wereersecuting the people and from whomhey were hiding their comings and goings.

The second passage suggested the ideahat people recount and shape events to fitonventional story patterns. In the moreasual conversation the next day,

Mwatushi drew on familiar narratingonventions to recount how Mushala died:he use of charms to make oneself invisible



and invulnerable) and the repetition ohree attempts to kill the villain with onlyhe last effort succeeding.

She told them [the government soldiers] about his[Mushala’s] charms and that they would be

protected against them if they were naked, but theywere ashamed, so she took off all her clothes, andthey all walked naked on the path. Then they cameto a pool of water, and she said you must washhere so that he cannot see you coming. Then theyheard Mushala coming, and they stepped back intothe bush. He came carrying his gun on hisshoulder. He passed the first soldier who wasshaking with fear and could not move. He passedthe second soldier who also was shaking with fear and could not move. Then the third soldier shothim right in the eye and then in the chest. Mushalatried to walk on but could not. He fell down. Then

they all came and hit him with their bayonets. Andthat is how he died.

n editing this passage, the author did not

nclude the wife’s reasons for betrayingMushala since they were not directly



elevant to a discussion of these narrativeonventions. She also avoided making anyditorial changes in the wording of this

ccount; she wanted to maintain as muchf the sequence and details of Mwatushi’setelling as she could even though it is noterbatim dialogue. She added clarification

n brackets and determined whatackground information she could mostfficiently provide in sentences leadingnto the excerpts.

Thus, when preparing a fieldnote for ainal text, the ethnographer usually musto more than simply leave out portions olonger fieldnote; rather, she sometimes

efocuses and sharpens details in her diting. Consider the decisions that Lindahaw (1988) made when describingorrowing and lending patterns amongesidents of a psychiatric board-and-care



ome. Her original fieldnote is not onlyonger, but is also more detailed, than thedited fieldnote.

Original Fieldnote:I went into the dining room to see what the snackswere and came upon Marie angrily talking toMichelle about the fact that Michelle told Reid notto lend her money. Michelle replied that she didn’ttell Reid not to lend Marie money, but that heshouldn’t lend anyone money, that he should keephis money for himself. Marie wanted to know whoMichelle thought she was telling people not tolend to her, that she wasn’t bumming but always

paid her friends back. The argument went on thisway for a little while, seeming to escalate as Mariecharged Michelle with trying to cause her troubleand Michelle defending herself, saying that shehadn’t done anything to Marie. Then Mic, the only

other member sitting at the table, said something —can’t exactly remember what—that seemedintended to lighten the conversation but had theeffect of getting Marie off onto talking aboutPatsey being Mic’s girlfriend and how could he

have such a fat girlfriend. Mic defended himself,saying Patsey wasn’t so fat, and they had onlydated anyway.



In the midst of this diversion, Michelle got upand left the dining room. Marie then turned to meand asked if everyone at Vista didn’t bum money.I agreed that it was done by quite a lot of people.She said that Michelle was new, had only beenthere a month, what right did she have goingaround telling people not to loan to her when that’swhat everyone here does. She said again,“Michelle is new. Just wait until she is here for awhile. She’ll be doing it too.” Marie went on tosay that she helps her friends out when they needit. She spoke about having given Earl and Kara her entire rebate check last month because they wereout of money, and she felt sorry for them.

Edited Fieldnote:In the dining room after dinner, I came upon Marieangrily accusing Michelle, a new resident, ohaving told Reid, another resident, not to lend her money. Michelle insisted she had urged Reid tokeep his money for himself and not to lend anyonemoney, never mentioning Marie. Marie demandedto know just who Michelle thought she was, telling

people not to lend to her; she wasn’t bumming butalways paid her friends back. Eventually Michelle



we see how intensely those in the homemay feel when these sources arehreatened. In editing this excerpt, the

uthor preserved indirect speech in theriginal form and in the same order. Sheetained those parts of the fieldnote thatevealed the grounds for participating in

he system of exchange and edited outentences and phrases describing actionshat were unrelated to these issues (Micnd his girlfriend). She included aspects o

Marie’s talk that described those aspects oer participation that, in her view,emonstrated that she had entered into thexchange system (giving to others) in wayshat entitled her to ask of them in return.

Finally, she included Marie’s explanationhat only an outsider who had not fullyxperienced the need to call upon others

would have questioned participation in the



ystem of exchange. Hence, the author dited the fieldnote, dropping some of theescription but preserving those sentences

nd phrases that bore most directly on thatoint. In the end, editing involves theelicate balance between efforts toreserve the essence of what members say

nd do while focusing the reader’sttention on those bits of talk and actionhat most clearly and economically supporthe story the ethnographer is attempting toell.

Thus, the process of editing is not atraightforward, simple task. On the oneand, shortening and editing for clarityorwards the smooth flow of the overallthnographic story: Excerpts that are tooong bog the reader down in extraneousetails. On the other hand, there is alwayshe risk in any condensation or selective



uotation that the author will leave outetails that might present people and their ctions more convincingly, as one always

oses some of the vividness andomplexity of the original fieldnotes in thediting process.

At times, field-workers encounter

roblems because an excerpt is especiallyrich” and contains materials that bear oneveral different themes. Simplyuplicating the fieldnote in several sectionsf the final text does not work. Becauseeaders quickly tire of unnecessaryepetition, ethnographers should avoidsing the same fieldnote excerpt more thanne time. Rather, the solution lies inlearly identifying the different analytichemes in the excerpt and then using thesehemes either to split the excerpt intondependent units or, if that is not possible,



o discuss the various aspects of thexcerpt sequentially. Consider an examplerom a study of domestic workers and their

mployers in which the following excerptwas initially used to illustrate workers’moral evaluations of their employers’ ownousekeeping practices:

“She never cleans her bathroom, and I couldn’t getthe scum off the—she had one of these tiledshowers? And we used a good product, but I toldher, ‘you leave that on overnight.’ ’Cause it was so

filthy. . . . In fact, when I left that lady (hah hah) Isaid, ‘I’m gonna leave it like this’ [leave a paste of Comet on the sink], and she had to rinse it off thenext day.”

On reviewing this excerpt, thethnographer decided to cut the worker’sast statement—about how she

maneuvered to make her employer finish

leaning up this mess herself—out of thexcerpt and to use it instead in a



ubsequent section on house-cleaners’ways of resisting and turning the tables onheir employers.

Ethnographers generally delete theeflective commentary they incorporatednto the original fieldnote. Rather thanetain these initial thoughts in the version

f the fieldnote that appears in the finishedthnography, she can incorporate anyseful insights into the analytic discussionhat follows the excerpt. Frequently,owever, the researcher will havelaborated and specified analytic issues touch an extent that earlier commentaryeems more simplistic or undeveloped and,hus, of minimal use. Furthermore, becausehe author writes, selects, edits, andrganizes excerpts, she already has arivileged voice. Excerpts dominated byhe fieldworker’s explanations sound



ontrived and become truly redundant in ainal ethnography. 13

The ethnographic writer edits to make

xcerpts readable by using standardonventions for punctuation, spelling, andrammar. For the sake of clarity, he shouldake particular care to revise unclear

entences and to correct confusing tensehifts in portions of the excerpts that areot direct quotations. The author, however,hould be very conservative in editingirect quotations, carefully balancing theeader’s need for clarity against aommitment to providing an accurateendering of people’s actual use of words.

Ethnographers take special care to preservend convey speakers’ dialect, idiom, andpeech rhythms. Even individual speechisfluencies—false starts, pauses, andepetitions—should be treated carefully.



For many purposes, producing readableialogue (especially from tape-recordedranscripts) requires editing out many such

isfluencies. 14 But in some circumstances,he author may specifically want toreserve such speech in order to indicatehe speaker’s emotional state or mood. For

xample, retaining the “and-and-and” inhe following excerpt reveals the speaker’sisturbed hesitancy as he talks about hismental illness” to the researcher:

“I’m telepathic. I can actually hear thought inother people’s heads. . . .” He said he wished hecould tell people but . . . “they’ll just increase mymedication. . . . No matter how drugged I am,

nothing can take away my telepathy. And-and-and-it’s not because of me. It’s because Jesus willsit for me.”

Furthermore, editing should makexcerpts comprehensible to readers. Theuthor must clarify any allusions —such as



ames, places, procedures—which dependn references external to the fieldnote. Shean do so when orienting the reader to the

xcerpt or for briefer, less central mattersy embedding a brief explanation inrackets within the text. For example, anuthor might identify the locally relevant

tatus of people named in the excerpt, suchs “the others [all students]” or clarify the

meaning of direct speech that might not belear in context, for example, “the onlyurpose we had in mind was to set it [theynamite] off.” At this time, thethnographer must once again verify thatll details are accurate; misrepresentationf factual information or of local termsery quickly tells readers that thisthnographer is not reliable. Indeed, a few

mistakes can undermine the credibility ohe whole story.



Finally, in most cases, an excerpt shouldrotect the people, institutions, andommunities studied by providing

nonymity . 15 Therefore, in completing thediting, an ethnographer changes all namesnd identifying markers such as personallyistinctive details in descriptions. Authors

rovide pseudonyms, generally echoingualities evoked (e.g., ethnic identity) byhe original name. We do not recommendsing initials to indicate differentharacters, since this minimaldentification makes gender difficult toemember, lacks evocative qualities, and

makes it difficult for a reader to recognizehat person in other excerpts.

rdering Excerpt-Commentary Units within a Section

With the overall framework as a guideline,



thnographers usually organize their thnographies into sections set off by titledeadings. Each section generally presents

ne theme, perhaps divided further intoeveral subthemes. A section is built fromseries of excerpt-commentary units. For

xample, the section of the ethnography on

he gay and lesbian high school entitledSexualization of Conversation” isonstructed of the following units:

First Unitanalytic point: “Sexual innuendos” are a common

means by which students sexualized talk to and

about teaching staff.excerpt: On finding out that a teacher’s age istwenty-seven, a student comments: “I’ve hadsex with someone who was twenty-eight—itwas gross.”



Second Unitanalytic point: Students sexualize their responses

specifically to staff instructions.excerpt: A student responds to staff command to

“come with me” as a sexual proposition.

Third Unit

analytic point: In some situations, staff do not letthe challenge implicit in student’s sexualizingcomments pass but themselves respond in waysthat reassert their position.

excerpt: Staff responds to a student who quipped

“search my tongue” when asked to throw awayhis gum: “I don’t want to—I’m sure many people already have.”

Fourth Unitanalytic point: In some instances, staff members

themselves use sexual talk in ways thatimplicitly maintain their authority.

excerpt: As a student turns down the researcher’soffer to help with math, staff member



comments: “Go ahead, you were asking abouthim earlier.”

Within a section, the ethnographer rganizes units to develop a progression odeas in ways that increasingly reveal theomplexities of fieldnote data and analysiso that the story progresses to a deeper nderstanding of the theme. In the abovexample, the first two units focus ontudents’ sexualizing talk, the thirdntroduces the added complication of howeaching staff respond to such talk, and theast looks at the more subtle issuesnvolved when staff initiate such talk.

To aid the reader in following therogression of ideas from one unit to theext, the author should provide a clear ransition that links the main idea of the

urrent paragraph to those of precedingaragraphs. In some cases, constructing a



ransition is a relatively straightforwardmatter of writing an introductory sentenceo the paragraph beginning a new unit. For

xample, the author of the “sexualizationf conversation” section provides thisransition sentence into his third unit:

Although, as in the previous excerpt, the staf members sometimes don’t respond to the students’sexualizing comments, this is not always the case.. . .

This transition refers back to the prior xcerpt, noting one feature not commentedn at the time: Staff did not explicitlyespond to students’ sexualizing talk. This

etroactively noted feature is then used tontroduce, by contrast, the focus of theurrent unit: how staff did respond to suchalk.

In other instances, when the analyticoint in a subsequent unit raises a



ignificantly different issue than that of thereceding one, the author should not relyimply on an introductory transitional

entence. Rather, she should also revise thereceding unit and explicitly anticipate thedea of the later one. For example, theransition to the second unit of the

sexualization of conversation” sectioneads:

Furthermore, the students sometimes positionthemselves as more powerful than the staff members by sexualizing the staff members’instructional commands. . . .

This sentence focuses on student

exualizing as a response specifically totaff “instructional commands.” However,n the first unit, the author had notonsidered the specific forms of staff-

tudent interaction within whichexualizing comments occurred. To now



earn that such comments are made inesponse to commands may leave theeader feeling slightly confused: Do

tudents respond in sexualized ways tother sorts of staff talk such as politeequests or general questions? Thus, theuthor should have revised the discussion

n the first unit to provide more context for his upcoming distinction.

In addition to deciding on the orderingf units, the author must also write anntroduction and conclusion to the section.

The introduction should connect the themef the section to the overall theme of thethnography, and it should discuss anyeneral features of that theme needed tonderstand and appreciate the ideas of theifferent units that follow. The author ntroduced the “sexualization oonversation” section, for example, with a



aragraph observing that studentsommonly sexualized conversations in thisetting and that “the sexualization is

onsequential to the power relationsetween staff member and student.” In thisway, the author linked the section back tohe major theme of the paper. In the next

aragraph, he argued that “sexualnnuendos” provide one form oexualizing, a form that is “particularlyseful for students since they arembiguous [and] indirect,” allowing denialf sexual intent.

Finally, in a conclusion to the section,he author tries to draw together themplications of the excerpts and analyticommentary for the core theme of theection. He may also suggest how thesessues tie in with the theme of the sectiono follow.



RODUCING A COMPLETED ETHNOGRAPHICOCUMENT

Depending upon the time available, thethnographer might rework units andections a number of times, replacingnitially selected excerpts with new ones,efining analytic commentary andransitions, reordering units within aection, and/or rearranging sections withinhe overall ethnography. Although she seestill further possible changes andefinements, at some point, she must stopevising and take up a series of final

writing tasks required to turn the nowubstantial body of text into a completedthnographic document. These projectsnclude titling the ethnography, writing an

ntroduction linking the topic and major heme to other research, describing the



etting and methods, and providing anverall conclusion to the ethnography.

ntroducing the Ethnography

The title and introduction to an

thnography provide readers with their irst means of orienting to the text. Theitle and introduction not only tell readers

what they can expect the ethnography to be

bout, but they also provide clues to thewriter’s analytic and substantive concerns.One kind of ethnographic title

ommunicates to the reader both the

eneral topic and exactly what people,etting, activity, or process was studied.

For example:

“Ritualized Drinking Behavior in the FraternitySystem”“Interactional Dynamics of Ethnicity at an Urban



High School”“Waiting to Die: An Ethnographic Study of aConvalescent Home”

Rather than simply stating the generalopic, however, an author may attempt toonvey the more abstract analytic theme ohe ethnography in a title. As Atkinson1990:76) has noted, ethnographers ofteno so by placing a colon after a phraseontaining the abstract, “generic” issue toink it to another phrase specifying theeneral topic and concrete “local” settingr activity:

“Systems of Power: Authority and Discipline in a

Boys Group Home”

Finally, the ethnographer may incorporateocal members’ terms or phrases as key

lements of a title:“The Dynamics of Down: Being Cool with the Set” “



‘These Kids Live in Their Own Little Worlds’:Interpretive Framework in a Halfway House”

In the first paragraph of the introductiono the ethnography, many authors begin

with an attention-getting opening. Theymay use an incident from their fieldnoteshat focuses on the topic or brieflyescribes common approaches to the topic.ext, the author very briefly introduces the

opic and location of his own research as aridge to presenting his thesis. In ahematic narrative, the author writes atopical thesis” sentence that explains theeneral focus of the paper and lays out the

hemes to be examined. In that sense, thehesis sentence does not delineate everyevelopment in the ethnographic story, or oreshadow the conclusions to be made at

he end. Rather, the thesis sentence gets thetory going. Finally, the author generally



rovides an overview of the paper byresenting the thematic statement for eachpcoming section.

For example, the author oInteractional Dynamics of Ethnicity at anUrban High School” writing in the early990s began by orienting the reader to his

opic.In everyday life, we commonly assume ethnicityas a given category. People belong to distinctgroups with unique cultural practices. We say thatthe President of the United States is white, that themagic of a people in Africa is Azande witchcraft,that rap is black music, that Cinco de Mayo is aMexican holiday, etc. We assume that we aredescribing what is objectively there. We are

simply stating the “natural facts” of the world.When we do become more aware of ethnicity as acategory, it is often because of conflict. Thenewspaper reports that a “black” girl was shot by a“Korean” storekeeper and that a “White Power”group is marching in a “Jewish” neighborhood.We ask, How did this happen? How can diverse

peoples get along? But we still imply that definite



aggregates of people exist and that they havedistinct cultures.

n this introductory paragraph, the author oints out that, in their talk about ethnicity,eople commonly assume that terms thatdentify ethnicity refer unambiguously toaturally occurring and distinctaggregates of people.” In his nextaragraph, he makes explicit the analytictance that he takes toward ethnicity:

What we ignore in this everyday discourse is thatethnicity is “social work”: People identify a

person, place, or thing as having a certain“character” through an implicitly interactionaldynamic of inclusion or exclusion. This process

creates what Barth calls “boundaries” ininteraction (1969). These boundaries are notobjective, but subjective borders, and they areconstantly being recreated, reaffirmed, negotiated,and even discarded. Thus, in everyday life,

ethnicity is a local phenomenon originating inspecific situations.



He proposes to look at ethnicity not as anbjectively given “fact” but rather as aroduct of “social work,” namely, of local,

nteractional negotiations of inclusion andxclusion. By citing another researcher, heuggests that this issue also interests other cholars and implies that his “new angle”

ontributes to a scholarly discussion.The author next substantiates his topic,

irst by identifying the subjects and settingf his research and, then, by specifying theort of data he will rely on:

In this paper, I examine ethnicity and ethnicgroups at an urban high school in SouthernCalifornia. The fieldnote excerpts describe the

processes by which people use ethnicity ineveryday life.

ext, he presents his general thesis about

thnicity in an interpretive statement aboutthnicity as situationally “recreated and



modified”:

I argue that through people’s interactions,“ethnicity” is perpetuated by constantly beingrecreated and modified within a situation. This“social work” in situations and throughinteractions then generates the discrete units ospecific groups, recognized as having particular cultures, symbols, styles, and objects. Thus, this

paper is a study of how people “ascribe theascribed” (Garfinkel 1967).

Finally, he closes this portion of thentroduction with an overview of hisrgument, briefly describing the main ideaor each upcoming section (seeDeveloping a Thematic Narrative,”

bove).In contrast to an introduction that beginsy setting up an analytic idea and thenubsequently identifies just what was

tudied, some ethnographers begin with anctual fieldnote-based description or



bservation. Following the presentation ohe specific details, they then pinpoint a

more general analytic issue or problem that

his incident represents. The abovethnographer, for example, might haveegun by describing an especiallyerspicuous instance of the “social work”

hat contributes to recreating andmaintaining a particular ethnic identity, for xample, an extreme or dramatic instancef a white student dressing, talking, or cting black. He could then have moved todentifying the general analytic problem or ssue that he saw reflected in, or illustratedy, this incident. 16

inking the Study to Other Research

As part of the introduction (or in a sectionmmediately following it), ethnographers



enerally link their interpretation to wider ssues of scholarly interest in their isciplines. In that way, they invite their

eaders to consider seriously the topics toe discussed and how their researchurthers or deepens an understanding ohem. At this point, the writer thinks again

f his intended readers and selects wordsnd ideas familiar to them.

For example, the author of the paper onthnicity writes for sociologists and thusiscusses the concept of “ethnicity” as it issed by sociologists. In each paragraph, heddresses some feature of the problem oesearch on ethnic issues. Although heiscusses other scholars’ research, he onlyaises those ideas about ethnicity that heddresses later in the body of the paper. Inis findings, he then offers analytic ideasnd fieldnote excerpts that touch on the



roblems he raises:

Marger (1991) notes that sociologists classifyethnic groups based on three indices: uniquecultural traits, sense of community, and ascription.First, ethnic groups have some unique behavioralcharacteristics that set them off from other people.Second, ethnic groups display a sense ocommunity among members. This “we” almost

seems to necessitate a “they” and leads to thecreation of ethnic group boundaries separatinginsiders and outsiders. Third, ethnic status isalmost always ascribed which usually means given

by birth. In presenting these traits, Marger

emphasizes a supposed objective criteria for ethnicity. Ethnicities are seen as discretecollectives that can be studied in relation to eachother. This approach is typical in many studies orace and ethnic relations in the United States. Andthe demographic data for this paper is analyzedthus.

Unfortunately, while this approach offersinformation for macro studies of society, it leads toa neglect of the subjective perception and dynamicfeatures of ethnicity in everyday life. It downplayshow “ethnic identity is an acquired and usedfeature of human identity available for



employment by either participant in an encounter and subject to presentation, inhibition,manipulation, and exploitation” (Lyman andDouglass 1973). In this approach, ethnicity is aresource to be used in strategic creation andmaintenance of self. . . .

For purposes of this study, an ethnic group isdefined as “a reference group invoked by peoplewho identify themselves and are identified byothers as sharing a common historical style”(Royce 1982). An ethnic group, thus, is asubculture with symbols, style, and forms. Unlikemany other subcultures though, membership in theethnic group is held to be ascriptive.

These few paragraphs briefly raiseroblematic issues in ethnic studies. In thisntroductory section on other research, theuthor does not attempt to provide anverview of all possible approaches tothnicity. Rather, he only selects thoseesearchers’ works and ideas that provide a

ontext for his own study. Thus, this writer mplicitly demonstrates the relevance o



is research to the other sociologists whore his intended readers.

In sum, the ethnographer does not

eview “the literature” on the topic nor oes she simply cite several works others. Rather, she carefully selects other esearch that provides a context for the

pcoming findings and only discusseshose ideas that highlight her own analysis.

ntroducing Setting and Methods

Before launching into the ethnographyroper, authors introduce their setting and

heir methods for learning about it. Settingnd methods can be discussed either ineparate sections or in a single sectionddressing both topics.

In describing the setting, thethnographer orients readers to the place,



eople, and situations to be examined inetail in the subsequent ethnography. Thisescription should help the reader picture

he physical and social features of theetting. It should also provide overviews ohe key individuals and of procedures or rocesses that are central to the substance

f the ethnography. The overview of keyndividuals, for example, might traceifferences between core and volunteer taff in a community mental health center r between managers and canvassers in aolitical action committee; the overview orocedures would address how clientsnter and move through the program, whatasic job responsibilities entail, anderhaps the overall organization of door-o-door canvassing.

This discussion of the setting, itsersonnel, and its routines should also



nticipate and highlight specific features ohe setting that are central for subsequentnalyses. For example, an ethnographer

writing about the nature and consequencesf staff practices for categorizing or abeling resident clients of a homelesshelter provides a two-pronged

ntroduction to the setting. First, heresents the types of clients sought by thehelter:

My fieldwork was carried out in an emergencyshelter for the homeless in the downtown area of Los Angeles. The shelter has a capacity of 54

persons but had an average house total of 35 or sofor the time I was there. The shelter’s primaryservice is to provide food and housing for personswho are absolutely broke. While in the shelter, the“clients,” as they are called by the staff, are also

provided with some assistance in looking for housing and dealing with the welfare bureaucracy.That stated target group for the shelter is the “newhomeless”; that is, persons who have only recentlylost their homes and been thrust upon the streets.



This is in contrast to those the staff refer to as the“chronic homeless” or “shelter hoppers” who have

been living on the streets for some time and whoare understood to move from shelter to shelter with no intention of finding a more stableresidence. . . .

The shelter’s other general criterion for admission is that they will take any sort of clientexcept for single men. They are one of the fewshelters that will handle homeless families withchildren, a fact that they pride themselves on. In

practice, the predominant client group consists of awoman with several young children.

The author then introduces the frontlinetaff whose routine work practices are toe examined:

The staff most relevant to the typifying tasks in theshelter are six Program Aides [PAs]. The six PAsare four black women between the ages oapproximately thirty and fifty, a younger whitewoman recently graduated from college, and atwenty-one-year-old white male seminary student.

None are trained social workers, perhaps due, atleast in part, to the extremely low pay PAs receive.



The PAs spend most of their working time in theoffice which overlooks the lounge on the secondfloor of the shelter (the first floor contains theoffices of the shelter while the third floor consistsof the clients’ rooms). The schedule is such thatthere is only one PA on duty at a time, apart froma one hour overlap period at the boundaries of theshifts.

He continues by describing PAs’ routineuties: answering the phone, screeningossible clients, maintaining logs, and son.

The ethnographer may move directlyrom such a description of key features ton overview of her entry into the settingnd of the nature of her participation in it.

Here, the ethnographer summarizes whathe actually did to get close to and learnbout the events and issues consideredhrough-out the ethnography. In so doing,t is important to explain how, and in whatapacity, she obtained initial access to the



etting, how those in the settingnderstood what she was doing and/or wasnterested in, and how different members

f the setting reacted to or treated her.It is generally useful to consider ifferent stages or phases in the research,istinguishing, for example, between

rocesses of initial entry, of getting used tohe setting and its participants, and ostablished, longer-term participation. Anthnographer working in a community

mental health center, for example, traceser socialization from initialncouragement to participate in a fewoutine activities under staff supervisionhrough observation and testing of her ompetence in dealing with highlyisturbed patients to eventually beingharged with conducting community

meetings with the clients.



In presenting their methods,thnographers seek to depict the variedualities of their participation and their

wareness of both the advantages andonstraints of their roles in a specificetting. The ethnographer of a community

mental health center, for example,

nalyzed these qualities of her role in theollowing terms:

My status is that of a “volunteer intern.” When Ifirst arrived here, I was not sure what thistitle/status entailed. As I became associated withthe staff and socialized into a staff role, I haverealized that my role is that of a lower staf member. I do not have the power, nor the

privileges, of a core staff member. For example,although I am encouraged to participate in CaseReview Meetings, my “insights” are not requiredto be considered for staff decisions.

uch an analysis demands that thethnographer reflect on the specific kinds



hard to go to the field to observe as a researcher because to observe means that I am there on behalof management, and I am the authority rather thana peer.

Finally, in presenting and analyzingmethods and their implications, it iselpful to include fieldnote excerpts to

llustrate and support key points. Thethnographer in the study of theommunity mental health center, for xample, presented the following

ieldnotes—the first to show the character f the “testing” that she was subject torom one staff member during her first

week at the center and the second to

llustrate how her role differed fromregular staff ”:

I was playing ping-pong with a client when I sawCathy, a caseworker, point David in my direction.David walked over to me and said: “Hi. I’m thePresident, and I demand that you go to the Alaskan



pipeline to save the world and my sister in Kansas.You must do this—it is your duty to your Country.You must save the world.” Out of the corner of myeye, I saw Cathy and a couple of other staf members giggling. I responded: “Well, David, I’msorry but that’s just too big of a responsibility for me.” David: “You must save the world.” He thenwalked away. Cathy came over to me and said:“He’s really crazy, isn’t he?” She laughed. “Don’tworry. He’s just about the craziest one we’ve got.”

Today we were having client nominations for government. The clients were nominating other clients for President and Vice President. Norman(a client) nominated me for VP. Arlene (arttherapist) stepped in and said to Norman: “Karinacannot be nominated. She is a staff member andcannot be nominated.”

While discussions of the setting and ohe complexities of doing field researchighlight features and processes that areentral to upcoming ethnographic analyses,

hey can also lend credibility to the finalocument. 17 These descriptions may



llow readers to assess whether or not thenthnographer had access to the kinds anduality of observations needed to sustain

ubsequent analytic claims. With thisackground information to draw on, theeader may be more inclined to assumehat the author is credible and informed.

ndeed, ethnographers may select fieldnotexcerpts about their involvement exactly inrder to implicitly convince the reader that I was there and experienced thisirsthand.”

Writing a Conclusion

Finished ethnographic texts usually endwith a section that reflects on andlaborates the thesis addressed in the

ntroduction to the paper. Hence, whileaturally among the last pieces of writing



he author does, conclusions are intricatelyied to introductions. 18 Often, theonclusion explores the implications of the

heoretical and/or substantive issues raisedn the paper’s introduction. In anthnographic paper, the wording of thentroductory thesis focuses the reader on

he central idea, but often this idea may note as sharply delineated as the concludingresentation of the thesis. Whereas thentroduction prepares the reader tonderstand the upcoming analytic pointsnd excerpts, the conclusion morerecisely interconnects the ideas because,y the paper’s end, the reader has read the

whole ethnographic story and absorbed theetails of its fieldnote excerpts. In other

words, the ethnography tells a story thatan be understood fully only by readinghe progression of analytic ideas and



ieldnote excerpts. Each section with itsheme, points, and discussion of excerpts

moved the reader further along toward the

onclusion with its more finely tunedhesis.

To write a conclusion, the ethnographer hould review the now completed tale,

aying particular attention to the framingf that story in the introduction. In mostases, it is useful to write a summary of the

major findings and themes of the paper.This summary should generally restate thehesis of the paper and then in short,oncise sentences suggest how eachection advances or contributes to thishesis. In some cases, the ethnographer

may choose to use the summary to beginhe conclusion. In others, he may moveirectly to other issues without a summary.

Yet, even when one does not plan to make



summary part of the conclusion, writingne is beneficial to the ethnographer; itorces the author to turn from the minute

roblems of writing up specific ideas andegments to a review of the overalltructure and flow of his paper. The results a gestalt view of the ethnography’s

nitial promises compared to where it hasctually gone that gets the writer thinkingbout some of its wider implications.

Whether the author summarizes or not,onclusions take up the paper’s thesis. Thethnographer may do so in at least three

ways: (1) by extending or modifying thehesis in light of the materials examined;2) by relating the thesis to some moreeneral theory or current issue in theelevant literature; and/or (3) by offering a

meta-commentary on the thesis, themethods, or assumptions associated with



t. An author might employ only one ohese options, or she might weave together wo, or even all three, options in one

onger, more elaborate conclusion.As an example of the first option,onsider some of the concluding portionsf the ethnographic study on how family

aregivers of persons with Alzheimer’sisease manage the stigma associated withhis condition. The introduction to thistudy had highlighted Goffman’s (1971)oncept of the “family information rule,”amely, the preference for family memberso keep knowledge of the stigmadiscrediting information) within theamily to prevent outsiders from learningbout the problem. In the conclusion, theuthor returns to this issue, suggesting that,s the disease worsens, there is a radicalhange in the family’s ability to honor this



nformation rule:

The Alzheimer’s caregiver will try for as long as possible to collude with the family member,continuing to abide by the family information ruleto the extent that she or he is able and limitinginitial disclosures to intimates and medical

personnel. However, there may well come a pointwhere the caregiver realizes that she or he cannot

count on the person with Alzheimer’s to becognizant of what is discrediting, let alonemotivated or able to collude in trying to cover it upor minimize its embarrassment. Thus, theinformation control within the family tends to give

way to more direct caregiver interpersonal andinteractional control.The caregiver increasingly relies on a variety o

management practices to control the individual, both within the private family domain as well asoutside it. And, as the person with Alzheimer’scan no longer play the collusive game, caregiversgradually come to align with outsiders, disclosingdiscrediting information.

Here, the author argues that while theamily caregiver initially seeks to honor



he family information rule, to do soequires cooperation from the person with

Alzheimer’s disease. When such

ooperation can no longer be counted on,he caregiver increasingly violates the ruley disclosing discrediting information toutsiders in order to enlist their help in

managing the patient. In this way, theuthor highlights how her findings would

modify Goffman’s notion, pointing outreviously unnoted conditions underlyinghe operation of the family informationule and identifying the circumstances thatead family members to violate it.

Another way that authors might extend ahesis statement is to develop theoreticalinkages between separate components ohe thesis. For example, in the introductiono the study of residents in a home for ex–

mental patients, the introductory thesis



ointed to two conflicting tendencieswithin the home: residents’ dependence ontaff members and the residents’ ability to

ctively influence staff views of them. Inhe conclusion, the author uses her morepecific analyses of these relations toxplicitly connect these contradictory

endencies as parts of an ongoing viciousircle. Residents feel vulnerable to theower of staff and may respond by tryingo build credit and goodwill with them. Inrder to do this, they participate in therapyessions and other staff-initiated activities.

As a result, they gain the staff’s supportnd protection, but, in so doing, theyecome more directly dependent upon thetaff members who “sponsor” them. Thisnalysis thus links two patterns thatnitially appear separate and evenontradictory, pointing to an ironic



utcome whereby residents’ actionsntended to lessen vulnerability andependence on staff end up tightening that

ependence. In this option, the writer tellsn ethnographic story that progresses fromn initial thesis that highlighted conflictingendencies through an in-depth discussion

f analytic points with appropriate excerptso finally come to a conclusion thatntertwines these conflicting strands.

A second tactic for writing a conclusions to connect the ethnography’s thesis tossues raised in a relevant disciplinaryiterature. In the study of Alzheimer’samily caregiving, after the paragraphsuoted above, the author relates theontrast between colluding with the person

with Alzheimer’s and colluding withutsiders to a more general issue in theociology of deviance: When do family



members accept, tolerate, and continue toook out for another family member withome kind of stigmatizing condition or

ehavior, and when do they turn against,xclude, and implicitly reject this familymember? This issue had been addressed in

journal article entitled “Toward a

ociology of Acceptance: The Other Sidef the Study of Deviance” (Bogdan and

Taylor 1987) that the author cites ineveloping her argument:

Recognition of these two phases of caregiver stigma management, collusion with the personwith Alzheimer’s, and a realignment and collusionwith outsiders, allows for an integration of a

sociology of acceptance with a sociology of rejection (Bogdan and Taylor 1987).

Here, the author suggests the possibility onifying sociological theories about whynd how people tolerate deviants with



heories about why and how peoplexclude and reject deviants. Theseeactions need not be opposed, alternative

ourses of action; some forms of exclusionevelop exactly because of a deep andbiding commitment to caring for another nder conditions where the afflicted family

member can no longer be “counted on” byhe caregiver. This unity of acceptance andejection is frequently highlighted, theuthor argues, in caregivers’ deeplymbivalent feelings about having to takevertly rejecting actions toward the person

with Alzheimer’s disease:

Many caregivers were disturbed about having totake more and more control over their familymembers. In monitoring the person as well asusing physical coercion, they made suchcomments as, “I hate my nagging voice.” Or as

one caregiver said with regard to taking controlover his wife: “I have no right.”



n this way, the concept of acceptance islso extended to encompass rejectingctions that are performed reluctantly and

re combined with deep regret.A third option in writing a conclusion iso pause, step back, and reflect on thethnography in offering some meta-

ommentary on its methods, assumptions,one, or conclusions. In the study oesident life in the home for ex–mentalatients, the author not only addressedtaff-resident relations but also consideredow residents related to, and developedmportant social and supportive ties with,ne another. One section of thethnography explored the ways in whichesidents regularly exchanged certain items

with one another—cigarettes, food, andmall amounts of money. The author uggested that these exchanges and the



ontinuing relations they created andustained helped residents deal with thehronic deprivation that they faced. In one

ortion of her conclusion, however, sheeflected on how this earlier considerationf resident exchange “strategies” presentedn “overly rationalized,” game-playing

iew of these exchanges. This view, shergued, needed to be complemented byppreciation of the caring and emotionalualities also characteristic of thesexchanges as well as the role of thesexchanges in fostering a sense of sharingnd community among a number oesidents. The prior strategies-and-tacticsnalysis, she argued, tended to obscure andistort these critical processes.

In all these approaches to writing aonclusion, the ethnographer takes up,nce again, the problem of identifying and



writing out, in explicit, elaborated form,he relevance of some of her experiences,bservations, and insights into others’

ways of life for an outside audience. Buty proceeding in a way that keepsieldnotes at the center of the analyticrocess, the ethnographer is often able to

each understandings and makeonnections that do not neatly fit existingxplanations and theories in the discipline.

The refined, more precise thesis to beresented in the conclusion will moreikely privilege members’ views and show

what is interesting (and has theoreticalmport) about this local life in ways thatonvince one’s scholarly readers. Thus, the

more explicit thesis in the conclusion notnly represents what the ethnographer sawnd heard of members’ experiences butlso further clarifies known issues or



roposes an entirely original perspective.

EFLECTIONS: BETWEEN MEMBERS AND

EADERS

n producing an ethnography for wider

udiences, fieldworkers are constantlyulled by conflicts between representingome indigenous world and its meaningsor members and making their own

xperiences with that world speak to theery different concerns of scholarlyeaders. In creating a finished ethnographictory, the ethnographer self-consciously

rients toward the latter. In regularlyeturning to his fieldnote record and to the

memories bound up with and evoked byhis record, he is again and again remindedf the former.

While the give-and-take of relations in



he field continues to shape thethnographer’s understanding, the finishedthnography is the ethnographer’s version

f those happenings and events. Mostthnographic conventions allow the writer o represent others (and her experience

with them) as she sees best. In this sense,

he ethnographer openly assumes andxercises authorial privilege.

Even in those instances whenthnographers ask members to readortions or to comment on certainnalyses, the author has the final say aboutoth the text itself and the extent o

members’ evaluations of it (see Bloor 001; Duneier 1999; Emerson and Pollner 988; Rochford 1992). Despite the effortsf intensive participation, the attempts toearn members’ meanings, and the self-eflection in representing others’ realities,



he final document turns into a rather linear arrative, defined and controlled primarilyy the author. 19 Only when the reader’s

nterpretation differs from that of theieldworker do the many ways to interpretset of notes become explicit. But if this

thnographer keeps these various

ossibilities in mind while writing, hemight feel paralyzed, preventing any storyrom being told. Hence, an ethnographyemains one author’s vision of fieldxperiences and members’ worlds. And,hus, because the author controls the text,he takes on an authoritative voice in

writing. Nonetheless, the ethnographer

ometimes provides unintended glimpsesnto others’ everyday lives as readersiscern things that the ethnographer didot intend to reveal. In fact, reader



articipation in text-making can be aouble-edged advantage in ethnographiesuilt around fieldnote excerpts. On the one

and, readers more directly engage in theescribed social scenes and, thereby,losely follow the story line. On the other and, they can also more readily assess the

roposed analysis, at least the versionresented by the author, and deriveifferent insights from the fieldnotes.

Hence, by choosing fieldnotes for their hetorical effects, as well as for their ignifying and conceptual functions, anthnographer tries to prefigure a reader’sikely range of interpretations. But, readersltimately make their own sense of theseieldnote excerpts, even though the note-aking ethnographer created, selected, andrranged them to tell a particular story inhe text. The original fieldnotes stand



here, embedded within the analysis,llowing any reader to listen closely to

members’ voices, to vicariously experience

heir actions, and to imagine other nterpretations. In the end, it seems, theeader has her say.



8



Conclusion

n the preceding chapters, we initiallyxamined the processes whereby fieldesearchers transform direct experiencend observation into fieldnotes. We thenonsidered ways of using fieldnotes toevelop and tell an ethnographic story,xploring a variety of procedures that canacilitate the construction of fieldnote-entered texts. In this final chapter, we

want to offer some further reflections onearning to write and use fieldnotes and onome broader implications of these writingrocesses for ethnographic research.

As we have seen, in writing fieldnotes,he ethnographer makes a number o



pecific writing choices; through thesehoices, she transforms experience andbservations into text and data. Obviously,

many of these choices involve decisionsbout what to write—to note and describehe practical efforts of Alzheimer familyaregivers, patterns of racial and ethnic

istribution in a school playground, or udience participation in storytelling in a

Zaire village. But these choices alsonvolve intricate decisions about how to

write about what has been observed andxperienced. As we have emphasized,

writing fieldnotes is not simply a matter outting observed details on paper. Rather,he ethnographer draws on a variety o

writing conventions in order to activelyreate characters and scenes on a page, toramatically depict action and speech, ando effectively convey the meanings o



vents as perceived by those involved inhem.

Ethnographers, of course, may not

lways make these choices consciously;ecause the immediate task is to getescriptions and accounts on the page,xperienced writers may use skills and

make choices without a conscious thought.But increased awareness of the options thatmake such choices possible will, weelieve, improve the overall quality othnographic research. In the first place,eightened consciousness about writinghould help ethnographers produce richer,

more varied, and useful fieldnotes. Inecoming aware of and adept at usingffective writing conventions, thethnographer is more likely to captureignificant detail, create vivid imagery, androvide nuanced depictions of talk and



vents. The field researcher will havereater flexibility in making writinghoices. He will know and employ to his

dvantage the different effects of writingn the third, as opposed to the first person,f describing a scene or event fromarticular or from varying points of view,

nd of writing up others’ talk as direct or ndirect speech.

But in addition, increased awareness owriting choices can also inspire thethnographer to be more attentive toetails while in the field. Envisioningcenes as written can make the researcher aetter observer. With knowledge of writingptions, he will be attuned to features oction and talk that might be captured onaper. Furthermore, a researcher who

makes choices about different points oiew in his writing is less likely, when



bserving, to confuse his own perspectivewith the views of others; hence, he will beble to recognize and represent those

members’ voices more fully.Furthermore, sensitivity to writingptions in constructing a final fieldnote-entered text also allows field researchers

o produce more compelling and detailedthnographic stories. The writer, for xample, becomes explicitly attuned toesponding both to voices from the fieldnd to the voices of envisioned scholarlyeaders. She realizes that she must translatend interpret members’ voices into thenalytic language of intended readers inrder to address issues, theories, andoncerns that might interest them. Thus, inreating a fieldnote-centered final text, thethnographer includes excerpts that report

members’ voices but with an awareness



hat she controls and orchestrates their resence; she reframes and reorders

members’ words and doings into her own

thnographic story. Sensitive to members’oncerns and meanings, she can directlyonfront the task of re-presenting those

meanings—for example, making them

interesting” or “relevant” to the concernsf anticipated readers. As a result, in aood ethnography, the reader can hear hese two sets of voices speaking inarmony or at least not creatingissonance. The ethnography shouldrovide a vehicle through which the voicesrom the field can, in their own distinctive

ways, speak; and at the same time, thethnography should also speak theanguage of the readers, addressing their ssues, theories, and concerns. 1

In all these ways, increased awareness



f writing choices allows for a deepeningppreciation of the power and implicationsf writing. The ethnographer cannot help

ut realize that he is not simply recordingwitnessed events; rather, through hiswriting, he is actively creating realities andmeanings. In writing fieldnotes, he is not

imply preserving those moments inextual form, but, rather, he is shapingbserved moments as scenes, characters,ialogue, and recounted actions in the firstlace. Subsequently, in reworkingieldnotes and transposing them into a finalthnographic story, he does not simplyecount the tale of something thatappened; instead, he reconstructs “whatappened” so as to illustrate a pattern or a

make a point. Inevitably, in interpreting hisieldnotes for readers unfamiliar with that

world, he constructs a version of events.



Thus, while writing and analyzingieldnotes, the ethnographer-as-author rows increasingly aware of his role and

esponsibility in telling the story of theeople he studied; for in writing, he re-resents their everyday world. 2 In sooing, he is continually reminded about

ow the act of writing constructs meaningnd knowledge.

In this sense, awareness of writinghoices generates an appreciation of theeflexivity of ethnographic research.

Reflexivity involves the recognition that anccount of reality does not simply mirror eality but, rather, creates or constitutes aseal in the first place whatever it describes.

Thus, “the notion of reflexivity recognizeshat texts do not simply and transparentlyeport an independent order of reality.

Rather, the texts themselves are implicated



n the work of reality-construction”Atkinson 1990:7).

Critical analyses of ethnographies that

ocus on reflexivity (e.g., Atkinson 1990;Clifford and Marcus 1986; Van Maanen988) have tended to address the rhetoricaltructure or unstated political and cultural

resuppositions of completedthnographies, examining how thethnographer represents another culture,evelops a particular line of analysis, or onstructs a persuasive argument or ngaging tale in a published account.

However, these analyses reveal significantimitations in themselves, for theymplicitly depict final ethnographies asriginal, unconstrained constructionsroduced wholly from the ethnographer’struggles to come to terms withxperiences in the field. While polished



thnographies are, in part, culled frommemories of and reflections on fieldxperiences, they also draw heavily on the

lready created fieldnote record of thatxperienced reality. Final ethnographies,hen, are rarely new edifices built upntirely by original writings but are more

ommonly jerry-built projectsncorporating and constrained by prior ieldnote writings. The representationalrocesses through which fieldnoteegments are selected (or ignored), linkedo one another, reworked into a consistentoice, and integrated to produce a clearlyecognized rhetorical style have receivedittle or no attention. In this way, mosteflexive analyses neglect or marginalizeieldnotes in the construction of finishedthnographic accounts and, thereby, ignorehe role of fieldnotes in the in-process



work of actively constructing a polishedthnographic account.

Such critical analyses have overlooked

ot only the use of fieldnotes in writinginal ethnographic accounts but also therior processes whereby ethnographersctually created a fieldnote record in the

irst place. Yet, this initial transformationf field experiences and observations into

written texts involves equally profoundnd consequential reconstructions of socialeality as does the production of polished,ull ethnographies. Growing consciousnessf the reflexive qualities of ethnographicexts, however, has advanced by and large

without attention to day-by-day writingractices for producing what comes to bereated as ethnographic data.

To fill this gap between reflexivenalysis and practice, one must look



losely at exactly how ethnographers gobout writing fieldnotes: how theyroduce, process, and finally assemble

ieldnotes into texts intended for wider udiences. For, in significant ways,escribing people, events, and scenes inieldnotes gives definite shape and

ubstance to these matters for the writer.The writer, after all, does not simply sitown and put directly on paper somethinglready worked out in his head. Rather, heonstructs his descriptions: He must decide

where to start, what to put first and whatater, what to include, and what to ignore.

While writing, he determines whose pointsf view to present, what is significantbout a person or event, and what isncidental and can be left out. Theseecisions are even more salient for ubsequent readers who have no



ndependent access to the reality oftenresumed to lie behind and to have shapedhe written account. From a reader’s

erspective, then, the text about a people’sway of life creates that world as ahenomenon.

In the preceding chapters, we have

mphasized several specific writinghoices that can highlight awareness of theeflexive character of ethnographicesearch. First, we have advocated writingieldnotes so that the ethnographer can beeen and heard in them, since thethnographer’s interactions in the fieldhape her writing. In this way, therocesses whereby ethnographic textsome to be produced can be preserved and

made available to readers: “Being reflexives structuring communicative products sohat the audience assumes the producer,



rocess, and product are a coherent whole”Myerhoff and Ruby 1982:6). But, in so

writing, the ethnographer reminds hersel

hat what she learned and writes aboutccurred on a specific occasion and washaped by her own methods and mode oarticipation.

Second, we have urged writingieldnotes in ways that effectively capturend represent members’ meanings—theerspectives, understandings, concerns,nd voices of those studied. In order to dohis effectively, the writer must clearlynderstand that she is, in fact, re-resenting member’s meanings, creating,o paraphrase Geertz (1973), “meanings o

meanings” or “interpretations onterpretations.”

But a seeming problem arises when weecognize that members’ meanings are not



hings in themselves but representations oomething: Why should members’

meanings have priority over any other

epresentation an ethnographer mightmake? Here again, we hold that fieldnotesnd finished ethnographies are inevitablynd unavoidably mediated by the

thnographer’s person, experiences, pointf view, and theoretical priorities. But theesearcher’s point of view and theoreticalriorities are not simply pregiven; they arehaped and influenced by the relationshipse forms with the people whose social

worlds he is trying to understand. As aarticipant who has a place in the localetting and who has some degree onvolvement with the people in it, theesearcher is part of the world beingtudied and not a neutral, detachedbserver. The process of forming



elationships with specific people subjectshe ethnographer to their meaning systems,nes that must be learned and understood,

f only in order to get by. The more thethnographer involves himself in others’ocial worlds, the more he subjects hiswn presuppositions, his own ways o

oing and giving meaning to events andehavior, to the challenges of members’veryday lives. The ethnographer’sieldnotes, then, consist of descriptions of,nd reflections on, the meanings acquirednd jointly constructed over the course oarticipation in relationships with thosetudied. Hence, fieldnotes reflectnderstandings gained through subjectingneself to the logic of others’ social

worlds, a logic that comes to partiallyonstitute the lens through which thethnographer views and understands those



worlds. In the end, what he inevitablywrites is his version (informed byheoretical and other concerns and

riorities) of their version. But the versionshat an ethnographer constructs areegotiated and mediated by members’oints of view, logics, and constructions o

he world as well as by the researcher’s.Hence, through relationships with others,he possibility exists for appreciation andnderstanding of the interactions that theesearcher observes in their, not simply hiswn, terms.

Reflexivity is central both to how wenderstand the worlds of others as well aso how we understand the researchnterprise. Reflexivity, when applied to thenderstanding of members’ worlds, helpss to see those worlds as shaped, not byariables or structures that stand above or



part from people, but, rather, as meaningystems negotiated and constructed in andhrough relationships. Hence, when self-

onsciously applied to ourselves asesearchers, the reflexive lens helps us seend appreciate how our own renderings others’ worlds are not, and can never be,

escriptions from outside those worlds.Rather, they are informed by, andonstructed in and through, relationships

with those under study. Hence, in traininghe reflexive lens on ourselves, wenderstand our own enterprise in much theame terms that we understand those wetudy.



Notes

Preface to the First Edition

1. Consider the treatment by Schatzman and Straussf “Strategy for Recording” in their Field Research:trategies for a Natural Sociology (1973: 94–101). Gooddvice abounds on such matters as when and when not to

ot notes in the field, the relative advantages of typing aspposed to taping full notes, and the utility oistinguishing between observational, methodological,nd theoretical notes. Yet, nothing is said about what andow one actually writes, about learning writing skills, or bout the consequences of different writing styles.

2. This research was supported by the Nationalcience Foundation grant SES-8713255, “The Pro Seitigant: Self-Representation in Consequential Civilases,” coprincipal investigators Robert M. Emerson andusan McCoin, 1988–89.

3. Rachel Fretz’s research on storytelling among thehokwe in Zaire in 1982 was supported by a Fulbright-



Hayes award and the subsequent Zambian research in992 by a Fulbright grant for advanced research.

4. See, for example, Burgess 1982, 1984; Denzin andincoln 1994; Ellen 1984; Emerson 1988; Hammersley992; Hammersley and Atkinson 1983; Lofland andofland 1995; Schatzman and Strauss 1973; Schwartznd Jacobs 1979; Spradley 1980; Taylor and Bogdan984.

Chapter One: Fieldnotes in Ethnographic Research

1. For more extended discussions of socialonstructionism and of interactionist and interpretivearadigms in sociology, see Corbin and Strauss (2008: 1–

7); Emerson (2001: 1–53); and Gubrium and Holstein1997).2. The term “member” is drawn from

thnomethodology and its concern with ordinary persons’mastery of natural language” and, ultimately, with the

commonsense knowledge of everyday activities” or competences” reflected in the use of such languageGarfinkel and Sacks 1970: 339). See also ten Have2004).

3. Here we are assuming that the fieldworker is aknown researcher” in the setting or scene of interest.

Many ethnographers now avoid the classic distinctionetween “overt” and “covert” field research, considering,



nstead, the more subtle and complex variations withinnd between “known” and “unknown” research rolesEmerson 2001; Fine 1993; Lofland et al. 2006: 40–47;chwartz and Jacobs 1979; Warren and Karner 2010: 50–

3).4. As Mishler (1979: 10) has suggested: “[anyhenomenon] contains multiple truths, each of which wille revealed by a shift in perspective, method, or purpose.. . The task is not to exhaust the singular meaning of anvent but to reveal the multiplicity of meanings, and . . .is through the observer’s encounter with the event that

hese meanings emerge.”5. On occasion, the ethnographer may feel as if he has

nonconsequential presence,” i.e., is naturally andnproblematically “just an observer.” But this sense is, inact, a contingent and effortful achievement dependentpon the collusive cooperation of the observed (Emersonnd Pollner 2001). Field researchers rely upon a varietyf interactional practices to achieve and sustain the rolef “observer” in the face of various pulls and seductions

o participate more fully in unfolding events and, hence,n some sense, to dissolve the very distinction betweenobserver” and “observed.”

6. Georges and Jones (1980) describe many examplesf fieldworkers whose research developed directly fromhe kind of relationships they formed with thosencountered in the field.

7. Geertz (1983: 55–70) and Bittner (1988) explore



everal of the implications that flow from recognizinghat an ethnographer must remain at least a partialutsider. First, having “been there” and “seen for mysel

does not provide compelling authority for writtenccounts of another world, given that the ethnographer’sxperience of another world approximates, rather thanbsolutely replicates, members’ experiences. See also theiscussion of “ethnographic realism” in Marcus andushman (1982). Second, the ethnographer’s limitedommitment and appreciation of constraint promotes annderstanding of other worlds as subjectively perceivednd constructed, hence, without the “traits of depth,ability and necessity that people recognize as actually

nherent in the circumstances of their existence” (Bittner 988: 155).

8. We would like to acknowledge Caitlin Bedsworthnd Nicole Lozano for making these materials available.

9. All of these matters must be handled through theevelopment of a series of writing conventions. Seesathas and Anderson (1990) for a review of the key

transcription symbols” used in making transcripts for onversation analysis10. In comparing fieldnotes with transcripts made

om audio and visual recordings as different methods for educing ongoing social life to texts, we do not mean touggest a model of ethnographic research that employsnly the former. Rather, most contemporary fieldesearchers rely heavily upon both fieldnotes and



ecordings. Fieldwork guides now regularly discussaried methods for documenting research, emphasizingoth audio recording (e.g. Ellen 1984; Goldstein 1964;ackson 1987; Stone and Stone 1981; Wilson 1986) andhe use of video and photography (Ball and Smith 2001;

Harper 2005; Warren and Karner 2010).11. The relative emphasis placed on writing fieldnotes

s opposed to recordings, however, varies with the naturef the field researcher’s discipline and project. Manythnographers, for example, often make audio recordingsf informal interviews as well as write extensive notes— n essential practice when working in a foreign languagend often valuable when working in one’s own languagend culture. Similarly, other fieldworkers complementheir fieldnote research by systematically using audioecordings to capture significant occasions or recurrentvents that are central to their theoretical concerns. Inontrast, field researchers studying face-to-facenteraction, forms of expression, and oral traditions oftenive primacy to audio recording but, nevertheless, write

etailed fieldnotes to supplement verbal accounts withontextual details.12. Some field researchers urge writing “natural

istories” of the research process to link methods andndings (Altheide and Johnson 1994; Athens 1984;ecker 1970). A number of ethnographers havexamined specifically how human relationships in fieldesearch have influenced final research findings: see the



ase studies by Duneier (1999: 333–57), Ellis (1991),ine (1996: 233–53), and Kleinman (1991), and reviewsy Emerson (2001: 113–31), Georges and Jones (1980),nd Lareau and Shultz (1996).

13. As several researchers (Clifford 1983; Stoddard986) have shown, the seeming objectivity andauthority” of ethnographic data (and “scientific data”

more widely; Gusfield 1976) is achieved, in part, exactlyy suppressing or ignoring their dependence upon theerson of the researcher and her methods of inquiry and

writing.14. Seeking to capture indigenous meanings in

eldnotes, however, leaves open issues of whether or notnd how to incorporate indigenous meanings intonished ethnographic analyses. Some ethnographers

nsist that indigenous meanings should not direct andndergird sociological analysis (e.g., Burawoy 1991,998; Wacquant 2002). Others—symbolic interactionistsnd ethnomethodologists within sociology (Pollner andmerson 2001) and anthropologists concerned with

roviding “accounts of other worlds from the inside”Marcus and Fischer 1986: 26)—seek to analyticallyncorporate and represent members’ understandings inheir finished analyses.

Chapter Two: In the Field: Participating, Observing, andJotting Notes



1. Jackson (1990b: 23), for example, quotes severalnthropologists who emphasized the pure “doing” othnography as follows: “Fieldnotes get in the way. Theynterfere with what fieldwork is all about—the doing.”nd: “ This is what I would call fieldwork. It is not taking

otes in the field but is the interaction between theesearcher and the so-called research subjects.”

2. Jackson (1990b: 25) provides an example of theormer, quoting an anthropologist who gained “insightnto Australian Aboriginal symbolism about the ground

while on the ground”: “You notice in any kind of rolonged conversation, people are squatting, or lie onhe ground. I came to be quite intrigued by that, partlyecause I’d have to, too . . . endless dust.” Emerson andollner (2001: 250) present an instance of the latter when

previously marginalized and detached observer isuddenly brought stage center into an in-the-homesychiatric evaluation.

3. Some ethnographers committed to ez xperiencingmmersion may put off systematic writing almost

ndefinitely, often until leaving the field permanently.Given our commitment to more or lessontemporaneously written notes, we do not addressrocedures for writing fieldnotes long after theccurrence of the events of interest.

4. This term is taken from Jackson (1990b: 5), whoredits it to Simon Ottenberg.

5. Gottlieb and Graham (1993) depict these processes



f note-taking in their narrative of the course of their thnographic research in Africa.

6. However, Catherine’s placement of this remark mmediately following introductions indicates that sheonsiders it important “news” that should be delivered tollen in a timely fashion, And the remark takes on further

mport since it involves an explicit change in topic thatxcludes the newcomer by referring to someone shelearly does not know.

7. These jottings were originally written in a versionf speed writing that is incomprehensible to most readers.

We have translated them into readable form.8. Wolfinger (2002) notes that fieldworkers rely

eavily on tacit social knowledge and taken-for-grantedssumptions when they determine what to observe and

what to recall in writing jottings and fieldnotes. Thesemergent and situational decisions vary with the concernsnd personal dispositions of the fieldworker.

9. This excerpt, as well as others in this andubsequent chapters, draws on interviews conducted by

inda Shaw in which student fieldworkers werencouraged to “talk out loud” while seated at their omputers writing fieldnotes from jottings and headnotes.

10. It is possible, of course, to interview thosenvolved in the social world under study and to ask irectly about their own inner states and motives as wells about their assessments of those of others. Suchnterviews, however, do not provide definitive answers to



hese matters but only another set of observations that thethnographer must still assess and evaluate. See Emersonnd Pollner’s (1988) consideration of the contingent,eeply problematic interpretations required to evaluatehe interview statements of a mental health clinic worker sked to assess ethnographic writings describing his own

work circumstances and decision making11. This student ethnographer offered these

eflections on this process: “Before, I never could writebout it. I just never could remember them [concretevents]. It seemed very small and insignificant becauseverything with these children is in very small steps, andothing really outstanding ever happens, but this reallyood out in my mind, and I wanted to remember it. At

he time, I told myself, ‘Remember that.’ ”These notes also reflect this student

ntern/fieldworker’s distinctive commitments in thisetting as is evident in the point of view implicit in her

writing. She not only identifies the incident that has justaken place as “listening to the teacher” and as a change

om Nicole’s prior pattern of behavior. But reflectinger real teaching responsibilities in the setting, she alsovaluates this change positively as anaccomplishment,” as something that Nicole should earn. An ethnographer without job responsibilities in theetting might well characterize the incident differentlye.g., as an adult staff member’s exercise of authority)nd withhold immediate evaluation as to whether what



icole did was “good” or “bad.”12. Indeed, Everett Hughes (1971: 505) emphasized

hat it is less the published report than taking a detachedutlook toward the personal and intimate that bringseople’s wrath down upon the field researcher: “Theatred occasionally visited upon the debunking historianvisited almost daily upon the person who reports on the

ehavior of people he has lived among; and it is not somuch the writing of the report, as the very act of thinkingn such objective terms that disturbs the peoplebserved.”

13. In part, this lack of knowledge about what theeld researcher is doing may result from the latter’svolving analytic purposes and concerns, which are notreestablished but which change with immersion in theetting (see Emerson 2001: 282–95). As Thorne (1980:87) emphasizes, “fieldworkers usually enter the field

with an open-ended sense of purpose; they tend to work nductively and may shift interests and outlooks as theesearch proceeds; practical exigencies may force

xtensive change of plans.”14. Similarly, those observed often use humor toomment on the role of the note-taking ethnographer.gain, from the HUD office: “The workers are talking

nd laughing as Sam decides where to put his desk in hisew office. I hear one of the workers say, ‘I hope Bobidn’t write that down.’ I walked up. ‘What?’ ‘Oh, I justold Sam it’s good he’s got space for his machete behind



is desk.’ They laugh.”15. Here, further complications arise about whether

he ethnographer will write fieldnotes about matters thathe avoided making jottings on or was asked not to makeottings on. On the one hand, a fieldworker might feelhat her fieldnotes are her personal (as well as scientific)ecord and that she can write anything and everything inhose notes that she desires. Such a practice puts off anyecision about whether or not to use these particular eldnote writings in a paper to be seen by any outsideudience. On the other hand, the ethnographer might welleel constrained by an implicit agreement not to takeottings about a particular event and to also avoid writingull fieldnotes about the event, independently of whether nyone would ever read that material. Here, theeldworker honors the personal, ethical bond with theerson observed over any commitment to her fieldnotess research record.

16. Thus, making jottings “off-phase,” recommendedy Goffman (1989: 130) as a means of minimizing

eactive effects (i.e., “don’t write your notes on the actou’re observing because then people will know what ityou’re recording”), may risk offending others when the

ocus of the jottings appears to be the current activity or opic.

17. For example, to have made jottings during ahokwe initiation ceremony ( mwadi ) when the older

women were teaching a young woman how “to dance



with a husband” by simulating the sexual act might haveppeared inappropriate and might have drawn immediateriticism from participants.

18. The seductions of the field, seductions that impartliminal” or “betwixt-and-between” qualities toeldnotes and the experience of writing them, arerikingly revealed in Jackson’s (1990a) interviews withnthropologists. Many reported feeling inclined to leteldnotes go as they began to fit into the rhythms of localfe. For example: “I slowed down. More concerned with

he hour by hour. You forget to take notes because youeel this is your life” (Jackson 1990a: 18).

19. Field researchers routinely use a number of tacticso maintain research distance in the face of pressures for eightened involvement from those under studyEmerson and Pollner 2001). These practices involve “aariety of distancing practices to manage overtures toeeper involvement,” including “interactional efforts toreclude, to finesse, and to decline” such overtures, andcognitive reminders to retain the ‘research’ framing o

ne’s experiences in the field” (Emerson and Pollner 001: 248).20. Many ethnographers also create that same

eparate stance through photographing or filming events.ee Jackson (1987).

Chapter Three: Writing Fieldnotes I: At the Desk, CreatingScenes on a Page



1. Sanjek (1990b), for example, reports a full year assed before he went from notebook to full fieldnotes;bviously, he spent a great deal of time and care in

writing up descriptions and events in these handwrittenotebooks.

2. Along these lines, Goffman (1989: 127) advisesgainst bringing spouses into the field because “it doesive you a way out. You can talk to that person, and allhat, and that’s no way to make a world.”

3. As a general rule, it is important to preserveiscrepant reports about the same event to avoid deciding

what “really happened” in accepting one account over thether. Here, for example, we can now understand theifference as a likely product of Laura’s self-expressedneasiness with explicit, earthy sexual references.

4. Description is often referred to as one of the four hief types of composition—along with argumentation,xposition, and narration. But here we consider escribing as a key strategy for picturing settings, people,bjects, and actions as a part of the larger ethnographic

arrative that the ethnographer tells throughout her eldnotes, beginning with the first day that she enters thete and closing when she leaves and writes her last notes.

5. Lofland (1985: 15) terms this “categoric knowing”n which “one knows who the other is only in the sensehat one knows he can be placed into some category,”articularly gender, age, and race, since these categoriesre readily gleaned from appearance only. In contrast,



personal knowing” involves knowledge of at least somespects of the other’s actual biography.

6. In this sense, this description might be a product of,s well as advance, the ethnographer’s theoretical interestn ethnic identity. That is, the observer might have comepon this scene with a preexisting interest in how whiteudents affiliate with African Americans, this sensitivity

eading him to appreciate the ironic symbolism and towrite so vividly about the jacket. Alternatively, writing a

escription of something that made an immediatempression on him might have made him begin to think bout issues of cross-cultural affiliation. In either case, inubsequent fieldnotes, this ethnographer continued toocus on this woman and other white students who hungut with blacks, describing other instances of ethnicallyistinct clothes, whites’ use of black conversationalyles, etc.

7. A combination of field observations and tapeecordings of specific interactions marks manythnographic studies of institutional settings, including

medical clinics (Maynard 2003), lawyers’ offices (Saratnd Felstiner 1995), and public schools (Garot 2010).However, a number of ethnographers found that tapeecorders inhibited and distorted talk in informal settingsnd exchanges; e.g., see Desmond (2007: 291–93) on theroblems of attempting to tape-record daily activitiesmong wildland fire-fighters.

8. Often her fieldnotes were written in English,



hough she listened in another language; she thereforencluded many non-English terms to preserve local

meanings.9. For a discussion of how researchers working in

econd languages or explicitly focusing on verbalxpression combine and integrate these methods, seetone and Stone (1981). Some sociological fieldesearchers advocate the use of similar sorts of triangulation” procedures—for example, conductingater interviews with participants about what they werehinking and doing during a recorded exchange; seeicourel (1974: 124ff).

10. Shaw (1991) explores a number of other xpressions of this feeling of falling short of achieving anormal” life, and the resulting pervasive sense oigma, that afflicts ex–mental patients in their dealings

with more conventional people.11. Grouping details not only makes writing up easier,

ut the habit of marking paragraph breaks also speeds upeading and making sense of fieldnotes later on.

12. Stoller (1989) suggests that many ethnographers,eflecting their Western culture, have a bias for visualetail even though members might be attending more tother sensory impressions, such as smell, sound, or

movement. In this respect, the kinds of sensory detailshat are dominant vary from one culture to another.

13. Lederman (1990: 84) emphasizes that units suchs “events ” have “an apparent ‘wholeness’ ” that makes



hem “good modes of entry into fieldnotes” and usefulnalytic units in her ethnography. One can write up anvent as a brief episode or more fully describe it in a tale.

14. Schatzman and Strauss (1973: 99–101)ecommend tagging each fieldnote segment with annitial label, either “Observational Notes” (ON),Theoretical Notes” (TN), or “Methodological Notes”MN). Many field researchers find this procedure helpfuln marking transitions in writing focus and intent. Weenerally avoid using these tags because we think that theistinctions are not only theoretically problematic butlso practically difficult to apply in many instances.

15. Although not focused specifically on fieldnoteescriptions, Wolf (1992) provides a provocativelustration of the potential variation in how ethnographyan portray different slices of life; she presents thesame” series of events in three different story formats— riginal fieldnotes, a more formal analytic account, and actional short story.

Chapter Four: Writing Fieldnotes II: Multiple Purposes andStylistic Options

1. As Flower (1988) emphasizes, a writer’s purpose isot unitary, conscious intention but, rather, a set of nterconnected goals; during the writing process, writersegularly revise and prioritize these goals.



2. In addition, the field researcher with actual readersmay not want to disclose what they regard as revealing or

verly personal incidents to these others, whether nstructor, classmates, or coworkers (Warren 2000). We

would advise writing up these notes in a separateocument. This procedure produces a written account butne seen only by the fieldworker. At a later point, theatter may feel that the account is important and shoulde included in a final analysis; or, he may decide that it isoo personal and keep it private.

3. As Ong (1975) points out, writers envisionudiences by imagining the kinds of readers who haveead similar pieces of writing. Thus, the writer’s stylistichoices are a means of addressing those imaginedudiences.

4. As one ethnographer commented, “That might beloser to a definition of a fieldnote: something that can’te readily comprehended by another person” (Jackson990b: 20).

5. Strictly speaking, point of view is the angle from

which one sees activities and events and how that anglepresented in writing. However, Beiderwell andWheeler (2009: 389) point out; “More broadly, point o

iew signals narrative perspective—the way a story iselated. Thinking in terms of point of view involvesonsidering who tells the story as well as how the teller’snterests, personality, motives, and background influence

what is observed and reported.”



6. Here, we refer to “voice” as representing the uniquepeaking style and the distinctive perspective or “ethos”f an individual (Abrams and Harpham 2009; Beiderwellnd Wheeler 2009). Thus, if the ethnographer-as-writer

wants to present multiple voices and points of view in her eldnotes, she must also be sensitive to varied people’serspectives and voices while in the field. In this sense,

writing fieldnotes is reflexive, illustrating how writingan play back on and affect what the ethnographer doesn the field!

7. Thus, one researcher noted, “I kept track of audent who got in an argument with his teacher. I wasot able to read his mind, but based on visual cues fromhe way he walked, the way he talked, and through hisother] body language, I could get a better insight intoow he may have been feeling and what thoughts mighte running through his head.”

8. Similarly, in writing notes on a checkout line in arocery store, the fieldworker might describe activities, atifferent times, from the position and perspective of the

hecker, the bagger, a customer being served, andustomers waiting in line.9. Many of these objections to an omniscient point o

iew weaken or even dissolve entirely when we turnom writing fieldnotes to writing final ethnographies.

ndeed, existing discussions of omniscience inthnographic writing all treat final ethnographies, noteldnotes. Van Maanen’s (1988: 45–72) “realist tales,”



or example, are complete ethnographies that involvemany omniscient qualities—the absence of the author

om the text, minutely detailed descriptions andverviews, and “interpretive omnipotence.” Similarly,rown (1977) sees the omniscient point of view asharacteristic of many classic ethnographies; thethnographer adopts an omniscient point of view, for xample, when he chooses which members’ voices toresent and shifts from one person’s view to another’s.

10. Writing different points of view involves a shift inhe writer’s attention. One student points out that whenhe consciously shifted between points of view, shectually noticed the shifting emphasis within herself:When I look over my jottings and begin to write up theeldnotes, my brain thinks differently for first person

han it does for third person. When I wrote the fieldnotesn first-person, I found that as much as I wrote about theeople around me, I actually thought about the eventsnfolding from my perspective. When I wrote theeldnotes in the third-person point of view, I thought

more about the other members, what they were doing,nd it made me focus a little more on them, rather thann what I was doing.” As this student points out, thehifts in point of view are consequential—shaping whatnd how one sees and reports—and not just matters of aste or technique.

11. Beiderwell and Wheeler explain that although arst-person narrator speaks from the “perspective of one



nside the story; that is to say, the narrator speaks as ‘I,’ ”his writing technique is not limited to the narrator’sision. The first-person narrator may have the function of eporting about others (2009: 383). This additional use of he first-person technique would appear to be common in

writing fieldnotes, where the ethnographer speaks in her wn voice to narrate activities with someone else as theentral character in the event. This use of first personlurs the boundaries between the writing techniques orst-person and third-person points of view.

12. In this project, Rachel Fretz carried out many oer observations in conjunction with two other esearchers working in the same village, art historianslisabeth Cameron and Manuel Jordan. Researchers who

work together in the same site can document andepresent the different voices and points of view oarious members.

13. Johnstone (1990: 18) defines a story as anarrative (that is, it presents a sequence of events) withpoint (a reason for being told that goes beyond, or is

ndependent of, any need for the reporting of events).”However, the way storytellers structure their narratives toonvey ideas varies from one storytelling tradition tonother (Johnstone 1990; Riessman 1987; Stahl 1989). In

Western hero tales, for example, the protagonist setsorth on a quest, moves through difficulties, and conquershe monster or finds the holy grail. The story is one oersonal success and conquest. In contrast, in many



ultures the focus is less on an individual’s success andersonal development and more on the way relationshipsetween people unfold and have consequences for their ommunity or extended family. In such narrativeaditions, the listeners pay attention to how theharacters negotiate their relationships and to whether or ot they act appropriately toward their relatives andiends. Thus, the teller of a story about an authoritygure and a young person in an educational situation

might be concerned with the effects of the student’sctions on his family, about the student’s respect for uthority, and about the disciplinarian’s opinion of theudents’ relatives.

14. The current ending of the police tale results fromur editing decisions and reflects our search for a looselyructured tale that was relatively short. Had we begun

he cut at an earlier point or ended at a later one, theeader’s sense of the story line might differ. Or, if we hadhortened it further, to begin with the stop at the 7-11ore and to end with the second car stopping, the tale

might have seemed more cohesive and more clearly theory of mundane police work broken by moments oxcitement.

15. Grounded theorists (Charmaz 2001; Strauss987), in particular, emphasize beginning analyses earlyn in data collection: The researcher is urged to makenalytically explicit observed phenomena as theoreticalategories, to systematically identify the properties and



imensions of these categories, to formulate provisionaluestions or hypotheses about the occurrence or relationsetween these categories, and to then seek out new datan the field specifically relevant to these refined or ocused issues.

16. See chapter 6 for discussion of memos connectedwith coding and analysis when attention has turned from

eldwork to writing a finished ethnographic text.17. Some ethnographers come to view their own

eldnotes as poor substitutes for their actual experiencesnd observations in the field. Jackson (1990a: 19), for xample, quotes one person’s comment: “I wasisappointed that they weren’t as magical as my memory. . there are a lot of visual features to my memory,

whereas fieldnotes were much more sort of mereendering.” While fieldnotes may never completelyapture the lived experience in the field, improving

writing skills will suffuse notes with at least some of thismagic.” We see wide gaps between memory andeldnote as evidence of insufficient attention to writing.

Chapter Five: Pursuing Members’ Meanings

1. Many studies do not directly claim that a group’seliefs and practices are fallacious or ineffective butndirectly diminish these beliefs and practices byepicting them as self-serving. Berger (1981) proposes



he concept of “ideological work” as an alternative wayf handling these issues. Many sociological analyses, hergues, “take as their task ‘exposing’ the ‘real’ interestserved by ideas or ‘unmasking’ or debunking ideas by

evealing the contradictions between what ideaspparently profess and the day-to-day behavior of thosewho profess them” (1981: 19–20). The ethnographer has

different task—“not to expose discrepancies or ontradictions between practice and preachment” (1981:14) but, rather, to look closely at and document the

ways in which people resolve and reconcile any suchiscrepancies. For example, rather than “unmasking”ural hippies’ use of chain saws as a contradiction of their rofessed distrust of modern “technology,” Berger arefully and noncynically examines how these hippiesome to view the chain saw as a “tool” distinct fromtechnology” (1981: 116). These sorts of interpretivects, “aimed at bridging gaps, sweetening dissonances,nd restoring (perhaps only temporarily) a measure oarmony and consistency” between practice and belief,

epresent “remedial ideological work” (1981: 114).2. Jordan’s (1993: 41–61) discussion of maskingaditions in the circumcision ( mukanda ) rituals oorthwest Province, Zambia, explains variation as

haracteristic of these rituals; he found that innovation inmask decorations can be a means through which peopleope with political realities in the region. See also theiscussion by Cameron and Jordan (2006) on ritual play



n this same area.3. Hunt’s (1985) analysis of the use of force by police

lustrates an alternative, more naturalistic approach thateeks to identify what sorts of force the police themselvesecognize as excessive or “brutal” and what sorts asegitimate or “normal.” Hunt refrains from passing her wn judgments in order to learn how and wherearticular officers apply these distinctions to specificnstances of the use of force.

4. Ben-Amos (1982), in particular, has argued that thexamination of indigenous classifications has beenindered by the “discrepancy” between ethnic andnalytic systems and advocates that researchersocument and explain the terms and categories that theeople studied use. However, scholars studying oraladitions continue to insist on the comparative value onalytic categories. Okpewho (1992), for example, urgesontinued use of analytic categories to further omparative discussion even while he commends theractice of using indigenous terms for narrative

ategories. In an introduction to “folk narratives,” Oring1986) identifies analytic features generally associatedwith “myth,” “legend,” and “folktale.” Current focus onutoethnography further complicates the distinctionsetween analytic and indigenous categories; Butz andesio (2009) provide a review of some autoethnographicractices that include personal experience narrating.

5. Ethnographers may also receive “nonanswers”



when they appear to be woefully ignorant of the mattershey ask about. Diamond (1989) recounts the story toldy an eminent ethnobiologist who has spent years withhe Kalam people of the New Guinea Highlands working

with native informants to identify folk terms for 1,400pecies of animals and plants. Yet, when at one point hesked about rocks, his Kalam informants insisted theyad just one word covering all rocks. A year later heeturned with a geologist friend who within an hour cameack with a long list of Kalam terms for rocks. Thethnobiologist angrily confronted his Kalam informants,emanding to know why they had lied to him about notlassifying rocks. They answered: “When you asked usbout birds and plants, we saw that you knew a lot abouthem, and that you could understand what we told you.

When you began asking us about rocks, it was obviousou didn’t know anything about them. Why should we

waste our time telling you something you couldn’tossibly understand? But your friend’s questions showedhat he does know about rocks” (Diamond 1989: 30).

Diamond concludes that the ethnoscientist has “to knowlmost as much” as those questioned in order to elicitheir native terms and classificatory principles.

6. Cognitive anthropologists, in particular (e.g., Agar 982; Frake 1964; Spradley 1979), have sought torovide techniques to avoid imposing outside categoriesy “discovering” appropriate and meaningful questionsom within another culture.



7. Frake’s classic ethnography, “How to Enter aYakan House” (1975), includes a detailed analysis oocal ways of passing by and greeting others in Yakanociety.

8. Of course, paying close attention to ordinaryuestions and appropriate answers also helps the fieldesearcher learn how to participate in conversations in aatural way, and, hence, is a key part of theesocialization process involved in fieldwork.

9. In a similar vein, see Sudnow’s (1967: 36–42)ubtle observations of the patterned differences in howew medical personnel talk about deaths as “countable”ccurrences.

10. Many other fieldworkers also recountocialization through teasing and laughter (cf. Yocom990).

11 . In general, formulations of “what happened” willot only involve summaries or “glosses” but will beamed to anticipate or influence the specific persons to

whom they are recounted.

12. In his classic field study, Cicourel (1968)xamines how police and probation officers dealing withouth read and interpret the various written recordsenerated in delinquency cases, including arrest reports,robation investigations, and school reports. He alsomphasizes the distinctive practical and strategiconsiderations that shape how police and probationfficers turn their conversations with youth into written



eports in the first place (see particularly the case oudrey; Cicourel 1968: 130–66).

13. Johnstone (1990) discusses the way peopleructure and give meaning to experience throughorytelling, both drawing on the group’s conventions for orytelling and expressing themselves in their ownnique style. Stahl (1989) points out that storytellersften pattern their experiences to fit community valuesnd notions of a story. In interpreting stories, theesearcher must infer the implicit values of the teller.ashman (2008) notes that, although the storytellers o

he northern Irish border express their politicalifferences in their stories, they also actively emphasizeommunity values through anecdotes about charactershey all know.

14. Of course, this story is also told to the researcher,nd, presumably, has been adapted to his concerns andnterests and to his relationship with the teller.onsequently, the ethnographer should not only tell “theory” in his fieldnotes but also describe the context o

he storytelling: what conversational questions or omments triggered the story, where the storytellingappened (in private or as a part of other activities), and

who else was listening.15. Mills (1990) notes that folklorists, with their

mphasis on face-to-face interactions in oral expression,ave documented in detailed transcriptions the multipleoices and differing perspectives expressed during



erformances. Viewing oral performances as emergentnd unique, many scholars of oral narrative (for example,auman 1992a, 1992b; Briggs 1988; Georges 1981)nalyze in detail the dynamics of each performance.articularly in examining several versions of the “same”ral story, they show how narrators shape their style andhemes to accommodate the audience, situation, andpecific circumstances. For example, Cosentino (1982) inis study of Mende storytelling in Sierra Leone,ocuments three women who argue with each other hrough their contrasting versions of a folktale: Eachory has distinctly different details and clearly differingutcomes. Yitah (2009) notes that Kasena women oorthern Ghana argue through proverbial jesting tostablish their sense of female personhood as well as toubvert sexist ideology inherent in the proverbs.

16. This discussion is based on Rachel Fretz’sesearch among the Chokwe of Northwest Province,ambia, in 1992–93. It elaborates and extends the earlier iscussion in Fretz (1987) based on research in

andundu Province, Zaire/Congo.17. Ben-Amos (1982) suggests that in studyingndigenous categories of expression, the researcher hould describe the cognitive, expressive, and behavioralevels. He points out that sometimes a people’s system oxpression includes distinctions made behaviorally but

which are not marked by distinct terms and thereforemust be discerned through observation of actions in



iffering social situations.18. The Chokwe distinguish between two different

inds of yishima —longer stories and short sayings or roverbs. Although they do not use distinct terms for ach, if pressed, people might say “the long ones”yishima yisuku ) for stories or “the short ones” ( yishimaipinji ) for proverbs. People employ the latter in informalnd formal conversation (e.g., court sessions) to make aoint. In contrast, people tell the longer yishima only atight as they sit around their fires visiting andntertaining themselves. In these latter situations,arrators are inventive composers playing to thenthusiastic responses of listeners; thus, differentarrators will tell different versions of the same story,nd the same narrator’s version of a story will vary fromelling to telling. A good storytelling performance isescribed as chibema . See also Van Damme (2003) for aeview of the study of aesthetics in African cultures.

19. Holstein and Gubrium suggest that members’nvoking of context should be examined both from the

bottom up”—looking at how context is built up momenty moment in the sequencing of ordinary talk andnteraction—and from the “top down”—looking at howocal discourse and culture incorporates broader socialructures and cultural understandings. The bottom-uppproach focuses on “why that now,” that is, on howomething said or done previously is invoked as groundsor saying or doing something now. A top-down



pproach looks at the ways in which broader cultural andocial understandings are used in the local setting. For xample, the local import of Julie’s act of cutting her hair erives from prior staff experience with this resident andom recognition in the local institutional culture that itseatment regime involves sufficient deprivation andolation that residents often feel drawn back to the fastfe of hooking and drugs.

20. Here we draw directly from Moerman’s (1969:64) idea of “intracultural contrast.” Moerman notes thathe seemingly innocuous descriptive claim, “the Thai areoisy in temple,” implicitly involves an inter culturalomparison on the order of, “The Thai I saw in temple

were noisier than Methodists are supposed to be inhurch.” Intracultural contrast of Thai religious behavior

would require the ethnographer to compare behaviors inifferent settings within the society, contrastingrganizational and interactional patterns found withinhem. Thus, one might compare the noise (and other spects of social behavior) in temples with the noise in

ther locally comparable situations (among the Thai, for xample, dispute hearings, village meetings, and casualonversations).

21. As a general practice, Becker advises that wheneople make distinctions between “us” and “them,” “treathese distinctions as diagnostic of that organization, thoseeople, their situation, their careers” (1998: 150). Or ase notes concerning medical students’ designations o



ome patients as “crocks”: “To put it most pretentiously,when members of one status category make invidious

istinctions among the members of another statusategory with whom they regularly deal, the distinction

will reflect the interests of the members of the firstategory in the relationship” (1993: 31).

22. In this instance, what counts as a satisfactory,official” explanation shifts as speakers change language,ut neither explanation fully describes what people dobout AIDS/sorcery illnesses. The ethnographer needs toecognize that explanations often are no more thanointers to how the people momentarily see events or ow they wish them to be. Explanations do not constitutexperience/reality. Jackson (1982: 30–31) in his study ohe Kuranko people in West Africa, suggests that peoplenvoke verbal, official explanations in times of crisis toalidate some claim but that people’s everydayxperience rarely conforms to such explanations. Verbalxplanations and actions are two different types oxperience.

23. Classifications, then, should be seen not asetermined by particular attributes of the objects beingategorized (that is, as “trait driven”) but, rather, asriven by actors’ “practical purposes at hand” (Schutz964). This stance directs attention away from cognitiveategories residing inside of actors’ heads toward actualnteractions and the practical “purposes at hand” thatctors pursue in social settings; attributes take on actual



alience or relevance vis-à-vis these shifting, emergenturposes. Such purposes at hand will vary widely from

moment to moment and situation to situation as actors’urposes emerge, develop, and change.

24. Researchers working within the interdisciplinaryeld of “the ethnography of speaking” have as their aimdetailed record and description of the differing kinds o

xpression within a community. Sherzer (1983, 1992)otes that such studies examine not only the range oxpression but also their functions within the community.

25. The fieldnote account leaves opaque Ellen’serspective on these events, indicating only, “I heard her ut,” but without reporting what she said specifically iner own defense. Her reported claim that she did notealize that the author was helping the wife woulduggest that she recognized that she had “mistakenly”

made the sale to the husband, a stance that might suggestwas not “snaking” because she had not taken the sale

deliberately.” It is also possible that she maintained thathe had made the sale legitimately, that the customer in

act “belonged” to her because he was making a purchasendependently of his wife, or because of the practicalontingencies of managing the purchase of a surpriseresent.

26. In this instance, it is likely that a femalethnographer’s presence at the chief’s pavilion initiallyncouraged a woman to narrate; she may well have beeneprimanded later for having done so; in any case, no



women narrated in that location again. The researcher’sendered presence is frequently consequential in fieldettings, although often in subtle ways that can only bedentified with close, long-term observation. For xaminations of the influence of gender in field research,ee Camitta (1990); DeVault (1990); Hunt (1984);awless (1993); Mills (1990); Thorne (1993); Warren

2001); and Warren and Hackney (2000).27. Whyte (1955/1993) and Liebow (1967) provided

arly discussions of these issues. For a comprehensiveeview of the advantages and drawbacks of “insider” andoutsider” roles based on race/ethnicity, gender, or age,ee Emerson (2001: 116–23).

28. Dorothy Smith’s institutional ethnography (2002,005) has played a major role in focusing ethnographers’ttention on the relationship between outside influencesnd everyday life. While we emphasize how membersngage, negotiate, and make meaning of interactionsarried out within particular social conditions, Smith’socus is on social structures and organization and how

hey both shape and are reflected in daily activity.29. Wiseman’s (1970) study of how alcoholics “makehe rehab route” on skid row in the 1960s uses just such arocedure to examine how a category of people similar tohe homeless made contact with and moved througharious “supporting institutions.” Similarly, Dingwall etl. (1983) studied the identification and processing oeglected and abused children across a variety o



nstitutional points, ranging from hospital emergencyooms and pediatric medical offices through healthisitors, child protection, and social service agencies toourts and probation offices.

30. However, field researchers would be well advisedo interview people specifically about interactions andccasions, both those they have observed directly andhose that occurred out of their presence; such interviewsan provide truncated, but often invaluable, accounts oelations and interactions (see Emerson 2009), as well asnsight into others’ perspectives on these events.

Chapter Six: Processing Fieldnotes: Coding and Memoing

1. Qualitative social scientists have given substantialttention to how to come up with, develop, and elaborateualitative analyses of social life. The following provideseful orientations to analysis and specific procedures for eveloping concepts from fieldnote data. Becker (1998,

001) lays out a series of “generalizing tricks” thatrovide “ways of expanding the reach of our thinking, oeeing what else we could be thinking and asking, or ncreasing the ability of our ideas to deal with theiversity of what goes on in the world” (1998: 7).ofland et al. (2006: chapters 6 – 8) delineate a variety oossible conceptual “topics” for analyzing fieldnote andther qualitative data and suggest how relevant topics can



e elaborated and developed into more finished analysesf “generic” social processes (see also Prus 1996).orbin and Strauss (2008) provide an updated approach

o grounded theory that focuses on identifying the

roperties and dimensions of key components of socialfe. Finally, Katz (2001b) suggests a number of generalonceptual “warrants” that ethnographers have frequentlyelied on and that can provide relevance for, and interestn, analyses of field data.

2. Several practitioners of grounded theory now avoidmaking sharp distinctions between different types ooding and memos. Corbin notes, for example, that whilehe 1990 edition of Basics of Qualitative ResearchStrauss and Corbin 1990) discussed code notes,heoretical notes, and operational notes as three differentypes of memos, “we now want to get away fromhinking about memos in a structured manner.” Shexplains: “The reason is that novice researchers oftenecome so concerned with ‘getting it right’ that they losehe generative fluid aspect of memoing. It is not the form

f memos that is important, but the actual doing of them”Corbin and Strauss 2008: 118). We continue toistinguish between in-process memos, code memos, andntegrative memos, not on the basis of form, but in termsf their uses and timing in analyzing fieldnotes.

3. Early statements of the grounded theory approachnclude: Glaser and Strauss (1967); Schatzman andtrauss (1973) and Glaser (1978). Contemporary



eatments include Charmaz (2001, 2006); Corbin andtrauss (2008); and Strauss (1987). Substantively, muchf the field research using grounded theory methods hasxamined the treatment and experience of illness; seearticularly Biernacki (1986); Charmaz (1991); Corbinnd Strauss (1988); and Glaser and Strauss (1965).

4. Of course, quantitative research involves similar orts of category creation and refinement, typically at theretest stage, but it does not term this “coding.”

5. Corbin illustrates the use of one such program,MAXQDA 2007, to develop and expand her groundedheory analyses of the experiences of Vietnam War eterans; see Corbin and Strauss 2008.

6. Qualitative data analysis reverses the sequence of rocedures employed in quantitative analysis: rather thansing preestablished categories to sort and then analyzehe data, the researcher first analyses the data by meansf initial coding and only subsequently sorts it. Thus, inualitative data analysis, sorting is subordinated toeveloping and refining analyses; it is more a by-product

f the coding process than the end of that process.7. See Blum (1991) for the completed analysis of hese and other issues.

8. That is, that you have only one instance or case inour data does not affect many of the analytic claims thatou can develop from it. What is important is theheoretical relevance or import of the instance. A singlenusual incident may reveal critical, but rarely observed,



raws heavily upon Atkinson’s (1990: 126–28)iscussion of “fragmented narratives” as the mostommon form of “conventional ethnography.”ragmented narratives are nonlinear, rearranging and

resenting everyday events in “atemporal, paradigmaticelationships” (1990: 126). Atkinson contrasts suchagmented narratives with the more classicchronological narratives” that provide a linear extended chronicle of events” (1990: 126).

3. Many of our recommendations for writing finalthnographies resonate with, and often draw upon, thedeas and advice that Becker (2007) has developed for ocial science writing in general. Indeed, we stronglyecommend that all field researchers who are turning tohe process of writing final ethnographies consultecker’s book directly early on in their project.

4. Thus, in a logical argument, the thesis is explicitlyated at the outset, the subsequent points develop that

hesis, and the evidence illustrates and confirms theoints. Richardson (1990: 13) notes how such arguments

raw on “logicoscientific codes” of reasoning andepresentation that stand in sharp contrast to the narrativeorms employed in most ethnographies. In practice, theocal, concrete commitments of ethnography preclude theighly formal forms of analytic argumentation that maye found in other areas of social science. See alsoichardson and St. Pierre’s (2005: 960ff) discussion o

he historically changing styles of social science and



thnographic writing.5. Each of these topics suggests a theoretical concern

elated to a specific scholarly literature; indeed, eachmight well have been formulated because of familiaritywith such a literature. “Ethnicity as social construction in

igh school,” for example, expresses an interest inxamining ethnic differences as recognized and actedpon by high school students. Similarly, “parentalnvolvement in juvenile court hearings” implicitly raisessues concerning the factors that influence outcomes in

uvenile court proceedings. But neither theory nor terature need be explicitly addressed at this point.

6. This is exactly what is involved in the process onalytic induction, where one can modify either theonceptual category or what is being explained, or both,n order to “form a perfect relation between data andxplanation” (Katz 2001a: 331). Note, however, that

modifying themes or conceptual categories to fiteldnote data may make prior coding irrelevant; indeed,

nitial code categories often do not hold up throughout

he writing.7. For examples of ethnographies relying onntegrative strategies, see Berger (1981), Desmond2007), Diamond (1992), and Thorne (1993). DeVault1991), Emerson (1989), Irvine (1999), and Lareau2003) make heavy use of excerpt strategies.

8. Long incidents or episodes are difficult to handle inhe excerpt style, requiring either intimidatingly long



xcerpts or arbitrary separation into a choppy series of horter units.

9. Some critics argue that writing analytic ideas in theethnographic present” creates a false sense oontinuous actions that are ahistorical. Fabian (1983)xplores these issues in examining the conceptions ome and history underlying anthropological research. Weontend that the included fieldnote excerpts andommentary clearly ground any discussion in specificmes, places, and social conditions.

10. However, this excerpt might be used effectively toepict the probation officer’s routine practices andoncerns, a more appropriate focus given thisthnographer’s strong identification with staff.

11. This issue was suggested by Okpewho’s (1992:83–203) analysis of “historic legends.” Okpewho argueshat when telling about events that occurred within theecent past, the narrator produces an account thatsteners, some of whom may have been witnesses, canccept as factual. Nevertheless, the teller uses well-

nown stylistic devices and narrating conventions toecount the event; as a result, “historic legends” soundery similar to “mythic legends” whose events no one

witnessed.12. This idea was, in part, triggered by Young’s

1988: 121–58) discussion of the links between landscapend narration. She points out that certain rock paintingsmong the Zuni people have narratives associated with



hem that people tell when they pass by them. In a similar ein, Kusenbach (2003) describes a “go along” proceduresed to stimulate community residents to recount their

memories and associations connected with local scenesnd landmarks.

13. Under some circumstances, however, a researcher an effectively incorporate analytic or other commentary

made in the original fieldnotes into a final text. Onemight well include such a commentary as a self-ontained excerpt in order to dramatize how an initialheoretical insight gave way to a later, moreomprehensive understanding. Or a field researcher

might use an initial fieldnote commentary to set up or ntroduce the theme of a section of the final ethnography.or example, a student researcher studying how streeteople use a public library began a section entitledLibrary Materials as Masks” in this fashion: “This is anbservation I made early on in my setting: ‘There isomething that I have always wondered about the “streeteople” who sit all day at our library. I wonder, as they

are at the pages with that typically blank expression,whether they are actually reading or simply lookingown with their thoughts focused on a completelyifferent place in an entirely different time.’ ”

14. Consider the original brief transcribed quotationharacterized by the journal editor as “incomprehensible”nd the edited version that ultimately appeared in printEmerson and Pollner 1988: 193) (parentheses indicate



assages that were either completely or partiallynaudible).

Original: “How does that jibe with your feelings herebout what ( ) other formulations seem to. Were thereny parts that you thought were um, um ( ) say just way,

way, way y’ know (we were) stretching it, off the—of he mark? ohh”

Edited: “How does that jibe with your feelings? . . .Were there any parts that you thought were, say just way,way, way y’ know, we were stretching it, off the mark?”

15. However, in his ethnography of New York streetook vendors, Duneier (1999: 347–48) follows theournalist practice in providing the real names of thoseudied (with their consent), suggesting that thisrocedure holds descriptions to “a higher standard ovidence.” Folklorists often offer the original names oorytellers, wishing to credit their creativity. Inollaborative research, fieldworkers also list their ssistants’ and coauthors’ names. However, when peopleescribe sensitive issues—such as in telling some

eligious, political, or historical accounts—mostthnographers change the names as Rachel Fretz did inhe Mushala fieldnote.

16. This strategy can also be used to introduce theheme of one section in the ethnography.

17. Indeed, Altheide and Johnson (1994: 485) insisthat “assessing and communicating the interactiverocess through which the investigator acquired the



esearch experience and information” provide coreomponents of the underlying “logic” or “ethic” of thnographic research.

18. Indeed, Becker (2007: 50) quotes the followingdvice from Everett Hughes to write introductions last:Introductions are supposed to introduce. How can yountroduce something you haven’t written yet? You don’tnow what it is. Get it written and then you can introduce.” Becker (2007: 55) himself recommends the followingpecific practice in this regard: “You usually find out, byhe time you get to the end of your draft, what you haven mind. Your last paragraph reveals to you what thentroduction ought to contain, and you can go back andut it in and then make the minor changes in other aragraphs your new-found focus requires.”

19. Some ethnographers have struggled against theseeatures of conventional narrative forms. Atkinson (1992:0), for example, considers ethnographic writings thatttempt to avoid “monologic ethnography . . . dominatedy the voice of the privileged narrator,” either by creating

iscursive texts (transcribed conversations between thethnographer and informant, as in Dwyer 1982) or olyphonic texts intended to represent the actual wordsnd ways of thinking of those studied through extendeduotations (e.g., Crapanzano 1985; Stacey 1998). Other thnographers have tried to move beyond conventionallyarrative-based texts by writing in a variety of literaryorms, including poetry (Richardson 1992), plays



McCall and Becker 1990; Mulkay 1985), and fictionalories (Wolf 1992). For general overviews of thesefforts, see Atkinson (1992) and Emerson (2001: 306–11,Ethnographic Conventions and Experimental Texts”).

Chapter Eight: Conclusion

1. One problem with conventional ethnography is thene-sidedness of this arrangement: Since ethnographiesre written for and circulated almost exclusively amongcholarly audiences, those whose lives and voices areepicted rarely get an opportunity to read and respondublicly to how they have been represented. A number oeld researchers (e.g., Bloor 2001; Emerson and Pollner

988, 1992; Handler 1985; Tedlock 1979) urge takingthnographic accounts back to those whose lives theyepresent, not primarily to “validate” those accounts but,ather, to open up active dialogue between members andesearchers about the meaning and import of such

ccounts. Such “dialogue” aims not to producegreement or consensus but rather to highlight thenevitable differences that will mark the concerns othnographers and those whom they have represented (cf.merson and Pollner 1992: 95–96).

2. Johnson and Altheide (1993: 105) summarize thesemany conflicting demands by insisting that thethnographer/writer must seek “to locate oneself vis-à-vis



he subjects, to accept authority with its responsibility,allibility, and limitations, and to tell ‘your’ story abouthe subject matter, making it clear that you have ‘biased’he account with specific focus, selection, description,

nd interpretation of the materials.”



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Index

brams, M. H., 94, 95, 100dler, Patricia, 5dler, Peter A., 5gar, Michael H., 260hmed, Sara, 164itkin, Gill, 163ltheide, David L., 2, 251, 267, 268lzheimer’s disease caregivers, 124–25 , 182–84 , 190–

92, 194–95 , 211 , 237–38 , 239–40nalytic (vs. descriptive) writing, 79–85 , 123–26nalytic induction, 264, 265nalyzing fieldnotes, 80–85 , 123–26 , 171–99 . See also

asides; coding; commentaries; memos

ndersen, Margaret L., 158nderson, Elijah, 163nderson, Leon, ix, 166nderson, Timothy, 3, 250

sides, 80–81 , 103thens, Lonnie H., 251tkinson, Paul, ix, xiii , xv, 105, 202, 206, 211 , 245, 265,

267



udiences/readers, 91–93 , 123, 193–94 , 201–2 , 241–42 ,253, 256, 265, 268

utism, 211–12

aca Zinn, Maxine, 163aldamus, W., 173all, Mike, 251arth, Fredrik, 231atchelder, D., xxiattered women’s shelter, 85, 125auman, Richard, 260ecker, Howard S., 123, 251, 262, 263, 265, 267edsworth, Caitlin, 10–12 , 250eiderwell, Bruce, 97, 256, 257en-Amos, Dan, 259, 261erger, Bennett M., 258–59 , 266esio, Kathryn, 259hopal, Kalwant, 163iernacki, Patrick, 264ittner, Egon, 43, 250

leich, David, xxiiloor, Michael J., 241, 268lum, Nancy S., 264

lumer, Herbert, 2, 18

ogdan, Robert, 239, 249riggs, Charles L., 260



rown, Richard H., 257ulmer, Martin, 173urawoy, Michael, 130, 251urgess, Robert G., 249urman, Erica, 163urns, Stacy Lee, 35utz, David, 259

ahill, Spencer, 39ameron, Elisabeth, 257, 259amitta, Miriam, 263ampus bookstore, 40, 41–42haracterization, 69–74 , 254

fieldworker as character, 72–73main and peripheral characters, 71–72 . See alsodescription;episodes;sketches

harmaz, Kathy, 123, 130, 172, 173, 198, 258, 264hokwe, xx, 67–68 , 100, 103–4 , 131–32 , 134–35 , 137,

144, 150–51 , 153–55 , 219–22 , 261initiations, 103–4 , 159sorcery, 25, 151storytellings, 67–68 , 144, 153–55 , 161, 219–22 ,261

holo, 70icourel, Aaron V., 255, 260larke, Michael, 4



lifford, James, xiii , xv 16, 19, 245lothing store, 155–57 , 267oding, 171–85 , 191–93

asking questions of fieldnotes, 177–79focused, 172, 191–93illustrations of, 179–81 , 182–84“only one case,” 193, 264open, 172, 175–85

offey, Amanda, ixommentaries, x–xi , 80, 81–85 , 225, 266

focused, 81–83summary, 82, 83–85

ommunity mental health center, 235, 236omplaint filing, 137–38omputer-assisted qualitative data analysis (CAQDAS)

programs, 176–77 , 264ontext (locally relevant), 144–46 , 154–55 , 160, 167–69orbin, Juliet M., xiv, 172, 176, 177, 185, 249, 263, 264osentino, Donald, 261ourtrooms, 187–88

rapanzano, Vincent, 267risis drop-in center, 81ushman, Richard, 250

ance audiences, 179–81

ay’s entry, 74–75 , 254Delamont, Sara, ixDenzin, Norman K., 249



escription, 5–12 , 58–63 , 85–87 , 254of actions, 62–63avoiding stereotypes, clichés, and labels, 60–61 ,70correspondence between account and “whathappened,” 5–6, 86–87 , 254importance of detail in, 18, 58, 60, 61–62of interaction, 32–33of people, 32, 59–62real-time (vs. end-point), 105–7 , 109of the same event, 5–12of scenes, 32, 58–59 , 62–63 . See alsocharacterization;episodes;fieldnote tales;organizing fieldnote descriptions;

point of view;sketches

Desmond, Matthew, 255, 266DeVault, Marjorie L., 166, 263, 266

ialogue, 56, 63–69 , 207, 250–51 . See also directquotation;indirect quotation;

paraphrasingDiamond, Jared, 259Diamond, Timothy, 3, 266

iaries and personal journals, xvi, xxi, 15–16Dingwall, Robert, 263



irect quotation, 56, 63–66 , 225–26ivorce mediation, 63–64omestic violence restraining orders, xx, 9–12 , 98–99 ,

208omestic workers, 206, 224–25

Douglas, Jack D., 92Douglass, William A., 232Duneier, Mitchell, 163, 165, 241, 251, 267Dwyer, Kevin, 267

dgar Cayce study group, 132llen, R. F., 249, 251llis, Carolyn, 251merson, Robert M., xix, xx, 2, 4, 43, 142, 165, 184,

241, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 266, 267, 268pisodes, 77–79 , 111–12 , 255thnocentrism, 131thnographic field research, xxii , 1–20 , 267–68

connecting methods and findings, xvii–xviii , 15– 16, 250, 251, 253

ethnographic marginality, 41–43 , 250, 253, 254experiential style, 21–23 , 42–43

participating-in-order-to-write style, 22, 24–29 ,42–43

participation (immersion) in others’ worlds, 1–4,

21–22 , 43, 254reactive effects, 4–5, 91as socialization and resocialization, 3–4, 17, 91,



136–37 , 260thnographies: and authorial privilege, 241

as description, 5–12as inscription, xiii , 1, 12–14 , 19–20as narrating, 19, 20and omniscient point of view, 257and reflexivity, 245–48and social structural forces, 166–67as texts, xiii–xivas translation, 19, 20

thnomethodology, 2, 251xperience-near and experience-distant concepts, 130,

158–59 , 162xperiential education, xx–xxii

abian, Johannes, 266elstiner, William L. F., 255eminist ethnographies, 16–17eminist political action committee, 149–50 , 235etterman, David M., xiv

eldnotes in ethnography: as accounts or representations,5–6, 16–17accumulating over time, 14, 173–74 , 246and developing/creating theory, xv, 197–99differing views of the nature and uses of, xv–xvi ,

22, 251, 252, 254, 258 personal qualities of, xv, 72–73 , 124–25 , 245–46 published vs. “raw” fieldnotes, xiii – xiv, xvii – xix,



245–46reading and writing modes, 85–87

eldnote tales, 109–22 , 255, 258compared with dramatic narratives, 112–13finding/creating connections, 110–13 , 120–22 , 258illustrations of, 114–17 , 117–120loose and cohesive tales, 111–13 , 116–17 , 119–22 .See also narratives and narrating

eldworker: insider/outsider issues, 5, 63–65 personal reactions of, 13–14

ine, Elizabeth C., 13ine, Gary Alan, 251ischer, Michael M., 251lower, Linda S., 256ood bank, 81orester, John, 177rake, Charles O., 260retz, Rachel I., xix, xx, 67, 134, 153, 154, 219–22 , 249,

257, 261, 267rohmann, Lisa, 159

Garfinkel, Harold, 106, 138, 231, 250Garot, Robert, 255Gearing, Frederick O., 168Geertz, Clifford, xiii , 12, 14, 18, 19, 130, 155, 158–59 ,

162, 247, 250ender, 60, 158–66 , 263Georges, Robert A., 250, 251, 260



Glaser, Barney G., 264Goffman, Erving, 3, 167, 237–38 , 253, 254Goldstein, Kenneth S., 251Gottlieb, Alma, 252Graham, Philip, 252

rocery store stocker, 62–63 , 84rounded theory, 172–73 , 255, 258

Gubrium, Jaber F., 15, 145, 249, 261Gunaratnam, Yasmin, 163, 165Gusfield, Joseph, xiii , 251

ym participants, 151–52 , 168–69

Hackney, Jennifer K., 263Hammersley, Martyn, 249Handler, Richard, 268Harper, Douglas, 251, 264

eadnotes, xvi, 23, 51Headstart Program, 32, 34, 56–57Heritage, John, 138, 145, 152Holstein, James A., 15, 145 , 249 , 261

omeless, 105–6 , 166–67 , 233–34Housing and Urban Development (HUD) office, 37–38 ,

136–37 , 263Hughes, Everett C., xix–xx , 253, 267Hunt, Jennifer, 259, 263

Hymes, Dell, 68



mposing exogenous meanings, 131–34ndirect quotation, 63–64nductive analysis, 171–73nitial impressions, 17, 24institutional careers,” 167nterns, xxi, 5, 9–12nterviewing, 14, 252, 255, 259, 263

and members’ meanings, 136, 252

ackson, Bruce, 251 , 254ackson, Jean E., xiv, xvi, 22, 251, 252, 254, 256, 258ackson, Michael, 262acobs, Jerry, 249ohnson, John M., 2, 251, 267, 268ohnstone, Barbara, 257, 260ones, Michael O., 250, 251ordan, Manuel, 257, 259ottings, 29–41 , 49

and composing fieldnotes, 52–57covert, 36, 39–40

distracting fieldworker, 35, 39ethical considerations, 36–37 , 42, 253and ethnographic marginality, 38, 42–43illustrations of, 29–31 , 32as mnemonic devices to stimulate recall, 29, 31–

32, 56open, 36–41and sensory details, 32



straining field relations, 35–36 , 38–39 , 40–41 , 42,253–54what to jot, 31–34when to jot, 35–41 , 49. See also headnotes;scratch notes

ules-Rosette, Bennetta, 3unker, Buford H., xv, xix–xxuvenile court, 203–4 , 209, 210, 265uvenile hall, 217

Karner, Tracy Xavia, ix, 251Karp, Ivan, 5Katz, Jack, 17, 27–28 , 165, 166, 173, 218, 263, 264, 265Kelle, Udo, 176Kendall, Martha B., 5

ey events or incidents, 24Kleinman, Sherryl, 251Kusenbach, Margarethe, 266

andlord-tenant civil court hearing, 30–31 , 54–56areau, Annette, 159, 251, 266awless, Elaine, 263ederman, Rena, xv, 19, 255ees, Shelley, 163iebow, Elliot, 263

incoln, Yvonna C., 249ocal knowledge, 155–58



ofland, John, ix, 249, 263ofland, Lyn H., ix, 249, 254os Angeles “riots,” 141–42utkehaus, Nancy, xvyman, Stanford M., 232ynch, Michael, 3

Marcus, George E., xiii , 16, 19, 245, 250, 251Marger, Martin, 232Matza, David, 131Maynard, Douglas W., 255McCall, M., 267McCoin, Susan, 249McDonald-Wickler, Lynn, 194member (defined), 249–50members’ meanings, 3, 16–17 , 25–27 , 129–69 , 247–48 ,

251, 258–59 , 260and asking questions, 136, 137–38and everyday questions and answers, 135–36and “formulations,” 138–39 , 260

and indigenous context and contrast, 146–48 , 259,261, 262and indigenous descriptions, 136–39inferred from interaction, 155–58 , 168–69as interpretive constructions, 130, 138–39 , 168,

247–48linking local events and social forces, 166–67 , 263and member explanations and theories, 149–51



and members’ categories in use, 151–58and members’ stories, 140–42 , 152–55race, gender, and class, 158–66and sociological analysis, 130, 251and tensions with concerns of scholarly readers,201–2 , 241–42and terms of address and greeting, 134–35

members’ terms, 28–29 , 65, 134–35 , 142–44 , 155–58member types and typologies, 142–44 , 151–52memos, 123–26 , 172, 185–88 , 193–97 , 265

code, 172, 185–88in-process, 123–26integrative, 172, 193–97 , 265

Messinger, Sheldon L., 184micro-political processes, 151–52 , 156–58Miles, Mathew B., 176Mills, Margaret A., 17, 260, 263Mishler, Elliot G., 4, 250Moerman, Michael, 261Mulkay, M., 267

Myerhoff, Barbara, 163, 247

ader, Laura, 165arratives and narrating, x, 19, 20, 74–75 , 93–94 , 109–

22, 133, 254, 256, 257, 259, 260, 261, 265, 266

connected through members’ units, 110–11connected through thematic thread, 110–11cultural variation in, 133, 257, 260



loosely vs. tightly structured, 111–13 , 116–17 ,118–19

natural histories” of research process, 251, 267onconsequential presence, 250

Okpewho, Isidore, 259, 266Ong, Walter J., 256

ral histories, 16–17rganizing fieldnote descriptions, 74–79 , 111–12 , 254,

255, 258. See also day’s entry; episodes; fieldnotetales; sketches

Oring, Elliott, 259Ottenburg, Simon, xiv, 252

apadopoulos, Irena, 163aragraphs, 74–75araphrasing, 64articipating/observing in order to write, 22, 24–29atterns, 28–29 , 33–34 , 204–5 , 207, 210oint of view, x, 94–105 , 256, 257

first-person, 95–97 , 257focused third-person, 98–100omniscient, 100–01 , 257shifting, 101–5 , 256, 257third-person, 97–98 , 257

olice patrol work, 113–17 , 147–48 , 258ollner, Melvin, 2, 4, 142, 194, 241, 250, 251, 252, 254,



266, 268olyvocality, 16–17 , 267robation and parole, 97–98 , 139, 140, 146, 188–89 , 260,

266rocess, 2, 17, 18, 27, 177–78rus, Robert, 263sathas, George, 13, 250sychiatric board-and-care home, 59, 69–70 , 142–43 ,

222–24 , 238–39 , 240sychiatric treatment facility, 78–79yrotechnics, 211

uantitative coding, 173uotation. See direct quotation; indirect quotation;

paraphrasing

ace and ethnicity, 60, 61, 63–64 , 65, 76, 158–66 , 254– 55, 265and commentaries, 82and description, 60, 61and developing a thematic narrative, 204–05and direct speech, 63–64 , 65and episodes, 77–78explicitly invoked, 158, 160, 161–62in introductions, 230–31

and linking ethnographies to other research, 232– 33



and member meanings, 158–65and members’terms, 160–62and members’ versions, 141–42

eactive effects, 4–5, 133, 253–54eaders/audiences, 91–93 , 123, 193–94 , 201–2 , 241–42 ,

253, 256, 265, 268eading fieldnotes as a data set, 171–75eflexivity, 245–48eform school, 143–44 , 146esidential program for ex-prostitutes, 26–27 , 102–3 ,

148, 186–87 , 252, 261retroductive” analysis, 173 , 197–98ichards, Lyn, 176ichards, T. J., 176ichardson, Laurel, xiv, 19, 202, 265, 267iessman, Catherine Kohler, 163, 257ochford, E. Burke, Jr., 3, 241ock, Paul, 2oyce, Anya P., 233

uby, Jay, 247

acks, Harvey, 138anjek, Roger, xiv–xv , xvi, 15, 254arat, Austin, 255

chatzman, Leonard, 249, 255, 264chegloff, Emanuel A., 145chools, 30, 52–54 , 63–64 , 72–73 , 76, 77–78 , 91, 117–



20, 189–90 , 196–97 , 214–16 , 226–29 , 230–31chutz, Alfred, 2, 262chwartz, Barry, 180chwartz, Howard, 249cratch notes, xvi, 23, 32elf-conscious writing choices, ix–x , xv, xvii , 12–13 , 19–

20, 47, 89–90 , 126–27 , 243–45 , 255–56 , 267ervice learning, xx–xxi , 5exualizing, 30, 53–54 , 95–97 , 138haw, Linda L., xix, xx, 59, 69, 143, 164, 222–24 , 252,

255herzer, Joel, 262hultz, Jeffrey, 251ketches, 75–77mith, Dorothy, 263mith, Greg, 251now, David A., ix, 166ocial class, 162ocial service agency, 82–83pradley, James P., 133, 249, 260

rinivas, Lakshmi, 131tacy, Judith, 16, 267tahl, Sandra Dolby, 257, 260toddard, Kenneth, 251toller, Paul, 255tone, Ruth M., 251, 255tone, Verlon L., 251, 255orytelling, 64, 140–42 , 144



t. Pierre, Elizabeth, 19, 265trauss, Anselm L., xiv, 172, 176, 177, 185, 249, 255,

258, 263, 264udnow, David, 260upermarket express checkout lines, 6–9wap meet, 65–66ymbolic interaction, 2, 249, 251

ape recordings, 13–14 , 49, 66–69 , 250–51 , 255avory, Iddo, 130aylor, Steven J., 239, 249edlock, Dennis, 68, 268

en Have, Paul, 250hematic narrative, 202–6 , 208, 210, 217, 218, 265

built with fieldnote excerpts, 203identifying topics and themes, 188–91 , 203–6 , 265selecting excerpts, 206–10 . See also writing anethnography

thick description,” xiii , 14horne, Barrie, 253, 263

immermans, Stefan, 130ouble, 25, 182, 184

us” and “them” distinctions, 147–48 , 262

Van Damme, Wilfried, 261Van Maanen, John, xiii , 14, 46, 100, 110 , 142, 202, 245,



257ideo recordings, 13–14 , 251, 254oice, 256

emerson, r. fretz, r. shaw, l. - writing ethnographic notes

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