QI ‘inc.

This week I have been reading Writing the New Ethnography by H. L. Goodall, Jr. (2000, AltaMira Press). I purchased this book in the spring of 2003 while I was writing my ethnographic-portraiture dissertation. I picked the book up again this fall, four years later, when I began teaching Introduction to Qualitative Inquiry and wanted to explore the aspects of new ethnography. Teaching the qualitative inquiry course this fall has ignited this personal quest to write in a way that engages readers while also has an impact on social science. As a “new ethnographer,” we have the desire to “make positive contributions to knowledge and create differences in people’s lives” (p. 29). Richardson (2005) also asks that ethnography contributes to “our understanding of social life” (p. 964).

In Chapter 1: On Becoming an Ethnographer in the Academy, Goodall’s writes, “To become a writer in a genre called ethnography is a choice that more accurately finds you, and then defines you” (p. 22). This comment rings true. I keep coming back to ethnography even though it is a long, labor-intensive style of writing.

What I enjoy about the new ethnographies I have read is each writer’s inclusion of self. As the reader I appreciate the writer’s honesty; but as the writer this requirement scares me as well because there is a vulnerability that shows up putting one’s truth out there, which is why I am practicing through this blog. I know it is important and I will follow through even at the risk of criticism because I already know there will be criticism. New ethnographers include “self” (Richardson, 2005) in their writings and “have an obligation to write about their lives” (Goodall, 2000). Goodall explains that obligation comes from the requirement that “observations and evaluations of others be firmly rooted in a credible, self-reflexive “voice,” which is a believable, compelling, self-examining narrator. In life’s conversations, whom do you trust- the person who never discloses her or his own feelings, who has no interesting life stories to offer in exchange for the details of yours? Or do you trust the person who emerges in the talk as someone living in a passionate and reflective life, someone willing to share with you its joys, its pain, its speculations, its ambiguities?” (p. 23).

The chapter concludes with the following statements that have resonated with me and that I will continue thinking about as I go about my day:

• Goodall advises: “You must learn to engage readers in an evolving conversation”….The characters in your story have to learn something out off what happens to them. They must grow into an understanding and maybe change, forever. They must get deeply in touch with something vital within themselves. Good writing, like good conversation is transformational” (p. 41).
• “Writers write to discover, and to further themselves, and they write for audiences outside of themselves. They have stories borne of personal experience that don’t end with just retelling the personal experience, but instead are designed – through conscious, stylistic deployments of language – to connect readers to larger patterns of lived experience and cultural meaning” (p. 41-42).

Transformation, discovery, lived experience, and cultural meaning seem to be the connection. Meanwhile, I must stop writing for now and hem my daughter’s dress for homecoming tonight. Her lived experiences and discovery is about being a senior in high school.