The Routledge International Handbook of Autoethnography in Educational Research [1 ed.] 1032119926, 9781032119922

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THE ROUTLEDGE INTERNATIONAL HANDBOOK OF AUTOETHNOGRAPHY IN EDUCATIONAL RESEARCH

The Routledge International Handbook of Autoethnography in Educational Research presents diverse and rigorous contemporary research at the intersection between autoethnography and educational research. The handbook investigates the bidirectional connection between autoethnography and educational research in relation to four themes: enhancing teaching and teacher education with autoethnography; enlarging doctoral study and supervision with autoethnography; conducting identity work and relationship-building via autoethnography; and promoting social justice through autoethnography. In addition to the synthesising introduction and conclusion chapters, the 27 main chapters in the handbook cover current research from Africa, Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, Bangladesh, Canada, Spain, the United Kingdom, the United States and Venezuela. The chapters present novel applications of several key concepts and research methods, including activism, arts-based research, critical reflection, decolonising feminism, doctoral study and supervision, hybrid identities, Indigenous research, migrant education, racism, researcher self-efficacy, teacher identity, visual autoethnography and writing as voice. This book will be of use to all researchers, and doctoral and Masters students, using qualitative and autoethnographic methods in Education and related fields. Emilio A. Anteliz is a hydrometeorological engineer, with extensive experience at the Central University of Venezuela in managing projects, and in designing and delivering professional development and extension learning courses for practising engineers and professionals in related fields. He is also interested in lifelong and informal learning and environmental consciousness. Deborah L. Mulligan is an Honorary Postdoctoral Researcher at the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. Her research interests include gerontology, where she has published and presented widely on older men and suicide ideation. Deborah has a strong interest in community capacity building through examining psychosocial groups targeted at marginalised cohorts. Patrick Alan Danaher is Professor (Educational Research) at the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. In addition, he is an Adjunct Professor at Central Queensland University, and at James Cook University, both in Australia, and he is also Docent in Social Justice and Education at the University of Helsinki, Finland.

THE ROUTLEDGE INTERNATIONAL HANDBOOK OF AUTOETHNOGRAPHY IN EDUCATIONAL RESEARCH

Edited by Emilio A. Anteliz, Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher

Cover image: © Getty Images First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Emilio A. Anteliz, Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Emilio A. Anteliz, Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-11992-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-11999-1 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-22255-2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/b23046 Typeset in Bembo by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)

For autoethnographic educational researchers, and for those who participate in their journeys and stories, who in concert create new apprehensions and appreciations of selves and others, and who thereby contribute to a more understanding world.

CONTENTS

List of figures xi List of tables xii Acknowledgements xiii Notes on contributors xiv 1 Pedagogies, positionality and power: maximising the mutual meanings of autoethnography and educational research Emilio A. Anteliz, Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher

1

SECTION 1

Enhancing teaching and teacher education with autoethnography: Introduction11 Deborah L. Mulligan 2 Illuminating the epiphany: reflecting on disability and inclusion in education Karen Barley

13

3 Five years after: constructing a robust teacher identity through autoethnography as professional development Brian Andrew Benoit

23

4 Uncovering buried treasure: digging deep to decolonise research and teaching practice in Aotearoa New Zealand Anne Bradley

34

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Contents

5 Evolving teacher education practice through collaborative arts-based autoethnography 48 Shelley Hannigan, Jo Raphael and Peta J. White 6 Teacher identity: the potential of autoethnographic research for restoration, renewal and retention Nadia Mead

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SECTION 2

Enlarging doctoral study and supervision with autoethnography: Introduction73 Deborah L. Mulligan 7 Effective autoethnographic exploration to enhance an educational doctoral researcher’s self-efficacy: journey to becoming a researcher Aruna Devi 8 Visual autoethnographic analysis for case study understanding Karl Matthews 9 The strengths and applications of collaborative autoethnography and phenomenography through methodological fusion in educational research Nona Press and Dolene Rossi 10 Conversations with my dog: anthropomorphising self-narrative as a researcher’s autoethnographic tool when writing her thesis and conducting grief work Deborah L. Mulligan

75 86

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115

11 An autoethnographic analysis of mental health (PTSD) recovery, empowerment and activism through university education Meg Forbes

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12 A comparative autoethnographic lens on the doctorate as told by a supervisor and a doctoral candidate Naomi Ryan and Deborah L. Mulligan

137

13 An autoethnographic exploration of hybrid identities within education Jennifer Clutterbuck

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148

Contents

14 Slipping and sliding: autoethnographic reflections on supervising, examining and evaluating autoethnography Sheila Trahar

156

SECTION 3

Conducting identity work and relationship-building via autoethnography: Introduction167 Deborah L. Mulligan 15 This is sweet but uncomfortable: an autoethnography of being African in American classrooms James Akpan 16 Susurrations of a swansong: autoethnographic sense-making by an Australian professor of education working on identity shift and relationship reshaping Patrick Alan Danaher

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17 Voicing my writing, writing my voice: autoethnography as a way to explore and (re)think my personal and academic self Gustavo González-Calvo

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18 The formation of an identity in a multicultural household: an autoethnography Arturo Pérez López and Patricia Varas

212

19 Self, reflexivity and the crisis of “outsideness”: a dialogical approach to critical autoethnography in education? Ashley Simpson

222

20 Looking beyond the gaze: a reflective faculty learning experience Devi Akella 21 Practical identities as sources for exploration: autoethnography as critical reflection Lynelle Watts and Rebecca Waters 22 The triple nexus between identity work and relationship-building: a collaborative autoethnography about university continuing education programs for Venezuelan engineers Emilio A. Anteliz and Paolo Maragno

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232

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Contents SECTION 4

Promoting social justice through autoethnography: Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan 23 Co-constructing testimonios: critical narratives of Latinx student college success Mery F. Diaz, Irma Cruz, Katherine Legarreta, Mercedes Lopez and Bethany Vazquez

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24 Revealing racism is ugly and uncomfortable: a White teacher’s autoethnography 284 Julie Keyantash Guertin 25 Autoethnography as activism: social media, influence, and community building Ceceilia Parnther

295

26 Decolonising feminism in class: an autoethnography of a Bangladeshi feminist woman Sharin Shajahan Naomi

306

27 They have lessons to teach me: critical reflection and autoethnography in an Australian adult migrant English program Skye Playsted

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28 Kaupapa Māori autoethnography Georgina Tuari Stewart

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29 Identifying implications and issues: selected lessons learned from intersecting autoethnography and educational research Patrick Alan Danaher, Emilio A. Anteliz and Deborah L. Mulligan

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Index 348

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FIGURES

4.1 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 7.1 7.2 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 8.9 9.1 9.2 10.1 15.1 21.1

The autoethnographic ripple effect 45 A beach-sand representation of the authors’ research 51 Maps of the authors’ educational influences 52 Exquisite corpse boats – educators as voyagers 53 The authors’ CABAE triptych 53 Jo’s artwork “Storybook” 54 Shelley’s artwork “Wearing my practice” 55 Peta’s artwork “Connected” 57 Sources of self-efficacy 77 Factors that influenced my self-efficacy in becoming a researcher 82 The author’s PhD “learning from experience” 89 Highlighting the author’s Mandala figures 90 The T10 Mandala: Terrific teachers that teach the teachers that teach the teachers 91 1st draft of Mandala for T10 93 2nd draft of Mandala for T10 93 3rd draft of Mandala for T10 94 The T10 Mandala 96 Climbing the PhD Mountain 97 The KM technology d/evolution cycle 98 Methodological fusion in qualitative inquiry (Press et al., 2019) 105 Outcome space for the categories of description in a hierarchical form (Press et al., 2019) 110 El 123 A dilapidated Nigerian high school building still in use (personal camera) 170 Practical identity adapted into graphic form (Laden, 2001) 248

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TABLES

4 .1 Reflective questions adapted from Bradt’s (2011) BRAVE model of culture 9.1 Study participants 9.2 Summary of the referential and structural aspects of the conceptions

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38 105 109

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The editors are very grateful to the following individuals, without whom this handbook would not have been published: • • • • • • •

The contributing authors, whose chapters extend our understandings of autoethnography and educational research in powerful and often poignant ways. Distinguished Professor Emeritus Arthur Bochner for his early encouragement of the project. Ms Hannah Shakespeare, Mr Matt Bickerton and their colleagues from Routledge who have been supportive and rigorous in equal measure. The three anonymous reviewers of the book proposal whose insightful feedback enhanced the quality of this volume. Ms Divya Muthu and her colleagues at SPi Global Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive) for their expert project management of the handbook’s production. Mr Nick Brock for his expert copyediting and enhancement of the text. Dr Deborah L. Mulligan for writing the four section introductions, and Mr Emilio A. Anteliz and Professor Patrick Alan Danaher for composing the index.

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Devi Akella is a Full Professor of Management in the School of Business, Albany State University, United States, where she teaches Organizational Behavior and Human Resources Management at the undergraduate and graduate levels. She completed her doctorate in Organizational Behavior and her Master’s in Business Administration at the University of Leeds, United Kingdom. James Akpan is currently a Doctor of Philosophy student of psychology and an Introduction to Psychology Instructor at the University of West Georgia, Carrollton, United States. His areas of research interest include metaphors that co-limit the African mind, community trauma as conflict of the wise mind, homeland psychic prisons and psychology of the African homeland cultures. Emilio A. Anteliz is a hydrometeorological engineer, with extensive experience at the Central University of Venezuela in managing projects, and in designing and delivering courses of professional development and extension learning for practising engineers and professionals in related fields. He is also interested in lifelong and informal learning and environmental consciousness. Karen Barley is an Associate Teacher in the Faculty of Education at Monash University, Australia. She has completed a Diploma in Teaching, a Graduate Diploma of Education (Professional Studies) and a Master of Education (Special & Inclusive Education), and she completed her PhD at the end of 2019. Brian Andrew Benoit is Director of Pedagogical Affairs for the Laurier Teachers Union and a researcher who also lectures to undergraduate and graduate education and humanities students at Bishop’s, University of Ottawa and McGill Universities in Canada. He also teaches students from the Indigenous communities of Kahnawà:ke and the Eeyou Istchee Cree nation through the Office of First Nations and Inuit Education at McGill University. Anne Bradley is a senior academic staff member at Toi Ohomai Institute of Technology in Tauranga, Aotearoa New Zealand, with a 25 year career in tertiary education in both Aotearoa New Zealand and the United Kingdom. She currently teaches on the undergraduate and postgraduate Business Studies programs, and has also lectured in Education and Teacher Training. xiv

Notes on contributors

Jennifer Clutterbuck is a sessional academic, and her educational career spans early childhood classrooms, school leadership and policy roles throughout the public education system in Queensland, Australia. Her research focuses on the inhabitants (human and non-human) and the happenings within the topological spaces created as policy, data and digital infrastructures interact. Irma Cruz graduated from the New York City College of Technology, CUNY, United States, with a Bachelor of Science in Human Services. She is a former peer mentor in the Crear Futuros Peer Mentor program, where she supported first-year, first-generation, undergraduate Latinx students in their transition to college. Patrick Alan Danaher is Professor (Educational Research) in the School of Education at the Toowoomba campus of the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. He is also an Adjunct Professor in the School of Education and the Arts at Central Queensland University, and in the College of Arts, Society and Education at James Cook University, both in Australia, and he is as well Docent in Social Justice and Education at the University of Helsinki, Finland. Aruna Devi is an Associate Lecturer in the School of Education and Tertiary Access at the University of the Sunshine Coast, Australia. She is a registered teacher, specialising in teaching students with learning difficulties, and she has taught science and mathematics in primary and secondary schools in Australia and Fiji. Mery F. Diaz is an Associate Professor in the Human Services Department at the New York City College of Technology, CUNY, United States. Her work focuses on the minoritised, racialised and gendered school experiences of young people and social justice issues. She is currently the faculty liaison for CREAR Futuros at City Tech. Meg Forbes is a social researcher, a Member of the Australian Psychological Society and a Fellow of the Australian Anthropological Society, who has a strong interest in mental health, advocacy and social justice. Her PhD research focused on the memorialisation of post-contact heritage by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities across South West Queensland, Australia. Gustavo González-Calvo holds a degree in primary education, a degree in physical activity and sports sciences, and a PhD in education. He works as a Lecturer and researcher at the University of Valladolid, Spain. His research focuses on narrative inquiry, ethnography and autoethnography, physical activity, body image, sport, health and other topics such as masculinities, and audit culture and neoliberalism in the university. Julie Keyantash Guertin is presently a teacher librarian and an online academy coordinator with the West Linn-Wilsonville School District in the western state of Oregon in the United States of America. She has 20 years of classroom experience in language arts, social studies, and career and technical education courses at the secondary level. Shelley Hannigan is Senior Lecturer in Arts Education (Visual and Media Arts) at Deakin University, Australia. She is a practising artist, a creative arts therapist and an art educator, and she researches across these practice fields. Her work focuses on art practice and art education practice, and also on interdisciplinary and transdisciplinary practices, including STEAM and arts-health. xv

Notes on contributors

Katherine Legarreta graduated from the New York City College of Technology, CUNY, United States, with a Bachelor of Science in Human Services. She is a former peer mentor in the Crear Futuros Peer Mentor program. She supported first-year, first-generation, undergraduate Latinx students in their transition to college, and she was president of the Human Services Club. Mercedes Lopez graduated from the New York City College of Technology, CUNY, United States, with a Bachelor of Science in Human Services. She is a former peer mentor in the Crear Futuros Peer Mentor program, where she supported first-year, first-generation, undergraduate Latinx students in their transition to college. She is currently a Guest Service Supervisor at Marriott in Florida. Paolo Maragno is Foreign Correspondent of the Venezuelan National Academy of Engineering and Habitat, and former Director of the Universidad Central de Venezuela Academic Coordination and Technological Institute. His books include Accreditation of engineering programs, Technology and knowledge transfer strategies from universities and Competency profile of Venezuelan engineers. Karl Matthews completed his PhD with a focus on knowledge management, and he continues to consult to industry on this topic and to produce related academic publications. His interest in the theoretical development of the Iterative Mandala Methods (IMM) of autoethnography was explored during his PhD, and the subsequent refinement of the IMM is discussed in his chapter in this handbook. Nadia Mead is a creativity professional and expert with interests in teacher identity and teacher voice, and how storytelling can influence the teaching experience. She is currently a Lecturer in the School of Education and the Arts at CQUniversity Australia. Her research work focuses on how stories can prepare pre-service teachers for their placements, and examines how sharing stories can impact upon teacher wellbeing. Deborah L. Mulligan is an Honorary Postdoctoral Researcher at the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. Her research interests include the field of gerontology, where she has published and presented widely on older men and suicide ideation. Deborah has a strong interest in community capacity building through examining psychosocial groups targeted at marginalised societal cohorts. Sharin Shajahan Naomi is an Assistant Professor of Gender Studies and Head of the Core Program at the Asian University for Women, Bangladesh. She has publications and research experience in a number of areas, including disability, violence against women, women’s empowerment, feminism, anti-feminist backlash, indigenous rights, human rights and humanitarian law, refugee rights, peace and conflict resolution, postcolonial knowledge and environmental justice. Ceceilia Parnther is an Assistant Professor and Doctoral Program Coordinator in the Department of Administrative and Instructional Leadership in the School of Education at St. John’s University, New York, United States. Ceceilia uses qualitatively dominant techniques to explore equity in higher education for all stakeholders.

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Notes on contributors

Arturo Pérez López is a first-generation Mexican American from Woodburn, Oregon, United States. He received his Bachelor of Arts from Willamette University, with a major in History and a minor in Latin American Studies, and he will pursue graduate studies in African American Studies, with an emphasis on the Black Power movement. Skye Playsted is a doctoral candidate and an academic tutor in the School of Education at the University of Queensland, Australia. She is researching professional learning for teachers of beginner-level English as an additional language adult students. She is interested in practice theories, classroom-based research, critical reflection in teacher education and qualitative methodologies in educational research. Nona Press is a Senior Lecturer within the Education Portfolio at the Queensland University of Technology, Australia. She is a Senior Fellow of the Higher Education Academy, United Kingdom. Her professional practice, research and scholarship have focused on curriculum, pedagogies and assessment that engage students and university educators in learning and that, in turn, enhance the quality of educational experience. Jo Raphael is Senior Lecturer in Arts Education (Drama) in the School of Education at Deakin University, Australia. She is actively involved in teaching and researching in school, community and higher education settings within Australia and internationally. She is Artistic Director of Fusion Theatre, an inclusive community-based company, working in areas of disability and disadvantage. Dolene Rossi has professional experience in health care provision, primarily as a registered nurse, midwife and community nurse in Scotland. Dolene recently retired from her Senior Lecturer position in the School of Nursing and Midwifery at CQUniversity, Australia, where she taught within the undergraduate nursing and postgraduate midwifery programs and provided supervision for doctoral students. Naomi Ryan is an academic within the University of Southern Queensland College, Australia. She is a multidisciplinary researcher with a range of interests focused on marginalised populations. Her PhD research explored the experiences of marginalised youth who completed their secondary education through flexible learning programs and the impact that this had on their career development and wellbeing. Ashley Simpson is a Lecturer in Language Education at The University of Edinburgh, United Kingdom. He currently sits on the Leadership Team of the Languages, Interculturality and Literacies Thematic Research Hub at the University of Edinburgh, and is the Programme Director of the Master of Science in Language and Intercultural Communication. Georgina Tuari Stewart (ko Whakarārā te maunga, ko Matauri te moana, ko Te Tāpui te marae, ko Ngāti Kura te hapū, ko Ngāpuhi-nui-tonu te iwi) works at the Auckland University of Technology, Aotearoa New Zealand, as a senior researcher, postgraduate supervisor, lecturer, reviewer, examiner, editor, ethics committee member and convenor of doctoral oral examinations.

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Notes on contributors

Sheila Trahar is Professor Emerita of International Higher Education, University of Bristol, United Kingdom. The interdependent concepts of internationalisation of higher education and of social justice in higher education are the focus of her intellectual scholarship, and her work is innovative for its use of narrative inquiry and autoethnography. Patricia Varas is Professor Emerita of Latin American Studies and Spanish at Willamette University, United States. Born in Guayaquil, Ecuador, she received her PhD at the University of Toronto, Canada. She is the author of Las máscaras de Delmira Agustini (2003) and Narrativa y cultura nacional (1993). Bethany Vazquez graduated from the New York City College of Technology, CUNY, United States, with a Bachelor of Science in Human Services. She is a former peer mentor in the Crear Futuros Peer Mentor program, where she supported first-year, first-generation, undergraduate Latinx students in their transition to college. Bethany’s primary concerns and areas of focus are social justice issues and police reform. Rebecca Waters is a Lecturer in Occupational Therapy at Curtin University, Australia. She has worked extensively as an occupational therapist in aged care, paediatric and disability services in both the public and private sectors. She has particular experience in complex case management in disability and mental health services, and in complex developmental and behavioural support for children in private practice. Lynelle Watts is a Senior Lecturer at Curtin University, Australia. Lynelle has conducted research and published in the areas of family and domestic violence; out of home care; decision-making in social work practice; teaching and learning in higher education; reflective practice and critical reflexivity in social work; social theory; and assessment tools for carers of people with mental illness. Peta J. White is a senior lecturer in science and environmental education at Deakin University, Australia. She has educated in classrooms, coordinated programs, supported curriculum reform and prepared teachers in several jurisdictions across Canada and Australia. Her PhD explored learning to live sustainably as a platform to educate future teachers.

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1 PEDAGOGIES, POSITIONALITY AND POWER Maximising the mutual meanings of autoethnography and educational research Emilio A. Anteliz, Deborah L. Mulligan and Patrick Alan Danaher Introduction The Routledge International Handbook of Autoethnography in Educational Research is focused on the complex and diverse connections between autoethnography and contemporary educational research. More specifically, it is centred on exploring the multiple ways in which autoethnography, as a distinctive and rigorous research method, contributes to enlarging, enriching and extending the assumptions and concerns of educational research. It is directed also at investigating particular means by which autoethnography in turn is interrogated, challenged and developed through its applications to educational research projects. In introducing this handbook, this chapter brings together, and places in a wider perspective, two central propositions. The first proposition underpinning the chapter is that the burgeoning scholarly publications about autoethnography, including the subsequent chapters, encapsulate distilled insights into existence and experience that generate crucial understandings of current and potential educational policy-making and provision with varying degrees of explicitness and formality (see, for example, Adams et al., 2022a; Burrows, 2018; Harrison, 2009; Rook, 2019; Wong, 2008). Autoethnography opens windows into the aspirations, assumptions and outcomes of individuals and groups involved in learning, teaching, leading educational sites and systems, framing curricula, assessing learning and teaching, and evaluating the impacts of educational programs and courses. Autoethnography also yields greater awareness of the fundamental relationship between “self ” and “other/s”, including how that relationship is constructed and mediated in the context of formal, non-formal and informal learning, and how that relationship can help to facilitate, and/or to impede, educationally oriented goals such as the formation of informed citizens and the growth of peaceful communities. In doing so, autoethnography invites and enables focused attention on the informal, personal and private dimensions of the otherwise formalised and official discourses attending curriculum, pedagogy and assessment. The second central proposition animating this chapter is that rigorous educational research, also synthesised in the subsequent chapters, constitutes a framework for reflecting critically on

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-1

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the limits and limitations of autoethnography, and where appropriate and possible for assisting in extending the influence and reach of autoethnography. Like any well-established research method, autoethnography is at potential risk of rigidification and stultification if it is not constantly reviewed and renewed, and the concerns and issues of educational research form a fertile ground for feeding back to, and for continuing to enlarge and enrich the applications and implications of, current and future autoethnographic research (see, for example, Hannan, 2016; Ingman, 2016; Kappert, 2020; Ngunjiri et al., 2010). In introducing the Routledge International Handbook of Autoethnography in Educational Research, this chapter is divided into the following three sections: • • •

A rationale for the handbook Organising principles for the handbook The content and structure of the handbook.

A rationale for the handbook In composing this introductory chapter, we have taken care not to repeat material that is readily available from other autoethnographic researchers, but instead to highlight the identified distinctiveness of this handbook that is intended to contribute to that broader corpus of work. As a starting point, we note Denshire’s (2014) contention that “… auto-ethnography is a relatively young and contested field” (p. 832), and relatedly we endorse Poulos’s (2021) widely ranging depiction of autoethnography that signifies some of its complexity and diversity: Autoethnography is an autobiographical genre of academic writing that draws on and analyses or interprets the lived experience of the author and connects researcher insights to self-identity, cultural rules and resources, communication practices, traditions, premises, symbols, rules, shared meanings, emotions, values, and larger social, cultural, and political issues. (italics in the original) Moreover, we acknowledge wholeheartedly the initiation and early development of this scholarly field, as well as the continuing contributions to its lively continuation and further thinking, led by the foundational figures of Tony Adams, Art Bochner, Carolyn Ellis and Stacy Holman Jones, among others. We note also the most recent definition of autoethnography distilled by three of these figures: “‘Autoethnography’ consists of three characteristics or activities: the ‘auto,’ or self; the ‘ethno,’ or culture; and the ‘graphy,’ or representation/writing/story. Projects defined as ‘autoethnography’ engage all three characteristics” (Adams et al., 2022b; italics in the original). Additionally, we endorse these same prominent autoethnographers’ equally recent encapsulation of five of the most important functions fulfilled by high-quality autoethnography, which in turn synthesise many of the central claims for the continuing relevance of such research: ( 1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

foreground particular and subjective knowledge; illustrate sensemaking processes; make contributions to existing research; challenge norms of research practice and representation; and engage and compel responses from audiences. (Adams et al., 2022b) 2

Pedagogies, positionality and power

Furthermore, we read with great interest these same three renowned autoethnographers’ synthesis of current issues and potential tensions in continuing to progress autoethnography as a productive and vibrant research field: • • •

Creating, Sustaining, and Loving Community Evaluating, Refining, and Doing Autoethnography Unapologetically Challenging and Changing Autoethnography and the World. (Adams et al., 2022b)

Consistent with our approach articulated above, we acknowledge but do not replicate here important discussions in the autoethnographic literature. These discussions traverse the historical development of autoethnography (Adams et al., 2017; Ellis et al., 2011), the particular ethical implications of conducting autoethnography (Boylorn, 2017; Chatham-Carpenter, 2010), the interplay between individual and collaborative forms of autoethnography (Chang, 2013), the epistemological dimension of autoethnography (Smith, 2005), autoethnography as feminist method (Ettorre, 2017) and the novel insights that autoethnography facilitates into the home–away nexus (Alsop, 2002). Moreover, these accounts illustrate the highly diverse range of disciplines to which autoethnography continues to contribute powerfully and significantly, including chaplaincy studies (Kestenbaum et al., 2015), librarianship and information science (Fourie, 2021), organisational studies (Herrmann, 2020), psychology and coaching (Clegg & Law, 2017), sport and physical culture (Allen-Collinson, 2012) and vocational psychology (McIlveen et al., 2010). Additionally, equally diverse techniques have been employed to maximise the distinctive affordances of autoethnography, among them critical collaborative or co-autoethnography (Park & Wilmes, 2019), exo-autoethnography (Denejkina, 2017), multivocality (Choi, 2017; Mizzi, 2010), the interplay between autoethnography and narrative inquiry (Adams et al., 2021), performance autoethnography (Denzin, 2018), varied approaches to reading autoethnography (Salvo, 2020), the often-creative and innovative strategies for writing autoethnography, such as facilitating transgressive accounts of professional practice (Denshire, 2014), and the complex relationship between autoethnography and decolonisation (Dutta, 2018). Against this backdrop of the very extensive and rapidly growing scholarly literature both applying and evaluating autoethnography in highly diverse disciplines, this handbook is situated at the confluence of two clearly defined scholarly fields: autoethnography and educational research. We have traced a few of the many contours of the autoethnographic field above. We lack the space to do likewise for educational research. Suffice to remark that much educational research is concerned with the formal, official and public dimensions of curriculum, pedagogy and assessment – the prescribed courses of study, the sanctioned teaching strategies, the approved and moderated techniques for evaluating students’ learning, and the system-level ‘big data’ and ‘leagues tables’ for comparing results among students, schools, school systems and nations. This research generates valuable findings about the forms and functions of contemporary educational policy-making and provision. At the same time, autoethnography can and does afford crucial insights into that policy-making and provision from very different perspectives: of learners and their families and communities, educators and their school and system leaders, government officials, and businesses and other stakeholders in and recipients of the short- and longer-term effects of learning and teaching of diverse kinds. These perspectives enable evocative and powerful insights into the informal, unofficial and sometimes deeply personal elements of education – the assumptions and intentions of policy-makers and educators, the experiences 3

Emilio A. Anteliz et al.

and engagement of and by learners with formal and informal learning opportunities, and the connections and disconnections between those opportunities and broader sociocultural debates and issues. Similarly, and as posited above, educational research that deploys autoethnographic research methods can contribute in turn to challenging, contesting, extending and enriching autoethnography through its encounters with the set of disciplines constituting educational research. Accordingly, the Routledge International Handbook of Autoethnography in Educational Research is focused on this bidirectional relationship between autoethnography and educational research that provides a bridge between these two scholarly fields, and that highlights each of them as fluid and growing in character, and as exhibiting affordances that can clarify and strengthen the other element in that relationship. From this standpoint, there is much to be gained from exploring in considerable detail, and in multiple contexts, the mutually beneficial meaning-making to be derived from traversing this bridge from both directions. While we acknowledge some recent texts that have crossed this intersection between autoethnography and educational research (Smith, 2013; Tilley-Lubbs & Calva, 2016), the authors of the following chapters and we are convinced of the need for further and continuing work in this scholarly space, including this handbook.

Organising principles for the handbook Despite having established the boundaries for the focus of this handbook, we note the considerable diversity of possible investigations of the aforementioned bidirectional relationship between autoethnography and educational research, and of the associated interest in the interplay of meanings between these scholarly fields. We elaborate in the next section of this chapter one strategy for maximising the handbook’s coherence: the clustering of the chapters around four distinct themes. In this section, we outline a parallel strategy to attain that coherence: the identification of three organising principles that we intend to convey some of the many potential crossover points between these scholarly fields. These are not designed to constrain the rich variety reflected in the subsequent chapters, but instead to highlight some specific elements of how we as the handbook editors see the character and the significance of these sites of intersection. The three organising principles that we have selected pertain to pedagogies, positionality and power. For us, these three complex notions constitute dynamic and shifting spaces – littoral zones where the flotsam and jetsam of autoethnography abut against and transform the sedimented residue of educational research. We see these concepts, as well as being spatially fluid, as being politically charged and responsive to the wider interplay of the forces of marginalisation and the attempts at resistance to and transformation of such marginalisation (see also Danaher et al., 2013). Against this backdrop, as the first organising principle, “pedagogies” distils the relational dimension of learning and teaching: while we recognise that valuable learning can be informal and private in character, mostly learning and teaching require the alignment of interests of a number of mutually dependent stakeholders. Autoethnography can and does contribute much to understanding how such pedagogies are enacted and experienced in diverse ways and with varying short- and longer-term effects, sometimes positive and at other times negative. Likewise, because pedagogies are prevalent and pervasive in educational practice and research, they afford a usefully bounded and grounded set of contexts in which the limits of autoethnography can be stretched and its potential limitations reassessed and addressed. 4

Pedagogies, positionality and power

This bidirectional relationship between pedagogies and autoethnography has been elaborated by several autoethnographic researchers. For instance, Denzin’s seminal work in this scholarly space is well-known, including his articulation (2006) of the profoundly political character of this relationship: Critical pedagogy, folded into and through performance (auto)ethnography[,] attempts to disrupt and deconstruct these cultural and methodological practices performatively in the name of a more just, democratic, and egalitarian society. Democracy-ascitizenship is radically performative, dialogical, transgressive, pedagogical. (p. 333) Taking up the mantle of this capacity of autoethnographic pedagogies to generate powerful and productive educational change, Belbase et al. (2008) accentuated what they saw as “the possibilities of linking autoethnography as a method of inquiry that catalyses the transformative pedagogy positively” (p. 86) – in their case, in the context of mathematics education. Even more explicitly, in their review of Pelias’s (2000) autoethnographic essay entitled “The critical life” – which they called “an autoethnography with attitude” (p. 233) – Banks and Banks (2000) characterised the essay as “autoethnography as pedagogy” (p. 233). In doing so, they communicated a powerful insight whereby “we believed the contexts for interpreting and applying an autoethnographic text should be – perhaps can only be – supplied by readers, not by the author” (p. 233; italics in the original). This contention simultaneously contradicts any depiction of autoethnography as self-indulgent and solipsistic (see also Danaher, 2021) through its wholehearted recognition of the readers and consumers of autoethnographic texts, and reinforces the crucial proposition that effective pedagogy is dialogical in character, as well as depending on authentic engagement by all participants and stakeholders for its intended effects to be actuated. These same indispensable elements of autoethnography as pedagogy were evidenced also in specific educational applications, including a master’s course of autoethnography in international relations (Barr, 2019), and researching educational experiences in Canadian multicultural contexts (Starr, 2010). In relation to the second organising principle, autoethnographers and educational researchers alike have a profound interest in the “positionality” of learners, educators, educational site and system leaders, educational policy-makers, and other participants and stakeholders in the intentions and effects of educational opportunities. Positionality accentuates the dreams, fears, hopes and resultant actions of individuals and groups, appraised against the critically informed backdrop of the economic, political and sociocultural forces that structure our lives, and in relation to which our agency is enacted. Autoethnography has a crucial, continuing role in helping us to learn from the positionality of ourselves and multiple others, and educational research generates findings about the effects and impact of that positionality on our and others’ educational opportunities and outcomes. Several autoethnographic researchers have highlighted this bidirectional relationship between positionality and autoethnography. The complex and intimate character of this relationship was encapsulated by Ngunjiri et al. (2010): Now, as immigrant women of color in the US academy, we unapologetically claim that we are doing autoethnography. The intersection of our socio-identities and the opportunities and challenges we face in the academy has become our positionality; collaborative autoethnography is our method of choice. (p. 2 of 17) 5

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Furthermore, in a synthesising statement that resonates strongly with several of the subsequent chapters, Pitard (2017) enunciated a clarion call for careful and ongoing attentiveness to the fundamental nexus between positionality and autoethnographic research: … the positionality of the researcher in relation to the data is based upon philosophical beliefs and assumptions accumulated throughout a lifetime which inhabit the unknowing mind of the researcher. Listening to our internal dialogue relies upon that dialogue being spontaneous, springing from a stillness of mind which allows our past experience to guide our present. The examination of this internal dialogue can reveal stimuli from our experiences which we carry with us still. (p. 2 of 20) Like so much else about autoethnography, this apprehension of positionality generates considerable ethical concerns and considerations for researchers working in this scholarly space. This was certainly the case in a recent discussion of diverse understandings of equity in engineering education research (Secules et al., 2021), as well as in the account by Fasavalu and Reynolds (2019) of their experiences of “relational positionality” in facilitating their “deliberate re-­ positioning in relation to their field of education, focusing on deliberate self-change and the application of new conceptual learning” (p. 11) in the context of Pasifika education in Aotearoa New Zealand. Such relationality has also been manifested in other educational research studies that have drawn on autoethnography, including investigations of autoethnography and heuristic inquiry in doctoral study (Throne, 2019), the collaborative writing process known as community autoethnography (Pensoneau-Conway et al., 2014) and experiences of online dating as a contribution to dialogic autoethnography that yielded the axioms “Theorizing affects how we understand positionality within a story” and “Theorizing is positionality” (Wilkes, 2022, p. 65; italics in the original). With regard to the third organising principle, the interface between autoethnography and educational research constructed in this handbook provides heightened apprehension of “power” from two principal perspectives. Firstly, education is fundamentally a political practice that empowers some learners, and that perpetuates the disempowerment of other learners, including those from marginalised communities, and educational researchers have both opportunities and obligations to render the powerful intentions and effects of education tangible, visible, and open to contestation and reformation. Secondly, autoethnography has proven itself to be an enduringly empowering research method, with self-narratives of multiple kinds powerfully communicating the experiences and expectations – including those related to education – of individuals and groups. This identification of power as a significant bidirectional and interdependent organising device that sheds new light on autoethnography and educational research alike has been confirmed by several current and recent studies located at the intersection of these two scholarly fields. Certainly, Bolen (2017) accentuated the politicised dimension of autoethnographic research in a couple of distinct ways. Firstly, “Characterized as a postmodern form of ethnography, autoethnographic research subverts traditional social science” (p. 73), including norms of researchers’ detachment, objectivity and separation from those with whom they research. Secondly, the personal domain that lies at the heart of autoethnography is neither ‘innocent’ nor ‘neutral’: “A rich history of recognizing the personal as political and inseparable from the social and cultural implores autoethnographers to take seriously the cultural, social, and political situatedness of research practices” (p. 74). In a similar vein, Marx et al. (2017) linked critical autoethnography explicitly with deeper and wider political forces, whereby “… the deeply 6

Pedagogies, positionality and power

personal experiences of race, culture, language, sexuality, and other aspects of marginalization and privilege [are connected] to the broader context of education in society” (p. 1). Specific examples of autoethnographic educational research that engaged directly and extensively with questions of power included studies of competitive rowing (Purdy et al., 2008), university academics using participatory visual methodologies (Phelps-Ward et al., 2021), autoethnography as reconciliation in the context of ethnicity, gender and educational leadership (McClellan, 2012), methodological affordances in researching legal education (Campbell, 2016) and working with postgraduate students in a School of Education in a British university (Trahar, 2013). Presenting a strongly resonant distillation of the common denominator of these highly diverse explorations of power in, and the power of, autoethnographic educational research, Gannon (2017) reiterated that “Issues of power and subjugation are also emphasized” in these explorations, and she articulated that “This sensitivity to discursive regimes of power, to the subtleties of context and to a critical orientation to injustice has continued to be central in subsequent autoethnographic research”.

The content and structure of the handbook The contention of the closely interwoven and mutually reinforcing relationship between autoethnography and educational research that lies at the heart of this handbook, and that was explicated in the preceding section of this chapter, is taken up in the subsequent 27 chapters (written by 38 contributing authors) with regard to four distinct subfields of scholarly endeavour as elaborated below: teaching and teacher education; doctoral study and supervision; identity work and relationship-building; and social justice. Additionally, each of these subfields manifests, within the individual chapters and also across each of the four sections of the handbook aligned with these subfields, the illuminating interplay among pedagogies, positionality and power identified above. In concert, the result is intended to represent a distinctive and timely contribution to maximising the mutually constituted and interdependent meanings of autoethnography and educational research. The detailed overview of each chapter is presented in the respective section introduction. At this point, it is relevant to record that the geographical coverage of these four sections and 27 chapters is diverse, encompassing research conducted, experiences enacted, and/or researchers located in Africa, Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, Bangladesh, Canada, Spain, the United Kingdom, the United States and Venezuela. Likewise, the handbook traverses a diversity of educational research sub-disciplines, sociocultural concepts, research methods and research paradigms, including activism, arts-based autoethnography, being African, co-constructing experiences, continuing education, critical reflection, decolonising feminism, doctoral student– supervisor relationships, doctoral thesis supervision and examination, educational inclusion, empowerment, external practice, hybrid identities, Indigenous research, learning experiences, methodological fusion, migrant education, multicultural households, outsideness, professional development, racism, researcher self-efficacy, sense-making, teacher identity, visual autoethnography and writing as voice. This significant diversity notwithstanding, the handbook’s coherence and consistency have been maximised by each section, and each chapter, engaging explicitly with the aforementioned bidirectional relationship between autoethnography and educational research, and by articulating and exemplifying what and how each element in that relationship affords by way of increased understanding of both itself and the other element. Moreover, it is important to note that, in multiple and varied ways, the following chapters have taken up one or more of the three organising principles explicated above. 7

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In further terms of enhancing the handbook’s coherence and consistency, the editors reviewed each chapter abstract prior to its inclusion in the comprehensive handbook proposal, which in turn was reviewed independently by three anonymous reviewers, leading to careful refinements of the proposal. More recently, each chapter has been reviewed comprehensively by at least two of the three editors.

Conclusion There is recurring and increasing scholarly interest in the ethical and methodological possibilities of autoethnography as research methods in education (understood broadly and inclusively as encompassing learning and/or teaching in diverse forms and ranging from formal and structured on the one hand to informal and incidental on the other hand). Against the backdrop of that scholarly interest, this handbook is centred on continuing debates and contemporary applications related to the intersection between autoethnography and educational research. These continuing debates include the perceived legitimacy and rigour of focusing on the researcher as self, the relationship between that focus and wider conceptualisations of the self, and possible opportunities for engaging productively with multiple manifestations of the other and of otherness. These contemporary applications encompass innovative strategies for building on the undoubted affordances of autoethnography and while also seeking to enhance those affordances, traversing different disciplines and paradigms, and mobilising inter- and trans-disciplinary and -paradigmatic approaches. As we noted above, the handbook has been framed and informed by three organising devices: pedagogies, positionality and power. It has also been clustered around four touchpoints: teaching and teacher education; doctoral study and supervision; identity work and relationship-building; and social justice. Against that clearly delineated research agenda, the following chapters have been calibrated to generate what we believe to be powerful and significant new insights into the distinctive experiences and understandings situated in the diverse and complex spaces that connect autoethnography and educational research.

References Adams, T. E., Boylorn, R. M., & Tillmann, L. M. (Eds.) (2021). Advances in autoethnography and narrative inquiry: Reflections on the legacy of Carolyn Ellis and Arthur Bochner. Routledge. Adams, T. E., Ellis, C., & Holman Jones, S. (2017). Autoethnography. In J. Matthes, C. S. Davis, & R. F. Potter (Eds.), The international encyclopedia of communication research methods. John Wiley & Sons. Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (Eds.) (2022a). Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed.). Routledge. Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (2022b). Introduction: Making sense and taking action: Creating a caring community of autoethnographers. In T. E. Adams, S. Holman Jones, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed., pp. 1–19). Routledge. Allen-Collinson, J. (2012). Autoethnography: Situating personal sporting narratives in socio-cultural contexts. In K. Young & M. Atkinson (Eds.), Qualitative research on sport and physical culture (pp. 191–212). Emerald. Alsop, C. K. (2002). Home and away: Self-reflexive auto-/ethnography. Forum: Qualitative Sozialforschung/ Social Research, 3(3), article 10. https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-3.3.823 Banks, S. P., & Banks, A. (2000). Reading “the critical life”: Autoethnography as pedagogy. Communication Education, 49(3), 233–238. https://doi.org/10.1080/03634520009379212 Barr, M. (2019). Autoethnography as pedagogy: Writing the “i” in IR. Qualitative Inquiry, 25(9–10), 1106–1114. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800418792940 Belbase, S., Luitel, B., & Taylor, P. (2008). Autoethnography: A method of research and teaching for transformative education. Journal of Education and Research, 1(1), 86–95. https://doi.org/10.3126/jer. v1i0.7955

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Pedagogies, positionality and power Bolen, D. M. (2017). Autoethnography. In M. Allen (Ed.), The Sage encyclopedia of communication research methods (pp. 73–76). Sage Publications. Boylorn, R. M. (2017). Bitter sweet(water): Autoethnography, relational ethics, and the possible perpetuation of stereotypes. In S. L. Pensoneu-Conway, T. E. Adams, & D. M. Bolen (Eds.), Doing autoethnography (pp. 7–17). Sense Publishers. Burrows, P. M. A. (2018). Fostering biculturalism: Exploring principal hautūtanga/leadership in a South Island secondary school in Aotearoa New Zealand: An autoethnography. [Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy thesis.] University of Canterbury, Aotearoa New Zealand. https://ir.canterbury.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/ 10092/16366/Burrows%2C%20Peggy_Final%20PhD%20Thesis.pdf?sequence Campbell, E. (2016). Exploring autoethnography as a method and methodology in legal education research. Asian Journal of Legal Education, 3(1), 95–105. https://doi.org/10.1177/2322005815607141 Chang, H. (2013). Individual and collaborative autoethnography as method: A social scientist’s perspective. In S. Holman Jones, T. E. Adams, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (pp. 107–122). Left Coast Press. Chatham-Carpenter, A. (2010). “Do thyself no harm”: Protecting ourselves as autoethnographers. Journal of Research Practice, 6(1), article M1. http://jrp.icaap.org/index.php/jrp/article/view/213/183 Choi, J. (2017). Creating a multivocal self: Autoethnography as method. Routledge. Clegg, N., & Law, H. (2017). The art of the transpersonal: Its psychology and coaching application. Transpersonal Psychology Review, 19(1), 24–44. Danaher, M. J. M., Cook, J. R., Danaher, G. R., Coombes, P. N., & Danaher, P. A. (2013). Researching education with marginalized communities. Palgrave Macmillan. Danaher, P. A. (2021). From solipsism to communitarianism: Glimpses of self and others in creating my and our future research selves. Paper presented at the 27th University of Southern Queensland Postgraduate and Early Career Researcher Group research symposium, University of Southern Queensland, online. Denejkina, A. (2017). Exo-autoethnography: An introduction. Forum: Qualitative Sozialforschung/Social Research, 18(3), article 13. https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-18.3.2754 Denshire, S. (2014). On auto-ethnography. Current Sociology Review, 62(6), 831–850. https://doi.org/ 10.1177/205684601351 Denzin, N. K. (2006). Pedagogy, performance, and autoethnography. Text and Performance Quarterly, 26(4), 333–338. https://doi.org/10.1177/0011392114533339 Denzin, N. K. (2018). Performance autoethnography: Critical pedagogy and the politics of culture (2nd ed.). Routledge. Dutta, M. J. (2018). Autoethnography as decolonization, decolonizing autoethnography: Resisting to build our homes. Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies, 18(1), 94–96. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1532708617735637 Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Forum: Qualitative Sozialforschung/Social Research, 12(1), article 10. https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-12.1.1589 Ettorre, E. (2017). Autoethnography as feminist method: Sensitising the feminist “I”. Routledge. Fasavalu, T. I., & Reynolds, M. (2019). Relational positionality and a learning disposition: Shifting the conversation. International Education Journal: Comparative Perspectives, 18(2), 11–25. https://openjournals. library.usyd.edu.au/index.php/IEJ/article/view/14035 Fourie, I. (Ed.) (2021). Autoethnography for librarians and information scientists. Routledge. Gannon, S. (2017). Autoethnography. In Oxford research encyclopedia of education. https://doi. org/10.1093/acrefore/9780190264093.013.71 https://oxfordre.com/education/view/10.1093/ acrefore/9780190264093.001.0001/acrefore-9780190264093-e-71 Hannan, S. (2016). My Italian kindergarten: An investigation of preschool language teaching. [Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy thesis.] Graduate School of Education, University of Melbourne, Australia. Harrison, J. E. (2009). Developing a doctoral identity – a narrative study in an autoethnographic frame. [Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy thesis.] University of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. Herrmann, A. F. (Ed.) (2020). The Routledge international handbook of organizational autoethnography. Routledge. Ingman, B. C. (2016). The student experience of community-based research: An autoethnography. Journal of Higher Education Outreach & Engagement, 20(3), 62–89. https://openjournals.libs.uga.edu/jheoe/ article/view/1293/1290 Kappert, A. (2020). Professional and personal experiences as leverage for learning. Frontiers in Education. https://doi.org/10.3389/feduc.2020.00098 Kestenbaum, A., James, J., Morgan, S., Shields, M., Hocker, W., Rabow, M., & Dunn, L. B. (2015). “Taking your place at the table”: An autoethnographic study of chaplains’ participation on an interdisciplinary research team. BMC Palliative Care, 14(20). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12904-015-0006-2

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Emilio A. Anteliz et al. Marx, S., Pennington, J. L., & Chang, H. (2017). Critical autoethnography in pursuit of educational equity: Introduction to the IJME special issue. International Journal of Multicultural Education, 19(1), 1–6. https://doi.org/10.18251/ijme.v19i1.1393 McClellan, P. (2012). Race, gender, and leadership identity: An autoethnography of reconciliation. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 25(1), 89–100. https://doi.org/10.1080/095183 98.2011.647720 McIlveen, P., Beccaria, G., du Preez, J., & Patton, W. (2010). Autoethnography in vocational psychology: Wearing your class on your sleeve. Journal of Career Development, 37(3), 599–615. https://doi. org/10.1177/0894845309357048 Mizzi, R. (2010). Unraveling researcher subjectivity through multivocality in autoethnography. Journal of Research Practice, 6(1), article M3. http://jrp.icaap.org/index.php/jrp/article/view/201/185 Ngunjiri, F. W., Hernandez, K. C., & Chang, H. (2010). Living autoethnography: Connecting life and research [Editorial]. Journal of Research Practice, 6(1), Article E1. http://jrp.icaap.org/index.php/jrp/ article/view/241/186 Park, J. C., & Wilmes, S. E. D. (2019). A critical co/autoethnographic exploration of self: Becoming science education researchers in diverse cultural and linguistic landscapes. In J. Bazzul & C. Siry (Eds.), Critical voices in science education research: Narratives of hope and struggle (pp. 141–155). Springer. Pelias, R. J. (2000). The critical life. Communication Education, 49(3), 220–228. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 03634520009379210 Pensoneau-Conway, S. L., Bolen, D. M., Toyosaki, S., Rudick, C. K., & Bolen, E. K. (2014). Self, relationship, positionality, and politics: A community autoethnographic inquiry into collaborative writing. Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies, 14(4), 312–323. https://doi.org/10.1177/1532708614530302 Phelps-Ward, R., Latz, A. O., Kelly, B. T., & Kortegast, C. (2021). Re-examining and reimagining power in participatory visual methodologies: A collaborative autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education. Advance online publication. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518398.2021.1982049 Pitard, J. (2017). A journey to the centre of self: Positioning the researcher in autoethnography. Forum: Qualitative Sozialforschung/Social Research, 18(3), article 10. https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-18.3.2764 Poulos, C. N. (2021). Essentials of autoethnography (Essentials of qualitative methods). American Psychological Association. Purdy, L., Potrac, P., & Jones, R. (2008). Power, consent and resistance: An autoethnography of competitive rowing. Sport, Education and Society, 13(3), 319–336. https://doi.org/10.1080/13573320802200693 Rook, L. (2019). Engaging postgraduate international students online: An autoethnographic reflection revealing lessons learned as an Early Career Academic. e-Journal of Business Education & Scholarship of Teaching, 13(2), 55–72. https://ro.uow.edu.au/buspapers/1631 Salvo, J. M. (2020). Reading autoethnography: Reflections on justice and love. Routledge. Secules, S., McCall, C., Mejia, J. A., Beebe, C., Masters, A. S., Sánchez-Peña, M. L., & Svyantek, M. (2021). Positionality practices and dimensions of impact on equity research: A collaborative inquiry and call to the community. Journal of Engineering Education, 110(1), 19–43. https://doi.org/10.1002/ jee.20377 Smith, C. (2005). Epistemological intimacy: A move to autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 4(2), 68–76. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940690500400206 Smith, P. (Ed.) (2013). Both sides of the table: Autoethnographies of educators learning and teaching with/in [dis] ability (Disability studies in education vol. 12). Peter Lang. Starr, L. J. (2010). The use of autoethnography in educational research: Locating who we are in what we do. Canadian Journal for New Scholars in Education/Revue Canadienne des Jeunes Chercheures et Chercheurs en éducation, 3(1). https://journalhosting.ucalgary.ca/index.php/cjnse/article/view/30477 Throne, R. (Ed.) (2019). Autoethnography and heuristic inquiry for doctoral-level researchers: Emerging research and opportunities. IGI Global. Tilley-Lubbs, G. A., & Calva, S. B. (Eds.) (2016). Re-telling our stories: Critical autoethnographic narratives (Imagination and praxis: Criticality and creativity in education and educational research vol. 9). Sense Publishers. Trahar, S. (2013). Autoethnographic journeys in learning and teaching in higher education. European Educational Research Journal, 12(3), 367–375. https://doi.org/10.2304/eerj.2013.12.3.367 Wilkes, R. (2022). Dialogic autoethnography: A professor goes internet dating and learns about positionality. Journal of Autoethnography, 3(1), 65–83. https://doi.org/10.1525/joae.2022.3.1.65 Wong, D. (2008). Moving: From performance to performative ethnography and back again. In G. Barz & T. J. Cooley (Eds.), Shadows in the field: New perspectives for fieldwork in ethnomusicology (2nd ed., pp. 76–89). Oxford University Press.

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SECTION 1

Enhancing teaching and teacher education with autoethnography Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan Teachers and those who work in the area of teacher education are uniquely placed as social, personal and political agents of change. The influence that we have over those with whom we work is infinite. As such, it behooves educators to employ best practice with the interests of our students uppermost in our minds. We should examine our praxis and remind ourselves of the primary intention that guided us when we started out: to make a difference. Autoethnographic exploration of self is an effective tool that educators can employ to remind themselves of their original intent and build upon it. This methodology can also be harnessed for older students to allow them to examine their own burgeoning career positionings. Avenues into this personal and professional development are expertly highlighted within the five chapters in this first section of the handbook. In Chapter 2, Karen Barley reflects on her “lightbulb moments” and three of the epiphanic episodes that have led to a shift in her educational approach. Her essay on educational inclusion invites the reader to reflect on the notion of success as an individual experience. She implores us to consider breaking down the barriers that are erected when working with some students. The author believes that a provocation of change can exist only when teachers challenge their praxis through a change in their belief systems about what it is to be an inclusive teacher. In Chapter 3, Brian Andrew Benoit examines the notion of power and how it operates in our classrooms. He emphasises the responsibility that he has to his students as a teacher. The author utilises fieldnotes in the form of course evaluations of his teaching written by his university students. These memory triggers enable him to revisit teaching episodes that help him to reflect on the educational and personal positioning of his present self. This then serves as an avenue for future understanding of students’ needs and for professional development. In Chapter 4, Anne Bradley challenges the reader to think about being proactive in our stance against systemic racism in our educational systems and practices. She chronicles the “metaphorical treasure hunt” that has been guided by her quest for self-examination and active reflection. This is situated in the cultural context of postcolonial Aotearoa New Zealand. The author utilises autoethnography as a method of reflection upon the endemic racism that occurs within educational institutions. This decolonisation of her research and teaching creates an awareness of transformative practices of which we should all be fully cognisant. DOI: 10.4324/b23046-2

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In Chapter 5, Shelley Hannigan, Jo Raphael and Peta White utilised collaborative arts-based autoethnography (CABAE) as a vehicle for their practice improvement as teacher educators. Their collaborative approach highlights the value of working with others to share perspectives, knowledge and experience. They further believe that this form of collegial collaboration should be the cornerstone of professional praxis in a neoliberal university setting. The authors argue that an arts-based approach fosters the development of innovative ideas and commonalities inherent in their work. This shared productivity allows professional and personal reflexivity, and provides a source of collaborative encouragement. This, of course, benefits both practitioners and students. Finally in this section, in Chapter 6, Nadia Mead offers autoethnography as an alternative to the employment of an action research approach that is commonly utilised by teachers as a form of data gathering. She warns that the latter methodology can marginalise teachers and inhibit the strength of their influence. Autoethnography, on the other hand, can be utilised in a number of aspects such as the reclamation of teachers’ voice and agency; a means of validation of teachers’ knowledge and skills; exemplifying transformational practices that are applicable to multiple learning environments; and authenticating the lived experience of teachers.

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2 ILLUMINATING THE EPIPHANY Reflecting on disability and inclusion in education Karen Barley

Introduction When I start writing, I find myself wrestling with my thoughts which inevitably leads to a divergence to the original plan for a project. I would say this is a part of my process; a method if you will, in that I deliberately allow the writing to flow, so the epiphanies follow. The role of the epiphany is a vehicle of discovery, the pivotal moment when transformation can occur from a previously held position or idea (Barley, 2020a, 2020b). Within an autoethnography, the epiphany is where a truth is revealed or a light is shone upon a previous unknown (Bochner & Ellis, 2016; Douglas & Carless, 2013). When writing, “the epiphany is an inherent byproduct of autoethnographic writing” (Barley, 2020a, p. 492), and the way I come “to understand the world and to know myself within that world” (p. 494). These epiphanic moments reveal themselves and establish a new truth (Barley, 2020a) and when heeded cannot be unknown. Trusting this process has led me to take my greatest leaps in my teaching career where I am guided towards transformational and innovative practice. It has been over a year since I proposed this study and the writing. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time contemplating. Living in Melbourne and experiencing multiple lockdowns, we witnessed the scramble by all educational institutions to deliver curriculum online. As teachers, we’ve all had to diversify and adapt to connecting to our students through a screen. All students had to contend with online classrooms and constant change where parents found themselves in the dual role of carer and teacher. The collective struggle was palpable and the concern for our children was tangible, but what was even more confronting was the numerous challenges faced by students who have additional learning needs. During the last two years in my role as an Autism Support Specialist, I have sat outside bedroom doors trying to coax my students out; then when out of lockdown, I spent hours reassuring kids that the classroom was safe; I also walked with some of my students as they felt fearful they would be arrested because they didn’t know how to explain why they were outside in the first place. My students struggled to understand what was happening in the world and why everything in their lives had turned

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-3

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upside down. They had lost the comfort of their routines, their classroom and teachers, as well as the services and professionals they usually accessed out of school. These fundamental amenities create a safe and supportive environment where these students feel supported because without the structures that hold everything together, they can feel lost and out of control. Hence, the crux of this autoethnography and the discussion on inclusion remains as important as ever (Moriña & Carnerero, 2020; Sharma et al., 2021). My original plan was to write primarily about my students, but it became clear to me that the spotlight should be on my practise, not on what they did. This shift came when I pondered telling the stories of my students without objectifying them, or ‘othering’ their stories (Lalvani, 2015; Richards, 2008). Writing about students with disabilities could be considered an ethical dilemma. How do we amplify the life of the other, without co-opting their stories? This question has been pounding away in my thoughts since I started writing this autoethnography. Richards (2008) suggests that those “living with disabilities or illnesses are seen as objects of study and not as agents of study” (p. 1719). Conversely, Lalvani (2015) argues that the teacher’s perspective on disability can be a valuable one. She also elucidated that when an educator can see the student and not the disability, the more committed they are to inclusive educational practices. As much as I subscribe to this position, it is important that my motivation is pure. I’m known for storytelling utilising anecdotes or teachable moments and it is inevitable that my students are encapsulated inside the story. Despite my concerns, I felt the stories were worth telling. Compassionate storytelling can illuminate the epiphanies that disrupt our beliefs (Barley & Southcott, 2019), so I had to remind myself to be cognisant of trustworthiness when writing about my student relationships. If I was to write about them, it was important that I write the narrative through my viewpoint and not theirs. Ahh, that first epiphany. As the epiphany lands, I resolve to narrate through the lens of an educator; and in telling my students’ stories, ensure that I am representing my transformation, not theirs. This is a pivotal place to stand because the ethical dilemma remains, one that Spry articulates as when the other is “brought into the light as a mere foil to the autoethnographer’s representation of self ” (2016, p. 53). We need the other to promote the essence of the narrative, so in “consideration of the Other, otherness, and difference, autoethnographic work often conceptualises the Other for the purposes of understanding self ” (Spry, 2016, p. 36). I hope to be a conduit from which their stories can be told, but ostensibly I must focus on myself as the subject of the investigation and the students are the accompanying characters. They are pivotal to resolving the complication that is at the centre of my story, but the story is about me and how numerous epiphanies transformed my role as an educator and as a human. These moments caused attitudinal and belief changes that became the concrete to which I have cemented my pedagogical and personal beliefs (Barley & Southcott, 2019; Yacek & Gary, 2020).

The value of autoethnography and the epiphany My first autoethnography (Barley & Southcott, 2019) contained tales of “wisdom, courage and resilience” (p. 2622) about students who were my greatest teachers. The tangible epiphanic moments inspired by my students elicited change in my pedagogical and educational foundations. My encounters with them enabled me to reinvent myself “as an educator through their lives and individual journeys because, in a way, their stories were reflected in and complemented my own” (Barley & Southcott, 2019, p. 2622). Storytelling is negotiating with a set of facts where the writer is deliberately trying to make sense of the facts within a specific context. As Smith contends, “we understand the world through the stories that we tell ourselves about the world and about ourselves” (2013, p. 15). 14

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Along with the many researchers who came before me (Douglas & Carless, 2013; Ellis et al., 2011; Bochner & Ellis, 2016; Poulos, 2014), I espouse that autoethnography is a potent methodological tool that moulds essential narratives and stories about issues of paramount importance in society. I can relate to others in the context of society, community or culture through positioning myself within the stories I tell. Bochner and Ellis assert that “we depend on stories almost as much as we depend on the air we breathe” (2016, p. 76) – in that vein, storytelling is the way I connect to the world and is my most comfortable form of communication (Barley, 2020a, 2020b).

Autoethnography in disability education It is an important thing, I think, to trace how one arrives to the classroom. (Warren, 2011, p. 140) Having a career in education is more of a vocation; it’s a calling if you will. Most educators undergo moments of transformation and many seek to share their experiences in one way or another. A quick search on the internet and you will discover many teacher blogs, vlogs, YouTube Channels, websites, Instagram, Pinterest and Facebook groups etc. Teachers are natural sharers, it’s after all fundamental to what they do – share and teach information. My way of sharing is through the medium of writing; hence, to undertake educational research utilising the methodology of autoethnography is an organic segue (Barley, 2020b). Writing our encounters into narratives invites the reader to appreciate the perspectives and experience of others, where both the writer and reader garner crucial knowledge and understandings. These understandings should lead us to “establish a diverse, democratic learning environment” (Smith, 2013, p. 249). The autoethnographical narrative is phenomenological educational research that explores and recalls “lived experience about a phenomenon, as described by participants” (Creswell & Creswell, 2018, p. 13). It is an inquiry which “explores multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal story to a wider lens of cultural understanding” (Barley & Southcott, 2019, p. 2609). The method is distinct from autobiography insofar as instead of focusing on the bigger picture, the autoethnography distills and focuses on a particular issue as a way of investigating and solving a problem (Choi, 2016). The writing process takes the author down the phenomenological path of writing to learn the unknown and as a method of knowing and collecting data (Chang, 2008; Choi, 2016; Richardson, 2000). Writing about oneself provides a unique perspective, but in the same investigation, one has the privilege of providing a firsthand account of any others who can be purveyed from that perspective (Chang, 2008). The autoethnography organically allows the author to denote some personal and emotional truth from their lived experience (Bochner & Ellis, 2016); and this truth emerges as the “epiphany or epiphanous moment” (Barley, 2020a, 2020b; Barley & Southcott, 2019, p. 2610). The epiphany is a vital ingredient to the autoethnography; the “aha!” moment of realisation. Smith elucidates that autoethnographic stories bring the personal and emotional into research and is where one derives “a deeper sense of what is important and how one feels, understands, and interprets life” (2013, p. 249). Diamond explained that the heart of an educational autoethnographical work is to interpret the “teacher’s experience in order to formulate one of the organizing stories of that teaching life” (1992, p. 70). This was especially true for me when I considered the importance of equity and inclusion in my own educational practice. It is critical to note that this knowledge and belief in inclusion didn’t come naturally to me. The two vignettes explore the shift in my 15

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belief emerging from my lived classroom experience (Bochner & Ellis, 2016). Warren refers to this as “reflexive, ethnographically centred research that takes our labor in the classroom as a vital site for investigation” (2011, p. 140). Philaretou and Allen (2005, p. 75) describe the “storying and personifications of academic themes characterizing autoethnographic research” as painted visual stories of the teacher’s experiences. Within this study, the stories I tell portray important crossroads in my educational life that evoked an epiphanic metamorphosis to my teaching practice (Yacek & Gary, 2020). The transformative changes were steeped in empathy and compassion that ultimately led to an interest in educational minorities. I found myself propelled on “a quest to find or invent innovative practices that addressed these problems” (Barley & Southcott, 2019, p. 2609). Educational autoethnographies allow teachers the opportunity to record their own “sense-making” as a means to critically assess what’s shaped and moulded the type of educator they become (Warren, 2011, p. 143). The realisations emerge by revisiting one’s past as a way “to understand what you believe and how those beliefs were formed” (p. 140). Subconsciously, I found myself seeking the epiphanies which led to continued transformation. The stories elucidated and expanded this ‘knowing’; as I made more meaningful connections with my students, the more compelled I was to seek better educational outcomes for them. Dyson instills the notion that autoethnography as a methodology unleashes “power in education”. He goes on to describe “‘a profession of stories’ and a profession who profess to be the transformers of society” (2007, p. 46). Those momentous ‘ahas’ I experienced became a formidable impetus for my evolution as an educator.

Silence is golden During my experience as a pre-service teacher in the 1980s in Victoria, Australia there was no mention of inclusive practices. I didn’t undertake any topic that dealt with diverse or disabled students. Our only tutelage on disability (unless you chose ‘Special Education’ as an elective) was to visit a ‘Special School’ and observe the students for an hour. There was no interaction with students or teachers and from the outside looking in, what I viewed looked bleak. I recall a busy room with children in wheelchairs being fed by teacher aides while others sat in chairs rocking and humming. Many students seemed to be wandering around the room aimlessly and, from my perspective, what I witnessed didn’t look like education. To be fair, this was during the 1980s and special education is not what it is today. Most of our early special settings were severely lacking educationally and were generally institutions that housed students with disabilities (Hurley, 1995; Steer, 1985; White, 1985). The Victorian State Government between 1984 and 1994 made significant inroads to ensuring that educational institutions provided educational and social programs for students with disabilities (Hurley, 1995; VAGO, 1992; White, 1985). Suffice to say, when I began my teaching career, I had no knowledge about how I would teach diverse children. Most of my early classes consisted of neurotypical children, with a select few who may have had minor learning challenges. In the early 2000s, mid-career, I was teaching in a mainstream suburban school. There were a number of years where the ratio of girls to boys was quite low and all of the Junior School classrooms comprised one-third girls and two-thirds boys. My grade one class had 20 boys and 8 girls. To add to the complexity, there were several students who had additional learning needs. This was the first time I had been asked to teach children of diversity and my confidence petered. I had no idea what to do with children with disabilities. I felt that I was dealt an unfair hand and started the year with an extremely negative attitude. It was taxing to say the least, as many of the students were quite rambunctious. Their previous teacher had 16

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identified some as having ADHD and tried to convince their parents to medicate them. I wasn’t sure this was the solution. One of the biggest challenges with this cohort of students was when they returned to the classroom from the recess and lunch breaks. They would bounce into the classroom, overexcited and noisy. It was almost impossible to calm them down, let alone have them concentrate on any lesson content. I struggled through the first month and wondered how I would survive the year. During the first term break I went to a yoga retreat and in the evening, we were shown a black-and-white video about a mime artist working with four-year-olds in a pre-school class. The children in the video were typical of any pre-schoolers: some were running around, while others were shy; some played in groups, and a number were playing alone. The intent of the mime artist was to engage and communicate with the children using movement, silence and connection. By the end of his act, the children were captivated and without any instruction they began emulating his performance. Part of his act was to hand the children a flower to greet them. Later, various children were shown to hand their mother a flower, smile and bow. I was fascinated by this video and wondered how I could integrate something like this into my classroom. I didn’t have to think too hard, because by the next day, the epiphany unfolded. I dug through my children’s playbox and found a teddy bear puppet. He was perfect. I named the bear Sebastian and knew exactly how I would use him. The following Monday after morning recess, I was ready. I perched myself at the front of the classroom and had Sebastian on my lap. As each child entered the room, using the bear I gestured for them to be quiet and pointed to the floor in front of me. The students were perplexed and whispered to one another “What is she doing?” I did not speak one word and used body language via the bear instead. I placed Sebastian’s paw to his lips to indicate quiet and pointed to the mat for them to sit down. I then crossed his paws to demonstrate crossed legs and hands in laps. Within a few minutes they were all seated, quite excited to find out who our new classmate was. I explained that the bear’s name was Sebastian and that he was going to be a helper. This epiphany and the use of the bear transformed the classroom exponentially. Sebastian grew to be an extremely good helper; whenever I needed quiet or to capture the student’s attention, all I had to do was sit at the front of the room with Sebastian. I was able to use the bear, silence and mime to create calm in the classroom. Sebastian became so popular that in the third term, he would take trips home with many of the children and they wrote a diary about his adventures. This eventually became a class book. Sebastian took a few trips to Sydney and Queensland; he even went to Bali. This teaching moment was profound and, in essence, set the tone for the many epiphanous junctures I would have throughout my career (Barley & Southcott, 2019). Faced with a challenging group of students and believing I was not equipped to teach them had me feeling paralysed. However, watching the mime video sparked an inkling of an idea which “led to a dawning realization that I had to step outside of a box of my own making, then out of the next box, then out of another box ad infinitum and essentially get out of my own way” (Barley & Southcott, 2019, p. 2609). The use of Sebastian the Bear and of deliberate silence set the tone for the rest of the year. As the students became more responsive, their behaviour improved and so did their academic outcomes. This led to further realisations, where I changed my attitude to unique, diverse or disabled students. First, the belief that any child could be reached was cemented and second, I believed that I could teach any student. The bigger awareness stemming from this epiphanous event was that my pedagogical position had transformed. I was compelled to be an advocate and supporter of all children “passionately espousing the need for fairness, equality and inclusion into the mainstream” (Barley & Southcott, 2019, p. 2621). 17

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Making the connection NB: All names in this vignette are pseudonyms. Many years later, I was employed to work in a Special Education setting. The school was very small and pitifully resourced. What this school lacked in resources was made up exponentially with dedication, care and support from the staff. I found myself comfortable in what was considered one of the academic, ‘low needs’ classes. The students I taught had a range of disabilities such as autism, Down Syndrome, ADHD, Williams Syndrome and so on. All the students also had an intellectual disability which posed significant learning challenges. I felt confident that I could teach these students and felt satisfied with my role. During Term Two, one of the teachers became very ill and was forced to go on leave. Her grade was classified as ‘high needs’, where all students had medical and learning challenges. There were four students in this class: Mark, a 15-year-old who was in a wheelchair for 90% of the time (being malnourished as an infant he could only walk short distances), non-verbal and, due to extreme neglect as a baby, had compulsions with food. Another student, Zac, was a 15-year-old autistic boy who only spoke in echolalic speech. He was very disconnected from everyone and spent most of his time standing in the corner of the room. The third student, Ellie, was a 17-yearold female who had an intellectual disability. She had a beautiful nature and loved listening to music, but she was detached from the world and also from those around her. Finally, Steven was a young man who had just turned 18 and was in his last year of school. His communication skills were better than the others and he was able to answer direct questions. He liked to feel important, so he was allocated odd jobs to do around the classroom. When the original teacher fell ill, the problem for the school leadership was that they could not hire a Casual Relief Teacher (CRT) for the role, so the Principal asked me how I would feel about taking on this class. My first reaction was that I didn’t have the qualifications to work with these students. In the previous vignette, I claimed I could teach any student, so this assertion was put to the ultimate test. The Principal told me I would have ongoing support and allocated an experienced Education Support Staff (ESS) to work with me. The first day, I felt extremely anxious and when I walked into the classroom the four students were in different corners of the room. The ESS told me this is how it was; they tried to do activities, but there wasn’t a lot of expectation for them to do anything. For the first two weeks, I followed the curriculum set by the previous teacher which included a very basic morning circle, a literacy activity, a numeracy activity, art and craft and extracurricular activities such as horse riding, swimming and shopping. I tried to bring the students together but while they could be coaxed into sitting on chairs for about five minutes, inevitably one of them would end up wandering. I attempted to individually speak to the students but became acutely aware I was not capturing their attention. I was left wanting more. A colleague at the school gave me a CD that contained videos of a practise called Intensive Interaction. Founded by Dr Dave Hewett OBE (Intensive Interaction Institute, 2021), he describes Intensive Interaction as a process that “teaches and develops interaction and communication by doing and taking part in interaction and communication” (Intensive Interaction Institute, 2021, para. 6). It teaches and motivates fundamentals of communication with the aim of being to learn “how to enjoy being with other people – to relate, interact, know, understand and practice communication routines” (Intensive Interaction Institute, 2021, para. 2). Designed to stimulate social engagement for individuals with a severe-profound intellectual disability, it was deemed to have a positive benefit to their wellbeing (Hankin, 2017; Weedle, 2016). I watched and rewatched the video examples and I also attended a course in my local area. I did not want to accept that my students were unreachable because they had a profound 18

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disability, hence I trialled this approach with the goal to increase connection with my students (Barber, 2008; Weedle, 2016). At this stage, all four students were still in residence in their various corners of the room. I began with Mark. This student mostly sat in his wheelchair, with one leg upon his knee. He was non-verbal but would make groans or loud noises and occasionally would smile or laugh. I placed my chair next to his and sat for a while without doing anything. Mark started tapping his fingers on the side of his chair, so I tapped on my chair. Every time he would tap, I would too. If he made two taps, I also did two taps. Next, I instigated the taps by just tapping once on the side of his chair. At first, he gave no response but after a number of demonstrations, Mark repeated my taps exactly. He also began smiling and laughing. After 15 minutes, I stopped tapping and waited. I didn’t have to wait long because Mark reached over and grabbed my hand to tap again. This was the first time Mark had initiated any connection with me (apart from when he had wanted food). When he reached over for my hand, he smiled and laughed quietly, seemingly enjoying the game. During this very first session, I was able to maintain Mark’s attention for over 30 minutes. Ellie loved music and would stand for most of the day. She rarely sat of her own accord. Her favourite music was by André Rieu or ABBA. When we played André Rieu for her, she would gesticulate towards the speaker, use speech-like patterns and cry. When we played ABBA, she would make sounds along with the music. I played ABBA’s Thank You for the Music, stood in front of Ellie and sang along with the song. Ellie reacted to my singing by pointing to the speaker and me. She eventually stepped so close to me that her body was touching mine. I was able to reach out and hold her hands to sway with the music. This was a moment! After many weeks of unresponsive behaviour from Ellie, here she was swaying with me to the music, singing (in her way) and pointing to the speaker. It took longer to reach Zac. If I tried to sit too close to him, he would push me away, or walk off making echolalic sounds. I tried lots of ways to communicate with him by sitting in front of him, sitting to his side, standing with him, but nothing worked. Finally, I tried one more time by sitting further away from him. He began using his echolalic language and I emulated his language. Without warning, he stood and came closer to me, gesturing for me to stand. When I did, he stood close speaking to me in echolalic speech. I continued to repeat after him and when I did, the more excited he became. The combination of speech and physical closeness inspired a connection between us. I didn’t try this process with Steven. He used simple language, but I was able to connect with him immediately. The one aspect that changed for him was as the deeper connections were made with the other three students, Steven also drew physically closer to his class members. He spent less time in his corner and would sit with myself and the ESS with regularity. What happened throughout the rest of the year was astounding. The ESS and I continued to develop our relationships with the students. We witnessed more initiated contact and connection with us. Ellie would put her face close to ours and ‘talk’ to us. Zac would take our hand and guide us towards something he wanted. Mark would rise from his chair and drag one of us back to his chair, motioning for us to sit with him. Remarkably, all four left their corners and merged into the middle of the classroom. The epiphany and lesson for me was that human connection is everything. It’s the one thing you don’t need resources for. You can have great resourced schools, excellent curriculum, and well-thought-out lesson plans, but if you don’t have a connection with your students, everything else will collapse. Connection is the foundation for everything else and Intensive Interaction facilitated a space for that to occur (Hankin, 2017). I think I always knew this, but the experiences in this classroom crystallised this concept into an essential ingredient of my pedagogical belief (Yacek & Gary, 2020). 19

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Discussion As a result of these epiphanies, I hold the belief that my role as the teacher is to explore new frontiers and commit to never giving up. If I am not having any success with a student, it is up to me, as the professional, to keep trying until the goal is met. I achieved the desired teaching outcome of forming human connections with my students, but it was paramount to follow their lead and allow mutual connection and communication between us. Success was assessed and evaluated “in terms of quality of involvement rather than outcome” (Barber, 2008, p. 401). The narrative in an autoethnography elicits “both phenomenon and method” (Diamond, 1992, p. 69). Being the subject of my own inquiry and examining my personal response to the data, I came to the realisation that the experience was transformative. There is not enough room here to broadly explore the topic of inclusion; however the approach deserves some space in this discussion. Inclusive education is the tenet that ALL children have a right to equal education (Sharma & Pace, 2019; Sharma et al., 2021). We still have a long way to go to achieve an equitable and inclusive environment that embraces diversity and the richness that it brings (Sharma & Pace, 2019; Sharma et al., 2021). Concurrently, we are still trying to build inclusive practices upon a system that needs a lot of work and growth (Sharma et al., 2021; Smith, 2013). A continued barrier to successful inclusion is teacher beliefs and attitudes. I did not fully believe in or support full inclusive education until my beliefs transformed; and my beliefs could not change without the teaching experiences that triggered the epiphanic change (Barley & Southcott, 2019; Yacek & Gary, 2020). To provoke change, it’s up to teachers to embrace an inclusive classroom and they “may need to challenge what they think they already know or what they were taught, confronting theoretical knowledge and ways of being” (Moriña & Carnerero, 2020, p. 3). The experience-led epiphanies catapulted any previous ideas I had entertained about my own ability to teach all students out the window. I was capable, if I was willing. I also couldn’t lay any deficits in my student’s learning in their laps. This was MY problem to solve. I must, as the educator, find a way to connect and then cater to all my students (Sharma & Pace, 2019; Moriña & Carnerero, 2020). What I learned in the early days was to form deeper connections by challenging what I had done before. Thinking outside of the box allowed me to form the idea of using Sebastian the Bear to create a place of quiet and calm in a chaotic classroom. The added bonus was, that in the quiet space, I also developed deeper bonds with my students because I was able to ‘see’ them without feeling frustrated by their behaviour. The second story is less about the success of using the Intensive Interaction strategy and again, more about opening a path to connection. On that first morning when I walked into the classroom and saw the students all in their respective corners, it seemed an impossible task to overcome. By being deliberate with my intention, I took myself to their space and the results brought us all closer in that small classroom.

Conclusion The strategies outlined in these autoethnographic stories can be delineated to the following: • • •

All students are reachable. Even the most challenging deserve us (the teacher) to keep trying. As professionals, it is our responsibility to never give up on any of our students. It is an educator’s problem to solve. Connection is everything. Finding and forming this connection with students is a path to successful educational outcomes. 20

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• •

Allowing experience-led epiphanies can instill a new belief or attitude that transforms pedagogical change which then informs practise. Epiphanic changes can be precedents to transformation leading to future pedagogical change.

I no longer question if I can teach any student; the question I now pose is “How will I teach?” Epiphanies have guided me throughout my 30-year teaching career and grounded a rich and inclusive teaching platform. This led to many deep and fulfilling connections and the belief in my ability to teach any and all.

References Barber, M. (2008) Using intensive interaction to add to the palette of interactive possibilities in teacher– pupil communication. European Journal of Special Needs Education, 23(4), 393–402, https://doi. org/10.1080/08856250802387380 Barley, K. D. (2020a). Finding a good book to live in: A Reflective autoethnography on childhood sexual abuse, literature and the epiphany. The Qualitative Report, 25(2), 487–503. https://nsuworks.nova.edu/ tqr/vol25/iss2/13 Barley, K. D. (2020b). Life is like a box of Derwents – An autoethnography colouring in the life of child sexual abuse. The Qualitative Report, 25(2), 504–524. https://nsuworks.nova.edu/tqr/vol25/iss2/14 Barley, K. D., & Southcott, J. (2019). Effecting epiphanous change in teacher practice: A teacher’s autoethnography. The Qualitative Report, 24(10), 2608–2624. https://nsuworks.nova.edu/tqr/vol24/ iss10/14 Bochner, A., & Ellis, C. (2016). Evocative autoethnography: Writing lives and telling stories. Routledge. Chang, H. (2008). Autoethnography as method. Left Coast Press. Choi, J. (2016). Creating a multivocal self: Autoethnography as method. Taylor & Francis Group. Creswell, J. W., & Creswell, J. D. (2018). Research design: Qualitative, quantitative, and mixed methods approaches. Sage Publications. Diamond, C. (1992). Accounting for our accounts. Autoethnographic approaches to teacher voice and vision. Curriculum Inquiry, 22, 67–81. https://doi.org/10.1080/03626784.1992.11075394 Douglas, K., & Carless, D. (2013). A history of autoethnographic inquiry. In S. Holman Jones, T. E. Adams, & C. Ellis (Eds.). Handbook of autoethnography (pp. 84–106). Left Coast Press. Dyson, M. (2007). My story in a profession of stories: Auto ethnography-an empowering methodology for educators. Australian Journal of Teacher Education, 32(1), 36–48. https://doi.org/10.14221/ ajte.2007v32n1.3 Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research/ Historische Sozialforschung, 4(138), 273–290. https://www.jstor.org/stable/23032294 Hankin, L. (2017). Building an emotional connection through intensive interaction. In A. Mouriere & J.  McKim (Eds.), Integrating Intensive Interaction: Developing communication practice in services for children and adults with severe learning difficulties, profound and multiple learning difficulties and autism (pp. 61–74). Taylor & Francis Group. Hurley, A. (1995). Integration in Victorian education: 1984–1994. Paper presented: AARE (Australian Association for Research in Education). Annual AARE Conference – Hobart Tasmania. Intensive Interaction Institute (2021). Intensive Interaction Institute: How did intensive interaction come about? https://www.intensiveinteraction.org/find-out-more/history/ Lalvani, P. (2015). Disability, stigma and otherness: Perspectives of parents and teachers. International Journal of Disability, Development and Education, 62(4), 379–393, https://doi.org/10.1080/10349 12X.2015.1029877 Moriña, A. & Carnerero, F. (2020). Conceptions of disability at education: A systematic review. International Journal of Disability, Development and Education, 1–15. https://doi.org/10.1080/10349 12X.2020.1749239 Philaretou, A. G., & Allen, K. R. (2005). Researching sensitive topics through autoethnographic means. The Journal of Men’s Studies, 14(1), 65–78. https://doi.org/10.3149/jms.1401.65 Poulos, C. N. (2014). Writing a bridge to possibility. International Review of Qualitative Research, 7(3), 342–358. https://doi.org/10.1525/irqr.2014.7.3.342

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Karen Barley Richards, R. (2008). Writing the othered self: Autoethnography and the problem of objectification in writing about illness and disability. Qualitative Health Research, 18(12), 1717–1728. https://doi. org/10.1177/1049732308325866 Richardson, L. (2000). Writing: A method of inquiry. In N. Denzin & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), The Sage handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 923–948). Sharma, U., Grové, C., Laletas, S., Rangarajan, R. & Finkelstein, S. (2021). Bridging gaps between theory and practice of inclusion through an innovative partnership between university academics and school educators in Australia. International Journal of Inclusive Education, 1–16. https://doi.org/10.1080/13603 116.2021.1882052 Sharma, U., & Pace, E. M. (2019). Teachers’ commitment to teach in inclusive schools, preparation of. In M. A. Peters (Ed.), Encyclopedia of Teacher Education. Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/ 978-981-13-1179-6_41-1 Smith, P. (Ed.). (2013). Both sides of the table: Autoethnographies of educators learning and teaching with/in [dis] ability. Library of Congress. Spry, T. (2016). Autoethnography and the other: Unsettling power through Utopian performatives. Taylor & Francis Group. Steer, M. (1985). Educational integration: Victoria’s quiet revolution. Australian Journal of Remedial Education, 17(3), 4–6. https://doi.org/10.3316/aeipt.26076 Victoria Auditor-General’s Office [VAGO], (1992, May). Special Report No. 17. Integrated education for children with disabilities. Government Printer. https://www.audit.vic.gov.au/sites/default/files/ 19920501-Special-Report-17-Integrated-Education-for-Children-with-Disabilities.pdf Warren J. (2011). Reflexive teaching: Toward critical autoethnographic practices of/in/on pedagogy. Cultural Studies – Critical Methodologies, 11, 139–144. https://doi.org/10.1.1177/1532708611401332 Weedle, S. (2016). The use of intensive interaction with people with severe-profound intellectual disability. Learning Disability Practice, 19(9), 27–34. https://doi.org/10.7748/ldp.2016.e1780 White, C. (1985). The new integration: Much more than mainstreaming. Australian Journal of Remedial Education, 17(3), 7–8. https://doi.org/10.3316/aeipt.26077 Yacek, D. W., & Gary, K. (2020). Transformative experience and epiphany in education. Theory and Research in Education, 18(2), 217–237. https://doi.org/10.1177/1477878520957276

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3 FIVE YEARS AFTER Constructing a robust teacher identity through autoethnography as professional development Brian Andrew Benoit

Introduction I am sitting in my home office when I receive an email from the university management I have taught at. I am not teaching at the university at this point so I am wondering what the message could be about? A few weeks ago I had received my student evaluations from a course I had taught in a new department at another institution in which a few comments that were made by a student had negatively affected me. In my professional journal I had debated the necessity of processing the negative comments in relation to the positive ones. Anyone that has been in the classroom recently can relate to the feeling of focusing on the few negative comments despite evidence to the contrary. Could this email be another one, which will only reinforce the fears of inadequacy or unworthiness? Although I have only been looking at the email for a short while it seems like an eternity has passed. I read the email but cannot comprehend what I have read. I scan through the email again and can make out only a few words, but I am still reluctant to read it thoroughly. At this point I am taken aback and uncomfortable. As a grade schoolteacher with more than fifteen years of classroom teaching I am not used to immediate feedback regarding student progress … (30 March 2021)

Student evaluations in university are often seen by faculty as a necessary evil, needed as part of the research, service, and teaching portfolio traditionally required for tenure. For those who have already achieved tenure, they can serve as an informal survey of what went well and what could be improved. For contract/part-time faculty such as myself, these evaluations can have harsh effects on their employability due to the precarious nature of the often non-existent job security. Over the last five years, I have taught at three universities across six different departments, each with their different approach to the importance of student evaluations. This reflection is not focused on the process of evaluations or the unstable nature of part-time faculty, but rather on what effect, if any, these evaluations and my writings based on them (as artefacts) have had on my own teaching. What role can autoethnography play in using these

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-4

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artefacts as well as my own professional journals to critique my professional practice, cultural beliefs, and experiences? The act of going back will allow me to understand my contemporary self in order to improve my future teaching. Emotions and memories that are derived from this type of study can be considered useful data (Poulos, 2021) and seen as both research and product (Chang, 2021). In this chapter, I look at how teachers can use memory triggers to draw upon autobiography, autoethnography, and memory-work to help develop and examine their place in terms of the space they inhabit. What do the memories associated with our individual journeys teach us about ourselves? How have the relationships between knowledge and education, power and society, as well as the social policies relating to education and diversity influenced the development of the concept of my professional identity and how has this affected my teaching? Identifying and incorporating memory as pedagogy, through the employment of autoethnographic narratives, plays on the symbiotic relationship between the process and product which allows for the incorporation of one’s own voice within the research (Benoit, 2016).

Positioning the study Throughout my doctoral studies I had received letters and messages from my former grade school students, now successful adults in their own right, but this was the first time that I had received feedback right after the end of a course. As Herrman (2017) explains, autoethnographers purposely bring the personal back into the conversation to replace canonical theories and methods that predominate in many domains. What are the central events that have shaped my personal and academic worldview? How can I, as an observer in my own world, use the ordinary and mundane such as teacher evaluations to make the ordinary into the extraordinary (Poulos, 2021)? 25 June 2016 I have finally submitted my doctoral work and it was accepted with no need for any revisions; apparently this is rare at my institution. Where do I go from now? What will I do next? Do I focus on academia? I enjoy teaching in schools so much? Is there a middle road? Can I do both? I have to begin looking for positions, many are far away from my city, should I apply, should I take them? Where can I apply my work and were will my research have the greatest effect?

This chapter is not intended to be a direct criticism of the process or consequences of teaching evaluations or any of the universities I have worked at. I acknowledge that schooling is inherently political (Giroux, 2011). In fact, some of the writing pieces have been altered to hide the identity of the courses, the students, and institutions. It is an attempt to provide a forum in which dialogue can improve my professional practice. As a seasoned public schoolteacher, I have had to accept certain foundational ideas. Schooling, as mentioned above, is a political machine that has the ability to do lots of harm under the guise of common sense and good pedagogy. I am particularly interested in the possibilities autoethnography can provide teacher researchers to improve their personal and professional practice while simultaneously improving student learning. Although I do not use the third person, this study is a type of realist autoethnography as I am using the teacher’s (mine) and students’ perspectives (Adams et al., 2015). 24

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Methodology Similarly to Ellis (2008), I start with field notes, organise them chronologically, and then examine how I felt about them, which attaches meaning to them as opposed to absolute facts. The use of journals as memory texts has been successful in studying the interplay of past, present, and future in relation to teacher and teacher educator development (Mitchell, 2005). June 2021 It’s funny how I cannot seem to shake the feeling that I am not doing a good enough job. I have received positive feedback from my students, yet that deep feeling remains. What do I learn from these course evaluations? Why do they make me feel such a range of emotions? What role do they play in the great university machine, which is becoming increasingly impersonal and bureaucratic?

First, over the period of a week I reread my teaching evaluations between 2016 and 2021, focusing on the student’s comments as they are generally the sections of the course evaluations that have the most information. I then spent a week reading through the entries in my professional teaching journal from the time periods that corresponded with the dates I received the results of the evaluations from the university (1–2 months following the end of each semester). The teaching evaluations range from courses I taught to undergraduate and graduate students and covered several different course types. I then focused on the course evaluations that were referenced in my journals. In returning to experiences that occurred within the classroom between 2016 and 2021, I can focus on certain events in new ways, evoke stories that can become more accessible, and facilitate reflexivity in research design (Weber, 2014). As a form of autoethnography, this process allows me to produce a more extended understanding of my teacher persona which serves to help diagnose the needs of my future students so that I may better connect with my pedagogical strategies and goals (Kincheloe et al., 2004).

Memory triggers: working with teaching evaluations and professional journals as texts Guided by the increased appreciation of the study of teachers’ lives through autoethnography as a way to gain insight into the learning process, I used the teaching evaluations and my writings about them as memory triggers which permitted me to look deeper into the issues of pedagogies, positionality, and power. Increasingly, there are several studies that look at teacher reflections of their teaching through reflective journals. I decided to use my professional teaching journals to revisit events and memories related to my teaching as Claudia Mitchell (2005) had done in an essay called “In My Own Handwriting” in which she went back over a series of journals and diary entries from 1971 to 1975 written during her first years of teaching in a small fishing village in Nova Scotia. She comments almost 30 years later that the journal entries, written almost every day, combine teaching and everything else she was doing at the time. As she observed, returning to her teaching texts helped her “focus on various constructions of a truth, and the ways in which reading back becomes a form of reading, and its own form of self-study” (p. 117). Similarly, researcher Annette Oberg (2004) outlines a process in which she spontaneously went through her own informal journals (similar to what I had done) written over the previous 15 years, noting the passages that stood out for her in order to then reflect upon them. The process she implemented ensured that she continuously paid attention to the process of engagement. 25

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As she puts it, “I have come to describe my teaching and the researching of my teaching as a practice of opening, paying attention, and not knowing” (p. 241). Since the completion of my doctoral studies, how has my autoethnography supported my professional development and what role do teaching evaluations and my journal writing play in it?

Memory trigger 1 “Dr. Benoit is knowledgable [sic] but he tells too many stories about his classroom experiences, needed to listen more to our concerns”.

25 January 2017 Upon receiving the results from the Fall courses I am left both satisfied to have received them but confused as to the results of them. Most students enjoy the experiences I share with them, as I am in the classroom every day, what can I do to provide them with contemporary experiences while also focusing on the theory? Isn’t theory and pedagogy both important for future students to grasp as they prepare for their teaching practicums? I allowed the students to express themselves at several times in groups, in conferences, with guest speakers and through the assignments, what more could I do to provide them with a voice?

Having just completed my doctoral work I was lucky to have been assigned three courses to teach during the fall semester of 2016. Throughout the semester, I had worked hard to ensure that I provided a balanced approach to my teaching so that the students in each class could be given the tools needed to prosper in the classrooms. In this class of about 40 students, comments related to my storytelling as a pedagogical tool were brought up. Returning to my notes from that time, I remember trying to balance the comments from students who enjoyed the supporting discussions I provided from my own fieldwork to the students that pointed it out as a negative. Early thoughts of inadequacies were flamed by this one comment, even though it was outnumbered and contradicted by the vast majority of comments. Why had I not written about the positive comments or the students that thanked me for listening to them and providing specific feedback to them in class and via assignment comments? Some have argued that higher education professors are increasingly involved in the socialisation of young people, and that the student population is now in need of recognition and validation (Furedi, 2017). My classes are designed in such a way that I create a classroom where different types of curricula are presented, and students are encouraged to take what they can to assimilate it to their own ways of knowing and thinking. Similarly to Ellis and Bochner (1996), who “promote the idea of plural text, open to many interpretations” (p. 15), my courses rely not just on one text or story but also on the culmination of what everyone brings to the classroom. Tilley-Lubbs (2011, 2021), in her autoethnographical research, evaluates her positioning and repositioning of the self in relation to moving between two different classes. In her work she notes through narrative there is “[m]ore social inequality just disguised a little better” (p. 712).

Memory trigger 2 “Dr. Benoit can balance the content between Chinese and Canadian contexts which makes it easier for Chinese students to learn the course content”. 26

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27 February 2017 I am glad that students felt that my approach to the course took into consideration the students’ cultural background. I wonder what parts of the course was most helpful to them? What can I do better? I wonder if I will get a chance to teach this course again. I wonder if the students will remember the basic tenants of the course in the future? Will I see them again? I never thought of my teaching as balancing between cultures but looking back I guess I did? Did I really bridge the gap between cultures? What a fun course it was!

This was a special topics course I was hired to teach in which I could incorporate my research in critical autoethnography. The students in this class were mostly from mainland China, which I had not expected. I was at first concerned that my approach to the course would not translate well. Engaging in autoethnographic research in and around the classrooms not only allows for the extension of ways of knowing and thinking but also provides us with a greater appreciation of these very stories, whether they be our own or our students’ (Tombro, 2016). I remember feeling overwhelmed when students asked questions and I worried I would not have the answer. As a professor I try to provide an outlet for students to share their concerns during class, but I am also aware of the power dynamics that exist. I provide students with questions that encourage them to go on a journey to obtain different perspectives and different ways of seeing things that might not be immediately familiar to them. I attempt to put social justice in context to demonstrate how different social structures convalesce around issues of class, race, gender etc. I carry the notion I gained from a former professor and mentor of mine that many who develop pedagogies are unconscious of the political inscriptions embedded in them (Kincheloe, 2008). Did I really balance the curriculum, or did I focus on western notions and have the students think I was being sensitive to their ways of knowing? Was the comment actually helpful in providing me with concrete feedback on my pedagogical approach to teaching the course? Did I really take my students’ concerns into consideration?

Memory trigger 3 “More work done in class would’ve been helpful. I learn by doing, not through lectures. I need examples and practice. Team teaching for subjects/topics would help keep students engaged, and perhaps could smile more”.

15 June 2017 How could this student have such a narrow interpretation of what the course was about? This was an intensive course and every student needed to show up in order to get the most out of it. I gave a lot of class time in order to work on assignments and create student groups which I checked into several times. If there is a comment that students have made is that I often use my sense of humour to make sometimes-tedious topics enjoyable. Why should I be asked to smile more? When did I not smile? Was it a class during the weeks that mom was in the hospital and almost died? I let the students know I was going through a difficult time. How could this be allowed to be added to the course evaluations?

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This journal entry made me revisit a conversation I had with a fellow part-time professor in a teacher lounge one evening before a class. I had mentioned that I was concerned about a few comments that were made on my evaluation about my smiling. She has several years of experience teaching part time and just said: “get used to it and don’t let it bother you”. I was taken aback and asked her why she would say this. She then went on to mention that over the years students have criticised the way she dresses and carries herself. She mentioned that it was a common practice for students to be more critical of their female cis-gendered teachers and those from visible minorities. It was an inevitability that she had gotten used to. The fact that she was an expert in her field with a great reputation did not matter and she reported that on a few occasions she was even asked to meet with university administrators to explain the results of the student evaluations. Although referring to government policy in her work, Miller (1996) uses narrative work to expose their sometimes (negative) effects on (female) teacher autonomy. I had been aware of the discrepancies around the differing treatment of gender in other domains but had not envisioned it extended to the ivory tower. Autoethnographic research can aid in countering the culture of corporate managerialism in higher education which is increasingly prevalent (Pithouse-Morgan et  al., 2021), but what role were these evaluations really taking in the process?

Memory trigger 4 “The Teaching Assistant couldn’t access the class website which meant we could not get our grades on time, but the teacher was very helpful”.

13 February 2019 I still cannot understand how a university could not take the students’ concerns more seriously. Beside the fact that the salary of a TA at this university is low, I had to ask a colleague to intervene and agree to take the position. I did everything I could to give them access to the universities portal to be able to correct student work as well as provide appropriate feedback. Universities are often touting how they are student focused but it does not make sense that I have to be the one to advocate for them alone. Because of these delays students felt that feedback was not given quick enough despite my interventions. Why could they have dragged their heels so much in getting my TA credentials?

This entry is of particular interest to me, especially in the current political climate. More specifically, there have been a series of debates into the role of the state in regulating religious wear for public servants. This culminated in a secularism law (Bill 21) enacted by the Province of Quebec. As part of this law, new teachers to the profession are barred from working if they wear a religious symbol (as defined by the government). The law was deemed as a way to ensure secularism and respect of Quebec values. As noted by Noël (1994), “the oppressor often seeks to hide himself behind the veil of humanity by professing to be the defender of rights, but these rights are often discriminatory in the first place” (p. 52). The person that I had chosen for the TA position had a name that was easily identifiable as being part of a religious minority. After reflecting on the situation, I remembered that the reason given for the delay in the TA’s access was because their name was spelled incorrectly and this blocked them from accessing the portal. How could so many emails and conversations to different people have 28

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not made the university notice that the name was spelled incorrectly by them despite being submitted correctly? Was there something more at play? Since my students were also aware of this situation, were they indirect witnesses to a type of hidden discrimination? Had I acted correctly by keeping my students informed of the issues brought forth with the university and my TA throughout the process? One of the methods to achieve this goal is to be periodically kept up to date with the constantly growing wealth of teaching pedagogy as well as keeping a record of one’s own progress. More importantly, it is important that the teacher remember not to fall into the trap of feeling like their own background is necessary when teaching about a subject they might be close to; rather they should have an understanding of the background and how it affects their reality. Teachers often underestimate the relevance of their own stories but provide some of this information about themselves to their students without realising it. Mary Louise Pratt’s argument that autoethnographies are forms of writing that address both the writer’s own group and a wider, more dominant one “Texts … that are autoethnographic assert alternative forms of meaning and power from those associated with the dominant metropolitan culture” (as cited in Reed-Danahay, 1997, p. 8). In this case, students were denied a service, and although this might have nothing to do with the TA, it does speak to the hidden biases that exist below the surface of major institutions. What has this taught me? How can I use this situation to improve my practice?

Memory trigger 5 “I refused to answer this question, how are Indigenous issues separate from other issues”?

15 June 2020 What a great question to ask on an evaluation form. I wonder which of the students wrote this. I have my suspicions based on our class discussions. I am quite impressed that the course on Inclusion in schools got one of the students to question the university’s language on their official form. I will have to send an email to the director and mention this to him, perhaps the question could be refined to take into account what was said. I wonder if other universities use this type of question when professors are teaching to [I]ndigenous communities?

I have had the opportunity to teach in Indigenous communities across Quebec. As part of the teaching evaluations there was a question on the teaching evaluations that read: “The instructor was sensitive to [I]ndigenous issues”. Up to that point I had never given it a second thought until I read the question from the students. As someone that is committed to critical pedagogy, I was surprised that the student developed a strong sense of conscientização, learning to perceive social, political, and economical contradictions and learning to act against the oppressive elements of reality (Freire, 1970, p. 35). Whether I am teaching a class on campus or in Indigenous communities, I use what I learned through critical pedagogy to incorporate etymology, pattern, process, and contextualisation to analyse several parts of thinking. I want my students to be in a position to incorporate my teaching into their own Weltanschauung or worldview. Cultural consciousness/subjectivity involves the ability to decipher not just the world as we see it but also the elements that shape what we observe and why. Cultural, social, 29

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and ideological differences become important in developing a profound sense of rigorous transgressive educational purpose. I strive to provide my students’ social consciousness with tools necessary to develop a critical cultural awareness of education. Pepi Leistyna (1999) calls this evolving awareness presence of mind (p. 14). Part of attaining this presence of mind is the ability to address how knowledge is related to the social discourses that are expected of students.

Memory Trigger 6 “The method used on our midterm does not line up with my values as a future teacher and doesn’t appropriately measure the depth of understanding of the student. On the second portion of the exam I only received a grade and no comment, professor needs to give consideration that some students might have failed this course in the past.”

20 February 2021 How could this student criticize me for not providing comments for a part of an exam that is true or false? I gave feedback on every other assignment of this course and ensured that the students had the opportunity to ask me for extra help. I also provided study guides. I already took into consideration the students concerns regarding the mid-term as it had to be online rather than in person due to the global pandemic. In addition, this course is usually taught by an established faculty member and I had to ensure that I followed the general outline. I think I know who this student is because they sort of identified themselves in the text – but what’s the point? How can the student have been allowed to write so much, especially since it is not productive? Why could they not have just come to me, was I not open enough? Do I need to focus on making a better impression on them? Did I ignore their possible requests for help?

During the pandemic, I had the opportunity to teach a course which had been taught by a full-time faculty member. Despite having worked as a teaching assistant for a similar course several times in the recent past, I was instructed to follow a similar path as the teacher to ensure consistency. I remember thinking that the course’s format might not be the best for the conditions surrounding pandemic teaching. Students were expected to memorise some central components to the course so that they would be able to apply what was learned in class discussions and the course presentations. As an educator, I adhere to Dewey’s emphasis on knowing the students well in order to be able to reach them (1938). I had difficulty in gauging student reaction to my teaching through the online software. The majority of students would leave their cameras off to the point that I sometimes felt like I was talking with myself. My journal entry does not adequately reflect how bad the comment made me feel. I remember feeling concerned for the mental state of some of my students who found themselves increasingly isolated. I made a point to reach out to the university’s resources to provide students with help should they need it. I was open with the students about the need to use assessment tools that I might not traditionally use but the department requested certain elements be present. The course was a requirement for teacher certification and as such the government sanctioning bodies expected certain objectives be met. A number of questions arise: what is the Ministry of Education’s role in the establishment of positivist ideologies? How do I position myself within my research as a teacher researcher? What role can critical autoethnography play in the promotion of a more socially just school system and how might this affect my professional practice? 30

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I attempted to scaffold the students’ learning by providing individualised study guides, practice questions, and class review sessions and debates. When students missed more than one class I would contact them to inquire into their wellbeing. This student’s comment was part of a larger narrative that they wrote in the evaluation. What the student chose to write says a lot about how they conceptualise themselves, as they are not static entities (Fivush & Haden, 2003) and neither am I. Although I had to teach the cannons, I taught them critically and hoped the students would be able to form their own ideas. Moving forward, I need to continue to reflect upon how the students perceive my teaching in order to improve their learning.

Looking ahead My doctoral work had provided me with powerful tools, which allowed me to Unpack the Curriculum. It further allowed me to address the development of my own ethnography as it related to professional self-conscious reflexivity, compelling me to address questions such as what is the government’s role in the establishment of positivist ideologies? It is important to look at reflexivity and voice surrounding text with the main goal of framing one’s knowledge and understanding of its impact on my own development as a researcher/educator while ensuring that this development is an ongoing process. Hence the need to periodically “look back” in order to move forward. I think about Ellis and Bochner (1996), who discuss the need to promote the idea of a plural text which should be open to different interpretations as opposed to a fixed one. I used the course evaluations and my writings about them as a springboard to elaborate on issues of privilege, voice, social inequality, and social action in schools. I also describe how particular academics, experiences, and policies as well as hidden curricula have created the interpretive paradigms that have led me towards autoethnography as my main strategy for inquiry into my teacher practice and, ultimately, a more just society.

Assessing autoethnography When engaged in autoethnography, several concerns come to mind regarding rigour, validity, and trustworthiness. How can the research that I am undertaking into my teaching practice be of benefit to others? What application do my personal stories and experiences, as well as their subsequent analysis, have within the realm of teacher education? Autoethnography allows for the examining and learning about our practice while simultaneously developing opportunities for exploring scholarship in and through teaching (Loughran, 2004). As mentioned in the introduction to this section, in qualitative research there needs to be some way of assessing its truth value. It was essential for me to look at how others have talked about assessing autoethnography. I used two memory sites as memory triggers (teaching evaluations and my professional teaching journal) in the process of engaging in what I have developed and called critical autoethnography. This was scaffolded by Mokhele’s (2014) criteria for examining self-study action research projects which is set in a South African context and draws on the work of Samaras (2011) and Mitchell’s (2016) five criteria for assessing autoethnography, which in turn builds on the work of Adams et al. (2013).

Conclusion Using autoethnography to retrieve and reflect upon our memories as well as contemporary thoughts and feelings connected to them can be very helpful to who we are and who we will eventually become. An underpinning theme of my research is the development and 31

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understanding of my concept of self and using teacher evaluations as memory triggers to re-examine our memories. This allows us to reconceptualise ourselves which can provide a positive effect on other stakeholders (Pithouse-Morgan et al., 2014). This exercise has allowed me to uncover ways in which power operates in our classrooms. This study is as much about the process as about the product. The act of going back allowed me to understand my contemporary self so as to improve my future teaching. As I sit here in my office re-reading my notes, journals, and readings, I came to the realisation that in just a few days I will be sent back into the classroom. My future elementary school and university students will be waiting for me, hoping I can help them get through their schooling with the support and guidance they require. Norman Denzin (2021) warns us that new challenges exist going forward as universities find themselves assailed by corporate managerial processes, but, as demonstrated, teachers have both the academic and teacher knowledge founded on the understanding that the stories we tell are as important as the events and facts that make them personal and real to us (Benoit, 2016). Going back can bring both positive and negative episodes from our past to light. Teachers who take the time to reflect on their memories cannot only improve their professional practice; they can also arm themselves with the contextual foundation they need to shape their own realities. Understanding teacher’s lives is central to understanding students’ learning and autoethnography can act as the medium to strengthen teaching leading to a more humane world. Autoethnography as a form of teacher orientation can act as a bridge between the challenges of everyday classroom realities and a more just world by providing teachers with the tools needed to change the system. How can I learn from this? What can I do to improve my teaching? Finally, I get the courage to open the document: “Dear Dr. Benoit, I am happy to announce that you have been awarded the 2020 prize for Contract Faculty in the School of Education. Congratulations!” (Chair of Awards, personal communication, 30 March, 2021).

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Five years after Kincheloe, J. L., Steinberg, S. R., & Burstyn, A. (Eds.). (2004). Teaching teachers: Building a quality school of urban education. Peter Lang. Leistyna, P. (1999). Presence of mind: Education and the politics of deception. Westview Press. Loughran, J. (2004). Learning through self-study: The influence of purpose, participants context. In J. Loughran, M. Hamilton, V. Kubler LaBoskey, & T. Russell (Eds.), International handbook of self-study of teaching and teacher education practices (pp. 151–182). Kluwer Academic Publishers. Miller, J. (1996). School for women: Story of women teaching. Virago. Mitchell, C. (2005). In my own handwriting: Textual evidence and self-study. In C. Kosnik, C. Beck, R. Freese, & A. P. Samaras (Eds.), Making a difference in teacher education through self-study: Studies of personal, professional, and program renewal (pp. 117–130). Springer. Mitchell, C. (2016). Autoethnography as a wide-angle lens on looking (inward and outward): What difference can this make to our teaching? In D. Pillay, I. Naicker, & K. Pithouse-Morgan (Eds.), Academic autoethnographies: Inside teaching in higher education (pp. 175–189). Sense. https://doi. org/10.1007/978-94-6300-399-5_12 Mokhele, P. R. (2014). Exploring an extended role for legitimizing self-study action research projects: From examiners’ perspectives. Educational Journal of Living Theories, 7(1), 1–13. http://ejolts.net/files/ Mokhele7%281%29.pdf Noël, L. (1994). Intolerance: A general survey (A. Bennett, Trans.). McGill-Queens University Press. (Original work published 1989) Oberg, A. (2004). Reflecting on reflecting. Journal of the Canadian Association for Curriculum Studies, 2(1), 239–244. Pithouse-Morgan, K., Mitchell, C., & Pillay D. (2014). Editorial. Perspectives in Education, 32 (2), 1–7. Pithouse-Morgan, K., Pillay, D., & Inbanathan, N. (2021). Autoethnography as/in higher education. In T. E. Adams, S. Holman Jones, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed., pp. 215–228). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780429431760 Poulos, C. N. (2021). Poking around the neighbourhood: Autoethnography and the search for … In T. E. Adams, S. Holman Jones & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed., pp. 369–374). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780429431760 Reed-Danahay, D. (Ed.). (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. Berg Press. Samaras, A. (2011). Self-study teacher research: Improving your practice through collaborative inquiry. Sage. Tilley-Lubbs, G. A. (2011). The coal miner’s daughter gets a PhD. Qualitative Inquiry, 17(8), 720–722. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800411420669 Tilley-Lubbs, G.A. (2021). Autoethnography crosses cultural borders. In T. E. Adams, S. Holman Jones, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed., pp. 311–320) Routledge. https://doi. org/10.4324/9780429431760 Tombro, M. (2016). Teaching autoethnography; Personal writing in the classroom. Open SUNY Textbooks. Weber, S. (2014). Arts-based self-study: Documenting the ripple effect. Perspectives in Education: SelfStudy of Educational Practice: Re-Imagining Our Pedagogies, 32(2), 8–20. https://hdl.handle.net/10520/ EJC158211

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4 UNCOVERING BURIED TREASURE Digging deep to decolonise research and teaching practice in Aotearoa New Zealand Anne Bradley Introduction On an overcast British summer day in late August 2019, enjoying their favourite hobby of metal-detecting in North Somerset farmland with a group of friends, Adam Staples and Lisa Grace discovered one of Britain’s largest ever treasure hoards buried deep in the earth. The cache of 2,600 coins dates back 1000 years and is worth millions-a life-changing discovery for the couple and also for the wider community: Historians, archaeologists and members of the public will now have access to this rare and historic find. On a quest to improve my teaching practice as a beginning teacher 23 years ago, I embarked on a metaphorical treasure hunt that has continued throughout my career: a journey of self-­ examination and reflection-in-action, scanning the landscape of the classroom with its multi-dimensional interactions, interconnected beliefs, assumptions and learning opportunities, searching for the treasure buried within. What began as a process of self-study has developed into an ongoing autoethnographic academic practice situated within the evolving cultural context of postcolonial Aotearoa New Zealand. Just as the ancient golden coin may at first appear as a lump of worthless mud to the treasure-hunter, the autoethnographer learns to pay attention to seemingly innocuous interactions and small details, knowing that they may yield worthy data weighted with meaning. This chapter seeks to articulate the transformative and empowering potential of autoethnography, its principles and impacts on my research and teaching practice, specifically as a means of challenging pākehā (white) dominance, power and privilege against a backdrop of Māori and Pasifika poverty, inequality and institutional racism, which continues despite attempts to redress the balance in recent years (Terruhn, 2019). As a white, British immigrant in a land colonised by my ancestors, autoethnography provides me with a methodological framework to facilitate the decolonisation of my research and teaching in an ongoing process of investigation and critical reflection leading to transformation.

Autoethnography as research methodology and mindset Ethnography is a qualitative approach to research, situated within the field of Anthropology, with a particular focus on culture. Autoethnography involves the examination of the researcher’s 34

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-5

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own role in creating and perpetuating cultural narratives and norms. The autoethnographer is both researcher and participant, situating the self at the centre of the research process, observing and evaluating what they notice (Ellis, 2007; Hamilton et al., 2008). Whilst there are interconnections between autoethnography, narrative inquiry and selfstudy, it is important to note key differences that distinguish each approach. As Hamilton et al. (2008) discuss, autoethnography is a relative of narrative inquiry, with its focus on the layered stories of personal experience, but the lens of the autoethnographer zooms in on the socio-cultural narratives surrounding the researcher. They also note the connection to self-study with its emphasis on critical self-reflection; however, autoethnography specifically interrogates the practitioner’s role in relation to their socio-cultural setting. Autoethnography is proactive and change-focussed, echoing aspects of practitioner-oriented action research methodology (Acosta et al., 2015), but the focus of the research is the cultural context rather than change in general. For the autoethnographer, the purpose is in the unfolding meaning, the challenging of cultural assumptions and the resulting transformative change, illustrated by works such as Diversi and Moreira’s Autoethnography as an Act of Resistance Against Narratives of Hatred (2019). The person-centred, nuanced and contextual design of autoethnographic research, with its focus on uncovering the unique richness of the researcher’s own socio-cultural narratives, challenges assumptions about the nature and purpose of research. According to Clandinin and Connelly (2000), traditional, positivist research methodologies are Eurocentric and represent a global “Grand Narrative” (p. 22), in which the quantitative and the formulaic are seen as superior, and the validity of alternative research paradigms is dismissed. Little has changed two decades later, with New Zealand academics such as Salmond (2018) describing a problematic attitude which reflects “ethnocentric bias and outmoded dualisms (and the power relations embedded in them) at a time when new ways of thinking about socio-environmental challenges are urgently needed” (Salmond, 2018, p. 1). Autoethnographic research design is layered. Beginning with the empirical – what can be observed, what is noticed; continuing with the cognitive – what data and theoretical approaches can be gathered from existing research that provides a basis for an informed response; and ending with the pragmatic – the ways this new knowledge can be applied to transform practice through confronting existing norms (Acosta et al., 2015; Ellis, 2007). The gathering of data involves observation, noticing, conversation, questioning, recording notes, experiences, events and ideas and existing research in relation to the interplay between the culture of the researcher, the cultural context, and the cultural background of those with whom the researcher interacts. The variety of data provides a useful form of triangulation contributing to academic rigour. Le Roux (2017) discusses the complexities of evaluating the quality of non-traditional research, proposing a context-specific approach to assessing rigour that aligns with the philosophy and goals of a particular research paradigm. She proposes that criteria such as worthiness, resonance, contribution, ethics and meaning should be situated alongside methodological rigour and academic credibility. Ellis (2007) comments that good qualitative researchers focus on honesty, authenticity and integrity in research, work and life. The autoethnographer chooses to be curious, a research mindset described by Thompson (2019) as a “commitment to inquiry, (an) unshakeable enthusiasm for the as yet unknown” (p. 317). Jousse (2000) defined this as “the laboratory of awareness” (p. 25), in which long-buried issues are uncovered, dusted off, and brought into the light to be examined. At the heart of the process is critical reflection, which Oswald et al. (2020) characterise as a fundamental tool for recording, evaluating, challenging and ultimately transforming hegemonic research discourse. 35

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Autoethnographers may present research results in a variety of formats, from formal written reporting to creative non-fiction narrative, and other forms of storytelling, poetry, performance and works of art. They also enjoy the luxury of using the first person in research writing (Hamilton et al., 2008). In my experience, however, the primary means of disseminating the results of my research is through disruptive self-expression, and the continuing evolution of practice: a living, breathing embodiment of research findings manifested in a quiet activism of altered attitudes and behaviours facilitated by the research process. Far from conquering the summit of knowledge and attaining a position of certainty or proof, which is the focus of traditional methodologies, the autoethnographer views the research process as infinite. There are many more peaks to climb. Valuing a state of ‘not knowing’ (Trahar, 2009) and embracing uncertainty, a mindset described by Freire (1998) as an awareness of our own incompleteness, motivates the researcher to continue their exploration of the ever-evolving multi-dimensional layers of the cultural landscape. Thompson (2019) highlights the value and complexity of figuring out the unending possibilities of “a twisting, braided rope of intersecting narratives” (p. 316). Research findings are intended to create debate, discussion and court controversy as they challenge and resist the hegemony of deeply held value systems and entrenched socio-cultural norms. Jones (2005) describes the purpose of autoethnography as agitating, disrupting and contesting commonly held views, which may inevitably elicit polarising responses by confronting controversial topics such as racism, sexism and discrimination. The autoethnographic research process has focussed my attention specifically on the colonial ideology implicit within western research traditions (Smith, 2012), resulting in my recognition of the need to pursue research methodology which is congruent with the cultural context of Aotearoa New Zealand, where I live and work. Lee (2009) identifies that indigenous research favours qualitative narrative approaches which give a voice to indigenous communities, and ensure their lives and realities are heard. She notes a revival of traditional storytelling modes in contemporary indigenous research around the world: “Storytelling has always been one of the key ways knowledge was sustained and protected within Indigenous communities” (Lee, 2009, p. 2). Pūrākau refers to traditional Māori storytelling; a uniquely Māori narrative paradigm with its roots in ancient Polynesian oratory tradition, spanning a variety of forms and methods, including myths and legends relating to historical and cultural origins, philosophy, and epistemological ideology (Thompson, 2019). Pūrākau is a form of narrative which has historically been adapted by Māori speakers and writers for a variety of contexts and purposes, including, more recently, a narrative approach to research (Lee, 2009), which is well-suited to autoethnographic research practice, recognising the interconnectedness of people with their environment, a concept which is fundamental to mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge) (Salmond, 2018). Autoethnography also connects with feminist research philosophy (Taylor & Coia, 2020), which encourages a reflexive and critical mindset, evaluating research aims and questions, theoretical conceptualisation, research design, and methods to identify issues and inequities. As Ackerly and True note, “The insight from feminist theoretical reflection on epistemology is that it is possible, and indeed essential, to reflect on the epistemologies that inform our own work” (2008, p. 695). Aligned with feminist research theory, the purpose of autoethnographic research is not only to stimulate transformational self-reflection but also to encourage action through identifying and addressing social issues. As an autoethnographer, I become vulnerable (Acosta et al., 2015). I open myself to criticism as I expose my weaknesses, examine my impact on the cultural setting, and identify ways in which I need to change and grow. I am a participant in the transformative process facilitated by 36

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autoethnographic methodology, proactively seeking change and open to alternative perspectives as I attempt to see the world through others’ eyes. Being willing to sit with the tension that exists between being a so-called expert in my field, and at the same time to hold on to ‘not knowing’, is an essential state of discomfort noted by Trahar (2009) who describes autoethnography as an ever evolving and fluid process. Holding my own hidden assumptions and biases up to the light in a critical and creative process of identifying, evaluating and interpreting what is happening and my role in constructing it is a humbling and confronting process, with no place for ego. If awareness is the precursor to change (Smith, 2015), I must face the idea that my own lack of awareness has made me an unconscious participant in a racist system. Autoethnography creates intentionality and improves emotional and cultural intelligence and that perhaps is why autoethnographers make excellent teachers. The role of an academic offers vast and varied opportunities to challenge cultural norms and expose inequities, through both research and teaching. Autoethnography provides a vehicle for systematically and intentionally examining the nuances of culture embedded in my interactions, teaching practice, choice of subject content and research philosophy: it is both practical and personal.

Autoethnography and models of culture Geert Hofstede, an authority in the field of cultural studies, describes culture as a collective identity which distinguishes one group of people from another (Hofstede et al., 1980). Other literature highlights the shared values, beliefs, rules, social norms and rituals or customs that make one group unique from another, noting that these are present in national, ethnic and organisational cultures and contain hidden underlying assumptions which are rarely re-visited or evaluated. Contemporary models of culture build on Schein’s theory (1985) that layers of culture grow in response to environmental conditions and that people develop patterned reactions, solutions and feelings that eventually become embedded beliefs and behavioural norms. Schein (1985) argues that the intangible layers must be exposed in order to understand the tangible – the resulting behaviour and opinions. Uncovering these hidden values, beliefs and assumptions in the context of the classroom is therefore vital if I am to understand what is really going on. I refer to a model developed by Bradt (2011) that identifies five dimensions of culture. This is a practitioner-oriented model useful for analysing culture in organisational settings, which I have adapted as a framework for examining the cultural context of my classroom. Using the five dimensions I have developed reflective questions (Table 4.1) which create a platform for ‘noticing’, uncovering issues and inequalities. I revisit these questions regularly, creating a cycle of continuous evaluation and re-evaluation as I experiment with ideas and strategies identified during my research.

Autoethnography and the Aotearoa New Zealand context Having emigrated to New Zealand in the 1990s, I applied for a teaching job and was advised to inform myself about Māori issues for my interview. I read a history book and discovered a dark side to my new country’s colonial past. It seemed clear to me that the British settlers had drawn up a treaty and then lied, cheated and stolen their way to dominance. Far from the British stereotype of New Zealand as a peaceful paradise, I became aware of a very different 37

Anne Bradley Table 4.1  Reflective questions adapted from Bradt’s (2011) BRAVE model of culture 1. Behaviour

2. Relationships

3. Attitudes

4. Values

5. Environment

What are the cultural norms and expectations? How does my behaviour reinforce or challenge cultural norms? How does my behaviour create or hinder equity? How does my behaviour empower or disempower? Are students active or passive? Are relationships formal or informal? Who belongs? How do people connect with each other? Is there an in-group and an out-group? How is diversity valued? What do ‘success’ and ‘failure’ look like? Who is winning or losing and why? Who has a voice? Who is silent? Who speaks and who listens? How are learners encouraged to experiment or take risks to aid learning? Whose stories are told? Whose are ignored? And why? What is seen as important or valuable? What values are embedded in my interactions? How does my teaching enhance or hinder critical thinking? What is my highest intention as a teacher, and how am I demonstrating this? How does the physical/learning environment enforce or resist hidden cultural assumptions? How does the physical/learning environment foster a sense of safety? How does the system and structure of the educational environment impact learners from diverse cultures and what am I doing to resist or maintain the status quo?

narrative beneath the surface, and uncomfortably conscious of my place as an uninvited guest benefitting from a colonial system which had subjugated and dispossessed the original inhabitants, who had settled the land via ancient Polynesian migration routes hundreds of years earlier (Thompson, 2019). As Thompson (2019) and Smith (2012) note, the historical European concept of ‘discovering’ a land which has already been discovered and inhabited by its existing population is problematic, to put it mildly. The effects of colonisation in Aotearoa were immediate. Land confiscation followed by rapid population decline as a result of poverty, disease and war had a cataclysmic impact on Māori, the effects of which are still felt in the present day. In 1860, Māori owned 80% of the land in the North Island. Within thirty years that number had halved, and by the year 2000 the figure was less than 4% (Ministry for Culture and Heritage, 2021). Wolfe (2006) discusses the wholesale destruction of indigenous societies and their replacement with colonial societal systems: describing colonisation not as a single event, but as an invading system with far-reaching and long-term consequences for indigenous inhabitants. The colonisation of Aotearoa New Zealand was no exception. From the outset, the pākehā settlers’ actions were at best ambiguous and at worst “destructively double-edged” (McCreanor, 2012, p. 290) when it comes to Te Tiriti O Waitangi/The Treaty of Waitangi, which promised the Māori tangata whenua (people of the land) joint sovereignty and the same rights as British Citizens. 38

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Whilst it is tempting to separate oneself from the actions of early settlers, even a brief examination of the current state of affairs in modern Aotearoa New Zealand demonstrates that little has fundamentally changed for Māori treaty partners: Cochrane et al. (2017) describe a society where almost a third of the Māori population live in poverty caused by unemployment or insecure employment and unstable living conditions, compared with just over a tenth of the pākehā population. Census data from 2018 identify that whilst the median income for men was NZD$40,400, the median income for Māori men was NZD$30,000 (Statistics New Zealand, 2021). Following the release of data from Statistics New Zealand in 2021, Children’s Commissioner Andrew Becroft noted that whilst child poverty statistics had improved in the nine months to March 2020, the statistics for Māori and Pasifika were “profoundly disturbing” (Carroll & Maxwell, 2021, p. 1), with one in four Pasifika and one in five Māori children meeting the criteria for material hardship. In a study of bicultural attitudes amongst the pākehā population, Sibley and Liu (2004) found that although most will agree with the principles of fair treatment under the treaty, they most often dispute allocation of resources to rectify disparities. Among their findings is the conclusion that this unexamined, unstated, underlying distinction promulgates a culture of inequality in New Zealand; an inequality which, according to Moura-Koçoğlu (2011), is barely acknowledged by the general population. I notice that many of my pākehā peers cling to the popular misapprehension that colonisation somehow benefitted indigenous people, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, a belief also identified by Smith (2015) amongst the Australian population. In 2019, the Ministry of Education reported that “Māori, Samoan and other Pacific students are far more likely to report discrimination on the basis of their ethnicity from adults than from their peers, with unfair teacher behaviour the most frequently reported issue” (Ministry of Education, 2019, p. 1). It would be offensive to suggest that the average New Zealander is racist; however, Doyle (2020) suggests that racism is more like pollution: it’s in the air we all breathe – much like second-hand cigarette smoke. We’re so used to inhaling it, we don’t even notice it. In the same way we don’t notice white privilege (Smith, 2015). DiAngelo (2018) proposes that we are all shaped by the racism embedded in colonial societies, a view supported by Terruhn (2019), who notes that the continuing sovereignty of settler states in colonised nations perpetuates the structures and systems that cause inequality. DiAngelo (2018) highlights a common conceptualisation of racism as being an individual issue belonging to a few ‘bad people’ rather than a systemic issue. The autoethnographic research process has led me to the realisation that, aside from the calamitous effect of colonisation on the socio-economic status of the Māori population, the ongoing intellectual colonisation has been equally corrosive, a view highlighted by Smith (2012). The hegemony of European ways of knowing, and providing evidence of that knowing, is self-evident in the education system, in particular in the measurement of educational achievement. It is the educational equivalent of Clandinin and Connelly’s Grand Narrative of research (2000). Salmond (2018) notes the ethnocentric bias in the discarding of Pacific knowledge systems, an attitude also highlighted by Thompson (2019). The narrative of Māori underachievement in education is well-documented. Studies such as Krzyżosiak (2019), Marie et al. (2008) and Alcorn’s metanalysis One Hundred Years of Educational Research in New Zealand (2020), largely attribute the ongoing issues to inequities resulting from colonisation. Motivated by my desire to be part of the solution rather than continuing to maintain the status quo in my role in tertiary vocational education, coupled with an organisational aim to uphold principles of Te Tiriti, I began to question the cultural assumptions behind my teaching 39

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philosophy. If Māori learners experience significantly poorer educational outcomes as a result of colonisation (Cochrane et al., 2017), how is my research and teaching practice addressing these issues? What aspects of my research and teaching practice are perpetuating institutionalised colonisation? How can I decolonise my methodology?

The Great White Teacher: decolonising my classroom The scene is familiar to everyone in tertiary education. The teacher stands in the spotlight, facing rows of students in a lecture theatre. A powerful symbol of knowledge and expertise, ready to impart their wisdom to eager ears. When the teacher is white and British, and the students are indigenous, the image reeks of colonialism. Smith (2012) describes decolonisation as “a long-term process involving the bureaucratic, cultural, linguistic & psychological divesting of colonial power” (p. 101). My research has led me to the conclusion that colonial power manifests in the classroom in pedagogy, subject content and assessment practices.

Decolonising pedagogy Decolonising pedagogy for me means identifying ways to devolve power from the front of the classroom. I seek to resist the concept of the Great White Teacher by giving students the whiteboard pens, sitting with them during discussions, and implementing inquiry learning techniques, small group discussion and other student-centred learning activities. Over recent years a new wave of research has identified ways to engage and support Māori learners, providing teachers with valuable resources to draw from, such as Webber and MacFarlane (2020), who identify specific learning conditions that enable Māori learners to succeed. Context and connection therefore provide the foundation upon which all other learning and discussion take place. Encouraging students to share stories about their own experiences is fundamental to meaning-making (Dewey, 1938). Whilst I discovered the concept of pūrākau (traditional storytelling) whilst developing narrative research methodology for my doctorate, I have also begun to experiment with the idea of storytelling in my teaching practice. Whakaakoranga Māori (Māori teaching) was customarily person-centred, active and creative. Just as fairy tales, rhymes, songs and other art forms have been used to disseminate important information throughout human history, traditional Māori cultural activities such as waiata (songs), carving and basket-weaving were imbued with layers of meaning and cultural knowledge, and important information was preserved and recounted through evocative pūrākau (Thompson, 2019). Finding ways to incorporate more storytelling and other creative strategies in my teaching is an area of future development I have identified. It should be noted here that any one class may include learners from nationalities as diverse as South Africa, India, the Philippines, China and Europe as well as Māori, Pasifika and pākehā New Zealanders. The challenges for international students are well documented. Leaving behind families and support networks creates a sense of displacement and disconnection. The Ministry of Education sees “educationally powerful connections” (Ministry of Education, 2020, p. 2) and a partnership approach to learning with the learner at the centre, as being intrinsic to a high-quality educational environment that values diversity. Thus, student-centred strategies

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which situate the focus of learning amongst the learners and their experiences, strengthening relational connections and social learning opportunities are of benefit to all learners, not just Māori. Practitioner-oriented studies such as Kachani et al. (2020) underline the benefits of a classroom climate that fosters a sense of belonging. This is a secondary outcome of my research – I create an inclusive learning environment for all students.

Decolonising course content A scan of the common texts associated with my academic field of Management and Organisational Psychology quickly revealed a strong bias towards white, western, middle-class, male American theories and models – or, as one colleague describes it, “pale, male and stale”. Muthukrishna et al. (2020) highlight the prevalence of the Western, Educated, Industrialised, Rich and Democratic (WEIRD) worldview in psychology research, but psychology is not the only subject in which WEIRD theories, worldview and attitudes dominate the academic landscape. A group of students in a class I taught recently were lamenting a lecturer’s reliance on American clips and case studies taken from YouTube, which were meaningless to them. They commented that they couldn’t relate to or recognise themselves in the material. They shared their sense of frustration: they couldn’t connect with the theories in the cultural format they were presented. Marie et al. (2008) identify a “systemic failure to actively recognise, transmit and reinforce Māori cultural values” (p. 183). Instead, I present traditional/textbook (i.e., WEIRD) theory as just one part of the course content, alongside alternative perspectives including a specific focus on Māori perspectives, integrated throughout. I invite students from all cultures to interrogate the relevance of each theory in their own cultural context. I continue to search for relevant, current Māori stories, case studies, role-models and concepts into the content of my teaching. Perhaps I am fortunate in my subject area, but there are many ways I can draw from kaupapa Māori (Māori principles and ideas) to teach Management and Leadership – for example, Kaitiakitanga, which relates to the idea of stewardship of resources, perfectly connects to social responsibility and environmental sustainability. I am careful about how I do this. I do not presume to teach Māori students about their own culture. Instead I ask questions – I ask them to explain to me what a particular concept means to them, or how it might relate to the topic. I use phrases like: “I’m wondering if this relates to that? Can you tell me what that might mean to you?” “How does this connect with kaupapa Māori?” “As an immigrant, I notice … How would you interpret this?” The learner-centred teaching and questioning strategies I have developed create space for valuing and acknowledging different cultural perspectives, inviting all learners to engage with theoretical material, creating meaning which reflects their own unique contexts and world views.

Decolonising assessment practices Another impact of autoethnography has resulted in an evolving approach to assessing student achievement. The very act of measuring and judging performance is intensely Euro-centric (Groot et al., 2018). The current system in New Zealand is based on outdated British industrial

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era educational aims embedded in western imperialism (Smith, 2012), an underlying colonial doctrine we share with Australia (Smith, 2015). Students from all cultural backgrounds can learn to play the game. Some crack the code of assessment writing and get good grades. However, this does not, in my experience, mean they have gained or learned anything meaningful or useful at all. Nor does it result the kind of transformational learning that it is my aim as an educator to facilitate. I have come to view assessment practices as one of the keys to creating the kind of educational environment that enables my diverse student cohort to succeed, and a practical way to decolonise education. Translating information from one language to another has its challenges. Translating knowledge from one culture to another is a different thing altogether. Thompson (2019) identifies a profound gap between European and Polynesian ways of knowing. One way she illustrates this is to compare the sequential, precise clarity of written European historical accounts with the “densely poetic, elliptical, evocative, and occasionally obscure” (p.158) accounts of Polynesian oral narrative, of which traditional Māori kōrero is an example. Thompson (2019) highlights differences between oral and literary cultures – that the act of writing down what you know (the most common requirement in assessment) changes how information is constructed, viewed and valued. She proposes that oral cultures focus on knowledge as it relates to, and finds purpose in, experience and life, conserving and passing on information considered essential to the wellbeing of the listener. Knowledge is a fluid living concept rather than the static, concrete precision preferred by European logic. She notes that Europeans and Polynesians have historically had “two completely different knowledge systems, both of which placed the highest value on information about the physical world but constructed and deployed … in entirely different ways” (Thompson, 2019, p. 94), an epistemological gap it is still difficult to cross despite a century of research. Over my 20-plus years in vocational tertiary education, I have noticed that students from diverse cultural backgrounds differ in their responses to assessment material in both perspective and style. Sense-making and meaning-making come from different worldviews and interpret the work of western theorists in sometimes unexpected ways. Many who have grown up connected to their own culture and language are writing, of course, in English as a second language. For indigenous communities, being forced to communicate in English rather than their own language is another relic of a colonial education system originally intended to wipe out all memory of indigenous language and identity. In Aotearoa New Zealand, te reo Māori (Māori language) is now recognised as an official language, alongside English and New Zealand Sign Language, and a number of initiatives in recent decades have seen a growth in the use and recognition of te reo Māori. Students are also entitled to submit assignments in te reo Māori if they prefer. In some Māori students’ writing, I recognise traces of the poetic, elliptical style of traditional Polynesian oratory identified by Thompson (2019) – not always addressing the question directly, nor using the structure and style that meets standard marking criteria. The conceptual framework and descriptive vernacular of traditional Māori korero (discussion/narrative) does not fit such a prescriptive format, and I believe this may be one factor contributing to poor grades. Educators and governments have been seeking to address what has become a well-known issue for decades: How do we solve Māori underachievement in education? But my research has led me to the conclusion that they have been asking the wrong question and therefore addressing the wrong problem. Studies have tended to focus on failure and fixes with a focus on ‘helping’ Māori succeed in the existing system. Simply put, the focus is more on the symptoms (Māori underachievement), not the cause (inequities resulting from colonialism), a view shared by 42

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Krzyżosiak (2019). A wise person once noted that if a plant dies, you don’t blame the plant, you blame its environment. Requiring students to regurgitate westernised theories and models which bear little connection to their own worldview in order to get a good grade is at best a meaningless educational exercise. At worst, it upholds racist attitudes to different ways of knowing. Past governments have funded various attempts to ‘bridge the divide’, notably with the creation in the 1980s of Te Wānanga o Aotearoa, a Māori tertiary education provider run for Māori, by Māori. Providing Māori learners with the option to study in their own language and in a culturally familiar has become a popular choice for Māori learners (Te Wānanga o Aotearoa, n.d.). However, there is currently a trend towards increasing separation between cultures in Aotearoa, a focus on what divides us, rather than what binds us. Increasing connection and community is surely a healthier aim; as Thompson (2019) points out, “many of the most compelling insights have arrived at moments of convergence, when two different ways of looking at a problem … intertwine” (p. 314). All learners should, of course, have the choice to study at any institution without experiencing discrimination – that is a fundamental human right. All education providers are therefore responsible for examining and addressing systemic racism. Critical reflection on the failure of innumerable historical attempts to address what I have come to see as ‘the wrong problem’ prompted me to change my own question. I started asking instead: What is useful and relevant to Māori learners and how can they provide evidence of this in a way that is meaningful to them and values their unique cultural context and ways of knowing? Instead of attempting to construct a bridge across an epistemological chasm, which maintains the “positional superiority of Western knowledge” (Smith, 2012, p. 62), why can’t different ways of knowing be valued as separate and equal? I am currently developing ways to decolonise my assessment practice using two key strategies: The first is in journaling as an assessment method. With its roots in constructivism, a theory of learning developed by Dewey (1938), journaling encourages learners to make sense of, and respond to theoretical material in their own voice, evaluating the concepts in the light of their own experience and perspective. In many ways journaling can be viewed as storytelling. The writing is more personal and less formal than essay-writing. Students can incorporate drawings, quotes and other material that is meaningful to them. There is less focus on structure and more on the actual learning that is taking place. Literature, such as Walker (2006) and Williams (2018), highlights journal writing in a range of educational contexts as a way of promoting authenticity, increasing engagement and a critical approach to theory. The second is in the development of flexible, project-style, practical assessments in which students undertake a particular project and then narrate their experience and critical reflections on their learning in a creative presentation which forms a major part of their overall grade. Far from ‘dumbing down’ assessment requirements, this approach widens the possibilities for students to demonstrate their understanding in a greater variety of ways. One example of this in an undergraduate leadership paper I teach. Students complete a journal, responding to questions about the theoretical content throughout the course. They are also required to complete The Leadership Project, in which they lead a group of people through a change process over a period of 6–8 weeks. The beauty of this is its flexibility. Any group of people, in any organisational context, participating in almost any kind of change will do. Studies such as Wanner and Palmer (2015) highlight the benefits of increased control and choice that flexible assessment practices offer a diverse student body. The focus is the learning, not the setting, or even the outcome: quite often, the change fails for any number of reasons – that is 43

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the reality of change leadership. The grade is achieved via the evidence of critical reflection on the process and its connection to theory, which can be demonstrated verbally, visually and in writing. It is this kind of flexible, ‘open’ assessment practice that provides the opportunity for diverse students to succeed. Developing approaches to decolonising pedagogy, course content and assessment practice are examples of the profound impact of autoethnography on my academic role. The process has challenged me to an ongoing engagement with my cultural setting and has been the catalyst for continuous improvement as I seek to resist and challenge the status quo. The positive feedback from students of all cultures has encouraged me to push forwards, even when the system presents barriers such as inflexible assessment protocols, or so-called quality assurance systems that limit creativity, and other pressures of the academic world that can distract from the purpose of my being there in the first place. That’s all well and good, but so what? What difference does all this personal/professional development make in the wider context? Does one person’s noticing, changing thinking and practice have any impact at all?

Autoethnography and the impact of disruptive self-expression In September 1999, I went home to the UK to visit my family. The trip was not without its dramas, not least my plane crash-landing in a typhoon in Bangkok. But that is another story. A friend bought me a ticket to the All Blacks versus England World Cup Rugby game at Twickenham for a treat. I proudly dressed in black to support my new country, along with several thousand kiwis in the crowd. We were especially looking forward to watching the awe-inspiring Jonah Lomu bulldoze the England team in his usual spectacular fashion. We waited excitedly to sing our national anthem. A woman stepped on to the podium and the familiar music played. She began to sing. In Māori. Despite nearly a decade living in New Zealand, I had never heard this version before. When she’d finished, we waited to raise our voices for the English rendition. It never came. I remember feeling disappointed and hearing outraged comments from other fans around me. In a radio interview afterwards, the singer, Dame Hinewehi Mohi, said she had wanted to raise awareness of te reo Māori and felt happy that she hadn’t sung it in English. It suddenly struck me how wrong it was that, as an official language of Aotearoa, te reo Māori was used so little. That single act of disruptive self-expression sparked a huge debate in New Zealand and ultimately resulted in a change of attitude to the national anthem. It is now much more common for pākehā to know the Māori version, and it is now always sung in both languages. The power of one person to create transformational change is well documented throughout human history. The impact of disruptive self-expression in organisational settings has been highlighted as a means to confront assumptions, practices, or values and create a ripple effect of change, citing examples of how individuals simply behaving differently have become catalysts for lasting change. My team at Toi Ohomai Institute of Technology see ourselves as a community of practice, regularly sharing and discussing our critical reflections on our teaching and research. Other strategies to promote my research findings can involve simply speaking up at meetings, as well as challenging and participating in the redevelopment of organisational policy, presenting my ideas to colleagues at education conferences, and in academic writing such as this book chapter. I have illustrated the potential ripple effect of this process in Figure 4.1. 44

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Institutional power structures, policies, systems, academic community Community of Practice Teaching, Assessment and Research practice Critcal Reflection: Identity Values Beliefs Cultural Norms (BRAVE)

Figure 4.1  The autoethnographic ripple effect

Conclusion Autoethnography challenges us to dig deep, to become agents of change, unearthing issues and identifying ways to actively participate in decolonising the systems that oppress the original inhabitants of this land. I and my colleagues in the Tertiary Education sector have the opportunity to undertake research, and design learning experiences and assessments which recognise and embrace the unique ideological frameworks of Aotearoa New Zealand, to acknowledge and value kaupapa Māori in our research and teaching, and to become proactive in our stance against systemic racism. Autoethnography facilitates a dynamic process of increasing intentionality, challenging norms and seeking solutions to problems, rather than maintaining the status quo. It is a way of understanding and knowing which leads to growing and being, as I become a living, breathing embodiment of my research results.

References Ackerly, B., & True, J. (2008). Reflexivity in practice: Power and ethics in feminist research on international relations. International Studies Review, 10(4). https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-2486.2008.00826.x Acosta, S., Goltz, H. H., & Goodson, P. (2015) Autoethnography in action research for health education practitioners. Action Research, 1–21. https://doi.org/10.1177/1476750315573589 Alcorn, N. E. (2020). One hundred years of educational research in New Zealand. Waikato Journal of Education, 25. https://doi.org/10.15663/wje.v25i0.776 Bradt, G. (2011). The new leader’s 100-day action plan. Wiley. Carroll, M., & Maxwell, J. (2021). Child poverty declines but Māori and pacific Poverty rates profoundly disturbing. https://www.stuff.co.nz/business/money/124327740/child-poverty-declines-but-mori-pacificpoverty-rates-profoundly-disturbing

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Anne Bradley Clandinin, D. J., & Connelly, F. M. (2000). Narrative inquiry: Experience and story in qualitative research. Jossey-Bass Publishers. Cochrane, W., Stubbs, T., Rua, M., & Hodgetts, D. (2017). A statistical portrait of the New Zealand precariat. In S. Groot, C. van Ommen, B. Masters-Awatere, & N. Tassell-Matamua (Eds.), Precarity: Uncertain, insecure, and unequal lives in Aotearoa New Zealand (pp. 27–36). Massey University Press. Dewey, J. (1938). Experience and education. Touchstone. DiAngelo, R. (2018) White fragility: Why it’s so hard for white people to talk about racism. Beacon. Diversi M., & Moreira, C. (2019). Autoethnography as an act of resistance against narratives of hatred. Qualitative Inquiry, 25(6), 544–546. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800418806605 Doyle, G. (2020). Untamed. Ebury Publishing. Ellis, C. (2007). Telling secrets, revealing lives: Relational ethics in research with intimate others. Qualitative Inquiry, 13(1), 3–29. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800406294947 Freire, P. (1998). Pedagogy of freedom: Ethics, democracy, and civic courage. Rowman & Littlefield. Groot, S., Le Grice, J., & Nikora, L. (2018). Indigenous psychology in New Zealand. Routledge. Hamilton, M. L., Smith, L., & Worthington, K. (2008). Fitting the methodology with the research: An exploration of narrative, self-study and auto-ethnography. Studying Teacher Education, 4(1), 17–28. Hofstede, G., Hofstede, G. J., & Minkov, M. (1980). Cultures and organisations. McGraw-Hill. Jones, S. H. (2005). Autoethnography: Making the personal political. In N. Denzin, & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (3rd ed., pp. 763–791). Sage Publications. Jousse, M. (2000). The anthropology of geste and rhythm. (E. Sienaert, Ed. E. Sienaert & J. Connolly trans). Mantis Publishing. Kachani, S., Ross, C., & Irvin, A. (2020). 5 Principles as pathways to inclusive teaching. https://www.insidehighered. com/advice/2020/02/19/practical-steps-toward-more-inclusive-teaching-opinion Krzyżosiak, J. S. (2019). No black and white answers: Cultural responsiveness and Māori students. https://openrepository. aut.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10292/12941/KrzyzosiakJS.pdf?sequence=3&isAllowed=y Le Roux, C. S. (2017). Exploring rigour in autoethnographic research. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 20(2), 195–207. https://doi.org/10.1080/13645579.2016.1140965 Lee, J. (2009). Decolonising Mäori narratives: Pūrākau as a method. MAI Review, 2, article 3, 37–49. Marie, D., Fergusson, D. M., & Boden, J. M. (2008). Educational achievement in Māori: The roles of cultural identity and social disadvantage. Australian Journal of Education, 52(2), 183–196. McCreanor, T. (2012). Challenging and countering anti-Māori discourse: Practises for decolonisation. In R. G. Nairn (Ed.), Ka tu, ka oho; visions of a bicultural partnership in psychology: Invited keynotes: Revisiting the past to reset the future (pp. 289–310). New Zealand Psychological Society. Ministry for Culture and Heritage. (2021). Māori land loss 1860–2000. https://nzhistory.govt.nz/media/ interactive/Māori-land-1860-2000 Ministry of Education. (2019). What do we know about discrimination in schools? https://www.educationcounts. govt.nz/__data/assets/pdf_file/0006/195909/He-Whakaaro-Discrimination-in-Schools.pdf Ministry of Education. (2020). The Statement of National Education and Learning Priorities (NELP) and the Tertiary Education Strategy (TES). www.Education.govt.nz/overall-strategies-and-policies Moura-Koçoğlu, M. (2011). Narrating Indigenous Modernities: Transcultural dimensions in contemporary Māori literature. Rodopi. Muthukrishna, M., Bell, A. V., Henrich, J., Curtin, C.M., Gedranovich, A., McInerney, J., & Thue, B. (2020). Beyond Western, Educated, Industrial, Rich and Democratic (WEIRD) psychology: Measuring and mapping scales of cultural and psychological distance. Psychological Science, 31(6), 678–701. https:// doi.org/10.1177/0956797620916782 Oswald, A. G., Bussey, S., Thompson, M., & Ortega-Williams, A. (2020). Disrupting hegemony in social work doctoral education and research: Using autoethnography to uncover possibilities for radical transformation. Qualitative Social Work. https://doi.org/10.1177/1473325020973342 Salmond, A. Dame. (2018). Science of nature without culture. https://www.royalsociety.org.nz/news/ science-of-nature-without-culture/ Schein, E. H. (1985). Organisational culture and leadership. Jossey-Bass. Sibley, C. G. & Liu, J. H. (2004). Attitudes towards bi-culturalism in New Zealand: Social dominance and pākehā attitudes towards the general principles and resource-specific aspects of bi-cultural policy. New Zealand Journal of Psychology, 33(2), 88–89. Smith, K. (2015). Transforming my white identity from an agent of oppression, to an agent of change through education in contemporary Australian society. The Australian Community Psychologist, 27(2), 45–58.

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Uncovering buried treasure Smith, L. T. (2012). Decolonising methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. Zed Books. Statistics New Zealand. (2021). https://www.stats.govt.nz/topics/Māori Taylor, M., & Coia, L. (2020) Co/autoethnography as a feminist methodology. In Kitchen, J., Berry, A., Bullock, S. M., Crowe, A. R., Taylor, M., Guðjónsdóttir, H., & Thomas, L. (Eds.), International Handbook of self-study of teaching and teacher education practices. Springer. https://doi. org/10.1007/978-981-13-6880-6_18 Te Wānanga o Aotearoa (n.d.). He Raumaharatanga – Te Wānanga o Aotearoa/Our History. www.twoa. ac.nz0 Terruhn, J. (2019). Settler colonialism and biculturalism in Aotearoa/New Zealand. In S. Ratuva (Ed.), The Palgrave handbook of ethnicity. Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi-org.ezproxy.waikato. ac.nz/10.1007/978-981-13-2898-5_71 Thompson, C. (2019). Sea People: The puzzle of Polynesia. William Collins. Trahar, S. (2009). Beyond the story itself: Narrative inquiry and autoethnography in intercultural research in higher education. Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 10(1), n.p. Walker S. E. (2006). Journal writing as a teaching technique to promote reflection. Journal of Athletic Training, 41(2), 216–221. Wanner, T., & Palmer, E. (2015). Personalising learning: Exploring student and teacher perceptions about flexible learning and assessment in a flipped university course. Computers & Education, 88, 354–369. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.compedu.2015.07.008 Webber, M., & MacFarlane, A. (2020) Mana Tangata: The five optimal cultural conditions for Māori student success. Journal of American Indian Education, 59(1), 26–49. Williams, N. (2018). Reflective Journaling as an alternative assessment. Otterbein University Press. https:// www.otterbein.edu/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/williams.pdf Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–409.

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5 EVOLVING TEACHER EDUCATION PRACTICE THROUGH COLLABORATIVE ARTS-BASED AUTOETHNOGRAPHY Shelley Hannigan, Jo Raphael and Peta J. White Introduction In this chapter, our evolving education research approach of collaborative arts-based autoethnography (CABAE) is explored to reveal how this has impacted upon, and further developed, our teacher education practices. Our research grew from fertile grounds where we had each engaged in our own autoethnographies (in our PhDs and other research projects), then, some years later, developed a collaborative practice with other academic colleagues to research ways we could improve our teaching, scholarship, and research together. We began our collaboration in a time of initial teacher education reform (TEMAG, 2014) and together we re-imagined our academic worlds and developed our teaching practices and general scholarship as we initiated a collaborative autoethnographic research project. A profound influence in our evolving practice was arts-based inquiry and as images and text/data emerged, we focussed our scholarly endeavours towards investigating our practice, for ourselves and our students. We engaged in CABAE, resulting in a triptych of art works and greater clarity about our practice. We unpacked our CABAE methodology and recommend this practice for others to adapt and use to focus their own practice inquiries.

Background to our collaboration Our collaboration began with the formation of a faculty research group of eight initial teacher educators from 2014 to 2018. This group provided a supportive culture of collaboration which we refer to as a community of practice (Wenger, 2010). We focussed on our shared commitment to improving our own individual and collective teacher education practices within our university context. An important component of our collaboration and community of practice was sharing vulnerabilities of ourselves and our practice roles as we engaged in self-study (White et  al., 2020). The resulting benefits were bountiful, including: learning about our different practices as educators within the same academic institution; coming to understand our similarities (despite us teaching in different disciplines); and finding new and engaged colleagues to form new and 48

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productive research collaborations. Our community of practice offered a change from working alone, in discipline silos, and behind the closed doors of our classrooms. However, we needed a methodological practice that provided combined activity and deeper insight into selves, so arts-based inquiry was introduced to move our collaboration forward. Our CABAE methodology that evolved in 2021 from these fertile grounds, was grounded in arts-based inquiry. Hamilton et al. (2008) remind us that, “How researchers situate the self in their research seems critical to the development of teacher knowledge and practice” (2008, p.  18). Arts-based inquiry enabled a deeper focus on our selves within out practice, that included social, political and cultural issues. Hamilton et al. (2008) claim that “When a selfstudy involves social or cultural issues, it could fit the definition of auto-ethnography” (p. 25).

Artistic/Arts-based autoethnography As teachers and educators, we have each drawn upon the arts as pedagogical approaches for teaching across disciplines, including science (Hannigan et  al., 2021; White et  al., 2021), language education (Raphael, 2017), and education for sustainability (Hannigan et al., 2021; Raphael & White, 2021). We have found that arts-based inquiry processes have naturally become intertwined with our desire to draw upon autoethnography as a research methodology to understand, develop and explain our roles as teachers and educators, and improve our teaching practices. We understand that we are not alone in our inclination to bring these two approaches together. As Bartleet (2021) explains, artistic research and autoethnography have evolved over a similar time span, they are synergetic, with significant overlap between the methods. They are both flexible, adaptable, and emergent and the creative processes are key to their design (p. 133). Bartleet explains … autoethnography and artistic research have enjoyed a dynamic relationship – the former enabling the latter, and the latter fuelling the former, and both have found themselves privileging the subjectivity of the artist-researcher, the materiality of the researcher’s body, and the intersubjectivities that emerge through the researcher’s artistic encounters with the world. (2021, p. 133) Many autoethnographies that explore the field of education are written, but there are some examples where autoethnographers have brought innovative and creative approaches to research design and presentation including drama/theatre, poetry or drawing (Bartleet, 2021; Chang et al., 2013; Pelias, 2021). Manovski’s (2014) autoethnography on music education is written but includes images to help make particular points. Arts-based autoethnographies have been documented in performance, including storytelling (Forest, 2009) and through dance (Van Katwyk & Seko, 2017). There are many examples of visual arts-based autoethnographies such as Eldridge’s (2012) process of creating collage to reflect on education practice, or Wilson’s (2018) textile-based autoethnography into her identity as a Black American scholar.

Collaborative autoethnography and CABAE Our education-based autoethnographic research is focused on our individual practices and identities (auto) but takes place in a community of practice and in the culture of university education as well as drawing on our own cultural settings (ethno). We apply writing, storytelling, and arts-based inquiry processes (graphy). The enacted reflection on practice was set 49

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within a culture (initial teacher education in a university) but with a critical perspective on culture, leading to evolving practice. Callier and Hill (2021) highlight the importance of ‘creating knowledge together’ rather than engaging in ‘lone creation, voyages of discovery and knowledge done by an individual’ (p. 284). In its evolution, our CABAE approach made use of specially designed arts-based collaborative activities which culminated in personal art and reflections and collaborative artworks, performances, and reflections. The provocations for these activities emerged from having carefully listened to and processed data from meetings and activities. This meant there was a cumulative evolving dynamic to the methodology of CABAE in the sense that issues raised were considered again in subsequent arts-based inquiry provocations and activities. This enabled expression and investigation into these issues in a truly collaborative and in-depth way. We recognised the importance of time in understanding our practices and our becoming selves, thus we valued and were able to incorporate insights into both our own individual practices and practice selves. We were then able to bring these ‘data’ back to the group. Because this project was centred on the depth and breadth of ‘being educators’, it was important that personal experiences and insights from our practices were able to be brought into the collaborative forum where art was involved, so we could share, interrogate, question and create meaning together. Pillay et  al. (2016, p. 4) share an approach of doing collaborative autoethnography. As editors of a book on autoethnography in higher education, they wrote a poem in response to each chapter. The editor’s contribution to each poem was informed by their individual research interests: ‘academic identities’, ‘academic leadership’ and ‘methodology’. We are not alone as a trio of teachers-educator-researchers; Chang et  al. (2013) explain how ‘threeor-more-person autoethnographies’ have occurred with academics who have been “turning self-interrogation tools on themselves and their work environment” (p. 39). They also note an “increasing presence of collaboration among female autoethnographers” (Chang et al., 2013, p. 39) having reviewed seven sets of female trios to demonstrate this trend. They also explained partial collaborations where not all members of a collaborative research team contribute their autoethnographic data or opt in or out of the final report writing processes. Our group of three had similarities to their project in that we started with eight academics but as the artsbased inquiry methods were introduced, some members dropped away for various reasons We continued with the arts-based inquiry into other contexts and issues in our practices that were emerging, as our CABAE project. It is important to note that we have participated in this research project whilst also engaging in other research projects (as well as teaching, looking after families etc.), so it has been something we choose and find time to do amongst our busy personal and professional lives. Chang et al. (2013) explained “In concurrent collaboration, researchers usually engage in same tasks at the same time, often independently, and bring the fruit of their individual labor together for discussion and further progress” (p. 40). We valued the opportunity to share aspects of our personal lives and culture as well as other research projects which were important to get to know each other, build trust and be aware of the larger ethnographic context that our practices were positioned. We started each session with informal chat as a checking-in process before we settled into our project work, appreciating that in autoethnography, one’s personal life and professional life are not necessarily separate.

Critical collaborative autoethnography As academics, CABAE helped to provide a critical exploration of academic culture in these neoliberal times. Palmer et  al. (2018) applied a collaborative approach to autoethnography 50

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where explorations of power and justice surfaced as researchers collaborated to support each other during trying situations. They devised a strategy of Nurturing Conversations based on Friendship as Method (Tillmann-Healy, 2003) which “involves researching with the practices, at the pace, in the natural contexts, and with an ethic of friendship” (p. 730). It was the supportive attitude in friendship that enabled vulnerability, sharing, and eventually healing to occur. The value of these practices is in the desire for change or improvement of practice that implies a critical positioning to the research. As teaching is an inherently isolating profession as we often work behind closed classroom doors, these approaches to collaboration became meaningful and generative. Callier and Hill (2021) highlight the importance of “creating knowledge together” (p. 284) and we achieved this through critically designed arts-based collaborative activities which generated opportunities for us to reflect on our own individual practices and practice selves in action, then share this reflexive work with the group when we came together. Von Schantz and Osterlind (2021) describe how arts-based research enabled them to understand that ethnography is the observation and realisation of the world between oneself and others rather than “an unmediated world of the ‘others’” (p. 18) and our work moving back and forth from our individual practices and working together revealed this also.

Building a practice of arts-based inquiry Our initial approach to arts-based inquiry in 2014 began by asking everyone to draw their own research project, then asking questions of the creator about what the drawing meant overall and through pointing to key parts of the drawing. We were careful not to make interpretive assumptions of others work but instead inquired, listened, and recorded these conversations. The second drawing activity took place on a beach where a whole-body drawing experience occurred as we each drew our own research projects that explored our individual practices, then, using the wide canvas of a beach, we showed how they interconnected with each other’s projects and our collaborative overarching project that looked more generally at education practice (Hannigan et al., 2016; Raphael et al., 2016). Figure 5.1 is a researcher’s drawing of

Figure 5.1  A beach-sand representation of the authors’ research

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her project with lines extending out to drawing created by other members of the project on this vast low tide beach. Some months later, another activity was introduced which had emerged from two participants’ descriptions of their practices which included the words ‘knots’ and ‘entanglements’. We asked everyone to choose an image of a knot from ‘Google images’ then copy and paste this image onto a blank document and describe how this image symbolically or metaphorically represented each of our own practices. We then shared these on our project’s blog space. Realising the success of this from the participants’ comments, we repeated this activity with an international group of self-study researchers we had connected with and as part of an internal research seminar within our university. Other arts-based activities included map-making of our own stories/practices (see Figure 5.2), keeping a journal so that we could keep up the reflective writing or drawing in our own time, and several collaborative arts tasks using a variety of mediums. One collaborative task involved drawing a boat as a three-part exquisite corpse-style of drawing which was then placed in the centre of a larger sheet of paper and annotated using writing pointing to aspects of the drawing and its meaning (see Figure 5.3). We also experimented with performing or dancing data and engaged in inquiries through creative writing. An excursion into ‘poetic knowing’ (Tracey, 2008) had us working from prompts for writing haiku, co-constructed and found poems and we presented spoken word performances for each other. We have since reflected and written about this process of facilitating arts-based inquiries (Hannigan & Raphael, 2020). Key to this process was picking up on what the group was expressing and designing relevant arts-based inquiry that fleshed this issue out further with the group, rather than plucking out an arts-based inquiry from somewhere else that had no

Figure 5.2  Maps of the authors’ educational influences

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Figure 5.3  Exquisite corpse boats – educators as voyagers

relevance to what was being expressed and communicated within the group. This is a constructivist approach in the sense that we built on knowledge through experiences and personal processes – seeking to understand the world in which we ‘live and work’ (Creswell & Creswell, 2018, p. 8) but also mindful that our own backgrounds and experiences influence the data that we express and generate.

A CABAE trio and triptych In our effort to understand and describe our evolving CABAE approach for this chapter, we set ourselves a CABAE inquiry task in early 2021, focused on the question: How do we understand our experience of the process of CABAE emerging from our collaborative projects (highlighted above) and how does it sustain, enrich, and improve us as teacher educators within a supportive community of practice? Owing to restrictions on gathering imposed by the COVID-19 pandemic we came together over a series of online meetings. We began by sharing pieces of writing which emerged into a need to create an artwork, to form a part of the resulting triptych (see Figure 5.4). We each brought our individual artwork contributions to share and invited reflections from each other before revealing our reflection on our own work and engaging in discussion together. We then wrote our response to our own and each other’s artworks and include excerpts from these responses below.

Figure 5.4  The authors’ CABAE triptych

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Jo’s artwork Jo shared a paper/ink/thread construction and asked Peta and Shelley to respond to it (see Figure 5.5).

Shelley’s response to Jo’s artwork I felt the three primary colours represent our group of three researchers. I wondered how each of the coloured threads moved in a circular way through the pages through different ink-colours and with intersections. Jo explained this more to be about her own practice, but this reminded me of my own tendencies in autoethnographic writing and artwork to tell my story chronologically. Jo’s artwork spoke more to the circular which encouraged me to treat my autoethnography more like a constructivist’s smorgasbord, pulling out and tapping into aspects of my story that are relevant to, and emerge from my practice.

Peta’s response to Jo’s artwork Jo’s work was inspirational. I remember us spending an afternoon where I sat in the sun and reflect deeply on how I connect to her artwork. The triangle in spiral is powerful for me and I see that in Jo’s artwork. The movement yet the inferred interconnection was useful to align with my practice. Do I draw threads between key ideas from one part of my teaching and/or research to another – what are the narratives I can curate between the leaves and themes of my practice that reflect my three-pronged research program?

Jo’s response to her own artwork I set out to create an artwork to express the way I see my intertwined professional practices and CABAE. My initial sketches were two-dimensional. I needed three dimensions and the idea of a book emerged. However, this book is not chronological or linear with a start and end, rather it’s a continuous evolving, revolving story book with the pages connected at a central spine from which all the pages radiate. I imagine the pages contain ‘stories’, interconnected with threads, my through-lines, intersecting threads connecting bright coloured spots of intensity, sometimes blending to make a new colour. I chose process primary colours with the potential to make all colours. I was not sure when I created the artwork exactly what

Figure 5.5  Jo’s artwork “Storybook”

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these spots of colour represented. My idea shifted from them being the areas of my work, to disciplines, to projects, to collaborations, to moments. The threads carry the colour, connecting intensities, but there are also knots and tangles, loose threads and threads that are unconnected, left dangling like unfinished work or opportunities for future connections. The materiality of the paper was significant, it is hand made from reconstituted pages from books, the words dissolved into the solution of the paper pulp, but fragments of text emerge. The paper is the base material of the work, the body of scholarly literature on which I build new knowledge, and a blank page for new writing. It also has a sense of being organic and imperfect. The playful quality of the artwork seems important. It is kinetic, able to rotate and swing in many directions, always changing, presenting different faces at different times. This depicts the complex interrelatedness of the different facets of myself as a researcher as an artist, as a teacher and as a person in my professional world. I desire to collaborate, to make connections, sparking those bright, colourful spots of intensity, when working with others and ideas come together in a transdisciplinary way to make something new and greater than what could be achieved through one discipline or through one single approach. For me, a collaborative arts-based autoethnographic approach to research has evolved from the combination of these desires.

Shelley’s artwork Shelley shared a yellow and black structure that she had knitted and knotted with plastic coated wires and beads, and asked Peta and Jo to respond to it (see Figure 5.6).

Figure 5.6  Shelley’s artwork “Wearing my practice”

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Peta’s response to Shelley’s artwork This work reflects what I love most about Shelley’s artistic expression. The choice of colours and materials and the way she weaves them to express how my practice has grown and developed through my collaborations with Shelley and Jo in our triptych CABAE practice. I see reinforcing streams not necessarily following the same pathway that wind around the corners and ‘do the work’. The highlighted (black) meanderings are the theoretical support and inputs that I search for as I work with my students and colleagues. The black button represents the key moments of profound revelation. The moments that cause me to pause or connect me to take a shift or re-focus in my practice. My comfort place in Shelley’s art is the section that we’re working alongside, enjoying the challenge and cycling around our collaborations moving in a uniform direction – together.

Jo’s response to Shelley’s artwork I see both order and chaos in Shelley’s artwork. The yellow loops around the straight strands remind me of a dance pattern, perhaps this is the kind of busy dance we do in academia as we work creatively around some of the unmovable structures of work in the university. Colour seems important, the yellow is light whereas a smooth black button is carefully secured amongst the busyness and seems to be something constant and reassuring. A length of bold black wire has found a way through yellow loopholes. The black contrasts with the playfulness of the yellow. The black is almost defiant and demands attention. It is made up of some loose wide loops and tighter knots, irregular and contorted. If I think about our CABAE practices, I wonder, does this flexible black strand, bold and striking in contrast, represent performance of creative practice amongst the regular academic work?

Shelley’s response to her own artwork There is something progressive but circular about my practice over time. Like this yellow structure, I weave knowledge and experience into my units and listen to the experiences and voices of my teacher-students. I find a number of my Masters students this year have needed to research and justify the importance of the arts in education and in this work I am hearing how the arts are getting more marginalised in schools where they work. This then fuels my own arts advocacy work and inspires me to continue researching, teaching and communicating through the media about the importance of art education. At the same time I am weaving and knitting as an artist, piecing my practices together.

Peta’s artwork Peta shared a construction of seeds, pasta and cotton and asked Shelley and Jo to respond to it (see Figure 5.7).

Shelley’s response to Peta’s artwork This artwork causes me to reflect on how I have grown and changed during the 12 years of being an initial teacher educator and how my identity – my practice self has changed from when I did my autoethnographic PhD 2010–2015. Each of the six protruding sub-structures of Peta’s work – the coloured threads and the little pieces of glue and seeds, could each be labelled as one of the many jobs I now do – like a multi-tasker, octopus. Redundancies are on the horizon so I am unsure if my job, this role, will continue. Therefore, the braid at the top of Peta’s image represents ‘the university’ suspending me and all

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Figure 5.7  Peta’s artwork “Connected”

that I do in this practice place. I have been applying for other jobs exploring other potential branches of my practice field and practice-self outside of the university context. Therefore, the clusters of seeds in rows bound by glue represent to me seeds of wisdom and knowledge that I will plant – I am ready to take my practice self to another situation to do this, but I am also ready to return to my university practice with new insights – such as preparing my student-teachers for their future jobs in schools as they too transition (from students to teachers).

Jo’s response to Peta’s artwork When I look at Peta’s kinetic mobile, I see shapes made of seeds, filled with potential for growth and nourishment. They have different colours and qualities, stuck together, caught, and hanging. There is a sense of precarity in their suspension, and they are not in control, but rather subject to the forces around them and pulled by the twisted, braided, and knotted strings above them. Art is like a mirror, and I find this piece reflects my current state of precarity. We are undertaking this work during a period of lockdown with implementation of major workplace change at the university, both brought on by the ongoing effects of the pandemic. At the time of writing this chapter, two of us have been informed our tenured positions may be made redundant, irrespective of the many courses, core units and high numbers of students we teach. As I anxiously await a final decision, I feel like one of those strings of seeds hanging precariously. Peta’s art makes me reflect on our professional needs through the notion that these seeds cannot grow while hanging in the air, they must be planted in rich soil, watered, and warmed.

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Peta’s response to her own artwork My artwork uses food and cotton as a medium to express the challenges and joys I experience in my sustainability scholarship (teaching and research). It started as a collage and ended up being a wind chime/ mobile/sculpture (to be generous). I relate each strand of the sculpture as a theme composed of several almost isolated experiences that intersect, spiral (sometimes out of control) and yet also conform to create the composite. That is … my practice of teacher education and scholarship. The seeds are full of potential, given the right conditions they can grow and develop. Pasta nourishes if cooked well. Cotton is woven and wound and used to connect. This represents my practice in the networks I engage in. I support and connect, and I weave together ideas and people to collaborate and join forces. I sometimes must braid storylines and actions to fix and heal or correct and address concerns. Not everything is perfect, but I enjoy the dance of imperfection and the challenge of trying to make it work. Each seed (of an idea) is connected, even if by now dried glue, to other seeds. They each have different forms and differing genetics, yet the strand they belong to has a purpose and storyline. These seeds are from the soup mix that I love to use to create thick wholesome soups for warm winters days, nourishing the soul and the stomach. The zig-zags or base clef seed shapes were attempted spirals (which defeated my artistic talents or equipment capabilities). They represented the developing ideas that evolve over time and often not in isolation.

Learnings from the CABAE triptych Creating our autoethnographic artworks had us looking “inward – into our identities, thoughts, feelings and experiences – and outward – into our relationships, communities, and cultures” (Adams et al., 2015, p. 46). In reflecting on each other’s contribution to the triptych, we discovered the artworks served as a mirror. When we viewed, talked and wrote about each other’s artworks our responses reflected our different states of mind, and our perceptions of our work as teacher educators and researchers. We found ourselves in each other’s stories. Sometimes there were striking similarities with the artist’s intention, such as the idea of the threads linking aspects of our work in Jo’s paper sculpture, or the generative potential of aspects of our work as symbolised in the seeds in Peta’s sculpture/mobile. We also found different things in each artwork, ideas that were not realised by the artist. We found the arts-based inquiry was helping us to know what we think and value, such as Shelley realising the importance of thinking more circularly than taking a linear approach to her CABAE research after viewing Jo’s artwork. Each of us expressed a satisfaction and joy in the process of creating our works, although carving out the time to be creative in a fully embodied way, working with materials, senses, and aesthetics, seemed like a luxurious departure from our usual work practices. Sharing these works through online video meetings during a time of physical isolation provided a significant boost to our wellbeing. The artworks activated shared dialogue about what we value and what we question. Taking this time for ourselves as well as with careful attention, listening, and compassion to one another in this CABAE project was an example of autoethnography as an act of love (Herrmann, 2021).

The affordances of CABAE as a methodology for research in education Through our experiences adopting a collaborative arts-based approach over several years, we came to understand some of the limitations of working in a large collaborative group of eight in self-study and solo autoethnography in our other projects. One limitation of autoethnography 58

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suggests that “[s]ince researchers are dealing with self-data all too familiar to themselves, they could be easily influenced by their own presumptions about personal experiences without the fresh perspectives from others who could question their presumptions” (Chang et  al., 2013, p. 21). In our research process, using multi-modal data such as writing, drawing in different ways, poetry, photography, map-making and sculpture, tripped us up, and stopped us from regurgitating what we already knew about ourselves, and our teacher education practices. We took the view that making art “is a way of knowing” in itself (Leavy, 2017, p. 4), but it also requires discussion and fleshing out to understand metaphoric and symbolic meaning. Surprises emerged as we each inquired into these expressive and communicative modes and asked questions of the creator about different sections of the works and what the works meant to them. We are always in a process of becoming over time, so to research selves in our practices is important, especially when we have long careers as teacher educators. Doing this in a small supportive group where we can be honest is important. Through CABAE we found that we were able to realise problems or issues from our practices through our arts expressions and interpretations of these and then identify and solve problems of practice collectively (as our responses to art works exemplify, above). Important to the success of this work was careful listening to each other, having time to make our own interpretations of others artwork but to own these interpretations (and therefore also hear ourselves). We also learnt that you must be open to people’s interpretations changing as other’s points of views are shared, which can prompt new realisations about your own practice or self. We have found that this methodological practice has enabled us to: • • • • •

Disrupt habitual practices; Make discoveries about self, colleagues and workplace culture; Provide strategies and confidence for working collaboratively with others as we share methodological strategies we have learnt together; Have energising and productive collaborations with each other, resulting in new projects, research and publications; Widen our practice field and scope of our work by sharing our practice/methodology with other colleagues (librarians, other research groups in our university, teacher professional associations) and with our students.

Engaging in CABAE over an extended period has been a transformative process for us. Our confidence has grown as collaborators and as educators of pre-service teachers. We have greater insights into how we each operate, our own practices and our practice field more generally. A practice of CABAE has improved workplace wellbeing, which is especially important in neo-liberal times and during the recent global pandemic that brought additional pressures to the university work environment. Our shared understanding of the importance of autoethnographic work has taught us strategies that have been woven into our teaching pedagogy and has inspired us to encourage our students to engage in similar research approaches as reflective practitioners for career-long learning.

Conclusion Our practice of CABAE emerged out of a desire to improve and share our practices as teacher educators. We recognised that we needed to break through the isolationism that pervades our work and reflect in and on practice with others. Teaching is about relationships with students, but, as Palmer (2007) suggests, “When we walk into our workplace, the classroom, we close 59

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the door on our colleagues. When we emerge, we rarely talk about what happened or what needs to happen next, for we have no shared experience to talk about” (p. 170). We found ways to share experience with colleagues through inviting each other into our classrooms, our teaching practices, and creating a shared practice of CABAE. We choose collaborative approaches because we value the perspectives of others, the experience, discipline knowledge, and theoretical lenses that can cast new light on our own work. We also value the collegiality developed in a collaborative practice, a necessary antidote to the neo-liberal university environment. We choose arts-based approaches because they help us to think in a new way, giving rise to clear and fresh ideas. Sharing with arts-based inquiries helps to liberate stories and allows us to uncover deep resonances with each other’s work. Creating art in response to our work is an opportunity to render the complexity of our world as teacher educators. Finally, an arts approach helps us to think symbolically and metaphorically, in ways that move us towards new theory and deeper understandings (especially about our teaching practice – an inherently collaborative practice). We choose autoethnography because we seek to reflect upon, analyse, and critique our personal experience within the culture of teacher education. For us, having formed a supportive community under the umbrella of collaborative self-study to interrogate selves in our practices, we became more aware of and critical of the conventions, restrictions, and even oppressions within our practices and that we’d personally experienced. Sharing these with each other and with the freedoms that arts-based inquiry opened for us evolved into CABAE. As Ergas & Ritter (2021) note, “the ethics of being improvement aimed, can in fact be enhanced by a focus on self-engaging with its ontology and problematizing its relationality in more sophisticated ways” (p. 4). As educators, we value stories as ways to share our struggles and what we’ve learned from them. We recommend the CABAE approach to others in education contexts for building supportive, innovative communities of practice while also interrogating self. For us, this has been so much more than a research methodology to produce research output. CABAE has become a way of living and working creatively and productively together, where our research is directly informing our practice as it occurs. An ongoing practice of CABAE nourishes and sustains us as teacher educators and academics in a neo-liberal university, it enhances our own well-being and inspires our teaching practice for the benefit of the students we teach.

References Adams, T. E., Holman, J. S., & Ellis, C. (2015). Autoethnography. Oxford University Press. Bartleet, B. L. (2021). Artistic autoethnography: Exploring the interface between autoethnography and artistic research, In T. E. Adams, J. S. Holman, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography. Taylor & Francis Group. Callier, D., & Hill, D. (2021). Autoethnography that moves the soul: Activating the creative in troubled times. International Review of Qualitative Research, 14(2), 283–287. Chang, H., Ngunjiri, F., & Hernandez, K. (2013). Collaborative autoethnography. Left Coast Press, Inc. Creswell, J. W., Creswell, D., (2018). Research design: Qualitative, quantitative, and mixed methods approach. Sage. Eldridge, L. (2012). A collaged reflection on my art teaching: A visual autoethnography. The Journal of Social Theory in Art Education, 32, 70–79. Ergas, O., & Ritter, J. K. (2021). Expanding the place of self in self-study through an autoethnography of discontents. Studying Teacher Education, 17(1), 4–21, https://doi.org/10.1080/17425964.2020.1836486 Forest, H. (2009). Artful leadership for creating positive social change: Reflections on an arts-based autoethnography. Storytelling, Self, Society, 5(2). 72–89. https://doi.org/10.1080/15505340902828076

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Evolving teacher education practice Hamilton, M. L., Smith, L., & Worthington, K. (2008). Fitting the methodology with the research: An exploration of narrative, self-study and auto-ethnography. Studying Teacher Education, 4(1), 17–28. https://doi.org/10.1080/17425960801976321 Hannigan, S.M, & Raphael, R. (2020). “Drawing out” understandings through arts-based inquiry in teacher education. Qualitative Research Journal, 21(1), 87–100 https://doi.org/10.1108/QRJ-03-2020-0021 Hannigan, S., Raphael, J., White P., Bragg, L., & Cripps-Clark, J. (2016). Collaborative reflective experience and practice in education explored through self-study and arts-based research. Creative Approaches to Research, 9(1). 84–110. Hannigan, S., Wickman, P-O., Ferguson, J., Prain, V., & Tytler, R. (2021). The role of Aesthetics in learning science in an art-science lesson. International Journal of Science Education. https://doi.org/10.1 080/09500693.2021.1909773 Herrmann, A. (2021). Autoethnography as acts of love. In T. E. Adams, J. S. Holman, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography. Taylor & Francis Group. Leavy, P. (2017). Introduction to arts-based research. In P. Leavy (Ed.), Handbook of arts-based research. Guildford Publications. Manovski, M. P. (2014). Arts-based research, autoethnography and music education. Springer. https://www. google.com.au/books/edition/Arts_Based_Research_Autoethnography_and/xLL0AwAAQBAJ?hl= en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover Palmer, P. (2007). The courage to teach: Exploring the inner landscape of a teacher’s life – 10th anniversary edition. Jossey-Bass. Palmer, M., White, P., & Wooltorton, S. (2018). Embodying our future through nurturing conversations: The change is in the doing. Journal of Environmental Education, 49(4), 309–317. Pelias, R. J. (2021). Writing autoethnography: The personal, poetic and performative as compositional strategies. In T. E. Adams, J. S. Holman, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography. Taylor & Francis Group. Pillay, D., Naicker, I., & Pithouse-Morgan, K. (2016). Academic autoethnographies (pp. 1–17). Sense Publishers. Raphael J. (2017). This is a banana: A retrospective view on learning to teach language through drama in Japan. In N. Araki (Ed.), Diversity in Japanese education. Sense Publishers, PELT series. Raphael, J., Hannigan, S., & White, P. (2016). Drawing out understandings of collaborative self-study in teacher education. In D. Garbett & A. Ovens (Eds.), Enacting self-study as methodology for professional inquiry. Chapter 12. www.castle-conference.com Raphael, J., & White, P. J. (2021). Transdisciplinarity: Science and drama education developing teachers for the future, In P. J. White, J. Raphael, & K. van Cuylenburg (Eds.), Science and drama: Contemporary and creative approaches to teaching and learning. Springer. TEMAG: Teacher Education Ministerial Advisory Group. (2014). Action now: Classroom ready teachers report. Australian Department of Education. Tillmann-Healy, L. (2003). Friendship as method. Qualitative Inquiry, 9(5), 729–749. Tracey, S. (2008). Research poetry and meaning making: Stanzas from an autoethnography. Quest Proceedings of the QUB AHSS Conference. https://www.academia.edu/5957073/Research_Poetry_and_Meaning_ Making_Stanzas_from_an_Autoethnography Van Katwyk, T., & Seko, Y. (2017). Knowing through improvisational dance: A collaborative autoethnography [46 paragraphs]. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung / Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 18(2), Art. 1. http://nbn-resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:0114-fqs170216 von Schantz, U., & Osterlind, E. (2021) Insights and outlooks: Experiences from a PhD. Course in artsbased research methods. In J. Adams and A. Owens (Eds.), Learning through arts-based research (pp. 15–37), Intellect Books. Wenger, E. (2010). Conceptual tools for CoPs as social learning systems: Boundaries, identity, trajectories and participation. 125–143. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-84996-133-2_8 White, P., Raphael, J., Hannigan, S., & Cripps Clark, J. (2020). Entangling out thinking and practice: A model for collaboration in teacher education. Australian Journal of Teacher Education, 45, 1–16. White, P.J., Raphael, J., & van Cuylenburg, K. (2021). Science and drama: Contemporary and creative approaches to teaching and learning. Springer. Wilson, G. J. (2018). Construction of the Blackademic: An arts-based tale of identity in and through academia, Visual Inquiry: Learning & Teaching Art, 7(3), 213–226. https://discovery.ebsco.com/c/np77rt/ pdf/YXN1LTEzNTA3Nzg2Ng==

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6 TEACHER IDENTITY The potential of autoethnographic research for restoration, renewal and retention Nadia Mead

Introduction Throughout my teaching career, I have been involved in action research as either the researcher or as a participant. In the compulsory education sectors, both in England and Australia, I was involved in several projects that included examining the causes for lowered academic achievement for students transitioning from primary to secondary; pilot projects for new policy and curriculum; leading staff wellbeing surveys; leading school culture surveys; and mentoring other teachers who wanted to conduct their own school-based research. All these projects used action research methodology and methods. Choosing school-based action research methodology has many advantages. It allows teachers to investigate a specific issue, or problem of practice, that is highly relevant to their working environment, and to feed back the results into their class or across the school. Direct impact and change from the research are visible and the response to improvement is easily measurable. If the research is to remain in the school, there is no need to apply for ethics approval as the information gathered will not be disseminated outside of the school and its staff, and so confidentiality will be retained. Typically, schools tend to use action research cycles for gathering valuable data about students and school curriculum and practice. Abundant data are readily available and the process of action research is often amenable to continued cycles of collection and analysis. Teachers can collect both quantitative and qualitative data in the forms of whole school data and participant responses, and this easy access to plentiful data is essential when dealing with the time constraints of a busy school. There is no need to adapt or amend features of the study as the work has been carried out with the students, staff and other stakeholders in mind. A specific school’s lens has been applied and so the outcomes are highly relevant to its context and needs. Educators have contrasting views about what constitutes research and differing opinions on the value of school-based action research (Harris, 2006; Rossi, 2012; Whelan, 2018). To undertake research in the first place, a teacher must have sufficient drive and motivation to willingly embrace the extra work that comes with conducting a research project, especially one that might not have an impact outside of their own classroom. There has to be enough conviction that the entire process will be of benefit to them as a classroom practitioner and also for their personal and professional growth. 62

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Goodnough (2011) acknowledges that collaborative action research is one way of engaging teachers as researchers, encouraging them to reflect on their “perceptions, beliefs, and practices, which is critical for classroom-based change and personal and professional growth” (p. 84). Teachers are skilled collaborators, reflecting on their practice and adapting curriculum and pedagogy to meet the needs of socially, culturally, and linguistically diverse classrooms. Conducting action research in school settings allows teachers to use these skill sets and formalise them in ways that can inform future policy and practice within their own settings and potentially across others. The data teachers are already collecting facilitates deeper learning for all involved, whilst also providing opportunities for collaboration that transcends everyday professional interactions (Leat et al., 2015). Consequently, action research is a useful and robust way of embedding evidence-based practice, and a valuable way of developing teachers as researchers with continued benefits for their students, colleagues and wider school communities. However, there are potential problems with ownership and agency when teachers are not the instigators within the research projects (Goodnough, 2011; Rearick & Feldman, 1999). If the project is handed down, because of a school review or problem identified at leadership level, for example, then the teacher researcher will not have ownership of the study. There are further issues when teachers are not empowered by the research and instead perceive it as only relevant to their immediate community and therefore not meaningful or purposeful beyond their own classroom or school. Berger et al. (2005) acknowledge that even when the act of research has a positive impact on the teacher, there is often little impact on the school or its culture and so any research is “either benignly ignored or actively rejected” by colleagues (p.  94). If teachers’ perceptions of school-based action research are that it isn’t real research, then it can be difficult to motivate busy educators to engage with additional work outside of their already pressing classroom responsibilities. This was certainly my experience of action research in compulsory education sectors, both in England and in Australia. In 1990s England, there was very little guidance offered to teacher researchers who were required to design and conduct a project without clear frameworks for data collection and analysis. In contemporary Australia, the local Education Authority offered minimal assistance through graphic organisers at the onset of a suggested project, but provided little follow-up for the duration of the research. For me as the researcher, it appeared that the project instigators were only interested in the results (Leat et al., 2015) and not in the actual process of the research project, nor were they interested in the impact on my colleagues and me as teacher researchers. As a practitioner who already valued research, it was hard to accept that others were not as invested in the transformational opportunities. Consequently, this kind of approach did not support my identity as a teacher researcher and some projects I was involved in never came to fruition because of a variety of barriers such as time commitments, staff changes and dwindling interest or support.

Teacher identity: teachers as researchers Creating the identity of a teacher researcher is an important element of sustaining a research practice and for generating a research culture in schools. Teachers’ commitment, effectiveness, and resiliency are interrelated with their identities and so any attempt at building capacity for research must incorporate a socio-cultural approach to developing teacher identity which acknowledges it as an ongoing process, rather than a static one, and encompasses social context as an integral part of identity and growth (Leat et al., 2015; Souto-Manning, 2012; Taylor, 2017). 63

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Willemse and Boei’s study (2013) revealed that despite already working in academia, even teacher educators who were responsible for training teachers still required support and guidance to conduct their own research at the same time as fostering a research identity in their pre-service teacher students. Evidently, nurturing a research identity takes time and requires ongoing scaffolding and mentoring at all levels of the education system. We expect school leaders and education authorities who encourage research in schools to communicate the purpose of the study and convey its relevance to the whole-school community. However, there also needs to be a consideration for how educational leaders support teachers to become researchers in a way that focuses on fostering and sustaining teacher researcher identities. The literature on teachers’ professional identity identifies the importance of paying attention to the personal aspects of a teacher’s identity, especially when rapid educational changes may conflict with teachers’ personal values (Beijaard et  al., 2004; Taylor, 2017). Perceived differences in the roles of ‘teacher’ and ‘researcher’ can be barriers to developing teacher researchers. Creating their own research project is crucial for a sense of teacher agency and empowerment. It is also vital for developing the identity of the teacher as a researcher. Teachers who have agency over their chosen study, and embark on successful research, are transformed by the experience. Once a teacher researcher identity is established it is difficult for them to step back into a non-research mindset and return to previous teaching practices (Whelan, 2018). The literature on teacher researchers tends to reflect and voice only the successful instances of action research in schools and might not be truly reflective of all action research being conducted (Leat et al., 2015; Whelan, 2018). If that is the case, why does this methodology tend to be the default position for in-school studies?

Autoethnography as restoration Autoethnographic research is a qualitative approach that uses “personal experience to examine and/or critique cultural experience” (Holman-Jones et al., 2013, p. 22). By embedding a personal voice in the research, the autoethnographer must ensure the study makes a purposeful comment on culture and cultural practices whilst reflecting on the nuances of personal experience. The researcher must also show how aspects of an experience can marginalise or silence certain people and their stories. An autoethnographic research project acknowledges the audience and openly seeks contributions to further the work at the same time as restoring the specific perspective of the researcher. Academic discussion is mixed regarding accusations that autoethnography is self-indulgent (Anderson, 2006; Buzard, 2003; Campbell, 2017); however, there are clear definitions to ensure the autoethnographer is contributing new knowledge to scholarly learning. Holman-Jones et al. (2013) describe it thus: If an author writes to tell a story to illustrate a sad, joyful, or problematic experience but does not interrogate the nuances of this experience in light of general cultural phenomena and cultural practices, then the author writes autobiographically. If an author experiences an epiphany, reflects on the nuances of that experience, writes to show how the aspects of experience illuminate more general cultural phenomena and/or to show how the experience works to diminish, silence, or deny certain people and stories, then the author writes autoethnographically. (p. 23) 64

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Consequently, the autoethnographer’s narratives are essential elements for sharing the learning and for building relevance for others who share the researcher’s cultural position. The data produced become an insider’s knowledge that extends the research conversation and helps others in the same cultural group to better understand and learn from their experiences. In the case of teacher researchers, their experience and knowledge gained from the research process are of particular pertinence to other teacher researchers and also to teaching colleagues. The benefits of using this kind of research methodology in education is that it validates the subjectivity of a researcher’s voice and experiences, and acknowledges the learning others can gain. Autoethnography binds its researcher and readers together as humans navigating cultural experiences and analysing their impact upon the study’s outcomes (Carless, 2018). Instead of de-personalising lived experience, autoethnographers celebrate the emotional threads of events and weave them together to make sense of how these experiences affect the researcher, acknowledging how sharing these findings will help the other members of the researcher’s shared group (Benoit, 2016). These personal experiences are crucial for disrupting social norms and for promoting social change as they prompt us to engage with ordinary experiences from a unique perspective. A teacher’s personal experiences are embedded in their daily practice in the classroom and with colleagues. Using autoethnography acknowledges all of those factors rather than concentrating on only one aspect of a teacher’s working life – for example, just focussing on the classroom – when everything at work, such as staff meetings, playground duties, planning and marking, plays its part in shaping the teacher and the teacher’s practice. The leadership of a school and the interaction with the wider school community will also affect a teacher’s working life, and autoethnography facilitates acknowledgment and analysis of such influences. It would be possible to encompass all those perspectives in action research, but using the autoethnographic teacher as the lens produces a unique insight into a shared experience. For a profession that is founded on relationships, and a daily practice that values each student as an individual with individual learning needs, it is counter-intuitive to negate those emotional elements in a research methodology that silences or removes subjectivity. With autoethnography, teachers can examine their practice in a way that maintains the human element of teaching, such as building relationships with colleagues and students from diverse backgrounds, whilst also interrogating and making meaning from their own cultural and social contexts. The data collected during autoethnographic research restore the visibility and agency of the researcher rather than the researcher simply being a facilitator for the collection and analysis. This visibility maintains a personal connection between the researcher and the group for whom the data are being collated, allowing for an emotional engagement with the reader. With this kind of research, the expected audience will be others in education and therefore the researcher already has an advantage of engaging the reader whose own experiences are likely to overlap with the researcher’s. The narrative aspects of autoethnography allow the researcher to use storytelling “as a way of knowing, sharing and relating” (Holman-Jones et  al., 2013, p. 37). These stories provide details, purpose and meaning that a more clinical and objective study cannot. During the construction of these texts, there is a constant awareness of how this work will affect its readers. In a school-based context, fluctuations in commitment, time, concentration and wellbeing will be better reflected and more accurately captured using autoethnographic methods such as personal stories and journalling (Dyson, 2007). The methodology also documents the personal growth and evolution of the researcher as they happen and provides methods for collecting and analysing them. The opportunity to “retell narratives of experience” (Winch et al., 2015, p. 210) allows an individual to share their personal struggles as they develop their roles of both teacher and researcher into the one role of teacher researcher. 65

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Autoethnography begins with a specific point in time for the researcher and acknowledges the open-ended nature of its approach. Its reflexivity is more representative of lived experience which changes with maturity and circumstance. As such, it is an approach that validates the experiences of the researcher at any point in their lifetime or work. Early career teachers’ perspectives offer an insight into the education system (Orland-Barak & Maskit, 2011) and present potential explanations for why teachers are leaving the profession within five years of starting. Mid-career teachers offer a different and equally valuable perspective of why some experience dissatisfaction with teaching (Howes & Goodman-Delahunty, 2015). For teachers who are leaving after many years in education, their stories are rich sources of information regarding the changes they’ve experienced and how they’ve endured throughout. Authoethnographic methods are easily mapped onto a teacher’s daily practice. For example, Chang’s (2008) identification of “self-observational data” (p. 90) are the data that record behaviour, thoughts and emotions as they happen. They can also be recorded over time to reveal patterns that offer insights into personal domains. Teachers collect such data when evaluating a lesson or when evaluating a teaching day, examining the details of their teaching practice and interpersonal interactions to ascertain successes and areas for improvement. “Self-reflective data” (Chang, 2008, p. 95) are the data that result from self-analysis of who you are and what you are. These are the data that will inform your philosophy as a teacher and are crucial aspects of forming your teacher identity. They are also an important aspect of developing cultural identity and cultural membership, which is something teachers engage in when collaborating with colleagues and interacting with members of the wider school community. This depth of knowledge and experience is the rich and nuanced data traditional action research methods would marginalise or make invisible. With the ongoing shortage of teachers in Australia, it is vital to empower educators by reinstating their professional voices and allow their lived experiences, or “personal practical knowledge” (Clandinin, 1999, p. 108), to be instrumental in reshaping educational policy and school improvement.

Autoethnography as renewal It is fitting that a defence of autoethnography should be my own experience. When I embarked upon my doctoral studies, I was dissatisfied and disillusioned by the education system. Like my colleagues, I felt my voice as an experienced educator had been silenced. I had reached the point where after a 20+-year career, I was ready to leave it behind. In fact, the reason I started a PhD was to provide myself with an intellectual distraction as I planned my exit strategy from education. It was intended to be something separate from my life as a teacher and something completely disconnected from education. However, as I began to use an autoethnographic approach to my studies, my identity as a teacher refused to be silenced and eventually became the central theme of my doctoral work. I recalled key moments from my career, some of which were deeply upsetting, and re-examining these episodes from my teaching career stirred up “extreme emotions” (Chang, 2008, p. 72), despite being situated in the distant past. Adams et al., (2014) name these key events as “epiphanies – hose remarkable and out of the ordinary life-changing experiences that transform us or call us to question our lives” (p. 26). In my case, it wasn’t until I employed an autoethnographic analysis that I was able to face them again and recognise them as fundamental to the development and trajectory of my teacher identity. An autoethnographic lens meant I had to analyse these events from an academic perspective and glean meaning from them for not only myself but for the readers of my work, and so I  reworked them into narratives and scenarios with more satisfying conclusions than the original occurrence. I journalled throughout the remembering, recording and rewriting, 66

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allowing me to analyse the episodes in ways I had not done so previously. I was surprised to find the process was frequently confronting. When conducting autoethnographic research, there is an element of vulnerability and exposure and so the researcher must be prepared for encountering personal conflict when analysing experiences that have been remembered in a particular way. The research process can force the researcher to re-examine and re-consider the experience from a new perspective. Knowing more about ourselves as teachers “changes us, provokes growth, jolts us out of complacency – sometimes radically, in ways that can seem transformative” (Pithouse et al., 2009, p. 48). Dyson’s autoethnographic exploration of his own teaching acknowledges the transformative aspects of the methodology and says it brings about a “change in our consciousness, precipitated by our personal research” (2007, p. 45). This was certainly the case when I analysed my earlier journal entries from my doctoral study. Common threads became apparent and I could pull these themes together to identify key aspects of myself as a teacher and how I perceived the school system. When I started the research process, I had a fixed notion of the education system no longer having a space for a teacher like me and that it was time to move on from the world of education. I believed that my voice as a teacher was no longer valued and had been silenced by leadership both inside and outside of my own school. Working through the autoethnographic methodology forced me to re-examine these preconceptions and slowly pick away at the barriers I had erected as a self-defence mechanism. I realised I had experienced more joy than misery from my teaching career and it forced me to acknowledge that I had made a positive impact on students and colleagues. Consequently, I was motivated to continue to make a difference and to acknowledge that what I had perceived as attempts to silence my teacher identity were instead provocations to make my identity and experience count. However, it was only after using an autoethnographic approach to research that I felt enabled to argue the validity of my personal experience and identity as a teacher and also to consider the possibility of remaining in education. Autoethnography restored my voice as a teacher within a system I’d lost confidence in. Autoethnographic methods validated my experience and skills and showed me I still had much to learn from and share with colleagues. Examining my experiences through journalling and narrative writing, I realised the importance of giving a voice to my personal values of what it is to be a teacher and for shaping my teacher identity. Autoethnography showed me how my values were no longer aligned with the general education system but that I did not need to leave. Instead, it gave me the tools to use my learning to widen the learning and experiences of others in the education system and made me realise I could make a difference by staying and continuing to advocate for a research methodology that establishes the teacher as front and centre of the study, acknowledging the experience and expertise of the teacher researcher, and contributing to the important process and evolution of teacher identity and empowerment. Action research that is purely based on ‘improving’ teacher practice and/or student outcomes has at its very heart a tacit assumption that teachers aren’t yet good enough. When reinforced by the media and government, why would teachers embark on something that means they’re complicit in their own condemnation? Autoethnography does not assume a need for improvement and instead offers the teacher researcher opportunities to interrogate key events from their careers (Adams et al. 2014; Pinner, 2018), analyse their reflections, and disseminate their findings with those who share similar experiences and fatigue with purely outcome-based research that has resulted in cycles of short-term frameworks and initiatives introduced by the government of that time. Autoethnography reframes the purpose of the research to one focussed on learning and growth – positive changes associated with a growth mindset – instead of one that presents a deficit model of thinking. As an ‘insider’, the teacher can explore the education system experience from a personal perspective, providing expert 67

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insights that will benefit others who are also in that system as well as permitting others from outside the system access to otherwise privileged information. The methodology itself requires deep reflection and analysis, which aligns with the professional skill set of teachers and provides further opportunities for data-driven reflection (Pinner, 2018). Phillips and Zavros (2012) adopt autoethnographic approaches for arts-based research and explain how “substantive qualitative educative research can be conducted drawing on practitioner knowledge of the craft” (p. 52). Teachers are skilled practitioners with a deep knowledge of the ‘craft’ of teaching and so drawing on a research methodology that enables an exploration of marginalised or disruptive paradigms can reveal enriching and sustainable perspectives that are not valued by more traditional means (Estrella & Forinash, 2007). Unlike school-based research, an autoethnographic study can extend beyond a specific school community and reach a wider audience, thereby disseminating academic knowledge and professional experience beyond the narrow focus of a particular educational system. Adams et  al. explain that “Most autoethnographers write to help others and to make life better, and, given the use of personal experience, explicitly seek to reach audiences both inside and outside the academy” (2014, p. 44). What readers of the study will experience is a piece of academic work that ‘sees’ and ‘hears’ teachers and invites them to share their learning forward. Where action research favours more objective approaches and outcomes, through erasing the researcher’s biases, autoethnography validates and acknowledges the biases of the researcher and does not shy away from their impact on practice. It is also unafraid to expose failures or difficulties and sees them as learning opportunities for further growth instead of weaknesses (Pithouse et al., 2009). Embarking on this kind of research becomes a form of professional development that is tailored to exactly what the individual teacher’s needs are which is an essential aspect of building capacity in teachers (Baguley & Kerby, 2012; Charteris & Smith, 2017) and developing and sustaining a researcher mindset.

Autoethnography as retention After four years of tertiary training, teachers are qualified professionals (Shulman, 1998) who are able to collect, analyse and evaluate their student data and use the evaluations to inform further teaching. Over the course of an academic school year in Australia, teachers are responsible for providing end of semester summative reports to parents and carers, informing them of where their child sits in relation to Australian Curriculum benchmarks and also, sometimes, where their child sits in relation to peers. The Australian Professional Standards for Teachers (2011) are embedded in teacher training programs and used as a measure to determine if pre-service teachers are permitted to graduate. These standards remain applicable throughout a teacher’s career with mandatory requirements for teachers to undertake ongoing professional development. Becoming a teacher is not a static one-off training stint. Becoming a teacher is a commitment to lifelong learning and personal growth. Daily, teachers collect quantitative and qualitative data about each of their students and make professional decisions about further action. This could be through the reflection process after a lesson and thinking about how to plan the next one. Sometimes, the collection, analysis, evaluation and action taken happens within seconds. Over the course of one lesson, a teacher can analyse data on the go and take the required action to ensure all learners have the support they need as they need it. Killen (2015) refers to this as ‘reflection-in-action’ and explains how teachers are teaching and analysing their practice simultaneously, as well as monitoring

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how students are reacting. He says that for reflection-in-action to take place, teachers need to be able to “frame problems almost subconsciously, generate hypotheses and immediately test them” (p. 106). Teachers, in short, are highly skilled professionals and even more skilled researchers. But do they see themselves as such? At a time when teacher morale is low and reflected in the numbers leaving the profession, it’s important that teachers acknowledge the skills and proficiency they possess. A report into the perceptions of teachers and teaching in Australia found that although the Australian public feels that teachers are respected and trusted, this perception is not transferring to the teaching community who still feel underappreciated for the work they do (Heffernan et  al., 2019). ‘Teacher bashing’ in the media is commonplace and there are regular stories questioning the standard of teaching in Australia. If media reports are the only or loudest point of reference for teachers, then it is easy to see why they become disheartened by a reported public perception that is inaccurate. Autoethnography validates each teacher’s voice and acknowledges the individual’s contribution to scholarly and industry knowledge. It gives renewed meaning and purpose to teachers’ experience at any point in their career and could become a preventative measure against teachers leaving the profession. Teachers leave for many reasons (Chang, 2009; Glazer, 2018; Kelchtermans, 2017) and one of those is feeling undervalued by the school, the system and by society. Kelchtermans concludes that “a crucial condition for teachers to stay in teaching is a sense of emotional belonging, based on a shared view of educational goals and norms in the school” (2017, p. 969). Engaging with autoethnography guarantees an emotional connection with the work being studied and, because of its methodology, autoethnographic research is conducted with the full expectation of being shared with others from the same cultural group. As the established data source, the autoethnographic teacher is seen, heard and valued from the outset, evoking a positive mindset and sense of belonging for the duration of the project, providing opportunities for the teacher to demonstrate how personal and professional experience has been shaped by aspects of teaching and what other teaching professionals can learn from this. Autoethnographic research focuses on the identity of the teacher and so its impact is transformative – it affects both personal and professional identities and is therefore not beholden to a particular set of data attached to a specific school site or cohort of students. It transforms the person conducting the research and is therefore transferable into the range of roles they occupy in their personal and professional domains. Not only is the voice of the teacher restored in autoethnography; it is also valued. Rather than projecting the research outside the teacher self, autoethnography encourages the teacher to consider and validate their own personal and professional experiences. Its methodology aligns closely with the values and ethics of a profession that demands critical reflection and constant data analysis. It also moves away from purely quantitative methods and uses qualitative methods to accurately reflect teacher experience. Developing a research identity ensures the sustainability of a research mindset and a continuing impact on practice. Teacher researchers who employ an autoethnographic approach will be using a methodology that maintains a self-awareness of how their teaching values evolve and how their pedagogy could evolve in response. Autoethnography invites the teacher to value each stage of their career and identify what each stage brings to their practice, reminding them that teaching practice and knowledge are not static but in need of constant renewal. More importantly, autoethnographic research provides a potential solution for teacher researchers who desire academic rigour without losing the visibility and the voice of their teacher identity in their work.

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Conclusion Autoethnography empowers the teacher researcher because it: • • • •

Validates the teacher’s knowledge and skills at any point in their career; Restores the visibility and agency of the teacher as researcher; Acknowledges all aspects of a teacher’s lived experience; and Sustains the transformational outcome beyond a specific school community.

References Adams, T.E., Holman-Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (2014). Autoethnography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Anderson, L. (2006). Analytic autoethnography. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 373–395. Australian Institute for Teaching and School Leadership (AITSL). (2011). Australian Professional Standards for Teachers. Melbourne: AITSL. Baguley, M., & Kerby, M. (2012). Creating capacities: Teachers’ perceptions of professional development and the role of the university. In P. A. Danaher, W. Midgley, R. Henderson, K. J. Matthews, K. Noble, M. A. Tyler, & C. H. Arden (Eds.), Constructing capacities: Building capabilities through learning and engagement (pp. 107–123). Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Pub. Beijaard, D., Meijer, P. C., & Verloop, N. (2004). Reconsidering research on teachers’ professional identity. Teaching and teacher education, 20(2), 107–128. doi:10.1016/j.tate.2003.07.001 Benoit, B. A. (2016). Schools as artifacts: Critical autoethnography and teacher renewal. McGill Journal of Education, 51(3), 1121–1142. doi:10.7202/1039631ar Berger, J. G., Boles, K. C., & Troen, V. (2005). Teacher research and school change: Paradoxes, problems, and possibilities. Teaching and teacher education, 21(1), 93–105. doi:10.1016/j.tate.2004.11.008 Buzard, J. (2003). On auto-ethnographic authority. The Yale Journal of Criticism, 16(1), 61–91. doi:10.1353/ yale.2003.0002 Campbell, E. (2017). “Apparently being a self-obsessed C**t is now academically lauded”: Experiencing twitter trolling of autoethnographers. Forum, Qualitative Social Research, 18(3). doi:10.17169/fqs18.3.2819 Carless, D. (2018). Three seconds flat: Autoethnography within commissioned research and evaluation projects. In L. Turner, N. P. Short, A. Grant, & T. E. Adams (Eds.), International perspectives on autoethnographic research and practice (1st ed., pp. 123–132). Milton: Routledge. doi:10.4324/9781315394787 Charteris, J., & Smith, J. (2017). Sacred and secret stories in professional knowledge landscapes: Learner agency in teacher professional learning. Reflective Practice, 18(5), 600–612. doi:10.1080/14623943.20 17.1304375 Chang, H. (2008). Autoethnography as method. California: Left Coast Press. Chang, M.-L. (2009). An appraisal perspective of teacher burnout: Examining the emotional work of teachers. Educational Psychology Review, 21(3), 193–218. doi:10.1007/s10648-009-9106-y Clandinin, D. J. (1999). Stories to live by on the professional knowledge landscape. Waikato Journal of Education, 5. doi:10.15663/wje.v5i0.403 Dyson, M. (2007). My story in a profession of stories: Auto ethnography: An empowering methodology for educators. The Australian Journal of Teacher Education, 32(1), 36–48. doi:10.14221/ajte.2007v32n1.3 Estrella, K., & Forinash, M. (2007). Narrative inquiry and arts-based inquiry: Multinarrative perspectives. The Journal of Humanistic Psychology, 47(3), 376–383. doi:10.1177/0022167807301898 Glazer, J. (2018). Leaving lessons: Learning from the exit decisions of experienced teachers. Teachers and Teaching, Theory and Practice, 24(1), 50–62. doi:10.1080/13540602.2017.1383238 Goodnough, K. (2011). Examining the long-term impact of collaborative action research on teacher identity and practice: The perceptions of K-12 teachers. Educational Action Research, 19(1), 73–86. doi:10.1080/09650792.2011.547694 Harris, D. J. (2006). The effects of teachers’ perceptions in action research on teacher efficacy [Doctoral dissertation, Wayne State University]. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses database. Heffernan, A., Longmuir, F., Bright, D., & Kim, M. (2019). Perceptions of teachers and teaching in Australia. Melbourne: Monash University, Melbourne.

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Teacher identity Holman-Jones, S. L., Adams, T., & Ellis, C. (2013). Handbook of autoethnography. California: Left Coast Press. Howes, L. M., & Goodman-Delahunty, J. (2015). Teachers’ career decisions: Perspectives on choosing teaching careers, and on staying or leaving. Issues in Educational Research, 25(1), 18. Kelchtermans, G. (2017). ‘Should I stay or should I go?’: Unpacking teacher attrition/retention as an educational issue. Teachers and Teaching, Theory and Practice, 23(8), 961–977. doi:10.1080/13540602.2 017.1379793 Killen, R. (2015). Effective teaching strategies: Lessons from research and practice (7th ed.). South Melbourne, Victoria: Cengage Learning. Leat, D., Reid, A., & Lofthouse, R. (2015). Teachers’ experiences of engagement with and in educational research: What can be learned from teachers’ views? Oxford Review of Education, 41(2), 270–286. doi:10.1080/03054985.2015.1021193 Orland-Barak, L., & Maskit, D. (2011). Novices ‘in story’: What first-year teachers’ narratives reveal about the shady corners of teaching. Teachers and Teaching, 17(4), 435–450. doi:10.1080/13540602.2011.58 0520 Phillips, L., & Zavros, A. (2012). Researchers as participants, participants as researchers. In W. Midgley, P. A. Danaher, & M. Baguley (Eds.), The role of participants in education research: Ethics, epistemologies, and methods (pp. 52–63). New York, NY: Routledge. Pinner, R. S. (2018). Re-learning from experience: Using autoethnography for teacher development. Educational Action Research, 26(1), 91–105. doi:10.1080/09650792.2017.1310665 Pithouse, K., Mitchell, C., & Weber, S. (2009). Self-study in teaching and teacher development: A call to action. Educational Action Research, 17(1), 43–62. doi:10.1080/09650790802667444 Rossi, D. (2012). Conceptualizing research participants as “significant others” in the construction of empirical knowledge. In W. Midgley, P. A. Danaher, & M. Baguley (Eds.), The role of participants in education research: Ethics, epistemologies, and methods (pp. 93–109). New York, NY: Routledge. Rearick, M. L., & Feldman, A. (1999). Orientations, purposes and reflection: A framework for understanding action research. Teaching and Teacher Education, 15(4), 333–349. doi:10.1016/S0742-051X(98)00053-5 Shulman, L. S. (1998). Theory, practice, and the education of professionals. The Elementary School Journal, 98(5), 511–526. doi:10.1086/461912 Souto-Manning, M. (2012). Teacher as researcher: Teacher action research in teacher education. Childhood Education, 88(1), 54–56. doi:10.1080/00094056.2012.643726 Taylor, L. A. (2017). How teachers become teacher researchers: Narrative as a tool for teacher identity construction. Teaching and Teacher Education, 61, 16–25. doi:10.1016/j.tate.2016.09.008 Whelan, A. (2018) Agents of change: The perceived impact of engaging in action research on teacher action researchers [Doctoral dissertation, Newcastle University]. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses database. Willemse, T. M., & Boei, F. (2013). Teacher educators’ research practices: An explorative study of teacher educators’ perceptions on research. Journal of Education for Teaching: JET, 39(4), 354–369. doi:10.1080 /02607476.2013.797292 Winch, C., Oancea, A., & Orchard, J. (2015). The contribution of educational research to teachers’ professional learning: Philosophical understandings. Oxford Review of Education, 41(2), 202–216. doi:10.1080/03054985.2015.1017406

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Enlarging doctoral study and supervision with autoethnography Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan Doctoral study and doctoral supervision are layered and multifaceted phenomena. Both processes begin with uncertainty and an element of risk. Students can only guess at the many and varied doctoral study tensions and how these will affect their personal and professional lives. Supervisors, whether novice or veteran, must interact with each student as an individual with unique needs. Both processes are relational and require a high degree of reflexivity. The student needs to feel comfortable with the supervisor and vice versa. Both processes require an intense collaboration in order to effect a successful outcome. The doctorate is a long-term aspiration and, as such, student and supervisor need to have shared goals and planned pathways to meet these goals. The eight chapters in this section of the handbook elucidate the successes and challenges of the doctoral journey on the part of both student and supervisor. In Chapter 7, Aruna Devi writes explicitly about her self-efficacy as a doctoral researcher. She describes the tensions of life as a doctoral student such as inconsistent productivity, time management, feedback from supervisors and work/life balance. Through autoethnographic profiling processes, the author collates for the reader how she overcame these stressors and facilitated her researcher self-efficacy. These strategies included opportunities for mastery experience, positive role modelling by others to provide vicarious experiences, the encouragement provided by social and verbal persuasion, and attention to her physiological and affective states. In Chapter 8, Karl Matthews introduces the reader to the use of the Mandala method for visual data collection and analysis when conducting autoethnographic research. He discusses his implementation of this method when performing his doctoral project, and then he leads the reader into a retrospective analysis of the manner in which he aligned his conscious/ subconscious insights. The author commends this form of visual analysis for data gathering, and concludes that it has merit for those who are exploring novel questions in their research. In Chapter 9, Nona Press and Dolene Rossi illustrate the use of two qualitative research methodologies and offer suggestions about the “methodological fusion” of phenomenography and collaborative autoethnography within one study. They contend that this blending of methodological practices could be potentially useful in inquiring into doctoral supervision in diverse academic disciplines. The authors highlight that this technique may prove useful to doctoral supervisors seeking ways to frame/reframe their own supervisory contexts and practices. Reflexive, collaborative research of this nature promotes transparency both individually and collectively. DOI: 10.4324/b23046-8

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In Chapter 10, Deborah L. Mulligan tells the story of the reasoning behind her pursuit of a doctorate. She relates the emotional insecurity that she experienced after the death of her teenage son, and the manner in which her academic experience facilitated a resurgence of her sense of agency and self-efficacy that had been lost as a result of overwhelming grief. The author maintains that the structure of the doctoral process, the connections made with other academics and the emotional support of her supervisors provided the assistance that she needed to enact her grief work more effectively. In Chapter 11, Meg Forbes employs autoethnography to explore her personal journey through PTSD and then to transcend these negative experiences through education. She recounts her experience as a teacher of university students with mental health issues and their reluctance to admit their struggles. Without disclosure from students and understanding from educators, student failure is a very real outcome. Her story demonstrates that with encouragement and patience from those in positions of power this situation can be remedied. The author implores educators to recognise individual differences and to remember that “not everyone’s ‘trying’ looks the same”. In Chapter 12, Naomi Ryan and Deborah L. Mulligan present an autoethnographic perspective on the generally unwritten contract that connects supervisor(s) (advisors) and student into one of the most intense, long-term, collaborative partnerships in academia, that of attaining a doctorate. The authors attempt to drill down into the heart of best practice, not only for the supervisor but also for the student, and to view the act of supervision through the experiential lens of a supervisor and a student. They posit that, at its most basic, the success of the relationship requires honesty and a collaborative will. In Chapter 13, Jennifer Clutterbuck explores the intriguing notion of hybrid identities. She relates her story of the identity interconnection that others forced upon her when she was working and researching within an Australian education department to introduce a newly implemented data infrastructure in schools. Her story highlights the importance of identity and the meaning that others attribute to our professionality. The author concludes with a series of challenges for the reader to do with identity diffraction. Finally in this section of the handbook, in Chapter 14, Sheila Trahar reminds the reader that there continue to be expectations around the methodological usage and implications of autoethnography. The author invites us to witness her lived experience of supervising and examining autoethnographic doctorates, and of reviewing such texts submitted for publication. She utilises the metaphor of the perils and threats that abound in snowy landscapes to recall the manner in which her interpretation and use of autoethnography enable her to evaluate others’ work using criteria that she has synthesised from a range of sources, and that reflect her own values and expectations.

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7 EFFECTIVE AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC EXPLORATION TO ENHANCE AN EDUCATIONAL DOCTORAL RESEARCHER'S SELF-EFFICACY Journey to becoming a researcher Aruna Devi Introduction I focus on autoethnography as a qualitative method (Denzin, 2006) considered to be a self-­ focused approach (Ngunjiri et al., 2010), where the “researcher is at the center of the investigation as a ‘subject’ (the researcher who performs the investigation) and an ‘object’ (a/the participant who is investigated)” (p. 2). Sparkes (1996) states that autoethnographies “are highly personalised accounts that draw upon the experiences of the author/researcher for the purpose of extending sociological understanding” (p. 21). The purpose of writing this autoethnography is to explore the structural and the personal enablers (Laslett, 1999) of my self-efficacy as these were the factors that empowered me to develop into a researcher through my doctorate research. Using autoethnography as a writing style aims to provide access to wider and more diverse audiences than traditional research does, making social and personal change possible for most people (Ellis et  al., 2010). Autoethnography ensures that this work would be accessible to a more diverse audience to promote a better understanding of how researchers develop self-­ efficacy. Furthermore, it is also believed that writers may find therapeutic value in writing personal stories (Ellis et al., 2010). Additionally, the need for authenticity in an autoethnographic approach has been emphasised by Etherington (2004). Therefore, I need to ensure that I share a believable account of my experience openly and candidly to engage the readers. According to Hamdan (2012), autoethnography “act as a source of privileged knowledge’ (p.  585). An autoethnography that I present here discusses my self-efficacy beliefs that have helped me gain a deeper understanding of myself and provide further context for other researchers. As Chang (2008) points out, the main benefit of autoethnography as a method of research is that self-reflection leads to self-transformation through understanding. Similarly, the reader DOI: 10.4324/b23046-9

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may gain some level of enlightenment or transformation from reading other people’s accounts of a specific event that may resonate with theirs. Through writing this autoethnography, I can gain a deeper understanding of myself as I reflect on my experiences about my self-efficacy and events that led me to become a researcher. According to Chang (2008), autoethnography is an excellent instructional tool to help not only social scientists but also practitioners – such as teachers, medical personnel, counsellors, and human services workers – gain profound understanding of self and others and function more effectively with others from diverse cultural backgrounds. (Chang, 2008, p. 13) This chapter, which is contextualised in a doctoral research project (Devi, 2019) will allow me to share my own perspective on self-efficacy, which has been very important to my career decisions and journey as a doctoral student. Owing to their varying backgrounds and career goals, becoming an independent researcher in higher education can be a difficult endeavour for most students as it has been with my own research journey. In addition to the above viewpoints, I have noted that the work of Ellis (2007) states that: “to write an effective autoethnography demands showing perceived warts and bruises as well as the accolades and successes; thus risking this kind of criticism comes with the territory” (p. 17). To start an autoethnographic study, one must acknowledge their own feelings and actions. This autoethnography of developing the self-efficacy to become a researcher has implications for higher education research students Through autoethnography I hope to gain some insight into myself to help inform my future professional development as well as my personal development. My own self-efficacy as a teacher of students with autism prompted me to consider the self-efficacy of other teachers of students with ASD. This led to my doctoral research on teachers’ preparedness and self-­ efficacy to teach students with autism in an inclusive environment, which was an exploratory study. This chapter provides a literature review of self-efficacy and the sources of self-efficacy, followed by my autoethnography that describes my journey into doctoral research and the factors that influenced my research self-efficacy.

Literature review Self-efficacy is the belief that one is capable of succeeding in certain circumstances or achieving success (Bandura, 1977). This belief is crucial for achieving goals. In the context of teaching students with autism, self-efficacy is associated with hands-on experiences, mentorship from the more experienced teachers, ongoing support that is provided from teacher-aides and the administrative section of schools, liaison with parents or other educational professionals as well as building a strong rapport with students and pursuing specific coursework studies (Devi & Ganguly, 2022). The expectation of personal efficacy determines whether or not coping behaviour is initiated, the amount of effort used, and the length of time it will be sustained as a result of obstacles and aversive experiences (Bandura, 1977, p. 104). The importance of self-efficacy in research has been explored previously in psychology and counselling (Bieschke, 2006; Kahn, 2001). Self-efficacy research shows the importance of shaping one’s goals and interests (Lent et al., 1994). An individual may have a higher level of self-efficacy in one domain and a lower level of self-efficacy in another domain (Niehaus et al., 2018). For example, an academic sense of self-efficacy in teaching is different from that in research. According to Åkerlind (2003), confidence is “not just proficiency in your field, but also confidence in the direction of your research” (p. 246). Therefore, self-efficacy guides how we 76

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Mastery experiences

Social/verbal persuasion

Sources of self-efficacy

Vicarious experiences

Physiological factors/affective states

Figure 7.1  Sources of self-efficacy

feel, think, and behave in certain contexts (Bandura, 1977). In addition, it plays an important role in decision-making, goal-setting, and academic achievement (Bandura, 1997). As depicted in Figure 7.1, Bandura’s (1977) theory of self-efficacy beliefs was attributed to four primary sources.

Mastery experiences According to Bandura (1997), mastery experiences are the past successes and failure experiences. Mastery experiences, “are the most influential sources of efficacy relevant information because they can provide the most authentic evidence of whether one can master what it takes to succeed” (p. 80). In general, one’s ability to accomplish a task successfully is evaluated based on their previous performances. Success builds your confidence, but failure weakens it (Bandura, 1997). An individual’s sense of self-efficacy can also be affected by the difficulty of the task and the efforts made to achieve success (Hendricks, 2016).

Vicarious experiences In respect to self-efficacy, vicarious experiences are gained by seeing others succeeding. In other words, self-efficacy is gained by modelling the behaviours of others. Bandura (1997) indicated that, “seeing or visualizing people similar to oneself perform successfully typically raises efficacy beliefs in observers that they themselves possess the capabilities to master comparable activities” (p. 87). When the learner sees that someone is capable of learning, then the learner believes that she or he is also capable of learning. Therefore, vicarious experience is most influential tool in learning when the learners are not sure about their abilities (Bandura, 1986).

Social and verbal persuasion Social and verbal persuasion are also factors related to self-efficacy. According to Bandura (1997), “people who are persuaded verbally that they are capable of mastering given tasks are likely to mobilise greater effort and sustain it than if they harbor self-doubts and dwell on personal deficiencies when difficulties arise” (p. 101). For example, getting evaluative feedback from colleagues, mentors, teachers, and family members can alter learners’ confidence. Social persuasion and verbal persuasion is regularly used to sway one’s behaviour, since it is simple to use and 77

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readily available (Bandura, 1977). When praises are perceived as authentic and realistic, learners try harder to succeed in response to positive feedback (Fong & Krause, 2014). While is it fairly logical that positive feedback encourages self-efficacy, any negative feedback can potentially lower one’s self-efficacy beliefs.

Physiological and affective states Physiological and affective states are a fourth source of self-efficacy which could be interpreted as stress, anxiety, fatigue or mood that might negatively affect one’s ability to perform (Bandura, 1997). Anxiety can make learners believe that they are not capable of completing a task. However, if the learner feels positive about completing the task and achieving success, then these feelings may positively affect the learner’s self-efficacy. Additionally, a negative feeling towards the achievement of a task can negatively affect the self-efficacy of the learner. According to Bandura (1997), understanding the physiological and affective states can enable the individual to improve on his or her “physical status, reduce stress levels and negative emotional proclivities, and correct misinterpretations of bodily states” (p. 106). According to Gelso et al. (1996), students usually begin their research studies with low levels of self-efficacy; however, this level is likely to elevate as they get more exposed to their research environment. Another study by Lambie et  al. (2014) explored research self-efficacy in PhD students and found that students who had more interest in research and had a strong sense of research knowledge were more likely to display higher levels of research self-efficacy. Career aspirations also correlate to positive research self-efficacy (Niehaus et al., 2018). The research doctorate journey is obviously a long one, and it can be filled with unexpected events (Brydon & Fleming, 2011) and challenges. The following autoethnography explores the author’s journey to self-efficacy as a researcher. The author discusses her past experiences in a journey of career development (Devi, 2019; Devi & Ganguly, 2022) and provides insights into how self-efficacy has been essential to her journey toward becoming a researcher.

My autoethnography Background During the early stages of my career, I have worked as a main classroom teacher and had the pleasure to teach students with special needs, albeit with a rather inadequate amount of knowledge or skills in teaching these cohorts. In the absence of such skills, I ended up teaching these students through a trial-and-error process, which made me feel that my teaching was somewhat ineffective. My inner instincts told me that I was not providing equal learning opportunities to my students with special needs, as I felt less qualified and incompetent in my ability to provide a quality education. There were quite a few occasions when I felt like quitting my teaching profession, since it gave me a lot of pressure and anxiety because of my inability to teach students with special needs. I used to have long conversations with my husband about my career change, while at the same time I knew that if I changed my career, it would not be so easy. I thus decided to stay in the teaching profession and further upgrade my qualification and skills to work with students of special needs. In order to qualify myself to work with individuals with special needs, I undertook a Master of Educational Studies in the learning support area. While studying for the Master’s program, I completed courses that were designed to assist in building my confidence in working with individuals with special needs. A few examples of such courses that ultimately elevated my 78

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self-efficacy included: issues in special education, learning and diversity, role of a support teacher and the developmental processes and disability. After completing the Master’s program, I had a broader understanding and awareness of the different types of disabilities, and approaches to provide equal learning opportunities to students within a mainstream classroom. I was also fortunate to work as a teacher in various special schools and inclusive classrooms (as a learning support teacher). Collectively, these helped enhance my skills and abilities in working with students of special needs. At one instance, I remember a casual relief teaching work in one of the schools asking me to provide support to two students with autism in an inclusive classroom. While one of those students worked well with me, the other became very distressed. I knew that most students with autism do not prefer notable changes to their normal routines, and since I was a new face to this student, he was uncomfortable working with me. Despite an upgrade to my qualifications, I felt I had limited skills to accommodate students with autism within my classroom. This was partly because most of the courses I studied during the Master’s program only covered general disabilities, and perhaps, a greater knowledge and skills in autism was required to handle such students within mainstream classrooms. From memory, the very first time I heard about autism was in 2006 when I had first begun my teaching career in Australia. Having an undergraduate teacher qualification from Fiji, I had never heard about autism during my initial teacher education programs. As the undergraduate degree did not cover any aspect of special education, a lack of awareness and diagnosis back in those days made me feel incompetent. Also, I was trained as a general classroom teacher and hence I did not learn about teaching students with special needs or from other diverse backgrounds. As I began to teach in Australia, there were major difficulties in accommodating the varied learning characteristics and the specific needs of students requiring special attention, and especially those diagnosed with autism. Amongst all special education students, the particular learners with autism are portrayed as one of the most challenging groups to teach (White et  al., 2012). I was lucky to have a teacher-aide support in my classroom, which was a blessing for me and my students. Even though I received the right support in the classroom, I still faced challenges in planning dayto-day activities for these students. This provoked some thoughts and I asked myself, “If I have low self-efficacy in teaching students with autism, I wonder what other teachers feel like when it comes to teaching students with autism”. Most of the teachers I knew were teaching in inclusive classrooms were mainly trained as general classroom teaching. The questioning of my own and the other teachers’ self-efficacy and preparedness in teaching students with autism, actually ultimately led me to pursue the doctoral research program in this area.

An account of the beginning of my doctoral research I commenced the Doctor of Education degree (Devi, 2019) with some coursework and a major research component in 2013 as a part-time and online research student. I had selected this mode of study as it enabled a greater flexibility to balance the lifestyle against my work commitments. This doctoral research was inspired by my own personal experiences and future interests in teaching students with special needs, mainly those diagnosed with autism. Given that I had a somewhat had low self-efficacy belief in teaching students with autism, I saw some of the other classroom teachers, like myself, who also felt less confident to teach. I recall a time when I went for a relief teaching in a nearby school in my area. I was given a class which contained one student who had a high spectrum of autism, and another teacher who was relieving a different classroom said to me; “Good luck, I had a very challenging experience 79

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when I was in your class last time”. I explored literature to find out about teaching students with autism, and I found that a prior research evidence about teaching students with autism showing teachers’ perceptions towards teaching these student cohorts that were generally undesirable (Humphrey & Hourcade, 2010). These teachers feel inadequately prepared to teach such groups of students (Finch et al., 2013), and it was possible that this could have an impact on teacher job satisfaction and higher teacher attrition rates. The study of Bandura (1997) said that, “peoples’ level of motivation, affective states, and actions are based more on what they believe than on what is objectively true” (p. 2). Therefore, inadequate teacher preparedness is a factor that may likely influence a teacher’s self-efficacy (Lastrapes & Negishi, 2012). All these readings guided me to explore the pre-service teachers and the recent teacher graduates’ self-efficacy and preparedness in teaching students with autism. I therefore decided to select these group of teachers for my research study as they have a fragile character and are more likely to face certain challenges in their early careers given their limited experience. If this is so, such teachers are more likely to leave their teaching profession (Paniagua & Sánchez-Martí, 2018). Considering my own personal experiences and my low self-efficacy and preparation to teach students with autism, I decided to embark on the doctoral research journey to identify the voices of such teachers. It is interesting for me to reflect on how my research area was decided. Reflecting on my own individual self-efficacy as a teacher of students with autism ultimately guided me to explore the other teachers’ view about teaching this group of students. While pursing my doctorate study, I began to question my own self-efficacy in becoming a researcher. Comprehending the whole process of research design was a “daunting task” initially, because of my limited skills in research. I recall that in the year 2010, I enrolled for a doctorate program and after a couple of months I withdrew myself from it. This is mainly because I had less confidence in myself. I knew that the whole process of becoming an independent researcher will not be so easy. Even though there are many factors to consider in becoming an independent researcher, the fundamental component of research progression is the development of a research self-efficacy (Niehaus et al., 2018). The following subsections discusses the development of my self-efficacy in fully becoming a researcher in education.

My journey into the doctoral research and my self-efficacy As I stated previously, I began my doctoral degree in 2013. It consisted of four coursework-based subjects followed by a major research component. The two compulsory courses that I studied were “Foundations of Contemporary Educational Research” and “Effective and Ethical Educational Research”. These were the two major courses in which I learned about the basics of research methodology, ethics and politics of research, data collection and analysis. The other two courses were an elective. I had no problem with the coursework component of my doctoral program; however, when it came to the research component, I began to doubt whether I would be able to meet the benchmark. I have initially learned that a period of doctoral research could be lengthy and challenging and that it may not go as planned. I also faced a lot of anxiety and low research self-efficacy, leading to questions such as: How will I design my research, how will I write-up my proposal for approval, what will be my supervisors will like, how expert my supervisors in research, how will I apply for ethics application, how will I recruit participants, and how will I analyse the data. 80

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These were only some of the questions floating in my mind when I thought how to accomplish my doctoral goals. I knew that everything would fall in its place when time nears; however I still felt an enormous amount of anxiety and low self-efficacy in myself. Initially, I never expected to pursue a doctoral degree. The very idea of having a “Dr” title added to my name was not on my mental radar. My parents sent me to a university to attain an undergraduate degree, which was a big thing back then. My mother never went to school and my father completed only a primary school education. My siblings have completed high school, but never entered the university. So I was the first one in my nuclear family to reach university-level studies. I believe it was mainly because of my siblings and my parents’ interruption in education as well as the average socio-economic status of my parents and siblings that forced me to pursue university studies. It so appeared that I was lucky enough to get married to a person who had completed a PhD degree and was an expert researcher himself. He inspired me to pursue my doctorate. On numerous occasions, my husband said, “so and so can do it, why can’t you. You just have to be consistent and do some research work every day and you will complete your doctorate”. He also gave examples of people who managed to complete their PhD successfully despite many challenges. To become an independent researcher, it is important to possess research self-­efficacy. Bieschke et al. (2006) said that is “the degree to which an individual believes she or he has the ability to complete various research tasks” (p. 60). Notably, research self-efficacy is an important predictor of future research outputs (Niehaus et al., 2018). In particular, a low level of self-efficacy can inhibit a students’ training in research and willingness to conduct the research (Love et  al., 2007). I knew that if I want to be successful, I must address issues related to the causes of my anxiety and I must start believing in myself, so that I can learn and master the research skills. My doctoral journey had a steep learning curve with hurdles in the research design process, the choice of methodology and the recruitment of participants. There were hardships as well as happiness on certain days of research. However, most of these days I was worried and rather stressed as I worked towards my doctoral journey. The happy days were those days when I felt I had accomplished something and when I got good feedback from my supervisors. I did not have any financial stress as my doctoral study was completed under the university’s Research and Training Scheme funding, and I offer my special “thank you” to the university where I was enrolled. I was more worried about managing my time, writing my thesis, looking after my family and my future employment. Though I had a continuing job, I also had a dream and a hope of becoming a faculty academic in a university, which I knew was not easy to secure. Although I was enrolled as a part-time student, there were numerous occasions where I felt like I had enrolled as a full-time doctoral student, particularly based on the amount of workload. On the weekends, I would do my research; whenever I went on my holidays, I would take my laptop with me so that I could do at least some work each day. Doing my research work over the holiday period avoided a degree of guilt for not having made any contributions towards the doctoral studies. There were numerous factors that improved my self-efficacy in becoming a researcher, and I would like to discuss those below. The summary of the factors is displayed in Figure 7.2. Even though I had no prior research experience and skills, my mastery experience in research was established through a personal experience of positive outcomes (Bandura, 1997) through the coursework component of my doctoral study. The first course that I studied was the “Foundations of Contemporary Educational Research”, learning about the philosophical and the theoretical debates in contemporary research, including the elements and applications of a research design. The other course, “Effective and Ethical Educational Research”, taught me the politics of educational research, data collection and analysis techniques. These two courses assisted me to develop further skills and confidence in conducting educational research. I 81

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Mastery Experiences • • •

Prior achievement through coursework persistent efforts short research training sessions

Vicarious Experiences

Social and Verbal Persuasion • •

getting encouragement from others supervisors acknowledging my perspectives

Sources research selfefficacy

• • •

observation and role modelling Seeing and hearing others success stories in research Networking (Facebook and Twitter)

Physiological and Affective states •

Improvement of my mental state, reducing stress or judgement

Figure 7.2  Factors that influenced my self-efficacy in becoming a researcher

accomplished the coursework component very successfully with an excellent grade, and this further influenced my self-efficacy to continue with the doctoral research. The other factor that influenced my research self-efficacy were the vicarious experiences, where the learning occurred through observation and comparing myself to the actions and behaviours of others (Bandura, 1997). For instance, I modelled my husband, who is himself an expert researcher. Seeing him performing successfully in his research area raised my own research self-efficacy. I relied on my husband’s research skills by using social comparisons rather than “direct evidence of personal accomplishments” (Bandura, 1977, p. 197). My self-efficacy also increased after reading about others’ accomplishments in their doctoral research, reading their success stories in social networking sites such as Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn, which further motivated me to accomplish the same research journey. Therefore, by observing and comparing the successful researchers and by reading their publications improved my own self-efficacy. According to a research study by Vrugt (2004), those individuals who “compared themselves to better colleagues tended to pursue relatively high goals, resulting in many scientific publications, with performance of colleagues acting as motivation to take self-improvement measures” (p. 155). My self-efficacy as a researcher was also influenced by Social and Verbal Persuasion. Getting that sense of confidence that I was on the right path with my research journey enhanced my self-efficacy. Getting timely feedback from my doctoral supervisor, in the form of both verbal and social persuasion, was very helpful. Encouraging comments such as, “onwards and upwards!” further motivated me to accomplish my goal in research. My supervisors were experienced in research knowledge and skills and being mentored by them increased the level of my research competencies. They supported me with their encouragement and acknowledgement of my voice, while simultaneously provided guidance with their ideas, opinions, and views. This is endorsed by a study conducted by Overall et  al. (2011), in which it is found that the more research mentors encourage and support their student’s autonomy, the greater the student’s self-efficacy in a wide range of research activities. I also received a lot of support and motivational discussion about my research journey with my husband, who always believed in me. Hence my doctoral learning journey has 82

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been an empowering experience. Receiving positive comments and constructive feedback, influenced my self-efficacy, and I began to try even harder to achieve my goal. On a similar note, Palmer (2006) stated that, “if a person is told that he/she does possess the capabilities to succeed in the task, then that person will be encouraged to try hard to succeed” (p. 338). I also recall having regular meetings with my supervisors to discuss my progress and to receive feedback and suggestions from them. Consistency and cross-checking your progress with expert researchers are a crucial aspect of increasing the value and experience of your learning journeys. There was no delay in obtaining feedback from my supervisors, so I feel blessed to have them as my mentors. The great supervision I received further enhanced my self-efficacy. Literature evidence also demonstrates that research into self-efficacy is shaped by the kind of supervision students receive (Overall et al., 2011). Other researchers reported that positive appraisals of students’ work and supervisory relationship are related to higher self-efficacy, which leads, in turn, to more interest in research productivity (Bishop & Bieschke, 1998; Hollingsworth & Fassinger, 2002). Hence, good mentorship from research supervisors predict greater self-efficacy in research students (Paglis et al., 2006) and this was the case for me. The fourth source of self-efficacy includes my physiological and affective states. My doctoral research journey was like a roller-coaster ride. There were happy and sad times as well. I  remember I was devastated when I did not get enough participants for the online survey component of my research. I used to check the survey responses twice a day; however, the number of responses remained low despite numerous remainders. I also ‘felt bad’ in reminding the busy students to answer the survey questions. The participants of the survey were pre-­ service teachers, so I also felt very hesitant in requesting their course coordinators to post the remainders on the Moodle site or even to send emails to the pre-service teachers. This episode of data collection was a very depressing moment for me. Because of the failure in not getting enough response for the online survey, I started feeling negative about my research, which led to a low level of self-efficacy. I knew that having low self-efficacy can be a serious problem in accomplishing my goal. I remember that when I spoke to my supervisors about the survey count, one of my supervisors suggested focusing on the qualitative aspect of the research. It took me one week to decide whether I would go for a qualitative research only, or for both qualitative and quantitative. I did lots of research and read about qualitative research design and methods. Since I wanted to complete my doctorate research on time and focus on my career and I already had bad experience in collecting data through survey, I opted for qualitative research and began recruiting participants for an interview. My self-efficacy improved when I had enough participants to conduct interviews and when I felt that the data I had collected has reached its saturation. Finally, my self-efficacy towards my doctoral research was expanded to my own locus of control. I refer to the work of Rotter (1966), who defined a locus of control as an individual’s belief about the underlying causes of events in their lives. I would say that during my doctorate journey, I developed a very strong internal locus of control, meaning that I was in control of my decisions and outcomes (Boyd & Bee, 2009). I knew that my supervisors were there to guide and support me, but “it is up to me”, and “I am responsible for learning”, no matter how difficult it can become. “It is my goal and my journey, and I have to accomplish it within the time frame”. I knew there was luck and there was no fate, I just had to work hard with consistent effort. During the final year of my doctorate journey, I realised that I have developed a strong interest in doing research and at present I place a high value on continuing research work in my current career as an academic. The findings from my doctoral journey have subsequently been reported fully in Devi (2019) and also partly reported in Devi & Ganguly (2022). 83

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Conclusion In this chapter presenting an autoethnographic profile of myself as a researcher, I have presented a reflective account of my self-efficacy beliefs developed within and towards the doctoral research journey. I began my doctoral studies (Devi, 2019) with the aim of exploring the teachers’ experiences of self-efficacy and preparedness in teaching students with autism. As a researcher, it is important to understand our own beliefs and any underlying assumptions before exploring someone else’s experiences (Hopkins et  al., 2017). While doing my doctoral research, I always evaluated my own research self-efficacy to ensure that I was not off balance; if I feel that I am, then I would explore ways to enhance my efficacy. I feel that I have gained significant understanding that I experienced during my doctoral journey, which has now enabled me to focus on and progress in my career. This also concurs with the recent results emerging from my doctoral project (Devi & Ganguly, 2022). Therefore, starting my research journey was a crucial event in my career, which has helped me grow into the researcher I am today.

References Åkerlind, G. S. (2003). Growing and developing as a university teacher--variation in meaning. Studies in Higher Education, 28(4), 375–390. https://doi.org/10.1080/0307507032000122242 Bandura, A. (1977). Self-efficacy: Toward a unifying theory of behavioral change. Psychological Review, 84(2), 191–215. https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-295X.84.2.191 Bandura, A. (1986). The explanatory and predictive scope of self-efficacy theory. Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology, 4(3), 359–373. https://doi.org/10.1521/jscp.1986.4.3.359 Bandura, A. (1997). Self-efficacy: The exercise of control. W.H. Freeman and Company. Bieschke, K. J. (2006). Research self-efficacy beliefs and research outcome expectations: Implications for developing scientifically minded psychologists. Journal of Career Assessment, 14(1), 77–91. https://doi. org/10.1177/1069072705281366 Bishop, R. M., & Bieschke, K. J. (1998). Applying social cognitive theory to interest in research among counseling psychology doctoral students: A path analysis. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 45(2), 182–188. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-0167.45.2.182 Boyd, D., & Bee, H. (2009). Lifespan development (5th ed.). Pearson Education Inc. Brydon, K., & Fleming, J. (2011). The journey around my PhD: Pitfalls, insights and diamonds. Social Work Education, 30(8), 995–1011. https://doi.org/10.1080/02615479.2010.527936 Chang, H. (2008). Autoethnography as method. Left Coast Press. Denzin, N. K. (2006). Analytic autoethnography, or déjà vu all over again. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 419–428. https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0891241606286985?casa_token=KzmtpYWpthEAAAAA:7poAYaH3gJX-ZFJjABnwpX9Saey7A_0tF-DXWtd1DQ_ DHI4X6lpP4_TXkmbKjZkBK8nqt4JLYxHuyw Devi, A. (2019). Preparing teachers to instruct students with autism in inclusive settings: Australian pre-service teachers’ and recent graduates’ perspectives – an exploratory case study. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of Southern Queensland, Australia. Devi, A. & Ganguly, R. (2022). Pre-service teachers’ and recent teacher graduates’ perceptions of self-­ efficacy in teaching students with Autism Spectrum Disorder–an exploratory case study. International Journal of Inclusive Education. https://doi.org/10.1080/13603116.2022.2088869 Ellis, C. (2007). Telling secrets, revealing lives: Relational ethics in research with intimate others. Qualitative Inquiry, 13(1), 3–29. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800406294947 Ellis, C., Adams, T., & Bochner, A. (2010). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research, 26(4), 273–290. https://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/1589/3095 Etherington, K. (2004). Becoming a reflexive researcher: Using our selves in research. Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Finch, K., Watson, R., MacGregor, C., & Precise, N. (2013). Teacher needs for educating children with autism spectrum disorders in the general education classroom. The Journal of Special Education Apprenticeship, 2(2), 1–26. https://scholarworks.lib.csusb.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1027&context=josea

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Effective autoethnographic exploration to enhance Fong, C. J., & Krause, J. M. (2014). Lost confidence and potential: A mixed methods study of underachieving college students’ sources of self-efficacy. Social Psychology of Education, 17(2), 249–268. https:// doi.org/10.1007/s11218-013-9239-1 Hamdan, A. (2012). Autoethnography as a genre of qualitative research: A journey inside out. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 11(5), 585–606. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940691201100505 Hendricks, K. S. (2016). The sources of self-efficacy: Educational research and implications for music. Update: Applications of Research in Music Education, 35(1), 32–38. https://doi.org/10.1177/8755123315576535 Hollingsworth, M. A., & Fassinger, R. E. (2002). The role of faculty mentors in the research training of counseling psychology doctoral students. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 49(3), 324–330. https://doi. org/10.1037/0022-0167.49.3.324 Hopkins, R. M., Regehr, G., & Pratt, D. D. (2017). A framework for negotiating positionality in phenomenological research. Medical Teacher, 39(1), 20–25. https://doi.org/10.1080/0142159X.2017.1245854 Humphrey, M., & Hourcade, J. J. (2010). Special educators and mathematics phobia: An initial qualitative investigation. The Clearing House: A Journal of Educational Strategies, Issues and Ideas, 83(1), 26–30. https://doi.org/10.1080/00098650903267743 Gelso, C. J., Mallinckrodt, B., & Judge, A. B. (1996). Research training environment, attitudes toward research, and research self-efficacy: The revised Research Training Environment Scale. The Counseling Psychologist, 24(2), 304–322. https://doi.org/10.1177/0011000096242010 Kahn, J. H. (2001). Predicting the scholarly activity of counseling psychology students: A refinement and extension. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 48(3), 344–354. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-0167.48.3.344 Lambie, G. W., Hayes, B. G., Griffith, C., Limberg, D., & Mullen, P. R. (2014). An exploratory investigation of the research self-efficacy, interest in research, and research knowledge of Ph. D. in education students. Innovative Higher Education, 39(2), 139–153. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10755-013-9264-1 Laslett, B. (1999). Personal narratives as sociology. Contemporary Sociology, 28(4), 391–401. https://doi. org/0.2307/2655287 Lastrapes, W., & Negishi, M. (2012). Foundational Field Experiences: A Window into Preservice Teachers’ Cultural Consciousness and Self-Efficacy for Teaching Diverse Learners. SRATE Journal, 21(1), 37–43. https://eric.ed.gov/?id=EJ959535 Lent, R. W., Brown, S. D., & Hackett, G. (1994). Toward a unifying social cognitive theory of career and academic interest, choice, and performance. Journal of Vocational Behavior, 45(1), 79–122. https://doi. org/10.1006/jvbe.1994.1027 Love, K. M., Bahner, A. D., Jones, L. N., & Nilsson, J. (2007). An investigation of early research experience and research self-efficacy. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 38(3), 314–320. https://doi. org/10.1037/0735-7028.38.3.314 Ngunjiri, F. W., Hernandez, K.-A. C., & Chang, H. (2010). Living autoethnography: Connecting life and research. Journal of Research Practice, 6(1), 1–17. http://jrp.icaap.org/index.php/jrp/article/ view/241/210 Niehaus, E., Garcia, C., & Reading, J. N. (2018). The road to researcher: The development of research self-efficacy in higher education scholars. Journal for the Study of Postsecondary and Tertiary Education (3), 1–20. https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/cehsedadfacpub/86/ Overall, N. C., Deane, K. L., & Peterson, E. R. (2011). Promoting doctoral students’ research self-efficacy: Combining academic guidance with autonomy support. Higher Education Research Development, 30(6), 791–805. https://doi.org/10.1080/07294360.2010.535508 Paglis, L. L., Green, S. G., & Bauer, T. N. (2006). Does adviser mentoring add value? A longitudinal study of mentoring and doctoral student outcomes. Research in Higher Education, 47(4), 451–476. https://doi. org/10.1007/s11162-005-9003-2 Palmer, D. (2006). Sources of self-efficacy in a science methods course for primary teacher education students. Research in Science Education, 36(4), 337–353. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11165-005-9007-0 Paniagua, A., & Sánchez-Martí, A. (2018). Early career teachers: Pioneers triggering innovation or compliant professionals? OECD Education Working Papers, 190. https://doi.org/10.1787/19939019 Rotter, J. (1966). Generalised expectancies for internal versus external control of reinforcement. Psychological Monographs, 80(1), 1–28. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0092976 Sparkes, A. C. (Ed.). (1996). A vocabulary for field notes. Cornell University Press. Vrugt, A. (Ed.). (2004). Perceived self-efficacy and work motivation. Nova Science. White, M. L., Smith, J. D., Smith, T. E. C., & Stodden, R. (Eds.). (2012). Autism spectrum disorders. Routledge.

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8 VISUAL AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC ANALYSIS FOR CASE STUDY UNDERSTANDING Karl Matthews Introduction This chapter presents the application of the Mandala method as an autoethnographic data-gathering and visual analysis tool. The Mandala method is a tool for ‘visual(ising) autoethnography’, providing a process for ‘visual representations’ to help understand the situational dynamics, developed in the context of my PhD thesis and post-doctoral activities, to refine and communicate my ideas, intuitions and insights. In explaining this visual analysis method, this chapter extends some previously published insights from my PhD, along with three post-doctoral insights, aiming to promote the understanding of doctoral student and supervisor though autoethnography. This chapter focusses solely on the autoethnographic application of the Mandala method to reveal aspects to imagining the work and identity of future PhD researchers. An important aspect of this chapter is the visual component of autoethnographic research, with the visualisation methods and techniques to provide insight into understanding oneself and also others as an important teaching/learning tool in the research process. This chapter has parallels between other chapters in this book section, offering yet another method to develop one’s self-efficacy and self-reflection in the research process so as to help clarify and fuse insights into tangible form for peer review. These autoethnographic experiences and insights, supported by visual representations, highlight the value of the autoethnographic method in contributing to the work and identity of future researchers.

My ethnographic/autoethnographic experience My PhD study (Matthews, 2019a) adopted an exploratory case study approach, and considered that the method of ethnography (Frankham & MacRae, 2011) was pragmatically feasible, as I  was actively engaged as a participant in the team context itself. In particular, I was positioned in this ethnographic case study as a participant observer (Stake, 2005), and in doing so I took on a dual role of researcher and (autoethnographic) participant in the team operations (albeit as a student researcher rather than as an expert). However, I assumed the primary role of an evaluative, critical analyst of the case activities in order to address my study’s Research

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Questions and to provide “grounds for validating the observations” (Stake, 2005, p. 456). An in-depth investigation of a single case by a participant observer can also be described as being neo-ethnographic (Stenhouse, 1983). My own PhD experiences and insights added further depth to the study from an ethnographic perspective. Anthropologists “interject personal experience” into ethnographic writing (Reed-Danahay, 2005, p. 2), and I also link from the ethnographic study of the other participants with the autoethnographic analysis of myself as being one of the participants. Thus, my dual role within the team (as both autoethnographic participant and ethnographic researcher) challenged me to examine and understand my own presence in and influences on this project (Scheurich, 1997) and assisted me to gather deeper and more insightful data within my exploratory case study method. Overall, I sought a research method to explore how and why the participants constructed their knowledge management (KM) capacity and forms of capital within the university team context. Thus, the single-site, exploratory, ethnographic case study (Day Ashley, 2012; Hillyard, 2010; Mills & Ratcliffe, 2012) was considered an appropriate and acceptable method. Autoethnography is an ethnographic inquiry that utilises the autobiographic materials of the researcher as the primary data (Chang, 2007). Therefore, whilst my study bridged both ethnographic (analysis of the other participants’ data) and autoethnographic (analysis of my own reflective data), the purpose of this chapter is to focus mainly on my autoethnographic aspects.

The ethnographic Mandala method1 As part of my PhD study methodology, I deployed a particular data collection and analysis method, based on the Mandala. The Mandala method is basically an artwork, in a circular form, created by the participant, often around a theme. The Mandala method has previously been applied to an integration of the conscious and the subconscious to gain deeper insight into one’s perceptions (Jung, 1965). Mandalas have since been applied in the art and psychotherapeutic fields for self-awareness, self-expression, conflict resolution and healing (Bush, 1988; Curry & Kasser, 2005; Kim et al., 2009; Schrade et al., 2011, Palmer et al., 2014) and to extract valuable information that may have been otherwise blocked by conscious processes (Elkis-Abuhoff et al., 2009; Slegelis, 1987). The Mandala’s power is derived from its creator explaining/self-analysing the values and qualities the artwork represents, channelling one’s subconscious thoughts to become more conscious, eliciting tacit knowledge, perceptions and perspectives into explicit verbalisation and writing. Unlike the Rorschach inkblot method of psychological evaluation, dream analysis, brainstorming or pareidolia (the perceiving of meaningful interpretation of images in objects such as clouds), the Mandala method has the image created by the individual and then self-analysed. Thus, I find the Mandala method offers a succinct insight into one’s unconscious psychology and sociology, and furthermore negates the need to self-censor one’s interpretations as the resulting insights and truths are self-evident. In my PhD study, I facilitated the participants to construct a Mandala artwork depicting themselves in the team to provide insight into their context. The Mandala method consisted of only two instructions to the participants: “Draw a picture (Mandala) of yourself in the team context”; and, once completed, “Please describe your Mandala”. Further explanations of my first instruction to “Paint a Mandala” were provided to clarify the activity and to assist participants to get started, such as “You can use any colours” or reiterating “Just paint a picture of yourself in the team”. Once the team members understood their task, and were progressing with their Mandala construction, I purposefully distracted

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their conscious mind by presenting some prior results for this consideration. In this way, their Mandala now became more of a doodle, whereby participants were less consciously focused on the Mandala construction, thus tapping into participants’ subconscious views of their context. The intention of this Mandala method was for participants to describe how they saw the team context, extracting issues and perspectives impacting on the internal and external team dynamics, and analysing the team members’ Mandalas to reveal the knowledge-level contexts with which the team engaged. Once participants had completed their Mandala, I gave my second instruction to “Describe the Mandala”, and they then individually proceeded to explain and self-analyse the Mandala artwork that they had produced of “them in the team”. I occasionally probed with some prompting questions such as “What is the title of your Mandala?”, “Are the colours significant?” or “Does that part of it mean anything in particular?” The participants’ self-interpretation and self-analysis of their own Mandala elicited deep, rich qualitative perspectives, reflecting their conscious and subconscious perceptions of the team context and interactions. It was important for the researcher (me) not to judge or to interpret the participants’ Mandalas in any way, as it is a Jungian self-analysis method whereby the Mandala creator self-interprets their own Mandala, revealing their subconscious motives behind their design. By self-interpreting their own Mandala, each participant contextualised themselves in the team’s place and space and described that contextualisation in their own words. In the subsequent qualitative individual interview session, each participant was provided with an opportunity to clarify further her or his self-analysis, and so the Mandala prompted and facilitated each participant to tap into her or his deeper thoughts and perspectives about the team context. Rather than their interview responses merely being a superficial comment, the Mandala subtly drew the participants into interpreting a succinct, yet deeper, self-analysis of “them in the team”. It was almost as if the Mandala were probing the participant’s subconscious perceptions, rather than the interviewer needing to do so verbally. In retrospect, when the Mandala artwork was combined with the qualitative interview to complete the analysis, the Mandala method result was a powerful and productive method to obtain a deeper, richer analysis of the participant context dimension. The Mandala method delved into, drew out and made explicit each participant’s unique and diverse subconscious perspective and perception about the team context, and it presented that view in an enlightening picture for all to comprehend and compare. It is testament to Jung’s (1965) Mandala method that it enabled deep insights into my research participant context relationships. Whilst similar insights could have been achieved through other, more direct methods, this study’s application further supported the Mandala method for academic research. The Mandala method generated a depth of dialogue and discussion that elucidated the team dynamics, and this was a positive sign for its credibility. The participants’ deep perceptions and interpretations of the team context indicated the appropriateness of this qualitative data collection method and analysis method. It was apparent from my ethnographic observations of the team interactions and activities that this team was a high-performing, collaborative collective, intent on engaging with the academic context beyond the organisational boundary. To profile this context with additional evidence to support my ethnographic field observations, I deployed my Mandala method to analyse and explore the team context (Matthews, 2013) and the consolidated team findings were refined at another team meeting (Matthews, 2012) whereby reflexive (Newton et  al. 2012) discussions indicated the Mandala method had produced deep, rich insights into the team context. My autoethnographic interpretation of this Mandala Method experience is discussed in the next section. 88

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The autoethnographic Mandala method In this section of the book chapter, I present and discuss my autoethnographic Mandala method data analysis, omitting the additional ethnographic data that was gathered from other participants for my PhD analysis. My own Mandala is presented at Figure 8.1, and my autoethnographic reflections are cited from my thesis to reveal the critical aspects to imagining my situation within context of the work and identity of the study. Furthermore, I have added some post-doctoral autoethnographic thoughts and reactions, from the benefit of hindsight, and the clarity gained from the cognitive development since reviewing my PhD visual data in retrospect. My PhD thesis records that “For my own Mandala, I enjoy creative artwork and decided to paint with an abstract method to create a freely-flowing Mandala, entitled ‘learning from experience’”, as shown in Figure 8.1 (Matthews, 2019a, p. 54). My self-interpretation perceived the shape of the figures of two people (an adult and a child) in the centre of the picture. In Figure 8.2, I have zoomed in on these central figures to highlight them, with the adult image circled in white and the child figure circled in yellow. With these two figures (adult and child) being my focus, in my PhD thesis I further interpreted the mandala as follows: Like a child around a campfire, learning from the elders. I respect the wisdom of the team members, learning as a student does from teachers. I observe the team operations carefully and I contribute to assist the team to build and share internationally its body of knowledge and productivity. (Matthews, 2019a, p. 55) This Mandala insight of my PhD autoethnography as being a “learning from experience” process is a result of me, the researcher, being embedded in the educational, pedagogical process as an active research participant. My retrospective analysis of my Mandala in Figures 8.1 and 8.2 highlights that the above thesis extracts are focused on my own, autoethnographic perceptions within the context of the team study. The above data are not presented in the context of ethnographic Mandalas

Figure 8.1  The author’s PhD “learning from experience”

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Figure 8.2  Highlighting the author’s Mandala figures

from other participants; however, the reader must realise that there is an academic distinction here between the study’s ethnographic data and my autoethnographic data being focussed on as my analysis lens for this particular book chapter on autoethnography. My autoethnographic lens ignores the fact that I had dual roles within this educational research context – those of me being both the PhD researcher (studying the team) and also a participant (as a member of the studied team). This interface/interplay between ethnographic and autoethnographic became challenging to delineate and isolate and also transition between roles and interactions. Fortunately, the internal team culture was more collaborative than competitive, and with all team members having intuitive comprehension that the “whole was greater than the sum of the parts” there was an absence of the undermining and manipulation that I have autoethnographically experienced in other team contexts, resulting in the team interacting as collegiate scholars. Whilst I grappled with my parallel relationship between researcher and individual, this chapter focusses on only the autoethnographic aspect of the study, with myself as individual, and omits the complexities of my broader PhD researcher role. In my autoethnographic retrospective analysis, two years post PhD graduation, I am still surprised at how insightful the Mandala method was in discerning the root cause/intent of where my mind was at that particular time, and how it helped inform me of what I needed to do to progress. The above citations remind me how the Mandala distilled a poignant image of my then situation, and the complex nexus I faced interfacing between the ethnographic and autoethnographic roles. I think the Mandala method worked well to provide that insight into my then inner intuitions. Prior to doing the Mandala, I don’t recall having such conscious awareness of my complex situation, therefore the Mandala certainly helped crystallise it into my conscious awareness and communicate it accordingly. I note that this chapter focusses only on what I autoethnographically made sense/gained value from the Mandala method; however, I will add in my autoethnographic perception that 90

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I also think the Mandala method had value for all the participating team members, by engaging/ drawing out deeper discussions, and to help inform and clarify the team culture as both individuals and as a group in the research context of a collaborative team in the Australian higher education industry. The limitation of the Mandala method is in one’s ability to interpret the subconscious Mandala with the conscious mind and gain clarity on the subconscious intent or idea. Another limitation is the temptation to censor one’s Mandala interpretations in order to avoid any confrontation or cognitive dissonance. Overall, the Mandala method offers a meaningful contribution to educational research, especially as an auto-ethnographic method. It provides the researcher with an opportunity to penetrate superficial conscious barriers and delve into deeper subconscious insights of the multi-dimensional human psyche and cultural contextualities.

T10s: teaching the teachers Post-PhD graduation, I continued my development of visual analysis methods, applying the techniques in my professional career. I retrospectively analysed my autoethnographic student– supervisor interactions collected during my PhD research candidature process, assisted by my Mandala method, to explore a view that the PhD supervisors in the education faculty are “terrific teachers that teach the teachers that teach the teachers” or “T10s”. My rationale was that the T10s teach the PhD students that are often (or soon become) the lecturers teaching the undergraduate education faculty students, who in turn become the future primary and secondary school teachers. Furthermore, it is often those T10s, usually as doctoral supervisors, that create, share and improve the knowledge that the subsequent university lecturers and undergraduate students use. The realisation that T10s exist dawned on me after my PhD completion (circa 2019), as in effect my data participants were (or were working toward becoming) T10s, as were all the citations in my bibliography. I had the initial autoethnographic realisation that PhD students and supervisors are engaging in educating the next generation of teachers, and proceeded to autoethnographically refine and clarify my T10 concept and image through an extended visual analysis Mandala method, as is explained in the next section of the chapter. The Mandala image to represent the T10 concept is illustrated at Figure 8.3, offered with my autoethnographic respects to past, present and future T10s.

Figure 8.3  The T10 Mandala: Terrific teachers that teach the teachers that teach the teachers

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The JAM method for constructing the T10 Mandala The T10 mandala at Figure 8.3, as discussed above, was constructed slightly differently from the one-off session of the Mandala method I applied in my PhD as explained for the creation of Figure 8.1. This section of the chapter explains my extension to the Mandala method, culminating in what I call the Jungian Alignment Mandala (JAM) method, a method for iteratively refining the Mandala image and concept so it can be more clearly and concisely communicated. To illustrate my JAM method further, let me revisit some of the ‘alignment’ steps I took to reach the result depicted in Figure 8.3. The spark of the T10 idea was initiated by my intention to paint the portrait of a ‘terrific teacher’ with whom I had previously worked, who shall remain anonymous. I further contemplated my T10 concept, and how to represent it with a visual representation. At the outset, I felt the T10 image needed to somehow be abstracted to be a less realistic, unrecognisable portrait, and so I revisited the Mandala method utilised in my doctoral thesis. Initially, I had no particular image pre-planned in my head; I just began moving the pen as per the Mandala method to create ‘something’ that would enable my flow from subconscious to conscious. I started creating a rough visual concept, based on the subconscious context of the T10 concept that I was seeking to extrovert/express. I sketched up a few Mandala ideas of an image to represent the T10 concept. The vague T10 notion I had in mind was an image that was generic, not identifiable as the individual portrait subject, yet also to be unique and somewhat iconic. My first attempts were coloured Mandala images, with the red tassels of the black academic headdress contrasting with the blue eyes. As with the Mandala method, I soon reached a point in the process where I ceased creating and moved to self-analysing my subconscious creation with my conscious logic in order to interpret my Mandala. I discussed my sketches with the portrait subject, and also some peers, and all preferred the Mandala in a cubism-like style, as shown at Figure 8.4. This Figure 8.4 point is usually where the Mandala method ends – as a one-off image creation session followed by visual self-analysis. However, in my self-analysis, I consciously realised that the Mandala I had created at Figure 8.4 was not fully aligned to the subconscious idea that was stewing in my mind. The Mandala was ‘not finished’ and needed something more in order to satisfy my conscious–subconscious alignments, although again I had no conscious idea or plan on how to ‘fix’ it. My autoethnographic view considered this mandala still too ‘linear and literal’ to represent the T10 concept, so I continued to mull over it. Returning to the Mandala after some contemplation time (in my case, some months later), I revisited and reworked the image, and contemplated an additional face, facing to the right (sketched in on the right of Figure 8.4). I was seeking to reach a point where my conscious self-analysis could be satisfied that the image was representative of my subconscious intent. I intended to redo the Mandala using paint on canvas; however, instead I edited the Figure 8.4 image digitally, resulting in the ‘faint and frosted’ image at Figure 8.5. I think that digital image editing tools are apt for Mandala creation, as they enable variations to be rapidly refined to align with the intent. Digital effects are accepted in the music and movie industries, and my digital edit of the Mandala enabled effective and efficient creation/analysis processing to achieve conscious–subconscious alignment. Autoethnographically, I liked this digital deconstruction effect; however, I found it too faint and fuzzy to ideally convey my concept, so again I parked the project and worked on other things. My ideal was to do a full reconstruction of the Figure 8.4 image with paint on canvas, as I find that tactile medium enhances my expression. However, the required time/effort to 92

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Figure 8.4  1st draft of Mandala for T10

Figure 8.5  2nd draft of Mandala for T10

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Figure 8.6  3rd draft of Mandala for T10

setup, enact and then clean up a paint session is demotivating. So instead, I found myself again revisiting the Figure 8.1 concept with digital ‘paint’ and editing tools. In my next iteration of note, I used another digital technique to blur and disfigure the image, resulting in Figure 8.6. Autoethnographically, I found the deconstruction effect on the image more ‘interesting’; however, I still wasn’t satisfied and felt the image somehow needed to be further abstracted. At about this point of the T10 development, I realised I was actually developing an extension to the Mandala method that was iterative, unlike the one-off Mandala from my PhD. I had a rough idea of the T10 concept in my mind, and had developed a Mandala image to represent it. The Mandala image had assisted me to visualise my concept, and refine my ideas, consequently further refining the image. I therefore suggest although my method was founded in the classical Jungian Mandala method, my iterative adaption was an extension to the original Mandala method. This provided an academic framework for the way that I prefer my ethnographic creative style to align my conscious and subconscious thoughts. I refer to my iterative method as the Jungian Alignment Mandala method, or ‘JAM’ method. I confess I contemplated a number of terms for my iterative Mandala method, yet settled on the ‘JAM method’ as it aligned and resonated with a similar process I have experienced in the musical arts. In the musical arts, a ‘jam’ session refers to musicians improvising without extensive preparation or predefined arrangements, playing around with some new musical ideas, in the hope that some tunes ‘align’ and appeal to their ear, and they may then work further on this alignment to develop it into a composition. The alignment process may require many iterations as the composition is only completed once the musicians are personally satisfied with production. The musical jam is a similar process to my JAM method for the visual Mandala; I  am just using the sense of seeing (visually with the eyes) rather that the sense of hearing 94

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(music with the ears). Therefore, I think the term JAM method is quite appropriate to describe the visual alignment I undergo to iteratively produce a Mandala composition that satisfies my eye, both consciously and subconsciously. At this juncture, it is useful to acknowledge that the JAM method is distinctly different from the Agile method. The Agile method is also an iterative and incremental development process to produce an outcome, mainly used for computer software development (Kumar & Bhatia, 2012). However, the JAM method contravenes the highest priority principle directed by the Agile inventors, which is to satisfy the customer through early and continuous delivery of product (agilemanifesto.com). The JAM method is not externally directed to meet a customer’s requirements; it is internally driven to satisfy one’s own conscious–subconscious alignment, in a largely solo effort. Adoptees of the JAM method could possibly benefit from some Agile method principles, such as simplicity, attention to technical excellence, self-organising and welcoming change; however, they could ignore other agile principles, such as constant work pace, teamwork, face-to-face conversations, and focus instead on functioning output. As such, the JAM method differs enough from the Agile method, without even needing to argue the fundamental difference being its Jungian Mandala method foundations. Returning to my T10 development story, it was also about this point of my JAM method alignment that I added the adjective ‘terrific’ to my T10 term. I had the suspicion that T10 teachers are ‘terrifically’ rare, and also my thinking that the T10 teachers can sometimes appear quite daunting (‘terrifying’) to us mere mortals. Additionally, the alliteration of “T-ten” sounded better than “T-nine” or “T-eleven” so I needed the title to include ten ‘T’ words. Thus, the visual autoethnographic process of incrementally iterating the Mandala image and concept was refining and aligning my conscious–subconscious ideas together into firmer form. I further experimented deconstructing Figure 8.6 with digital tools, repeated this pause– rework process several times, a paint/think/paint spiral that continued in an iterative and adaptive cycle, seeking satisfaction that I had reached a point of conscious–subconscious alignment that the image represented the idea. Finally, I discovered a digital pointillism filter effect that I liked, as it created a very abstract result. I also digitally reduced the Mandala colour to just a greyscale image. This Mandala was presented at Figure 8.3, and reposted below at Figure 8.7, to maintain sequential flow for the reader. In self-analysing this abstract pointillism style, greyscale Mandala in Figure 8.7, I realised that the subtle, cryptic image resonated and aligned with my subconscious T10 concept for three reasons. Firstly, I liked how a casual glance might just see it merely as bunch of lines scattered randomly on a page, whereas deeper observation reveals it is actually a portrait with distinct academic head-dress. This aspect of the Mandala aligned with my perception that teachers are essential to our society yet they generally blur into the background, barely noticed – until you look for them. Secondly, the greyscale image appeared ghostly, helping me realise that many T10s have passed on, yet their written knowledge and insights continue to teach. Some T10 knowledge contributions have been used for centuries, such as Socrates (c.470–399BCE), Plato (c.428–347BCE) and Aristotle (c.384–301BCE). Consider also Carl Jung (1875–1965), who departed long before my birth, yet whose T10 publications taught me the Mandala method. Similarly, those teachers who are publishing new knowledge and insights today may influence future teachers for decades to come. It was through the method of iterating the Mandala into greyscale that my realisation and alignment of this concept was refined. Thirdly, the blended greyscale is more inclusive of ethnic and racial diversity, and so this image is more representative of all T10 teachers. 95

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Figure 8.7  The T10 Mandala

I felt satisfied that this pointillism, greyscale image aligned with the T10 concept in my mind. I revealed this image to the portrait subject, who considered that the T10 illustration “made an important point in a visually striking and memorable way”. This endorsement provided support that my JAM method visual image as presented at Figures 8.3 and 8.7 adequately represented the T10 concept. Figures 8.3–8.7 provide an example to demonstrate my JAM method in practice, discussing how I iteratively refined my Mandala image until it consciously converged and aligned with my subconscious concept and idea. With each visual iteration, my T10 concept was also de/ reconstructed in my mind, allowing me to refine my concept. The JAM method provided me with a powerful technique to create, improve and visually refine my ideas. In the example above, I have shown how the JAM method assisted me to refine my vague concept and sketch of T10 into a unique image accompanied by written text that can now be shared and further refined through peer discourse. I consider that this JAM method is thus relevant to autoethnography as it enables such self-reflection to occur, extending one’s learning, development and productivity. In summary, the JAM method extends the classical Mandala method by combining subconscious art with conscious self-analysis in an iterative way. The Mandala artwork is constructed by subconscious process, flowing and appearing rather than being planned and driven. The image is then self-analysed, enabling the concept to be refined, which in turn can influence further iterations to the art until the two processes, image analysis and concept, align to the satisfaction of the creator. The JAM method helps align conscious/subconscious thought, thus can provide a theoretical framework to an organic, unstructured activity. Consequently, the JAM method has potential for further development. 96

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The PhD Mountain The second JAM method example considers my autoethnographic analogy that “the PhD research process is like climbing a mountain”, whereby the researcher ascends to the summit that is the PhD submission point. A past conference presentation (Matthews, 2019b) outlined this concept, which is based on my autoethnographic PhD experiences and the benefit of hindsight that provides retrospective clarity. I utilized my JAM method to gain further alignment of the image and concept as is discussed below. I have noticed that every PhD student follows a somewhat similar process; from enrolment, to identifying literature gaps, developing research proposals, gaining ethics clearances, confirmation of candidature, data collection, analysis, publications, thesis submission, examination and (hopefully) graduation. Via the JAM method, I appropriated and digitally edited an image of a mountain climb, as shown in Figure 8.8, which depicts a procession of mountain climbers (PhD students) as they string their way up to scale the mountain summit. Whilst mountain climbers work physically hard to overcome gravity, PhD ‘climbers’ must also work to scale their metaphorical mountain by navigating the academic and psychological challenges of candidature in order to graduate, all within a limited time period of several years. Through the JAM method, I iteratively refined Figure 8.8to align it with my concept of climbing the ‘PhD Mountain’. My PhD autoethnographic data suggest that “rather than a singular, linear process of completion there are actually multiple, triangulating activities being concurrently progressed” (Matthews, 2019b). That is, like the mountain climber who rechecks the weather forecast as they rig up to cross a crevasse, the PhD student can also be working several activities in parallel, such as reading additional literature to support the data analysis as they draft up their thesis. Whilst each PhD candidate follows a different journey up to their mountain summit, they all graduate with the same award – a PhD. This image helps us to visualise that some aspects of the PhD Mountain are well defined and clear, whilst other parts are obscured and misty. Figure 8.8 suggests the process for climbing the PhD Mountain entails academic actions such as abiding by research ethics, collecting and analysing data, publishing and submitting the thesis for examination – the summit point. Note that in the JAM method creative process there are no

Figure 8.8  Climbing the PhD Mountain

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strict artistic rules to limit one’s Mandala – to do so would seem oxymoronic – so appropriating images is apt if it assists one’s alignment. I intend to create further iterations to Figure 8.8 in future, to highlight the PhD Mountain descent required to achieve graduation. The descent can be similarly onerous and risky, as there are specific post submission actions required for successful completion. Among the PhD Mountain descent actions are examination, response/ revisions, final submission, final ethics report, thesis binding, graduation, photographs, publication and exit from the university enrolment. All of these post-examination submission steps require effort, risk and coordination, and should be clearly marked on the expedition map of every PhD Mountain climber. Unfortunately, some real mountain climbers and also PhD Mountain climbers fail to complete the descent after successfully ascending to the summit. My autoethnographic reflection of the PhD Mountain analogy certainly applied to my PhD. I think it is a useful analogy to help visualise the reality of many colleagues around me who are currently grappling to climb their own PhD Mountain. In a visual autoethnographic way, whilst I was climbing my PhD Mountain it felt overwhelming; in retrospect, however, it has become a ‘peak’ fading in my rear-vision mirror. In a visual sense, the research landscape looks like the Himalayan mountain ranges, abounding with PhD students climbing, as their supervisors expertly guide them across craggy clefts, crevices and crevasses.

The knowledge evolution As a post-doctoral activity, I autoethnographically contemplated the evolution of technology as an element of education in doctoral study and supervision, using the JAM method to analyse my retrospective PhD data and experience resulting in Figure 8.9. In reviewing my

Figure 8.9  The KM technology d/evolution cycle

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initial concept (Matthews, 2020), I realised that first-generational knowledge management (KM) technologies were primitive, and as such research for new knowledge would have been largely tacit and focussed on survival activities. Second-generational KM technologies would have existed in the medieval villages, with research leading to new trade tools and techniques (such as bronze, iron and farming). Third-generational KM research developed the industrial age (steam- and water-powered machines) that enabled the digital, networked and mobile technologies (fourth, fifth and sixth KM generations respectively) that have been utilised by  doctoral students and supervisors in the post-2000AD era and more recent adoption of seventh-generational Artificial Intelligence (AI) technologies. Doctoral students and supervisors seem to be embracing seventh-generational KM technologies, with its advantages of light-speed connectivity and computations. The use of seventh-generational tools such as literature search engines, digital data collection, transcription, big data analysis, spelling/grammar assistance and plagiarism checking is becoming prevalent. This list poses the question of whether PhD students should be restricted to limit the research advantage offered by AI. I suggest it might soon be the AI itself that is the ‘student’, producing (with human Supervisor assistance) a defendable PhD thesis and awarded the title of ‘Dr’. This JAM analysis also suggests risk of the KM technology evolution setting doctoral students and supervisors up in a ‘house of cards’, because contemporary students/supervisors are becoming more cyber-centralised and -reliant (Matthews, 2019a) on their fourth- to seventh-­ generational technologies to manage their work, due to technology reducing the demand on human decision and action. However, as the next eighth-generational KM technology is actively developed (it already exists in limited form), any technological ‘house of cards’ collapse would cause students, supervisors and society to revert to earlier KM technologies. Such a KM devolution would reduce social connectivity capability (Matthews & Danaher, 2011) back to just local influences. The aftermath of the Tongan tsunami (Lyons, 2022) demonstrates a recent example of such a collapse effect. Fourth- to seventh-generational technology) is fabulous magic … until it doesn’t work. This KM technology d/evolution introduces a confronting concept resulting from my JAM method analysis in Figure 8.8 and my PhD and post-doctoral industry perspectives. I acknowledge that the Figure 8.8 Mandala requires more iteration to reach better alignment with my detailed concepts; however, this early prototype provides a visual baseline to further develop discourse and narrative on the topic. Figure 8.8 shows that the JAM method can extend beyond a traditional Mandala circle, and can include words and numbers to helps convey the concept. Previous iterations of Figure 8.8 did not include either the colours or the words; however, I added these to help me to refine and explain the concept. Further iterations could include other KM technology sub/generations, and additional examples of the innovation adoptions (Rogers, 1962) that enable KM generational change. Figure 8.8 is included here to provide another example of the JAM method for visual analysis, and also to outline the concept of KM technology d/evolution impact on PhD students, supervisors, examiners and conferrers.

Conclusion Overall, this chapter has contemplated my experiences and views to highlight the value of visual analysis of autoethnographic data to contribute to the work and identity of future doctoral students, supervisors and academic research. I have provided the theory behind the Mandala method as utilised within my PhD data analysis to useful effect. The development of the JAM Method was discussed, to help to align conscious–subconscious insights, and application of 99

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this JAM method was demonstrated through three examples. The first JAM method example highlighted the importance of PhD supervisors to teach teachers, and the data visualisation of the portrait representing the T10 concept. The second JAM method example visualised students climbing the PhD Mountain during their progress to PhD graduation. Thirdly, I showed how the JAM method is assisting in refining my autoethnographic views on KM technology evolution, and the potential impact this may have. Overall, this chapter communicates the value of the autoethnographic visual method for researchers. I conclude that my JAM method provides qualitative data visualisation to bridge the conscious and subconscious, so as to assist autoethnographic researchers explore novel questions. I encourage all to autoethnographically explore the JAM method for your challenging research questions, seeking to align subconscious insight with conscious analysis, and be your own judge as to the productivity of the outcome.

Note 1 This section of the chapter based on my PhD thesis (Matthews, 2019a, S5.4.4.1, pp. 162–165).

References Bush, C. A. (1988). Dreams, mandalas, and music imagery: Therapeutic uses in a case study. Arts Psychotherapy, 15(3), 219–225. Chang, H. (2007). Autoethnography as method: Raising cultural consciousness of self and others. In G. Walford (Ed.), Methodological developments in ethnography (Vol. 12, pp. 201–221). Boston: Elsevier. Curry, N. A., & Kasser, T. (2005). Can coloring mandalas reduce anxiety? Art Therapy, 22, 81–85. Day Ashley, L. (2012). Case study research. In J. Arthur, M. Waring, R. Coe, & L. V. Hedges (Eds.), Research methods & methodologies in education (pp. 102–107). London, UK: Sage Publications. Elkis-Abuhoff, D., Gaydos, M., Goldblatt, R., Chen, M., & Rose, S. (2009). Mandala drawings as an assessment tool for women with breast cancer. Arts Psychotherapy, 36(1), 231–238. Frankham, J., & MacRae, C. (2011). Ethnography. In B. Somekh & C. Lewin (Eds.), Theory and methods in social research (2nd ed., pp. 34–42). London, UK: Sage Publications. Hillyard, S. (2010). Ethnography’s capacity to contribute to the cumulation of theory: A case study of Strong’s work on Goffman. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 39(4), 421–440. Jung, C. G. (1965). Memories, dreams, reflections. New York, NY: Random House. Kim, S., Kang, H. S., & Kim, Y. H. (2009). A computer system for art therapy assessment of elements in structured mandala. Arts Psychotherapy, 36(2), 19–28. Kumar, G., & Bhatia, P. (2012). Impact of agile methodology on software development process. International Journal of Computer Technology and Electronics Engineering (IJCTEE), 2(4), 46–50. Lyons, K. (2022). Tsunami hits Tonga after underwater volcanic eruption. The Guardian. Matthews, K. J. (2012, April 12). Team mandala map. Paper presented at the focus group, research team planning conference, Case Study University. Matthews, K. J. (2013, November 30). A mandala analysis of team philosophies, practices and politics. Paper presented at the 13th University of Southern Queensland Faculty of Education Postgraduate and Early Career Researcher Group research symposium, Faculty of Education, University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, Qld, Australia. Matthews, K. J. (2019a). Constructing Knowledge Management Capacity and the Forms of Capital: A Qualitative, Ethnographic, Exploratory Case Study of an Australian Regional University Education Research Team. (Doctor of Philosophy), University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia. Matthews, K. J. (2019b, November 15). The PhD Process: Climbing the PhD mountain Paper presented at the 24th University of Southern Queensland Postgraduate and Early Career Researcher Group research symposium, University of Southern Queensland, Toowoomba, QLD, Australia. Matthews, K. J. (2020, June 24). Knowledge Destruction: Adapting to knowledge management shifts. Paper presented at the 25th University of Southern Queensland Postgraduate and Early Career Researcher Group research symposium, University of Southern Queensland, Springfield, Australia.

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Visual autoethnographic analysis for case study understanding Matthews, K. J., & Danaher, P. A. (2011). Academics wrestling with the dynamic impact of social connectivity to integrate emerging technologies into higher education curricula. In J. T. Luck & D. Rossi (Eds.), Wrestling, wrangling and reaping technology. Theme isssue of Studies in Learning, Evaluation, Innovation and Development, 8(1), 1–13. Mills, D., & Ratcliffe, R. (2012). After method? Ethnography in the knowledge economy. Qualitative Research Journal, 12(2), 70–82. Newton, B. J., Rothlingova, Z., Gutteridge, R., LeMarchand, K., & Raphael, J. H. (2012). No room for reflexivity? Critical reflections following a systematic review of qualitative research. J Health Psychol, 17(6), 866–885. https://doi.org/10.1177/1359105311427615 Palmer, V.J., Dowrick, C., & Gunn, J. M. (2014). Mandalas as a visual research method for understanding primary care for depression. International Journal of Social Research Methodology, 17(5), 527–541. https://doi.org/10.1080/13645579.2013.796764 Reed-Danahay, D. (2005). Locating bourdieu: Indiana University Press. Rogers, E. (1962). Diffusion of innovations. New York, NY: Free Press. Scheurich, J. J. (1997). Research method in the postmodern. London, UK: Falmer Press. Schrade, C., Tronsky, L., & Kaiser, D. H. (2011). Physiological effects of mandala making in adults with intellectual disability. Arts Psychotherapy, 38, 109–113. Slegelis, M. H. (1987). A study of Jung’s mandala and its relationship to art psychotherapy. Arts Psychotherapy, 14, 301–311. Stake, R.E. (2005). Qualitative Case Studies. In N.K. Denzin and Y.S. Lincoln (Eds.), The SAGE handbook of qualitative research (3rd ed.), Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Stenhouse, L. (Ed.) (1983). Case study in educational research and evaluation. Geelong, Vic: Deakin University Press.

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9 THE STRENGTHS AND APPLICATIONS OF COLLABORATIVE AUTOETHNOGRAPHY AND PHENOMENOGRAPHY THROUGH METHODOLOGICAL FUSION IN EDUCATIONAL RESEARCH Nona Press and Dolene Rossi Introduction This chapter reflects on a multidisciplinary, cross-institutional study that examined the ways our conceptions of supervision reflect our actions and influence our expectations as doctoral students and supervisors. The researchers, who were also participants, employed a fusion of collaborative autoethnography (CAE) and phenomenography within the study. Autoethnography (AE) is an evolving multidisciplinary, qualitative research method that blends inward reflection and writing about individual experiences within cultural contexts. Similarly, CAE “focuses on self-interrogation but does so collectively and cooperatively within a team of researchers” (Chang et al., 2013, p. 17). A key feature of phenomenography is its focus on ‘categories of description’ that can reveal referential and structural aspects of the different ways of understanding phenomena of interest. In this study our methodological approach enabled us to examine individual and collective understandings of doctoral supervision and to relate our understandings to the contexts in which doctoral supervision occurs within and beyond our own educational practice. The strategy constituted a relevant, rigorous means of investigating and illustrating the complex interplay between knowledge construction and doctoral relationships within educational research. The results contribute towards a growing body of knowledge and highlights the strengths and applications of methodological fusion within educational contexts.

Background and literature base Doctoral study has an important role in society and the economy, due, in part, to links between doctoral research studies, (creative) knowledge production, and research to improve 102

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societies and educational practice (Le Shorn, 2019). An increase in the number of doctoral students (Friedrich-Nel & MacKinnon, 2019), combined with a shrinking market for academic positions (Chen et al., 2015), is changing the landscape of postgraduate study. Owing to reduced employment opportunities (Chen et al., 2015), doctoral candidates require exposure to instruction that develops not only traditional research skills but also leadership, administrative, and interdisciplinary research capabilities, in preparation for both academic and non-academic careers (Aanerud et al., 2006; Boud & Lee, 2009), bolstering calls for change in the practice of doctoral education (Walker et al., 2012). Supervision by more than one supervisor, throughout doctoral candidature, is currently considered best practice, with a minimum of two supervisors the norm (Robertson, 2017). Research on doctoral supervision is increasing (Bastalich, 2017) and many factors have been acknowledged to influence the conduct of supervision and how collaborative supervisory teams’ function (Hernandez, 2021). Previous research has sought to map the factors that influence how doctoral supervisors understand and enact the supervisor identity (Amundsen & McAlpine, 2009; Guerin et  al., 2015; Turner, 2015). An alternate and growing body of literature also offers examples of collaborative reflections by doctoral students and their supervisors on their experiences (Bastalich, 2017; Duffy et al., 2019; Robertson, 2017). While varied, these reflections constitute a valuable contribution, extending understanding of doctoral student–supervisor relationships, the outcome, and the effectiveness of doctoral experiences. Individually and collectively, these lines of enquiry are important as the information derived from them has the potential to enhance supervision experiences and the relationships formed within. However, Bastalich (2017) cautions, when supervision is problematised in this way emphasis is placed on improving supervisory relationships, with little critique of supervisory practice. For the current study, AE and CAE both constitute evolving multidisciplinary, qualitative research approaches that blend inward reflection and writing about individual and collective experiences within cultural contexts. These characteristics have attracted interest among diverse stakeholders engaged in the provision and pursuit of higher education. Each method positions self-inquiry at centre stage and is recognised as self-focused, researcher-visible, context-conscious, and critically dialogic (Chang et al., 2013). Consequently, each has the potential to contribute towards, challenge, contest, extend and enrich methodological applications and practice within educational research generally and doctoral supervision specifically. However, of the two, CAE affords a level of critical interpersonal dialogue and engagement absent from AE, as participant-researchers work together to interrogate their shared experiences leading to a deeper level of probing, engagement and understanding (Hernandez, 2021). Another methodology of interest to the present study is phenomenography. There has been an increase in the use of phenomenography within a wide range of disciplines and educational institutions (Tight, 2016). The method can illuminate qualitative differences in how phenomena are experienced as it focuses on variations in understandings of experiences and reveals how variations are structured and how understandings are hierarchised. For these reasons it has risen in popularity among researchers interested in understanding and generating knowledge about first-person events and lived experiences in educational contexts (Stolz, 2020). Phenomenography has been used to explore the supervision of doctoral students (Wright et  al., 2007), the learning process of doctoral students (Arvidsson & Franke, 2013) and the experiences of supervisors engaged in doctoral supervision (Bruce & Stoodley, 2013). When the research project reported here was designed (Press et al., 2019) the notion of fusing collaborative autoethnography and phenomenography was developmental, conceived following completion of a doctoral study which utilised a fusion of phenomenology and case study to examine the preparation of students for professional practice (Press, 2017). Recent research 103

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by Dann et al. (2019) lends support for the approach and illustrates the capacity of collaborative autoethnography combined with phenomenography to investigate the impact of doctoral study on university lecturers’ construction of self within a changing higher education context. Similarly, in another study, the fusion of case study and phenomenography was applied when investigating how conceptions and experiences of design shape the development of academic developers’ professional practice (Kek et al., 2016). Presently, our approach afforded us a means of investigating the problem: “What are the different ways of understanding supervision and what are their implications for the practice of doctoral supervision?” In the study, phenomenography and collaborative autoethnography were ‘fused’ together methodologically, to provide a practical, yet rigorous manner of rendering our conceptions and experiences of doctoral supervision visible to one another, as well as to the readers of this chapter and/or those of future publications concerning this study. When combined, these two methodological approaches elicited and explained our perceived realities in this bounded context and acknowledged that, as participant-researchers, we have both subjective and objective experiences of the phenomenon that were unique and/or in common with one another (Creswell, 2012; Stake, 2008; Yin, 2014). The content that follows outlines the research design, results and findings of the study, and illustrates how this research contributes towards the evolving knowledge of the two methodological traditions utilised in this single study. The aim is to demonstrate that, when ‘fused’, the two methodologies can present a good ‘fit’ with specific aspects of research while maintaining the integrity of each approach.

Research design As noted previously, collaborative autoethnography and phenomenography embody this research, ‘fused’ together methodologically to interrogate the meanings of doctoral supervision as enacted and experienced by researcher-participants. The idea of methodological fusion serves to not only elicit understanding the phenomenon of interest (Research Question 1) but also capture the enactment and experiences of the phenomenon in accordance with such understanding (Research Question 2). We also use Stake’s (2008) idea of case study to select the focus of what is to be studied. In this case, the focus is on our understanding and experiences of supervision in our shared context of doctoral supervision. The study was framed by our personal narrative, where we interrogated and reflected upon our subjective views and understandings. It concerned examining our knowledge and experiences of doctoral supervision where critical reflection and reflexivity in this context engendered rigour, procedural transparency and trustworthiness of the research as we engaged in autoethnography as a collaborative endeavour of exploration and learning. We framed the following research questions to guide the investigation: 1 . What do we mean by the idea of doctoral supervision? 2. How, and in what ways, do our conceptions of supervision reflect our actions and influence our expectations as doctoral student and supervisors? The nature of the first research question is phenomenographic in its orientation, the purpose of which is to reveal the different ways that each of us understands the idea of doctoral supervision. The second research question was framed to anchor the relationship and interaction between phenomenographic and the collaborative autoethnographic methodologies. 104

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Research approaches

Data source

Research Questions

Constructivist paradigm: Key themes

Phenomenography illuminate the different ways of understanding the idea of supervision

s

Semi-structured individual interviews

Autoethnography

Q1 What do we mean by tile idea of “supervision”?

Q2 How and in what ways our conceptions of supervision reflect our actions and influence expectations?

Uncover how participants think and act in a bounded context of doctoral supervision

es a rativ Nar ntiary e evid e s a b

Natural settings

Co-constructed meanings

Research problem: What are the different ways of understanding supervision and their implication to practice?

Figure 9.1  Methodological fusion in qualitative inquiry (Press et al., 2019)

As  such, the second question builds upon the first, to direct the investigation to deeper critical reflections and reflexivity, as we engage in close observations of social practices and interactions (see Figure 9.1).

Study participants and research site The study was undertaken in two multi-campus universities in Australia; the first-named author and two of her supervisors worked at one university and the other worked at the first-named author’s previous university. As the first-named author was undertaking education research in the nursing discipline, the supervisory team consisted of two distinct disciplinary representations. Table 9.1 summarises the personal information as participant-researchers.

Table 9.1  Study participants Name (ID)

Gender

Discipline

Years of experience as a Doctor of Philosophy candidate

Years of experience as a Higher Degree by Research supervisor

Nona (A1) Dolene (A2) Coralie (A3) Patrick (A4)

Female Female Female Male

Education Nursing/Midwifery Nursing/Psychology Education

5 4 7 9

0 13 6 17

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Inquiry approaches This research embodies the constructivist tradition of qualitative inquiry, where narratives from interview data were utilised as an evidentiary base to capture our individual conceptions of doctoral supervision and our personal accounts of experiencing this phenomenon. Individual interviews with participant-researchers were conducted through the assistance of a critical friend who conducted individual interviews. The questions were distinctively open-ended and designed to orient the interviewee towards the phenomenon of interest (Marton & Pong, 2005). The interviews were semi-structured in nature, and each interview was conducted in the interviewer’s office or over the telephone. Each interview began with questions about the individual’s background, then moved onto questions about concrete understandings and experiences of doctoral supervision and what these experiences meant to the interviewee. These questions were designed to prompt the interviewees to reflect upon and describe their own understanding of doctoral supervision as experienced, with the interviewees influencing the flow of the interviews based on their interests and the depth of the narratives. Situated within the contextual dimensions of interviewees’ experiences as participant-researchers, the interviews captured responses that provided reflective data. Each interview lasted for an hour. In total, the interviews generated nearly 17,000 words of transcripts. The interviews were audio-recorded and transcribed verbatim. Based on a recursive process of inductive analysis, transcripts were read repeatedly and verified by each participant-researcher. Coding and analyses were carried out using Google Docs to facilitate collaborative analyses and interpretation. The first-named author led the process of phenomenographic analysis, which involved: reading and re-reading transcripts before, during and after coding; sorting into groups based on similar themes/ideas as expressed in the experiences; reviewing the groupings; describing the different conceptions of supervision; describing the critical emphasis of each conception; and describing the relationships among the variations. Throughout this process, member checking was employed; each participant-researcher reviewed and validated the identified categories. Iterations occurred as a result of grouping and regrouping themes until descriptions aligned fully with each grouping, and categories of description were formulated. The participants in this process were involved in reporting the research outcomes published in the 2019 volume on Traversing the doctorate: Reflections and strategies from students, supervisors and administrators (Press et al., 2019). The current chapter is authored by the first two co-authors of the previous chapter, but reports on behalf of the other two participant-­researchers presently.

Results and discussion One of the main foci of a phenomenographic study is to reveal the conceptions or different ways of understanding the phenomenon of interest. Such understandings are usually represented in the form of categories of description. Following their revelation, the categories of description are then analysed further to elicit the internal relations among the conceptions. These are known as the outcome space. The categories of description and the outcome space constitute the results of a phenomenographic study (Marton, 1986), which are outlined below, with accompanying evidence that guided the identification of categories of description and the development of the outcome space.

Conceptions of doctoral supervision From the spoken narrative, the phenomenographic analysis of the participant-researchers’ understanding or conception of doctoral supervision illuminated three qualitatively different 106

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categories of understanding doctoral supervision. These categories were: relational endeavour; pedagogical commitment; and reciprocal growth. The participant-researchers have had diverse understandings of the phenomenon under investigation that, as the evidence suggests, were influenced by varied experiences as doctoral students themselves. Each category is illustrated with reference to the diverse interpretations that the participants reported of understanding doctoral supervision across all three categories of description. Each conception is accompanied with quotations from the research database, the aim of which is to illuminate the referential and structural aspects identified in the categories of description.

Conception A: doctoral supervision as a relational endeavour Relational endeavour was viewed as the essence of understanding doctoral supervision espoused in Conception A. This conception of supervision emphasised interpersonal relations as an important element of the doctoral journey. Within this conception the themes embodied caring and supporting, predicated on meaningful commitment and respectful liaison among all parties in the doctoral supervision landscape. The relationship recognised the whole person as an individual and promoted collaborative and collegial partnerships that enabled the provision of support and encouragement, as well as of continuous guidance. Such relationships highlighted the doctoral supervisory role as acting as a guide, a mentor or a critical friend, whereby developing rapport and providing emotional support were deemed as paramount to such a journey. Conception A brought to bear the dimension of the variation focused on the diverse needs of the candidate, whose doctoral journey requires a supportive and nurturing environment: A3: Yeah, it’s more of – more mentoring than teaching. Yeah, I mean definitely as supervisors we share our expertise in whatever the area is, … and so I guess there’s some kind of teaching in that respect, but, yeah, it is more mentoring and guiding. … Providing guidance about deadlines and all sorts of stuff, and content, reading what the student produces and all that type of stuff…being engaged in there with the student. … I mean, recognising that the person is not a machine, that they’re human underneath it. … I guess that’s where the relationship that we talked about right at the start is different. … I guess, but more of that peer collegial [relationship].

Conception B: doctoral supervision as a pedagogical commitment In Conception B, doctoral supervision was understood and experienced as a pedagogical commitment. Providing educational guidance was viewed as critical with reference to guiding the candidate’s learning and development as a whole person while engaging in learning about the research process and all its complexities. This view aligns with the candidate and supervisors’ constructivist perspective, augmenting self-efficacy while stimulating the candidate’s thinking and ideas. The dimension of variation in Conception B highlighted the focus on the candidate as a learner positioned at the centre of the experience, to facilitate the holistic and scaffolded development as an autonomous researcher: A2:  Like

somebody learning how to ride a bike, where you have your hands on the back of the bike, and then you let them go and catch them when they fall off. … For me, my supervision tends to be more scaffold[ing], so, you know, talking around topics, helping the student find their way and … asking questions, and being more of a guide than by dominance. … I view the PhD journey as a personal, individual journey. The person who 107

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is doing the PhD, it’s their journey and it’s my job as supervisor to guide them through the processes and helping them get what they want out of that. A1:  You’re given the opportunity to grow with guidance. You’re given the opportunity to interact with your community environment with the kind of tools that will allow you to grow. ... But they’re there to guide me, to challenge me, to question me. … Because in this relationship feedback is the most important [element], coupled with guidance.

Conception C: doctoral supervision as reciprocal growth Doctoral supervision in this category was understood as reciprocal growth. In assisting the development of the candidate towards becoming and being a legitimate member of the research guild, processes facilitate the reciprocal nature of the relationship so that both parties are exposed to new ideas and learning possibilities. Hence, this conception of doctoral supervision emphasised the mutual learning opportunities pertaining to the cognitive and social dimensions of the doctoral journey. Traversing the learning-to-research and/or teaching-to-research landscapes are deemed reciprocal or mutually constituted, whereby taking part and sharing professional insights between supervisor and students, students and supervisor and supervisor and-supervisor transpires into reciprocal learning within a community of researchers. In this way of conceiving doctoral supervision, the dimension of variation accentuated the focus on continuous growth while working together collaboratively as a team: A4:  There

are formal responsibilities for students and supervisors that we need to be very conscious of, and that sense of reciprocity and trust. ... When it works well, there is a mutuality of interest and interests between the student and the supervisors. … It does have an element of that sharing knowledge and assisting. And I guess relating to that is I learn so much; I learn new ideas. ... For most people I think it’s there, that sense that “We’re in this together”. … So for me that’s predicated among other values on reciprocity – that we’re there to share, to learn from one another and so on... A2:  I haven’t yet been involved with a student and not learned something that helps. … I’m a bit of a fanatic for learning, and learning things that can be applied in other contexts.

Understandings of doctoral supervision and their relationships The research data showed some researcher-participants demonstrated more than one conception of doctoral supervision. In phenomenography, this is referred to as “inter-contextual shifts” (Marton & Pong, 2005, p. 344), referring to the shifts from one understanding of the phenomenon to another as participants responded to different questions. When intra-contextual shifts occur, it is difficult to ascribe a specific conception to a particular participant (Marton & Pong, 2005). On this note the referential and structural aspects of the identified conceptions emerged in the analysis and are outlined in Table 9.2. The finding from the analysis of the relationships among the categories of description showed similarities and differences. It is evident that the increasingly comprehensive understanding of doctoral supervision is hierarchical in nature and embodies different aspects of the practices identified in the doctoral supervisory context as reported by participant-researchers. The categories of description encapsulate internal relations that make up the outcome space. It provides a means to identify variations on understandings of doctoral supervision in a holistic fashion. In phenomenographic study this relates to the structural relationships among the categories of description (see Table 9.2). 108

The strengths and applications of collaborative autoethnography Table 9.2  Summary of the referential and structural aspects of the conceptions Category of description

Referential aspect

Structural aspect

Conception A Relational endeavour Conception B Pedagogical commitment Conception C Reciprocal growth

Supervision is related to interpersonal relations. Supervision is related to educational guidance. Supervision is related to mutual learning opportunities.

The focus is on the candidate’s diverse needs. The focus is on the candidate as a learner. The focus is on continuous growth.

In our previous publication (Press et al., 2019), the relationships of the categories of descriptions were reported as follows. Understanding doctoral supervision as a relational endeavour (Conception A) had logical connections with Conceptions B and C. Participants subscribing to Conception B focused intently on the educational aspects of the doctoral journey. Their pedagogical pursuit was to assist the candidate to progress in the doctoral journey as a learned researcher and, to do so, participants subscribing to Conception B drew upon aspects of Conception A, recognising that the interpersonal dimension equally plays a part in developing a whole person. Thus, it was possible for participants with Conception B as their primary conception to focus likewise on Conception A. On the other hand, participants who ascribed to Conception A as their primary focus may potentially focus on pastoral care and various functional aspects of the doctoral journey – for example, by supporting the candidate to meet her or his obligations at certain points during the candidature. Participants who emphasised Conception C expressed their understanding of Conceptions B and A as foundational and as working in combination with other aspects of the doctoral journey. These relationships illuminate the “outcome space” that emerged in this phenomenographic investigation, as represented in autoethnographic and collaborative autoethnographic narrative. The analysis of such narrative brought to bear the qualitatively different ways of understanding and experiencing doctoral supervision and with emphasis on descriptions facilitated the examination of relationships and variations of such descriptions. The categories of description that transpired in the analysis are logically and hierarchically related to one another, as illustrated in Figure 9.2.

Findings on the outcome space Across the categories of description, Conception A Relational Endeavour was a foundational conception. The relationship of Conception A Relational Endeavour and Conception B Pedagogical Commitment embodies the focus on the holistic development of the candidate. Understanding doctoral supervision from this perspective suggests that the supervisors promoted positive and productive relationships with their doctoral students that included concerns for the total wellbeing of the candidate whilst engaged in a thought-provoking and stimulating academic discourse. Evidence suggests this facilitated the building of the candidate’s capacity to develop not only personal agency but also collective agency (Bandura, 2009) with appropriate support mechanisms within the doctoral supervisory team. This critical variation is illustrated in the pictorial representation of the outcome space in Figure 9.2. 109

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Reciprocal growth Self-actualisation

Pedagogical al commitment c

Holistic development

Relational al endeavour en

Figure 9.2  Outcome space for the categories of description in a hierarchical form (Press et al., 2019)

The critical variation between understanding doctoral supervision as a Pedagogical commitment (Conception B) and understanding doctoral supervision as a Reciprocal growth (Conception C) yielded a critical variation focused on the self-actualisation of actors that form part of the doctoral journey for the candidate and supervisors (see Figure 9.2). In their respective contexts, the candidate and supervisors were engaged fully in a relationship that had the potential to become as fundamental to the personal development of the candidate as to that of the self-actualising supervisors. The doctoral supervisory collaboration enabled the supervisors to likewise open up the process of actualising the candidate’s potentialities (cf. Maslow, 1970) and be who they want to be. Mutual motivational drives of the supervisors and the candidate are likely to result in the quality of the relationship that yielded possibilities for self-actualisation.

Conceptions of supervision reflect actions and influence expectations For the supervisors, enacting their role encompassed “relational agency” as foundational to the doctoral supervision sense of community. The idea of relational agency relates to one’s capacity to work with others … [it] involves recognising that another person may be a resource and that work needs to be done to elicit, recognise and negotiate the use of that resource in order to align oneself in joint action on the object (Edwards, 2005, p. 168) This forms part of the essence of the three categories of description reported here, particularly Conception A – relational endeavour and as A4 pointed out: There is that sense of relationality [in doctoral supervision]. That we are not simply enacting quite restricted roles. … There has to be a recognition of people’s expertise, multiple forms of expertise and recognition of that ... and finding ways of collaborating. 110

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It is evident in this research that expectations of relationships reflect supervisory actions and are influential in putting into practice ways of doctoral supervision, enacted in a manner that it builds capacity to seek and give help when engaging with resources and each other. Here, reciprocity is highlighted and embodies reciprocal growth (Conception C). As A2 experienced, “in assisting someone on their journey, I always learn something.” Similarly, A4 explained, So for me that’s predicated among other values of reciprocity that we’re there to share, to learn from one another … hopefully, then, students will see that that’s what their supervisors are doing, and there is a sense that we are working together. But, often, the really good doctorates are where the supervisors have done more than the bare minimum of the role. The evidence suggests the embodiment of enacting doctoral supervision is considered not only in terms of knowledge or skills development by the candidate, but also in terms of what kind of person or what kind of research practitioner an aspirant to the research guild should become. For that matter, what the candidate will need to be able to do and who they will need to be to navigate their future lives, and to manage a career as a researcher in a complex world. Thus, an emphasis not just on epistemology (knowing) but also on praxis (doing) and ontological considerations (being) (Barnacle, 2005; Barnett, 2015; Kemmis & Trede, 2010). Conception B – Pedagogical Commitment – lends support to epistemological, praxis and ontological dimensions of the candidates supervisory experiences, as A1 explained: It’s an enculturation … you’re given the opportunity to grow with guidance. ... So, there’s always this kind of a supportive community for me, and it’s also the language that they use, and I develop. … you really are being enculturated in the discipline as a researcher and as an educationist, with the sense that you belong and be who you want to be. Such enculturation embodies identity formation and autonomy, influenced by the environment and supervisory transactions, and where the social dimension of the experience is also evident: “The supervisors’ style will drive the experience, I believe. … But autonomy is really profound. … If you didn’t do the work, that’s your fault” [A1]. The role of ontology in developing the candidate is evident here and offers a means for higher education to move forward in acknowledging and understanding the ontological implications of doctoral learning. Due to space restriction, this aspect will be unpacked deeply in future publications. Notwithstanding, it is important to note that, until recently, the ontological aspects of the doctoral students’ development had the tendency to be secondary or subordinate to epistemological matters in doctoral education. Yet the integration of knowing, doing and being (Dall’Alba, 2018), without privileging one over another, is, in many respects, essential for one’s holistic development and self-actualisation. A sentiment reflected in the outcome space, illustrated in this study.

Conclusion Engaging in this collaborative research endeavour has enriched our sense of accountability and also of transparency as individual researchers and collectively as a research team. In this qualitative research, our inquiry is necessarily framed by personal narratives where we reflect upon our understanding of the phenomenon of interest and where we think deeply and reflexively as each question is interrogated. Such interrogation concerns our experiences of 111

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this phenomenon pertaining to various personal and institutional expectations and constraints. In  reflecting upon our subjective views and understanding, it facilitates critical reflexivity as we engage in autoethnography as a collaborative journey of exploration and learning. It is important to note that we are mindful of a possible concern highlighted by Chang et al. (2013) that “… a study of one’s self lacks the possibility of demonstrating researcher accountability during the research process because the researcher is also the participant” (p. 21). We experienced the enactment of this research as a phenomenographic and collaborative autoethnographic inquiry, akin to participating in a community of practice (Wenger-Trayner & Wenger-Trayner, 2015). We attended to collaborative activities as a team, such as refining the research design, formulating questions, and enacting decision-making processes concerning analytical procedures, which rendered such activities transparent and members mutually accountable. By attending to research matters as a team, particularly concerning data collection, analysis and interpretation, and reporting of results and findings, such tasks facilitated constant dialogue, reflection, and reflexivity (Creswell, 2012; Denzin & Lincoln, 2011). As participant-researchers, the need to be critically dialogic, self-focused and researcher-visible, among others, is an essential aspect of the research processes in our collaborative study (Kenny et al., 2016). The categories of description and hierarchical illustration of conceptions of supervision in this study may prove useful to doctoral supervisors seeking ways to frame/re-frame their own supervisory context and practices. The results demonstrate the criticality of recognising different conceptions of supervision, in which no one conception is privileged over another. Rather, it was found that each conceptual category brought to bear an integral role in understanding, performing, and evaluating doctoral supervision and its impact and outcomes. We see the results discussed here, in response to the two research questions outlined above, as enriching our current understandings of specific conceptual frameworks and methodological approaches. These can be useful in discerning the diverse experiences of doctoral students and their supervisors. Recognising the interplay among these interconnected elements is of utmost importance in enhancing and enriching such experiences. We see also the methodological fusion (see also Press, 2017) employed in the study as an appropriate and rigorous way of unpacking that interplay. The fusion of phenomenography and collaborative autoethnography, or a fusion of other methodological traditions for that matter, could be potentially useful in inquiring into doctoral supervision in diverse academic disciplines. Such a fusion could present an in-depth exploration of doctoral supervision, and all its complexities, about which there is a potential dearth of knowledge. At this point, a cautionary note is warranted. When considering the use of methodological fusion, reflect upon likely tensions between the underlying ontology of each methodology – alignment, consistency or corresponding philosophical orientations must be apparent. Similarly, the researcher/s’ research focus and approaches must align with philosophical perspectives about research (cf. Annells, 2006). We believe that the innovative research strategy applied in this research may be of use to others who may want to inquire into their own doctoral supervisory practices and/or teaching and learning.

Acknowledgements We acknowledge with thanks our colleagues’ earlier participation in this research: Professor Patrick Alan Danaher and Associate Professor Coralie Graham. We also acknowledge with thanks the support we received from our critical friend Dr Tara Newman, whose expertise and professionalism in the research process enabled us to capture pertinent data. 112

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10 CONVERSATIONS WITH MY DOG Anthropomorphising self-narrative as a researcher’s autoethnographic tool when writing her thesis and conducting grief work Deborah L. Mulligan Introduction I began my first PhD six months after my 19-year-old son died of cancer. The cancer journey was long and harrowing. Paradoxically, it can be reduced to just a few words – we cared for him, we loved him and he died. It was an inexplicable occurrence. He wasn’t supposed to leave us but, in the end, he had no choice. I held his hand as he took his last breath. I was non-verbal outside of immediate family members for quite some time. How do you explain the inexplicable to others? You don’t even try. Only those who lived with him and loved him are cognisant of the mental and physical turmoil of grief and bereavement. What then of the solitary hours endured by a mother left to grieve on her own, unable and unwilling to communicate with the outside world? Where is she to find comfort when the house is empty and the other family members have resumed their working lives, a Labrador dog named El her only companion. This chapter is a reflexive overview of the emotional process of my dissertation writing after the death of my son. “Reflexivity adds validity and rigour in research by providing information about the contexts in which data are located” (Etherington, 2004, p. 37). This is my doctoral story. An autobiographical incident is linked with the paradigm of autoethnography which is viewed through the lens of self-narrative as a tool for meaning construction. The ontological assumption underpinning this type of narrative links the “storied world” (Etherington, 2004, p. 75) in which I live with my individual reality as a bereaved parent. I seek to understand the nature of my existence in this foreign and unfriendly land. Connections of relationality are drawn between the traumatic aftermath of the death of my son, the anthropomorphisation of a beloved family pet, the event of doctoral thesis writing (doctorateness) and the manifestations of the dual identities of myself as an academic researcher and a grieving parent. Today I have woken in a philosophical mood. I have the flu so I can’t go to the university campus lest I spread my germs. Grief still makes me susceptible to illness. So I am trapped and reflective. El senses my mood and stares out the open door at nothing. These are the moments when we sit united and cast our gazes outwardly into the universe.

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-12

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We are momentarily calm amidst the chaos of grief. How did I get to this place of fleeting tranquillity? Single mindedness. It’s now a survival skill for me, just as it is for El and her love for our family. Constant inner dialogue initiated by my dog. “How are you feeling today? Can you do some work on your thesis? Remember you have that meeting with your supervisor. He will understand if you cancel.” One foot in front of the other. I’m ok with this. I have to be. Distance and purpose. Initially, my study gave me something else to think about – incrementally – whilst I sat at home. It gave me a purpose when interaction outside with people both known and unknown was fraught with tears and silences and too many words. Thesis work: a solitary act with long periods of time at my computer. The perfect excuse to hide away. Never alone. My dog a stalwart and loyal companion.

Evocative autoethnography Chronic grief is a misunderstood phenomenon in our western culture. Grievers become a form of cultural casualty. Their grief (although understood and expected) is to be borne in silence, away from a public forum where others may be embarrassed by overt displays of mourning. Profound extended grief, such as the loss of a child, constitutes an otherness of life to the extent that those who have never experienced it can only presume an exit strategy. Dominant schools of thought would have us mistaking quantitative, clinically investigated information (collected from an emotional distance) for authentic research. Autoethnographic studies allow a circuit breaker in this type of formalised data gathering: “Autoethnographies attempt to make social science more than just an end in itself ” (Bochner, 2012, p. 155). When positioning the self in academic writing, particularly if the author comes from a place of trauma, the production of authenticity is fraught with reflexive unease. This is not an easy story to tell. Chadwick (2021) discussed the notion of “discomfort” (n.p.) when researching and addressed the anxiety around writing that crosses the border from our personal lives into the domain of our academic worlds. However, the story of transformation woven around the bereaved self inextricably linked with doctoral study is not one to be secreted away. Chadwick further emphasised that discomposure is “actant in research practices” (n.p.; emphasis in the original). Indeed, it guides interpretation and is a fundamental element of the ownership of “reflexive and critical” (n.p.) research praxis. As such, it should be welcomed in that it constitutes a potentially significant source of knowledge production. It will serve to provide others with a range of possible strategies to implement when personally challenged by the diversity of experience located within the PhD journey and beyond. Autoethnography seeks to evoke a reader/writer relationship built on the vulnerable first-person voice of the writer and the cognitive curiosity of the reader. Ellis et al. (2011) described this methodology as “both process and product” (p. 273). In her essay entitled ‘The risky responsibility of doctoral writing as grief work: Lessons learnt whilst journeying with trauma in Australia’, Mulligan (2021) discussed the precarity of thesis writing when under extreme psychological and spiritual pressure. It chronicled not only the path to production of the PhD thesis from conception to completion but highlighted the teachable moments along the way for both doctoral and emotional processes. These moments included the strength that is fostered by belief. The confidence that significant others have in your ability to complete the doctorate is a powerful force. Both my supervisors and my family never doubted that I would finish. At times when I doubted myself, I drew on their faith in my ability. The PhD journey is a long one – a convoluted marathon. As such, it requires dedication and training. Physical and emotional self-care becomes 116

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an important facet of life. Exercise, water and rest (even though you don’t want to!) are key elements for mental health. Socialisation, in its many guises, is a significant boost to emotional health. My social activities occurred with small groups of friends and family. The latter included my dog. Doctoral writing can be a road to isolation and in the long hours of the research and the write-up, she was my only companion. Subconsciously, I depended on her to keep me company. Her snores provided a comforting backdrop to my days and nights. Her presence afforded a sounding board for recalcitrant paragraphs which, when read aloud, somehow found their own sense of formation. Evocative autoethnography focuses on shared social themes viewed through the reflexive lens and voice of the individual. Readers are invited into the world of the writer as a particular cultural incident is explored from the writer’s unique perspective. Through this lens, the writer hopes to share her story in a manner that enables the reader to find some common ground with the writer’s experience. Roth (2009) referred to the self and the general population as being: “co-constituted in their relation, having emerged from a singular plural with” (n.p.; emphasis in the original). Meaningful exchanges are created that provide linkages to social change. Additionally, the writer is afforded an opportunity to challenge widely held and steadfastly regarded cultural stereotypes and traditional behavioural tropes. Self-narrative as an adjunct of autoethnography magnifies the profile of the multiple facets and sensibilities of researcher identity. Personal reflexive accounts of self as the main actor are a feature of this methodology. As hypothesised by Anderson (2006), the autoethnographer as the author represents part of the process in which she is participating and is a pivotal element of the story is it unfolds. The reader is invited into the author’s world and is challenged to emotionally interact with the text by reflecting upon the events recorded as they pertain to their own life experience. As befits the practice of autoethnographic methodology, the focus remains solely on my story (Adams & Manning, 2015) as I made my way through the maze of doctoral work layered over with grief work. As such, it will not be directed at any other living human involved in its production. The notion of reflexivity lies at the centre of this type of methodology and researcher subjectivity is foregrounded. Subjectivity emphasises depth, complexity and nuance when illuminating the individualised interconnected elements of a social (and academic) phenomenon. Personalised vignettes are a common practice utilised in qualitative research, particularly evocative autoethnography. Barter and Renold (1999) listed three key objectives writers may have in mind when deciding to use vignettes. These are: contextual exploration of actions; clarification of the writer’s opinion; and to provide a more benign exploration of a sensitive topic. Compellingly, it is through the use of vignettes that the author is afforded agency through the opportunity to tell her own story on her own terms. The different voices utilised by the writer provide an insight into the existential experience being portrayed on the page. This promotes an appreciation of the author as an “actor in my own life production” (Gray, 2003, p. 265). Alongside authenticity and agency, vignettes act as an instrument for “contextual richness” (Miles & Huberman, 1994, p. 83) in that they enhance the reading experience and provide the reader with a relational realism not afforded by formal academic text. Pitard (2016) was attracted to the “lure of speaking from my heart” (n.p.) when utilising vignettes in her account of teaching students from Timor-Leste. Humphreys (2005) regarded the use of vignettes as an additional manifestation of reflexivity. He suggested that this form of inward-looking communication creates a dialogic link with the reader. Another authorial technique that showcases reflexivity and allows the writer to step outside of herself and view the emotionality within, is anthropomorphism. This method of writing 117

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provides the reader with a more vivid and insightful experience through the use of vignettes: in my case, conversations with my dog. “I can’t take you outside to play, I’m busy.” This is me talking to my dog. What a difference this conversation is from the ones we used to have several years ago. At the beginning of my PhD, grief was fresh and energetic in its exhausting engagement. I have emotionally morphed from “I can’t take you outside to play, I need to stay in bed. I’m so tired.” Now I’m too busy writing. I take her of course. No matter how engrossed I am in Chapter 5. Her loving brown eyes pressure me in ways that human words could never achieve. We play in the yard, me throwing a ball and her never returning it. It’s good for me to get out into the open. There was a period when all I could do was sit in a chair and mourn. Eventually, with time, I have reframed my sense of Self. Doctoral study and the supportive relationships therein have helped me enormously to rebuild self-confidence. It was a difficult and tremulous hard-won transformation but it happened.

Anthropomorphism Dogs and humans have evolved together through the centuries to form a close bond. Exactly when dogs became domesticated is a provocative and controversial topic among historians; however, it is recorded that dogs played a powerful role in village life during the Palaeolithic era (Botigué et al., 2017). The exact time in history signifying dogs as much loved family pets is less contentious. Dogs began appearing in paintings of domestic and family life in the 19th century (Walsh, 2009). The relationship a person considers that they have with their companion animal has as a powerful influence on an individual’s social and personal understandings, wellbeing and communicative preferences. Anthropomorphism can be defined as “the situated direct perception of animal minds (or other human properties) in the behaviour or bodily expression of animals, by someone who is engaged in a specific purpose of activity” (Servais, 2018, p. 2). This is the most resonant of definitions in my particular circumstance. The shared history between my son, myself and our dog was a significant factor in my perception of El as a type of “fictive kin” (sociologydictionary.org) with whom I could relate on a deeply personal level as we had both experienced the trauma of Rory’s death. Servais (2018) further hypothesised that, pragmatically, anthropomorphism is contextual and socially orientated. I felt that El and I were engaged in a journey of grief together with a purposeful direction. The outcome of which was not only a PhD award, but also a personally transformative enactment. Viviers (2014) reviewed the historical psychology behind animal companionship and posited that the term “socio-psychological support” (p. 1) was an effective reference for the service that companion animals provide for their humans. The author cites Fine and Beck as providing the definitive definition of the relationship between the two animal/human entities: “[A] mutually beneficial and dynamic relationship between people and other animals that is influenced by behaviours that are essential to the health and well-being of both” (p. 1). Certainly, my interactions with my dog were based on the premises of emotional and physical mutuality, trust and reciprocity. Airenti (2018) cited the circumstances under which anthropomorphism thrives. She proposed insecurity, anxiety and vulnerability as catalysts. Although the author was referencing natural disasters and/or threat of disease, the emotional characteristics were particularly pertinent when applied to my lived experience. Airenti further posited that anthropomorphism is 118

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dialogic in nature and this interaction is commonplace in human interactions with pets who are considered to be life companion. From my viewpoint, in my particular set of circumstances, anthropomorphism is a form of eudaimonia. My constructed relationship with El represented a human nurturing of mind, spirit and body and provided a promise of, if not all-encompassing happiness, then certainly a configuration of flourishing. Whilst writing my way into a doctorate, I was also writing my way back into a fulfilling and purposeful life with the help of my companion animal. The grief, potent and all-consuming was both a private and a public experience which manifested itself at times unexpectedly, but usually in the early days, with monotonous regularity. I relied on my dog to act as both a reflexive tool that assisted me to think through my grief and also as an impetus for action that impelled me to actually get out of bed in the morning to attend to the necessities of life and doctoral practice. Thoughts of beginning a doctorate were conceived amid a wash of tears. Again. It was my dog who first suggested that I needed to get up out of the chair and do “something”. She can be very persuasive when she has a purpose. “Ring the uni. Tell them you need to resume your study.” I had begun a doctorate before Rory became ill but discarded it in order to focus on hospital visits. She didn’t convince me at first. “I can’t even string two sentences together when I’m speaking, let alone write a whole thesis. What are you thinking! Who would want me? Who would take that risk?” “You can do it. You can’t sit here for the rest of your life. I need you to come back and so does your family. I will be your constant. We will do this together.” And so I began. It turns out that there are supervisors who are committed to journeying with their students and who are willing to invest time and effort. I’d given no thought to a topic – even my dog couldn’t help me with that. And I didn’t want to return to my old research. It was dated and reminded me too much of ‘before’. I became a student again and learned valuable life lessons from both my doctorate and my dog. Practise patience. Don’t give up on the process. One word, one sentence, one paragraph – it all counts. Endure. Just like El when she’s ‘desperate’ for food and trying to get my attention. Sit, focus, keep your eye on the goal. Take time out to play. It’s not good for your physical and mental health to sit in front of a computer for endless hours. Throw a ball to your recalcitrant dog – who cares if it isn’t returned? Engage in life. Walk and sniff and contemplate your place in nature amongst the flowers. Or not. Just walk and absorb the environment and not think about anything. Seek out good companions. Those who will support you and lift your spirits. They may already be in your life, sitting (or lying) beside you. They may be strangers who become friends and with whom you share a common interest. Take nothing for granted. Whether it be advice from your supervisors/peers or the perception of your dog. Listen to their wisdom.

Doctorateness I began my thesis entitled “‘Time to find a new freedom’: TOMNET and Men’s Sheds – Meeting older men’s contributive needs in regions within South East and South West Queensland, Australia?” (Mulligan, 2018). Having delivered all the signatures on the correct forms, the issue of how I was to traverse the doctoral landscape loomed large. What constitutes a successful doctoral candidate? It would seem that this is a contested concept with the existence of several scholarly disparate definitions. Denicolo and Park (2013) regarded enthusiasm, perseverance and flexibility as necessary personality attributes for a doctoral candidate. 119

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They  describe the definitional elusiveness of doctorateness as a result of the diverse criteria sought by examiners – “individual examiners from different disciplines are likely to put dissimilar weight on singular elements’ (pp. 193–194). Frayling et al. (1997) highlighted the structural and organisational rigours of peer review as a validation of doctorateness. Poole (2015) took a more pragmatic view and valued publications and citations as proof of doctorateness. He stressed that the academic accessibility of a doctorate should be prioritised and that examiners should assess “largely on the extent to which the material could potentially be adapted for publication in reputable journals” (p. 1521). Trafford and Leshem (2002) used the analogy of the jigsaw puzzle and claimed doctorateness was achieved when all of the pieces fit together as a viable whole. “Inherent in doctorateness is the notion of synergy” (p. 308). Wellington (2013) stated that seeking a common term for doctorateness was “rather like looking for the Holy Grail” (p. 1501). After a comprehensive review of extant literature, I have compiled my own definition of doctorateness. I decided that it is a notion grounded in the ‘who’, not the ‘what’. I reflected upon the characteristics that I had at the time as well as those I thought I could assume in the future that could lend themselves to this notion. In this way, I personalised the concept and made it my own. As with grief, doctorateness is a question of ownership in that I am responsible for its everyday praxis. I determined that doctorateness required the personal qualities of commitment, emotional intelligence and intellectual curiosity, as well as the academic qualities of intentionality, competency, resilience and open-mindedness. Further, it is a notion that cannot be assigned a specific gender or age. El and I are discussing this new academic world we find ourselves in. I am telling her about my university and the opportunities afforded to me by simply being there. Being part of something bigger than myself. The challenges, the triumphs. Will I be able to see it through to the end? Who cares if I succeed or fail? Have I got what it takes? I am telling her about the different opinions people have about my doctoral endeavour that they have kindly shared with me. She’s gnawing on a bone so she’s not going any place any time soon. I am waxing lyrical to a captive audience. Comments like: “I’d never have time to do that. I’m much too busy.” (the Timelords); You know it doesn’t really mean anything these days don’t you?” (the Justifiers); “I could do one, but I’m just not interested” (the Dismissives); “I just couldn’t bear to go back and study” (the Dramatists); “Have you finished yet?” (the Are-We-There-Yets); “But why would you want to do that?” (the Toddlers); “That’s all very well but what are you going to do with it?” (the Futurists). These comments prompt me think about my version of doctorateness. There are certain truisms in these flippant (and at times, uninvited) comments. It’s true that I am busy – grieving still takes up a lot of my time and energy – and I have returned to work. It’s true that I am at the end of my paid professional life and a doctorate is meaningless for career advancement in my situation. BUT I am interested in the process of research – the structure of the thesis, the formation of paragraphs, the academic conversation, the new knowledge. I enjoy meeting with participants who trust me to utilise their confidences in a productive and meaningful way. I’m at peace with the notion that my study will take as long as it takes. I will not rush to finish. Part of the doctoral process is enjoyment. I am a lifelong learner and my learning style suits scholarship. Once my thesis is completed, I will spread my findings and raise awareness as far and as wide as I can. That is my right and my responsibility as a global citizen. El looks at me. The slow but thorough demolition of her bone only half completed. But she’s tired from the complex constancy of marrow extraction. Time to bury it for another day. And then get back to the business of writing (me) and napping (her). Break time is over.

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Dualism A doctoral candidate’s identity is a messy contrivance. It is moulded from the positive and negative lived experiences of the individual. These experiences are drawn from both personal and academic spheres and influences. They are also centred on the candidate’s historical, current and future imaginings perspectives. The same identity valence applies to the bereaved. The grieving process is somewhat parallel to that of the doctoral candidate. Chaotic and contradictory forces are at work on the psyche until a truce is formed between self-concept and reality. For the doctoral candidate and the griever, this may involve an initial period of angst where the individual is forced into an alien world with new rules and structures. Until one adapts and understands (or at least learns to live with) those rules, life is uncertain and fraught with mis-steps where trial and error are the order (or rather, disorder) of the day. McAlpine’s identity-trajectories theory (2012) offers a conceptual framework for the dualism of newly acquired bereavement and doctoral candidacy identities. Both of which, in my case, occurred within six months of one another. The former was thrust upon me; the latter was an intentional undertaking on my part. The dichotomy of circumstances makes for an interesting parallel of life interpretations and understandings. Contextual learnings from both trajectories can be comparatively similar in that they are both embodied cognitive experiences. “Embodied cognition implies that there are resources, plural, available to the organism” (Wilson & Golonka, 2013, n. p.). In this case, the organism (me) utilised the interconnectedness of the brain, the body and the environment in order to seek a pathway to, and a resolution of my task-oriented goals. The central notion of the identity-trajectories theory (McAlpine, 2012) focuses on the individual who privileges goal setting and achievement through intentional acts. In my circumstance, the goals were conferral of a PhD and an easing of the consuming emotionality of bereavement. Thus, doctoral work and grief work became the dual objectives of my trajectory: “nesting the academic within the personal and incorporating students’ past as well as imagined futures” (p. 38). My academic life ‘nested’ in my emotional life as I imagined a future where my identities of competent scholar and bereaved mother became synergetic. Stroebe and Schut (1999) hypothesised a four-task grief work model that included: 1 . 2. 3. 4.

acceptance of the world without the physical presence of the deceased feel the pain from the loss but take some respite from it adapt and mentally reconfigure the new grief environment establish new “roles, identities and relationships” (p. 215).

This grief work model can be extrapolated to doctoral work in that I had to adapt to the new scholarly environment which included: 1. acceptance of the academic world that was unlike any previous exposure I had encountered in the decades since I had completed my Master of Education. 2. work my way steadily through the tasks associated with doctoral research and thesis writing, but take time out to rest and mull over concepts/ideas/new experiences that emerge throughout the research process 3. adapt to the new environment of the academic communities, reconfiguring a new academic role and new collaborative relationships 4. establish new “roles, identities and relationships” (p. 215) that enable me to fit into the new environment. 121

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Each narrative employing the identity-trajectories theory connects historical, present and imagined future life events in an intentional manner. Pivotal to this theory are the three major elements of “agency”, “personal” and “past” (McAlpine, 2012, p. 39). These three components are also vital to my enactment of my grief work alongside my doctoral progress as shown in brackets. Agency is afforded in the deliberate and planned forward progression of the doctoral endeavour (and my grief work), including any possible limitations or challenges that may arise. The doctoral processes are seen as a part of the personal life of the student (and part of the performance of my grief work). Consideration of the impact of past life episodes, including former relationships (my son), on the present and the future needs to be reflected upon. El and I are out walking. It has been a long day writing and we are taking respite in the cool of the evening. As usual, she pulls on the lead, impatient to get wherever it is that we are going. As usual, our walk is also punctuated by full stops in the form of protracted sniffing of interesting smells. This doggy alchemy is to be endured by the poor hapless human who is forced to wait out this latest serious examination of the ground. Experience has taught me that this is a process that cannot – under any circumstances – be rushed. El becomes an immovable object around which everyone else must detour as I stand there and make my profuse apologies to those other walkers whose dogs are more obedient than mine. There are several learning opportunities here I think. Not the least of which is that my dog needs obedience lessons. That aside, the juxtaposition of the harried human and the deliberative dog is an interesting one. If I’m not careful, my walk can become just another job. A ‘fit-in’ – get up, have coffee, turn on the computer, eat something, read those papers, have more coffee, walk the dog, write a thesis. Perhaps those full stops should remind me that life – and a doctorate – is more than a job to be done. Perhaps in the craziness of grief, those full stops should remind me to take the time to chat to my son. A bittersweet internal dialogue about nature and the beauty of sunsets and a dog that will not be rushed. It also strikes me that El’s leash behaviour is similar to the life of a griever who is constantly straining to find a purposeful existence after the death of her child. Do a doctorate, go back to work, rush around – do anything that might silence the voice in your head that insists on rehashing traumatic memories. This is mentally and physically unsustainable. Eventually you will be forced to a full stop by a body and a mind that cannot keep up the pace. When this happens, take the opportunity to rest and recuperate and when you are re-energised, begin again. As we come to the tail end of our walk, El trots serenely and sedately beside me like she is, and always has been, the best behaved dog in the neighbourhood. I’m not fooled – she’s tired from all that pushing and pulling exertion so she has morphed into a model of canine compliance. This is the time I enjoy the most. We are both momentarily at peace with the world.

Conclusion Eminent scholars Abraham Maslow (1943, 1962, 1970) and Howard McClusky (1971, 1974, 1976) both developed theories around the notion of achievement of life potential. Maslow’s original hierarchy of needs or “pre-potency” (1943, p. 370) is a permanent fixture in significant historical scholarship. His stage-based hierarchy of human needs beginning with physical and then progressing upwards through security, social, ego and self-actualisation is a seminal work. In 1970, the scholar built upon his original hierarchy to add three more needs – cognitive, aesthetic and self-transcendence (physical, security, social, ego, cognitive, aesthetic, self-actualisation and finally, self-transcendence). When my son died, I was privileged enough to consider that the three basic needs were fully met in my life. I was physically and financially sound and I had positive relationships with others. However, the first victim of grief is self-esteem. I was cast adrift in an ocean of self-recrimination and hopelessness. In my eyes, a maternal failure. 122

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Doctoral studies and all that it entailed provided me with a base upon which to rebuild my shattered ego and feed the need for cognitive rediscovery. This became the foundation of my ongoing grief work. McClusky, an educational gerontologist, hypothesised a five-factor nonsequential series of needs in order to “satisfy the basic requirements of aging” (1974, p. 331). These needs were coping (authority), expressive (relaxation endeavours), contributive (valuable community contribution), influence (esteem) and transcendence (altruism). Bereavement rendered me deficient of all five. Through the structure of the doctoral process, the connections made with other academics and the emotional support of my supervisors, I now find myself able to claim four of the five needs as having been met. I am still working on transcendence! My grief work is far from over and will continue until I rejoin my son but for the present, and my imagined future, I am satisfied with my contribution to life. My academic experience enabled the agency that had been sacrificed on the altar of overwhelming grief. As I made my way through my academic life, I became more clear- sighted about a way forward through my personal life. In the telling of my story, I sought to combine notions to do with “love and healing, … balance and connection … beauty and growing” (Aptheker 1989, as cited in Etherington, 2004, p. 54) as I journeyed. “You’re here! You’re home! HOORAY!!!!! I’ll just do a smallish dance.” That’s my dog El. She basically performs this greeting every morning, every night, any time I’ve left her for five or more minutes. Her welcome dances have become less agile over the years but that does not diminish the love and enthusiasm she has for seeing me again. We are connected in our relationship built on the twin pillars of acceptance and belonging. As I grow through this period of academic and personal intensity, I am forever grateful for the gifts I have been given. The love of my family and the memories – both good and bad – that we share. The new relationships I have been lucky enough to forge with like-minded and committed academics. The companionship of a very effusive and devoted Labrador dog. (See Figure 10.1.)

Figure 10.1  El

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References Adams, T. E., & Manning, J. (2015). Autoethnography and family research. Journal of Family Theory and Review, 7, 350–366. https://doi.org/10.1111/jftr.12116 Airenti, G. (2018). The development of anthropomorphism in interaction: Intersubjectivity, imagination, and theory of mind. Frontiers in Psychology, 9, Article 2136. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2018.02136 Anderson, L. (2006). Analytic autoethnography. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 35(4), 373–395. https://doi.org/10.1177/0891241605280449 Barter, C., & Renold, E. (1999). The use of vignettes in qualitative research. Social Research Update, Issue 25. https://sru.soc.surrey.ac.uk/SRU25.html Bochner, A. (2012). On first-person narrative scholarship: Autoethnography as acts of meaning. Narrative Inquiry, 22(1), 155–164. https://doi.org/10.1075/ni.22.1.10boc Botigué, L., Song, S., Scheu, A. et al. (2017). Ancient European dog genomes reveal continuity since the Early Neolithic. Nature Communications, 8, Article 16082. https://doi.org/10.1038/ncomms16082 Chadwick, R. (2021, February 24). Reflecting on the discomfort in research. London School of Economics and Political Science Impact Blog. https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/impactofsocialsciences/2021/02/24/ reflecting-on-discomfort-in-research/ Denicolo, P. M., & Park, C. (2013). Doctorateness – An elusive concept? In M. Kompf & P.  M.  Denicolo (Eds.), Critical issues in higher education. (pp. 191–197). Springer. https://doi.org/ 10.1007/978-94-6209-046-0_15 Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research, 36(4), 273–290. https://doi.org/10.12759/hsr.36.2011.4.273-290 Etherington, K. (2004). Becoming a Reflexive Researcher. Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Frayling, C., Stead V., Archer B., Cook N., Powell J., Sage V., Scrivener S., Tovey M. (Eds.). (1997). Practice based doctorates in the creative and performing arts and design. UK Council for Graduate Education. http://www.ukcge.ac.uk/media/download.aspx?MediaId=1289 Gray, R. E. (2003). Performing on and off stage: The place(s) of performance in arts-based approaches to qualitative enquiry. Qualitative Inquiry, 9(2), 254–267. Humphreys, M. (2005). Getting personal: Reflexivity and autoethnographic vignettes. Qualitative Inquiry, 11(6), 840–860. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800404269425 McAlpine, L. (2012). Identity-trajectories: Doctoral journeys from past to present to future. Australian Universities Review, 54(1), 38–46. https://www.semanticscholar.org/paper/Identity-trajectories-Doctoraljourneys-from-past-McAlpine/256c29363c420291fa8e1ca02858383e208e7fdd McClusky, H. Y. (1971). Education: Background paper for 1971 White House conference on aging. White House Conference on Aging. https://www.aging.senate.gov/imo/media/doc/reports/rpt1371.pdf McClusky, H. Y. (1974). Education for aging: The scope of the field and perspectives for the future. In S. Grabowski & D. Mason (Eds.), Learning for aging (pp. 324–355). Adult Education Association of the USA and ERIC Clearinghouse on Adult Education. McClusky, H. Y. (1976). What research says about adult learning potential and teaching older adults. In R. M. Smith (Ed.), Adult learning: Issues and innovations (pp. 111–122). Department of Secondary and Adult Education and ERIC Clearinghouse in Career Education. Maslow, A. H. (1943). A theory of human motivation. Psychological Review, 50(4), 370–396. https://doi. org/10.1037/h0054346 Maslow, A. H. (1962). Toward a Psychology of Being. D. Van Nostrand Company, Inc. Maslow, A. H. (1970). Motivation and Personality (3rd ed.). Longman. Miles, M. B., & Huberman, A. M. (1994). Qualitative data analysis (2nd ed.). Sage. Mulligan, D. L. (2018). “Time to find a new freedom”: TOMNET and Men’s Sheds – Meeting older men’s contributive needs in regions within South East and South West Queensland, Australia? [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. University of Southern Queensland. Mulligan, D. L. (2021). The risky responsibility of doctoral writing as grief work: Lessons learnt whilst journeying with trauma in Australia. In D. L. Mulligan & P. A. Danaher (Eds.), Researchers at risk: Precarity, jeopardy and uncertainty in academia (Palgrave studies in education research methods) (pp. 85–99). Palgrave Macmillan. Pitard, J. (2016). Using vignettes within autoethnography to explore layers of cross-cultural awareness as a teacher. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung/Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 17(1), Article 11. http:// nbn-resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:0114-fqs1601119

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Conversations with my dog Poole, B. (2015). The rather elusive concept of ‘doctorateness’: A reaction to Wellington. Studies in Higher Education, 40(9), 1507–1522. https://doi.org/10.1080/03075079.2013.873026 Roth, W. M. (2009). Auto/Ethnography and the question of ethics. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung/Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 10(1), Article 38. http://nbn-resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:0114-fqs0901381 Servais, V. (2018, December 18). Anthropomorphism in human–animal interactions: A pragmatist view. Frontiers in Psychology. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2018.02590 Stroebe, M. and Schut, H. (1999). The dual process model of coping with bereavement: Rationale and description. Death Studies, 23(3), 197–224. https://doi.org/10.1080/074811899201046 Trafford, V., & Leshem, S. (2002). Starting at the end to undertake doctoral research: Predictable questions as stepping stones. Higher Education Review, 34(1), 31–49. https://www.academia.edu/1176654/ Starting_at_the_end_to_undertake_doctoral_research_predictable_questions_as_stepping_stones Walsh, F. (2009). Human-animal bonds I: The relational significance of companion animals. Family Process, 48(4), 462–480. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1545-5300.2009.01296.x Wellington, J. (2013). Searching for ‘doctorateness’. Studies in Higher Education, 38(10), 1490–1503. http:// dx.doi.org/10.1080/03075079.2011.634901 Wilson, A. D., & Golonka, S. (2013, February 12). Embodied cognition is not what you think it is. Frontiers in Psychology. https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2013.00058/full Viviers, H. (2014). The psychology of animal companionship: Some ancient and modern views. HTS Teologiese Studies/Theological Studies, 70(1), Article 2705. https://doi.org/10.4102/hts.v70i1.2705

Websites https://sociologydictionary.org/fictive-kin/#definition_of_fictive_kin

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11 AN AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC ANALYSIS OF MENTAL HEALTH (PTSD) RECOVERY, EMPOWERMENT AND ACTIVISM THROUGH UNIVERSITY EDUCATION Meg Forbes Introduction In this chapter I employ autoethnography to explore my personal journey through academia as I sought to transform the traumatic experiences of my past into meaningful and useful action for the future. Autoethnography is a method through which the author becomes the subject of their own study, and which may assist others in understanding mental health challenges (Burnard, 2007). Although often under-reported, the most common age group of university students, people aged from 18 to 25, are most likely to experience mental illness, with psychological distress and mental illness more prevalent in university students than the wider population (McAuliffe et al., 2012). This chapter initially explores post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), including my lived experience of PTSD and my efforts to transcend my trauma by entering tertiary education via a pathways course and continuing through to completing my PhD and beginning to supervise and lecture. The chapter concludes by advocating for encouragement and support of students who disclose disabilities and mental illness through empathy, and by normalising help-seeking through university disability services.

Post-traumatic stress disorder My unusual path through life led me to university study as a “mature student”. Thirty-five years old, with my son starting school and my daughter starting kindergarten, I enrolled in an online pathways course that would allow me access to tertiary education. As a young teenager, I’d attended psychology lectures given by an older friend and had loved every minute. Despite this, my path to university was delayed by almost two decades after I survived an assault alone on a hike through a state forest just as I was about to begin my final year of high school. PTSD was not new to me. In fact, my mother’s traumatic childhood as a descendent of European Jews had left her with emotional and psychiatric scars that were perpetuated through my own early 126

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years. Having attempted to care for her through her suicidality as a child, I was very familiar with the world of mental ill-health. A caregiver from an early age, I was unable to accept support in the wake of the assault and the trial that followed the capture of my attacker. Similarly, as I entered university study, I didn’t even consider registering with Disability Services, who could have supported and advocated for me. I was determined to succeed in the way that I considered “normal”; without support and alone. Definitions of PTSD remain controversial (Bryant, 2019). However, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders V includes that a person must have witnessed or experienced a major traumatic event, such as exposure to actual or threatened death, serious injury or sexual violence, with this resulting in re-experiencing symptoms such as intrusive distressing memories, recurrent distressing dreams, dissociative reactions such as flashbacks, distress following reminders of the traumatic experience, or physiological reactions to cues resembling an aspect of the traumatic event (American Psychiatric Association, 2013). Additionally, a person must actively avoid internal reminders of the event, such as thoughts and memories, or external reminders such as situations or conversations that remind them of the event. A person must also experience alterations in cognitions and mood, such as an inability to remember important aspects of the traumatic event, persistent and exaggerated negative thoughts about themselves or the world, or feelings of being detached or estranged from others. Additionally, the person must exhibit at least two arousal symptoms, including irritable behaviour, angry outbursts, reckless or self-destructive behaviour, hypervigilance, exaggerated startle response, problems with concentration, or sleep disturbances. Finally, these symptoms must be present for more than one month following the traumatic event to avoid pathologisation of normal stress reactions to it (American Psychiatric Association, 2013).

Dyspraxia Dyspraxia, or developmental coordination disorder (DCD) is mainly considered a coordination disorder that today is often identified in early childhood or primary school, with affected children experiencing difficulties with the organisation, planning, and execution of physical movement (Gibbs et al., 2007; Polatajko & Cantin, 2005). Further, these difficulties result from a developmental rather than an acquired origin (Gibbs et al., 2007). Dyspraxia frequently impacts academic performance and often includes poor hand writing (Polatajko & Cantin, 2005). This was my experience, and because I attended school in the 1980s and 1990s, typing was not an option for me. Further, I doubt whether any of my teachers had heard the term “dyspraxia” as part of their training, since my switching between my left and right hand was punished, and my reports each term generally included comments such as “Megan is underachieving”, or “Megan is lazy…”. As a result, learning to touch type in adulthood was life changing for me, and was integral to my success as a mature-aged student at university. Permission to type my exams was the one thing I did register with Disability Services for early in my university journey, and requesting this support made the difference between success and failure for me.

My story I entered university study just one year after I began therapy to address my PTSD. Following my assault, the boarding school that I was attending referred me to a psychologist. Although I now respect and support all faiths and systems of meaning, at the time I had a strong belief in the Christian faith. However, the psychologist I was referred to said she couldn’t help me unless I accepted there could be no god, and that “what had happened to me proved that”. 127

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17 years later I gave therapy another go. This supported my long-term desire to attend university, although I found that I stumbled over numerous hurdles, most of which arose from inside me. among the symptoms of PTSD that were relevant to my university journey were persistent and exaggerated negative thoughts about myself, re-experiencing symptoms and physiological reactions to cues resembling an aspect of the traumatic event, and problems with concentration (American Psychiatric Association, 2013). The first of these, persistent and exaggerated negative thoughts about myself, manifested as a type of overwhelming imposter syndrome. This syndrome is a psychological phenomenon that includes intense feelings of intellectual fraudulence, shame, and fear by the sufferer that their lack of ability will be exposed (Wilkinson, 2020; Zeinivand et al., 2015). The role of shame, which includes negative evaluation of the self, is increasingly recognised in the development and course of PTSD (López-Castro et al., 2019). Shame has been posited to have played a role in human evolution where group membership was integral to survival, while social threat and exclusion jeopardised it (Kelly Jr & Lamia, 2018; López-Castro et al., 2019). Today, research indicates that persistent feelings of shame have a negative impact upon physical health as well as mental health. Factors include increasing vulnerability to disease, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, avoidance behaviours in relationships, and fear of failure (Dickerson et al., 2004). Thus, the twin phenomena of imposter syndrome and shame almost ended my academic journey before it had really begun. My subjective experience of imposter syndrome and shame as I approached university study was almost crippling. Although I had desperately wanted to transcend my traumatic experiences by working towards social change, it took me months to approach the subject with my therapist. I battled through shame to meet with her again after finally emailing the words I couldn’t speak, but was supported when she, as a psychologist who had entered university as a mature student, told me: “If I could do you, you can too!”. As I walked through the university doors to orientation for the pathways program that would allow me to access undergraduate courses, it felt to me as if everyone must be able to see that of all the people there with aspirations. I was the one who did not belong. The reactions I had received following the assault included being told that me “choosing to live” was the dishonourable choice before God. I wanted to attend university and study psychology to try and turn those experiences to some good, but the feeling that people may feel contaminated by physical proximity to me remained. Remaining in my seat, right at the back of the hall, changed my life though, and I resolved to push through with as little eye contact as possible. Pathways courses fall under the umbrella of enabling education in Australia, and provide access to tertiary education to those who would otherwise face significant barriers in support (Johns et al., 2016). Despite my initial anxiety, my experience of the program was overwhelmingly positive, perhaps helped by the fact that it was delivered online and I didn’t need to sit in a class room or make eye contact with others. The academic writing course opened a whole new world to me in terms of research skills, while the math course caused me significant anxiety. Although I’d done well throughout the semester, as the math exam approached everything in me screamed for me to run. The level of terror I experienced was a hypervigilant and out of proportion reaction to exam anxiety, and my therapist helped talk me through it. I realised that if I withdrew it would be the same result as failing the exam, so I resolved to do my best. What’s more, with the support of my therapist who assured me that psychologically healthy people do not react with anger to requests for help, I reached out to the math lecturer who offered to go through an old exam paper with me as preparation. Like resolving to stay in my seat at the back of the hall during orientation, succeeding in approaching her office for this exercise, and then sitting the exam, were watershed moments in my life. Had I not managed 128

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this – and not had the support offered by my therapist and the math lecturer – I would never have entered tertiary education and the last decade of my life would have been entirely different; it is likely that I would have been far less fulfilled as well. This personal recount highlights the importance of support for people struggling with a mental disability such as PTSD and my experience was congruent with research indicating that social support plays an ongoing role in the course of, and recovery from, PTSD (Herman, 1997c; Laffaye et al., 2008). Despite the importance of social support for recovery from PTSD, and although I had managed to engage in work with my therapist and to reach out to my math lecturer for a session working through old exam papers, reaching out was still not something that I found easy and felt a deep sense of shame over. Indeed, evidence suggests that shame often leads to social withdrawal and avoidance that isolate trauma survivors from potentially reparative experiences of social connection (López-Castro et al., 2019). I was aware of my university’s Disability Services and engaged with them to request support to type rather than handwrite my exams due to my dyspraxia. However, this physical challenge didn’t invoke the same feelings of shame as my PTSD and in that regard I did my best to succeed “normally”, as I saw it. The irony was that although I was majoring in psychology, and discovered anthropology along the way (which included the anthropology of health), it felt as though any success would be tainted and that I would not have truly earned it had I asked for any mental health support. Throughout my undergraduate years I was able to succeed despite this attitude and experienced great fulfilment from all that I was learning. Through this, my hope of transcending my experiences through work in the mental health field after graduation grew, and I began to slowly transition from online to on campus classes where I was able to engage in peer support with other students. Although my PTSD had certainly affected my study in terms of concentration, especially when working through difficult experiences in therapy at the same time as working on assignments or preparing for exams, the first truly difficult interpersonal experience I had was during my honours year. Evidence indicates that PTSD symptoms often act to erode interpersonal resources while increasing interpersonal stressors (Laffaye et al., 2008). The psychology honours year in Australia included conducting a research project under the direct guidance of a supervisor, and it is generally understood that achieving a higher distinction for this project is what is most often necessary to progress to post graduate study in that field. My supervisor was someone I had great respect for, and through my increasing sense of empowerment I had successfully advocated to her for me to be one of the two honours students she would be working with that year. She ran a well-structured project with supervision every two weeks, but I found that my avoidance symptoms returned about 48 hours before supervision each fortnight. Nausea expressed my mental distress physiologically, and the perfectionism that my fear drove me to no doubt supported my academic success so that I doubt if my supervisor was ever really aware of my struggles. Although I was genuinely fascinated by my topic and proud of my research, my fear of meeting with my supervisor drained much of the joy from the experience and success. Each two-week supervision cycle became like an ocean tide cycle with fear washing in and relief washing out again as my work met the necessary standard. I have since learned that these reactions were not unusual, and perhaps to be expected, for a survivor of interpersonal trauma. Indeed, survivors often struggle to feel safe with others and to engage in social strategies such as finding or mobilising support systems (Herman, 1997c). Further, evidence indicates that survivors of trauma that was deliberately inflicted by others rather than experienced through an accident or natural disaster, may find recovery and trust in others especially difficult to build (Herman, 1997c). There is an inherent power differential in academic supervisor–supervisee relationships (Tsotetsi & Omodan, 2020), and I found it 129

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difficult not to be triggered by this. Again, this was probably to be expected given that interpersonal traumatic experiences include a loss of power and diminished control for victims who then need to rebuild these in future relationships (Herman, 1997c). Thus, the power differential that I experienced in the context of the supervisor–supervisee relationship triggered flashbacks for me, resulting in the supervision that I needed to conduct rigorous research becoming my greatest obstacle. Thankfully engaging in therapy at the same time as my studies supported me in navigating this additional stress without overstepping the boundaries of the academic supervision I was being given. I suspect that if my honours supervisor were to read this today, she would be surprised to hear just how fraught I had found her professional and efficient supervision that supported my research efforts to the level necessary to be admitted to postgraduate study. As I reflect upon this, however, I am also very aware that not all students have the resources available to engage in intense psychotherapy that can support growth through trauma in a country where only ten psychology sessions are eligible for a Medicare rebate each year (with some temporary increases during the Covid-19 pandemic) (de Boer et al., 2021). Despite the challenges I’d faced, my honours results allowed me to apply to undertake doctoral research at my home university, and I was able to conduct a study that was meaningful to me in light of my past experiences and that aimed towards advocating for social justice. Like many survivors of trauma, I felt strongly motivated to engage in work that could transform my experiences to positive outcomes for others. Herman (1997a) posited that the restoration of social bonds begins with a survivor’s discovery that they are not alone. She further theorised that although there is no way to compensate for atrocities, they can be transcended when survivors choose to make them a gift to others through what may be seen as a survivor’s mission (Herman, 1997b). Such post-traumatic growth is increasingly recognised as important to recovery, and includes finding a new path in life, an increased ability to relate to the experiences of others, increased personal strength and appreciation for life, and deepened spiritual understanding (Peters et al., 2021). My doctoral study was deeply meaningful to me, although navigating the distress I felt after some participants shared their traumatic experiences with me was yet another thing to work through in therapy, mindful always of my ethical responsibility towards participants. However, a decline into a PTSD relapse was exacerbated by my difficulty in navigating supervisory relationships which were a far larger component of this work than it had been during my honours year. Having experienced stigma following the assault when I was a teenager, I was acutely aware that people in positions of power may engage in discriminatory actions (Mittal et al., 2013), and this made me determined to try and hide my PTSD at first. And, unlike during my previous years of study, I had no cohort of peers as such, only monthly meetings with three supervisors, each of whom certainly wanted to support me but had unique personalities and (at times conflicting) views on my study. As supervision approached each month, I experienced similar physiological symptoms to those I had experienced ahead of supervision during my honours year, but now the triggering aspects of my study compounded these and my ability to function declined. Hoping desperately to remain grounded while working on a project that was so meaningful to me, I found a PTSD dog, an 18 month old Labrador who was unsuitable for guide dog work, and working as a team the two of us passed our state’s Guide, Hearing, and Assistance Dog Public Access Test. This meant that my dog could accompany me everywhere, help to ground me, and alert me to the vasovagal fainting episodes that left me temporarily unconscious on the ground at times in response to the triggers and flashbacks that I was experiencing. Throughout all of this, I never once considered registering my PTSD with my university’s disability services, and when my supervisors suggested it hoping to help me salvage my study, everything in me resisted. Research indicates that my experience in this regard was congruent 130

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with that of many survivors with PTSD who may struggle for decades with various challenges before seeking help, and whose decisions in help-seeking are often contingent upon fear, past help-seeking experiences, past experiences of feeling shamed, and past experiences of rejection (Smith et al., 2020). Each of these was relevant to my lived experience but, above all, I felt as if I would have failed if I didn’t complete my PhD in the way that I conceptualised as “normal”. My self-esteem, which had gradually strengthened as I succeeded in my studies took a painful hit, and I felt deep shame in needing to request help to withdraw without penalty for a semester in order to remain in the program. I worried about other things as well, such as taking disability services resources from students who needed or deserved them more than I did, and all of these things combined meant that I only finally agreed to take this path once my study was on its knees. When I did finally register, I experienced nothing but kindness and understanding, but my deep shame and distress prevented me from reflecting upon this sufficiently at the time as I worked to regain some mental equilibrium and continue with my research. Gradually, as I began to succeed once again in my research, I began to experience a shift in my feelings. I started to make eye contact more frequently and I stood taller. Joining a postgraduate research group helped to normalise many of my struggles as I realised that many of my peers with no traumatic history struggled with imposter syndrome and to advocate for themselves and their projects in supervisory relationships as well. Additionally, being a part of this group allowed me to share my experiences with others who found them helpful for normalising what they were going through, so that I began to feel like I not only belonged but was able to contribute in a meaningful way for others. The final corner in my journey was turned when the professor who ran the group and nurtured the development of its members joined my supervisory team. Always patient, my new supervisor readily shared memories of challenges during his own time as a student to help normalise all of our experiences. I had read somewhere of a retiring professor addressing his younger colleagues and saying that everyone in academia was smart, but that they should remember to try and distinguish themselves by being kind, and I was struck by how much my new supervisor epitomised these words. The writing I sent in ahead of supervision was replied to with greetings such as Good morning Meg, and happy Friday to you! Or, when I needed to improve upon a piece of work, he would give a very gentle Thank you for your latest chapter revision which I have thoroughly enjoyed reading. A few thoughts for your consideration, please… What was especially helpful for me was knowing that this kindness was the way that my supervisor spoke to everyone. It was not pity for my PTSD, but simply his way, and in the safety of this, my research and I both flourished. A week after I submitted my PhD thesis a friend asked me to help her teach a pathways course over the summer semester. This was the first time I had taught, and it seemed so fitting that it should be right back where I started, teaching students who didn’t have access to university study and who were working towards it. Many of these students were anxious and shared that they felt uncertain about whether they belonged at university. Sharing my experience over the previous ten years with them was something that they said really helped them, and I found this immensely rewarding. Although I avoided disclosing my PTSD in case any of my students were distressed by this, I was able to relate to the experiences they were 131

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describing in class, especially as their final oral presentation approached, and use my experiences to encourage them. This is what I shared: When [my friend] asked me to speak about my journey here today, I was grateful for the opportunity to share with you. You see, I began my journey here 10 years ago by enrolling in the Tertiary Preparation Program (TPP) as an alternative pathway to an undergraduate degree. But more recently I submitted my PhD thesis for examination. What I really wanted every student attending this course to know was, if I could do it, they can too. I’ll never forget my first day here. Although I had enrolled to do the TPP online, since my children were still quite young, I attended the orientation on campus. I clearly remember walking from my car to the building the orientation was being held in. You will all remember that we studied imposter syndrome during [Pathways Course], and I could certainly relate to the course material. Heading towards orientation that day in 2011, I felt as if everyone must be able to see that, amongst all of these people with great ambitions, I was clearly the one who did not belong here at university. Although I didn’t, it was tempting to just get back into my car and drive all the way back home again without even setting foot on campus. Despite my lack of confidence, I found the TPP a fantastic pathway to university, and during that course I was taught many of the same academic skills that you have been taught here. Academic writing – moving from topic sentences, to paragraphs, to essays. Critical thinking and the analysis of material. Maths. I was most terrified of the maths course. If anything was going to trip me over on my path to academic study, I was sure that it was maths. I wanted to study psychology and had seen that there were four statistics courses in the first four years. As that first maths exam approached, I seriously considered dropping out, just because I felt so anxious about it. But then I realised – if I didn’t sit the exam, I would fail the course anyway. I decided I might as well give it a shot, and reached out to my maths lecturer who is still with the TPP program for advice. She offered to go through an old exam paper with me to build my confidence and preparedness. That single act of patience and support was a watershed moment when my life could have gone either way. When I spoke to her about this last month, having submitted my thesis, and said that I would like to share the story here with you today, she asked me to make sure that all of you were aware of the importance of asking for help on your journeys. Although as students we are all adults and responsible for our own learning, she believes that being able to ask for appropriate help can make the difference between a student succeeding in their studies, or not. As I moved into the first year of my degree, I purposefully did the first statistics course as quickly as possible. I wanted to make sure that I tackled it before I could forget the maths I’d learnt! After all of my fears during the TPP, I’d achieved a distinction grade for the maths exam. My skills strengthened as I studied, and I did well in the statistics subject as well. By now I was starting to look at how close I’d come to quitting due to my own fear of failure. I felt really grateful that I had reached out for help, and for the support that I had been given. My academic writing was improving as well, and as each semester passed the course content became increasingly interesting. As the years went by, I completed my bachelor of science, and then my honours year. 132

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I was accepted into the PhD program with a scholarship, and an increasing belief in my academic skills. My imposter syndrome was fading. One huge challenge remained, however. I literally felt sick for days ahead of needing to do any sort of public speaking. One of my favourite authors, a neuro-scientist named Louis Cozolino, recommends that people experience the most growth when they set their compasses towards anxiety and expose themselves to the thing that they fear in increasing steps. So I began looking for every opportunity I could find to present my research at conferences, symposia, and the like. I had made amazing, supportive friends in study groups along the way, and now they sat and listened as I practiced my presentations before taking them to genuine audiences. I made the leap from presenting here at our university, to presenting at conferences all around Australia. Each time I confronted my terror of standing and speaking before other people, it became just a little easier. And slowly I began to genuinely enjoy the opportunity to speak about the amazing work that the communities partnering in my research were engaged in. In November 2020 I submitted my thesis for examination, and [my friend] asked me whether I would like to teach this course with her and the rest of the team here. Rather than feeling anxious about standing up and speaking in front of you all, I found myself feeling excited about the journey you were about to undertake, and about being able to say, “If I could do it, you certainly can too!”. Education is empowering. It is one of the few things in this life that, once we have earned it, cannot be taken away from us. I hope that each of you feels truly proud of what you have achieved here over the past few weeks. Education here is a meaningful, life-changing journey that begins with academic teaching, guidance, and support, and is supported by the incredible friends we meet in our classes and other study groups along the way. If I could offer you any advice from my experiences, it would be to take advantage of every opportunity offered to you, and to make the time to give support back to others as well. In these ways your journey here can go beyond academic education to true personal growth and a sense of mastery over your future. I hope that each person here today will one day be able to engage with the next generation of students to say, “If I could do it, you can too!” Following this, I have gone on to teach psychology and anthropology undergraduate courses as well, and to supervise honours and doctoral students, and in each situation I have been very purposeful in who I have chosen to emulate when interacting with my students. Despite the challenges that I brought to relationships where power differentials existed, such as those with supervisors, mentors, and even friends who were ahead of me in their studies, overcoming these challenges with their patience and gentleness has allowed me to approach new relationships with new confidence. What is more, I have examples of the behaviour that supported me through mental illness and PTSD in my own studies, and this is just as well since I have had students self-disclose to me in every course that I have taught that they are living and trying to succeed in their own studies with PTSD or other mental health challenges. In each case, the student had not registered with disability services, as I had not only a few short years before, and I discovered that this is in fact not unusual, with many university students reluctant to seek help (McAuliffe et al., 2012). Today mental health challenges are likely to increase in the short term at least, with the COVID-19 pandemic, lockdowns, and isolation having a significant impact on the academic performance and mental health of many university students with increased rates of depression, anxiety, and stress noted in Australia and elsewhere since the 133

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pandemic began (Chaturvedi et al., 2021; Dodd et al., 2021). In my own work with students at a regional Australian university I have witnessed students face and overcome challenges related to lockdowns and isolation, with particular challenges for students engaging in ethnographic research in public spaces. Acknowledging this during tutorials and promoting peer support by inviting students to share and encourage each other through their experiences was a successful strategy that helped to remind each member of the cohort that they were not alone, even when they were only able to attend via Zoom from their homes.

Conclusion Herman (1997c) proposed that sharing experiences with others is often powerful for survivors of trauma, and can help to address the social alienation that many survivors feel. Following conversations with trusted mentors I have not chosen to disclose my own PTSD to students in case it is not helpful for them, or even causes them distress. However, I have been able to share the experiences of understanding that were given to me in action and words, and to advocate for the importance of registering for the help that is offered by the university, including sharing my belief that they deserve this support just as much as any other student with a disability does. In doing this, I choose my words with purpose to try to reduce their feelings of shame while highlighting the strength and courage that they have already drawn upon by disclosing their challenges to me. Such action is important. Research indicates that academics may feel frightened or unsure of how to respond to students who disclose mental illness, often resulting in inconsistent responses to them (McAuliffe et al., 2012). Further, while academics with lived experience of mental illness are more likely to respond to students in a supportive and empathetic manner, increasing awareness across universities could promote a more consistent positive and supportive approach (McAuliffe et al., 2012). Interestingly, each of the students who disclosed PTSD or other mental illness to me has expressed the same reasons that I felt years ago when I was so loathe to register with disability services for not doing so until I advocated for it to them. These included that they have wanted to succeed “normally”, that they have felt that other students may need or deserve the service more than they do, and that they experience shame over struggling. It has been interesting for me to observe how similar their words are to my own from years ago, and how different my reactions are to their challenges now than they were to my own in the past. I do not feel that their success is any less worthy for the support they deserve, and I remind them that they should be proud of their courage in learning to advocate for themselves following interpersonal trauma. What a circle this journey has taken me on! Finally, some of my students have replied to my correspondence and thanked me, saying that not all of their lecturers have responded with understanding. If there is one more message that I would like this chapter to carry, it would be for those in supervisory and teaching positions to remember that, as one of my students phrased it, not everyone’s trying looks the same. Some students may consistently submit excellent assignments very late, or even withdraw from their courses having completed excellent work without submitting it, because they are terrified of submitting something to the lecturer whom they respect that the lecturer may consider less than perfect. This is a direct outcome of power being used against these students in past interpersonal trauma rather than a reflection on their ability, or a reflection on the lecturer or supervisor whose position of power rather than their character creates the hypervigilance and flashbacks. My story demonstrates that such fear can be remedied and overcome with encouragement and patience from those in positions of power. And as the people in such positions, that gift is in our hands. 134

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References American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders V (5th ed.). American Psychiatric Publishing. Bryant, R. A. (2019). Post-traumatic stress disorder: A state-of-the-art review of evidence and challenges. World Psychiatry, 18(3), 259–269. Burnard, P. (2007). Seeing the psychiatrist: An autoethnographic account. Journal of Psychiatric and Mental Health Nursing, 14(8), 808–813. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-2850.2007.01186.x Chaturvedi, K., Vishwakarma, D. K., & Singh, N. (2021). COVID-19 and its impact on education, social life and mental health of students: A survey. Children and Youth Services Review, 121, 105866. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.childyouth.2020.105866 de Boer, K., Gnatt, I., Mackelprang, J. L., Williamson, D., Eckel, D., & Nedeljkovic, M. (2021). Phasebased approaches for treating complex trauma: A critical evaluation and case for implementation in the Australian context. Australian Psychologist, 56(6), 437–445. https://doi.org/10.1080/00050067.20 21.1968274 Dickerson, S. S., Gruenewald, T. L., & Kemeny, M. E. (2004). When the social self is threatened: Shame, physiology, and health. Journal of Personality, 72(6), 1191–1216. Dodd, R. H., Dadaczynski, K., Okan, O., McCaffery, K. J., & Pickles, K. (2021). Psychological wellbeing and academic experience of University students in Australia during COVID-19. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 18(3), 866–878. https://doi.org/10.3390/ijerph18030866 Gibbs, J., Appleton, J., & Appleton, R. (2007). Dyspraxia or developmental coordination disorder? Unravelling the enigma. Archives of Disease in Childhood, 92(6), 534–539. Herman, J. L. (1997a). Commonality. In J. L. Herman (Ed.), Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence – from domestic abuse to political terror (pp. 173–198). Basic Books. Herman, J. L. (1997b). Reconnection. In J. L. Herman (Ed.), Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence – from domestic abuse to political terror (pp. 159–172). Basic Books. Herman, J. L. (1997c). Safety. In J. L. Herman (Ed.), Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence – from domestic abuse to political terror (pp. 128–142). Basic Books. Johns, S., Crawford, N., Hawkins, C., Jarvis, L., Harris, M., & McCormack, D. (2016). Unlocking the potential within: A preliminary study of individual and community outcomes from a university enabling program in rural Australia. Australian Journal of Adult Learning, 56(1), 70–88. Kelly Jr, V. C., & Lamia, M. C. (2018). The upside of shame: Therapeutic interventions using the positive aspects of a “negative” emotion. W.W. Norton & Company. Laffaye, C., Cavella, S., Drescher, K., & Rosen, C. (2008). Relationships among PTSD symptoms, social support, and support source in veterans with chronic PTSD. Journal of Traumatic Stress: Official Publication of the International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies, 21(4), 394–401. https://doi.org/10.1002/jts.20348 López-Castro, T., Saraiya, T., Zumberg-Smith, K., & Dambreville, N. (2019). Association between shame and posttraumatic stress disorder: A meta-analysis. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 32(4), 484–495. https:// doi.org/10.1002/jts.22411 McAuliffe, D., Boddy, J., McLennan, V., & Stewart, V. (2012). Keeping the door open: Exploring experiences of, and responses to, university students who disclose mental illness. Journal of Social Inclusion, 3(1), 117–129. Mittal, D., Drummond, K. L., Blevins, D., Curran, G., Corrigan, P., & Sullivan, G. (2013). Stigma associated with PTSD: Perceptions of treatment seeking combat veterans. Psychiatric Rehabilitation Journal, 36(2), 86. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0094976 Peters, J., Bellet, B. W., Jones, P. J., Wu, G. W., Wang, L., & McNally, R. J. (2021). Posttraumatic stress or posttraumatic growth? Using network analysis to explore the relationships between coping styles and trauma outcomes. Journal of Anxiety Disorders, 78, 102359. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. janxdis.2021.102359 Polatajko, H. J., & Cantin, N. (2005). Developmental coordination disorder (dyspraxia): An overview of the state of the art. Seminars in Pediatric Neurology. Smith, J. R., Workneh, A., & Yaya, S. (2020). Barriers and facilitators to help-seeking for individuals with posttraumatic stress disorder: A systematic review. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 33(2), 137–150. https:// doi.org/10.1002/jts.22456 Tsotetsi, C. T., & Omodan, B. I. (2020). Deconstructing power differentials in the postgraduate supervision process: mentoring in Ubuntu praxis. Ubuntu: Journal of Conflict and Social Transformation, 9(1), 105.

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12 A COMPARATIVE AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC LENS ON THE DOCTORATE AS TOLD BY A SUPERVISOR AND A DOCTORAL CANDIDATE Naomi Ryan and Deborah L. Mulligan Introduction This chapter presents an autoethnographic perspective on the generally unwritten contract that connects both supervisor(s) (advisors) and student into one of the most intense, long-term, collaborative partnerships in academia. Adams and Manning (2015) recognised that the embodiment of autoethnography possesses six criteria that necessitate the relating of an individual’s lived experience. These criteria included that the story illustrates and evaluates the researcher’s personal experience; recognises the significance of the researcher’s relationships with others; is intensely reflexive; makes meaning of life experiences; is authentic and methodologically sound and can be an agent for social change (pp. 1–2). Building on this work, the authors have compiled what they are referring to as a ‘checklist for change’. The story must be: • • • • • •

Analysed in such a way that is systematic and relatable for the reader, Authentic in that it speaks to the lived experience of the authors and that it applies a rich description of the experience, Agentic in order to allow a growth in the subject topic and to make a contribution to the field, as well as to society, Relationship-based so that the authors establish an ethical connection between themselves, the participants and the audience, Reflexive and considered over time so that the writing is a conscious act of embodiment within the phenomenon, and Rigorously researched so that it conscientiously follows the nature and purpose of the methodology.

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-14

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All stories are contextual and multi-dimensional. The authors of this chapter situate their story within the complex topic of doctoral supervision. We further locate our writing in the exponentially developing and much-investigated field of identity work and the impact of its subjectivity on two individuals at the ‘coal face’ of doctoral supervision in a contemporary Australian university. We wanted to drill down into the heart of best practice, not only for the supervisor but also for the student. Implied within this chapter is the notion that the doctorate is a collaboration between supervisor and student, each with a fundamentally important role to play in its production. We view the act of supervision through the experiential lens of supervisor (Naomi) and student (Debbie). We tell the story (Adams, 2021) of how we came together in the first place and what we are jointly practising in order to remain united for the duration of Debbie’s doctoral journey. The uniqueness of this narrative is highlighted by the supervisor’s relative inexperience at the time of writing and the student’s more familiar approach to the doctoral process. Naomi tells her story from the perspective of a novice doctoral supervisor. She is an established academic and a respected lecturer at the university that hosts Debbie’s doctoral endeavours. Although she supervises multiple master’s students, Debbie is her second doctoral student but her first PhD student. Naomi fulfils the role of associate supervisor in Debbie’s supervisory team of two. Debbie is a relatively experienced doctoral student in that she is currently undertaking her second doctorate. Her first doctoral topic involved older men and suicide ideation (Mulligan, 2018; Mulligan, 2020a; Mulligan, 2020b). Her study was a qualitative research design that included a wide geographical landscape for fieldwork conducted in South East and South West Queensland, Australia. Data were collected and analysed from 264 Likert Scale surveys, 29 semi-structured interviews and six focus groups. Her second doctorate is a complete juxtaposition of methodology. It is autoethnographic in nature and focuses on the narrative of her own grief work after the death of her teenage son from a rare cancer. Fieldwork is carried out in the landscape of her mind with herself as sole participant. Data are collected from multiple sources. These include the processes involved in the completion of her first doctorate (thesis, publications, presentations, personal interactions with academic peers) as well as “headnotes” (Wall, 2008, p. 45) and personal journals. Much scholarship has been dedicated to the issue of doctoral supervisory praxis and life as a doctoral student. Blogs are written about it (Guccione, 2022; Patter, 2022; The Project Team, 2022; The Supervision Whisperers, 2022; The Thesis Whisperer, 2022), vlogs are recorded about it (for example, Brabazon, 2016; Bro, 2020; Nicholas, 2018) and articles and books are published about it (Albertyn & Bennett, 2021; Bednall, 2018; Delany, 2009; Wisker, 2005; Wisker & Robinson, 2016; Wood & Louw, 2018). However, it is our contention that, at the heart of the matter, there are really only three essential questions that should be asked of both supervisor and student. “What do you bring to the doctoral relationship?”; “What do you bring to the doctoral process?”; and “What are you most afraid of? These questions are based on a number of underlying assumptions about the commitment that both supervisor and student bring to the interaction. These expectations include: • • • •

Both parties want the partnership to be successful for all stakeholders. Both parties have direct and indirect experience of unsuccessful academic collaborations. Both parties value transparency. Both parties have the same end goals. 138

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This chapter is predicated on the acknowledgement that doctoral supervision can be fraught with missteps and miscommunications, no matter how much the supervisor and student like and respect each other. Owler (1999) stated: “The difficulty of managing the PhD supervisory relationship is a well-known one. The intensity with which this relationship can be played out reveals that much more is involved than a simple transference of knowledge from one individual to another. On the contrary, each individual is revealed to have complex investments in this relationship” (p. 132).

What do you bring to the doctoral relationship? Debbie Friendship Naomi and I were friends before we became entangled in my second doctorate. We met on campus in the pre-Covid era when university refectories and classrooms were full of life and you could smell the love of learning in the air. It was an exciting and vibrant time and I long for its return. The two of us initially met through a postgraduate and early career researcher group (PGECR) that one of the university professors facilitates. Meetings were held fortnightly with some people (students and supervisors) who were physically present in the boardroom where we met and others joining in over Zoom. Of course, it now continues as a full Zoom participation event and as much as I still enjoy the scholarly interaction, I miss the ad hoc pre-session chatter that forms academic friendships. This was the fertile ground upon which my relationship with Naomi was formed as we were both avid physical attendees of PGECR.

Trust Thus my friendship with Naomi was well established a matter of years before I asked her to be my associate supervisor. Enduring friendships are based on commonalities and the willingness to engage in shared histories. Naomi knew about the death of my son and the resultant issues arising from grief. I knew that I could trust her with my emotional journey through the doctorate as she had some prior knowledge of my circumstance and I always found her to be an empathetic and considerate listener. We share many personal characteristics such as the same sense of humour and irony (a necessity in the intense and highly charged process of doctoral writing); commitment to family; and an intense need for goal setting as a means of self-direction. We trust each other.

Connection Although I do not remember a lot of the minutiae of my first doctoral journey, Naomi tells me that we submitted around the same time. I do remember that we journeyed together to get our doctorates to fruition and shared many a coffee over the challenges of research design and reference lists. I witnessed (just as she did for me) her doctoral struggles and her strength and tenacity to overcome them. We share the connection of hard-won academic success and we actually graduated a week apart.

Naomi Friendship Firstly, I was honoured that Debbie invited me onto her supervisory team knowing that she had already navigated this path once before, solely with her Principal Supervisor, with whom she had developed a very 139

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strong academic and personal relationship. I had developed my friendship with Debbie whilst we were both in the throes of finalising our doctorates in the few years preceding her embarking on her second. I was already an academic working within the institution and had started supervising research masters and professional doctoral students. Debbie would become my ‘first’ PhD student, my other student undertaking a Professional Doctorate. Our friendship was strong, developed on mutual respect and understanding of life as a doctoral student. Debbie had been integral to me completing my thesis revisions after examination and helped me to focus on not giving up. Without her support at the time, it would have been more challenging for me to get to the end. So, when asked to be her associate supervisor for her second doctorate, I immediately held self-doubt about what I could bring to this experience. Whilst I knew we had a strong friendship, I saw myself as less than an expert and questioned what I could possibly contribute to this doctoral supervision team. I also felt pressure as a relatively new supervisor to be an ‘expert’. I had been supervising masters and professional doctorate students as an associate supervisor, with only one masters student nearing successful completion at the time. This pressure was most likely self-imposed and underpinned by a fair dose of imposter syndrome. Trusted colleagues have since helped me to focus on what a beginning supervisor can do to learn and develop their supervisory skills.

Trust As Debbie has already mentioned, she brought trust to the supervisory relationship. I also consider this has been a fundamental element of my contribution to her doctoral supervision. Having developed a friendship through our doctoral journeys I became acutely aware of Debbie’s grief for her son Rory. When Debbie discussed her completion of a second doctorate examining her grief work as doctorateness, I not only admired her courage to do this but felt extremely protective of her in what I could only imagine would be a highly emotional and triggering process. Becoming her supervisor, even though I initially doubted my usefulness, I knew that Debbie could trust me in this process. I felt she could trust that I would be able to give her the space and time to delve emotionally into her work and be aware when she needed to remove herself and reset. I felt a sense of protectiveness when Debbie was completing her confirmation of candidature. I discussed the process with her Principal Supervisor who had sought approval to ensure it was a closed session, that only the panel members and supervisors could attend, preventing any further pressure for Debbie to present on an extremely personal and sensitive topic to a wider unknown audience. I had witnessed how triggering the rehearsal of her confirmation of candidature was and could also say I was not unaffected by this. I knew the actual presentation would be traumatising for her and both her Principal Supervisor and I respected and acknowledged her commitment and courage and did what we could to ensure Debbie was supported in the best way possible through this process. It is this trust to ensure a student is protected and supported and their feelings validated that I believe is important in a supervisory relationship.

What do you bring to the doctoral process? Debbie Willingness to learn I bring to the table a desire to share ideas and to grow intellectually. I am a lifelong learner and as such embrace this form of academic growth. I recognise that I don’t know everything and I am open-minded enough to admit my faults and foibles. I believe that honesty is a necessity and if I can’t or won’t do something, I’ll explain my point of view. At the same time I will consider the advice of my supervisors as that’s what they’re there for. 140

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Commitment I’m committed to the process. Within the ‘life is messy’ category, I pledge to my supervisors (and myself) that I will do the following: • • • • • • •

arrive on time for our meetings, whether they be face to face or Zoom email/text as far ahead of time as I can if I can’t get to a meeting meet my deadlines for drafts if at all humanly possible conscientiously consider feedback from my supervisors and deliberate on how their suggestions may strengthen my doctorate be respectful – if I don’t agree with my supervisors on a subject, I’ll tell them and present my perspective in a calm and systematic manner be understanding if they are unable to occasionally come to a prearranged meeting express interest in them as people above and beyond their role as supervisors.

In return, I expect that my supervisors will: • • •

•

commit to meeting with me regularly for at least half an hour (at a schedule appropriate to both of us) – either face to face or over Zoom provide written feedback in a timely manner and in a way that I am comfortable with (e.g., track changes NOT hand written, incomprehensible notes) allow time for conversation about my doctoral needs. This could include discussion about fieldwork glitches, writing/referencing frustrations, writer’s block, uncertainty about future writing/goals/direction, examiner choices, academic life beyond the doctorate. express some interest in me as a person above and beyond my immediate needs as a student.

Naomi Support As a supervisor, I pride myself on bringing a high level of support to the relationship. My background in careers counselling and teaching into pathway programs is an indicator of the type of person I am and my desire to help people. It remains true that I like to support people and see them succeed in their endeavours. I draw on my counselling knowledge and techniques to work with students, listen to their concerns and to collaborate and facilitate actions they are comfortable with. I assist them to draw on their own resources to gain motivation, self-efficacy and to overcome challenges as they arise. From my initial experiences of supervision and drawing on my own doctoral journey, I want to be a supportive supervisor. I believe that students, whether masters or doctoral, are embarking on a lengthy and challenging journey to conduct their research and write a thesis. It is a lonely journey which can be time-consuming and demanding, and one which I feel needs a supportive supervisor. This profile includes someone who will listen to their concerns, develop an understanding of their personality and the way in which they work, and guide them through their academic endeavours.

Commitment I am fully committed to my students and make sure that I meet with them at the very least once a fortnight. This can either be face to face or online via Zoom. This is beneficial for both me and the student. Such a practice keeps me up to date and on track whilst it is motivating the student to continue to make appropriate progress to ensure a timely and successful completion. 141

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Commitment extends to ensuring I meet the student’s needs by being available to answer questions, read drafts and provide comments, and complete administrative requirements in a timely manner. Within this there is the commitment to be honest about what can be done in time frames. Letting students know where you will have difficulty getting something back to them within a few days but advising them to keep working on something else is an approach I like to think works in keeping commitments.

Genuine interest The doctoral supervision relationship for me also needs to include genuine interest in the topic the student is studying and also in their life pursuits. Without delving into a student’s personal life, it is easy for me to understand and take an interest in their topic to gain a better understanding of the support I can offer, and I therefore take an interest in their life in general. If I can see the student is balancing a difficult job, family responsibilities and their PhD it helps me to find out how they are managing and suggest ways in which some things can be alleviated. It also helps to acknowledge and celebrate successes along the journey and be there to support if they face significant challenges that affect their progress. Providing a solid relationship where the student feels safe to share their concerns is very important to me. I take a holistic view of the doctoral process.

What are you most afraid of? Debbie Failure – letting myself down What if I get halfway through and decide (for whatever reason) that I don’t want to/can’t go any further? Life is uncertain and we live in volatile times. Juggling a family and work commitments can be difficult enough without the additional tensions that arise from doctoral work in the time of a global pandemic. I have begun my doctorate with the full intent that it will be completed in a timely manner but mine is a challenging story to tell. Autoethnography demands authenticity in a research topic that is mired in grief and is heartbreakingly personal. In order to fully meet the requirements of the research design, I  must revisit places in my memory that have been vaulted for many years. The process of unlocking the vault is painful – emotionally, spiritually and physically and there are times when I shy away from the rigour of data collection.

Not meeting expectations – letting my supervisors down The risks that both supervisors and students take when embarking on a project of this length and magnitude are not to be underestimated. The contract entered into has ramifications for all stakeholders. I began my first doctorate a matter of months after my son died. During this period, I was newly traumatised and my mind would shut down from time to time – almost like it needed a rest from living with death. This is hardly the trait of a promising doctoral student who actually needs to be mentally fit and ‘en pointe’ to undertake such a protracted and academically intensive project. At no time during my first doctorate was I ever put under any pressure by my supervisors. They had faith that I would endure. The belief that others have in you, particularly if you admire and respect them, is a priceless gift. I am indeed fortunate that I feel the same about my current team. My advice to any student who asks about supervisory practice is to find supervisors who will stay the course and who will be wholly supportive of your endeavour. Unfortunately, this is not always immediately apparent; however a good rule of thumb is to seek recommendations from others. If the collaboration doesn’t work to your advantage, leave and seek wisdom from someone else. 142

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Falling out I am conscious that Naomi and I are friends. I am also conscious that the doctoral process is demanding and that there are times when I may disagree with her about the direction in which to take my research. We have mutual respect and a shared history and as such are both prepared to talk out any problems that may arise. As long as we keep the channels of communication open, I can’t foresee any major issues. Both of us are committed to the process.

Naomi Not being enough My biggest fear that presented itself when commencing the doctoral supervision journey with Debbie was that I would not be useful enough. After all, how could I possibly contribute to her study when she was completing her thesis as an autoethnography of her grief work as doctorateness? My concerns lay in the fact that Debbie already had achieved a doctorate, at the same time I did, that she was experienced in my eyes and that she was someone I respected and admired. In the initial stages I did not think about the expertise that I could bring to the partnership such as my knowledge of institutional processes, being a supportive supervisor, reading and reviewing to provide relevant feedback. Further to the notion of ‘not being enough’, I am also concerned about my methodological knowledge as the chosen methodology is not one that I have specialised in. I am afraid my students will judge me and not be happy with their decision of supervisor. This way of thinking fits into the imposter syndrome I have experienced as a new supervisor. I have, however, since been able to dispute this thought when I relate to my own doctoral supervisors who were not experts in my methodological approach. I am also active in learning about the methodologies my students use and allow myself to place my trust in the students that they are comfortable with the approach they use because they have done the necessary investigating and will continue to develop their skills.

Discussion In 2018, over one and a half million students entered doctoral programs in OECD countries (Gorup & Laufer, 2020). In the 21st century knowledge economy, doctoral students are the fuel that light the fires of higher-level skill development. Doctoral students are respected for their intellectual tenacity and their ability to recognise original research. Why is it that some doctoral partnerships are successful and some are challenge-laden? When considering this question, we note that the core of any efficacious collaborative endeavour is a generalised ‘willingness’. This willingness applies to both parties – the supervisor(s) and the student. Both must be willing to commit to the process with all of the tension and pressure that is produced as the doctorate proceeds to completion. Wichmann-Hansen et al. (2012) observed: A good student is a curious and committed individual who is ambitious and prepared to be dynamic and take initiatives during the [doctoral] degree programme. Similarly, a good supervisor is an individual who – in addition to relevant academic knowledge, international networks and solid research production – is good at communicating, creating the right environment and promoting personal and academic growth in the PhD student. (p. 55) This chapter explores the relationship between the supervisor and the doctoral student. It is our contention that building and maintaining a healthy doctoral relationship is the responsibility 143

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of both parties. Several points of note arise from the section above whereby both Debbie and Naomi answer the three essential questions around doctoral supervision.

What do you bring to the doctoral relationship? Both Debbie and Naomi value the pre-existing friendship they have. They view this as beneficial in that they have a shared academic history, so they maintain a certain level of comfort in their interactions together. They are also cognisant of a shared work ethic that exists between the two of them. Not all doctoral students can claim an initial connection of friendship with their supervisors; however, shared axiological assumptions about the value of interpersonal relationships and ethical behaviour is suggested. If possible, students should seek out their proposed supervisors both physically and online. This may be in the form of recorded/live conference presentations. Listen to their particular perspectives about education and the topic upon which your research is based. Are they enthusiastic about the field you wish to enter? References from other doctoral students may also be helpful. Speak to other researchers under their supervision – does your prospective supervisor actually honour their apparent beliefs about the importance of scholarship? In lieu of friendship, rapport and mutual respect are to be valued at the outset. “Ultimately, what makes a good supervisor is someone you can build a rapport with, who helps bring out the best in you to produce a well written, significant body of research that contributes novel findings to your subject area” (Hothi, 2020). Naomi mentioned the negativity of imposter syndrome when she related the pressure she felt about being part of Debbie’s supervisory team. It is interesting that this is a universal phenomenon! This self-imposed tension can be quite debilitating. “Imposter syndrome, also called perceived fraudulence, involves feelings of self-doubt and personal incompetence that persist despite your education, experience, and accomplishments” (Raypole, 2020). It is a sign of her professionalism and commitment that Naomi has sought counsel from trusted colleagues.

What do you bring to the doctoral process? Debbie compiled a checklist of expectations of herself and her supervisors. Students can enter a doctoral program with minimal comprehension of the stressors involved in this level of higher education studies. It is wise, at the outset, for both parties to discuss the process in terms of what each actor is prepared to bring to the relationship in terms of expectations. “The doctoral journey is a shared one. To make the journey as positive as possible, supervisors and candidates need to articulate their expectations clearly” (Moxham et al., 2013, p. 345). Naomi stressed the role of support in the doctoral process. Clegg and Gower (2021) emphasised that: “Supervisors are intrinsically motivated and want to support researchers” (n.p.). In the survey that they conducted with 3,435 research supervisors, overwhelmingly the respondents stated that they enjoyed the responsibility of doctoral supervision. This is reflected in Naomi’s holistic view of supervisory praxis which encompasses her commitment and genuine interest in tailoring her students’ experience of collaborative wellbeing. Extrapolating on the imperative for goodwill within doctoral processes, it has been suggested that supervisors may wish to do the following: Create a group manual, with protocols, policy and helpful information, being specific about whatever you consider to be important for students to know. Include information about where trainees can find help if they have a personal or project issue – including problems with you. (timeshighereducation.com, 2017) 144

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At the very least, conversation around these processes will allay misconceptions on both sides as to the praxis of that individual supervisor.

What are you most afraid of? Failure was a major concern for both Debbie and Naomi. This fear of a disappointing outcome was a multifaceted concept that for Debbie expressed as “letting myself down”, “letting my supervisors down” and testing the boundaries of friendship under the pressure of doctoral study. Naomi’s initial concerns centred on the notion of her degree of usefulness. She was worried that she “would not be useful enough” and generally “not being enough”. She has since remedied these insecurities by recognising her institutional expertise being thoroughly familiar with the university requirements. She also acknowledges her agency as a respected academic who has recently been through the doctoral process. As such, she brings an understanding of the tensions involved from the student’s perspective of seeing the doctorate through to completion. She also brings her experience as a supervisor of multiple methodologies, each one adding to her skillset.

Conclusion When undertaking the heavy load of doctoral work, students’ wellbeing and formation of academic identity is impacted by their relationship with their supervisor(s). “Any researcher development journey interlocks personal … and intellectual … dimensions from the start, linking learning, personal/professional, and institutional dimensions” (Wisker & Robinson, 2012, p. 151). Poor supervisory relationships can add to an already stressful situation and may mean the difference between abandonment or completion. This association may fail through no fault of anyone, as even with the best of intentions, connections are broken. This leaves both the doctoral student and the supervisory team frustrated and with feelings of misrepresentation. There are many dyads that describe the roles of supervisor and student. Most of these are built on the power imbalance of academic inequality between supervisor and student, such the “master/slave” dichotomy as described by Manathunga (2007). We refute this trope and refer to Ismail et al. (2013), who cited James and Baldwin’s guide to best practice conducted by a supervisor. The following three categories addressed the role of supervisors: 1) the “core” (p. 166) of supervisory praxis – recognising effective partnerships, evaluating student requirements, enacting mutually agreed-upon expectations; ascertaining a learning/procedural plan 2) the “momentum” (p. 166) of supervisory praxis – foster early writing, meet regularly, deliver effective feedback; generate belonging in the academic community; extend support if/when personal or academic tensions arise 3) the “final stages” (p. 167) of supervisory praxis – offer suggestions for a viable academic life for the student beyond the doctorate, monitor this end stage to completion. We would add a further category to this comprehensive list: 4) the “throughout” of supervisory praxis – encourage public (conference/ seminar/symposia) presentations early in the process, establish authorship of any journal articles/chapters arising from the research, discuss avenues of financial support for the student. 145

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What then of the responsibilities of the vulnerable doctoral student? Drawing on the categories provided by Ismail et al. (2013) here is our list for best student praxis: 1) the fundamentals of student praxis – connect – have a research plan to discuss with your supervisor, set mutually achievable goals with your supervisor (these can be reframed during the doctoral process if necessary) 2) the impetus of student praxis – commit – write early and often, address feedback in a timely manner, know what you need (personal and academic) and be prepared to ask/fight for it 3) the closing phase of student praxis – conclude – seek personal and professional avenues for a life beyond the doctoral journey and discuss these with your supervisor, acknowledge the support given to you by your supervisor. 4) the graduation – celebrate – your achievement.

Reflection As we reflect on the meaning behind our words, we revisit our ‘checklist for change’ based on the work of Adams and Manning (2015). In telling our autoethnographic story about doctoral supervision, we have attempted to provide an embodied experience told by both supervisor and student. We hope that we have analysed our topic in such a way that it resonates with the reader and that we have conveyed our lived experience in an authentic manner that “makes life experience come alive” (Walker in Adams & Manning, 2015, p. 350). The agentic nature of our relationship is exemplified in our writing in that each of us feels a responsibility for a good outcome as a result of our doctoral collaboration. We trust that we have demonstrated a relationship-based preview of our supervisor/student connection that is based not only on friendship, but also on a genuine willingness from both of us to make it work effectively. Our collaboration is built on mutual respect. In order to write our chapter, we communicated frequently to discuss the main points that we felt were important when we take a deeply reflexive stance on supervision. We have followed the protocols of autoethnography with a rigorous approach a methodology that utilises the researchers themselves as the data source. We hope that this collaborative autoethnographic account resonates with the reader and that we have provided a richer, more expansive contextual positioning of the supervisor/student relationship. Supervision is such a contentious doctoral topic and should be examined with balance and sincerity. Too often its story is one-sided and biased from one particular point of view. We have all heard examples of incidents from both parties about supervision gone awry. This can have a disastrous effect on the supervisor, who really thought that they were living best practice, and the student, whose future may depend on earning the award. It’s so important to garner perspective from both sides. We hope you agree.

References Adams, T. (2021, 21 March). The Art of Autoethnography. [Webinar] https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=2-CyUBLhk6Q&t=312s Adams, T. E., & Manning, J. (2015). Autoethnography and family research. Journal of Family Theory and Review, 7, 350–366. https://doi.org/10.1111/jftr.12116 Albertyn, R. & Bennett, K. (2021). Containing and harnessing uncertainty during postgraduate research supervision, Higher Education Research & Development, 40(4), 661–675. https://doi.org/10.1080/0729 4360.2020.1775559 Bednall, T. (2018, July 13). PhD completion: An evidence-based guide for students, supervisors and universities. The Conversation. https://theconversation.com/phd-completion-an-evidence-based-guide-forstudents-supervisors-and-universities-99650

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A comparative autoethnographic lens on the doctorate Brabazon, T. (2016, May 26). How to upset your supervisor [vlog]. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=ROLwP09Ar-0 Bro, J. (2020, January 13). A day in the life of a PhD in Biomedical Engineering [vlog]. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=FJM3AUzpYrw Clegg, K. & Gower, O. (2021, October 8). PhD supervisors need better support, recognition and reward. https://wonkhe.com/blogs/phd-supervisors-need-better-support-recognition-and-reward/ Delany, D. (2009). A review of the literature on effective PhD supervision. Trinity College. https://www. tcd.ie/CAPSL/Assets/pdf/Academic%20Practice%20Resources/Effective_Supervision_Literature_ Review.pdf Gorup, M. & Laufer, M. (2020, November 3). More than a case of a few bad apples: When relationships between supervisors and doctoral researchers go wrong. Elephant in the Lab. https://elephantinthelab. org/when-relationships-between-supervisors-and-doctoral-researchers-go-wrong/ Guccione, K. (2022). https://supervisingphds.wordpress.com/ Hothi, H. (2020, August 12). What makes a good PhD supervisor? [blog] https://www.discoverphds. com/blog/what-makes-a-good-phd-supervisor Ismail, H. M., Majid, F. A. & Ismail, I. S. (2013). “It’s complicated” relationship: Research students’ perspectives on doctoral supervision. ScienceDirect: Procedia– Social and Behavioural Sciences, 90, 165–170. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.sbspro.2013.07.078 Manathunga, C. (2007). Intercultural postgraduate supervisor: Ethnographic journeys of identity and power. In D. Palfreyman & D. L. McBride (Eds.), Learning and teaching across cultures in higher education, Palgrave Macmillan. Moxham, L., Dwyer, T. & Reid-Searl, K. (2013). Articulating expectations for PhD candidature upon commencement: Ensuring supervisor/student ‘best fit’. Journal of Higher Education Policy and Management, 35(4), 345–354. https://doi.org/10.1080/1360080X.2013.812030 Mulligan, D. L. (2018). “Time to find a new freedom”: TOMNET and Men’s Sheds - Meeting older men’s contributive needs in regions within South East and South West Queensland, Australia? [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. University of Southern Queensland. Mulligan, D. L. (2020a). Marginalisation of older men: The lost boys. Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/ 10.1007/978-981-15-8071-0 Mulligan, D. L. (2020b). Traversing the dark geography of retirement: Learnings from ethical and reciprocal research conducted with the older male in Australia. In D. L. Mulligan & P. A. Danaher (Eds), Researching within the educational margins: Strategies for communicating and articulating voices (Palgrave studies in education research methods) (pp. 283–298). Palgrave Macmillan. Nicholas, T. (2018, August 15). Using “Deep Work” to improve PhD productivity [vlog]. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=XBwt1YbH5IA Owler, K. (1999). Transference and PhD pedagogy. Southern Review, 32(1), 132–148. Patter. (2022). https://patthomson.net/category/supervision/ Raypole, C. (2020). You’re not a fraud. Here’s how to recognize and overcome imposter syndrome. Healthline. https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/imposter-syndrome The Project Team. (2022). https://theprojectteam.co.nz/blog/ The Supervision Whisperers. (2022). https://thesupervisionwhisperers.wordpress.com/2018/06/19/ dancing-around-the-edges-of-supervision-without-stepping-on-anyones-toes/ The Thesis Whisperer. (2022). https://thesiswhisperer.com/2017/04/19/8195/ Wall, S. (2008). Easier said than done: Writing autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Methods 7(1), 38–53. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940690800700103 Wichmann-Hansen, G., Wogensen Bach, L. & Mulvany, M. J. (2012). Successful PhD supervision: A twoway process. In M.A.R.B. Castanho & G. Güner-Akdogan (Eds.), The researching, teaching, and learning triangle (pp 55–64). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4614-0568-9_5 Wisker, G. (2005). The good supervisor: Supervising postgraduate and undergraduate research for doctoral theses and dissertations. Palgrave Macmillan. Wisker, G. & Robinson, G. (2012). Picking up the pieces: Supervisors and doctoral “orphans”. International Journal for Researcher Development, 3(2), 139–153 https://doi.org/10.1108/1759751131136982 Wisker, G. & Robinson, G. (2016). Supervisor wellbeing and identity: Challenges and strategies. International Journal for Researcher Development, 7(2), 123–140 https://doi.org/10.1108/IJRD-03-2016-0006 Wood, L. & Louw, I. (2018). Reconsidering postgraduate “Supervision” from a participatory action learning and action research approach. South African Journal of Higher Education 32(4), 284–297. http:// dx.doi.org/10.20853/32-4-2562

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13 AN AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC EXPLORATION OF HYBRID IDENTITIES WITHIN EDUCATION Jennifer Clutterbuck Introduction During my doctoral research into digital educational governance, I visited schools where I was introduced to the staff by a school leader as, “This is Jen – she’s OneSchool”. My field notes taken at the time emphasise the comment written in capitals and circled with exclamations and question marks. OneSchool is a data infrastructure, developed and used by the state education authority in Queensland, Australia to manage 570 000 students’ data across more than 1250 schools. I worked with the OneSchool project team during the development of the student data management system as a business analyst/subject matter expert. Later, in a policy role in one of Queensland’s seven state schooling regional offices, I supported policy-makers, educational managers, and school leaders in their use of OneSchool. It was all a long way from my previous life as an early childhood teacher. I’d had many titles since starting teaching – but never had I been called a data infrastructure! I had an “ethnographic hunch” (Pink, 2021, p. 31) that the rhetoric action of metaphorically describing me as “OneSchool” was important. OneSchool has been used by educational practitioners, teachers, school leaders, policy officers, and bureaucrats across Queensland to engage with a wide range of student data since its launch in 2008. The OneSchool project commenced in 2006 after a failed international tender process to purchase a replacement school management system. There was an early expectation that Education Queensland, the authority responsible for Queensland’s public education, would purchase multiple systems. However, as “Paul”, a senior bureaucrat explained, the options available at the time “were tiny cottage industry type offerings, of a timetabling map or something. Nothing enterprise grade, nothing school administration and nothing across 1200 type schools.” OneSchool was developed and continues to be used by the education authority as a policy instrument and “technology of governance” (Clutterbuck, 2022, p. 11). Administration in primary (elementary) and high schools use OneSchool to enrol students, manage school finance records and interrogate aggregated student data. Teachers utilise it to record student attendance, behaviour, and academic progress, manage assessment and reporting, and plan curriculum. The development of OneSchool was informed by business requirements established by a Guiding 148

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Coalition of 150 school leaders and a team of subject matter experts from schools who worked beside the technical developers. And this is where I join the OneSchool narrative. The stories that surround and permeate data infrastructures are shown to travel with them and affect how they are used by educational practitioners; bureaucrats, policy creators, school leaders and teachers (Clutterbuck, 2022; Easterling, 2014). I became entangled in the OneSchool story when in 2007 I became part of the project team. OneSchool and I became so enmeshed that when I visited schools for my research, I was beset by questions and requests for assistance in using the processes and procedures of OneSchool. This became a form of reciprocity and after many interviews I swapped roles from researcher back to the policy officer whom they knew would assist. There was much said and alternatively left unsaid in the school leader’s words of introduction: “This is Jen – she’s OneSchool”. In this chapter I examine the “ethnographic hunch” (Pink, 2021, p. 31) through new ways of understanding the impact of the relationships that develop between ourselves and infrastructures. I start by situating myself within the research into the vital materiality of OneSchool. The genealogy of ethnography demonstrates how its historical entrenchment in anthropology creates a contemporary means of exploring the acculturation of educational practitioners by data infrastructures that were themselves assimilated to a dominant culture. I  relate the manner in which the culture developed within the OneSchool project team, and the ethos formed by the OneSchool infrastructure creates a cybernetic change loop that alters humans and non-humans within the educational ecosystem of Queensland’s state education. I re-present our stories, presenting them again by taking our experiences to compose an “experience-as-story” (Verran, 2021, p. 236). In doing so, I am not representing other individuals – human or non-human – nor am I representing any organisation or institution. I am re-situating (situating again) experiences within my story in the iterative and interpretive practices of writing and reading. I conclude this chapter by challenging others to recognise the “mutual ontological co-constitutions of knowns and knowers” in their own stories (Verran, 2021, p. 236). I encourage readers to explore their own diffracted patterns of being that having passed through data infrastructures, illuminate the “indefinite nature of boundaries” (Barad, 2007, p. 135) within which educational practitioners now exist.

Positioning Jen and OneSchool Positioning the relata Jen and OneSchool within the phenomenon of the intra-active becoming of “Jen-as-OneSchool” requires a great deal of teasing apart to understand the concept of identity, and an explanation of how I use particular terms. The “taken-for-granted” understandings, processes and power that belong to terms and concepts used goes beyond semantics, and require definition (Lewis & Holloway, 2018, p. 2). I establish the meaning of key terms on which I rely, by drawing them out from the informing literature. I then place these words in relation to myself and my journey from teacher to infrastructure as I create this text. The process deliberately mirrors the inter-(between) and intra-(within) active becoming of the “Jen-as-OneSchool” phenomenon. By using the term “relata”, I distinguish the singularity of myself and the OneSchool data infrastructure as separate objects that relate. Interactions require the pre-existence of relata, however, intra-actions do not (Barad, 2007). That is to say, “Jen-as-OneSchool” did not exist prior to its intra-active becoming. In the process of OneSchool and my “cutting together-apart” we emerged entangled. My professional being was “diffracted, dispersed, threaded through 149

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with materializing and sedimented effects of iterative reconfigurings of spacetimemattering, traces of what might yet (have) happen(ed)” (Barad, 2014, p. 168). Over the previous decade my positionality within the ever-changing spacetimemattering of education had greatly altered “Jen-the-teacher”. I was now recognised and presented by others as “Jen-as-OneSchool”, rather than “Jen-the-researcher” or “Jen-the-policy officer”. The purpose of exploring this diffracted/intra-active becoming of the identity of “Jen-as-OneSchool” is to establish future impacts on educational practitioners’ positionality and professionality, their relationships with each other, students, and with data infrastructures and data more broadly. OneSchool is understood as an apparatus in the Baradian sense as it is more than just an instrument used for observing students and schools through the data that it manages. OneSchool is also presented as a “boundary-drawing practice” that re/configures the educational ecosystem in Queensland state schools in a manner that comes to matter (Barad, 2007, p. 140). OneSchool matters in both the context that it is important and in a vital materiality context. ‘Vitality’ is viewed here as the ability to ‘impede or block the will and designs of humans’ (Bennett, 2010, p. viii). OneSchool’s vitality is identified as users reacted in positive and negative ways to the ‘force of things’(Bennett, 2010, p. 49). OneSchool is recognised as having its own vitality (Barad, 2007), as having “thing-power” (Bennett, 2010, p. viii) with its matter imbricated with language, discourse, and culture. As I further interrogate the metaphor of my being OneSchool, the need arises to recognise our culture/s and the acculturation process that occurs between human and non-human. Ruth Benedict (1959) described “culture” as an individual who generally exhibited constant patterns of “thought and action” (p. 46). Culture, as a metaphorical individual, is ascribed a “personality” distinguishable through the repeated customs, values, rituals, beliefs, and preferences. While the acceptance of behaviours as normal is determined through identifying the amount that behaviours are shared (Benedict, 1959). These definitions of culture assist in the ethnographic exploration of how human enchantments and disenchantments with data infrastructures are due to their being similar or different to their own human “personality”/culture. A Senior Bureaucrat noted a distinctive ‘OneSchool ethos’ that attributed OneSchool with its own character and philosophical stance absorbed from the values, agency and affordances offered by past human and non-human relationships. The culture developed within the OneSchool project team, and the ethos developed by the OneSchool infrastructure are shown to become a cybernetic loop that altered both humans and non-humans within the educational ecosystem of Queensland’s state education. The phenomenon of “Jen-as-OneSchool” was but one example. Phenomena, for Hacking (1983), were “public, regular, possibly law-like, but perhaps exceptional” (p. 222). Hacking wrote from a scientific perspective; however, I am in agreeance with his description that deliberately creating phenomena is “a long hard task” (Hacking, 1983, p. 230). Creating the phenomenon of “Jen-as-OneSchool” took a decade, thousands of kilometres travelled by road and air, eight different professional and academic positions, and simply too many emails, policy documents, readings, local professional and international academic presentations to count. Along the way many tears were shed, and laughter was shared. For Barad (2007), phenomena are quite simply “constitutive of reality” (p.140) and the intra-active becoming of Jen-as-OneSchool created a reality that came to matter. This is not about self-promotion, as the phenomenon of “Jen-as-OneSchool” could have – and in many other situations was – “Charles1-as-OneSchool” or “Teresa-as-OneSchool”. Further analysis work is needed to fully understand the affective agency provided by these hybrid identities on educational practitioners. Lawson et al. (2013) suggest that the “power of storytelling” 150

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enables the exploration of professional identities. The identification of the threshold concepts “professional identity and reflective practice” (Lawson et al., 2013, p. 186) is recognised as enabling the important work of sense making for one’s own healthy (mental and physical), and productive professional being. I offer my story of identity as a method for my own exploration and as way for others to conduct their own self-exploration. The phenomenon of “Jen-as-OneSchool” provided a way for me to recognise that as I passed through the space/time/matter of OneSchool, my professional presence was re/formed in diffracted patterns. This newly diffracted professionality illuminated the “indefinite nature of boundaries” (Barad, 2007, p. 135) which were created by a range of policies, data and digital infrastructures.

The moments that shaped my methodological decisions During my doctoral research I explored how the data infrastructure called ‘OneSchool’ governed the practices of educational practitioners in Queensland, Australia. There was a familiarity as I travelled through the human and physical geographies of Queensland’s state schooling for my research. Revisiting the central and regional governing centres as well as four primary schools re-formed and re-assembled the hierarchical geographies of Queensland’s state schooling. These were the environments in which I had developed as a professional educator. I was first an early childhood teacher, curriculum leader, principal in schools within Queensland state education. After 25 years I moved into policy officer and business analyst roles in Central and Regional offices. Across the numerous local and state-wide projects, I accumulated, digested, and never exhausted my questioning of educational governance. Looking back, taking on doctoral research was almost inevitable. I continue to ponder my methodological decisions almost two years after the conferral of my doctorate. Within my bricolage methodological approach, ethnography as a ‘perspective’ existed side by side with theorising Foucault’s power/knowledge coupling and new feminist materiality. I could have used a variety of methodological and theoretical alternatives. I could have conducted data collection and analysis through an ethnographic or autoethnographic approach, after all I was an insider participant in my areas of research. That is, I was a part of the same spaces, places, and times that I was researching. The choices I made were shaped by moments; these moments are given form in my story. Knowing that I had the experience and ‘involvement with the struggles taking place in the area in question’ was encouraging, as Foucault (1980) stated that such involvement was required to achieve any “historical work that has political meaning” (p. 64). However, I knew that my knowledge and experience were exactly the characteristics that made me a potential risk to maintaining a dominant bureaucratic discourse that I had experienced frequently during my days in Central Office of “approved messages only” being shared. As an insider researcher I came to experience first-hand the enacted discourse of controlling the message. The experience also highlighted the benefit and risk of being an insider. Prior to commencing interviews, I conducted a survey, which was made widely available across the state schooling authority through the relevant gatekeepers in Central and Regional offices, primary, secondary, and special purpose schools. One of the Central Office gatekeepers, who I had previously worked with actively declined the invitation. I approached them personally regarding the second stage, in relation to staff participating in the proposed interviews. Staff in Central Office divisions are often seconded from schools and Regional Offices to work on projects or with teams in a temporary placement role to fulfil staffing requirements. 151

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“Jen, I couldn’t send out that survey to our staff.” “That’s OK, totally your choice. You are, in research terms the gatekeeper.” “You know what it’s like in here.” (I had heard over and over again – “you know”) I nodded, not really understanding the problem. “Many people in here are seconded from schools and they would do the survey from that perspective. They wouldn’t put the agreed-to Central Office message in the survey and then their opinion would be attributed to Central Office. We couldn’t have that.” I’m sure my shocked face was taken as agreeance. “Now if I could send the survey out to Directors and Executive Directors only?” This request was within with the rights of the gatekeepers to distribute the surveys within their areas as they felt appropriate; however, the survey had closed and was no longer available. This conversation affirmed and intensified the recognition of the separate identities within educational practitioners. Common lexicon would have it that “schoolies” worked in schools and “bureaucrats” worked in Central Office. Once you left the school grounds you became “one of them”. This discourse of schoolie vs bureaucrat permeated the OneSchool project team. In 2006, I accepted a six-week curriculum position in Central Office, and left my school, there were tears – I loved teaching – but I wanted to extend my circle of influence. I never returned to a school-based role; however, I remained a Queensland-registered teacher. This was a common practice amongst the business analysts, bureaucrats and technocrats who came to work on the OneSchool project. Maintaining teacher registration is recognised as retaining seconded teachers’ and school leaders’ orientation toward students and schools in all decisions, and maintained a link with schools rather than to the policy and political governance centre. Over the years, I noted the way the language used by each group, “they”, “them” promoted the differences in the “spacetimematterings” of schools and the governing sites of Central and Regional offices. Having been a member of these groups throughout my professional career gave me unequalled access to each as I was never positioned as “the other” as some who (powell & Menendian, 2016). I could be relied on to understand the situation and the reasons why “things” happened or didn’t happen. Prior to the commencement of this research, I had often been asked, in reference to OneSchool, “do ‘they’ know what they’ve got?” This question, referencing OneSchool, was asked by school leaders and teachers, OneSchool business analysts and department bureaucrats. Each asked about the other’s awareness, confident in their own individually located understanding. In recognition that I worked across the at-times complex borders that delineated the different parts of Queensland’s state schooling, this question was often followed by, “Jen, just tell them!”. It was daunting to carry such trust and belief throughout the research and the weight of expectation was daunting. The dedication of my thesis reads: “I have tried to be objective. I do not claim to be detached” (Mills, 2008). The personal experiences of autoethnographers influence all aspects of the research process. The autoethnographer knows who to ask, when, where and how to ask and finally what questions to ask (Ellis et al., 2011, p. 274). The trick is to do so within the parameters of both the research institution’s governance and ethics, and the approvals of the researched organisation. After sending out my interview invitations, one key gatekeeper did not reply. My phone messages and emails received promises of a response, but none were forthcoming. An outsider would have been frustrated, blocked, and left with no choice but to omit the potentially valuable participants. As an insider, I knew another gatekeeper, who was higher up. “Ben” was enthusiastic about my research and agreed to a meeting. At the meeting, the original gatekeeper “Shawn” was also in attendance and spoke of their concern regarding the questions I would 152

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know to ask. In addition, Shawn explained why I could not have access to a report showing OneSchool usage data. I had requested the data through my first education department’s Approval to Approach research request that had not been approved until I had amended it by removing the data request. “I’m sorry I had to say no, Jen. That report you wanted would have taken days to create and we would have had to deidentify it which would have taken too long. You know (there’s that phrase again) how busy we are.” “Yes. However, the report is already created.” “No, it isn’t. We would have to …” “In my previous position as policy officer, I helped determine the requirements of the report to inform our work with schools. It’s been available for all regions for a while.” “We’d have to deidentify it, that takes too long” “It’s deidentified.” I felt frustrated and looking back I recognise that this was the moment that my identity began to shift. I turned to “Ben.” “I’m in a position where Jen-the-policy officer has access to the report. However, I am conscious that as Jen-the-researcher I do not have access” I did not gain access to the usage data, but I did gain access to a wider range of participants than I had first requested. Recalling this incident speaks to the benefits and risks of being an insider and autoethnographic research. It also recognises the importance of recognising and promoting different positionalities to reassure others of your ethical behaviour and values. Recalling this ethical dilemma illuminates the complicated “relational ethics” (Ellis et al., 2011, p. 281) experienced by autoethnographers when maintaining interpersonal ties with those participants or gatekeepers who were, are or maybe again, colleagues – or line managers. While I had originally considered an autoethnographic approach for my research, the dilemma of maintaining anonymity and potential risks to participants seemed too great. The relational concerns were foremost in my mind when I decided to forward all participants their interview transcripts for their review. The potential risk was made clear when one participant removed sections of their interview for fear of being recognised by those in upper management. Many participants were known not only to me but to each other and many were friends and colleagues. These relations increased my concern that their anonymity would be compromised and cause relational damage either personally or professionally. This risk was partly realised when I received a response from a participant to whom I had forwarded a conference paper. “I see you interviewed ‘Wayne’. He always says that; I could hear his voice when I read the paper.” On another occasion I attended a work social, only to find myself surrounded by participants sharing stories about their interviews with me. While my selected methodological and theoretical approaches worked well to answer my research questions, additional questions that evolved throughout the research remained in archive folders. I was informed many times throughout the writing of my thesis – ‘the thesis is a frozen point in time’ (thank you, Bob), it is not everything, and leave something for your post-doc (thank you, Ian). This chapter explores one such unexplored moment – a simple six-word comment – that stayed with me for six years. To do so, I have taken the principles of autobiography and ethnography to process and produce an autoethnographic (Ellis et al., 2011) rendering of my exploration of this “ethnographic hunch” (Pink, 2021, p. 31). The comment continued to churn and disrupt my understanding of who I was – an insider researcher – not an infrastructure. Ethnographic hunches need to be treated with both “care and confidence” 153

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(Pink, 2021, p. 32). Reflecting on who I was at the beginning of my doctoral journey I had too much of the former and not enough of the latter. As an insider researcher “caring too much” was a mighty challenge. I had spent more than 35 years as a state education employee, ‘toeing’ the corporate line, (albeit I kicked it a few times). Questions were raised about the perspective of my work – was I Jen-the-researcher or Jen-the-department-employee? And then I found myself with yet another persona; “Jen-thedata infrastructure”! For quite some time I felt debilitated in my writing and analysis from the constant confrontation with my own fractured being. Self-realisation developed that it was neither a requirement nor beneficial to the research, nor even possible, to separate my perspectives and that what made my research unique was the very distinctiveness of my positionality within education’s hierarchical geography. Rather than exploring these personas separately, I used the resulting compilation to explore the research questions of how the OneSchool infrastructure governed educational practitioners and their practices. In this way I became a researcher who had lived experience in the many human and physical geographies of the researched spaces. Simultaneously, I explored how those same educational practitioners and practices had governed the development of the data infrastructure OneSchool. Such insights were only available to an insider, as government and commercial-in-confidence restrictions on the development of infrastructures are prohibitive for most researchers. The integration of my very ‘being’ into the discourse of policy and data infrastructure was accomplished through an ethnographic perspective (Blommaert, 2018) rather than an ethnographic approach. Maintaining a strong reflexive standpoint as I revisited environments – Central and Regional Offices and schools – strengthened the research.

Conclusion By exploring the diffracted/intra-active becoming of the hybrid identity of Jen-as-OneSchool I have acknowledged other identities that I developed and shed along the way. In doing so I alert those who seek to research within their own spaces of the benefits and risks of being an insider researcher or attempting the process and product of autoethnography. In writing my story I have been focussed on the “ontological constitutions” of the writing and reading acts (Verran, 2021, p. 235). I am never the only participant in my story, and along with my colleagues, as well as the authors I draw on, there are those who read this text. I am joined by you, the reader in the authorship of the discourse of this chapter, which the final work co-constitutively brings into being. This process reoccurs each time the story is read. Every reader has different experiences and knowledges that they bring to these words. It will be a very different text for a Queensland teacher compared to that which is created by an English professor of digital governance. It will also be a very different text if you know me, or if you have never heard of data infrastructures. I conclude this chapter with a series of challenges. My first challenge for readers is to attend to the places in this text where you have co-configured and participated in creating meaning (Verran, 2021). Secondly, I challenge you to explore the diffracted/intra-active becoming of your own hybrid identity/ies. What identities have you developed or shed across your professional or personal life? The final challenge is to determine the impact of your identity that exists within these now illuminated boundaries of “indefinite nature” (Barad, 2007, p. 135) on your relationships with colleagues, students, and with data infrastructures and data more broadly.

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Note 1 Pseudonyms are used for all participants’ names except for my own.

References Barad, K. (2007). Meeting the universe halfway. Duke University Press. https://doi.org/10.1215/9780822388128 Barad, K. (2014). Diffracting diffraction: Cutting together-apart. Parallax, 20(3), 168–187. https://doi.org/ 10.1080/13534645.2014.927623 Benedict, R. (1959). Patterns of culture (2nd ed.). Houghton Mifflin. Bennett, J. (2010). Vibrant matter: A political ecology of things. Duke University Press. https://doi.org/10.1215/ 9780822391623 Blommaert, J. (2018). Dialogues with ethnography: Notes on classics, and how I read them. Multilingual Matters. https://doi.org/10.21832/BLOMMA9504 Clutterbuck, J. (2022). Data infrastructures and the governance of their accompanying narratives. British Journal of Sociology of Education. https://doi.org/10.1080/01425692.2021.2003184 Easterling, K. (2014). Extrastatecraft: The power of infrastructure space. Verso. https://ebookcentral-proquest-com. ezproxy.library.uq.edu.au/lib/uql/reader.action?docID=5177210&ppg=86 Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research, 36(4), 273–290. https://doi.org/10.12759/hsr.36.2011.4.273-290 Foucault, M. (1980). Power/Knowledge (C. Gordon, L. Marshall, J. Mepham, & K. Soper, Trans.; C. Gordon, Ed.). Pantheon Books. Hacking, I. (1983). Representing and intervening: Introductory topics in the philosophy of natural science. Cambridge University Press. Lawson, R., Shaw, G., & Sanders, G. (2013). The use of storytelling as a research method: The case of the police service of England and Wales. European Conference on Research Methodology for Business and Management Studies, Kidmore End. Lewis, S., & Holloway, J. (2018). Datafying the teaching ‘profession’: Remaking the professional teacher in the image of data. Cambridge Journal of Education, 36(2), 1–17. https://doi.org/10.1080/03057 64X.2018.1441373 Mills, C. W. (2008). The politics of truth: Selected writings of C. Wright Mills. Oxford University Press. Pink, S. (2021). The ethnographic hunch. In A. Ballestero; & B. R. Winthereik (Eds.), Experimenting with ethnography: A companion to analysis. Duke University Press. https://doi.org/10.1215/9781478013211-004 powell, j. a. & Menendian, S. (2016). The problem of othering: Towards inclusiveness and belonging. Othering & Belonging, Summer, 1, 14–40. Verran, H. (2021). Writing an ethnographic story in working toward responsibly unearthing ontological troubles. In A. Ballestero & B. R. Winthereik (Eds.), Experimenting with ethnography: A companion to analysis. Duke University Press.

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14 SLIPPING AND SLIDING Autoethnographic reflections on supervising, examining and evaluating autoethnography Sheila Trahar

Introduction How to encompass in our minds the complexity of some lived moments in life? How to embody in language the mix of heightened awareness and felt experience? ... You don’t do that with theories. You don’t do that with a system of ideas. You do it with a story. (Coles, 1989, p. 128)

I begin the autoethnography workshops that I am facilitating in a Northern European university with those words. They were written some years ago, but I like to use them – in writing and in talking about autoethnography and narrative inquiry – with people who may be less familiar with such methodologies. I have advised the participants that I will be inviting them to reflect on how autoethnography might be an approach to consider for their research and that I will ask them to do some writing that they may choose to share with others. The week is intensive and enjoyable. I trudge through the snow every day, walking gingerly, frightened of falling on treacherous footpaths. By the end of the week, I know every slippery spot on my journey and how to avoid it. It is a metaphor for the experience. At the beginning of the week, I am a stranger in the context, slithering through the unfamiliar academic culture(s), striving to avoid slippery patches. In the middle of the week, I lose my voice completely. I feel stupid and helpless. Tremendous energy is needed to force words out of my mouth. It is exhausting. I barely speak, preserving what little croaking ability I have. Voiceless, I continue to be positioned in a particular way. People have certain expectations of me and it can be treacherous underfoot. By the end of the week, I regain my voice and negotiate the slippery patches more robustly. I avoid falling – on the ice – and in the seminar room. Had I fallen on the ice, I would have hurt myself physically. In the seminar room, my old friend, fear of failure, is waiting to greet me, rubbing their1 hands in anticipation of tripping me up, wanting me to fall. As usual, I rise to their challenges and cynicism with gusto, confident of how powerful it is to acknowledge how we are thinking with a person, an experience, a moment. It can be uncomfortable, revelatory, exciting.

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Do you learn anything about me in this short vignette? Do you need to learn anything about me? Do I need you to do so? Why have I included it? This chapter is an account of some experiences of supervising the research of those using autoethnography, of examining doctorates in which the researcher has used autoethnography and includes reflections on reviewing autoethnographic articles and books. In the chapter, I grapple with the complexities of evaluating work with which I have been entrusted because of my academic role and perceived experience and expertise – words that I always use cautiously and advisedly – indicating the criteria that I use. In addition, ‘I view autoethnography as a radical form of making embodied knowledge claims that resist the normative use of knowledge as an inherently colonial tool’ (Dutta, 2018, p. 94). I propose that using autoethnography can further the ‘decolonial possibilities’ (Zembylas, 2018, p. 1) of higher education in its challenges to dominant approaches to research. Some 12 years ago, for example, I encountered the words of Pathak (2010, p. 2), that autoethnography has the potential to disrupt ‘academic imperialism’. Similarly, I believe in autoethnography’s capacity to identify and remove ‘deeply embedded epistemic hegemonies, which have been created through the twin processes of capital expansion and colonialism’ (Dawson, 2020, p. 75) as redolent of Fricker’s (2015, p. 79) concept of ‘epistemic reciprocity’, it encourages us as researchers ‘to give and receive of ourselves and of how we understand knowledges in order to make meaning’ (Trahar, 2021, p. 294). Memories of the workshops in the snowy, Northern European city came to me as I began thinking about and writing this chapter. So often, that is what happens. As I write, memories are triggered and, rather than push them away, I nurture them, tussle with them, going with the flow, trusting that they surge in for a reason. As I continued to write, I realised that the preparation for, and facilitation of, the workshops gave an accurate account of how I understand autoethnography, how I engage in it and how I use that understanding to supervise and examine others’ research and writing. Writing autoethnographically, therefore, sets the scene for what is to come in the chapter.

Trudging through the snow: understanding autoethnography The handbook containing this chapter is replete with definitions of autoethnography and I do not want to be tedious by repeating many of them. At the same time, if I am writing about supervising and evaluating autoethnographic work then it seems important that I position myself within it so that the reader knows why I make the judgements that I do. Returning to the words of Coles, quoted at the beginning of the chapter, I qualify them by explaining that I am not ‘atheoretical’; on the contrary, I enjoy engaging with theories. ‘Theorizing one’s own lived experiences can be … liberatory … and a means to interpret our own as well as others’ stories’ (Boylorn & Orbe, 2014, p. 236). But I am not driven by theory. I do not strive relentlessly to fit a theory to a person, an event, a practice or to myself. In addition, theories do not fall from the sky. They have been developed in social, cultural and historical contexts that may be quite different from the context of the researcher and the research. At the same time, I expect autoethnographic texts – especially those being presented for doctoral examination – to engage with other research on a topic and seek to contribute to it. I do not find it problematic for autoethnographers to ‘integrate relevant theory and concepts to help frame their stories of personal experience prior to offering a range of interpretations of the tale as told’ (Sparkes, 2018, p. 481), provided that, as indicated, those theories and concepts are contextualised and problematised.

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My next step would be to ‘position’ autoethnography within the broader family of qualitative methodologies that include narrative inquiry, autobiography, narrative ethnography before focusing more explicitly on autoethnography: Autoethnography involves a critical study of yourself in relation to one or more cultural context(s) (Reed-Danahay, 1997, p. 9) followed by these oft-quoted words used to explain the approach to the reader: An autobiographical genre of writing and research that displays multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal to the cultural. Back and forth autoethnographers gaze, first through an ethnographic wide-angle lens, focusing outward on social and cultural aspects of the personal experience; then they look inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through, refract and resist cultural interpretations. (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 739) Each time I read these words, I take something different from them. The importance of connecting the personal to the cultural – many autoethnographies that I read overlook to do that in depth. Focusing outward, resisting cultural interpretations. Again, for me, these elements are not always so visible. I emphasise, again, the importance of context. All research needs to be contextualised and readers provided with sufficient information about the context(s) of research so that they can understand it and, crucially, why the author is making the interpretations that they are.

“Do you want people to know that about you?”, they asked. “Why would I not?”, I replied: journeying to autoethnography Using autoethnography in my PhD to write about my selves in my cultures, provoked critical examination of the philosophical perspectives underpinning how I saw the world and my theoretical understandings of approaches to learning and teaching. Until I embarked on my doctorate, I had never questioned the geopolitical contexts and historical timeframes from which the Rogerian, humanistic, student-centred approach that I espoused (see, for example, Rogers, 1994) had emerged. ‘The problem is in part a failure to recognize that knowledge is not simply about epistemology (ways of knowing), but also ontology (ways of being)’ (Stein, 2020, p. 166). Interrogating mine and others’ ontologies, through autoethnography, has helped me to ‘learn to be otherwise’ (Stein, 2019, pp. 150–1). Perhaps, inevitably, therefore, I look for similar questioning when supervising and reading others’ work. I did not claim to be an autoethnographer in my PhD, rather that my research developed autoethnographic dimensions through intense and critical reflexivity on the issues that I was exploring – and I was mindful of its critics. In turning the PhD into a book (Trahar, 2011), I encountered more criticisms of autoethnography such as ‘retreat into autoethnography is an abrogation of the honourable trade of the scholar’ (Delamont, 2009, p. 51) and, more latterly, that it may be construed as ‘a form of “soft research” or “me-search” that is atheoretical, ungeneralizable and self-absorbed’ (Boylorn & Orbe, 2014, p. 235). In my dissertation I was transparent about my fear of the danger of being ‘self-indulgent, rather than self-knowing, self-respectful … or self-luminous’ (Sparkes, 2002, p. 214) and I am now wary that ‘a focus on 158

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independent experiences can in some cases jeopardise larger cultural issues … and that multiple methods/stories are necessary to give a wide representation of difference and displacement’ (Boylorn & Orbe, p. 237). Multiple methods/stories may be wise but, like most qualitative researchers, I do not set out to generalise ‘results’ to larger populations and so ‘generalisability’ is not a criterion I use to evaluate autoethnography. Rather, I believe that autoethnography ‘has the potential to resonate with those in similar circumstances who may then be moved to reflect critically on their experiences and perhaps act differently or, at least, puzzle over similar questions’ (Trahar, 2017a, p. 280). Further, that, as practitioners and researchers, we attempt to understand the emotional dimensions of our experiences and, possibly, theorise them so that they may be of value to readers. Even though autoethnography has been used extensively for more than three decades, an autoethnographer may still encounter criticisms of being an inadequate researcher, failing to provide sufficient insights, or for using personal experience and “first-person voice” (Adams, 2018, p. 203). As I supervise, examine and read autoethnography, I am, inevitably, judging it. Judging it by criteria that are congruent with my values and my understanding of the approach – as I explain throughout the chapter – but, at the same time, I feel a responsibility to be mindful of the requirements for the PhD, that, so often, still reside within dominant, colonial narratives sustained in the criteria for academic performances. Even though, as Adams (2018) states, autoethnography is no longer a ‘new’ methodological approach, those who use it can continue to be exhorted to explain in detail their methodological rationale, to justify, to elaborate, to position and to articulate the limitations as well as the affordances, much more so than those who use other methodologies. This creates a tension for me as, while I and others have argued for the need to ‘decolonise’ academic writing (see, for example, Trahar et al., 2019) and to ‘dive into the belly of the beast … to try and challenge it from within’ (Heinemann & Castro Varela, 2017, p. 271), many of us operate within institutions that privilege particular knowledges and research approaches. The extent to which we need to be complicit – for the sake of the doctoral researcher – while at the same time critiquing such dominance remains a carefully balanced judgement call.

Skating on the ice: supervising autoethnographic doctoral research Words dance on the page, alternating with the images, replicating the dance form that they love and practise and that is prominent in their research. I have to read some words several times, so that I understand them. I am jolted into my familiar position of not being clever enough, not good enough to do what I do. Maybe I am a fraud, suffering from imposter syndrome? What gives me the right to supervise, examine and critique autoethnography? Jonathan Wyatt, in writing with Inés Bárcenas Taland (2018, p. 227), proposes that ‘it is not about me. Supervising autoethnography is about others, and it is about the other in me. I  may have doubts but autoethnography is precious and important and political.’ I, too, have doubts about autoethnography but I have doubts about almost everything. Doubting helps me to critique and to move forward. But supervising is about me. It is about how I read and respond to what is offered to me, the words, the images, the performances. How I use my understandings of autoethnography to advise, to support, to encourage risk taking. It is important, precious and political. They write about how teaching is relegated to a lower position than research in higher education. Their words resonate so powerfully with me, they provoke a visceral response. Many are words I could have written and, indeed, I have written similar ones elsewhere. 159

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Did  my words speak to others in ways that theirs speak to me? Are my words evaluated as I am evaluating theirs? I am making judgements using several criteria synthesised from others who have articulated them (see, for example, Holman-Jones, 2005). Andrew Sparkes, who has written extensively about evaluating autoethnography, concludes in a recent (2020) article that: It’s a messy, tentative, contingent process in which I feel (original emphasis) my way into the piece in front of me, reading it multiple times with gaps in between where a cocktail of thoughts and emotions mingle in my body as I drift towards certain kinds of judgment call over others. (p. 299) Much of this resonates with me, in particular the ‘reading it multiple times’. Do I do that because I want to evaluate the dissertation more favourably? So that their writing will be ‘good enough’ to be awarded the doctorate? So that they will be able to mount a persuasive defence in the face of those who may be sceptical about their approach? But I also have to be moved, emotionally, by the writing. I have to believe in the writer. I want to ‘think’ differently through reading the work and possibly to ‘act’ differently too. I want it to be written eloquently – a word which is loaded with subjective judgement. All of the autoethnography that I read is in English, which, so often, is not the author’s first language. As a supervisor, I encourage the researcher to use their first language when appropriate. I want to stumble, to puzzle over the meaning of paragraphs that are inaccessible because they are in a language that I do not speak or understand. I want to feel excluded from the writing. To empathise with those who have to write in English in order to be published and to ensure that their readers and examiners understand them (Trahar et al., 2019). But what if what they are writing has nothing whatsoever to do with their research? Does it matter? What I can understand is congruent with their methodological approach and with what they provide accounts of. I trust them as a writer, as a researcher, as a human being, a trust that has been developed through our relationship. But what happens when I do not have that relationship? That the relationship with the author is formed through what I read, such as when I am a doctoral examiner or reviewer? I still have to feel my way into it.

On thinner ice: examining autoethnographic doctoral research “I’ve been given your name by a colleague who suggests that you’d be ideal as an examiner”. The warm glow suffuses me as I read the email. I – or rather my experience – is still wanted. I look at the abstract. A fascinating subject. They write well. I respond positively. “How should I evaluate this as autoethnography?”, they asked, in the doctoral viva. What a good question, I thought and appropriated it, using it as an examiner, irrespective of the methodological approach taken. Many doctoral researchers overlook to identify criteria that they would like others to use to evaluate their work. There are different types of autoethnography (for an overview see, for example, Sparkes, 2020) and different criteria for evaluating each one – although some may be similar. Explaining the approach, as appropriate, and illustrating familiarity with the criteria, identifying those that they would like to be used to evaluate their research is helpful for the reader and for the examiner and can avoid unnecessary questions. The dissertation begins well and I am drawn into it immediately. Then I start to puzzle over what it is actually about. Have I missed something? I go back, read the beginning again. There are hints but nothing is stated explicitly. I know that the other examiner has been chosen for 160

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their expertise on the topic and that they are not familiar with autoethnography. That means I  may have to convince them of its worth, provided, of course, that I am convinced. If an author specifies that they are using an autoethnographic approach in their dissertation or article, then ‘I begin to expect a contribution that displays the general characteristics of the genre. This is my first act of judgment’ (Sparkes, 2022, p. 264). I am captivated by the writing but at other times, feel it is somewhat lacklustre, as if the writer is afraid of taking too many risks. There is a lovely use of metaphor but it is not played with sufficiently to enable clear meaning. They have read voraciously but the literature is described rather than engaged with at a deep, intimate level. I want to feel that the writing ‘plays, opens closed doors, discovers hidden passageways, creates new spaces’ (Pelias, 2011, p. 666) and that ‘it is mischievous, utopian, saying the unsayable, the forbidden, the dangerous. It knows the master’s (sic) house can be rebuilt. It believes there should be no master (sic)’ (ibid.). Rather, the author seems to believe that there is a ‘master’, and that ‘his’ house is too powerful to be rebuilt, even though they claim they would like to do so. Adams (2018, p. 205) advises that ‘as authors, we should describe which values we use in autoethnography; as reviewers, we should do our best to respect an author’s autoethnographic orientation’. I want to do that but I need to be clear about what it is. They identify different autoethnographic approaches but I am puzzled as to whether they have settled on one or are using all of them. At the same time, I would like them to have reflected on possible criteria for their orientation(s), how they are formed and whether they need to be problematised as a concept, perhaps by heeding: Any evaluation of autoethnography, then, is simply another story from a highly situated, privileged, empowered subject about something he or she experienced. To evaluate autoethnography in a genuinely useful way, you have to open yourself up to being changed by it, to heeding its call to surrender your entitlement. (Gingrich-Philbrook, 2013, p. 618, cited in Sparkes, 2018, p. 265) I want to be changed by it, to surrender any entitlement that I may have, but there are elements missing. There are questions to be asked, in my report, in the viva.

Even slippier: autoethnography as a decolonial act “What would a PhD look like if it were to be decolonised?”, they asked. The question came in the last moments of our final meeting in South Africa. I loved it! They had spoken my thoughts. There then followed a wonderful conversation about who determined the PhD should be the way it is, what it has to contain, how it should be written. I read their words about decoloniality, decolonisation. Perhaps I should focus more on autoethnography’s potential to ‘decolonise’ in this chapter that I have been invited to write at a late stage. The idea has been gnawing away at me, with that voice that always tries to quieten it, that voice that asks whether I have the right to even talk about decoloniality, as a white woman from a colonising nation. I have reflected on this elsewhere (Trahar, 2021), always qualifying my right to do so, striving to position myself and to be transparent about my European perspectives, even though I am gradually dismantling them. Heinemann and Castro Varela (2017) ask ‘is it trustworthy to talk about decolonisation using European theories? But then, is there such a thing as a dilemma free zone?’ (p. 261). The researcher whose dissertation I am reading uses the words of Tlostanova et al. (2016, p. 215) to emphasise that global coloniality ‘is always manifested in particular local forms and conditions, as well as personal histories and experiences’. Their writing is always powerful and, like me, they tussle with their own 161

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identities as they soldier on, bravely and creatively, reflecting critically on themselves as a higher education practitioner in an institution reluctant to question the dominance of its practices. Dutta (2018, p. 96) comments on: the power of autoethnography as a site for interrogating the coloniality inscribed into the very production of knowledge, working through the reflexive turn inward to imagine subversive communicative structures for knowledge production that challenge the contemporary organizing of political, economic, cultural, and social colonization. The extent to which I anticipate that the researcher will engage critically with such issues, may be contingent on the subject of the research. At the same time, however, given my anticipations that an autoethnographer will focus ‘outward on social and cultural aspects of the personal experience’ then ‘look inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through, refract and resist cultural interpretations’ (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 739), as indicated earlier in this chapter, it is not unreasonable to expect that they will draw on decoloniality and decolonisation in their critical reflexivity. This is, then, another criterion that I use to evaluate.

“The false white innocence of snow” (Moorhouse, 1994, p. 373): the complexities of ethics I feel deeply disturbed by this writing. They are giving their accounts of events that distressed them and I am discomfited by how they have been treated, in particular in education settings. I assume that this is what they want, for their reader to be uncomfortable, to share their anger, to agree that they have been treated badly and to empathise with them. I have no problem with being uncomfortable. In fact, so often I say that I am comfortable with being uncomfortable. What is it then about this writing that troubles me? Their anger evokes anger in me but then I re-read the words and I see that they do not ‘say’ they were angry – I have felt it. That means that the writing is powerful but yet I do not experience it as such. I puzzle over what it is I want to say. It feels as if it is something important about autoethnography. Is it because I find the writing overly descriptive? That there is too much detail? It is as if the author is describing events that happened to someone else, even though I am told it happened to them. The critical incidents are integrated into a scholarly narrative. The author cites multiple sources so that they are situating their ideas and themself ‘within existing conversations in the field’ (Bridges-Rhoads et al., 2018, p. 817), making authoritative arguments which, as I have clarified are criteria that I use to evaluate. Moreover, the writing is eloquent. And yet, and yet… Now I have more reasons for feeling troubled. Others involved in these events will recognise themselves. Does the author have their permission to write about them? They name organisations. Do they have their permission? Have they considered how these people may feel if they read their accounts of events in which they played significant parts? It is not that I do not believe they should be written about, more that when I engage in autoethnography, I am never only writing about myself; other people have and have had parts to play in the events that I recall. How do I tell those stories in ways that remain respectful or as respectful as possible? As Muncey (2010, p. 3), writes ‘none of us live in a disconnected world’. In so far as it has been possible, in my own writing, I have asked permission of anyone who appears in it, sharing with them what I have written, inviting comment. Where I have not been able to do this, because I cannot locate them or because they are dead – in the case of my parents – I have written transparently about the situation. I have explained that I do not feel that I have 162

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written about them disrespectfully and that I am expressing my own emotions in response to a particular event (see, for example, Trahar, 2017a). Readers may not agree with my perspective or interpretation, but they cannot deny me my emotional responses. I feel that I am writing at length about these ethical concerns but, too often, I encounter people who have not considered such complexities because they are ‘doing autoethnography’, and it is ‘about them’. ‘Our stories are not our own’ (Sparkes, 2013, p. 207); people are woven deeply into those that we tell and can be made vulnerable by them. Moreover: In the process of writing about ourselves, we also write about others. In this act we run the risk of making those we write about not only recognisable to others but recognisable to themselves in ways they might not feel comfortable with or agree to even if they have given their informed consent (whatever this might mean) for the story to be told. (ibid.) But what about this chapter? I am writing about events and about how I evaluate others’ work. One person may recognise themselves, but I have their permission to draw on our relationship and they have read and approved what I have written. I have chosen to use the non-gender specific pronouns ‘they’, ‘their’ and ‘them’ which, although clumsy, protect further those whose writing on which I am reflecting and commenting. I do not name anyone and the accounts are presented as composites of my experiences, rather than being drawn from one individual. Participants in those workshops in that Northern European university may remember the woman who lost her voice. But I have not written about them – I have written about me. In 2017, I published a chapter on the ethical complexities inherent in supervising ‘international’ doctoral researchers who were using narrative approaches. In that chapter, I reproduced – with their permission – words that had been written by the researchers themselves. I did so because they had written them so eloquently and because I did not want to appropriate them in a piece of my writing. I wrote, in the chapter, about the complexities of this decision, focusing in particular on whether they gave me permission because I had been their supervisor. In addition, all gave me names to use. Some were pseudonyms, others not. In that chapter, I wrote: I have no desire to cause “embarrassment” or “harm” to those whose accounts are included here, hence my permission seeking processes. … I hope that this chapter may open a window onto new ideas about practices, certainly those practices that, for me, constitute significant ethical complexities in doctoral supervision, complexities that, in my experience, are rarely debated. (Trahar, 2017b, p. 506) A crucial question to ask, therefore, and which obtains for all research is ‘Do we ask permission of people to appear?’ My answer would always be ‘yes’ but qualified by the situations I described earlier. I suggest that it is safer to assume that everyone implicated or mentioned in what we write will read it. It is important, therefore, to use a pseudonym, being mindful that nothing that we write should harm others. Finally, it is important to anticipate our own future vulnerability. Autoethnography is not easy and those who consider using it need to understand that rendering themselves vulnerable may not be what they want to do in their research. It was my supervisor who asked me whether I wanted people ‘to know that about me’, as I wrote earlier. My response ‘Why would I not?’ may seem flippant but I had shared 163

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my writing with others whose opinions I valued. In addition, as it is through writing that I understand myself in all my complexities as well as concepts that I find difficult and opaque, to delete those parts would not have been congruent with what I was struggling. To return to the writing on which I was reflecting at the beginning of this section, in such cases, I provide clear feedback on my concerns to the author(s), advising that they consider more carefully the ethical complexities inherent in autoethnography.

Conclusion Research begins with something that captures our attention, that interests us, that motivates us to ask questions about it, maybe with the aim of persuading others to our perspectives. Much social science and educational research continues to hide, using various textual techniques, the researcher and their voice, but is the researcher not always present in research, irrespective of their philosophical perspective(s) and chosen methodology(ies)? If we accept the constant presence of the researcher and their influence on the research design and the research itself, does that make the term ‘autoethnography’ superfluous? This may be a provocative question, but all writing is produced for an audience and aims to create a dialogue with that audience. The relationship with the audience may need to be considered more carefully when using autoethnography as many readers will remain cynical about the approach. In identifying criteria that they deem appropriate for the evaluation of their work, and ensuring that it meets them, researchers can challenge judgments that continue to be defined by dominant narratives of what constitutes research. In introducing their new Journal of Autoethnography, the editors, Tony Adams and Andrew Herrmann, conclude by writing: For us, autoethnographies, and articles about autoethnography, enlighten our intellect, engage our emotions, and pique our curiosities. They can make what seems mysterious to outsiders comprehensible and make tacit knowledge explicit. They teach us about ourselves, our friends, our families, our workplaces, our world. They offer us the ability to empathize with others, make strategic and positive personal and cultural change, and become better and just researchers and people. (Adams & Herrmann, 2020, p. 6) Become better and just researchers and people. A tall order indeed. But one that should not be ignored, nor taken lightly, given the unsettled and unsettling times in which we live. In writing this chapter autoethnographically, I have striven to elucidate, through myriad experiences of supervising, examining and reviewing research that uses autoethnography, how researchers, research subjects, methodologies and methods are entangled. Acknowledging them as such, using autoethnography, strengthens, rather than diminishes educational research, rendering it more authentic and relevant for our complex worlds. To return to my metaphor at the beginning of the chapter, negotiating the icy patches so that we do not fall is tricky but, in doing so, we find the softer and firmer snow on which to walk, becoming more surefooted on our journey.

Note 1 I have chosen to use the non-gender-specific pronouns “they”, “them” and “their” throughout the chapter as a further precaution to protect those whose writing evokes my reflections.

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References Adams, T. E. (2018). Introduction: Supervising, sharing and evaluating autoethnography. In L. Turner, N.P.  Short, A. Grant, and T.E. Adams (Eds.), International perspectives on autoethnographic research and practice (pp. 201–210). New York, NY: Routledge. Adams, T.E. and Herrmann, A.F. (2020). ‘Expanding our autoethnographic future’, Journal of Autoethnography, 1(1), 1–8. Boylorn, R.M., & Orbe, M.P. (Eds.). (2014). Critical autoethnography: Intersecting cultural Identities in everyday life (pp. 234–238). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Bridges-Rhoads, S., Hughes, H. E., & Van Cleave, J. (2018). Readings that rock our worlds. Qualitative Inquiry, 24(10), 817–837. Coles, R. (1989) The call of stories: Teaching and the moral imagination. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin. Dawson, M.C. (2020). Rehumanising the university for an alternative future: Decolonisation, alternative epistemologies and cognitive justice. Identities: Global Studies in Culture and Power, 27(1), 71–90. Delamont, S. (2009). The only honest thing: Autoethnography, reflexivity and small crises in fieldwork. Ethnography and Education, 4(1), 51–63. Dutta, M. J. (2018). Autoethnography as decolonization, decolonizing autoethnography: Resisting to build our homes. Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies, 18(1), 94–96. Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject. In N. Denzin, & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 733–768). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Fricker, M. (2015) Epistemic contribution as a central human capability. In G. Hull (Ed.), The equal society (pp. 73–90). Cape Town: UCT Press. Gingrich-Philbrook, C. (2013) ‘Evaluating (Evaluations of) autoethnography’, In S. Holman Jones, T. Adams & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (pp. 609–626). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Heinemann, A.M.B., & Do Mar Castro Varela, M. (2017). Contesting the imperial agenda. Respelling hopelessness. Some thoughts on the dereliction of the university. Tudschrift voor Genderstudies, 20(3), 259–274. Holman-Jones, S. (2005). Autoethnography: Making the personal political. In N. Denzin, & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), The Sage handbook of qualitative research (pp. 763–791). London: Sage. Moorhouse, F. (1994). Grand days. London: Picador. Muncey, T. (2010). Creating autoethnographies. London: Sage. Pathak, A. A. (2010). Opening my voice, claiming my space: Theorizing the possibilities of postcolonial approaches to autoethnography. Journal of Research Practice, 6(1), 1–12. http://jrp.icaap.org/index.php/ jrp/article/view/231/221 Pelias, R. (2011). Writing into position: Strategies for composing and evaluation’. In N.K. Denzin, & Y.S. Lincoln (Eds.), SAGE handbook of qualitative research (4th ed., pp. 659–668). Los Angeles: Sage. Reed-Danahay, D. (Ed.). (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. New York, NY: Berg. Rogers, C. (1994). Freedom to learn (3rd ed.). Upper Saddle River, NJ: Merrill. Sparkes, A. C. (2002). ‘Autoethnography, self-indulgence or something more?’ In A. Bochner & C. Ellis (Eds.), Ethnographically speaking: Autoethnography, literature and aesthetics (pp. 209–232). New York: Alta Mira Press. Sparkes, A. C. (2013) ‘Autoethnography at the will of the body’, In A. Grant, L. Turner & N.P. Short (Eds.), Contemporary British autoethnography (pp.203–313). Rotterdam: Sense. Sparkes, A.C. (2018). Autoethnography comes of age: Comforts, consequences and concerns. In D. Beach, C. Bagley, & S. Marques da Silva (Eds.), The Wiley handbook of ethnography of education (pp. 479–499). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Sparkes, A.C. (2020). Autoethnography: Accept, revise, reject? An evaluative self rejects. Qualitative Research in Sport, Exercise and Health, 12(2), 289–302. Sparkes, A.C. (2022). When judgment calls. Making sense of criteria for evaluating different forms of autoethnography. In T. Holman Jones, T. Adams, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed., pp. 263–276). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Stein, S. (2019). Beyond higher education as we know it: Gesturing towards decolonial horizons of possibility. Studies in Philosophy and Education, 38, 143–161. Stein, S. (2020) ‘Truth before reconciliation’: The difficulties of transforming higher education in settler colonial contexts. Higher Education Research and Development, 39(1), 156–170.

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Sheila Trahar Tlostanova, M., Thapar-Björkert, S. & Koobak, R. (2016). Border thinking and disidentification: Postcolonial and postsocialist feminist dialogues. Feminist Theory, 17(2), 211–228. Trahar, S. (2011). Developing cultural capability in international higher education: A narrative inquiry. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Trahar, S. (2017a). ‘Learning to see the person, not the culture or the faith’: Critical reflections on internationalizing higher education in Israel. Journal of European Education, 49(4), 276–292. Trahar, S. (2017b). “The path is made by walking on it”’. Ethical complexities in supervising international doctoral researchers using narrative approaches. In I. Goodson (Ed.), The Routledge handbook on narrative and life history (pp. 505–517). Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Trahar, S. (2021). Reclaiming the Future? In M. Kumar, & T. Welikala (Eds.), Teaching and learning in higher education: The context of being, interculturality and new knowledge systems. Bingley, Yorkshire: Emerald. Trahar, S., Juntrasook, A., Burford, J., von Kotze, A., & Wildemeesh, D. (2019). Hovering on the periphery? “Decolonising” writing for academic journals. Compare, 49(1), 149–167. Wyatt, J. with Taland, I. B. (2018). You never dance alone. Supervising autoethnography. In L. Turner, N.P. Short, A. Grant, & T.E. Adams (Eds.), International perspectives on autoethnographic research and practice (pp. 218–227). New York, NY: Routledge. Zembylas, M. (2018). Decolonial possibilities in South African higher education: Reconfiguring humanising pedagogies as/with decolonising pedagogies. South African Journal of Education, 38(4), 1–11.

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SECTION 3

Conducting identity work and relationship-building via autoethnography Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan The eight chapters in this section of the handbook tease out the connections between life and research. The identities that we adopt (or those that are thrust upon us) have bearing on the relationships that we choose to explore, build and maintain within our research, within our professions and within our everyday lives. Autoethnography is uniquely placed as a means for this exploration. Identity work is an important facet of our lives as educationalists, and we should strive for self-exploration as a tool for improving and monitoring our relationships with ourselves and with those who are entrusted into our care academically. In Chapter 15, James Akpan discusses impacts on his identity as he traversed two very different cultures. He interrogates the notion of autoethnography and its “welcoming aura” that enables him to embark on his exploration of self-in-context. The author examines his exposure to a tripolar identity that includes a Western White education, an African American experience and an African homeland. In Chapter 16, Patrick Alan Danaher wrestles with his identity in transition as he completes one career chapter of his life in academia and muses about his future endeavours. While this transition generates feelings of fearfulness and uncertainty, those feelings are ameliorated by his deployment of autoethnographic analysis in concert with sense-making. In particular, the analysis is clustered around his present identity shift, informed by his longer-term identity work and relationship reshaping, and also by his traversing the personal–communal, private– public and self–other divides. He highlights the complex intersections among autoethnography, sense-making, identity (shift) work and relationship-building. In Chapter 17, Gustavo González-Calvo presents his journey as a Spanish researcher who seeks to write in an evocative, critical and committed way. He warns the reader about the marginal and secondary status of qualitative and autoethnographic methodologies in Spain. The author considers it his moral obligation to try to make visible the political discourses, and the neoliberal and capitalist measures and dilemmas, facing university professors today. In telling his story, he reminds the reader that members of university institutions deserve to be considered as more than instruments that benefit neoliberal policies. DOI: 10.4324/b23046-17

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In Chapter 18, Arturo Pérez López and Patricia Varas explore Arturo’s self-reflection to discover his ethnic identity. Through his writing, Arturo constructs a narrative built of memories and experiences, supporting it with readings on language, music, ethnic identity formation, and cultural patterns of socialisation and interaction. In this autoethnography, Arturo embarks on an inclusive and informal method of learning and makes important connections with cultural, political and social sources that will prove important to him as a future researcher. In Chapter 19, Ashley Simpson raises awareness about the concepts involved when enacting critical autoethnography in relation to Bakhtin’s dialogism and the crises of outsideness. He poses a number of questions that researchers may wish to consider when utilising this form of autoethnographic study. These questions have to do with ethical behaviour; the importance of the recognition of self; choice of methodological tools; social, political and economic ramifications of this type of research; and, finally, sensitivity to the multiplicity of voices, perspectives and identities of dialogism. In Chapter 20, Devi Akella discusses being forced out of her comfort zone when she visited the conflicted region of Palestine as a Fulbright Specialist. The entire phenomenon is reproduced, deconstructed and reflected upon to reveal intricate social forces at play, learning experiences at work and with transformation of personality taking place. Foucault’s gaze ideology and situated learning are used to make sense of her perceptual blocks and the gradual change in her outlook over the course of her experience, and how this had an impact on her in the long run as a teacher and researcher. In Chapter 21, Lynelle Watts and Rebecca Waters aim to outline different kinds of autoethnographic critical reflection. They explore some philosophical conceptions of practical identity and consider how these might inform understandings of the self at the heart of autoethnography. The authors begin by tracing the self-reflective nature of the human as a social being, and then they discuss conceptualisations of practical identity, outlining the connection between its personal and social aspects. They outline the role of narrative as essential to the formation of practical identities, and they conclude by exploring the implications for how the self might be represented within autoethnographic inquiry. Finally in this section of the handbook, in Chapter 22, Emilio A. Anteliz and Paolo Maragno articulate what they propose as “the triple nexus” between identity work and relationship-building in relation to several continuing education programs that they developed in their Venezuelan university engineering faculty for working engineers. The first element of this nexus is the chapter’s conceptual framework. The second element is the principles underpinning the programs’ design and development. The third element is the authors’ reflections on their first experience of engaging in collaborative autoethnography.

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15 THIS IS SWEET BUT UNCOMFORTABLE An autoethnography of being African in American classrooms James Akpan Introduction I am male, African Black – and an ordained Roman Catholic priest from Akwa Ibom State. I believe it is because of the priesthood that I came overseas, and that the training I have received my entire life connects me with the Western world more than with my African homeland. But when I left Nigeria in 2014, my one intention was to spend just five years in the United States of America, doing graduate studies in psychology up to the doctorate level, and then going back home. [I tough love Nigeria, but I want this colonial name changed!] So, I dove straight into schooling six months after my arrival in Long Island, New York. Then came the shocking discovery: there is what is called “in-state” and “out-of-state” tuition! What? I was not up to 12 months in New York, so I wasn’t qualified for an in-state tuition. I was going to pay thrice the amount (almost $10,000 for 10 credits), which would be in millions when converted into Nigerian naira. How I navigated and survived such an initially cruel American academic world, moving from naivete to doctorate and incurring no debt, has formed the basis of this chapter. This initial roadblock is my “first critical incident”; I highlight four of these to share my experience using the autoethnographic method. Prior to my coming to America, I had taught briefly in a Nigerian high (secondary) school between 2013 and 2014 where the major building, the class block in that school, was tagged “uninhabitable” (see Figure 15.1). Yet, as of 2021, that building was still in use with no renovation work whatsoever. Of course, I got my education up to my second bachelor’s (2009) in Nigeria, but in a seminary setting. Seminary training in Nigeria can be regarded as a shadow that prevents me from seeing, and doing something about, the darkness in secular educational settings in Africa. So, during my doctorate program, I visited Nigeria in the summer of 2021 and got an impromptu invitation to a graduation at an elementary school next door to my home. I must say I came out of that function with tears in my eyes after watching those young optimistic and vibrant hearts being schooled in a substandard environment. How would their mindset be challenged, inspired, and transformed in such a dilapidated structure, which was labelled a school? I bring these varied experiences to bear in this project. The Nigerian educational environment, in stark contrast to my American experience, has made my research very relevant. DOI: 10.4324/b23046-18

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Figure 15.1  A dilapidated Nigerian high school building still in use (personal camera)

The environmental factor (intra- and extra-) in education brings back an idea I inquired personally on any essential difference between literate culture and oral culture; the results I got were both consoling and disturbing. I am referring to Havelock’s (1963) take on the shift in consciousness that accompany literacy. I shall use some of these insights to interpret an episode of the sitcom Bob Hearts Abishola, aired primarily in the United States, and watched by more than 100 million subscribers. On one occasion they referred to Akwa Ibom State University (the school that has informed my fourth critical incident, which focuses on my psychic battle while teaching in an American classroom). Overall, this chapter examines my experience in educational settings in the United States and in contrast to my Nigerian experience. The critical incidents would show what shift in consciousness I envisage or have undergone by inhabiting an in-between space. “What transformative effect can my American educational experience bring to Africa?” is a central question of this chapter. I shall start with what I call my identity profile at the in-between (being African in American class), and then follow with some ideas on my amended alienated voice in a multicultural setting, including the cultural capital of British-American English. I shall also eulogise the salvific effect of autoethnography as a means of decolonisation-transformation. These will lead to the critical incidents that form the core of this chapter, and my elaborate personal reflections thereafter. I also want to throw in the idea that being from a culture heavily populated equally by what Mayer (2002) tags “industrial and pre-industrial mindsets,” autoethnography branches me out to embody the experience of those from my communities of birth who have no privilege of being overseas as I am. This interpersonal use of autoethnography (fourth critical incident) then becomes a string for me to pull out many Africans from their dark academic environment. 170

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It  can inspire them to tell their own stories and to rebuild their world beyond mainstream politics or academia that have disappointed us all.

My identity battle at the in-between: is my consciousness shifting? Havelock (1963) states that writing restructures consciousness. Though he does not say if the restructured consciousness is in the realms of the individual, the collective, or the global mind, I tend to interpret his statement as referring primarily to the Western world. As a typical Western pattern of writing, Havelock sees the oral phase as merely ephemeral and transitory, belonging now to the past; however, I argue otherwise. In the context of the development of writing, and the invention of alphabets, Havelock makes a strong point about the number of centuries (about four) that passed between the invention of the (Greek) alphabet and being considered a literate culture. I tend to see this idea as ominous for collectivist cultures that did not invent their own alphabets. In other words, it could double that amount of time for Black Africa to be considered literate, notwithstanding the number of schools to be found there. I was concerned about the huge gap between America and Africa regarding the role of education, and that had occupied my mind since my Master’s program. During my PhD, I asked the question in a Sociogenesis class, and my professor gave me many ideas and links that lie outside the scope of this chapter. These ideas open a critical platform for an exploration of the nature of transformation that comes from the transition from the oral to the literate mindset. While being in either state is neither right nor wrong (my grandmother and mother were not college-educated but they trained me in college), I tend to read Havelock alongside the ancient story of my culture where a mythological lifestyle reigned like twins being sacrificed to gods and goddesses, and people were sold as slaves (Mayer, 2002; Akpan, 2021). At this time life could be considered “brutish, nasty, and short” (Thomas Hobbes). Let’s say these atrocities happened in our oral phase before colonisation brought its literate culture. In today’s African colleges, Nigeria being a case in point, professors sleep with female students for grades and the young are not mentored as potentials for the societal development, except in those cases where the young is connected to a politician or has money. Are these any different from the ancient mindset just mentioned? My internal (intra-psychic) world has been plagued by these ideas. (I use the word intra-psychic here to portray what is shakeable, shapeable, and shiftable in the internal human world, with such a shift being observable in virtuous acts, knowledge of the bigger picture, and liberated/ critical thinking – the tilt that accompanies true learning.) The extra-psychic world is the societal world, different from either the individual (the A factor) or the social (the B factor) spheres; it is the “C” factor as discussed by Roth (2018) – the societal. This is the factor that is largely missing in the way institutions function in Africa (Akpan, 2020). In other words, much of Africa can only be transformed when something shifts in our intra-psychic world, and that can include a broader form of awareness (by every individual) that no one else will build our world better than we ourselves can. As a collectivist society, much of Black Africans have not been formally guided to distinguish between individual and societal values, and that is why some professors treat the societal sphere as if it were their individual world. And that drastically affects the quality and standard of education projected and transmitted. For instance, some professors insist student buy their texts even though the said publication has not been subjected to a standard review. Failure of students to do the professor’s will can lead to negative consequences including failing the course. In my personal story, I feel that something has shifted in me since I came to America, but the seed of that shift could have been present while in Nigeria, manifested in the need to 171

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coach my young Africans. The positive changes I have experienced as an individual give me some insight and prompt a deeper understanding of the missing connections among the little societal pieces that are responsible for substandard education in Nigeria. All I have to do is put the insights to work for possible good results. My consciousness started shifting towards intuitive ideas while I was undertaking my Master’s program at St. John’s University, New York. I read texts that challenged my cultural backgrounds while opening me up to a critical assessment of White Western ideologies that were right there in the pages of the open book I was holding. In all honesty, I only started paying attention to the very word ‘critical’ during that program. It is a word I heard repeatedly in Nigeria during my philosophy undergraduate, but I had no clue what it meant, and I still question whether that word applies to Africa, with its overwhelming patriarchal, colonial, and conformist outlook. In Aune’s (2010) elaboration of the word, “independent reason” is a key expression, and it was an ‘aha!’ moment for me to pay attention to critical thinking. As I alluded, when I was home, I taught English and Religion, and I still remember teaching young high school students about American and British English expressions, that is, replicating the manner in which I had been taught. After I started taking classes in America, I revolted retroactively against that textbook and my teaching! If I were to teach that again, I would add Nigerian English. But it tears me apart when I hear any Nigerian; most of the age bracket before me say: “We speak British English in Nigeria.” I believe a lack of transformation of consciousness makes Africans hold on to inherited colonial structures in unconscious ways. I hope that my experience will challenge that. This idea means that I now consider again what cultural capitals (O’Connor, 1989; Luna, 1993) I inhabit in my education spaces. Being located at the in-between of two extremely different cultures has been both tough and sweet. I have been so blessed to be educated in what is a first world – that is the sweet part; the uncomfortable part is that all along I had been educated in Nigeria, both to be connected to a first world and to be alienated from my cultural roots. With the transformation of consciousness that I have experienced, I believe I can do something about the inherent alienation in Black African education. Meanwhile, I prefer “Black Africa” or “African Black” to “sub-Saharan Africa”; the prefix, ‘sub-’ implies inferiority, just as the names “Nigeria” and “Niger” (created by colonisers) echo other contentious ‘N’ words.

My voice versus the cultural capital and politics of control in my education Cultural capital means I pledge allegiance forever and unconsciously to my colonial master whose English and worldview dominate my educated voice: “Voice is the basic unit of a politics of discourse and the process of expressing oneself in a meaningful way by applying the rules of social discourse” (O’Connor, 1989). For me, “the rules of social discourse” mean the grammar which I learned in Nigeria, and the politics which I have grappled with in the American classroom. For O’Connor, dominant discourses control the process of cultural transmission, which is one reason I feel alienated from Africa after my years of education. Furthermore, according to him, it is not sufficient to merely include teaching and learning materials from the minority culture; the larger politics (of control) should be taken into consideration as well. I couldn’t agree more. In fact, during one of our class discussions (the same class from which I learned the idea of voice control politics), an intercultural study was presented wherein researchers examined how infants are raised in Europe (Germany) and in rural Africa (Cameroon), respectively. The German mother chose her living room for the study while the Cameroonian mother sat 172

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outside. Then the professor asked a question on who among the two mothers was ‘performing,’ as in, acting. My White colleague was quick to answer: the Cameroonian. He couldn’t be more wrong! Rural Africa knows little about acting, and that is why the Cameroonian mother sat outside, for that is the culture – a collective raising of children. That was my voice, and though the only Black person in that class at the time, I think everyone learned something from me that day. But that experience showed me the limits of the politics guiding education, and that I can develop my voice despite the cultural capital of colonial English, much as I overcame my initial obstacle in America. Luna (1993) has asked a question on the place of personal narrative in a multicultural setting, pondering whether or not personal stories can transform society. Why not? Of course, her answer is in the affirmative. She avers that there is always the imaginative dimension to storytelling built upon the sense of connection (or disconnection?) which the education system enhances. That makes me think of the point where my story gets lost in the academic environment. Yes, I agree the academic world ‘exposes’ me to new ideas but, as both O’Connor and Luna show, I am inherently in a power realm so long as I am in the academia, and I can be torn between my narrative and the expository dimensions of my education. How much do I need to know about the Western form of reasoning? I query after coming this far in my education. There is a tension that I would always experience in the school environment for various reasons (see Luna, 1993). But then Luna says learning to listen is the key to the kind of transformation we need when we bring our personal narratives into the class. In other words, we can always imagine a different story if we listen carefully to each other. I can’t get over a comment made by another White colleague when I shared that my grandmother cannot tell the clock (but knows time) or count in English, and that she counts “market days” (8 in number) rather than “days of the week” (7 in number), implying there is a tension between the calendar system brought by colonial education and my cultural calendar. My colleague’s response was: “James, it’s amazing that colonisation did not affect every part of your homeland culture.” That was a response I could never have imagined, and I could never get from a fellow African. Aha! I believe autoethnography provides the foundation for my story to be told in ways that can both transform me as well as provide support for others who don’t have people to listen to their personal narratives.

Autoethnography’s Befriending Gesture The African story has become lost since known history; we still are, hence, my love of autoethnography, which “emerged in response to concerns about colonialism, the need to recognize social difference and identity politics…” (Adams et al., 2013). The method arose as a response to crisis of representation in storytelling about “the other”; thus, personal experience becomes data. Attached to this idea is the fact that identity politics in its intra-national sense also matters. For example, an American audience can watch Bob Hearts Abishola and think they know Africa. While that is true, I would say the program only showcases the Yoruba culture, which is one of the three dominant ones in Nigeria alongside Igbo and Hausa. In other words, there is still something missing in the program regarding intra-national representation. So autoethnography’s “epistemology of insiderness” means the bottom-up experience still beckons in Africa, irrespective of how well we think we know her. I advocate the bottom-up homework for which autoethnography offers much support. This is because, for a unified Africa to be built after all the woes she has experienced, local minority voices need to be heard and sustained. Global politics has largely compromised this idea. Barely had we got over colonisation then along came the so-called Commonwealth. This phenomenon is an abuse of 173

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Africa. She is not allowed to build her own society, and that is the same politics of colonial dominance that has ruled Africa’s institutions, including education (see Lowe, 2015). Adams et al. (2013) have highlighted four marks of autoethnography: comment/critique of culture/practice; furthering of research; embracing vulnerability “with purpose” (therapeutic value); creating a symbiotic connection with audiences for a response. It situates the experience of the author, writer, or researcher, in the heart of the story. This method is a literary reversal of (or balance to) the very first form of written works done on Africa. That first form was ethnocentric ethnography (or ethnography beleaguered with ethnocentrism), wherein the Western standards were superimposed on African. Now is the time for Africa to tell their own story, as I am doing. I have the impression that this method is good for those who have the good of their culture at heart, the so-called “socially unattached intelligentsia” (Alfred Weber). In addition, this method can help revisit the epistemological foundations of places like Africa that are yet to own their stories. In ethnography, meaning is structured by culture (Miller, Hengst & Wang, 2004); autoethnography inserts the individual within the paradigm of cultural meaning. This understanding has informed my ideas in this chapter.

Theoretical framework: uncomfortable sweetness The essence of ‘uncomfortable sweetness’ is to gain knowledge but to feel awkward in that process. I see in other people’s autoethnographic stories something that both connects and disconnects with mine. In chapter 1 of their work (rightly entitled, “Your Inquiry is not Like Mine”), Hancock shares his childhood story of being the only black boy in a summer camp: “… and I embodied all the misguided ideals of Blackness as perceived by young White boys” (Hancock et al., 2015, p. 12). Trying to fit in was always the instinct, but doing that for Hancock was to take up an artificial lifestyle, the same thing “which the other boys [White] knew innately.” This innateness blew my mind yet confirmed my ideas about how distraught an African can be when immersed in Western forms, including education. Alienation pops up in Hancock’s story as well as mine. Such an experience came up during his doctorate dissertation and in one of his meetings with his White supervisor. The meeting took place in a coffee shop dominated by White people, and he felt awkward at being the only Black person in the room. I hear you, Hancock! Feelings of embarrassment also appeared in Hancock’s story as well as mine. For when a topic is discussed and you are unable to contribute or to connect, an awkward feeling overwhelms you. But I see that my age mattered a lot and my background. I came to America as an adult and my story is slightly different from the African American’s story – same alienation in education but different entry points. I have a background in philosophy, which makes me able to connect with virtually every part of the Western world. That also puts me at an advantage globally, though I still struggle as a Black person. I must say that many Nigerians can excel in the Western world because of the hardworking spirit they have acquired while at home, but not necessarily because of the standard of their education. Also, the ability to resist alienation and embarrassment that accrue from being educated abroad comes with age. As a part of my PhD, I teach a class on introduction to psychology. In that process, I have encountered a few Nigerian young people. I can only imagine how they struggle to fit in, including shortening or mispronouncing their names. Teenage experience of color hasn’t been my lot, but alienation. Ignorance, naivete, and fear are factors Hancock highlights as coloring “patrons,” as in White folks in his domain of experience. Hancock, like me, searches for research works that do not marginalise participants, and autoethnography supplies that missing link. It refines my uncomfortable sweetness. 174

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Method/organisation I shall discuss the idea of uncomfortable sweetness as I have experienced it in American institutions under “critical incidents.” A critical incident is defined as any situation faced by a person (or community) that causes them to experience unusually strong emotional and/or physical reactions. These reactions may have the potential to interfere with the person’s abilities to function either at the scene, in family life, or even later in life (Fay, 2013). In the case of my experience, the emotion of uncomfortable sweetness is evoked as I feel the contrast between where I grew up and where I am right now. That emotion is very important as it can help me contribute to Africa’s educational growth.

Critical incident 1: finding my way around a first world with a heavy tuition debt My first critical incident relates to how I navigated a cruel educational process in the United States just six months after my arrival. I signed up for classes because I knew I was ready to study and that I would spend more than the required months to qualify for in-state tuition. That didn’t work. I got the disqualification notice when I was already two weeks into the semester. Then, I was mandated to pay. The 10 credit courses I was taking was going to cost me close to five figures! Converting those figures into my local Nigerian currency would mean an amount in millions! How do I explain that to my mother? How do I even reconcile such cognitive dissonance of paying an amount in four digits for half- or quarter-tuition in one country, and the same amount is in millions (seven digits) in another country? Who am I? Where am I? What is the meaning of all this? These questions went round and round in my mind. I had never experienced anything like that. What was I to do?

Critical incident 2: sitting in a traumatised environment for children's graduation In the summer of 2021, when I visited Nigeria for a brief vacation, I got an impromptu invitation to the graduation party in , an elementary school, the nearest one to the home I grew up. I was surprised that such a dilapidated building was still in use for education. It was one of the first concrete buildings, a church, built in the area by Irish missionaries. It became converted to a school in the early 1990s, when a new church building was erected. I  sat in, facing those brilliant faces of children performing to the delight of parents and teachers. And then I turned briefly to view the roof and the walls of the building; tears rolled down my cheeks “this is an education environment that is traumatic at best,” I whispered to myself. I  spent only about three weeks in Nigeria before returning to the USA for the fall semester. But within that short span, I paid a brief visit to the high school I had taught shortly before I got a visa to come to the United States. The state of the buildings in the school vicinity was no different from the elementary school where I had witnessed the graduation party.

Critical incident 3: these uncomfortable texts about Black Africa I have tried to maintain a catalogue of the great works I have read in American universities and colleges as well as trying to imagine how I would teach these ideas in an African setting. I want to share just three of the troubling texts I have read when I took some undergraduate 175

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classes in psychology: the first relates to the evolutionary history of schizophrenia, and the second is on the idea of intelligence and races (with the third from one of my personal readings). a. Two separate theories related to the evolutionary existence of schizophrenia were proposed by Tim Crow… and Jonathan Burns… Since similar rates are seen in both industrialized and agrarian societies, this suggests that schizophrenia has existed as a part of the human experience since at least the time humans left Africa some 100,000 years ago. (Ray, 2015) b. In another controversy, a debate has raged since the 1930s over whether IQ differences between ethnic groups are genetically based … Arthur Jensen … has argued for 35 years that environment and socioeconomic differences are inadequate to account for the observed IQ differences among groups. He and Philippe Rushton cite studies indicating that IQ differences are consistent around the world, with East Asians averaging 106 points, whether in the United States or in Asia, Whites about 100, and African Americans at 85 and sub-Saharan Africans around 70 … (Garrett, 2015) Earlier on, Hutchinson (1858/2017), a former British consul, had written: c. The commerce of Africa, like the intelligence of its people, is yet in a condition little better than that of helpless infancy. I do not entertain as great hope respecting the hereafter of this country, from its ivory, gold dust, or copper ore, as from the industrial products of its cotton, shea-butter, and palm oil. To some it may appear a flight of imagination to regard the slave population as the future workers in developing these resources for their own and their country’s good, as well as for the promotion of the commercial interests of the British nation. Nevertheless, ever since I became acquainted with the negro character I  have entertained this opinion; and it is strengthened by a daily increasing knowledge of the tribes who trade up the rivers within my consular. (p. vi)

Critical incident 4: my psychic battle in American classrooms She sent me a WhatsApp message after one of my classes and told me what I thought would never happen to her. She said, Professor N says I should pay 10,000 (a Nigerian currency equivalent to $20) or come to his house in Uyo (Akwa Ibom State capital) and sleep with him. He said I failed his class which is practical agriculture (where students are punished in a farm because they want a degree). I told him that I was always present, and he said I am asking too many questions. Everyone in this university knows him as one who does this against female students.

Analysing my uncomfortable sweet experience in America Studying in the United States, for me, is synonymous with not teaching the texts in critical incident 3 but to expose young Africans to its battered history. The first critical incident is not mainly because of tuition; it is rather the significance of social construction in education. Students (citizens and international alike) have had to pay through the nose. I myself have been so lucky to not go through that route, thanks to generous friends and program organisers. But I got captivated on how the societal, the American capitalistic world, has impacted its 176

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institutions. Why can’t my African mythic stories of love and care root out colonisation and alienation in my homeland educational system? I query. With that being said, I must confess that I had nightmares during my first critical incident. As I was negotiating with the student account office, I realised that I was still going to pay four figures at a reduced rate, maybe a quarter of the total amount. This was not still right for me; I thought I was not justly treated. I kept saying to myself: I came into this country the right way, and I want to do the right thing, but see what I am going through? This kind of experience is very important though one does not see it on the media. The media often focus on immigrants who come into America the wrong way. All this went on in my head. Then, luckily, I was at last left off the hook. Thank God. But how did that happen? Well, I appealed to the president’s office of the school as my last hope. It worked, though there was an initial reluctance. The legal expert of that office that I had first contacted said something like: “This is the president’s office, and we don’t handle students’ financial issues…” My response was something like: “Excuse me, isn’t this the highest office in the school?” “You’re right,” she answered. “I am appealing to you for help,” I continued. By then I did not know that ‘helping’ is a paying profession in America. Anyway, the president’s office helped me out, and their simple explanation was: “Our record shows that you dropped the courses immediately after the bill was sent to you.” This was a survival tactic that just came to me intuitively at the time and has made me respect every Black immigrant to America.

The psychic impact of alienation in education: my different positionings I have assumed different positions in educational settings. Sometimes I embody the general experience such as shared by Hancock and drawing from Richard Wright’s story, Black Boy (Hancock et al., 2015). Other times I disconnect from the general nature of privileged voices in education as a Whiteman’s story – my spectatorship – and still other times I represent my mother’s voice. Being a spectator in education means I have a different world that I can impact, however minimally. My intercultural issue is that if I disconnect with the White voice in the class in America, should that be the case if I were in my country of birth? I once narrated my woes to an American brother-priest who holds a PhD in philosophy. I asked him: “How would you feel if you were a Nigerian in Nigeria, and in an undergraduate program in philosophy with a list of say 50 courses and just one tiny class named ‘African Philosophy’?” My coming to America has sharpened my eyesight regarding alienation through colonisation in education. It has become a great cause for compassion for my homeland and the wider Black world. America has made me think more deeply, love more freely, and listen more attentively. I have learned to distinguish my story from the Whiteman’s, something that every African educator should learn too (see Fanon, 1967).

My transformed dialogue With Bob Hearts Abishola The sitcom, Bob Hearts Abishola, season 2, episode 6, mentions Akwa Ibom State University, and how a certain professor was sleeping with female students with no consequences (Warner 177

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Bros Entertainment, 2021). This sent chills all over my body, and then a year after that came my fourth critical incident. What worries me is how everyone is silent about it – and that has been a predominant approach to societal vices in Africa’s conformist world. I know that transformation takes time, just like every other good thing in life, but one has to be moving in the right direction. For me, the education system that does not confront issues like professors having sex with students is not a good one. This awful experience is intolerable. It suggests that nothing has shifted in our African societal consciousness.

Embodying my mother’s and my mentees’ traumatic stories The student who shared her story (fourth critical incident) with me has been one of my mentees since I left Nigeria. I realised that my seminary education and gender have both privileged me in ways that are unavailable to women. As she shared her distress, I could feel the sob in her written voice. As traumatic as that was, I carry this message in my heart every time I enter the American class to teach the Introduction to Psychology class to young people whose counterparts are abused and/or miseducated in my homeland. Our general African population has not been educated to own their story yet and to confront powerful, but ill-bred people like corrupt professors in educational settings. “What if this was your child being abused in schools?” is an autoethnographic question I want to bring closer to each African family to bring about radical action.

Bi- and tri-polarly educated Being educated in America with all the resources at my disposal, in contrast to being educated in Nigeria with little to no preparatory materials, feels somewhat like a bipolar episode. The American experience further introduces a tripolar experience to my world. I was versed in the colonised system of education, where what you are being taught has nothing to do with your reality; that I can share with Hancock. But in America, I have come to know more about the African American story, something that is surprisingly unfamiliar in wider Africa. Now I am basically tripolar: exposed to Western White education, the African American experience, and the African. It makes me want to yell out during any episode of racism: “It’s not about black and white but about black and white and black (me).”

Conclusion The societal life of Africa has changed little from ancient times (Mayer, 2002) and I attribute that to the intra-psychic trauma acquired in the course of our evolutionary history. Aderinto (2018) shares a story of what Nigerian schoolchildren went through during colonisation. The colonial representative would stand annually at a stadium in Lagos, Nigeria, on the newly created 20th-century Empire Day. And Nigerian schoolchildren and officials would salute the colonialist. Psychologically, the system was made to function and depend on the coloniser. After Independence, Nigerian nationalists became the ones to be saluted, and Empire Day became “Children’s Day”, in a celebration which remains in place to the present day. This shows the displacement effect rather than decolonisation. The worst? Nigeria is still run by people who were teenagers during colonisation and traumatised to empathise with the coloniser. My advocacy for transformation of consciousness can be realised partly when such a traumatic experience by our present-day leaders experienced as children are treated seriously and on a large scale. But this has not happened yet. 178

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Africa is still both patriarchal and colonial, and any young person who challenges the system is punished. My education abroad positions me to fight for a better system. As I support my mentee (and every good African) to speak up, I see in autoethnography some salvific values for the betterment of Africa – to convert my sweet discomfort into growth and development in the land of my birth. Isn’t this what authentic education ought to be – a shift in consciousness?

References Adams, T., Jones, S. & Ellis, C. (2013). Autoethnography: Understanding qualitative research. New York: Oxford University Press. Kindle. Aderinto, S. (2018). Empire day in Africa: Patriotic colonial childhood, imperial spectacle and nationalism in Nigeria, 1905–60. The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 46(4), 731–757. https://doi.org /10.1080/03086534.2018.1452538. Akpan, J. (2020). Covid-19: Harbinger of a new psychology of religion for postcolonial societies. Human Arenas. Online. https://doi.org/10.1007/s42087-020-00167-x. Akpan, J. (2021). The Bible comes to Nigeria: Colonialism and the politics of translation. Kindle Direct Publishing. Aune, D. (2010). Historical criticism. In The Blackwell companion to the new testament, ed. David E. Aune, 101–115. Massachusetts: Wiley-Blackwell. Fanon, F. (1967). Black skin, white masks. Trans. Richard Philcox. New York: Grove Press. Fay, J. (2013). A narrative approach to critical and sub-critical incident debriefings. Academic Papers, Narrative Therapy Resources. Online. Garrett, B. (2015). Brain and behavior: An introduction to biological psychology, 4th ed. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, Inc. Kindle. Hancock, S., Allen, A. & Lewis, C. (2015). Autoethnography as a lighthouse: Illuminating race, research, and the politics of schooling. North Carolina: Information Age Pub. Havelock, E. (1963). Preface to Plato. Massachusetts & London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Hutchinson, T. (2017). Impressions of Western Africa. London: Longman. Kindle. Lowe, L. (2015). The intimacies of four continents. North Carolina: Duke University Press. Luna, C. (1993). Story, voice, and culture: The politics of narrative in multicultural education. Working Papers in Educational Linguistics, 9(1), 127–142. Mayer, S. (2002). Psychology in Nigeria: A view from outside. Ife PsychologIA – An Independent Journal, 10(1), 1–8. Online. Miller, P., Hengst, J. & Wang, S. (2004). Ethnographic methods: applications from developmental cultural psychology. In Qualitative Research in Psychology: Expanding Perspectives in Methodology and Design, 219–242, ed. Paul Camic, Jean Rhodes & Lucy Yardley. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. O’Connor, T. (1989). Cultural voice and strategies for multicultural education. Journal of Education, 171(2), 57–74. Ray, W. (2015). Abnormal psychology: Neuroscience perspectives on behavior and experience. Washington, DC: Sage. Roth, W. (2018). Translation and its consequences in qualitative social research: On distinguishing “the social” from “the societal.” Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 19(1), Art. 12. Warner Bros Entertainment. (2021). Bob Hearts Abishola. YouTube.

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16 SUSURRATIONS OF A SWANSONG Autoethnographic sense-making by an Australian professor of education working on identity shift and relationship reshaping Patrick Alan Danaher For Phyllida Nina Coombes – for everything, and with whom my continuing relationship reshaping remains crucial to my shifting identity work

Introduction I began writing this chapter on 17 January 2022, the 141st anniversary of the birth of my great-uncle Rex, the British social anthropologist A. R. Radcliffe-Brown (see also Danaher, 1992). In some ways, that coincidence of dates is irrelevant to the concerns of the chapter; in other ways, it is central to those concerns, given that Rex was my late mother’s uncle, and that family relationships are integral to the identity work explored in the chapter. At this outset of the chapter, I need also to note that this is not the chapter that I had anticipated writing for this handbook. The originally proposed chapter, which I hope to hold over for a future publishing opportunity, was focused on the links between autoethnography and alterity, demonstrated by reference to selected critical incidents that encapsulated my developing reflections on my career as an Australian professor of education. Instead, I use this chapter to elaborate some of the susurrations or whisperings of my hoped-for swansong as that professor; in the process, I seek to articulate something of the complex relationship between autoethnography and sense-making (Weick, 1995). From that perspective, today marked not only my great-uncle’s 141st birthday, but also a day on which I underwent two interviews for potential paid employment, with a further such interview scheduled in four days’ time. I am unsure of the outcome of these interviews, but I feel encouraged and invigorated about having been shortlisted for the positions. Of course, the interviews and the preceding applications, and my reference to a professorial swansong, highlight my desire to leave the academic world that I have inhabited continuously since 11 February 1991, when I moved from secondary school teaching to my first substantive role in an Australian university. I feel currently in a state of occupational transition, unclear about my future work prospects, but hopeful for the identity shift on which I am working and for the relationships that I reshape. 180

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-19

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The chapter is divided into the following three sections: • • •

Conceptualising autoethnography and sense-making Selected susurrations of a partial swansong Implications for identity shift work and relationship reshaping.

As with other autoethnographic research, I strive to maximise resonances between the lives of others and my analysed experiences, while acknowledging and celebrating the uniqueness of those experiences.

Conceptualising autoethnography and sense-making This section of the chapter presents a combined literature review, conceptual framework and research design for the broader study reported here. In particular, here I elaborate posited links between autoethnography and sense-making (Weick, 1995) as the foundations of the autoethnographic analysis to follow. Autoethnography as a scholarly field and a rigorous mode of inquiry is well-established and growing rapidly, as encapsulated by the latest Handbook of ethnography (Adams et al., 2022a). This handbook’s 43 chapters are clustered around five sections that synthesise contemporary comprehensions and applications of this corpus of work: doing autoethnography; representing autoethnography; teaching, evaluating and publishing autoethnography; challenges and futures of autoethnography; and autoethnographic exemplars. These section titles betoken a field of inquiry that is mature in its understanding and confident of its significance while still curious to experience current debates and future developments of action and insight. More specifically, and significantly for this chapter, the editors of the latest Handbook of ethnography (Adams et al., 2022a) used their introductory chapter (Adams et al., 2022b) to identify five distinct and distinctive means by which autoethnography affords heightened understandings of the world and of the ways that lives are lived in that world. The second of these means was “(2) illustrate sensemaking processes;” (p. 4), which was enunciated more fully as follows: A second feature of autoethnography foregrounds an author’s ability to offer insight into sensemaking processes, even – and perhaps especially – how we grapple with experiences that generate discomfort or that do not feel right or make sense. Autoethnographers invite us into some of the most challenging, confusing, and formative events, relationships, and social and political we encounter throughout life. … Autoethnography also creates space for sensemaking that defies logic or sits outside language and sometimes conscious awareness. This is especially true in how affect, or those sensations, forces, and encounters[,] seem to wash over, or hit, or exert a pull on us. Affects are visceral, nonconscious (automatic) responses that move us to feel, think, and relate in new and different ways. (pp. 4–5) My approach to writing this chapter aligns with this helpful summary of autoethnography as sense-making in two particular ways. Firstly, although I acknowledge that other autoethnographic accounts have drawn on pain and trauma that is far more extensive than mine, nevertheless I have sought to dig deeply into my previous and current experiences to underpin the analysis presented here. Secondly, affect has certainly been very much to the fore in planning 181

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and presenting that analysis: some of those previous and current experiences have indeed been visceral and have shaken me to the core of my being, challenging my fundamental assumptions about my own identity and my relationships with significant others in my life. There are, of course, numerous and highly varied understandings of and strategies for sense-making. Weick (1995) provided a well-known approach in his identification of seven characteristics of sense-making: According to Weick’s (1995) framework, there are seven distinguishing properties or steps in sense-making: “grounded in identity construction; retrospective; enactive of sensible environments; social; ongoing; focused on and by extracted cues, and driven by plausibility rather than accuracy” (p. 17; see also Kimmins, 2022, p. 180). Rather than explaining each of Weick’s seven steps in detail, my purpose here is to elaborate the links between autoethnography and sense-making more broadly, while acknowledging that this chapter was written with these steps very much in mind. For instance, the chapter is intended to be attentive to “identity construction”, “retrospective” and “social” in the sense of highlighting the significance of relevant relationships, and “ongoing” from the perspective of linking prior events with my current identity shift. Against this backdrop, it is instructive to observe some of the ways in which autoethnographers have engaged in and with sense-making from diverse perspectives. For example, Vickers (2007) applied Weick’s (1995) sense-making framework in her vivid and very concerning account of being bullied at a previous workplace. Given this chapter’s focus on my current identity shift, it was encouraging that Vickers concluded her account as follows: The writing of this piece was undertaken as an act of sensemaking. It was retrospective and required a challenging synthesis of memories, events and emotions as I tried to make sense of memories, visceral responses and contemporaneously recorded material describing what had happened. The development of some kind of theoretical framework was done in an effort to understand and inform – myself and others – as to how and what took place, and the identity shifts that took place in me as a result. (p. 235) Five years later, and drawing on Vickers’ (2007) work, Sobre-Denton (2012) analysed autoethnographically and equally poignantly her own experience of workplace bullying. Her sense-making entailed the powerful innovation of “play[ing] with temporality by weaving between the visceral-experiential and the theoretical”, by clustering her reflections around the distinct time periods of “Then”, “Now” and “Next Time” (p. 223). For Sobre-Denton, her autoethnographic sense-making afforded her the opportunity to “examine the intersections of race, class, and gender in an organizational culture, to make sense of my experiences and, hopefully, to help others” (p. 223). From a very different perspective, and with a far more productive outcome, Gottlieb and Mosleh (2016) presented the first-named author’s autoethnographic exploration of his successful contributions to developing a cross-institutional initiative bringing together multiple stakeholders. For these authors, sense-making functioned effectively as a framework for navigating “in the field of participatory innovation” and for eliciting the powerful themes of “trust and power” (p. 217) evident in the enactment of that initiative. More broadly, and in concert with other researchers (see for example Sambrook & Herrmann, 2018), Boyle and Parry (2007) advocated the development of “organizational autoethnography”, whereby “The intensely emotive and personal nature of autoethnography impacts upon the sensemaking of the reader” (p. 185). This nature thereby constitutes a vivid contrast with the formal, public spaces of contemporary organisations. 182

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I conclude this section about the conceptualisation of autoethnography and sense-making with two different applications of these two powerful theoretically and methodologically infused strategies in the context of higher education research. Firstly, Trahar’s (2013) bald statement, “They made sense to me” (p. 370) referred to “those philosophical concepts that informed my approaches to teaching” (p. 370), and was intended to explain why “I never really questioned them. … They fitted with the way I saw the world” (p. 370). Secondly, Roberts (2021) drew extensively on sense-making to help to inform her autoethnographic account of her identity shift from being a first-generation undergraduate student to becoming a first generation doctoral graduate, “[t]hrough the theoretical lenses of co-cultural theory and critical communication pedagogy” (p. 118). This necessarily selective evocation of conceptual links between autoethnography and sense-making has highlighted the theoretical and methodological affordances of exploring these links in diverse published accounts. These accounts have traversed workplace bullying, cross-institutional collaboration, organisational autoethnography and higher education research. At the same time, each of these publications exhibited different kinds of identity work, including identity shifts, as well as varied forms of relationship reshaping. Overall, the intersection between autoethnography and sense-making emerges as complex and contextualised, and as generating diverse and richly evocative understandings of contemporary lives.

Selected susurrations of a partial swansong I turn now to present selected susurrations of a partial swansong. Here I take “susurrations” to denote “whisperings” or “murmurings”, intended to evoke a personal, private voice of internal speaking, rather than the louder vocality of a public declaration (although I realise that this chapter can be seen as assuming the form of the latter). Moreover, I deploy “swansong” to refer to a final or farewell performance – in this case, of my current academic career (although I acknowledge my friend Professor Emerita Janet Verbyla’s characteristically profound insight that such swansongs can roar and groan just as readily as they can whisper and murmur, and that they can constitute contemplations, meditations and musings of a particularly powerful kind). Drawing on the explicit temporality enacted by Sobre-Denton (2012) noted above, these susurrations have been clustered around a couple of crucial caveats, followed by selected personal experiences from the years 1981, 2021 and 2022. In addition to elaborating the intersection between autoethnography and sense-making, this section explores certain elements of my identity shift and my relationship reshaping during that period of more than 40 years.

A couple of crucial caveats At this juncture, it is important to highlight a couple of crucial caveats. Firstly, although the chapter title refers definitively to “swansong”, earlier in the chapter I referred to this swansong in terms of “potential”, “hoped-for” and “partial”. This ambivalence and tentativeness reflect the empirical reality that, at the time of the chapter writing, I am uncertain how much longer I will be employed as an Australian professor of education, or which career (if any) I might hold after this one. Secondly, my “hoped-for swansong” is motivated by the ongoing stress of that position, and not at all by a desire to end the many cherished previous and continuing relationships that I have experienced associated with my current substantive position. Thirdly, my remaining academic writing commitments are such that it is likely that I will publish other publications after this one. Nevertheless, I intend this chapter to constitute a personally 183

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significant transition in my identity shift from my present professorial position to whatever lies beyond it, and the associated change in my relationship reshaping.

1981 On reflection, the seeds of my decision to leave academic life were sown by certain events over the past year, which accentuated trends evident in the preceding two years, and also by particular personal events that occurred 40 years apart. Clearly, these trends and events have been distinctive, even unique, for me, yet they also resonate with equivalent trends and events experienced by many other academics, in Australia and internationally. The reference to incidents from 40 years ago evokes what was by far the most frightening period of my life thus far. In the second half of 1981, I was completing a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) thesis in Australian history, focused on the interactions among Torres Strait Islanders, English missionaries and South Sea Islander teachers on Erub (Darnley Island) in the eastern Torres Strait that constituted “The Coming of the Light”. Some time during that period, I experienced what I still think of as “my nervous breakdown”. This was characterised by a sustained period of continued, heightened anxiety and stress, and by an incapacity to progress my thesis writing or to conduct any of my other usual activities at that time, including tutoring a secondary school student in English. I recall lying on my bed in my room at the residential college where I had lived for nearly five years, with the sensation that the walls were closing in on me, as well as finding even minimal interactions with other people debilitating and stress-inducing. I sought counselling support at the time, but I found that of limited value, perhaps because I was unable or unwilling to share more fully with the counsellor. I withdrew from my Honours program, and I left the residential college to return home to my family. With the passage of time, and also as a result of the erasure of memory of personally unsettling experiences that many if not most of us enact when it is possible to do so, I remember little of that period, beyond being frightened, even terrified, about what the future might hold. I was 22 years old, with my life and particularly my career in front of me. I needed to regain my equilibrium and to rebuild the capacity to be a fully functioning and productively contributing member of an occupational community, both for my sense of identity and for my ability to earn a sustainable income. Fortunately, within that period, I recovered sufficiently to apply for and gain a teaching position with the Queensland Department of Education, commencing in late January 1982. Also, 10 years after “my nervous breakdown”, the abandoned Bachelor of Arts (Honours) thesis was completed as a Master of Letters thesis at a different university (Danaher, 1991), and 10 years after that I graduated with my Doctorate of Philosophy from yet another university (Danaher, 2001a). One reading of my personal experiences in 1981 could be in terms of buoyancy and resilience, and my demonstrated capacity to survive, and even thrive, against the odds. Yet I do not regard those experiences in that way. Instead, I am profoundly grateful for the support and understanding that I received at the time from my family and from other friends and colleagues. Through that support and understanding, they gave me whatever impetus was needed to recover from the darkest period of my life to date. This was even more highly appreciated given that they probably understood even less than I did about what was happening to me. Also, as I elaborate below, I see the experiences of 1981 as a continuing and timely reminder, as I go through the current identity shift and accompanying transition in my life, that those experiences could easily recur. It is too easy to take mental and physical health and stability for granted. 184

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2021 40 years after “my nervous breakdown”, my siblings and I, along with other family members, underwent the heartbreaking experience of the dying and death of our beautiful and wise mother, Phyllida Coombes. Early in January 2021, my mother told me of her diagnosis of lung cancer, and that she had decided to forego any treatment except immunotherapy. Like the other family members, I was in a state of shock and fear, wanting to help my mother as much as possible, and also hoping for an improvement in her condition. I recall my mother saying at the time, “I’ve had a good life”, not as any kind of a self-satisfied boast, but rather as a signifier of giving thanks for all that she had learned and for those with whom she had lived and learned. Her statement was characteristic of her loving kindness, of her unfailing consideration for others, of her quiet courage and of her faith-filled dignity. 2021 was filled with visits to my mother’s home in Bundaberg, Queensland, Australia. It was fortunate that my then work supervisor had previously approved that I could take most Fridays in that year as long service leave days, meaning that I had long weekends available to drive the six- to seven-hour journey between my home in Toowoomba and my mother’s home in Bundaberg. We all made the best use that we could of those visits, restrictions from the COVID-19 coronavirus pandemic on freedom of movement notwithstanding. It was a delight to be able to spend Mother’s 85th birthday on Saturday, 17 July with her, her husband Ced, other family members and friends. I recall growing closer to my siblings throughout this time, including my amazing sister Christine, who cared for our mother in knowledgeable and practical ways that eluded me. Our mother died in the late morning on Saturday, 11 September; Christine was with her at her moment of dying. The funeral service was held on Wednesday, 15 September, was conducted by Ced’s daughter-in-law Jenny, and was attended by extended family members and invited friends. Mother was cremated. At the time of writing this chapter, we are planning a trip to Bundaberg to scatter her ashes and to erect the plaque that has been created to remember her, next to the ashes of her mother in the crematorium’s tranquil memorial garden: In Loving Memory of PHYLLIDA NINA COOMBES née RADCLIFFE-BROWN formerly DANAHER 17 July 1936 – 11 September 2021 Requiescat in Pace

2022 And so I come to January 2022, the time of writing this chapter. As I noted above, this period is characterised by considerable doubt and uncertainty on my part about what the future might hold, as well as by the associated sense of dislocation and stress. At the same time, it is precisely the feeling of burnout and unrelenting stress related to my current work position that has prompted my recent job applications. At this juncture, I reflect that I am surprised and disappointed by what I perceive as a general lack of support from the employment agencies that I have contacted (with a few notable exceptions to this sense that included very helpful conversations with an experienced university 185

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leader and a recruitment agency owner). Naïvely, I had expected that such agencies would be able to provide an individualised service of working with prospective employees to explain the current employment market, to identify likely occupations with vacancies, and to advise on potential retraining requirements and opportunities. Even when I have offered to pay for such a service, none has been forthcoming. It seems that employment agencies work with and for government and other large employers, and that individual potential employees need to rely on personal connections for specialised assistance. Probably equally naïvely, I had hoped to receive a number of offers of shortlisted interviews, and potentially of some job offers, given the large number of positions for which I have applied. These roles have ranged from academic tutors and administration assistants to community workers and courier drivers to customer service officers and library officers to office managers and post office workers. I realise that I have had no direct experience in most of these positions, but I have sought in my applications to highlight my hopefully transferable skills from my university experience to these roles. Furthermore, I take heart from recent reports that job vacancies in Australia are increasing against the backdrop of the hoped-for economic recovery from the continuing effects of the COVID-19 pandemic (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2021, 2022; Hannam & Butler, 2022; Yates, 2020). I might well be misreading the situation, but I have a sense of occupational silos in operation here. This is exacerbated by an equally strong sense that, in the much bigger non-academic working world, academic qualifications, experience and expertise often seem to be regarded as being from a parallel universe, and hence as being irrelevant, value-less and valued-less. This is frustrating personally and also an indicator of a potentially large-scale wastage of human capital at a time globally and nationally that economies are under significant threat owing to the pandemic. There might also be evidence of ageism at work, given that I turn 63 in June this year. These feelings are offset by the affirming and encouraging conversations that I had during the aforementioned job interviews that I completed a few days ago, and also by the continuing support of family members and friends. In reflecting more extensively on my current frame of mind in January 2022, and in looking forwards to what the future might hold, my thoughts are clustered around the following seven organising devices, oriented around three themes (very helpfully proposed by Professor Emerita Janet Verbyla after reading a previous iteration of this chapter): 1.

2.

3.

1.

Situation: stress and strain • This job is killing me • Nothing left in the tank/Running on empty • No margin for error/No room to manoeuvre Demotivation • Nothing matters (any more) • The game is no longer worth the candle Realisations • This is (not all) my fault and my responsibility • Life is for learning/Life is a teacher. Situation: Stress and strain This job is killing me For the last several years, I have had the unremitting sense that my job is killing me – or, perhaps more accurately, that the way that I seek to enact this job is killing me. For all 186

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of that time, I have had a sense of unrelenting tiredness, however many hours of sleep I might have had. Often, when competing commitments converge, I find my brain telling me to wake at early hours – sometimes 3.30 a.m. or 4.00 a.m. – in order to complete the ‘homework’ required for that day’s meetings. For as long as I can remember, I have worked seven days each week, and I cannot recall having a ‘real’ holiday where for several days at a stretch my thinking has not been directed by email messages and by the need to complete academic work of various kinds. Moreover, despite my previous efforts with physical activity, and also despite my continuing twice-weekly gym sessions with Sam Davies, my excellent long-term friend and personal trainer (see also Davies & Danaher, 2017), I have continued to gain weight as a consequence of an even more sedentary lifestyle during the working from home mandated in 2020 by COVID-19, and by my successful application to be a “remote worker” rather than returning to work on campus after the working from home mandate had ceased. This application reflected my much greater pleasure doing academic work at home rather than on campus. At home, I have the amenity of the largest office/study (a formal dining room when I purchased my apartment/unit in early 2006) that I have ever had, and a sense of enhanced autonomy compared with working on campus. Nevertheless, I acknowledge my weight gain as unhealthy and unsustainable. I long for a new life in which I can spend time walking, at the gym and exercising in other ways without the current shadow of guilt occasioned by spending time away from my academic work. Nothing left in the tank/Running on empty My friend and personal trainer, Sam, is fond of encouraging me during our more strenuous exercises by adjuring me to “Leave nothing in the tank”, by ensuring that all my available energy is expended in completing the exercises. While I do my best to comply, and leave the training session with the sense of having completed the exercises as fully as possible, the equivalent feeling from my current work position is less positive. From that perspective, having “Nothing left in the tank” corresponds to driving a vehicle that is “Running on empty”, with no guarantee of sufficient fuel to complete the journey. A crucial corollary of this sensation is the perceived impossibility of ever “getting ahead” in my work. On the contrary, I see that work as Sisyphean in character: regardless of how many hours I expend, I can never complete the backlog of tasks expected of me, and, if I take some time out to try to regain some energy, more work has entered my email inbox in the interim. It is for this reason that I view mantras such as “Work smarter, not harder” as impractical and somewhat insulting. I retain two vivid memories that illustrate how long running my present exhaustion has been. Firstly, in mid-September 2014, I was in hospital for two days for the removal of my uncooperative gallbladder. While I was pleased to be free of the pain that I had experienced off and on for the previous few months, I recall the delicious pleasure of sleeping long hours in my hospital bed, freed temporarily from the responsibilities of the outside world. Secondly, in April 2017, I was presenting a conference paper (Danaher, 2017) at a well-appointed hotel in Sweimeh beside the Dead Sea in Jordan. I had planned to meet some potential doctoral candidates for my university after the conference, but that meeting did not go ahead. Instead, I used my unexpected free time of a couple of days of leisure lying on a hotel sun lounger beside the Dead Sea, luxuriating in my favourite recreational reading of a detective novel – in this case, an excellently crafted narrative written by the British author Julian Symons. I remember alternating among gazing at the historically significant Dead Sea, reading the novel and sleeping in the sun, and also thinking, “This is the life!”. 187

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2.

No margin for error/No room to manoeuvre In addition to the emotions outlined above, I have a strong and continuing sense of “No margin for error/No room to manoeuvre”. I see this as a direct corollary of “Nothing left in the tank/Running on empty” discussed above. Furthermore, I associate this with my ongoing supervision of higher degree by research (HDR) students, one of my very favourite parts of my current position, but also an area where there is a great deal at stake, including the students’ sense of self-efficacy as researchers, as well as their prospects for career development. For reasons related to my previous roles as Associate Dean (Research [and Research Training]) and then as Acting Dean of the Graduate Research School at my present university, for several years I have had a large number of HDR students – recently, more than 30. I have held different roles as principal, co- and associate supervisor for these students, most of whom have been enrolled part-time. Likewise, the students have varied considerably in their circumstances and requirements. I have worked hard, in concert with the other supervisors, to support these students as fully as possible in their development as independent, successful and confident scholars. I have particular admiration for HDR students who, for various reasons, need to engage with complex and sometimes seemingly overwhelming challenges to complete their degrees. Sometimes these challenges relate to issues associated with their degrees, such as supervisory relationships and confirmation of candidature concerns. At other times, these challenges pertain to family relationships, health and wellbeing, and work pressures (given that most of my HDR students are enrolled part-time and carry out full-time paid work). I take special interest in working with students to enhance their sense of being able to complete their degrees – it requires courage, determination and resilience to work through occasionally seemingly insuperable difficulties to graduate with high quality theses written and examined externally. The relevance of my strong sense of “No margin for error/No room to manoeuvre” to working with these students is that, owing partly to my large number of students and partly to the aforementioned challenges that often mean that they have limited time available to complete their degrees, we need to make decisions about the conduct of their studies and the writing of their theses that mean that sometimes a Plan B is simply not feasible if the agreed Plan A is not successful. To date, I have co-supervised more than 40 doctoral students to graduation, so I have developed some sense of the criteria for ensuring that Plan A is likely to be effective, but there is always the risk that it will fail. I share the students’ anxiety and stress in these situations, and I hope for their success during the thesis examination process, and for the consequent affirmation of their identities as researchers, based on the relationships that we have built together and with the other supervisors. Demotivation Nothing matters (any more) I feel unable to assess the extent to which my current sense of burnout and stress is exacerbated by my mother’s death in September 2021, nor whether I would be applying for new positions if she were still alive. I do know that I have felt burnt out and stressed for several years, and that the structural and systemic elements that I articulate below have been evident for all of that time. At the same time, my mother has always been encouraging and supportive of my academic career, but equally she would support my desire to move to a less stressful and hopefully a more fulfilling work environment. 188

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Regardless of the contribution of my ongoing reaction to my mother’s death to my current state of being, one of the dominant emotions that I continue to feel is that nothing matters (any more). In some ways, this is a negative sensation, associated with a sense of bleak emptiness, encapsulated in my realisation that my mother is no longer here to talk with by telephone or by email message. This loss of “my longest continuing teacher, influence and friend” (Danaher, 2001b) is profound, and it is something that I will feel for the rest of my life. On the other hand, “nothing matters (any more)” can have a more positive valence, in the sense of the final line of John Milton’s poem Samson Agonistes: “And calm of mind all passion spent”. (This was the final line in the list of quotations on my mother’s funeral order of service.) From this perspective, “nothing matters (any more)” denotes a sense of gratitude (see also Sacks, 2015) for an amazing array of opportunities to work with a large number of gifted individuals on a range of academic and research projects – akin to my mother’s statement in early 2021, “I’ve had a good life”. Certainly, I see this meaning as a source of courage, and of approaching whatever the future might hold with hopeful confidence. The game is no longer worth the candle In the past few years, I have delivered two presentations with the aspiration of “Making the game worth the candle” in the presentation subtitle (Danaher, 2019, 2021b). This is a metaphor that had been in my consciousness for a long time (for example, I had used it in an earlier presentation at my current university [Danaher, 2010]). During the later presentations, I cited this definition of the metaphor and the accompanying account of its genesis: The returns from an activity or enterprise do not warrant the time, money or effort required. For example, The office he is running for is so unimportant that the game’s not worth the candle. This expression, which began as a translation of a term used by the French essayist Michel de Montaigne in 1580, alludes to gambling by candlelight, which involved the expense of illumination. If the winnings were not sufficient, they did not warrant the expense. Used figuratively, it was a proverb within a century. (dictionary.com, n.d.) The concluding slide to one of these presentations contained the following proposition: And finally … … one of the (few? many?) benefits of ageing is to develop a more experientially robust and hopefully more philosophically rigorous reckoning of whether the game is still worth the candle, of strategies that might help to render it so and of what to do if and when it is not so! (Danaher, 2019, slide 24) At the time of these presentations, my implicit response to the challenge inherent in the end of this proposition was that the game was indeed still worth the candle – that, despite the long hours and the increasing competition for scarce resources, it remained feasible and sustainable to be an academic. By contrast, at the time of writing this chapter, and for the past year at least, I have ceased to believe that, and now I no longer believe it to be true for me. On the one hand, I feel immense sadness in articulating this counter view; 189

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on the other hand, I am grateful that it was worth the candle for the great bulk of my academic career, and I am really pleased that so many of my fellow academics still find the game worth the candle. Realisations This is (not all) my fault and my responsibility Currently, I am working through a strategy, agreed very helpfully with my current work supervisor at the end of last year, of divesting myself of a number of my current HDR students, and of helping to reassign them to replacement supervisors. This process is ongoing at the time of writing this chapter. On the one hand, the students and fellow supervisors with whom I broached this idea late last year have been uniformly accommodating and understanding, for which I am very grateful. On the other hand, it is not necessarily straightforward finding new supervisors, given that potential candidates also face the ‘cap’ or ‘quota’ (which I elaborated below) of no more than 25% of their workloads being allocated to HDR student supervision. Additionally, I retain a sense of considerable guilt at needing to enact this strategy, because it entails breaking close relationships that the students, the other supervisors and I had worked hard to develop, and it has the ‘look and feel’ of abandonment and disloyalty on my part, thereby vitiating my ongoing sense of obligation to these students and fellow supervisors. This possibly irrational response – a continuing sense of unremitting guilt at not being able to complete all my work in the available time – illustrates a broader point. On the one hand, I regard the present situation as being a personal issue of my own making (and certainly not the responsibility of my HDR students and the other supervisors, or of my colleagues in the research projects that I am also not progressing at the rate that they should be taken forward). For instance, it was my initiative to agree to supervise every HDR student with whom I am working, and I understand and accept the accountabilities for me attendant on that agreement. On the other hand, it is important to record that this situation reflects also wider structural and systemic issues related to the funding of Australian universities and the administration of academic workloads in those universities. In my case, a key concern is the ‘cap’ or ‘quota’ applied to my HDR student supervision, which cannot exceed 25% of my workload. In some ways, this might seem a reasonable requirement of my university, designed to share opportunities for such supervision equitably among academic colleagues. From a different perspective, not all potential supervisors have equivalent experience of and demonstrated success at supervision, and similarly not all potential supervisors wish to supervise HDR students up to their prospective ‘cap’ or ‘quota’. In my situation, as I noted above, most Fridays in 2021 I took as long service leave days, in an effort to restore some balance in my life. Unfortunately, in addition to my visits to my mother outlined above, I found that I was still completing academic work on those Fridays when I remained in Toowoomba, and the next two days of the weekend as well. This disappointing outcome reflected my incapacity to set and maintain achievable boundaries around my work, as well as my inability to reduce my workload to fit the available time; instead, the workload seemed to continue to grow, with the consequent need to take over time officially designated as leave. In 2022, my current work supervisor has approved for me to take 15 weeks of continuous long service leave between July and October this year. This will have the effect of reducing my official workload for this year. It remains to be seen whether I am able to exercise the self-discipline needed to use the extended leave effectively for its intended purpose: to enable me to recreate and rejuvenate myself. Part of the difficulty with that 190

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is my awareness that, as of the start of the 2023 academic year, I will need to increase my teaching (non-HDR student supervision) load by 57.5%, based on the current academic workload guidelines at my university. This is a prospect that fills me with dread: given that I was last teaching in a secondary school classroom in 1990, I have no credibility or currency to be able to teach successfully the pre-service teacher education courses that are likely to be allocated to me. Life is for learning/Life is a teacher I hope that my writing tone throughout this chapter has not been too querulous or self-obsessed in character. I reiterate my profound gratitude for the diverse and multiple opportunities for collaboration, development and transformation that I have experienced throughout my academic career since February 1991, when I began working at my previous university. One of the most valuable lessons that my mother taught my siblings and me was that life is for learning, and concomitantly that life is a teacher. From this perspective, everything that we do contains the potential to enhance our current understandings of ourselves, one another and the world that we inhabit together, and also life is about the joyful expression of those understandings. It is this lesson that continues to encourage and sustain me through the uncertainty of my current employment transition. Moving forwards, while I am unclear about what the next few years might hold for me, I am clear about the kinds of activities that I am hopeful of undertaking during that period. These are centred on maintaining and perhaps accelerating my current identity shift, in order to recreate myself. In terms of paid work, I am interested in building on the limited work in proofreading that I have completed to date, such as by working with a publishing company. I am also open to exploring the option of helping to coach HDR students – not to replace or subvert their supervisors, but rather to proffer a potentially different perspective on the students’ work. From a non-work perspective, I have two distinct goals as part of learning through living. Firstly, I want and need to devote consistent and focused time to regaining a measure of physical health, hopefully including regular gym sessions, walking and perhaps bicycle riding. I realise that I have had this aspiration for decades (Davies & Danaher, 2017), and that I find it far more difficult to achieve than progressing my academic work; at the same time, I realise also that my life depends on it. Secondly, I yearn to have the equally consistent and focused time to explore my dream of experimenting with creative writing of diverse genres. Probably in common with several scholars whose writing careers have been devoted to academic texts, I have lots of ideas for writing much more creatively and imaginatively; it remains to be seen whether any of these ideas might be of interest to anyone else.

Implications for identity shift work and relationship reshaping Lest readers reflect that what I have discussed in this chapter is “a storm in a teacup”, and that this is a case of an academic who has taken on supervising too many HDR students, some of whom need simply to be reallocated to other supervisors, my response to that reaction is two-fold. Firstly, at a personal level, the unrelenting anxiety and stress that I outlined above relate to much more than supervising “too many” HDR students. I find that almost every aspect of my current work takes much more time than is acknowledged in the present academic workload system, particularly if I wish to conduct that work to the best of my ability, and as wholeheartedly as I admire seeing exemplary colleagues living their academic roles. Recently, 191

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my new cardiologist (see also Davies & Danaher, 2017) joked with me that it is not possible to do my job to “70%” of my ability. Similarly, this is why moving to part-time employment status is not feasible: my inability to set and maintain work boundaries would mean that I was receiving a salary for say 50% of my current salary, but that I would still be working at least five, and potentially six or even seven, days a week. Furthermore, my individual anxiety and stress are of the magnitude that sometimes I encourage myself by saying that “At least you are functioning at some level”, and that I am fortunate not to be undergoing another “nervous breakdown” such as what I experienced in 1981. Secondly, many of the experiences recounted here are not unique to me, but instead have been highlighted in a growing corpus of research focused on the intensification of academic work, in Australia and internationally. This work is in turn part of a strand of scholarship directed at equivalent intensification and other changes in the lives of other professionals (see for example Trimmer et al., 2019a, 2019b). Specifically in relation to academic work, recent publications have traversed the deleterious impact of the global university rankings game (Yudkevich et al., 2016), the importance of (re)claiming pleasure in such work in contemporary universities (Riddle et al., 2017), the characterisation of universities as “toxic” and as sites of “zombie leadership” (Smyth, 2017), the intersection among social stratification, work patterns and research productivity in 11 European higher education systems (Kwiek, 2019), a call for academics to reinvigorate their engagement with the communities served by universities from a values perspective (Hassel & Cole, 2020), and a sociological analysis of boredom and academic work (Finkielsztein, 2021). Moreover, current publications about the effects of COVID-19 on academic work include studies of the gendered dimension of that work (Yildirim & Eslen-Ziya, 2021), the opportunity afforded by the pandemic to foster a rediscovery of an ethic of care in academic work (Corbera et al., 2020) and the prospect of potential new ways of thinking about the relationship among academics’ locality, mobility and presence (Shelley-Egan, 2020). Significantly for this chapter and this handbook, there is also a growing literature about academics using autoethnography to reflect on their work in contemporary universities that in turn accentuates the wider relevance of my analysis here. For instance, Tienari (2019) drew on autoethnography to interrogate his discomfort in moving from a Finnish-speaking to a Swedish-speaking business school in Helsinki, Finland, in the process investigating the primacy of the link between academic identity and language. Echoing the previous cited accounts of workplace bullying, Zawadzki and Jensen (2020) presented a co-authored account of bullying of a junior academic from the perspective of the neoliberal university. Finally, Lupu (2021) constructed an autoethnographic analysis of the intersection among COVID-19, the birth of her son and the generation of overwork in her academic role prompted by her over-commitment to academic publishing despite her family responsibilities. Assembling these references here is intended to demonstrate my intention that this chapter goes beyond solipsism (Danaher, 2021a) and an excessive focus on me to evoke the broader implications of this chapter for identity shift work and relationship reshaping. I trust that my autoethnographic sense-making of my experiences in 1981, 2021 and 2022, and my current efforts to forge a new career, resonate in diverse ways beyond the narrow confines of my life. I hope also that the critical reflection in which I have engaged in the chapter moves beyond the personally therapeutic effects of this reflection by opening to scrutiny others’ views of my situation and my decision-making. Certainly from my perspective, this account has affirmed the initially posited value of exploring in some depth the complex intersections among autoethnography, sense-making, identity (shift) work and relationship reshaping.

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Conclusion This chapter has presented selected susurrations of my potential swansong as an Australian professor of education. These have been framed methodologically by a combination of autoethnography and sense-making (Weick, 1995), which helped to provide clarity and structure around the critical reflection of the selected events reported here. This reflection in turn was clustered around elements of my current and continuing identity shift work, and around the diverse relationship reshaping in which I have engaged during different periods of my life. More broadly, the chapter has explored my concomitant traversing of three divides: personal–communal, private–public and self–other. It is one of the distinctive affordances of autoethnography to navigate these divides and to place them in a different perspective by demonstrating the intimate and interdependent connections between the two analytical categories in each pair. In this chapter, that affordance has been augmented by the additional application of sense-making (Weick, 1995), and also by the particular analysis of the complex intersection between identity work and relationship reshaping being investigated more widely in this section of the handbook. Swansongs and their susurrations, while inherently personal, private and self-focused in character, can also speak to the communal, public and other dimensions of our shared experiences and our common lives.

Acknowledgements My greatest continuing debt is recorded in the chapter dedication. I am grateful also to Associate Professor Fernando Padró and Ms Lindy Kimmins for introducing me to the scholarship of sense-making. Dr Debbie Mulligan and Professor Emerita Janet Verbyla kindly provided helpful and thought-provoking feedback on an earlier iteration of the chapter.

References Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (Eds.) (2022a). Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed.). Routledge. Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (2022b). Introduction: Making sense and taking action: Creating a caring community of autoethnographers. In T. E. Adams, S. Holman Jones, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (2nd ed., pp. 1–19). Routledge. Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2021). Job vacancies decline but remain higher than pre-COVID. https://www. abs.gov.au/media-centre/media-releases/job-vacancies-decline-remain-higher-pre-covid Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2022). Job vacancies, Australia. https://www.abs.gov.au/statistics/labour/ employment-and-unemployment/job-vacancies-australia/latest-release Boyle, M., & Parry, K. (2007). Telling the whole story: The case for organizational autoethnography. Culture and Organization, 13(3), 185–190. https://doi.org/10.1080/14759550701486480 Corbera, E., Anguelovski, I., Honey-Rosés, J., & Ruis-Mallén, I. (2020). Academia in the time of COVID-19: Towards an ethics of care. Planning Theory & Practice, 21(2), 191–199. https://doi.org/10 .1080/14649357.2020.1757891 Danaher, P. A. (1991). The Coming of the Light: The response of the Darnley Islanders to the London Missionary Society, 1871–1914. Unpublished Master of Letters thesis, University of New England, Australia. Danaher, P. A. (1992). Structural-functionalism revisited: A. R. Radcliffe-Brown’s influence on selected social anthropological monographs in the 1940s and the 1950s. Unpublished Bachelor of Arts (Honours) thesis, Deakin University, Australia. Danaher, P. A. (2001a). Learning on the run: Traveller education for itinerant show children in coastal and western Queensland. Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy thesis, Central Queensland University, Australia. Danaher, P. A. (2001b). Unde venisti, quo vadis et cui bono?: Learning journeys for STEPS students and others. Invited address presented at the Skills for Tertiary Entrance Preparatory Studies Celebration of Learning, Central Queensland University, Rockhampton, Qld, Australia.

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Patrick Alan Danaher Danaher, P. A. (2010). Pressures and possibilities for the Faculty of Education in the USQ Year of Research and beyond. Paper presented at the University of Southern Queensland Faculty of Education, planning days, Toowoomba, Qld, Australia. Danaher, P. A. (2017). Social entrepreneurship, community responsibility and global sustainability: Some reflections from Australian business and education research. Paper presented at the 4th international conference for business administration colleges, Crowne Plaza Jordan Dead Sea Resort & Spa, Sweimeh, Dead Sea, Jordan. Danaher, P. A. (2019). Research update and support: Making the game worth the candle. Invited paper presented at the University of Southern Queensland Schools of Education planning day, Burke and Wills Hotel, Toowoomba, Qld, Australia. Danaher, P. A. (2021a). From solipsism to communitarianism: Glimpses of self and others in creating my and our future research selves. Paper presented at the 27th University of Southern Queensland Postgraduate and Early Career Researcher Group research symposium, University of Southern Queensland, Online. Danaher, P. A. (2021b). Scholarly impact and sustainability: Making the game worth the candle. Paper presented during an invited workshop presented to the learning advisors, Library Services, University of Southern Queensland, Online. Davies, S. T. P., & Danaher, P. A. (2017). Pleasure, pain and the possibilities of being and becoming: Robustly hopeful reflections by an Australian personal fitness trainer and his university academic client. In S. Riddle, M. K. Harmes, & P. A. Danaher (Eds.), Producing pleasure in the contemporary university (Bold visions in educational research vol. 59) (pp. 229–241). Sense Publishers. dictionary.com. (n.d.). The game is not worth the candle. https://www.dictionary.com/browse/the-game-isnot-worth-the-candle Finkielsztein, M. (2021). Boredom and academic work. Routledge. Gottlieb, F., & Mosleh, W. S. (2016). How autoethnography enables sensemaking across organizations. Ethnographic Practice in Industry Conference, 2016(1), 217–233. https://doi.org/10.1111/15598918.2016.01086 Hannam, P., & Butler, B. (2022). Job vacancies surge in Australia as Covid labour shortages choke supply chains. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/business/2022/jan/12/job-vacancies-surgein-australia-as-covid-labour-shortages-choke-supply-chains Hassel, H., & Cole, K. (Eds.) (2020). Academic labor beyond the college classroom: Working for our values. Routledge. Kimmins, R. R. (2022). “You’re not a leader because you stand above everyone. You’re a leader because you’re willing to … walk with everyone”: A study of student leadership in a peer-assisted learning program at an Australian university. Unpublished Doctor of Philosophy thesis, University of Southern Queensland, Australia. Kwiek, M. (2019). Changing European academics: A comparative study of social stratification, work patterns and research productivity. Routledge. Lupu, I. (2021). An autoethnography of pregnancy and birth during Covid times: Transcending the illusion of overwork in academia? Gender, Work & Organization, 28(5), 1898–1911. https://doi.org/10.1111/ gwao.12718 Riddle, S., Harmes, M. K., & Danaher, P. A. (Eds.) (2017). Producing pleasure in the contemporary university (Bold visions in educational research vol. 59). Sense Publishers. Roberts, T. L. (2021). An autoethnographic analysis of first-generation college student status. In R. M. Boylorn, & M. P. Orbe (Eds.), Critical autoethnography: Intersecting cultural identities in everyday life (Writing lives: Ethnographic narratives) (2nd ed., pp. 118–129). Routledge. Sacks, O. (2015). Gratitude. Picador. Sambrook, S., & Herrmann, A. F. (2018). Guest editorial: Organisational autoethnography: Possibilities, politics and pitfalls. Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 7(3), 222–234. https://www.emerald.com/ insight/content/doi/10.1108/JOE-10-2018-075/full/html Shelley-Egan, C. (2020). Testing the obligations of presence in academia in the COVID-19 era. Sustainability, 12(16), 6350. https://doi.org/10.3390/su12166350 Smyth, J. (2017). The toxic university: Zombie leadership, academic rock stars and neoliberal ideology. Palgrave Macmillan. Sobre-Denton, M. S. (2012). Stories from the cage: Autoethnographic sensemaking of workplace bullying, gender discrimination, and white privilege. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 41(2), 220–250. https://doi.org/10.1177/0891241611429301 Tienari, J. (2019). One flew over the duck pond: Autoethnography, academic identity, and language. Management Learning, 50(5), 576–590. https://doi.org/10.1177/1350507619875887

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Susurrations of a swansong Trahar, S. (2013). Autoethnographic journeys in learning and teaching in higher education. European Educational Research Journal, 12(3), 367–375. https://doi.org/10.2304/eerj.2013.12.3.367 Trimmer, K., Newman, T., & Padró, F. F. (Eds.) (2019a). Ensuring quality in professional education (vol. I: Human client fields pedagogy and knowledge structures). Palgrave Macmillan. Trimmer, K., Newman, T., & Padró, F. F. (Eds.) (2019b). Ensuring quality in professional education (vol. II: Engineering pedagogy and international knowledge structures). Palgrave Macmillan. Vickers, M. H. (2007). Autoethnography as sensemaking: A story of bullying. Culture and Organization, 13(3), 223–237. https://doi.org/10.1080/14759550701486555 Weick, K. E. (1995). Sensemaking in organisations. Sage. Yates, E. (2020). The shape of Australia’s post COVID-19 workforce. National Skills Commission. https:// www.nationalskillscommission.gov.au/book/export/html/243 Yildirim, T. M., & Eslen-Ziya, H. (2021). The differential impact of COVID-19 on the work conditions of women and men academics during the lockdown. Gender, Work & Organization, 28(S1), 243–249. https://doi.org/10.1111/gwao.12529 Yudkevich, M., Altbach, G., & Rumbley, L. E. (Eds.) (2016). The global academic rankings game: Changing institutional policy, practice and academic life. Routledge. Zawadzki, M., & Jensen, T. (2020). Bullying and the neoliberal university: A co-authored autoethnography. Management Learning, 51(4), 398–413. https://doi.org/10.1177/1350507620920532

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17 VOICING MY WRITING, WRITING MY VOICE Autoethnography as a way to explore and (re)think my personal and academic self Gustavo González-Calvo I thought I had filled my life from the top down, as Science states. But then came my Son, so small, so beautiful, defying the universal laws, to fill my life from below. He filled it even beneath life itself, beneath one’s own skin, as only life could be filled. (Dedicated to my son Marcos)

Introduction Legend has it that, many years ago, a butterfly saw the fastest and most precise arrow in the whole country passing by every day. The butterfly dreamed of one day being as fast as the arrow, able to travel from one end of the county to the other in just a few seconds. And so, in search of its dream, it tried every day to fly faster and with more energy to reach its destination sooner. Again and again, the butterfly tried. He never gave up, every day dawned with new illusions and a new attempt to be like the arrow. And, although he was looking for his dream more than anyone else, it was impossible for him, on every trip, not to stop to admire the beautiful flowers of the road, impossible not to chat with the animals of the forest or simply not to lie down to look at the beauty of the sky, where it played at guessing the shapes of the clouds. Although the butterfly promised himself not to be distracted, every day the same thing happened: spread his wings to the wind and, within a few seconds, he had already stopped at a flower. So came the day when the very sad butterfly gave up. He knew that he would never be as fast and precise as the arrow. And, that day, his dream was broken. The animals in the forest, sorry to see their friend crying so much, decided to visit him. “What’s the matter with you, little butterfly?” they asked. “I wanted to fulfil my dream of becoming as fast as the arrow I see passing before me every day. But I’ve realised it’s impossible. I’m too clueless, and soon after I start flying, I spend a lot of time admiring flowers, chatting with friends, or contemplating the sky. When I’m lucky enough to find out what my destiny is, it’s too late. I will never be as fast or as accurate as the arrow”, he lamented. Accepting to be part of this book has been, for me, an enormous personal challenge. The illusion has been, at times, intimidating; I didn’t even know if I could fulfill the commission and, to this day, I’m not sure I’ve been up to the task. In any case, and as a result of my 196

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commitment, I have written an autoethnography built around three key moments in my life: my beginnings in the world of qualitative research; the moment I began to publish my first works; and the moment I decided to apply for accreditation as a university professor, reflecting the advantages and disadvantages of having made qualitative research the cornerstone of my academic career. An academic career that, like the flight of the butterfly, is full of uncertainty, precariousness, and a hint of hope. The elaboration of the different reports that form part of the autoethnography has been a process of integration of different tensions, expectations, illusions and disenchantments that were collected in the form of diaries, notes that I gather from conversations and encounters with friends, relatives and colleagues and extracts from relevant readings, all with the purpose of giving meaning to what I write. This process is not the fruit of a single day; on the contrary, it is the fruit of the last fifteen years, taking as a starting point my initial formation studies as a teacher. This autoethnography, as it cannot be otherwise (notice the reader the prefix auto-, referred to the self), is a very personal process. This is because my personal experiences are the foundation of study. At the same time, it seeks to fulfill a clearly social objective, in an attempt to lead the reader to empathise with my world and my story. Thus, I examine how my personal, professional, emotional and cultural identity develops in the context in which I have lived, and how social forces influence my lived experiences (Chang, 2013). As Bochner and Ellis (2016) understand it, “autoethnography is an autobiographical genre of writing and research that displays multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal to the cultural” (p. 65). I have made every effort to combine the rigour of research with the creativity of styles of expression that are less rigid than those usual in academia; furthermore, I have sought a certain balance between reflection on the self and on the social and cultural environment in which it develops. Following the premise of Eriksson (2013), who pointed out that personal experiences must be embedded in a specific culture while connecting emotionally with the reader, I present here an honest writing, relevant, and easily intelligible. This does not mean, at all, that there is no space for scholarship. Rather, as an educator and researcher I feel a responsibility to provide appropriate and accessible language for diverse readers. I agree with Kincheloe (2008, p. 26) that “a living, relevant and effective critical pedagogy in the contemporary world must be at the same time intellectually rigorous and accessible to diverse audiences”. I hope that, with all of this, the social and cultural function of the writing I present will be more remarkable. In its most purely social aspect, it is a story written to be told to someone, a product to be shared socially in which the reader is not a passive recipient, but someone willing to converse and put his or her life in relation to mine. I know, with certainty, that this is a chapter full of subjectivities. It cannot be otherwise: I am a multiple being, changing, ephemeral at times, almost always contradictory.

Crossroads: my beginnings with autoethnographies The year 2003 runs. Lulo da Silva becomes president of Brazil; South African John Maxwell Coetzee receives the Nobel Prize for Literature; activist Rachel Corrie is crushed by an Israeli tank for preventing the demolition of Palestinian homes; in the Democratic Republic of Congo the bloody civil war that begun 14 years earlier continues, claiming the lives of more than a thousand people; and I, after a few years of studying Chemistry, decide to abandon that subject and study to become a teacher. My parents have always made it clear to me that I should go to university (mainly my mother) who did not consider any other possibility. The expectations placed on me as a good student were high, which reinforced the idea that I should get an academic degree. With the 197

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change of university career I thought I was facing a “decrease in my status”. I am aware that the most valued professions are becoming so, often not because of the importance of their role in society, but rather because of the difficulty of initial training. In Spain, an engineer, a doctor, an architect, a pharmacist are professions of great social esteem from the very beginning of studies. In this sense, deciding to start with the studies of a teacher was a small dilemma because it was considered as something simple and, in many cases, superficial. Privilege comes in different ways. One of my privileges was to have the opportunity to pursue university studies; another was to have the opportunity to change disciplines. But thinking of my parents, feeling reflected on them, I knew that they would be disappointed by my decision to change schools. I remember my mother’s voice explaining repeatedly that studies were what would allow me to lead a good life; and, as a mother, she understood that more difficult studies meant a simpler life. “You’ll understand when you’re a father,” I think I’m hearing from her. At that time I didn’t understand that phrase; my adult life, for the moment, was such a distant project that it didn’t make any sense at all. After all, it is life that gives meaning to words, it is life that inscribes them in our skin. I didn’t understand what it meant to be a father. I was only interested in recovering my curiosity and experiencing another way of facing my studies. I began to read everything that fell into my hands, I had an eagerness to learn. As a result of this desire to learn, I decided to enroll in a subject where the title caught my attention from the beginning: “Research in Physical Education”. I remember thinking that, after all, research could not be limited to the biomedical field, and that, although we teachers do not wear white coats, we also have a lot to contribute to social research. It was a demanding subject, which required a great willingness on the part of the student to read, reflect and debate. Perhaps for this reason, very few students chose it. But at that point, it was clear to me that there were two very different ways of tackling my new studies: deciding to be a mediocre student – to survive, or pretending to do things as best as possible – to grow. Believing that I had my survival needs assured, I felt the obligation to realise myself, to understand myself, to renew myself, and to try to achieve higher goals. That was how, thanks to Lucio – the then professor of the subject and, today, friend and departmental colleague – I entered the world of educational research. The first tasks were readings by Andrew Sparkes and Marti Silvennoinen (Sparkes & Silvennoinen, 1999), both qualitative researchers in the field of Physical Education. I found the readings magnificent, easy to read, empathic, profound. I was fascinated by the emphasis that the stories placed on the personal but, at the same time, distrustful for the same reason. After all, I was indebted to a quantitative past, a student of pure science, accustomed to numbers and statistical formulas; a world in which this frank opening to corporeality, identity, the private, the individual, the autobiographical, called into question the objectivity of science. Little by little, I got to know more about the qualitative field and I even began to write my own life story (what could be interesting about telling my own experiences, who could be interested in that except, perhaps, myself?). In spite of these initial doubts, the seed was being planted that would be born shortly afterwards; I discovered that spending a daily time writing about what was happening to me, what worried me, what excited me, was a way of feeling better about myself. It was also clear to me that my stories, if read by others, would have to be a gift to those readers who needed them (Goodall, 2008), a reflective attempt to construct meaning in my life and in the lives of others. The last year of my initial training I was awarded a research scholarship to work with Lucio. We opted for a brief research sketch that would consist of knowing how the beliefs and previous experiences of the students affected their initial training as teachers. We started from 198

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the premise that teaching identities can be interpreted from a narrative approach and, as such, we rely methodologically on narrative research as a technique of reflection and awareness of the students. The project ended up in smoke, insofar as it was not completed and no research report came out. It could have been considered, then, a waste of time, since the system made it clear that only that which is profitable – in our case, publishable – has value. However, it served to find my guidance, a reference point I wanted to build on and continue to deepen. So I began a process of personal reflection, trying to give meaning to my life, and to work it out by analysing it and comprehending how my own experiences marked my way of understanding teaching. It is important to clarify that, when I began my initial formation studies, I had never heard of the term autoethnography and knew very little about qualitative research, so I began to write without knowing what I was doing or why I was doing it. Not even today, 15 years later, are they common words within the Spanish research and educational field. If I had been asked what I meant by autoethnography back then, I would not have been able to articulate a coherent definition. Now, more mature and more experienced, and also determined to follow a qualitative trajectory in which (auto)ethnographic gender is my main pillar, things have changed. In the Anglo-Saxon sphere there has been an important growth in interest in autoethnographies. Not only are there several books devoted specifically to the subject (e.g. Adams, Holman Jones, & Ellis, 2015; Chang, 2008; Chang, Ngunjiri, & Hernandez, 2012; Denzin, 2014; Ellis, 2009), but the first journal devoted exclusively to the autoethnographic method, the Journal of Autoethnography, was edited and published for the first time in 2020. It seems, therefore, a good time for teachers and researchers who are concerned about this methodology to go deeper and learn more about how to carry it out. On the other hand, and as I will deal with later, it is possible that choosing this path was a risky bet. Autoethnography, as a research method, continue to be surrounded by a certain marginal aura, and it is possibly less valued in an academic climate framed by neoliberalism and the culture of auditing in Western universities (González-Calvo & Arias-Carballal, 2018; Sparkes, 2018). With the idea and desire to begin my research journey – and with the conviction that research is useful if it provides indications of improvement to others, making a small contribution in the production of knowledge –, I become an avid reader of everything I find referring to qualitative research. It is true that more than fifteen years ago it was much more complicated to access scientific literature in this field, partly due to my own lack of knowledge, partly because it is not a widely accepted methodology in my country. But I had the stimulus and the illusion that I would be able to educate myself in this field, although I knew subconsciously that I would have to be, practically, self-taught. “I have to learn, soak up what they write, improve my English language because it is clear that in my mother tongue there is little material that can help me” was a recurring thought. A thought from which I did not want to run away, from which I did not want to escape. Books, articles, more books … I begin to navigate (shipwreck perhaps?) in a sea full of great authors. Their surnames intimidate me and, at the same time, stimulate me to try to write like them someday. I wish I could, on some glorious day, write with the courage of Pelias, the mastery of Fernández-Balboa, the inspiration of Bochner, the sincerity of Sparkes and the clairvoyance of Denzin (e.g., Bochner, 2014; Bochner & Ellis, 2016; Fernández-Balboa, 2001; Pelias, 2019; Sparkes, 1996). In an attempt to console myself I think that, for every great author, there are a handful of minor researchers, like mice prowling around a lion. The referenced authors, without them even being aware of my existence, are becoming my mentors. How much I need mentors like that! But they are far away, I can’t count on more 199

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help than their writings. So my doubts, my fears, the moments when I think about whether it would be better to throw in the towel or change the field of research are frequent. After all, having changed studies means being older than the average age of my peers, and maybe it’s a good time to start working. However, I decide to go ahead and let reality moderate and simplify my ambitions; now, the illusion is stronger than everything else. My greatest doubt is: will I be able to find a subject to study in depth, is there a subject that remains unstudied and, if so, will I be the one to fill that void? I get down to work: what do I need to start writing?

Publishing my first articles: the individual writer Year 2009. Israel turns Gaza into a deadly trap for a million and a half Palestinians; the fight against climate change is vindicated through the so-called “hour of the planet”; the King of Pop, Michael Jackson, perhaps tired of not being able to sleep, decides to sleep forever; President Barack Obama wins the Nobel Peace Prize, in spite of developing a warmongering policy that is not worthy of recognition; and I publish my first article – an autoethnography – in a Spanish magazine with a certain reputation. I also pass the exams for the national competitions to get a job as a primary school teacher. In this way, my work seems assured and my future defined. My life is beginning to demand a great deal of my attention, be it on a personal, professional or relational level. Job security avoids uncertainties and risks; I can lead a quiet, serene and uncomplicated life. Even so, I am not sure if this is what I want forever, if I have already fulfilled my own expectations. I have no way to compare my life with my previous lives, nor to make amends for the mistakes I make now in later lives; this is my only life, I have to live it all at a first attempt, without preparation and without foresight as to what will happen. It will be the passage of time, ultimately, who will tell me if I should have followed this path or another. In any case, it is true that on several occasions I find myself thinking that perhaps destiny had something different in store for me, that it was not a school where I was going to spend the rest of my working life. I am beginning my doctoral studies and my research concerns are still alive – perhaps more alive and intense than ever. I also continue to devote much of my free time to reading. I am immersed in a phase of “read as much as you can”, convinced that the more I read about autoethnographic research, the more prepared I will be to write my own research when the time comes to break the fear of the blank page. I wonder when that time will come. I read enough research manuals, project writing manuals and doctoral thesis manuals to know that the starting point of any research is to have clear objectives. The first step is to ask yourself a question and find a way to answer it. If this is the case, what has been the main objective that has aroused my interest in narratives: what was the original question? I have many questions, but I don’t have an answer. In the case of autoethnography, things get even more complicated. The autoethnography is a blurred genre (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2010). Too many methods, techniques, approaches and epistemologies and, for more complication, what for some specialists are synonyms of the same term, for others mark notable differences. As a consequence, I do not fully understand some things, and some years have gone by since I wrote my first works and I wonder if it’s worth sending them for publication. If writing is “thinking and discovery and selection and order and meaning, it is also awe and reverence and mystery and magic” (Morrison, 2019, p. 238), then I have to free myself from the pressure; let the magic emerge; let the themes flow until I find the need to know, to understand something about myself, my thoughts, my feelings, my meanings. From that liberation my first autoethnographic study was born. The work narrated certain personal experiences that were alternatives to the dominant, accepted and harmful cultural histories and stereotypes. 200

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Accepting that the choice of the autoethnographic genre involved describing personal experiences that I wanted – and needed – to understand in greater depth and in a meaningful way, this first article took my disrupted self1 as a reference (e.g. González Calvo & Martínez Álvarez, 2009). In it, I describe how my life, a normal life until now, was interrupted by an injury. I begin to feel that writing is therapeutic for me and, perhaps, for readers who have experienced similar situations. The study was not easy to publish in Spain. It was part of a methodology that was not widely accepted ten years ago, so that the reviewers of the work regarded it with suspicion, as little more than “a well-told story”. They didn’t even seem sure that a single person’s story deserved to be considered research. Although several works on a similar subject and methodology had already been published in other countries (e.g. Sparkes, 1996; Sparkes & Silvennoinen, 1999), in my country it seemed somewhat worthless. However, I was convinced that the work was more than just a beautiful story. It is true that what I was talking about my life, giving my personal example; but the writing also sought to represent other people. It was a lesson to learn, an empathic guide to deal with the situations we sometimes have to face. I kept trying to publish the study, until it finally saw the light (see González Calvo & Martínez Álvarez, 2009). It would be unfair if I didn’t acknowledge that, since then, narrative studies and autoethnographies have become increasingly important in Spain. But they are still far from becoming a unique approach, and the few Spanish researchers interested in autoethnography who want to disseminate and publish their work have to do so in international journals. I am one of those researchers. The question of what I should write and publish touches the heart of everything I write. I intend not to censor the expression of my emotions, not to transfigure myself from ignoble to noble, to show myself as I am, to be truly myself. Although, with writing, you never know. Maybe at a certain moment I am myself and at another moment I am simply inventing. When it comes to writing, how can one be sure? The readings and the habit of writing daily are developing my ability to do it better, although I still miss having a close mentor who can help me focus my research. Although autoethnographies are often written alone, they are a matter of one’s own self, I could use some expert help, someone to help me stop writing by simple intuition. But, if even the experts don’t seem to have clear limits and characteristics of qualitative research, how can I  know what kind of work the academics applaud and reject? How can I know if what I do is good or bad, or to what extent it is a question of interpretation? What are the topics that can open up an opportunity for me? As a result of chance I come across an article whose title catches my attention and which may guide my future writings: “Qualitative quality: Eight “big tent” criteria for excellent qualitative research”. Perhaps this is what I need at the moment, a clear orientation on the criteria that make an excellent piece of writing: rigour, a dignified subject, sincerity, credibility, resonance, significant contribution, ethics and coherence (Tracy, 2010). For someone like me – who speaks the language of insinuation knowing that others are not good at reading my mind; more eloquent on the page than in conversations; better at saying than speaking – it doesn’t seem complicated to meet the criteria. I write them in a note that I have next to my computer, to keep them in sight, well present. I begin to write; I am the one who directs, my writing obeys me. The criteria help me, they are a guide, they offer me security; but after a short time I discover myself forcing my writing to fit it within the framework established by Tracy, by adjusting his criteria to my needs. Perhaps there are teachings that one should not ignore; otherwise one runs the risk of becoming a barbarian. But I don’t want to be the one who directs my writing. I want it to 201

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be the one who directs me, the one who writes me. Maybe, after all, I don’t mind becoming a barbarian; maybe the university prefers brutal professionals, incapable of creating intra- and interpersonal ties, people concerned only with accountability. Who knows?

We had dreams, we had high hopes: the price of living, the cost of the career 2016. Surprisingly, the Nobel Prize for Literature does not go to bookstores, but to record stores thanks to Bob Dylan; Donald Trump wins the election and becomes the 45th President of the United States, confirming that great fuss and foolishness are the gateway to current politics; the ceasefire of the civil war in Syria begins, but the refugees fleeing the country are still socially untold, they do not have a history that makes them visible; the Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro distract the population with banalities, while cultural life is reduced to a permanent revelry; and I share dreams and illusions. Thanks to the help that social networks provide to shy people like me, in 2010 I came into contact, virtually, with José. It was by chance that José published an article in the same volume and issue of the magazine in which my first autoethnographic study was published (González Calvo & Martínez Álvarez, 2009). After reading his work, I became more interested in him, always from a distance. We weren’t too far physically – barely 200 kilometres apart – but we didn’t know each other personally, so it took a few months before I decided to write him an email. I received his reply, we met in person and began a path of friendship, research and shared illusions. José, always utopian and a dreamer, tried to transform the educational reality from qualitative research. His research process, like mine, starts from his initial training as a teacher. It could be said that we were soul mates: there were not too many people researching in Spain in this field at that moment and, suddenly, two people with the same interests appear. At that time I had neither started my doctoral thesis, nor my work at university. I just wanted to learn, it was my only objective. We began to work together on some research, always with the idea of improving education, something that would be capable of responding to the demands expected of the school, the teaching staff and society in general. In this way, we kept in mind the social, cultural and political aspects that should not go unnoticed by any educator. Shortly afterwards – when we were both already working at university in a very precarious situation, although with a prosperous future, as it seems – we published some of our works, all of them in Spanish and with a clear qualitative and autoethnographic orientation (e.g. González Calvo & Barba, 2013). One morning in January 2016, almost at dawn, I received a call from José´s brother. I knew, before picking up the phone, what he was going to tell me. When it comes to death, the phrases are left half-hearted; without saying anything, everything is said. On the other side of the phone there was only sobbing. Feeling lost, I looked around, not seeing anything. José could not overcome a leukaemia that devoured him in a matter of months. He was only 39 years old and had a three-year-old son. His early death killed us all a little. I was with him just a week before he died. We didn’t overlook the irony that someone determined to give voice to others, had to be interpreted now by means of devices: you only had to look at the monitor to know how many times his heart was beating, the number of breaths and who knows what those other strange numbers would mean. But that was temporary. We had plans, concerns, great hopes; so great that there is no machine that can interpret them. Our pretensions were not humble and, half-jokingly, half-seriously, we said that as soon as he left the hospital we would start working on our first international article. It was about 202

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time they knew us beyond our borders! Let everyone know: the new Fernández-Balboa and Sparkes get to put qualitative research where it belongs! At that time, José was one of my best friends and my closest colleague. Next to each other we had been learning to write critically on different educational topics. Our works were filled with the most exquisite zeal, the most sincere illusion and fierce idealism. Today my thoughts are with him. I never remember him because of his publications, nor because of his research profile. I remember him, and I miss him, because he was a great man, a great friend. I am convinced that, at least in part, José was unable to cope with the stress and pressure of the system. He worked too hard to nurture the university system he loved and was proud of; the same system that promotes a helplessness pedagogy, fatigue and loneliness. The same mechanism that is framed within the precept of “don’t think too much of anything; think only of yourself ”. Although José was always generous and never thought only of himself, he ended up being part of a model that forces one to change oneself, accepting uncritically and submitting to the conditions of exploitation and alienation of the socioeconomic and cultural environment. All of us who want to make a career at the university accept this model; there is no possible alternative. Either you submit, or you are left out. It absorbs us, and we belong to it. It suffocates until it defeats. Fortunately, I am beginning to glimpse clearly what before, perhaps due to the haze of my vanity, I could not see: that the neoliberal system applied to higher education enthroned self-interest, competitiveness, triumph and foul play; that human relations are a constant struggle in which, as in a fierce fight, only one can stand. The discourse of the pedagogy of helplessness and isolation is the normal and natural condition of the university. This is what we who work here have to struggle with; an attempt at self-realisation, at being as effective as possible, trying, of course, to emerge from our own inner desire (Han, 2015). Within this model each professional possesses an individual capital (Bourdieu, 1986) that has to revalue continuously. What emerges is the profile of a struggling teacher who tries to reach his objective regardless of the sacrifice: the goal comes first. The ideology of success leads us to measure people - our own co-workers – in numerical terms: how many articles have you published? What is your h-index? In what quartile is your latest publication? The person who, in these terms, does not reach the minimum required, is considered unproductive, lazy, a useless burden for the system. I see it in my work, I hear it in the corridors, I perceive it in the distrust shown by other colleagues/competitors; professionals who growl and show their teeth, each one defending what they think belongs to them. Instead of encouraging a university community based on conversations, collaborations among colleagues and open to the perspectives of other researchers, it has become a kind of battleground of “belligerent careerists protecting turf, seeking notoriety, and competing for limited resources” (Bochner, 2014, p. 18). The truth is that no one told me that academic life was going to be hard and full of setbacks, or that I was going to feel bewildered and isolated. Seen from the outside, it seemed something completely different, something idyllic. Nor did I know, then, that choosing a scientific area whose primary function is social application – qualitative research within the realm of education – was going to play a relatively minor role in my promotion and evaluation options within the university. Nor, either, that forging a successful curriculum vitae could be a matter of money – attendance at congresses, translations of my papers into English if I want them to have a chance of being published, payment for publication, are not within everybody’s reach. In short: the only criterion for being able to take part in the game was not going to be, of course, that of professional worth in its twofold teaching and research aspect. If not, how do you explain why so many professionals with as much or more worth than mine are 203

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(self) forced to abandon it? How is it possible that there are so many morally weak people who are able to make their way by breaking the rules? It is clear that the one who deserves it does not succeed, the one who works, the one who makes an effort. The system expels those who, having talent, cannot finance a career (Liu, 2011). The discourse of meritocracy is a deception, pure performance of excellence; we are surrounded by people who break the rules and are rewarded. Possibly we have all been tempted, at one time or another, to break the rules in order to benefit from the system; but, if the rules of the game are not followed, life becomes meaningless. In my case, I’ve lost the desire – and also the talent, if I ever had it – to lie and deceive. And, without that talent, what am I going to do in this area where the trap is rewarded? No one told me anything about that, and yet, until recently, I would have given everything to make a career in college. I recognise that my arrogance plays a very important part in the decision. How good it sounds to be someone recognised in a field, to work in the university! If it’s someone like me, full of fears and with little self-confidence, it sounds even better. But, if I learned something from José’s death, it was to relativise and trust life. Now I know that it is normal to have doubts and to feel lost; that there are moments in which it is necessary to rest, to enjoy; that it is not always necessary to have a goal, sometimes it is enough to want to enjoy what is being done; and that I have to try to be happy as I am, with my family, with my work, with my writings, without allowing myself to be entangled by ulterior goals that only confuse me. After all, who was going to tell that boy without too much self-confidence that one day he would defend a doctoral thesis, or that he would have a fantastic family? The last time I saw José was in my dreams. He told me that when we die, we do not entirely die, but that we are suddenly everywhere. That we become stories.

Always running to catch a runaway train It is the year 2019 and the Brazil declares a state of emergency due to the fires in the Amazon, considered the “lung of the planet”; the Nobel Prizes in Science consolidate their inequality by awarding nine men and no women; a mother and a daughter – along with more than a thousand other people so far this year – die hugging in front of Lampedusa; the heatwave in Greenland will have devastating consequences all over the planet; the far-right policy enters the European scene with force; Israel continues to cover the Palestinian territory in blood; and I have been using the computer application for almost three hours to apply for my accreditation as a university professor. How did I get here? Everything has gone too fast, I’ve hardly had time to stop and think if it is at the university where I want to be. Life passes between flutters: one day you find yourself wanting to fly in order to be free, and the next you are fluttering with the intention of landing somewhere safe. These years have been a journey from the pleasure of learning towards the fulfillment of one’s duty. I have learned that, in a university career, academia condemns what is useless, and what is useless is what is not profitable. But I have also learned that, as with life, you must go out and look for it; and, when you find it, you have to squeeze all its juice. In this attempt to enjoy and be happy with what I do, I choose to dedicate myself only to qualitative research, convinced of the ethics that accompanies this type of research. The quantitative research in which I have participated, although it was a great weight when aspiring to get ahead in my professional career, has ceased to make sense to me. I just don’t want to be the kind of man given to organise his life around a curriculum vitae. It is not just that I understand numbers less and less (and voices more and more); it’s that I do not share the fact that quantitative research manipulates variables and statistics because it manipulates people 204

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and their lives; I do not share the confidence in questionnaires answered one day and that fit you into a predefined category in perpetuum, even though today I may not be the same as yesterday; I do not feel represented by a number within a Likert scale; and, above all, I do not trust that there is a universal theory that supports people’s behaviours and purposes. Maybe I am not clear about the path I want to follow in life. But I am understanding what I do not want to do from now on. I do not get a clear idea of what my professional career at university has to offer, and yet something tells me that I must continue on my way. I am not so vain as to believe that someone like me can contribute too much to the social world, to believe that my words are undoubtedly useful to establish consolation, correct injustices, open spaces for dialogue and seek ways to improve our lives (Bochner, 2014; Pelias, 2019). But I decide to commit myself to continue dedicating part of my life to listening, reading and writing; to situate myself in the midst of culture and to understand the contexts in which cultural meanings that are important to me are negotiated, validated and produced; to be an (auto)ethnographer. After all, I lead a life that allows me to continue writing, a (perhaps illusory) life of permanence and security. I do not have a map, I do not know where I am going, and I can hardly establish a plan. But I am determined to contribute what I can to make a better society and a more meaningful life for myself and others, especially for those who enter life without some of the advantages that I enjoy and that determine my writing. I am, after all, a white, heterosexual, middle-class man with a high college education, a stable job, a good career behind me, and a family I love. I guess I am the embodiment of how effort and tenacity can lead to a promotion symbolised by academic titles, someone confident in oneself; someone coherent and serious whose passions have been replaced by a cold rationality. Just the opposite of who I really am! The truth is that I am lucky without much merit: it was chance that made me this way. I did not have to do anything to be a man, neither white, nor Spanish, nor so many other things. I would be a fool to deny it all, because it is clear to me that being this way has made my life easier than if I had been born a woman, black, homosexual, African and so on. My identity is different from that of many other people, and yet it tries to merge into them. Am I not being too utopian; is not my ego playing a trick on me and I am perhaps giving too much importance to myself? To be honest, it seems like a titanic task to build a better society and care for one’s own well-being and that of others in these uncertain days in which haste, standardisation, uncertainty and risk about the future (Piotrowski & Ruitenberg, 2016) are the characteristics that best define us. I may be the least qualified to worry about others; I’m not even sure where I want to work for the rest of my life! Uncertainty is also something that surrounds me. While it is true that I have job security (my job as a university professor is, at the moment, accessory, without being the main economic support), I feel overwhelmed and trapped, not infrequently, by so many insecurities. I am convinced that many of them are nothing more than an invention of the system, a fiction created by the progression of human development, the advance of science and technology. As Giddens (1999) explains, “manufactured risk is expanding into most dimensions of human life … people have to take a more active and risk-infused orientation in their relationships and commitments” (p. 4). In this way, uncertainty becomes my (our) way of life and, who knows, perhaps the only way of life available today. Thus we live with a permanent sense of lack and guilt, of uncertainty and uneasiness, of ephemeral illusions. The system demands and, when we approach the goal, it moves away; it leads us to super-produce, making it clear that we do not publish because we are worth it, but rather that we are worth it because we publish. In the moment that it is not so, we will be waste for the system; you may have contributed a lot to the university, but the university has a short 205

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memory and no loyalty (Bochner, 2014). As we ultimately compete against ourselves, we try to surpass ourselves until we fall down (Han, 2015). We always demand more of ourselves; we can always do more. The lament “I can do nothing” has no place today; being more able leads to a destructive reproach of the self and self-aggression. Life, turned into something ephemeral, like water slipping through our fingers, is simple work and production. The main problem for all those who are not fortunate enough to be able to choose how to live is that you are never free; the imperative of efficiency forces you to an increasingly high performance. A gratifying rest is never achieved, this being the modus vivendi and modus operandi of higher education professionals in Western societies (González-Calvo & AriasCarballal, 2018; Lorenz, 2012). The truth is that I am privileged, I have that freedom of choice. Shall I continue working as a teacher for the rest of my life, or shall I decide, when the opportunity presents itself, to try to make a career in the university? If I follow the second path, the truth is that I have already covered a good part of the journey. I have several important publications, enough to meet the requirements of a university professor in Spain. It is true also that there are many other requirements that I don’t have – stays abroad, management work at the university, scholarships and research grants, among others – but the mechanism is a huge monster that devours everything and is never satisfied. Its motto, “It is forbidden to waste time, forbidden not to comply with the requirements of the system, forbidden to enjoy what you do”, prevents you from losing sight of the perspective that everything you do is work; and work is what is profitable. Obedience, gentleness, submission, dependence is the mold that the academic system imposes. The system is unique and implacable, undermining courage, creativity and the essential. The system is not allowed to pay for enthusiasm; the only god is the system. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and try to remember about what made me want to work at the university and how my beginnings were in the world of research that others will now have to value. In six months I will receive a reply to my application for accreditation; if it is positive, the answer to which path to choose may open up before me. But, as always happens to me, I do not know if this is where I want to be. I feel that my own identity is a mere elusive illusion; when is a process of growth finished, when does somebody start to have clear pretensions in life? I’m not sure that this is my place; to be honest with myself, I’m not sure that any place belongs to me. It is hard for me to see the end of this long-distance race. Maybe ten years ago, when I was a little younger – and possibly with more enthusiasm to promote at university, partly because I didn’t know the mechanisms that govern its functioning – everything was clearer to me. Now I may be more reflective; or perhaps I am simply less courageous. To tell the truth, university conditions are worse than those offered by my job as a schoolteacher offers me: the salary is lower and, possibly, the labour stress is higher. One of the attractions that a university degree could have is greater freedom; however, nothing could be further from the truth. Working at the university implies continuous accountability (Christensen, 2011) through procedures of quantitative measurement of scientific publications, the entrenchment of meritocracy as an inspiration for the distribution of resources (Liu, 2011), and the attrition and disenchantment of professors with the profession (Visotskaya, Cherkashina, Katcin, & Lisina, 2015). Thus, it is unsurprising that cases of alcoholism, depression and suicide have increased among university professors (Shaw & Ward, 2014). No one is prepared for failure, and the university does not understand failures; the exploitation of oneself as a way to avoid pain and frustration leads to exhaustion, generating depressed and tired teachers. Perhaps what attracts me to the university is the aura of intellectuality that has always surrounded it. But in this, perhaps I am also mistaken. The circle in which I move is small, I 206

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do not have many opportunities to meet different researchers, to open perspectives in other places or to participate in new research projects. In this circle – and I’m afraid that, even if the diameter were enlarged, things would not change too much – not everything is lived in a climate of intellectuality: we are not a group of academics dressed in suits who, while listening to jazz music and drinking tea, take the opportunity to discuss Faulkner. Rather, many of the issues surrounding our work have to do with bureaucratic issues, which leave little time and desire for what is important: to improve our teaching and research work. With all this, professional and academic life becomes something impersonal, a source of anxiety and desolation; stability, order, control, and knowing you own your own life, are nothing more than chimeras. Your professional career turns into a stray train, a train that escapes between your fingers when it seemed like you were about to get on it. This is the case of Spanish universities and so many other Western universities that conform to the neoliberal model. In particular, collectives of university professors, unions, organisations and institutions have demonstrated against the Spanish system due to the abusive conditions of accreditation and evaluation of research activity imposed by Royal Decree 415/2015 (B.O.E., 2015). This legal regulation has irrationally hardened the criteria for entry and development of university professional careers. One has to live for and to enter the system: long-term stays in other countries, directing research projects, obtaining external funding to cover research costs, etc. All this, without any thanks or recognition to the teachers who, in a precarious situation and in the midst of a brutal neoliberal policy of cutbacks and precariousness, are doing a commendable job. If you manage to enter the system and exceed the required criteria, the train will run off again. It’s time to face the university itself. The brutal cuts in higher education (e.g. GonzálezCalvo & Arias-Carballal, 2018) make getting a stable place and promotion a very complicated affair; an affair that leaves many victims on the road. It is a vicious and dangerous circle: in order to have a professional career you need to have a good curriculum (at least one that is “weighty” enough, in a literal and metaphorical sense) and some experience, which depends, in large part, on having optimum resources, whether economic, material or human. Also, in order to promote and advance within the career, it is essential to direct doctoral theses, research projects, participate in doctoral programs. … Who, in their right mind, would want to dedicate themselves to making a career within the autoethnographic field? How can they not succumb to the quantitative side, much more practical, quicker and easier to publish in impact magazines? How can they not choose the path of objectivity, if subjectivity unfailingly implies vulnerability? This scenario depicts an unflattering situation that may lead many teachers and researchers to feel pressured, to choose the “easy path” to adapt to the requirements of the profession/ institution so as not to be excluded from it. I do not want to disenchant anyone with my words, nor lose confidence in my/our possibilities; but it is opportune to reflect on it so as not to sin out of “success fundamentalism” (Balastera, 2001) that leads to a complete isolation and a continuous search for trivial credentialism. I want to believe – and, in so far as I can, fight – for a university career ethic that cares about and defends the particular circumstances of those of us who work in it; that it is possible to care for others, to offer them help and to attend to their requests, without looking at ourselves with suspicion and without putting stones in our way; that it is possible to carry out teaching and research useful for society, where people have a voice and are not just a number on a form; that the desire to reflect, debate and criticise is stimulated in a free environment and without coercion. If I do not believe – and fight – that this may be possible, it should not surprise me to discover that, from our universities, we are all collaborating in the formation of competitive, desolate, immoral students/citizens. 207

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I think it is time to try to make the university an open and sustained space for friendly conversations, sincere collaborations, mutual trust. Perhaps I have become an eternal dreamer, but that is the charm of dreams: they make you disconnect from reality. Besides, there is room for the utopian, to keep on walking. Without going any further, in recent years I have been able to overcome my profile as an “individual writer” and have been able to surround myself with people who have helped me immensely and unselfishly. There are times when the difficulty, the indignation, the precariousness, the shame are so great that they lead to the only thing you can do: act. I will therefore try to ensure that this contractual precariousness and the choice of my research career do not diminish my illusions and concerns. And, if at any time I begin to think that maybe I am the problem, I will have to remember that this is exactly how the system wants me to think. I don’t have to do it alone. There are nooks and crannies of solidarity, of community, of humanity.

Reflections When you decide to tell a personal story, an autoethnography, you have to assume that you will not be the same person when you finish writing. In the time between this beginning and this end something happens: life. In addition, as social beings, our stories develop in society; our identities are shaped around our past stories, those that happen to us right now and those that we have yet to live. Each day we create our own history, these are the ones that constitute our medium of being (Frank, 2010). That is why I have decided to tell my story: this is part of my life. On the other hand, I consider it my moral obligation to try to make visible, as far as I can, the political discourses, the neoliberal and capitalist measures and dilemmas facing university professors today. We can surrender and play the established game, or we can try to rewrite history. It is important to keep in mind that members of university institutions deserve to be considered “an end in itself ”, not an instrument to the benefit of neoliberal policies that, in no way, help to promote justice, well-being and a better life. It is a story written with the reader in mind; a story that believes in the power of autoethnography and the lived experience of an ordinary life, a story that values and gives voice to subjective experiences. In the process of writing, I have often thought about the possible risks – personal and professional – embedded in this type of studies. I want you, as a reader, to know this story; what do you think of me, and of my work? I trust in your ability to interpret and evaluate the text from your own personal perspective, so that you can provide answers to the dilemmas I have been posing here. I would be grateful if you could make your own contribution to my own story. Finally, I will try to answer the following question: What can this writing be used for? At best, it can serve to feed and continue the debate about the future of teaching and academic research that affects the personal and professional lives of so many teachers; a life that, in recent years, seems impregnated with alarming signs of corrosion; a life devoid of intellectual freedom and replete with personal impoverishment. In the worst-case scenario, as a writer it will have helped me to avoid internalising, completely, the resignation to “this is what there is”. Because, if I had not written it, I would have contributed to perpetuating a mechanistic system which, instead of fostering my capacities to lead a full and true life, would have created a sensation of silent despair, boredom, fatigue and loneliness (Han, 2015). 208

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Conclusion 28 September 2019. Marta’s hair dances freely on her shoulders; Marcos lets the Moon rest, the night needs no more brightness than his eyes; and I, even being a loner, endure the deadly sins as soon as I see them. All together, all at once. Greed, because I want the gold of our time to be only for us. Pride, knowing that it is I, and no one else, who is by their side. Lust, because my senses are awakened not to miss a single detail. Envy, which I feel strongly towards myself. Anger, when we understand that society conspires to steal our laughter, that sound with which we want to fall asleep. Gluttony, is insatiable the feeling of wanting to kiss them all the time. Well, now that I think of it, I do not feel all the capital sins: laziness does not exist next to them. I close the computer application for my accreditation as a university professor, leave the office and ride in the car back home. I open the window to let the winter cold in. It is not so cold, after all. Given the way we are killing the planet, doubting that there can be a point of “no return” to stop climate change, trusting that science can get us out of it and acting, day after day, as if time were what we have to spare, I wonder how the system manages so that nothing that does not serve our immediate self-interest is able to move us. How have we let them corrupt our character like that? How have we come to believe that the world and the solar system revolve around ourselves? Why does nothing connect with our concerns anymore? I turn on the radio, put in the Dire Straits CD and go straight to the track “Where do you think you are going?” (Knopfler, 1979). Mark Knopfler’s deep, serene voice asks the question directly to me; it is a dialogue between him and me: “Where do you think you are going? I think you don´t know. You got no way of knowing. There´s really no place you can go”. I understand the song as a wake-up call, as an awakening. Distrust, subordination, uncertainty, are all along the way, so it is best to think twice before you get going and get caught in the trap. The road is demanding, there is no doubt about it. But there are times when we have to fight, when we have to face boredom, uncertainty and risk with great doses of illusion and naivety. I decide to change the CD, I prefer something that clears my mind off concerns. “When I wake up, well I know I´m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you. When I go out, I know I´m gonna be the man who goes along with you.” The Proclaimers (Reid & Reid, 1988) find the key. I start the car. The asphalt now seems more solid than ever; my path does not follow a purpose, but exists for them, with them and for them. And I think, smiling, life has shown a good move by offering me a route just when I needed it most: the road back home. I arrive at my destination, turn off the car and enter the house. I kiss my wife and my son. It is dark and I have seen hardly anything of him today. I feel a twinge of grief: I would not want to stop being available to them for anything in the world. Once in bed, I tell Marcos the story “The Arrow and the Butterfly”. At the end of the story, I explain that the important thing is not to have a clear path to follow and want to reach as quickly as possible, like the arrow. The important thing is to aspire to be like the butterfly: sensitive, tender, delicate, kind. Someone who enjoys the path as they walk along it; someone who, although capable of flying alone, decides to do so surrounded by friends, knowing that this is the best way to enjoy the journey and to go further; someone who faces their fears … and overcomes them; someone who differentiates the aroma that each flower gives off because they have taken the trouble to know and appreciate them; someone who pauses to figure out the shapes of the thousand clouds in the sky, knowing that there are few things more important. When he sleeps, I whisper in his ear that he must love, take care and spoil himself, just as we love, take care, and spoil him. He should not make decisions based only on his safety and protection, for it is worth being brave in life. He should exercise his power without subjugating others. And he should not be in a hurry to get there. 209

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Acknowledgements To Marta and Marcos, for helping me choose the words I need, on paper and in life. And for helping me to disregard those that hurt.

Note 1 Paradoxically, and also unfortunately, just ten years later I published a new body autoethnography following the diagnosis of a disease (González Calvo & Varea, 2019), following the disrupted self model.

References Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (2015). Autoethnography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Balastera, E. (2001). Ética del saber y de las instituciones. In N. Kisnerman (Ed.), Ética, ¿un discurso o una práctica social? (pp. 45–62). Buenos Aires: Paidós. Bochner, A. P. (2014). Coming to narrative. A personal history of paradigm change in the human sciences. New York: Routledge. Bochner, A. P., & Ellis, C. (2016). Evocative autoethnography: Writing lives and telling stories. New York: Routledge. Bourdieu, P. (1986). The forms of capital. In J. Richardson (Ed.), Handbook of theory and research for the sociology of education. (pp. 241–260). New York: Greenwood Press. Chang, H. (2008). Autoethnography as method. California: Walnut Creek. Chang, H. (2013). Individual and collaborative authoetnography as method. A social scientist’s perspective. In S. Holman Jones, T. E. Adams, & C. Ellis (Eds.), Handbook of autoethnography (pp. 107–122). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Chang, H., Ngunjiri, F. W., & Hernandez, K.-A. C. (2012). Collaborative autoethnography. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Christensen, T. (2011). University governance reforms: Potential problems of more autonomy? Higher Education, 62(4), 503–517. doi:10.1007/s10734-010-9401-z Denzin, N. K. (2014). Interpretive autoethnographhy. Los Angeles, CA: Sage. Ellis, C. (2009). Revision autoethnographic reflections on life and work. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2010). Autoethnography: An overview. Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 12(1), Art. 10, 1–18. Eriksson, P. (2013). Longitudinal autoethnography. In E. Paavilainen-Mäntymäki & M. E. Hassett (Eds.), Handbook of longitudinal research methods in organisation and business studies (pp. 119–137). Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Fernández-Balboa, J. M. (2001). Connections, pedagogy and professional learning. Teaching Education, 12(1), 103–118. doi:10.1080/10476210123847 Frank, A. (2010). Letting stories breathe: A socio-narratology. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Giddens, A. (1999). Risk and responsibility. The Modern Law Review, 62(1), 1–10. González-Calvo, G., & Arias-Carballal, M. (2018). Effects from audit culture and neoliberalism on university teaching: an autoethnographic perspective. Ethnography and Education, 13(4), 413–427. doi:10. 1080/17457823.2017.1347885 González Calvo, G., & Barba, J. J. (2013). La perspectiva autobiográfica de un docente novel sobre los aprendizajes de Educación Física en diferentes niveles educativos. Cultura, Ciencia y Deporte, 8(24), 171–181. González Calvo, G., & Martínez Álvarez, L. (2009). Aproximación a los significados e interpretaciones de la lesión en futuros docentes de Educación Física por medio de narraciones autobiográficas. Retos: Nuevas Tendencias en Educación Física, Deporte y Recreación, 15(46), 35–40. González Calvo, G., & Varea, V. (2019). A turning point as an opportunity to (Re)Think and give a voice to one’s own body. Societies, 9(3), 60. Goodall, H. L. (2008). Writing qualitative inquiry. Self, stories, and academic life. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Han, B.-C. (2015). The burnout society. Stanford: Stanford Briefs. Kincheloe, J. L. (2008). La pedagogía crítica en el siglo XXI: Evolucionar para sobrevivir. In P. McLaren & J. L. Kincheloe (Eds.), Pedagogía crítica. De qué hablamos, dónde estamos (pp. 25–70). Barcelona: Graó.

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Voicing my writing, writing my voice Knopfler, M. (1979). Where do you think you´re going? On Communiqué. USA: Warner Records. Liu, A. (2011). Unraveling the myth of meritocracy within the context of US higher education. Higher Education, 62(4), 383–397. doi:10.1007/s10734-010-9394-7 Lorenz, C. (2012). If you’re so smart, why are you under surveillance? Universities, neoliberalism, and new public management. Critical Inquiry, 38(3), 599–629. doi:10.1086/664553 Morrison, T. (2019). The source of self-regard. Selected essays, speeches, and meditations. New York: Knopf. Pelias, R. J. (2019). The creative qualitative researcher. Writing that makes readers want to read. New York: Routledge. Piotrowski, M., & Ruitenberg, C. (2016). Liquid subjects: News media and public political pedagogy. Critical Studies in Education, 57(3), 342–357. Real Decreto 415/2015, de 29 de mayo, por el que se establece la acreditación nacional para el acceso a los cuerpos docentes universitarios, (2015). Reid, C., & Reid, C. (1988). I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles). On Chrysalis Records. Oxfordshire: Chrysalis Records. Shaw, C., & Ward, L. (2014). Dark thoughts: Why mental illness is on the rise in academia. The Guardian Higher Education Network. [Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/higher-education-­ network/2014/mar/06/mental-health-academics-growing-problem-pressure-university] [access 21th May 2021]. Sparkes, A. (1996). The fatal flow: A narrative of the fragile body-self. Qualitative Inquiry, 2(4), 463–494. Sparkes, A. (2018). Autoethnography comes of age. In D. Beach, C. Bagley, & S. Marques da Silva (Eds.), The Wiley handbook of ethnography of education (pp. 479–500). London: Wiley. Sparkes, A., & Silvennoinen, M. (Eds.). (1999). Talking bodies: Men’s narratives of the body and sport. Jyväskylä: SoPhi. Tracy, S. J. (2010). Qualitative quality: Eight “Big-Tent” criteria for excellent qualitative research. Qualitative Inquiry, 16(10), 837–851. doi:10.1177/1077800410383121 Visotskaya, N., Cherkashina, E., Katcin, O., & Lisina, L. (2015). Studies on university professors’ emotional burnout. Procedia - Social and Behavioral Sciences, 214, 769–778. doi:10.1016/j.sbspro.2015.11.716

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18 THE FORMATION OF AN IDENTITY IN A MULTICULTURAL HOUSEHOLD An autoethnography Arturo Pérez López and Patricia Varas Foreword When Arturo decided to apply for the highly competitive Carson Undergraduate Research Grant1 in the College of Arts and Science at Willamette University (WU), he was torn between two possible projects. Should he write about the growing gentrification in his town, Woodburn,2 and its implications for his neighbourhood? Or should he explore his hybrid identity (Mexican, Mexican American, and Oaxaqueño/indigenous), something that had been growing heavily in his mind since, in his words, he “stuck out as a sore thumb” among the young WU undergraduates? As we discussed the topics and went through the pros and cons in an orderly and academic fashion, it became clear to us that Arturo’s decision must be guided by an issue close to his heart. This was a unique opportunity for him to explore how his ethnic identity formation had impacted his self and identity development to understand better the choices he had made in life; his cultural preferences, especially in music; his deep love and pride for his family and community; and his passion for education. The should, the obligation to understand gentrification and voting patterns in his community, would have to wait. Yet when we met through Zoom many months after his graduation to discuss this chapter on autoethnography, the first thing Arturo mentioned was how the development of the Smith Creek Project was going. He also commented on the Amazon Fulfilment Centre scheduled to open in 2023 and the opportunities and drawbacks it will bring to Woodburn. It is clear to me that Arturo’s autoethnography is as much about him as about his community. Arturo’s subjectivity and agency are actively shaped by a series of interactions with family and society. A qualitative methodology that would give Arturo the tools to articulate his personal search and academic research needed an alternative scope that would break with the conventional. A voice defined by a hybrid reality, and by complex and ever-changing experiences, needed a narrative that would cross over the traditional generic boundaries. In autoethnography,

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Arturo found the intimate and personal tone of the autobiography and the testimonio, while at the same time achieving the rigor of the ethnography. Arturo uses his personal experiences as a filter but is also aware of the social context of the relationships he has built at home, school and work, which have shaped his identity and agency. Behar (1996) illuminatingly argues that autoethnographies have “challenged monolithic views of identity in the United States, asserted the multiplicity of American cultures, and deconstructed various orientalisms, challenging the assumption that the anthropologist was the sole purveyor of ethnographic truth” (p. 27). In his autoethnography Arturo grapples with the desire to understand how his worldview has been shaped by the options society has provided to him as the son of a MexicanOaxacan couple born in the United States. His passion for learning, imbedded by his father, made him a first-generation student; his mother’s work ethic insured that Arturo would never shun any job, firmly believing that work dignifies one. How to explain his choices? How to join a hierarchical academic discourse that may not value the subjective autoethnography? It is important to make it clear: Arturo is passionate about writing, he is a wonderful storyteller, but his dream is to join academia as a professor of history. Thus, his account must be valued and taken seriously since it will provide sociological and anthropological understandings of himself and his community. Denshar (2014) emphasises the two approaches that define autoethnography: evocative and analytic. Through the evocative the narrative centres on the personal; through the analytic, connections with social phenomena and data are made. There is a tension present in autoethnography between the voices that are abandoned because they are not academic enough and those privileged and validated enough to interrogate social constructions. Arturo is conscious of his place as a privileged speaker. Thus, the implicit responsibility he has to his community is incorporated in the collective element of autoethnography, which, as Brodkey (1996) writes, “… auto-ethnography invites writers to see themselves and everyone else as human subjects constructed in a tangle of cultural, social and historical situations and relations in contact zones” (p. 29). Through autoethnography, dominant narratives are questioned, analysed. Arturo’s complex identity makes for a complex autoethnography. In his narrative, Arturo examines reflexively, through vivid and dynamic language and images, cultural experiences that have impacted who he is and his social character, describing the forging of his identity. Because he was born in the United States, his path is markedly different from those of the undocumented immigrants that surround him. Arturo delves into the joy of family reunions, hearing mixteco among his elders, as well as the hardships of the lives of his immigrant parents. Music is an important vehicle for ethnic identity formation. Through different genres and social interactions, Arturo defines his taste, explains how each sound stirs memories, and how it is link to his Mexican American identity. He revisits moments in his life with acute insight, humour and ironic distance, establishing a personal style that keeps a fine balance between personal experience and critical reflexivity to examine cultural experience. These memories bring the cultural experience alive for those of us who are not part of it. Autoethnography is part of the narrative turn in the social sciences that promotes an epistemological shift (Raine, 2013). As a methodology, it provides a tool to approach identity construction and a way to inscribe one’s worldview. Arturo’s literature review includes articles that speak to him as a researcher conducting identity work, and as a vulnerable person telling his story, reminding us that autoethnography is based on intimacy and caring, and that it is a methodology that encourages the reader to empathise and the writer to open and be

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vulnerable (Ellis et al., 2011). As Ellis, Adams and Bochner (2011) suggest, autoethnography demands a paradigm shift in research, breaking the binary between rational and rigorous and creative and unruly: Instead of being obsessively focused on questions of how we know, which inevitably leads to a preference for analysis and generalization, autoethnography centers attention on how we should live and brings us into lived experiences in a feeling and embodied way. This is the moral of autoethnographic stories – its ethical domain. (p. 439) Hence one of Arturo’s favourite articles was the story of the Padilla family.3 He identified with many of their experiences, and, I believe, sees himself in the successful Professor Amado Padilla. While there was a personal connection with this story, Arturo critically learned about the different qualitative methodologies such as testimonio and autoethnography. Another component of autoethnography that was particularly attractive for Arturo’s narrative is its blurring of differences between objects of study and the author – the author is part of what they are studying (Butz & Besio, 2009) – and between the reader as consumerist and the author as active creator. This more inclusive process disrupts hierarchies and promotes social change (Holman Jones, 2005). We embark on a dialogue, which is based on sharing. “Autoethnography invites writers to see themselves and everyone else as human subjects constructed in a tangle of cultural, social, and historical situations and relations in contact zones” (Brodkey, 1996, p. 29). Autoethnography is not only about the self; it is also about the social, political and communal. “Autoethnographers view research and writing as socially-just acts; rather than a preoccupation with accuracy, the goal is to produce analytical, accessible texts that change us and the world we live in for the better” (Holman Jones, 2005, p. 764). As Arturo probed his identity, he became acquainted with the concept of ethnic identity. Umaña-Taylor and Fine’s (2004) article gave Arturo a vocabulary and ideas that made it possible for him to understand what it meant to grow up surrounded by people from Oaxaca and from the mixteco indigenous group. He was able to identify himself in the phase of “cognitive maturity” when the person can be self-reflective and “think in a multidimensional manner” (p. 41). In this manner, Arturo writes about immigration, the work in the fields, the difficulty experienced by youth in establishing their ethnic identity, and the systemic racism he and his community have experienced. Arturo’s autoethnography is an exercise in self-reflexion to discover his ethnic identity and of resistance to how tradition has defined him. As Sidonie Smith (1993) claims, “Reading personal narratives we find ourselves immersed in complex issues of representation, ideology, history, identity and politics as they bear on subjectivity” (p. 393). Autoethnography allows the articulation of a voice through a personal narrative, while at the same time welcoming information from academia and other sources. Through his writing, Arturo constructs a narrative built of memories and experiences, supporting it with readings on autoethnography, memory and language, ethnic identity formation and cultural patterns of socialisation and interaction. In this autoethnography, Arturo embarks on an inclusive and informal method of learning, and makes important connections with cultural, political and social sources that will prove important to him as a future researcher. This is Arturo’s story: as he reminded us in his proposal for the Carson Grant (Pérez López, 2019), “Although I do not speak for a group, if people relate to my story, it will not be a mere coincidence, because I know that I am not alone” (2). 214

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Introduction I embarked on a journey to discover the relationship I have with my town due to the approval of the Smith Creek Project in late 2019. This project planned on “developing approx. 694 residential lots, plus 105 multi-family units as Single Family Detached, Row House Alley, and Multi-Family units” (Stafford Land Company, 2020). The approval was surprising, and I was enraged by the fact that almost no one knew or cared to do something about it. There was no dialogue or information regarding the pros and cons of this development (first thought that came to mind was “damn, rent is going to get more expensive, again”). This frustration and desire to confront impending gentrification led me to question my responsibilities as a Mexican American. After debating what my social responsibilities were, a plethora of questions came to mind faster than I could type them. Once I settled and started to write (yes, writing is my preferred form of protest), the question that haunted me the most was this: Who am I and what’s my role in society? This confusion, combined with curiosity, would ultimately launch me head-on into a methodology devoted to the reflexion of one’s identity and relationship with society as a resident of a place in time: autoethnography.

Identity My identity was forged and built upon the sweaty backs of the so-called illegal aliens. A legal document that states I was born on 19 July 1995, in Silverton, Oregon, and the rights that pertain to this piece of paper are what separate me from the illegal aliens. I have strong legacies from my parents that have been critical for my identity development. I speak proper Spanish because of my father. As a teenager, he was humiliated in the streets of La Capital (Mexico City), where he migrated to for work, because the only language he knew was his mother tongue, mixteco. He was forced to speak and master Spanish and today speaks it better than most whose Spanish is their native language. My mother’s work ethic and discipline are what ultimately made her the first woman from her family to immigrate to El Norte. Education wasn’t emphasised in her household, hard work was. However, the greatest inheritance I received from her was a love for our indigenous culture. Both of my parents are from a region known as La Mixteca, which belongs to the state of Oaxaca and is known for its indigenous population, and high rates of poverty. My indigenous heritage is essential to my Mexican identity. From it, a child named Arturo Pérez López was born representing a conglomerate of identities with various cultural expressions that include language, music and traditions, giving birth to what is known as a hybrid identity, a byproduct of several cultures and subcultures that clash with one another daily. I decided to analyse my upbringing in a multicultural household through an autoethnography. I wanted to find out what or who is considered Mexican, Mexican American, indígena, and, of course, American. Through my extensive research, I found that an autoethnography was a fitting way to help explain the complexities surrounding the formation of my identity. This form of literature has acquired legitimacy through the efforts of various scholars although it is often confused with a memoir or an autobiography. The difference is that an autoethnography is a personal narrative that has an innate critical, political and social meaning that challenges the disparities present at a point in time in history. “Autoethnography is defined as a form of self-narrative that places the self within a social context” (Reed-Danahay, as cited in Burdell & Swadener, 1999, p. 22). My identity falls under an umbrella of stereotypes related to all those identities mentioned above. I love my Mexican culture and music; I can verbally jab with the best of them in formal or slang Spanish, but I wasn’t born in Mexico, therefore I’m not fully 215

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Mexican. I love my chilenas, a genre of music native to La Mixteca, but I wasn’t born in Oaxaca, therefore I’m not fully mixteco. What’s more American than listening to Buddy Guy’s “Damn Right, I’ve Got the Blues” while imitating his every move with my air guitar? I have all these identities and many more. Ultimately, writing an autoethnography allowed me to analyse my upbringing and the factors that played into creating my identity.

Autoethnography An autoethnography can make for uncomfortable writing. Sally Denshar (2014) writes that “autoethnography goes beyond the writing of selves … [it] invites writers to see themselves and everyone else as human subjects constructed in a tangle of cultural, social and historical situations and relations in contact zones” (p. 3). Every interaction that I have had with my parents, friends, and even co-workers, helped shape my identity. While working as a chef at Denny’s, I was questioned where my birthplace was. The main chef was stunned when I replied that I was born in los Estados Unidos. He didn’t believe me and made the remark that I shouldn’t be ashamed of being born in Mexico. This experience was in direct contrast with my home situation where I was called a pocho by my siblings, which is a disparaging remark about Mexican Americans that travel to the motherland. This insult is usually directed to those who lack fluency in the Spanish language but are masters of Spanglish. The juxtaposition between how I was seen at home and at work was conflicting. While at heart I considered myself fully Mexican, every social interaction poked at the validity of that statement and, to an extent, challenged my pride. In the article “Autoethnography: An Overview”, the authors state that autoethnography “is an approach to research and writing that seeks to describe and systematically analyse (graphy) personal experience (auto) in order to understand cultural experience (ethno)” (Ellis et  al., 2011, p. 2). My writing focuses on several interactions that are stored in my memory and the impact they had on the cultural experiences forging my identity. Being that memory is subjective, autoethnography “acknowledges and accommodates subjectivity, emotionality and the researcher’s influence on research, rather than hiding from these matters or assuming they don’t exist” (Ellis et al., 2011, p. 3). My cultural upbringing, and, to an extent, my emotions at the time, determined how I interpreted every article I read during my research and connected me with the subjective memories of my childhood. Even those memories, when told to other family members, can be dissected; those who will read my paper and were born in Woodburn might have contrasting opinions on what I write, and that’s okay. Denshar (2014) warns that the writer of an autoethnography will “strip away the veneer of self-protection that comes with professional title and position … to make themselves accountable and vulnerable to the public” (p. 2). My hope in writing is that my vulnerability will create a discussion among my peers and determine our roles in society and what we have to offer to our hometown of Woodburn, Oregon. I can’t proceed without briefly mentioning the critiques made of autoethnography as a methodology. Most critics want to hold autoethnography to the same standards as a traditional ethnography or autobiographical writing; “thus, autoethnography is criticized for either being too artful and not scientific, or too scientific and not sufficiently artful” (Ellis et  al., 2011, p. 12). Furthermore, it is dismissed by “social scientific standards as being insufficiently rigorous, theoretical, and analytical, and too aesthetic, emotional, and therapeutic” (Ellis et  al., 2011, p. 12). However, autoethnography is a versatile form of writing that allows the voice of the author to flourish, unrestricted, encompassing the autobiography as a form of resistance. It is also a discussion where the reader is invited to become aware of social and identity differences, 216

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while witnessing change through the evolution of the community and the individual. Its innate political connotations are subjected to criticism, but also serve as a tool for scholars to gain better insight into the author and their surroundings. In my case, it will revolve around the topic of who and what is an American with a hybrid identity formation and their role in society.

Oaxaca Every building has a foundation, and the same goes for every identity. The base of mine is the indigenous culture that I inherited from my parents. Committing to self-identifying as a Oaxaqueño at a young age was essential to my upbringing. As Elizabeth Gonzalez (2016) states, developing a sense of belonging to an ethnic-racial group reflects “adolescents’ growing abilities to think in complex and critical ways about themselves and the importance of ethnic-racial group membership to their self-definition” (p. 1). In order to think critically about who I am, first I have to identify what or who is a Oaxaqueño. Oaxaca is a southern state in Mexico composed of an indigenous population, culture, language and an array of different traditions like tamales, mole, chapulines, mezcal, totopo, mixteco, triqui, zapoteco, etc. My parents are natives of La Mixteca, the northwestern region of Oaxaca, distinguished by its traditional dances such as rubio, diablo and chareo. What makes this region unique is the plethora of indigenous languages, with mixteco, my parents’ native tongue, being one of them. This language is a staple of a dying culture that has been carried across the Rio Grande and introduced to a foreign land where its survival is dependent on a first generation of children. This culture has taken a back seat as this generation encompasses various traditions. Some embrace the culture more than others, who demean its significance and deny its importance to their upbringing. Since childhood, my mother would constantly reiterate the fact that I am, or rather we are, from Oaxaca. I never understood this concept or its importance for my identity. I thought we Mexicans were all just one race, but Oaxaca itself holds a different connotation and history. To identify as a Oaxaqueño is to welcome a slate of questions and insults. In an ethnographic study, made with a small sample of migrant Oaxaqueño/a youth living in the US, “adolescents reported being called Oaxaquito/a and indio/a, derogatory and diminutive terms referring to stereotypes marking Indigenous people as short, dumb, dirty and stubborn by their non-­ Indigenous Mexican peers” (Gonzalez, 2016, p. 4). While racial discrimination prevented many adolescents from identifying as Oaxaqueño, my parents’ pride in their culture and the family gatherings we had when I was a child helped me create a positive image of what it meant to be from Oaxaca. These family gatherings were the best form of exposure to my culture and traditions that were native to Santa Rosa Caxtlahuaca, my mother’s pueblo. While some children chased each other, and others waited to crack la piñata, our elders spoke amongst them, in mixteco of course, about work, rent, the weather and, obviously, the children. I couldn’t understand their exact words, but their cadence and verbiage caught my attention. Their stories intrigued me as they reminisced about growing up in Oaxaca. My godfather spoke about waking up at five in the morning to feed el ganado and then going to school in dirty clothes only to be humiliated by his peers for smelling like cow manure. My father spoke of the various times that he and his siblings woke up at four in the morning to help my grandma make an olla full of mole and then having to carry it to an adjacent pueblo. My grandma was a chef, and she was contracted by, as my father states, “gente de dinero” to make mole for weddings and parties. Among the clinks of beers and gentle salud, a child (yes, that was me) would come up to his father and the conversation would go, “Ahorita Estados en la gloria. Nuestros hijos nunca van a saber lo que sufrimos 217

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para estar aquí.” Meanwhile, in the background between the noisy children and the chitchat from adults, you could hear a small radio playing “La San Marqueña” by La Furia Oaxaqueña, or chilenas from Los Kyles. The music would take a sudden pause and “Las Mañanitas” would begin. The birthday child would smile to the camera, while several kids stood behind him ready to push his face into the cake. Our cultural practices were not only the best forms of reinforcing a positive image of Oaxaca, but also provided meaning and, more importantly, value to identifying as a Oaxaqueño. The development of my identity began with my interactions at an early age with my familial environment composed of uncles, aunts, cousins, siblings and, more importantly, my parents, who exposed me to our traditions and made me proud to be from Oaxaca. Umaña-Taylor and Fine (2004) state that “it is important to think of ethnic identity as a process that is continuous throughout the life course, as opposed to something that becomes ‘achieved’, never to be explored again” (p. 22). The exploration of my identity would continue and broaden as I got older. With it would come various nuances and the difficulties in defining who I am.

Music Music helped form and tie together all the cultures and subcultures I was introduced to as a child and throughout my teenage years. Rolf Lidskog (2016) states that music “has multiple functions; it can allow people to understand themselves, form and maintain social groups, engage in emotional communication, and mobilize for political purposes, among other functions” (p. 2). More importantly, studies suggest that “music not only is a cultural and expressive practice that bonds group members together but can also cross boundaries between social identities and shape new ones” (Lidskog, 2016, p. 2). The shaping of a new identity at times can be difficult. Due to a language barrier, our parents always listened to music in Spanish. However, as adolescents, smartphones, mp3 players and the radio helped expand our choices of music. The sounds and rhythms that echoed in our rooms soon began to change. The Mexican American encompasses various cultures, one of them being Chicano. Chicano music is different. It’s not Mexican or American: it’s Chicano. It’s a conglomerate of Mexican slang, Spanglish and James Brown bundled up in a genre called Chicano rap. Despite the explicit lyrics and affiliation with gangs, I loved the culture of Chicano rap. The Oldies but Goodies are a staple of the Chicano sound, and their artwork and vivid imagery consisting of the Mexican flag, the Aztecs, the clown tattoos, the Virgin Mary, la santa muerte, were all appealing to me. Listening to Chicano rappers like South Park Mexican (SPM) or Lil Rob was a completely different experience from listening to the ballads by José José or Los Ángeles Negros. While it is gang-related and some of its lyrics are misogynistic, when they didn’t focus on the negative aspects of growing up in a barrio, they spoke of music as a means to get out of poverty. My favourite verse that sums this up is in the song, “Stay on Yo Grind,” by SPM: “I’m gonna fly like Vince [Carter] Bubble like Prince Momma just ain’t been the same ever since. She can’t believe I got all these fans And she won’t stop saving aluminum cans.” Some might not agree with how instrumental Chicano rap was to our upbringing; however, what made it important for me was how it represented, for good or bad, a part of Mexican

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identity. The pinnacle of its popularity was in the early 2000s. While at the time, representation of a Mexican identity wasn’t truly displayed in the mainstream, and social media had not been born yet, these rappers, whether it be in their attire or in their lyrics, always mentioned Brown Pride. The only other people who represented Mexico as loudly were the Mexican soccer team and our boxers. It’s no wonder why a lot of Chicanos, as a pastime, or a way to settle a dispute, box each other to claim the crown of el más chingón. To us Mexican Americans, Chicano rap falls under the umbrella of hip-hop music. There were a few people who weren’t fond of Chicano rap, but were fans of traditional hip-hop, such as 2Pac, Notorious BIG, Bone Thugs N Harmony, etc. Hip-hop became a fixture in our households. Eventually though, around 2013, more explicitly Mexican music made a comeback. However, it wasn’t the traditional love ballads that our parents listened to. Rather, they were corridos (Mexican folk ballads) consisting of acoustic guitars, a tuba and lyrics focused on the poverty surrounding Mexico and the ongoing drug trade and the violence associated with it. While the origins of corridos can be traced as far back as the Mexican revolution, this new and more sophisticated version, whether it was by design or by accident, found its main audience among the Mexican Americans. Growing up, the Mexican American could sometimes feel conflicted when listening to music in Spanish. My first memory of Mexican music can be condensed to a list of artists: Los Bukis, Los Temerarios, Los Acosta, Los Tucanes de Tijuana, Los Ángeles Negros, to name a few. Despite it being a staple of most of our childhoods, for many of us, denying it became essential in assimilating to the latter part of our identity, American. One episode in high school stands out to me the most. During lunch, a couple of the homies (no, we weren’t gang-related, it’s a form of speech among us) and I would walk around campus with a portable speaker and play hip-hop music. However, sometimes I played Mexican music, more specifically, corridos. One day, as we walked through the hallways and made our way back to our classroom, I played “Nadie es Eterno” by Adán Chalino Sánchez. The objection in people’s faces was evident. The sound of the accordion and the singing in Spanish were alien to our peers. The irony is that our school was predominantly Mexican. I can recall one of my homies saying, “What the fuck is that! Turn that shit off! It’s embarrassing.” Another girl just looked at me and said, “Really, Arturo? Really? Of course, it had to be you.” I just shrugged it off. This was in 2013. At the time, most of us were afraid to admit that we listened to Mexican music. It wasn’t the cool thing to do. I believe that this fear came from the lack of exposure to our Mexican music in mainstream American culture. Fast forward to 2021. Corridos have broken the boundary set by television networks and made their way to our ears through social media and music streaming services, which has helped promote our culture and allowed it to become more accepted, directly impacting the identity of Mexican Americans. Lidskog (2016) states that “Music provides resources for a group to construct and renegotiate its identity, but it may also be a resource for controlling space and pushing groups into the periphery” (p. 3). During our teenage years, hip-hop connected us, and, one might argue, is what made us Mexican American. We knew what Mexican music was, but we didn’t dare listen to it in public. Now, the accordion, the tuba, the 12-string guitar, which make up corridos, are the sounds that reverberate through the Woodburn streets. Those that objected to “Nadie es Eterno” are now the same ones that are religiously listening to corridos and claim to be 100 porciento mexicano. That is the influence that music has had on Mexican Americans. It has helped us renegotiate our identity. Listening to music in Spanish is no longer taboo; the idea of denying one’s origin is obsolete. Now everyone claims to be Mexican, not Mexican American.

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Education My father’s emphasis and persistence regarding education as the best means towards success doesn’t derive from a family lineage of doctors or lawyers; it came from years of being humiliated. Oaxaca’s overt poverty, combined with a large indigenous population, has brewed a stereotype and insult (Oaxaquito/a) that leads not only adolescents, but even adults, to refrain from identifying as a Oaxaqueño/a. (I worked alongside a father of three who claimed to be from the city of Oaxaca, where it’s more modernised, only to later find out that he’s originally from a pueblo that’s poorer than mine.) I wish I could tell you that my aspirations of becoming a professor of history stem from a family culture, like that of the Padillas. Their story consists of four brothers whose parents’ unwavering commitment to education, along with family stability and pride in their Hispanic heritage, led to them attending college and becoming respected in their professions. Success didn’t come easily though. Despite the parents’ experience with racism and the father’s blue-collar background, their unrelenting dedication to their children and emphasis on education was affirmed in the Padilla children’s testimonios as “each shared that it simply was not an option to do anything but succeed in school” (Farrington, 2018, p. 400). Where I can relate to their story is how both of my parents took pride in their job, no matter how menial it was. They’ve worked in the fields (farm labour) practically their whole lives, battling against Mother Nature’s piercing sun or heavy raindrops and gusts of wind, to provide not only a roof over my head and food on the table, but the opportunity “¡para ser alguien en la vida mijo!” My father’s unrelenting insistence that education was vital to my success in life led me to fall in love with the art of writing and the subject of history; failing in school was never an option. Education is at the intersection of all my identities. It allowed me to attend Willamette University, a private institution across from the state’s capitol, where as a child I marched alongside my mom and aunt yelling “¡SÍ SE PUEDE!” As I type these words, I’m sitting comfortably in The Gov Cup, a coffee shop in Salem, Oregon, on a Wednesday morning. The shop is painted mostly white, and I’m the dark spot in the room; despite this, I feel comfortable and at peace. However, at this same hour, my parents are working under 90-degree weather; just last week, an immigrant from Guatemala passed away from heat exhaustion during the heatwave, when it was 100-plus degrees in the fields. For my father, education was a means not only to succeed, but also to spare me from humiliation. His main goal was to give me the opportunity to dodge Mother Nature and plow the fields of academia to plant and sow my seeds (thoughts) in this vast pool of knowledge. My father’s words hold true every day as I seek to get accepted to a PhD program: “la base del éxito es el estudio mijo.”

Conclusion In my pursuit of a PhD, I realise that leaving the place I call home is imperative to my success. Change is certain and in five to seven years, Woodburn will no longer look or be the same. The impending arrival of Amazon, along with the Smith Creek Project, will drastically change the face of Woodburn. Despite this, home is where my heart is. Writing this autoethnography has allowed me to analyse my upbringing and helped me realise how crucial Woodburn has been to form my identity. While it’s not perfect by any means, it has been a place of refuge for my family. Despite their undocumented status, they managed to not only find consistent jobs, but also raise an ambitious child who has the unlikeliest of dreams: to become a history professor and ultimately teach in a university. I’ll be the first professor in my family, and probably the only one in the university who listens to corridos openly in his office, while having mole for lunch. No matter where I end up, now I know who I am. I’m Arturo Primitivo Pérez López. 220

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Notes 1 We would like to thank the Carson Undergraduate Research Grant at Willamette University for funding this project. 2 Woodburn is a city in the Willamette Valley, Oregon, known for its large Latinx and farm-working population. Some 59% of its population is Latinx. However, it is also the home of Russian Orthodox Old Believers and a growing retirement community. 3 Farrington, D. (2018). Leaving the barrio and entering the culture of college: Padilla testimonios. Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences, 40(4), 391–413.

References Behar, R. (1996). The vulnerable observer. Anthropology that breaks your heart. Beacon Press. Brodkey, L. (1996). I site. Open Letter: Australian Journal for Adult Literacy Research and Practice, 6(2), 17–30. Burdell, P. & Swadener, B. B. (1999). Critical personal narrative and autoethnography in education: Reflections on a genre. Educational Researcher, 28(6), 21–26. Butz, D. & Besio, K. (2009). Autoethnography. Geography Compass, 3(5), 1660–1674. Denshar, S. (2014). On auto-ethnography. Current Sociology Review, 62(6), 831–850. Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research, 36(4), 273–290. Farrington, D. (2018). Leaving the barrio and entering the culture of college: Padilla testimonios. Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences, 40(4), 391–413. Gonzalez, E. (2016). Ethnic-racial attitudes and indigenous identity among Oaxaqueño/a adolescents and young adults (Publication No. 10140266) [Doctoral dissertation, University of California Santa Cruz]. ProQuest Dissertations Publishing. Holman Jones, S. (2005). Autoethnography: Making the personal political. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 763–791). Sage. Lidskog, R. (2016). The role of music in ethnic identity formation in diaspora: A research review. International Social Science Journal, 66, 23–38. Pérez López, A. (2019). Identity formation in a bicultural household: A testimonio. Proposal. [Unpublished manuscript]. Carson Undergraduate Research Grant, Willamette University, 1–13. Raine, S. (2013). The narrative turn: Interdisciplinary methods and perspectives. Student Anthropologist, 3(3), 64–80. Smith, S. (1993). Review: Who’s talking/who’s talking back? The subject of personal narrative. Signs, 18(2), 392–407. Stafford Land Company. (2020). General Information of the Smith Creek Project. https://www.staffordlandcompany. com/project-8-smith-creek-woodburn.html Umaña-Taylor, J. A. & Fine, M. A. (2004). Examining ethnic identity among Mexican-origin adolescents living in the United States. Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences, 26(1), 36–59.

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19 SELF, REFLEXIVITY AND THE CRISIS OF “OUTSIDENESS” A dialogical approach to critical autoethnography in education? Ashley Simpson Introduction Reflexivity is neither a new concept nor a new phenomenon, although it has become increasingly popular in recent times in language education, intercultural education and in education research methods (to name but a few research fields) (Byrd Clark, 2020). Inspired by different academic fields such as anthropology, sociology and philosophy reflexivity is transdisciplinary as it crosses different academic fields, approaches and bodies of knowledge (Byrd Clark & Dervin, 2014). The origins of reflexivity can be traced to the epistemological break away from positivism in social sciences research characterised, for example, through Castoriadis’ (1975) critique of Lévi-Strauss (e.g., Lévi-Strauss [1978]) for reducing language to a universal binary logic of oppositions. In this sense, reflexivity helps to uncover the instabilities, uncertainties, overlappings and complexities that challenge helpful conventional conceptions of writing as a stable representation of the world (Byrd Clark & Dervin, 2014). Reflexivity, through intersecting and multimodal practices, helps to move researchers and teachers away from dogmatic, essentialised truths about themselves and others (Simpson, 2020). Julie Byrd Clark and Fred Dervin (2014) articulate, Drawing upon reflexivity through multimodality helps to make us aware that neither our representations (e.g., identities) nor our social and linguistic practices (as well as others’) are transparent, unidimensional entities sitting in isolation – that we are connected by more than simple words on a page. (Byrd Clark & Dervin, 2014, p. 3) Reflexivity shows the making and indexing of meaning (e.g., through gestures, voice, movement, music, online discussions, signing, texts, styles, recordings, drawings, etc.) – that is, the complex, overlapping, and multiple modes of representations that allow us to configure (and reconfigure) the social world (ibid.). This growing body of research was simultaneously influenced by the reflexive turn in social sciences research and the academic disciplines within the social sciences (e.g., anthropology, education, politics and political theory, sociology, and so on). This is arguably one of the most 222

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profound developments in ethnographic research in recent decades as scholars are drawing on the use of the self to generate insights, establish patterns, and bring the voice of their research subjects to light (Venkatesh, 2013). At this juncture it is important to note Russian philosopher and literary critic Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1981, 2012) in influencing studies in education and throughout the social sciences in terms of thinking (and rethinking) the role of language, discourse and the relationality of self and other in interaction. Bakhtin’s influence on education research is widespread and is well documented (see Simpson, 2018; Brandist et al., 2020). It is nearly two decades since Camic and Joas (2003) published The dialogical turn: New roles for sociology in the postdisciplinary age which although surprisingly does not make direct reference to Bakhtin it does include scholars who were influenced by Bakhtin. Today, Bakhtin has influenced qualitative research methods and tools such as dialogical interviews (Harvey, 2015), semi-structured interviews (Brown & Danaher, 2019), focus groups (Haworth, 1999), and ethnographic studies (Bauman, 2005), to name but a few. Central to Bakhtin’s thinking was questioning the I, self and other in discourse (oral speech and written texts); here one can see the synergies between Bakhtin’s thinking and the development of autoethnographic research.

Autoethnography as research and practice First, one must delineate historically how autoethnography developed as a research field and in practice. Etymologically, ethnography is the writing (grapho, the ancient Greek verb to write) of people (ethnos) (McCarty, 2015, p. 29). However, writing about people or writing culture has never been neutral nor apolitical. Ethnography has its early roots in the descriptive accounts of ‘missionaries, settlers, [and] colonial officials’ (Pratt, 1986, p. 27), and in common with missionaries’ and colonizers’ accounts, ethnography centred – and arguably still, now focuses on the predominance of – the ‘“seeing man’” he whose imperial eyes passively look out and possess’ (Pratt, 2008, p. 9). Adams et al. (2017, p. 1) note that autoethnography is a research method which uses personal experiences (“auto”) to interpret (“graphy”) experiences and beliefs, and practices (“ethno”). Fundamentally, autoethnography interrogates the positionality of the self through reflexivity – a form of critical reflection which continuously questions the intersections of self in relation to the other and the social world. Although originally derived from the 1970s (e.g., Heider, 1975), autoethnography has become increasingly popular in recent decades due to academic shifts in the field and also as a direct response to methodological deficiencies found within traditional ethnographic approaches. For example, some ethnographers could no longer hide behind the latent term of “objectivity” as ethnographic studies were becoming more and more centred from the position of the ethnographer/researcher rather than the other (subject) of the research (Adams et al., 2017). One branch of autoethnography which informs this chapter is critical autoethnography (Holman Jones, 2016; Holman Jones & Pruyn, 2018). Stacy Holman Jones (2016, p. 229) articulates that ‘theory is not a body of knowledge – a given, static, and autonomous set of ideas, objects or practices’. Instead, theories, and theorising, is an on-going movement which includes thinking, acting, criticising and performing which encapsulates ‘living bodies of thought’ (Holman Jones, 2016, p. 229). In this sense, the stories and narratives contained within the body of the self are inseparable from theory, as stories and narratives are produced by bodies (spatial, material, physical, virtual) which influences, and shapes, how theories are constructed. This interactive characteristic of critical autoethnography means that as a qualitative research method it is able to capture and map the nuanced, the complex and the specific in human lives and experiences (Holman Jones, 2018). In differentiating autoethnography 223

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and critical autoethnography, the latter focuses on critically analysing the ways cultures and identities are ‘created and compromised though institutional, political, social and interpersonal relations of power’ (Holman Jones, 2018, p. 5). Critical autoethnography deals with the politics of positioning, how unequal power relations engenders social imbalances of marginalisation and discrimination for some, and privilege for others (Madison, 2012). Research, researchers, and the knowledge produced by research can engender unequal power relations which can be addressed through critical autoethnography (ibid.). A central concept in critical autoethnography is intersectionality – intersectionality means intersecting identity makers such as gender, profession, social class, and age when problematising culture and language (Dervin, 2016). Intersectionality disrupts normativity insofar that attitudes, beliefs and values are always questioned in relation to questions of social justice and equality (e.g., in challenging prevalent forms of racism, xenophobia, sexism, classism, linguism, ablism) (Holman Jones, 2018). In this sense, critical autoethnography involves both a material and an ethical praxis (Holman Jones, 2016). For researchers doing critical autoethnography first and foremost the researcher must question and critically examine their own intersectional positions which means reflecting on the effects of hegemonic power relations (Spry, 2016). Critical autoethnography ‘asks authors and readers to examine systems, institutions, and discourses that privilege some people and marginalize others’ (Holman Jones, 2016, p. 5). Conceptually critical autoethnography aims to provide a sense of transformation by connecting the specific to the concrete in ways which put theory into action by moving away from totalising and prescriptive forms of theory and theoretical frameworks (ibid.). ‘In linking story and theory, the personal and the political, critical autoethnography is a particularly agile approach for understanding and transforming lived experiences’ (Boylorn & Orbe, 2013, p. 19).

Critical autoethnography, culture and non-essentialism in education Critical autoethnography is founded upon, and functions through, social praxis as change. In the predominant field of research which I study, Intercultural Communication Education, critical autoethnographic studies have focused on a number of themes, from delving within narratives within higher education (Trahar, 2009), to critical autoethnography as a methodological approach which intersects cultural identities (Boylorn & Orbe, 2020), to critical autoethnography as a space for the development of critical pedagogies in intercultural education (Sobre, 2017), to critical autoethnography as a site to deconstruct and reconstruct (my own words) linguistic and cultural essentialisms (Stanley, 2016), and the decentring of culture through critical autoethnographic lenses (Stanley & Vass, 2018), amongst others. There is a problematique within critical autoethnographic scholarship which I find deeply problematic – the notion of culture. Take this excerpt, for example, ‘Critical autoethnography merges the practices of autobiography- writing about the self- and ethnography – the study of writing about culture’ (Holman Jones, 2018, p. 4–5). Based on my own research on Critical Intercultural Communication Education I argue that culture is not a ‘thing’, it has no agency, it is people who meet, interact and communicate (not culture) (Dervin & Simpson, 2021; Simpson & Dervin, 2019, 2020). Culture, as an analytical concept is often used, misused and abused in research and in society, generally speaking, marking the functioning of culturalism – culture as an omnipresent alibi and excuse for seemingly everything and nothing (Simpson, 2020). Whether or not culture is a ‘thing’ is not the point here; ‘culture’ is a seemingly endless construction of discourses and representations which are never neutral nor apolitical (Dervin & Simpson, 2021). Approach someone on the street in any context, in any language, in any part of the world, they will give you an interpretation and representation of what they (whoever 224

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‘they’ are) understand culture is (or what it is not). As Adrian Holliday has noted, this can mark the functioning simultaneously of big culture formation – the culturalist reduction of culture to the foreign other, and small culture formation – culture is attached to small groupings or activities where there is cohesion rather than culturalist stereotyping (Holliday, 2016). In a recent book I argued that even ‘critical’ approaches to Intercultural Communication Education can engender culturalist dichotomies through producing and reproducing othering (even when the researcher[s] may have ‘good intentions’ in their theoretical approaches and methods, e.g., in standing up for a particular cause in the name of social justice or equality); othering means turning the subject into an object through essentialist representations and/or discourses which hierarchises the world (Dervin & Simpson, 2021). In this sense, ‘critical’ scholarship, which can be illustrated by the postpositivist turn in applied linguistics, education and the social sciences generally, has resulted in the spoken or written word, whether from researcher or research participant, being taken ‘as a given’, at face value (Holliday & Macdonald, 2020). For example, a researcher using post-colonial or non-essentialist approaches in their study can other both the self and the other by not critically examining or analysing the discourses or representations uttered – in this sense, despite the analytic framework used, cultural stereotypes and essentialisms – reducing the self and/or other to a single narrative, an essence (Simpson, 2020). When analysing relevant literature in constructing this book chapter I came across a number of publications which claimed to be informed by critical autoethnography and deal with questions about culture. When reading the publications, however, I found the author[s] on the one hand articulating the need for critical autoethnography but on the other hand they were (seemingly) quite happy to reproduce essentialisms in the forms of biases and stereotypes about particular contexts (based upon their assumed experiences). In one example the author[s] of a publication claimed they rejected the notion of ‘the West’, yet in China they found that the idea of ‘Westerners’ in China helped to construct a Chinese discourse of homogenised self-hood versus the foreign other. This representation and articulation of social and political complexities in China is somewhat naïve as it fails to take into many issues relating to the role of different identities, languages and cultures found within China, e.g., the role of Minzu education (see Yuan et al., 2020) and the vast intersectional diversities which construct the world’s largest population (see Simpson, 2020). I would really like to say to the author[s], does this really reflect a sense of critical autoethnography? Or is it merely ego self-centrism posturing as critical autoethnography? In effect, an overspill of self. In attempts to horizontalize power relations between researcher and research participant, or in attempts to represent research participants through ‘their authentic voice’ (so the research participant is not essentialised), researchers and the research produced inadvertently can essentialise and totalise the subject in research through the engendering of singular uncontested narratives (Holliday & Macdonald, 2020). This is what the Italian Philosopher Roberto Esposito (2010) refers to as an overspill of self – whereby the self ’s pre-eminence totalises and violates the other (practically this can be done though reproducing stereotypes, essentialisms and discriminatory discourses). At this juncture it is important to note that the self never functions, or comes-into-being, in a vacuum. Here, one must delineate the self-other relationship through Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1981, 2012) notion of dialogism and in relation to critical autoethnography.

Dialogism as a site for critical autoethnography Mikhail Bakhtin’s theories and concepts about language, discourse, text and human interaction (Bakhtin, 1981, 2012) have inspired studies taking a critical autoethnographic approach. For example, in education McKnight and O’Mara (2017) show how a Bakhtinian lens can be 225

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used to develop a critical autoethnographic approach which explores the political and ideological relationships in doctoral supervision. Bakhtin’s work has also inspired critical autoethnographic studies on Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, asexual, and ally (LGBTQQIAA) students in teacher education programs (Goodrich et al., 2016). Autoethnography has also been theoretically positioned as a dialogic method with the potential to bridge the gap between practice-based and academic learning in higher education by enabling postgraduate students to act out and critically reflect on everyday dilemmas (Nordentoft & Olesen, 2021). Dialogues with Bakhtin have also focused on the transdisciplinary analyses of theoretical debates of autoethnographic narratives in order to understand the creation of dialogic spaces as spaces that both subordinate and subvert (Haider, 2015). But what do we mean by dialogism? Before defining and problematising what is meant by dialogism first one must problematise what is meant by language in a Bakhtinian sense. The Russian word slovo does not translate explicitly as ‘discourse’ in English. Slovo is more akin to meaning ‘word’ in English. So, the question remains: why (in a Bakhtinian sense) has slovo been translated as ‘discourse’ in English? To find this answer one must problematise the following passage: Directed toward its object, a word [slovo] enters a dialogically agitated and tense medium of alien discourses [slovo], evaluations and accents, becoming intertwined in complex interrelations, merging with some, recoiling from others, intersecting with a third group; and all this may form a discourse essentially, leaving a trace in all its layers of meaning [smysl], complicating its expression and influencing its whole stylistic profile. (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 276) In this sense, words [slovo] are constantly interacting, metamorphosing, and antagonistically competing with other words within what can be defined as a dialogical apparatus of language. Dialogism is thus a chain of signification whereby all words are interrelated to all other words. As a result, within communication speaker utterances react to preceding utterances and anticipate further utterances within the overarching mode of heteroglossia (Bakhtin, 1981, 2012; Simpson, 2018). Raznorechie (Bakhtin, 2012), or what has been referend to as ‘heteroglossia’ (Bakhtin, 1981) in Bakhtin’s English-language translations, refers to the coexistence of a multiplicity of various struggling language-forms – e.g., social registers, professional discourses and so forth – associated with certain ideological points of view (Brandist & Lähteenmäki, 2011). Raznorechie explicitly refers to the diversity of speech characterised by the interplay of multiple voices found within the voice of the self (literally ‘multivoicedness’) (Bakhtin, 2012). Through a Bakhtin approach to language (Simpson et al., 2020), I have argued that Bakhtin explicitly denies that the self can be understood in simple terms of self-identity – a human being never coincides with herself/himself (Simpson & Dervin, 2020; Simpson et al., 2020). The formula of identity ‘A is A’ is not applicable to problematise the construction of social phenomena (Simpson, 2018; Simpson & Dervin, 2020). For Bakhtin, the basis of being human (or human beings) is not self-identity but the opening of dialogue, an opening which always implies the simultaneous inter-animation of more than one voice (Simpson & Dervin, 2020). The voices contained within the self can be multiple and be ventriloquised when interacting with others whereby the self can imitate multiple voices (Cooren & Sandler, 2014). In this sense, s/he may say they are gay or lesbian or bisexual, speak multiple languages, have multiple cultures, and so on (which may or may not be true), but whether these things are true or not 226

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is not the point Bakhtin is making here – these aspects of our being are constantly in processes of becoming (Simpson & Dervin, 2020). In research, it is perhaps seductive to equate Bakhtin’s approaches to the formula of ‘A is A’, this can give illusions of concreate ‘objectivity’, ‘truth’ and ‘answers’ in order to understand complex social constructs (Dervin & Simpson, 2021). Yet it is important to remember that a (truly) Bakhtinian approach will show multiple layers of meaning through the coexistence of varying struggling language forms (i.e., voices). This can be shown through, for example, refractions in the ways interlocutors perform different speech acts in oral discourse, or, in written discourse (e.g., in self reflexive diaries or logs), this can be shown through the construction of different cohesive or intertextual genres (Simpson, 2018). In applying Bakhtin’s approaches to the narratives found in critical autoethnographic studies, narratives cannot (and should not) be analysed, interpreted nor represented in the singular – because this would run contrary to a dialogical approach to language. Representing narratives in the singular can lead to the self violating the other or through othering the other. The latter can be engendered through infatuating or exoticising the other (when perhaps the self wants to give agency or voice to the other) and instead the self totalises and essentialises the other. But the important question one must ask is: Why does the self other the other? In order to problematise this question, one must now turn the Bakhtinian concept of outsideness.

Crises of outsideness as a site for critical autoethnography Outsideness (or vnenakhodimost) is understood as the intersubjective co-experience of an event of being (Brandist, 2002). The notion of outsideness denotes the processes in which the self returns to her/his own position outside of the other in relation to the wholeness to what is being perceived (Brandist, 2002). The crisis of outsidenesss refers to the positions of self and the other in that there is ‘no stable evaluative position from which a consistent outsideness can be maintained’ (Brandist, 2002, p. 49). To put this simply, the self can never know absolutely what the other demands from it as one can never know what the other is thinking/feeling or how they have been constructed. Dialogues therefore consist of jumping into the deep end as one can never know with certainty what interlocutors will say, how their utterances have been influenced by prior discourses, or to what extent the addressees’ utterances function as mere lip service for what the addresser wants to hear (Bakhtin, 2012). In this sense, the discourses contained within reflexive co-constructed dialogues, can still be interpreted and manipulated as something other than what is being represented as these processes are still influenced and shaped by many ideologies and voices. The never-ending interplay between self and other can often be haphazard and can result in misinterpretations, misunderstandings and outright discrimination (marked by stereotypes, biases and essentialisms in the interaction between self and other). In this sense, the self can be grappling several different interdiscourses (shown though the refraction of the speakers’ utterances) about self and other at a given time, thus marking a Janusian (double-faced) conceptualisation of both the self and other (R’boul, 2020). What does the crises of outsideness mean for critical autoethnography? First, in a Bakhtinian sense the self and other relationship should be characterised as self-other. The hyphen between self and other means that both the self and other are mutually dependent upon on another, the self-other co-exist in a state of permanent symbiosis. For critical autoethnography, the pre-eminence cannot be conceptualised exclusively from the position of self. The self never functions in isolation nor does it function in a vacuum (e.g., human beings are constantly interacting co-creating, negotiating and performing language, identities and constructing social meanings). Instead, one’s narratives, biographies, the intersectionalities which make us who we are to be 227

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constantly (and permanently) problematised from the dialogical relationality of the self-other (Bakhtin, 2012). This means that critical autoethnography, and the narratives contained within autoethnography, are always in the making. The crises of outsideness demands that there is never a normative, fixed nor static conceptualisation of discourse (written text or oral speech), of a critical autoethnographical narrative, due to the fact that the self–other relationship is inherently vulnerable, unstable and incomplete (Bakhtin, 2012). The self should not be fearful of this overture and instead should attempt to engage in this positionality in order to construct and reconstruct places and spaces for critical dialogue (Denshire, 2014). In tracing and mapping reflexive stances, behaviour, attitudes, and values critical autoethnographers should uncover multiple voices in how the self represents itself through its relationship with others. My second point is that critical autoethnography should be accompanied by dialogical analyses (e.g., a form of dialogical discourse analysis) as a truly critical and reflexive process which uncovers multiple meanings, multiple voices, and multiple forms of being and becoming (see Linell, 2011; Sullivan, 2011). Gillespie and Cornish (2010) in developing dialogical research methods argue, Intersubjectivity is situated in everyday life contexts, and everyday life does not conform to such a separation. Lived life has reflective aspects (amenable to self-report), entails actions and practices (amenable to observation), and usually lots of talk (amenable to conversation analysis). (Gillespie & Cornish, 2010, p. 31) Such research, often going by the name of ethnography, ethnomethodology or participant observation, tends to combine the observation of practices and interactions with an analysis of talk (Gillespie & Cornish, 2010). In this sense, critical autoethnography can incorporate several simultaneous research methodologies to illuminate the construction and functioning of intersubjectivity, shifting I-positions, uncertainty, ambiguity, internal dialogues and dialogical tensions (Hermans & Dimaggio, 2007). Knowledge, society and subjectivity are produced through dialogue and are dialogical in their structure and dynamics (Gillespie & Cornish, 2010). At this juncture it is important to remember interpretation entails dialoguing with alternative interpretations (which includes the other) (Bauer & Gaskell, 2000).

Conclusion This chapter has proposed an alternative trajectory for critical autoethnographic research and practice in education based on the dialogical approach of Mikhail Bakhtin (2012). In this sense, the author argues the merits of combining dialogism (and different dialogical analyses) when conducting critical autoethnographic research. Bakhtinian approaches to autoethnography have been developed in the field (see Choi, 2016) and this movement should be embraced in terms of situating critical autoethnography through problematising and critically examining the selfother in relation to pertinent topics (e.g., issues of social justice and equality) which can be used as an overture for social change in education. Bakhtin’s multivocal self is illustrated through the overarching mode of dialogism and though the concept of outsideness which can be used as an ethical praxis in line with the aims and goals of critical autoethnography (Holman Jones, 2016, 2018). Some criticisms and limitations were illustrated of critical autoethnographic studies to highlight the fact that critical autoethnographic research in education should avoid falling into an

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overspill of self (Esposito, 2010) which can reproduce and engender essentialisms about both the self and/or the other. Dialogism, and dialogical analyses, can prevent an overspill of self by giving agency and voice to both the self and other in critical autoethnographic research in education by focusing on the interplay of multiple voices and multiple identities in interaction (Bloom et al., 2021; Lowe et al., 2021). For researchers doing critical autoethnography in relation to Bakhtin’s dialogism and the crises of outsideness, the following questions can be considered for researchers conducting critical autoethnographic studies in education (it is not my intention to pose these questions in a dogmatic or prescriptive manner, instead, the questions can be used as an entry point for further dialogue, critical reflection and for further questioning): •

•

•

•

•

Dialogism raises the question of ethics in education research. Critical autoethnographic studies should question: Am I imposing my values/beliefs onto the other? Am I letting the other impose their values/beliefs onto me? Critical autoethnography in education should reveal a sense of co-being and co-existence with the other contained within the speech of the self or within written text: If the other is not present, has the self violated the other? Is the other present in my discourse? If not, why not? If the other is not present (through multiple voices in my discourse) in the critical autoethnographic account: Can the researcher use different methodological tools and analyses to show the intersections between self and other? Researchers need to be aware of how their own research can reproduce political, social and economic forms of symbolic violence by the decisions they make in their research. Critical autoethnographic researchers should ask: Am I reproducing or engendering essentialist discourses or representations in my research? If not, how do I guard against stereotypes and essentialisms? Does my critical autoethnographic approach in education enable multiple voices, multiple perspectives and multiple identities in line with the overarching mode of dialogism?

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20 LOOKING BEYOND THE GAZE A reflective faculty learning experience Devi Akella

Introduction Numerous articles emphasising the need for international cultural immersion and community engagement experiences which encourage students to be active participants in the learning process leading to advanced critical thinking and global competency skills have been published in the last few years (Lessor, Reeves & Andrade, 1997; Vande Berg, Connor-Linton & Paige, 2009). However, less attention has been focused on the faculty members who take the lead by internationalising their curriculum and exposing their students to global exploration through travel expeditions, where they too might face similar learning situations as their own students (Akella, 2016; Coryell, 2016; Fischer, 2008; Hall, 2007; Mohamed, 2016; Todd, 2016). However, faculty just like their student counterparts, acquire intercultural expertise through “teaching and research opportunities abroad and by building relationships with peers in other countries” (ACE, 2012, p. 4). An understanding of international settings and respect for cultural differences would place faculty members in an advantage in classrooms and when interacting with their students. It would allow faculty members to teach students cultural sensitivity and equip them with multicultural competencies. For faculty members these travel experiences can be “transformative” (Fischer, 2008, p. 2), resulting in “intellectual dynamism” (Hall, 2007, p. 54) and “academic refueling” (Festervand & Tillery, 2001, p. 110) forcing them to “rethink [about their] professional self-definitions and boundaries” (Hall, 2007, p. 54). In fact, traveling abroad for faculty members could involve painful moments, of moving beyond their comfort zone, challenging their mental schemas, acknowledging past misconceptions and prejudices, trying to deconstruct happenings, and rebuilding one’s external picture of the world. A process of going beyond one’s professional gaze, of evolving into a new person outside the disciplinary gaze of one’s own political system and country. A process of self-transformation gradually resulting in the creation of a more knowledgeable teacher, broad-minded academic, intellectually stimulated researcher, and a more open-minded person (Eddy, 2014; Festervand & Tillery, 2001; Fischer, 2008; Hall, 2007; Keese & O’Brien, 2011). Integrating Foucault’s (1997) philosophies of disciplinary gaze and the model of situated learning, along with the research method of autoethnography, this chapter endeavors to capture my transformation process. My frame of mind before and after travel, of how I went beyond my narrow preconceived notions about Palestine, and how this helped me as a teacher and 232

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researcher. To quote Foucault I write about my history – “what are we and what are we today? In order, to be free, one needs to continually expose what remains alive of the past in the present and relegate it to the past” (O’Farrell, 2005, p. 72). This chapter contributes towards the literature on short-term study abroad programs in the neglected area of lack of personalised empirical faculty accounts and experiences on various short-term study abroad programs. It also highlights the necessity of experimenting with different types of theoretical frameworks (in this case poststructural analysis) and qualitative methodologies such as autoethnography to confront distorted impressions and conceptions of reality. Thereby transforming individuals, empowering educators, and the education system, to promote equity and social justice within societies.

Background There is a lot of information on “how to get students … involved in education abroad. There’s much less talk about how to get faculty involved…” (Hulstrad, 2009, p. 48). However, if faculty just made the effort to travel abroad, they would have so many new experiences and perspectives to share with their students, they would be equipped with a myriad of views and perceptions, “pedagogical, research-related and life lessons” (Al-Dahir, 2012; Hall, 2007, p. 54), which would make their students more aware of differences across the world. Travel abroad for faculty would also translate into intellectual growth of the faculty members, academic validation, cognitive repositioning and acculturation” with “grounding of concept and theory in reality … an outcome directly transferable to both teaching and research activities” (Festervand & Tillery, 2001, p. 106). It would generate “well-traveled, knowledgeable professors who can grab students … and turn them … into global citizens of an ever-changing world” (Hulstrad, 2009, p. 49). The instructor would be able to “talk the talk and make the walk real” (Al-Dahir, 2012, p. 1). For one can only teach what one is aware of and has seen and experienced in person. International travel possesses the capacity to transform an educator, by allowing faculty members opportunities to reflect on their perceptual blocks and mindsets and liberate themselves of their earlier preconceived and restricted notions to grow and develop into more broadminded and empathetic educators. To understand this transformation process of the educator, one needs to clarify how an individual becomes a subject of study, who can both exercise and be subjected to power mechanisms. Individuals can be “constituted as moral subjects of [their] actions” possessed with knowledge which makes them powerful and responsible, yet simultaneously also subjects them to power mechanisms. Individuals within a society especially educators possess specialised knowledge which is used to influence and inform students and their mindsets within classrooms. At the same time, these educators themselves are subject to power and discipline to ensure they teach within the guidelines and norms of the society and political forces, through program curriculum, employee codes of conduct and other similar guidelines, “…subjects us to discipline to ensure that we do not deviate from the normal curve, and subjects us to sanction, treatment, or punishment when we depart from it…” (Foucault, 1997, p. 130). According to Foucault (1997), during different periods of history, formal systems and institutions are organised around different sets of principles. And all individuals subject to these principles inculcate certain ‘pre-conceived notions and philosophies’ known as episteme (O’Farrell, 2005). Episteme defines individuals’ reactions, thought processes and mental models. To transform individuals or change their thought process, science and research needs to deconstruct their episteme and then modify it (O’Farrell, 2005). In this context, Foucault, a 233

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prominent French historian, and philosopher introduced the concept of a “gaze” which means a “glance … look” or creating the impression of being under scrutiny all the time. A powerful look which subjugates individuals, exercises control over them, objectifies, subordinates, and threatens them to compliance. The gaze thus can be conceptualised as a tool to govern and control individuals within a society (O’Farrell, 1997), i.e., a “society centered around surveillance” (O’Farrell, 2005, p. 39). The gaze is a derivative of bio-power, which is a “technology which appeared in the late eighteenth century for managing populations…” (O’Farrell, 2005, p. 130). During this time, the government was held responsible not only for collecting the taxes but to also oversee public health, public education, control large urban populations and regulate the daily behavior of individuals (Foucault, 1997). Individuals were taught appropriate morals, values, philosophies, and then various disciplinary measures were used to ensure obedience to these new bodies of knowledge. The function of the government was to “train, educate and guide masses to conform” (Foucault, 1988, p. 80). Individuals within a society were organised into political and civic groups. The government was responsible for overseeing the lives of its citizens from birth to death. Knowledge about citizens was collected through different forms of confession techniques at religious places, workplaces, and medical practices. The data compiled from these confessions were used by social sciences to construct mechanisms of social control (O’Farrell, 1997). Different forms of disciplinary techniques were designed using Bentham’s Panopticon, an architectural structure which enabled the creation of a 360-degree examining gaze, which placed everyone in the building under the visibility of a panoptic eye. The panoptic eye was subsequently modernised and improvised into different forms, such as classrooms, factories, prison cells, hospitals, and surveillance cameras. The independent individual was intimidated to passivity, a repressed body externalising behavior code formulated by the government for different sections of the society. Normal behavior as defined by the society was thus achieved through the daily practices of self-surveillance controls (Foucault, 1997). Individuals within the society ended up becoming artificial extensions of machines, like robots operating as per the norms of the society (Foucault, 1997). The examining gaze became the political tool to control masses, their mindsets, mental models, and mental perceptions and those who rebelled were termed as deviant, extremists, and out casted by the society. The basic message was either you conformed or else your life became difficult (O’Farrell, 2005). Study abroad programs provide a means to break free from this gaze. Far away from the gaze of the political system and its surveillance mechanisms, an individual facing new situations, new culture and new people is forced to reflect, unlearn, and learn new concepts, ideologies and interpret the society wearing new lenses. “The time away [can] provide a space for reflection and put in stark relief assumptions … formerly held” (Eddy, 2014, p. 21). Situated learning is a technique through which adults can learn from real life experiences of daily living (Stein, 1998). Individuals learn by participating and becoming a part of the entire learning process. Individuals rebuild their perspectives and knowledge based on their learning experiences. Learning here takes place through informal interactions, relationships with people and other unintended contextual learning. New knowledge is assimilated while confronting real-life situations, via social processes involving thinking, perceiving, problem solving and interaction. Individual enters the external reality, engages in its various activities and situations, and learns while reflecting and solving problems (Stein, 1998). Learning is thus stimulated and “grounded in the actions of everyday situations” (Stein, 1998, para. 3). The next section examines the methodological considerations surrounding the research method of autoethnography, and looks at the sojourn to the Holy Land, a narrative account 234

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of myself as a Fulbright specialist – of what I did, whom I met and what happened over the course of 42 days, with pre-departure experiences included as well.

Sojourn to the Holy Land: an autoethnographic narration All individuals are important objects in need of analysis, and we, therefore, need to reflect on our own actions, behavior, and reactions. “It takes courage to interrogate yourself. It takes courage to look in the mirror and see part of your reflection [as] to who you really are when you take off the mask, when you are not performing the same old routines and social roles” (West, 2009, p. 8). One needs to start with “remembering or recognizing one’s original truth (self-discovery)” (Foucault, 1984, pp. 441–442) and then self-transformation takes place (Foucault, 1984). Individuals become independent by resisting current practices, ideologies, beliefs and knowledge about facts and society. Individuals become conscious of the fact that they are being subjected to power and control and then they resist the domination to become more self-aware. Thus, the entire transformation process involves self-awareness, self-analysis, and self-reflection. Anderson’s (2006) autoethnography allows illumination of a personal experience by “describing a story of experience – how it is used, understood and responded to for and by us and others” (Ellis, Adams & Bochner, 2011, p. 282). Autoethnography is an unorthodox approach which opens new avenues of research. One steps into the shoes of the researcher and experiences the phenomenon under consideration (Ellis et al., 2011). One lives through another person’s experience, enters their world and context, and accompanies them on their research journey. Autoethnography makes it possible to examine and interpret the social phenomena in totality. The focal point of autoethnography revolves around the researcher i.e., “just me … writing my story in my particular complex everyday” (Gannon, 2006, p. 475). This single account of the social reality provides a complete picture “about the world and about the results of our actions which are actually realized” (Sayer, 1992, p. 69). Different mechanisms are exposed: the context, structure–agency interplay, and the role of the individual in this entire environment (Archer, 1995, 2000). The autoethnographic writer creates new knowledge, by reflecting on his/her bodily experiences, all subjective in nature such as feelings, emotions, and history, and then connecting these introspections to theoretical and philosophical aspects (Gannon, 2006). The autoethnographic narratives enable releasing an individual from oneself, or rather “disassembling the self, oneself ” (Rabinow, 1997, p. xxxviii). The purpose of an autoethnographic narrative is to shape oneself and transform oneself into a better individual more attune with the new contexts (Foucault, 1997). The researcher is required to look within, understand “the self ”, acknowledge one’s faults and weaknesses or rather put one’s inner self to intense scrutiny, and critical examination. The objective is to critique “repressive structures in everyday lives”, with which one interacts, influences and is in turn influenced by (Denzin, 2003, p. 142). This section reproduces, deconstructs, and reflects upon my travel abroad experience to reveal the intricate social forces at play, the learning experiences at work and the gradual transformation of my personality. The reflective and exploratory process is highlighted through a truthful and introspective account of the entire study abroad trip – through a dialogue with myself about what seemed significant in the trip to the Holy Land and how it impacted me as a person. My reflective autoethnographic narrative will allow the readers to gain insights into my mindset – my fears, my anxieties, my social and learning process, and my gradual transformation process. My autoethnography of my travels to Palestine started with a “post-mortem” self-reflection on what happened, identifying significant events and experiences and then writing 235

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everything down in a narrative format according to three guiding principles derived from the theoretical philosophies of Foucault’s gaze and situated learning – self-discovery (becoming aware of the gaze), self-transformation as a result of the learning process (going beyond the gaze), and finally resistance to domination (becoming independent).

Self-discovery: becoming aware of the gaze I traveled to Palestine in Fall 2016 for a duration of 42 days on a Fulbright Specialist’s Grant. After applying, I was placed on the Fulbright Faculty Roster. Soon after, I received an email from Birzeit University informing me that I had been shortlisted for a project at their university “Would I be interested in coming?” I replied in the affirmative. A few weeks later, I received the offer. I remember myself, then researching Birzeit University and the location and getting the biggest shock of my life. Birzeit University is situated in the Occupied Territories of Palestine (OPT), the conflicted region of West Bank, a landlocked territory near Jordan and Israel. The Palestinian region is a part of the Arab world and consists of two separated territories: the West Bank and Gaza. Also known as the “Holy Land”, the language spoken there is Arabic with majority of its population being Muslims. I am not an adventurous person, nor overly brave or a person who likes to take risks. And, based on my knowledge of political facts globally, I have a healthy fear of the Middle East, fundamental Islamists and all regions denoted in red as unsafe countries to travel. However, I had already accepted the offer and informed everyone around me that I would be traveling abroad as a Fulbright Specialist. Therefore, regardless of my mental schemas and well-entrenched beliefs I decided to go ahead with the visit, taking all necessary precautions as needed.

Fear of Palestine: pre-departure feelings I applied for permission to travel from the Dean, Provost, and the President of the university where I  worked. All of them commended me on my achievement. However, colleagues back at my office, friends, and relatives with the exemption of a few, further increased my fear. But then a Fulbright Scholar already in that unsafe territory informed me the situation was not so bad. One just had to trust the local Palestinians to guide and assist one during the duration of the stay. This got me thinking maybe it was just my mental outlook and ingrained beliefs indoctrinated and manipulated by the media, prior exposure, and societal norms, which were stopping me as an individual from traveling to unknown destinations. The US Embassy in Jerusalem informed me an official would pick me from the airport on arrival and drop me off at the hotel in Taybeh. But then, a few days before the travel, they emailed me stating this would not be possible because I would be reaching Tel Aviv during the festival of Rosh Hashanah. I would need to make my own arrangements to the hotel. I found myself in real jeopardy. I got in touch with the Dean of the Faculty of Business and Economics (FBE), and she offered to get me picked up by their university car at the airport and get me into the Palestinian region. I realised then I would need to trust and depend on Palestinians to see me through this trip.

Self-transformation: learning and going beyond the gaze Arrival into Palestine My flight into Israel, Tel Aviv was fine, security arrangements at the New York airport were highly stringent and all passengers were either of Jewish origin or Americans traveling to the Holy Land. US citizens had to get a visa at Tel Aviv airport itself. I had heard stories of people being refused visas and

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deported back. This caused me a few anxious moments. However, I had no problem getting a visa allowing me entry into Israel. The airport was little deserted being the time of Rosh Hashanah. The entire scene was ordinary: taxis, luggage, people, nothing unsafe. All my pre-departure fears seemed to be unfounded. The taxi driver was a friendly person who spoke English. The outside landscape was sandy and rocky slopes, dry land, with lots of sunshine, the road stretched and stretched, with chartered buses moving back and forth. The driver informed me all the buses were for Israelis to travel to their settlements which were being built more and more inside the Palestinian region. We passed a security checkpoint which symbolised entry into Palestine. Huge signs in red, in English, Arabic and Hebrew read that individuals entering this region were entering at their own risk. The roads became smaller, dirty with garbage dumps and were crowded with people. The difference was apparent. But it was still a hilly region as the road swerved into a neighborhood, the small village of Taybeh where my hotel was located, nestled amongst the steep rocky sandy slopes, littered with donkeys and street dogs and houses and shops in between. I felt at home immediately and that feeling remained throughout my stay at Palestine.

Birzeit University at Ramallah The grant duration was 42 days, and I had a lot to accomplish. So the dean and I traveled next day to the university. To avoid checkpoints between Taybeh and Ramallah, the local Palestinians use the smaller roads which are not properly built and are very steep and narrow. I suffered from travel sickness each day on these roads. Birzeit University was different from Taybeh, a Christian village where I was currently staying; at the university Islam was more clearly apparent. The majority of the students and faculty, the females especially, have their hair covered and dress in a conservative manner and everything is in Arabic. Birzeit University has agreements with universities in the United Kingdom and Europe for research purposes, student, and faculty exchange programs. Faculty from FBE traveled abroad to different European countries at regular intervals on these various mini grants. Nearly all the FBE faculty had completed their masters and doctoral degrees from British institutions, especially the younger faculty. FBE comprised of older and younger faculty. The majority of the faculty members are female, some still in traditional Muslim attire, while the younger ones are without the veil. I was able to talk with them, interact with them and share views and opinions. However, I did undergo moments of anxiety, when people spoke in Arabic because I was unsure of what was being said. The Palestinian universities are isolated from the rest of the world due to checkpoints and other security measures. But these universities are fully committed to providing quality education to the younger population, for instance, FBE had managed to get financial aid from their student alumni and advisory board members in the form of donations, grants, and scholarships. Most of the instruction at Birzeit University took place in Arabic and English. All faculty members knew English language but preferred Arabic. Manuals and booklets were in English and Arabic. With increasing emphasis laid on the internationalisation of the curriculum and their students leaving for abroad for studies and jobs, the university was changing over to English as a medium of instruction. Textbooks and all teaching now took place in the English language. Students had to complete their high school diploma in Arabic, and then take a common entrance test known as Tawjihi. The scores on this exam were used for admission purposes into different colleges. Before starting their college-level courses, all students in Palestine completed an English-level mastery test and, based on their test scores, enrolled for different levels of English remedial courses. Thus, starting college at an elementary level of English these students covered all courses in the English medium by the end of their final year of the degree program.

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Excursions in Palestine I visited Bethlehem – The Church of Nativity and the Chapel of the Milk of Groto; both these religious places made me appreciate the divine power of God. I could imagine Lord Jesus being born here. I felt a calming presence within me when I bent down to take my blessings at both the churches. At that time, I understood why people took so many risks to travel to this part of the world – it is to feel the presence of God and seek his blessings. However, I also found it ironical that there was the birthplace of Jesus and right outside was a mosque with prayer calls being made in Arabic. It was as if Christianity nestled deep within the confinements of an Islamic world. I also got to visit Mount Temptation at Jericho, which is simply beautiful and a tourist place which attracts hordes of tourists in chartered buses. I entered into a conversation with a tourist guide, and he invited me to join their group on learning I was from the USA. But afterwards realising I was with a friend from the Taybeh region he distanced himself at once and ignored me from then onwards. I was already aware of these divisions within the society but now faced the discrimination as well. I also visited Hisham’s palace and then my travel partner drove us down to the border leading into Jordan, but we were unable to go forward because the checkpoint was closed. I heard of how local Palestinians crossed the border into Jordan to travel internationally from Queen Alia International Airport to avoid Tel Aviv airport. These snippets of conversations provided me with insights about the life of Palestinians. A visit to the West side of Jerusalem further enlightened me to issues which Palestinians face daily. I saw the dividing wall of Jerusalem and then visited the Church of the Sepulcher – this church which happens to be the final resting place of Jesus Christ, possesses a sort of agonising beauty and I will always remember myself as unable to tear myself away from there. I met a religious priest, visited the old city of Jerusalem – Jaffa Gate and shops along the way. It was then my travel partner received a phone call from Taybeh, asking us to come back as soon as possible, some trouble had taken place at Jaffa Gate. We tried the Qalandia checkpoint which was crowded with traffic. We turned and tried another route which also had a traffic jam, and on that way encountered tear gas and some police. Nothing happened to us, but I  was a little shaken up by this incident. I constantly heard a lot about checkpoints being closed, reaching home late and some trouble on the road and so on. People used to mention this casually as if it was a daily occurrence. My snapshot of this region consisted of steep hilly slopes, donkeys and dogs on the road, checkpoints at every corner, with security personnel on the road walking with guns, people in modern and traditional attire, Arabic and Hebrew signs everywhere, Christianity and Islam juxtaposed together everywhere.

United States Embassy in Palestine Being a Fulbright Specialist on a grant-funded visit, I had to maintain close connections with the US Embassy officials throughout my stay in Palestine. I used to receive daily texts of conflicts taking place within the country. I also talked with US embassy officials a few times on the phone and was asked to come down in person at least once during my stay to sign official documents. This became a major issue – how to reach Israeli side of Jerusalem? People in Palestine had permit cards (like identity cards) which had to be shown at various checkpoints to cross into different parts of the region. So even though the faculty members of FBE traveled from Nabulus, Jerusalem, Ramallah and Taybeh, their movements inside Palestine were restricted. I felt uneasy traveling alone because I lacked knowledge of the language and security procedures within the region. So, the planning of this visit continued throughout my visit. In  the end 2–3 days before my departure, the US Embassy sent over a vehicle with appropriate legal papers to Taybeh to pick me up and get me over to the Embassy in Jerusalem. Some incidents had taken place the day before, and when I informed the hotel staff about my impending visit to the US Embassy; they advised me against it. I, however, decided to go ahead. 238

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There was a lot of security on the road to Jerusalem and we passed the famous Qalandiya checkpoint – it was my second time through this security point. This time it was smoother than the last time. The Israeli-controlled Jerusalem (West side) is completely modernised; the majority of the population dresses in the traditional Jewish attire. I had to hand over my passport and all my documents at the embassy gate and was escorted to the office of the embassy officials. Once inside it was more informal – we talked about my stay so far, work accomplished and what I had seen in that region. I was informed someone would meet me at the airport next week and see me through the security at Tel Aviv airport. I was relieved I had been informed by FBE faculty that departure from Tel-Aviv was not easy – all faculty members flew from Jordan’s international airport. I was advised to do the same. Some also told me not to mention that I had stayed for 42 days in the West Bank region – Ramallah and Taybeh.

Departure from Tel Aviv I would describe the departure from Tel-Aviv airport as one of the worst experiences in my life so far. The dean arranged for the same taxi which had picked me up from the airport on my arrival. The taxi was stopped even before entering the airport, I was asked probing questions, my airline ticket and papers were examined, the luggage was checked (not opened though) and the taxi driver’s papers scrutinised. This was just the beginning. I was met at Ben Gurion airport by the US Embassy official (Post Expediter) to speed up the security check, issuance of boarding pass and my departure from Israel. Unfortunately, it did not work out that way at all. I faced a grueling questioning session. Despite me showing my documents and explaining my movements and whereabouts the mere mention of “Ramallah and Taybeh” triggered all sorts of tensions amongst the airport staff. My hand baggage and my computer were checked innumerable times. I was given a thorough check-up by the airport security guard. I really thought I would not be able to get up on the flight, and the Post Expediter was not much help either. Ultimately, I was allowed to proceed and was thankful to see the boarding gates. The passengers on the flight were nice, nearly all were Jews who had witnessed the lengthy security check I had faced. However, it was pleasant flight back home with me promising myself never to fly from Tel Aviv again.

The transformation: resisting the gaze Back home: a new person This short trip to Palestine made me appreciate my life back at home. I also realised that sometimes one needs to trust strangers in a foreign land to take care of you, especially more if you do not know the language nor the culture. I also learned a lot about the political, social, and economic condition of Palestine. I became aware of the discrimination meted on Palestinians in their own country. This influenced my research topics and areas. My last few academic papers have been on social enterprises, servant leadership in Palestine and sense-making academic institutions in Palestine. I have certainly grown as a researcher. I find myself speaking of these experiences when giving examples pertaining to cross-cultural communications, trust, perceptual errors, and stress in my classes. I have rich in-depth personal insights to share with my graduate students in my Organisational Development (OD) class—especially on internal and external consultants, issues which OD consultants face and organisational resistance. To mention a few: Perceptual Errors: can share real-life examples pertaining to stereotyping, impression management and perceptual defense. My students are fascinated by my travels and enjoy these lectures. Cross-Cultural Communications: have real-life examples to share on chromatics, chronemics, high- and low-context cultures, and ethnocentrism. Trust: how trust can see you through numerous first-time experiences in a foreign land. 239

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Stress: fight or flight scenarios and techniques to overcome stress. Organisational Development: I had completed a consultancy project in Palestine and had worked with faculty resistance during the entire change process. This experience allows me to explain in detail the entire process of organisation development and the work of a consultant to my students. As an individual I feel more confident about myself and my ability to handle different situations. I have become more open-minded about different situations and environments. Despite the daily risks which an individual might face in Palestine I would not classify Palestine as an unsafe place. My preconceived notions have certainly changed. I tend not to blindly believe whatever I read and hear, instead preferring to first research the facts and remain a little cynical about what is portrayed. For there is always more to what meets the open eyes. And the reality could be a lot more different.

Empirical analysis and discussion The above autoethnographic narrative traces my Palestine trip under three guiding themes: self-awareness and reflection; learning and transformation; and resistance and independence. I had a preconceived notion about the conflicted region based on what I had heard, read and from my interactions with my colleagues and others. Information circulated on media – the internet, newspapers, television etc. – further supported my perceptions of Palestine, thereby supporting the argument of the “gaze” and the panoptic eye revolving on the entire society. However, my trip to Palestine despite the conflicts existing within that region did not expose me to any untoward harm. I did incur several anxious moments, stress and uneasiness but managed to return home safe. I was forced “to contemplate and compare what [I] had learned from published sources and prior experiences” with my own personal observations in Palestine (Festervand & Tillery, 2001, p. 111). I returned home a more informed individual, politically, economically, and culturally, and a more experienced academic and educator. As an educator I learned about the education system in Palestine, their global initiatives and partnerships and their fund-raising efforts. While as a researcher I made new friends with whom I collaborated on various research projects which helped me professionally in the long run. I learned valuable lessons from each experience and incident which took place throughout my entire trip in Palestine. My exposure to a new geographic region, a new language, culture, food, customs, and religious practices – Jewish, Christianity and Islam – all changed my personality and outlook. All this evidence supports situated learning, of how by participating in field trips in an unfamiliar environment, and by immersing in an actual learning environment people can not only learn but also address real-world problems more critically. Individuals construct new knowledge from their experiences while performing work, interacting, observing, and resolving problems. I learned how to handle a consultancy project while undergoing high levels of stress and anxiety. I learned to trust foreigners, my own intuitions and make decisions. For instance, even after being advised not to visit the US Embassy in Jerusalem by the hotel staff in Taybeh I decided to go ahead. I decided to trust the embassy people and their judgement. At the campus, I made a few friends and learned to trust them to ensure my entire job was completed. From a beginner who had absolutely no information about Palestine, I gradually evolved into an expert on that region. However, all my learning was “unintentional rather than deliberate” (Oregon Technology in Education Council, 2007, para 14, citing Lave & Wenger). I did not make any deliberate efforts to learn, the learning happened automatically. The sights, sounds, smells, physical sensations, cultural practices, and foreign people and languages and the foreign city become my classroom and my coursework (Coryell, 2016). 240

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This learning I later transferred to my own classrooms, curriculum, my research papers and towards my own judgements and decision-making processes. I learned through critical reflection, in all situations where I was unable to comprehend or understand reality. In the beginning I was apprehensive of Palestine and Palestinians but by the end I had learned to trust them. I managed to feel comfortable with them and was also a trifle ashamed of my own behavior and reactions. I now feel empathetic to the Palestinian cause, admire them in their efforts both in their daily lives and at work. I have certainly changed. Earlier I blindly believed what I read and saw; now I am more careful in my reasoning. I have managed to move outside of the gaze back at home. I think critically, tend to reflect more, analyze situations before moving forward. In other words, I am aware of the domination being exerted by the gaze and resist its control by exerting my independence through usage of my analytical and critical abilities.

Conclusion This chapter emphasises the role of autoethnography in higher education, especially in the context of study abroad programs, its effectiveness in tracing the learning processes of faculty members, their feelings and fears in foreign locations and their transformations into more broad-minded, sensitive, and culturally competent educators. Furthermore, this chapter integrates the philosophical ideologies of Foucault’s disciplinary discourses to demonstrate how adopting new types of theoretical frameworks can expose incorrect perspectives, biases, prejudices, and outlooks pertaining to foreign countries and their communities to further broaden the parameters of international education. In this study, the combination of autoethnography and the poststructuralism lens enabled deconstruction of the preconceived notions pertaining to the Palestinian region. Thereby allowing one to go beyond the information circulated by the media and political government at the domestic front. However, to further understand this transformative, learning process, more personalised faculty study abroad accounts which experiment with new theoretical and methodological frameworks are needed. For instance, critical theory, a neoliberalism philosophy, could enable critical analysis of empirical data, questioning the validity of existing views and perspectives about various practices, cultures, and societies, and deconstructing them to reveal the actual “truth” to reconstruct knowledge which is “real, a veracious account” complete with facts, candid and realistic. Or autoethnography can be further strengthened by triangulating it quantitatively or even qualitatively, by considering the approach of analytic autoethnography (Anderson, 2006). The essence of reality as captured in autoethnography could be further tested, probed and cross-examined to increase their generalisability and plausibility. Finally, the role of situated learning in a study abroad program can be further clarified by explicitly portraying the learning process using the different stages of knowledge management.

References Akella, D. (2016). Faculty memoirs from study abroad China program. In D. Velliaris (Eds.), Handbook of research on study abroad programs and outbound mobility (pp. 370–396). IGI Publications. Al-Dahir, S. (2012). From the bayous to the sand dunes: One faculty member’s year abroad as a Fulbright Scholar (Letter to the Editor). Journal of Pharmaceutical Education, 76(1), 17, p. 1. https://doi.org/ 10.5688/ajpe76117 American Council on Education (ACE). (2012). Mapping internationalization on U.S. campuses, 2012 edition. Washington, DC: ACE.

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21 PRACTICAL IDENTITIES AS SOURCES FOR EXPLORATION Autoethnography as critical reflection Lynelle Watts and Rebecca Waters Introduction At the very heart of autoethnography is a person engaged in reflection. Reflection may be about conditions, relations, indeed all manner of things. The kind of reflection it is may also be diverse, flowing from distinct methodological traditions such as interpretive phenomenology, post-structuralism or critical theory. Sometimes the person at the centre of autoethnography becomes taken somewhat for granted. And yet it is the capacity to be a self, engage with oneself, be in conversation with oneself, and the ability to explicate some aspects of the self and its experience that forms the very basis of autoethnography. Atkins (2005, p. 1) says that to speak of the self is commonplace in modern life but “this expression is more appropriately understood as a colloquial umbrella term that encompasses a range of concepts that relate to self-reflective activity, for example, ‘consciousness,’ ‘ego,’ ‘soul,’ ‘subject,’ ‘person,’ or ‘moral agent’”. Likewise, there is the issue of how to account for the subject and subjectivity, a question that emerged for Lynelle through the conduct of a study into reflective practice (Watts, 2015; see also Watts, 2019). Who is it that is speaking, and what makes up this self? After all, this ability to reflect is a remarkable capacity even as it is a quite ordinary feature of what Andrew Sayer has termed our human social being (2011). Sayer considers human social being to be an expansion on the earlier idea of human nature and derives his explanation of it from an eclectic range of philosophical sources. Human social being encompasses the idea of people being capable of suffering and flourishing and incorporates the sense of our being as emergent and interdependent with others. It positions us as having need of care, and of having concerns, as well as being endowed with capabilities, embodiment, emotion and reason. This ability to give an account of oneself is at the core of our human social being and from this springs a practical identity. We use the term practical to signal that identity is “a description under which you value yourself and find your life worth living and your actions to be worth undertaking” (Korsgaard, 1996, p. 101) and thus it is an identity aimed at being in the world. Further, a practical identity with its attendant concerns and cares may, in fact, shape the methods of critical reflection chosen for different autoethnographic projects. In this chapter, we aim to outline different kinds of critical reflection in relation to autoethnography and we explore some philosophical conceptions of practical identity and consider

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how these might inform understandings of the self at the heart of autoethnography. We ask a rather simple question: what is the relationship between self, identity, and reflection within autoethnographic accounts? The chapter begins by tracing the self-reflective nature of human social being back to the conception of what enlightenment entails, and how this relates to the method of autoethnography. Specifically, we contend that autoethnography has emerged as a method of diverse critical reflections that exemplifies an Enlightenment ethos. We then move on to discuss conceptualisations of practical identity, outlining the connection between personal and social aspects. Here we consider how autoethnographic processes interrogate these aspects to illuminate the cultural, social and practical aspects of specific human events and actions to engage in diverse forms of critique. From this, we establish the idea that the role of narrative is essential to the formation of practical identities. We present a case study that illustrates the workings of practical identity and narrative within the context of an intersubjective encounter in Occupational Therapy practice. This is a form of interpretive critical reflection in that it aims to understand the experience (Hodgson & Watts, 2017). The chapter concludes with the implications for how the self might be accounted for within autoethnographic inquiry to provide deep and rich explorations of human social being.

Critical reflection post enlightenment The nature of human subjectivity and the self has been debated by philosophers for some time and a full accounting of this debate is beyond the scope of this chapter. Suffice to say, we are not philosophers, being from professions more practically oriented and this may mean our account is likely to have missed philosophical arguments about the nature of the self. As Atkins (2005) points out, the capacity to be self-reflective is at the heart of philosophy and the literature is vast. We have instead leaned on philosophers who have considered the nature of the modern self, identity and normativity (Atkins, 2005; Korsgaard, 1996, 2009; Laden, 2001; Taylor, 1989) and the role of critical reflection (Foucault, 1984; Tully, 1989, 1999) and narrative (Atkins, 2004). We are aware that these philosophers can be seen as coming from diverse traditions. Charles Taylor (1989) establishes the connection between the self and morality, suggesting three axes important to its conception in modernity: firstly, respect and obligations to others; secondly, the ability to evaluate what makes a good life; and thirdly, our dignity in the sense of “our power, our sense of dominating public space; or our invulnerability to power; or our self-sufficiency; our life having its own centre; or our being liked and looked to by others, a centre of attention” (p. 15). Taylor continues that in the modern age we have become preoccupied with the second axis, and consequently we have become what he terms strong evaluators of our lives. Strong evaluation relates to how “we constitute ourselves through evaluative judgements about what are matters of significance or importance for us” (Baynes, 2010, p. 443). This kind of judgement is well described as part of how we constitute ourselves (Korsgaard, 2009) and is a significant source of normativity (Korsgaard, 1996). Korsgaard uses a Kantian orientation to her project about normativity. The Kantian orientation to thinking (reflection) is transcendental, meaning it is aimed at what Owen (1999, p. 30) describes as a ‘Kingdom of Ends’ based on the lawful use of reason. The lawful use of reason has a particular meaning in this type of reflection; it involves thinking for oneself, thinking from the standpoint of others, and trying to think consistently (O’Neill, 1986). The point of this use of reason, to follow the Kantian orientation, is the achievement of Enlightenment via the establishment of “a possible community of rational beings” (O’Neill, 1986, p. 542). Thus, reflection is undertaken in order to communicate with others for the purposes of considering contemporary social and political conditions; as a form of social diagnosis; and for locating 244

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transitions between current situations and future circumstances. Jurgen Habermas is widely considered to have elaborated this kind of critical reflection (Owen, 1999). Critical theory-informed reflection has often been contrasted with Foucauldian genealogy (Ashenden & Owen, 1999). Foucauldian genealogical reflection is also a form of critical reflection but it is not aimed at transcending the present in the sense of achieving an ideal end-state but is rather oriented towards thinking differently within a present horizon (Tully, 1989). Owen (1999, p. 30; emphasis original) therefore presents genealogical critical reflections as “oriented to an immanent ideal and this orientation in thinking is articulated in terms of the process of becoming otherwise than we are through the agonic use of reason.” Here, the agonic refers to the ongoing practical struggles of how we live together, including our struggles for recognition and the rules under which we live (Owen, 2021; Tully, 1999). Owen considers this to be a different orientation to the question of reflection on the present. Both forms of critical reflection (critique and genealogy) can be seen as an Enlightenment inheritance as they can be traced back to Kant’s (1784) essay What is Enlightenment. Further, both come from a position that, by using reflective capabilities, we can understand the conditions we find ourselves in. Foucault suggests therefore that: The critical ontology of ourselves [that] must be considered not, certainly, as a theory or a doctrine; rather it must be conceived of as an attitude, an ethos, a philosophical life in which critique of what we are is at one and the same time the historical analysis of the limits imposed on us and an experiment with the possibility of going beyond them. (Foucault, 1984, p. 50) Tully (2008) defines four features of this critically reflective ethos outlined by Foucault. These features are practices of governance; contemporary surveys; historical surveys; and engagement in multidisciplinary dialogue on contemporary problems and struggles for freedom. Practices of governance start with the practice of “questioning whether the inherited languages of description and reflection are adequate to the task” (Tully, 2008, p. 19). This first feature has led to six types of critical study on practices of governance: • • • • • •

The relations of production, consumption and knowledge; Humanity’s relationship to the environment; Relations of inequality between women and men; Plurality of culture and cultural diversity in societies everywhere; Justice across borders, inherited nation-state relationships and immigration; and The terms of colonisation and post-colonisation relations.

Such programs of questioning have led to a multiplicity of inquiries with diverse aims, foci, interpretations and problematisations that provide us with “a broader and more flexible language of provisional description, one which enables us to take up a dialogical relation to the political problems as they are raised in, and animate, the concrete struggles of the day…” (Tully, 2008, p. 21). These various forms of interpretation and problematisation have resulted in an explosion of different forms of critical reflection aimed at disclosing the conditions of oppression, freedom, forms and practices of governmentality and power (Guenther, 2021). We see the many different faces of autoethnography as being part of this critique and interpretation of the present. Secondly, Tully (2008) proposes conducting contemporary surveys of the various language-games and practices within which struggles for freedom are posed and where solutions 245

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are offered. Here Tully suggests that actors, even rival actors, engaged in proposing reasons and solutions about particular forms of political struggles are acting within an intersubjective field. We submit that such an intersubjective field is often what autoethnographers describe as the cultural context being interrogated or disclosed within an autoethnographic account. A good example of this intersubjective field can be found described in Wels’ (2019) account of the struggles of reading within an academic setting. The relationships between the students, the lecturer and the wider context of academia is a field through which the struggles of knowledge production and consumption are described. A third feature outlined by Tully (2008) is that of historical surveys which are aimed at “a second type of critique that enables participants to free themselves from the horizons of practices and problematisation … to see them as one form of practice and one form of problematisation that can be compared critically with others” (p. 31, emphasis original). Arguably, this is a hard move as we all acquire habits of thought, acceptance of concepts and normative practices, indeed our actions and reasons are formative of our practical identities (Korsgaard, 2009). Tully (2008) poses the question: “what new institutions and relations of power are employed to induce people to acquire the appropriate modes of conduct and forms of subjectivity, and what new practices of freedom emerge and become institutionalised as a result?” (p. 34). Autoethnography has developed ways of conducting these historical problematisations, making the familiar strange, using story, performance and personal narrative as possible ways to interrogate the taken-for-granted nature of concepts and practices. The final feature of this critical ethos that Tully (2008) describes is to take up political struggles and problems as an ongoing work of freedom. We read this final feature as having a significant connection to Denzin’s (2014, p. 6) claim that “autoethnographic work must always be interventionist, seeking to give notice to those who may otherwise not be allowed to tell their story or who are denied a voice to speak”. Being free means more than non-interference, it also means reflecting on our own subjectivity, the conditions we live in and the impact of these on our human social being. This, it seems to us, is the core of autoethnography. Thus who, how, and from where, one is speaking, via autoethnography is an important matter. As mentioned previously, one such major project of critical study has been that of feminism (Allen, 2008; Tully, 2008). Feminist philosophers have championed the idea of the self and debated its constitution primarily because it is related to “questions about personal identity, the body, sociality, and agency that feminism must address” (Anderson, Willett, & Meyers, 2021). The very idea of the self was derived from masculinist notions of the individual associated with a form of autonomy that women barely seemed able to access. Anderson et al. (2021) outline the feminist philosophical project as proceeding across three main lines of argument: the deployment of various critiques of the Western notions of the individual; engagement in reclaiming feminist ideas of the self; and the conduct of works that reconceptualise the very idea of the self. These lines of inquiry have all the problematising features of Tully’s (2008) critical ethos outlined above. Likewise, various feminist philosophers (Allen, 2008; Benhabib, 1992; Griffiths, 1995) have engaged in reflection interrogating the limits of the present. Griffiths (1995) work Feminism and the Self – The web of identity is a notable example of a work reconceptualising the self by problematising the conditions of the concept itself. Others have approached the issue of the self through the body, narrative and performativity (Atkins, 2005; Butler, 2011). There has been an emerging convergence with regard to modern notions of the self and the key role of narrative plays, in articulating as well as constituting, the self (Atkins, 2004; Baynes, 2010). This convergence makes it possible for Benhabib (1992, p. 161) to ask in reference to the self “how does this finite, embodied creature constitute into a coherent narrative those episodes of choice and limitation, agency and suffering, initiative and dependence?” Autoethnographic inquiries 246

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have been a significant part of a reclaiming of many narratives and subjective experiences within the social sciences and has aided in expanding the inclusion of more diverse voices. The method itself emerged from social science’s epistemological and methodological debates in the 1980s and 1990s (Benhabib, 1987; Ellis & Bochner, 2000; Harding, 1987). Thus far we have described the making of the modern notion of the self via the role of diverse forms of critical reflection post Enlightenment. These forms of critical reflection are aimed at thinking differently about the present via interpretation, critique and problematisation and relate to the practical circumstances people find themselves in. These forms of critical reflection rest on the capacity of human social beings to engage in reflection on themselves in addition on the conditions of suffering and flourishing they experience. This kind of reflection is at the heart of practical identity and we turn now to consider that aspect of reflection.

Practical identity Practical identity, for Korsgaard (1996, p. 101), refers to “ a description under which you value yourself, a description under which you find your life to be worth living and your actions to be worth undertaking.” Korsgaard discusses this as emerging from our reflective stance towards our obligations, needs and relations with others. Here the focus is on the individual. While the project of Korsgaard is to ask about values and what role these play in our self-understanding and our stance towards others, Laden (2001) extended this by considering the role of various differences that might impact the prospects of engaging with others in forms of deliberation about social conditions and justice. Thus, Laden proposes that practical identities involve both personal and social aspects, and interrogates how these might affect what we see as our obligations to ourselves and others. The personal side includes those aspects that place us in a network of practical relations – family, friendships and intimate relationships that are generally reciprocal in nature. Social refers to aspects that are less reciprocal and which may have chosen and unchosen characteristics. Chosen might be our profession, memberships in sporting or other groups. Unchosen may be our cultural background and societally relevant social divisions (Young, 1990) that position us according to differences across gender, class, race, sexual orientation, ability and age. Social divisions will have different configurations depending on the specific society and culture in which a person is embedded. Social structures such as family, education, work or religion may have aspects that position us on social hierarchies that contain unchosen and chosen components. Likewise, these are subject to different configurations of social and cultural conditions. Figure 21.1 captures Laden’s description of the components of a practical identity. In addition to Laden’s aspects, we have included embodiment as an added component to pick up on the phenomenological aspect of self-hood. Atkins (2004) argues for identity to be seen as an embodied consciousness. This involves us in a relation with ourselves as an ‘I’, the first-person perspective, and as a being that has a body; a body capable of suffering and/or flourishing (Sayer, 2011). Moreover, this relation is not between but instead is one where each is presupposed – the “I” and the body, such that Atkins (2004, p. 344), paraphrasing Marcel, can say “my body is untransferable property; something that can never be fully disposed since it active existence is a condition for its own instrumentality or disposability”. Therefore, the body is inescapably part of conditions of possibility for the reflective stance outlined by both Korsgaard and Laden. This also relates to the human capacity to deploy a first-, second-, and third-person perspective. As Atkins (2004, p. 345) suggests “It is because we are embodied consciousnesses that we can view ourselves from two different standpoints: as objects of theoretical understanding (from a third-person perspective) or as the originators of our actions 247

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Embodiment

cultural background Social divisions

Friendships

Intimate relationships

Personal aspects

Practical identity

Social aspects

Race gender Sexual orientation Ability Age

Membership of Associations

Citizenship status

Family of origin relationships

Embodiment Profession

Social structures

Education Family Work Religion

Figure 21.1  Practical identity adapted into graphic form (Laden, 2001)

(from a first-person perspective).” The second-person perspective relates to the intersubjective mediation of oneself (Griffiths, 1995). In an autoethnography any or all of these aspects (Figure 21.1) of the researcher’s practical identity might form the basis of critical reflection and interpretation. We turn now to a case study to illustrate these points. The case study involves the practice of Rebecca and is written in case study form with quotes included.

Case study This case study is written using a range of voices and perspectives as the second author, Rebecca, recalls a series of engagements with a client, Margaret, in her role as an Occupational Therapist and the experience implementing person-centred practice (Waters & Buchanan, 2017). The first voice, written in italics, is the voice of Rebecca recalling her experience of working with Margaret some fifteen years earlier. The second voice is that of current-day Rebecca reflecting what she believed was happening at the time of the series of engagements and how she perceived these engagements as impacting her practice. The third voice is again that of current-day Rebecca reflecting on the experience via a process of critical questioning (Guenther, 2021). In exploring this narrative, Rebecca illustrates the process and result of using autoethnography via a form of interpretive critical reflection. This episode is aimed at understanding the development of the chosen aspect of Rebecca’s practical identity and centres on her professional identity. Korsgaard (2009, p. 19) states “whenever you choose an action, you are constituting yourself as the author of the action. You are deciding who to be.” Clinical practice offers many opportunities to decide who to be, in often-complex practice contexts, with high-pressure demands. This points to already existing discourses and practice architectures (Kemmis, 2019) within clinical practice. Engaging in reflection via this autoethnographic method offers a chance for Rebecca to consider the moments of choice and limitation she experienced as a therapist in relation to practice demands and in working with Margaret. The capacity to step out of norms of practice that may be less person-centred remains an ongoing challenge in clinical work (Waters, 2019). Rebecca also 248

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utilises the idea of practical identity to consider Margaret’s personhood and what that calls forth from herself as an Occupational Therapist. First voice:  I

first encountered Margaret when she moved into a residential aged-care facility as a result of the progression of her Alzheimer’s disease and the inability of her family to continue to care for her. I had never wanted to work in aged care but my employment circumstances had led me to work in this setting and I had, at that time, a choice to either embrace it or leave. I chose to embrace it. Margaret was in her late 70s, obviously frail, with wizened features and a sparkle in her eye. She was quiet and reserved, perhaps resigned to the idea that this was where she was to live out her years. She couldn’t tell me her story as her speech had been replaced by a language of one that only she understood, and Margaret’s story could now only be told by others. Second voice:  When I first graduated as a young therapist, I had no intention of working in aged care despite having a paternal grandmother with the same diagnosis. I was confronted by the idea of watching people lose their grip on reality, and I was frightened by the thought of this occurring to me or my own parents in the future. My reflection on the thought that this fate may also befall me was mortifying to me, both then and now. First voice:  Margaret made tut-tutting sounds that expressed both her pleasure with her meals and her cups of tea. Her squeals and shrieks communicated fear and distress, causing staff to recoil from her, and seek assistance to ‘keep her safe and quiet’. As Margaret’s dementia progressed, she became frailer, and care staff began sitting her in a high-backed chair at a window in the sun. She received less frequent visits from her son, and she engaged less and less with her personal care routines, meals and ultimately other people. Her days from my observations, seemed to roll into a monotony of care routines, rushed meals, and many hours sleeping slumped in a chair. Second voice:  I remember wondering about her story and the fact that she herself was unable to tell me about it – it made me curious about her life. Who was Margaret? What had she done? Who had she loved? What did she like? I also remember wondering about what Margaret might feel like having staff recoil from her in fear or when they were frightened of her. I also wondered about Margaret’s own fear of not knowing as the dementia slowly took away her memory and understanding and insight as to what was happening for her. I clearly remember thinking about a statement I heard in my training many years earlier about people not remembering what you said, but remembering how you made them feel. Third voice:  How could I understand who this woman was when her identity was being constructed by others? It seems to me now that Margaret’s first-person practical identity, or the story she would tell about herself would likely include so much of her social aspect. Yet here in this scenario, I was trying to understand what was important to Margaret and her care through a series of stories created by others’ experiences of Margaret’s dementia. After a life well lived, is this what it was to come to? Waiting to die while in fear of others and they in fear of you? Wolfensberger (2000, p. 109) suggests that people’s lives become “junked … not just days and weeks, but months, years, or a lifetime can go by while they are waiting for opportunities, challenges, emotional comforts, etc.”, and here it was in full view. First voice:  As her Occupational Therapist, I visited once a week and observed the decline in her condition. I’d walk cheerily down the corridors of the facility greeting everyone I met. Some care staff smiled; others scowled at me grumpily. I recall feeling a personal responsibility to show up as the best version of my professional self in this depressing environment to be a role model and show people how to engage with residents who were desperately grasping on to their last threads of control and normalcy. Margaret had been a much-loved mother and wife, who had worked and raised children. She was at the end of her days or months, alone, fearful and unable to understand what was happening to her. 249

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is clear to me now that the experience of dementia was eroding Margaret’s first-person identity, both the way she understood herself and the way she understood others. As an observer of Margaret losing her identity, I was stepping into a role of re-creating her identity in my interactions with her. Buber (2010) proposes that is through the ‘Thou’ that a man becomes ‘I’ and that all real living is meeting. The meeting with Margaret in the therapeutic relationship was clearly contributing to the development of my ‘I’, my first person identity, in this ‘Thou’ relationship. How could I let others legitimise no longer treating people in the end stages of their lives as human beings who mattered? How did my role and the role of others feature as the second-person perspective became the only reference for Margaret’s identity? What part did Margaret’s relative involuntary role in this interaction play? As Margaret’s identity was eroding, my own conception of my first-person practical identity was also further developing. Korsgaard (2009, p. 20) suggests “it is as the possessor of personal or practical identity that you are the author of your own actions, and responsible for them … and yet at the same time, it is in choosing your actions that you create your identity.” First voice:  Margaret began featuring heavily in weekly updates from staff. ‘Margaret was unhappy… she was squealing and shrieking a lot and nothing the staff did seemed to help’. ‘We can’t keep Margaret sitting up in her chair – she falls asleep and slides out of the chair. Is there something you can do?’ ‘Margaret hits out when we are trying to put her to bed or when we get her out of bed. It takes two of us to do anything with her, and the shrieking she makes!’, ‘We’ve made an appointment for her to see the doctor … maybe some medication to calm her down might work?’ Margaret was agitated most of the time now. But when I stopped to sit and talk with her, and massage some hand cream into the dry papery skin on her hands, she watched me intently. She didn’t shriek. She didn’t pull away. She was calm. Second voice:  Margaret was rapidly being labelled as a problem. As a result of that perception, she was being treated in ways that, while not necessarily inappropriate, did not acknowledge of a sense of being valued as a human being with a rich life history. I remember the experience of stopping and meaningfully connecting with Margaret had such a profound impact on me. First voice:  In these interactions with Margaret, I felt I was learning to be a better therapist. I ordered her an adjustable wheelchair so she could sit upright and added a wheelchair tray so she could hold things in her hands with less likelihood of dropping them. And still each week, care staff told me about the next instalment of agitation, and sometimes aggression, as they tried to rush Margaret through their showering, toileting and feeding routines. I watched the sparkle leave Margaret’s eyes. I was frustrated. Second voice:  I became frustrated as I watched care staff become operationally focussed and increasingly disengage from any personal connection with her as she was fed and watered, bathed, toileted and dressed. Margaret’s identity was increasingly eroded as the dementia impacted her available choices and actions. First voice:  One day, I sat Margaret up in her wheelchair, carefully instructed the care staff on how to position her correctly so she wouldn’t fall or slump down. I wrote a detailed list of instructions on how to best position her and support her and placed them in a plastic sleeve on her bedroom door. I wrote handover notes in her case file. I took Margaret for a walk outside in the sun in her wheelchair, sitting upright. When we walked out of the building, the front desk staff were baffled … ‘Where are you taking her? You’ll need to sign her out!’ When we got outside and the fresh air and sunlight hit Margaret’s face, she began tut-tutting. In the rose garden, I scooped the loose petals off the heads and placed them in her hands to feel and smell. I talked the whole time … commenting on the weather, the breeze, the flowers, the garden, the gentlemen playing lawn bowls close by. Margaret’s ‘tuts’ became more frequent, she made eye contact with me, and reached out to touch my hand with her weak flexed fingers while tut-tutting in approval. Twenty minutes later, the sparkle in her eyes 250

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was back, and back in the building with the front desk staff, Margaret was bright-eyed, alert, making eye contact, and tut-tutting in pleasure. Third voice:  My actions as the therapist are both constitutive for myself, but also my agency is aimed at offering recognition of Margaret as a person with the full sense of her identity and intrinsic value included. Even if Margaret was unable to engage in the self-articulation of her first-person practical identity, her identity was able to find expression and was supported via the intersubjective act of recognition. While dementia is certainly a part of the disappearance of Margaret in the first-person sense, the care process also plays a part in that process if it does not offer this I–Thou form of recognition. First voice:  The staff were equally fascinated and perplexed. Was this the same Margaret? How had I, as the occupational therapist, manifested this huge difference in a woman who had been causing so many problems for them in her care? Creating a calm space, garnering respectful attention, showing compassion, speaking at a speed she could understand. I had altered her environment, provided a pleasant sensory alternative, assisted her to interact and communicate with others. I had given time, displayed compassion, and, in short, shown care towards the lovely woman who had lived a rich life despite not knowing now, what that life was. Third voice:  I can’t imagine what living with dementia is like but the thought of having some awareness of the gradual loss of my faculties is mortifying to me. It brings the relational dimensions of our practical identities into sharp relief. If it should happen to me who will see my humanness? Who will acknowledge my life, experiences, relationships and contributions? Who will know me? This engagement with Margaret has been formative in that my responses to exclusion and active acts of depersonalisation and lack of recognition are strong. Throughout the bulk of my career, I have actively chosen to work with people who are marginalised, devalued and depersonalised as I experienced first-hand the difference a therapist can make by the simple act of treating others as human beings capable of suffering and/or flourishing.

Conclusion Within autoethnographies, researchers will often work across the various aspects of their practical identities, utilising their reflective capacities and processes to interrogate their various concerns. There are vast territories for exploration of contemporary and historical social conditions able to be accessed via the intersubjective field of the researcher. Practical identity, as outlined above, offers a range of entry and exit points into this field in addition to an endless array of experience through with we can engage in a process of self-articulation and narrative. Having a working understanding of the ways in which we might conceive of the self and practical identity can be seen as a crucial resource for autoethnographers but it is often neglected as a commonplace. We have demonstrated that there is merit in connecting autoethnography to this rich vein of thinking about the self and engaging with different genealogies of critical reflection and philosophical methods. It would greatly aid the readers of autoethnography if these points of entry and forms of critical reflection were connected more systematically to wider genealogies of methods and knowledge about human experience.

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Lynelle Watts and Rebecca Waters Ashenden, S., & Owen, D. (1999). Introduction: Foucault, habermas and the politics of critique. In S.  Ashenden & D. Owen (Eds.), Foucault contra habermas: Recasting the dialogue between genealogy and critical theory (pp. 1–20). SAGE Publications. Atkins, K. (2004). Narrative identity, practical identity and ethical subjectivity. Continental Philosophy Review, 37(3), 341–366. http://dx.doi.org/10.1007/s11007-004-5559-3 Atkins, K. (2005). Self and subjectivity. John Wiley & Sons. Baynes, K. (2010). Self, narrative and self-constitution: Revisiting taylor’s “self-interpreting animals”. The Philosophical Forum, 41(4), 441–457. http://dx.doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9191.2010.00372.x Benhabib, S. (1987). The generalized and concrete other. In S. Benhabib & D. Cornell (Eds.), Feminism as critique (pp. 77–95). University of Minnesota Press. Benhabib, S. (1992). Situating the self: Gender, community and postmodernism in contemporary ethics. Polity Press. Buber, M. (2010). I and thou. Martino Publishing. Butler, J. (2011). Bodies that matter: On the discursive limits of “sex”. Routledge. Denzin, N. K. (2014). Interpretive autoethnography (2nd ed.). SAGE Publications, Ltd. Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. P. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 733–767). Sage Publications. Foucault, M. (1984). What is enlightenment? In P. Rabinow (Ed.), The Foucault reader (pp. 32–50). Penguin Books. Griffiths, M. (1995). Feminisms and the self: The web of identity. Routledge. Guenther, L. (2021). Six senses of critique for critical phenomenology. Puncta, 4(2), 5–23. http://dx.doi. org/10.5399/pjcp.v4i2.2 Harding, S. (Ed.). (1987). Feminism and methodology. Indiana University Press. Hodgson, D., & Watts, L. (2017). Key concepts and theory in social work. Palgrave Macmillan. Hughes, S. A., & Pennington, J. L. (2017). Autoethnography: Process, product, and possibility for critical social research. SAGE. https://doi.org/10.4135/9781483398594 Kant, I. (1784). An answer to the question: What is enlightenment? Retrieved 20/12 from http://www.columbia. edu/acis/ets/CCREAD/etscc/kant.html Kemmis, S. (2019). Introducing the Theory of Practice Architectures. In S. Kemmis (Ed.), A practice sensibility: An invitation to the theory of practice architectures (pp. 7–29). Springer Singapore. Korsgaard, C. M. (1996). The sources of normativity. Cambridge University Press Korsgaard, C. M. (2009). Self-constitution: Agency, identity, and integrity. Oxford University Press. Laden, A. S. (2001). Reasonably radical – Deliberative liberalism and the politics of identity. Cornell University Press. O’Neill, O. (1986). The public use of reason. Political Theory, 14(4), 523–551. https://doi.org/10.2307/ 191279 Owen, D. (1999). Orientation and enlightenment: An essay on critique and geneaology. In S. Ashenden & D. Owen (Eds.), Foucault contra Habermas (pp. 21–44). Sage Publications Ltd. Owen, D. (2021). Freedom, equallity, and struggles for recognition: Tully, Ranciere, and the agonistic reorientation. In H. Ikaheimo, K. Leopold, & T. Stahl (Eds.), Recognition and ambivalence (pp. 292–320). Columbia University Press. Sayer, R. A. (2011). Why things matter to people: Social science, values and ethical life. Cambridge University Press. Taylor, C. (1989). The sources of the self. Cambridge University Press. Tully, J. (1989). Wittgenstein and political philosophy: Understanding practices of critical reflection. Political Theory, 17(2), 172–204. Tully, J. (1999). To think and act differently: Foucault’s four reciprocal objections to Habermas’ theory. In S. Ashenden & D. Owen (Eds.), Foucault contra Habermas (pp. 90–142). Sage Publications. Tully, J. (2008). Public philosophy as a critical activity. In J. Tully (Ed.), Public philosophy in a new key: Volume 1: Democracy and civic freedom (pp. 1–38). Cambridge University Press. Waters, R. A. (2019). Person-centredness in human Services: An evidence-based conceptualisation to inform practice [Doctoral Dissertation, Curtin University]. Curtin Repository https://catalogue.curtin.edu.au/ permalink/f/15oatim/cur_dspace_dc20.500.11937/76906 Waters, R., & Buchanan, A. (2017). An exploration of person-centred concepts in human services: A thematic analysis of the literature. Health Policy, 121(10), 1031–1039. Watts, L. (2015). Thinking differently about reflective practice in social work education in Australia. [Doctoral Dissertation, Edith Cowan University] ECU Research Online. http://ro.ecu.edu.au/theses/1758

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22 THE TRIPLE NEXUS BETWEEN IDENTITY WORK AND RELATIONSHIP-BUILDING A collaborative autoethnography about university continuing education programs for Venezuelan engineers Emilio A. Anteliz and Paolo Maragno Introduction Research about education for the professions is well-developed and continues to grow exponentially (Diachok et al., 2020; Nerland, 2018; Trimmer et al., 2019a, 2019b). Examples of the concerns about professional education in specific occupations traverse enhanced diagnostic capacity in healthcare (Graber et  al., 2018), acknowledging the distinctive contributions of community-based teacher educators (Guillen & Zeichner, 2018), the affordances of including virtual reality and computer simulation in social work education (Huttar & BrintzenhofeSzoc, 2020), using digital technologies in nurse education during the COVID-19 pandemic (Leigh et al., 2020) and promoting the value of lifelong learning in medical education (Berkhout et al., 2018). These concerns are at once peculiar to their respective professions and of relevance to many other professions, and they reflect also both the particular domains of professional education and the broader interests of members of contemporary communities who avail themselves of the services provided by these professions. Likewise, within the scholarly literature pertaining to engineering education, there is a similarly wide range of issues canvassed. These issues include strategies for enhancing the dimension of care in engineering education (Gunckel & Tolbert, 2018), the affordances of virtual reality in teaching construction engineering (Wang et al., 2018), maximising transdisciplinarity in engineering education in order to contribute to global sustainability (Tejedor et al., 2018), mobilising the pedagogical implications of “the practice turn in education studies” (Jørgensen & Brodersen, 2016, p. 3) and ensuring the mutually beneficial links between engineering education practice and engineering education research (Borrego & Bernhard, 2011). Engineering education needs to be as diverse and far-reaching as the disciplines of engineering if it is to prepare and certify professionals with the requisite and relevant knowledge and skills to cater to the continually expanding reach of engineering practice in the contemporary world. 254

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This is true also more specifically of continuing education programs (Klus & Jones, 1975) – sometimes called “continuous education” (Takahara & Kajiwara, 2013), “continuous professional development” (Ferguson, 1998) and “lifelong learning” (Guest, 2006) – designed and delivered for engineers who are already practising within their respective disciplines. As early as 1966, Foecke (1966) stated baldly, I am convinced that continuing education is the educational challenge of the future, that most of what we have been accustomed to regard as education must be judged in relation to continuing education, and that a frontal attack on the problems of continuing education would yield as a by-product benefits of great value to all “pre-continuing education” (if I may use such a term). (p. 880; italics in the original) Since then, and over time, different strategies have been implemented to enact continuing engineering education programs, including particular examples of collaborations between engineering firms and universities (Kazmerski et al., 1975), self-study by individual engineers (Klus & Jones, 1978), provision by “in-house company programs or consultants” (Stukhart, 1989, p. 398), “integrat[ing continuing education] with the other strategic initiatives of the [engineering] firm” (Kaufmann & Weaver, 1995, p. 34), distance learning (Rutz, 2000), work-based learning (Holifield et  al., 2008), understanding engineering education from a systems perspective (Adams & Felder, 2008), the impact of mandated “Professional Development Hours” (Beruvides & Ng, 2009, p. 4) for engineers to maintain their professional licences, varied approaches to the inclusion of ethics education in engineering education (Banik et al., 2015), the contribution of online education to promoting engineers’ capacity to facilitate sustainable human development (Pérez-Foguet et  al., 2018), debates about the relevance of engineers’ continuing education to the changing needs of industry (Don-Min & Kim, 2019) and advocacy of practice-based education “as a whole-of-education approach embracing complexity” (Mann et al., 2021, p. 27) that can extend the problem-based learning that has long been central to engineering education. Seen against this backdrop, engineering education more broadly, and continuing education for engineers specifically, emerge as crucial for the engineering profession and for their clients and stakeholders, complex in character, influences and effects, and in important respects contested, in that individual engineers and engineering educators hold divergent and, in some instances, competing views about appropriate curricula, teaching strategies and assessment practices to include in particular programs. These key characteristics help to provide the rationale for our collaborative autoethnographic account in this chapter of selected continuing education programs for practising engineers that we oversaw, developed and implemented in the Faculty of Engineering at the Central University of Venezuela (UCV) in varied iterations between 1999 and 2006. This account builds on our different positions in the Faculty to explicate our accordingly distinctive contributions to the programs and our similarly diverse analyses of the programs’ intentions and outcomes within a shared focus on the programs as a microcosm of engineering practice, sociocultural changes, political trends and technological developments, in Venezuela and more widely. The particular approach to the collaborative autoethnography presented in the chapter is centred on its exploration of three specific manifestations of the posited nexus between identity work and relationship-building with which the section of the handbook in which this chapter is located is concerned. These manifestations, which are articulated in the following three main

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sections of the chapter, are: the chapter’s conceptual framework; the principles underpinning the program design and development; and our critical reflection on our first deployment of collaborative autoethnography. In particular, the chapter accentuates the enduring importance of empowering engineering education (and associated research projects) against the backdrop of significant ongoing economic, political and social change. Likewise, collaborative autoethnography emerges as simultaneously a facilitator of measured self-reflection and a validator of the enduring significance of professional associations, clustered around the affordances and insights to be gleaned from powerful and productive identity work and relationship-building.

Conceptual framework This section of the chapter articulates the nexus between identity work and relationship-building as revealed in the chapter’s conceptual framework, which is centred on the intersection among continuing education conceptualised as lifelong learning, identity, relationships and autoethnography. Each concept is accompanied by a key proposition supported by relevant scholarly literature. Firstly, in keeping with this handbook’s focus on educational research, we begin this account of the chapter’s conceptual framework by proposing that, as sentient beings, humans engage in a process of continuing education understood here as lifelong learning (Laal et al., 2014; Taylor & Neimeyer, 2016). In some cases, this learning is formal and credentialled; more often, it is informal and unofficial, and is manifested as interactions with others and the world that generate varied kinds of reflections and responses (Cheetham & Chivers, 2001; Jeong et al., 2018). In presenting this proposition, we acknowledge its idealised character, and that its realisation is often beset by challenges and obstacles. Nevertheless, we contend that continuing education as lifelong learning lies at the heart of identity work, relationship-building and autoethnography, and, in that regard, is purposeful and directed at effective and sustainable engagement with relevant elements of our environments. Secondly, we assert that identity takes multiple forms and has powerful effects, and concomitantly that identity work attends many human interactions with others, including in professional contexts. This proposition is premised on the assumption that identity – conceptualised broadly as how we see ourselves and how we see that others see us – traverses both individual and collective dimensions (McLay & Renshaw, 2020). Furthermore, although identity is generally held to be relatively stable over time (American Psychological Association, n.d.), there are instances of identity shift, sometimes to a significant degree (Carr et al., 2021). Relatedly, identity work, similarly to continuing education envisaged as lifelong learning, is demonstrably purposeful, disciplined and oriented to enhancing individuals’ and groups’ interactions with the world (Kwon, 2021; Vetter et al., 2022). Thirdly, we argue that there is a reciprocal relationship between identity work and relationship-building, and that it is through well-developed relationships with diverse others that we find out more about our own identities and those of significant others in our lives. Multiple sites of this reciprocal relationship have been researched, including young people using social media as they transition to university (Thomas et al., 2017), the practices of bonding and bridging through participation in sport (Vermeulen & Verweel, 2009) and the knowledge-sharing strategies of beginning digital entrepreneurs (Horst & Hitters, 2020). Again, as with the first two concepts in this conceptual framework, relationship-building is posited as being purposeful, disciplined and

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directed at enhancing personal and professional understandings of our places in current and potentially reimagined future worlds. Fourthly and finally, we contend that autoethnography in general, and collaborative autoethnography in particular, synthesise the three other concepts of continuing education understood as lifelong learning, identity work and relationship-building that in concert constitute this chapter’s conceptual framework. This synthesis was conveyed partly by Méndez’s (2013) identification of a key methodological strength of autoethnography: An important advantage … is the potential of autoethnography to contribute to others’ lives by making them reflect on and empathise with the narratives presented. Through reading a cultural or social account of an experience, some may become aware of realities that have not been thought of before, which makes autoethnography a valuable form of inquiry. (p. 282) This encapsulation highlighted the crucial relationships between autoethnographic authors and readers, and the potentially transformative meaning-making that both groups of participants can experience by engaging in and with autoethnographies of various kinds. From this perspective, it is instructive to recall Ellis et al.’s (2011) articulation of two of the “Potentials” (p. 278) of autoethnography that also accentuate lifelong learning, identity work and relationship-building: “Writing as Therapeutic” (p. 280); and “Relational Ethics” (p. 281). Finally in this conceptual framework elaboration, it is worthwhile citing in full Chang’s (2016) summation of the distinguishing features, strengths and potential limitations of collaborative autoethnography, the methodological approach adopted in this chapter: Collaborative autoethnography … engages multiple authors and multiple, although not always diverse, perspectives. This means that collaborative autoethnographers need to consider one more layer of intersubjectivity, namely among researchers. In the struggle of balancing diverse perspectives, author–researcher–participants are encouraged to listen to each other’s voices, examine their own assumptions, and challenge other perspectives. This process sharpens their collective interpretation of multiple perspectives and keeps everyone accountable for the process and [the] product. However, the benefit of including multiple voices is also accompanied by the limitation of added complexity. Because collaborative autoethnography involves more than one researcher, the research team may end up spending significant time coming to consensus about the process, negotiating conflicting perspectives, and addressing miscommunication within the team. In the negotiating process, the brilliance of individual stories may be dulled by the need to reach a consensus or be marginalized by a dominant voice. (pp. 111–112) In writing this chapter, we were certainly mindful of these cautionary words by Chang (2016). Nevertheless, our experience was that the benefits of our collaborative approach to this particular autoethnography outweighed considerably these potential risks. At the same time, and from the perspective of the chapter’s conceptual framework outlined here, we found that co-writing the chapter facilitated for us severally and together continuing education conceptualised as

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lifelong learning, identity work and relationship-building through our interactions with each other in the context of this co-writing.

Program design and development Against the backdrop of the conceptual framework presented in the preceding section, this section of the chapter relates the authors’ experiences regarding the 1997–2006 management of the Technological Institute (the Coordination of Extension since 2000) attached to the Faculty of Engineering at UCV, with an emphasis on the initiatives that led to a break with past practices, such as the establishment of a new functional model and a different way of linking with the context. Firstly, it is necessary to introduce a few paragraphs with the purpose of providing readers with the necessary background in order to understand the nature of the institution where the management experience was developed, as well as some elements of the Venezuelan university, economic and sociopolitical context at the end of the 1990s, which will facilitate comprehension of the scope of the changes. However, these are not the objectives of this work, but merely a preamble to it. The Technological Institute effectively began its functions at the beginning of the 1970s, although its foundation dates back to 1966 (Méndez, 2011). Its creation fulfilled a strong need, both of the Faculty and of the academics and researchers, to generate income in addition to the standard budget granted by the State. It also had the broader objective of providing professional services to support the growth of the emerging national industry, by delivering specific courses for engineering personnel, as well as carrying out applied research projects. With this, it contributed to relieving a deficiency in the Venezuelan “research–development– marketing” triad. Even though since the 1950s numerous “pure” research centres had been created (such as the IVIC [the Venezuelan Institute of Scientific Research], university laboratories, etc.) (Maragno, 2002), the foundation of institutions to develop products and services – decisive factors for enabling local technology production – took place in a very limited, if not exiguous, number. An entity such as the Technological Institute was also conveniently framed within the efforts undertaken in the early 1960s by the national government to industrialise the country, through a state policy known as “Industrialisation by Import Substitution (ISI)”. This policy provided temporary protection to emerging industries through direct subsidies and import control, creating a de facto protected environment, without the need to confront external competition. However, this situation, which lasted too long, induced a large number of companies to operate with very poorly qualified personnel and a low technological level, without suffering extreme consequences, at least until the ISI came to an end in the early 1980s, when the sector’s lack of preparation to operate in a free market environment led to an extremely serious crisis. Now let us take a look at the institutional context. The Technological Institute was a dependency of UCV´s Faculty of Engineering, with the rank of Directorate, and its operation was governed by the Venezuelan Law of Universities and by very conservative academic-­ administrative protocols. These were designed to be applied to a scholastic system, focused on the teaching of formative subjects and on research limited to laboratories and scientific publications. For these reasons, since its very beginning the Institute had been managed with many administrative and bureaucratic restrictions, especially in the decision-making process and in 258

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allocating resources. The university organisation was absolutely pyramidal, so that the approval of each issue had to undergo a process that started at the base, constituted by Departments and School Councils, until it finally reached the highest decision-making body, the University Council. Specifically, its procedures were governed by the Additional Incomes Statute, which strongly penalised the staff who performed the services, because its remuneration share was tiny compared to that assigned to the university dependencies. In addition, these regulations contained conditions that delayed the execution and payment of services, which resulted in the late 1990s in a lack of motivation by diverse personnel to attend to the Institute’s requests. At UCV, there was also a cultural factor in opposition to the objectives of the Institute, constituted by the conviction of many notable academics and researchers, many times drivers of university policy, that the academic and administrative staff should be exclusively devoted to formal teaching and pure research, and should not be contaminated by the generation of incomes other than those included in the university salary table. These were the circumstances at the beginning of our administration, at the end of the 1990s, so that it was very difficult for the Institute to undertake policies of change that would lead to attaining a relative freedom of decision, quick actions, greater administrative agility, its own resources and a highly motivated team, indispensable conditions to succeed in establishing and increasing connections with the productive sector. In this context, and with the approval of the Faculty authorities, who proved politically courageous in supporting the changes, a new institutional model was drawn up that resembled those adopted by corporations. These developments also included physical changes in the workspace, with the purpose of offering a corporate image that was architecturally modern and pleasant, in order to inspire confidence in clients. It was our conviction as well that, to increase the acceptance of the Institute’s services by companies, we had to influence three crucial aspects – namely: the personnel; the way of relating to the context; and the structure of courses. Before then, the Institute’s functions had been carried out by a Director and a part-time Head of Division, accompanied by a small number of administrative employees, a workforce that was clearly insufficient to undertake a linkage project with the business sector on a certain scale. Therefore, the Faculty was asked to hire a group of collaborators with whom we became progressively integrated as a team. These collaborators oversaw the most critical task for the project’s success, which consisted of establishing relationships with the Venezuelan companies and with the academics and researchers who had to provide the services. At a time when social networks did not exist, a relational marketing strategy was adopted, made up of visits, invitations and clients’ involvement in the scientific and cultural activities of the Faculty. This strategy was complemented by the extensive use of electronic mail, an instrument that, by then, had begun to replace the fax machine. The most outstanding aspect of this process, however, was to maintain at all times a high motivation and satisfaction level of the team, factors that were stimulated through the establishment of productivity bonuses and the building of not only work connections but also social relations, both with businesspeople and with high-level university personnel, which resulted in official acknowledgements and, in general, in broad recognition from the university community. These initiatives were made possible by reforming the Institute’s procedures, which were framed in UCV’s Additional Incomes Statute, and, for this reason, the changes to be undertaken required considerable effort, since they had to be approved by all decision-making bodies, up to the University Council. 259

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One significant change was to establish more substantial participation shares for academics and researchers in the profit distribution derived from courses and services, as well as the creation of a participation bonus for promoters. These measures were opposed, for a long time, by the conservative academic wing present at UCV, but finally the strength of the results obtained ended up prevailing, revealing itself as one of the fundamental pieces for the success and growth of the Institute. In a strictly academic aspect, it was observed that the Institute had been teaching mainly individual courses on demand from the companies, which had the purpose of solving contingent problems of personnel training. But, since the new academic model that we were designing was intended to create a continuing education system, we began to reduce progressively the number of these types of courses, convincing those responsible for company personnel that their main interest should be professional improvement and updating, not simply training. At the same time, we developed an offer consisting of sets of courses, named “Professional Certifications”, structured in a modular and sequential manner, with coherence of objectives and duration suitable for granting official certifications. The aim was to cover those engineering areas not included in formal undergraduate and postgraduate courses, providing knowledge of technological frontiers or of very specialised aspects of professional practices. These Professional Certifications consisted of theoretical and practical activities, as well as an evaluation of each module that comprised them. These certification programs had an issuing schedule of several months, and they were carried out at the Institute’s facilities located in Caracas, the capital of the country, or at the companies’ headquarters, sometimes located in other parts of the national territory, which required significant logistical efforts. Refreshments were offered to the participants, as well as the didactic materials related to the contents taught and an official certificate from UCV upon the successful completion of the program. In this way, the foundations were laid for a true system of continuing education for engineering professionals, graduated from all universities in the country, both undergraduate and graduate. With specific reference to the triple nexus between identity work and relationship-building analysed in this chapter, several facets of this nexus were manifested in this section’s account of the principles underlying the design and development of the continuing education programs for working engineers. The next section in the chapter elaborates the facet related to our professional and personal investment in the events outlined here. These events have also highlighted this nexus as exhibited by several different groups of stakeholders, including fellow team members in administering the programs, the academics who conducted the courses, other UCV colleagues who at different times adopted positions ranging from endorsement to opposition in relation to the programs, the engineers who studied the courses, their respective engineering firms that approved that study and other members of the wider Venezuelan engineering profession who in varied ways became aware of, and expressed opinions about, the programs. For all these highly diverse stakeholders, their attitudes and actions towards the programs revealed much about their respective aspirations and interests, which in turn framed their particular strategies of identity work and relationship-building. From that perspective, these continuing education programs for Venezuelan engineers assumed a broader significance, by acting as a kind of litmus test and a lightning rod for pre-existing and shifting interactions in Venezuelan public policy related to engineering education at this time.

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Critical reflection on collaborative autoethnography This chapter constitutes our first experience of engaging in collaborative autoethnography, which we hope to progress in subsequent publications. In this section, we reflect critically on that experience as it applied to our specific research focus on engineering education in Venezuela. As we noted above, the chapter’s conceptual framework was clustered around the four concepts of lifelong learning, identity, relationships and autoethnography. That framework was organised also around four propositions: 1. 2. 3.

4.

Humans engage in a process of continuing education understood here as lifelong learning. Identity takes multiple forms and has powerful effects, and concomitantly identity work attends many human interactions with others, including in professional contexts. There is a reciprocal relationship between identity work and relationship-building, and it is through well-developed relationships with diverse others that we find out more about our own identities and those of significant others in our lives. Autoethnography in general, and collaborative autoethnography in particular, synthesise the three other concepts of continuing education understood as lifelong learning, identity work and relationship-building that in concert constitute this chapter’s conceptual framework.

At one level, conducting this collaborative autoethnography has afforded us the opportunity to re-engage in events that occurred between 16 and 23 years ago. At the time, from our shared and separate perspectives, we experienced those events as simultaneously exciting, frustrating, stressful, productive and transforming, for ourselves and for others. Aided by the greater detachment related to the passage of time since then, co-authoring this chapter has given us fresh insights into why we sought to develop the continuing education programs in particular ways, what we perceived as the enabling and constraining factors informing that development, whom we cultivated as allies in that development, which strategies we employed to interact with both allies and opponents, and how we felt as specific events occurred throughout the process. At another level, and with accentuated reference to the nexus between identity work and relationship-building on which this chapter is focused, this collaborative autoethnography has enabled us to see with greater clarity how, during the events outlined in the chapter, we engaged in identity work in varied forms. These forms included our roles as professional engineers, as members of the UCV community, as Faculty officials and as university colleagues. Yet these forms included also, and depended vitally on, more personal and private dimensions of our identities, including the exercise of our personalities, the mobilisation of our friendships and the application of our respective networks of contacts in order to gain resources and to secure longer-term support for the programs. From that perspective, our relationship-building served to facilitate our identity work, which in turn extended and enriched our relationships. At yet another and even more individual level, this collaborative autoethnography has helped to reaffirm the character and value of our collegial relationship with each other. Over time, during the events recounted here, we grew to trust and depend on each other as close allies in the efforts to develop and sustain the programs. Relatedly, we enjoyed each other’s company, and we shared certain core values of professional conduct and relational ethics. Even though

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we have both left UCV, we maintain contact with each other, and we support the other person’s continuing lifelong learning. This collaborative autoethnography has presented a timely reminder of how important that contact and support are to both of us.

Conclusion As this handbook highlights, educational research takes multiple forms and is actuated by diverse intentions. This chapter has focused on research related to engineering education – specifically, university continuing education for Venezuelan working engineers. That research is underpinned by a commitment to the ongoing importance of lifelong learning – even more so in the contexts of conflict, instability and uncertainty that characterise the contemporary world. The chapter elaborated a conceptual framework (which we hope to deploy also in future publications) centred on the intersections among lifelong learning, identity, relationships and autoethnography. In particular, we posited a triple nexus among identity work and relationship-building clustered around the conceptual framework, the principles of the engineering education programs that we designed and developed, and the collaborative autoethnography represented by this co-authored chapter. We reflect that collaborative autoethnography has been enabling and transforming in three ways: by affording the opportunity to reflect a new perspective on these events from 15 to 20 years ago; by giving us specialist language to analyse those events in ways that were not available to us at that time; and by generating ideas and insights for potential prospective collaborations. Certainly, the fundamental nexus between identity work and relationship-building was and remains central to who we were and are, and to what we did and do – all those years ago, as well as into the future.

Acknowledgements We are grateful for the invaluable contributions by the participants and the other stakeholders in the programs analysed in this chapter. We acknowledge Patrick Danaher’s editorial assistance in writing the chapter.

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Promoting social justice through autoethnography Introduction Deborah L. Mulligan What lies at the heart of autoethnographical research? The six chapters contained in this fourth and final section in this handbook recount compelling stories of social change. The authors have reflected deeply on their educational praxis to shine a light on injustices occurring inside and outside classrooms. They do this not only to improve their own professional competence, but also to model inclusion and fairness so that others may take up the call for educational integrity and legitimacy. The authors aim to shift, or indeed to destroy, the boundaries that constrict educational equality. This is no small endeavour but, thanks to the strength of purpose of these contributors, their autoethnographic accounts of their lived experiences raise voices that are clarion calls for, and articulate demonstrations of, social justice of diverse kinds and in multiple contexts. In Chapter 23, Mery Diaz, Irma Cruz, Katherine Legarreta, Mercedes Lopez and Bethany Vazquez craft co-constructed educational testimonios to offer a counternarrative to the dominant normative perceptions of the college experience. Their individual stories about Latinx students’ college experiences come together to provide a collective account of the importance of mentoring for this marginalised cohort. They reflect on their lived experiences of higher educational institutions and bear witness to the challenges and triumphs of surviving this world of inequality and bias. Whilst doing so, they emphasise the importance of supportive relationships. In Chapter 24, Julie Keyantash Guertin raises the insidious issue of educational racial microaggressions that are played out between White teachers and students of colour. This story is told from the perspective of the author, who is a White teacher and recounts her reflections on her own performance of racial bias. The teacher-as-perpetrator approach is intended not to replace the voice of the victim of racial microaggressions, but rather to pledge to it and offer a different kind of requisite insider perspective on racial inequities within the classroom. In Chapter 25, Ceceilia Parnther addresses the thorny issue of refining the use of social media for the purposes of connectedness, community and activism. She begins with a self-­ reflection of autoethnography situating personal experiences, supported by authors who use these practices in activism and social justice pedagogies in higher education. The chapter continues with a review of the role of storytelling in community activism and how social media provides unprecedented reach and scope. The author then discusses the challenges and DOI: 10.4324/b23046-26

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opportunities in using activist, autoethnographic techniques that incorporate social media. She concludes by advocating support for social media in ethical ways that are meaningful in autoethnography and activism in higher education. In Chapter 26, Sharin Shajahan Naomi interrogates her experience of decolonising feminist perspectives and pedagogy to teach feminist issues in an international women’s liberal arts university, located in Bangladesh. Her writing relates the intimate relationship between a teacher’s subjectivity and her pedagogy in the classroom. This autoethnography opens up a conversation about teaching decolonial feminism in the Global South that can resonate with individuality, particularity, and the need of time and contexts to challenge patriarchy, colonialisation and religious extremism. Through classroom discussion, the author and her students realised that this self-critical practice is required for the further growth of decolonial feminism and for making it a home for diverse voices. In Chapter 27, Skye Playsted utilises autoethnography to highlight critical issues in English language teaching (ELT), viewed through her eyes as a teacher working with refugee-background English language learners in an Australian adult migrant English program (AMEP). She begins with a discussion of recommendations made in recent literature for autoethnographic research in ELT to adopt a more critical approach. She then reflects on the incidents that prompted her to reconsider her prior assumptions about her position and privilege as a teacher. She concludes by discussing some practical applications of critical reflection, and she considers possible ways forward for teachers and researchers in AMEP seeking to engage in collective inquiry and dialogue around critical issues. Finally, in this final section in the handbook, in Chapter 28, Georgina Tuari Stewart advocates a Kaupapa Māori approach to autoethnography. She maintains that it has untapped potential as a useful methodology for Māori researchers and communities in Aotearoa New  Zealand. The author makes the case that autoethnography is one form of qualitative research to consider when the primary researcher is embedded and experienced in the context of her research question. She posits that it can be a powerful approach for investigating Māori identities and ideas, and that it combines well with other methodologies. The concept of Kaupapa Māori autoethnography recognises the potential of autoethnography to support research in education conducted by Māori researchers, with Māori involvement and for Māori in uplifting the political and personal interests of Māori students, families and communities.

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23 CO-CONSTRUCTING TESTIMONIOS Critical narratives of Latinx student college success Mery F. Diaz, Irma Cruz, Katherine Legarreta, Mercedes Lopez and Bethany Vazquez Introduction On a typical pre-pandemic semester day, one could see the energetic buzzing of students, faculty, and staff at our downtown Brooklyn, New York campus. More than 17,000 students attend classes, weaving in and out of nine buildings nestled along with the city blocks that make up the college campus. Easily accessible, students come to the college from all five New York boroughs and beyond. It is the only comprehensive public college of technology and makes part of the US’s most extensive urban public university system. For almost 25 years, the college has also been designated a Hispanic-serving institution, and currently, approximately 34% of students identify as Hispanic or Latinx, reflecting changing demographics in the United States. Across the US, Latinxs make up 18.5% of the population (Pew Research Center, 2020). Before the COVID pandemic, 21.7% of college students were Latinx representing the second-­ largest ethnic group enrolled at the undergraduate level (Postsecondary National Policy Institute, 2021). Latinx college students primarily rely on public open-access colleges, particularly community colleges and Hispanic-serving institutions, and are underrepresented in four-year degree programs and private colleges. The college opportunity gap can be observed in the number of students with degree attainment. Approximately 51.5% of Latinx students earn a degree after six years, compared to nearly 70% of white students (Georgetown University, 2022). Moreover, most Latinx students are the first in their families to go to college and are from low-income households (American Community Survey, 2015; Garcia, 2019; Gonen, 2013). Many have experienced years of inequitable, segregated, and under-resourced K-12 schooling, and inequities persist into their post-secondary experiences (Ravitch, 2013). Critical scholars like Garcia (2019), who study Hispanic Serving Institutions in the US, argue that racial inequity along the educational pipeline is pervasive, vast, structural, and is particularly pronounced at the college level. Post-secondary institutions, much like K-12 schools, have been racialised in ways that reproduce societal racial and class hierarchies. This results in privileging private white institutions with more funding, selectivity, persistence, and graduation rates. It also results in disadvantaging public minority-serving institutions that are open access, non-selective, or non-competitive colleges on which racially minoritised, low-income, DOI: 10.4324/b23046-27

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and first-generation students rely. Yet academic progress and graduation outcomes, for which the most robust predictor is institutional selectivity, remain the dominant measures of college success. Given the long history of structural and racial inequities in education, critical race scholars have called for the rejection of the white normative standards used to evaluate success in higher education institutions that serve minoritised students and for the rejection of deficit frameworks that blame youth of color for their educational outcomes (Benmayor, 2008; Lopez, 2017; Morrison, 2017). Instead, they call for the critique and interrogation of the structures which perpetuate unequal access. Educational scholarship should also focus on asset-based practices that center and humanise students’ experiences, build on their cultural knowledge, and offer other measures of success. We are five intergenerational Latinx women from working-class backgrounds, some of us immigrants, others, second-generation or from families who migrated to New York. We draw on critical race theory and feminist standpoint to reflect, analyze, and tell about our schooling histories, our positionality, exploring, in particular, the role of mentorship in our educational trajectory and thereafter, and of the solidarity that we forged along the way. Our stories seek to counter dominant narratives that often privilege private and elite white college experiences and focus on academic outcomes as the primary measures of success. Instead, we aim to redefine success through the relational self, personal connections, and sense of belonging as critical aspects of the college experience.

Testimonios as critical method and pedagogy Testimonio – a testimony, a declaration from one who bears witness – is a type of autoethnography that is both a critical framework and a method of inquiry, deeply rooted in Latin American oral traditions and critical Latina feminist pedagogical scholarship (Blackmer Reyes & Rodríguez, 2012; Gutiérrez, 2008; Latina Feminist Group, 2001; Negron-Gonzales, 2015; Partnoy, 2006). Through the act of storytelling, the testimonio is intentional, political, emancipatory, and pursues social justice. It considers who holds power and privilege, and who is on the margins, excluded from power and privilege; in this way, the individual’s standpoint and lived experience, particularly those in subordinate positions, are centered and located at the intersection of race, class, gender, and geography. Testimonios, too, serve work to disrupt dominant narratives. Solorzano and Yosso (2001) argue that critical frameworks in education work to challenge traditional claims that the educational system and its institutions are race-neutral, objective, merit-based, and offer equal opportunities to students. On the contrary, these institutions reflect the historical and present context of racism, segregation, and oppression. They also reflect the dominant socio-cultural assumptions about students’ innate abilities, intellectual capacities, and motivations and deem students of color inferior, thus shaping their educational and subsequent life opportunities. Part of challenging these claims involves legitimising and valuing the experiential knowledge of students of color, which can be drawn out through storytelling. Students of color often don’t see themselves reflected or valued, either in the mainstream curriculum or in the stories of American schooling experiences. Self-storying thus can be a transformative practice for racially- and class-minoritised students. The process “can open new windows into the reality of those at the margins of society by showing possibilities beyond the ones they lived and demonstrating that they are not alone in their position” (Solorzano & Yosso, 2002, p. 36). Morrison (2017) also builds on this conception of transformative storytelling, contending that this tradition is a decolonised pedagogical practice that provides students of color with the opportunity to articulate their own experiences and build upon their indigenous knowledge. Moreover, self-storying works to interrupt deficit and subtractive educational concepts. 270

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Many of us come to campus without the necessary social and information context to fully benefit from our higher education experiences. We have no family or friends who could provide background knowledge from their own experiences with higher education. Students whom I work with come with a broad spectrum of academic experiences and skills. They also come with lived experiences and cultural wealth. (Morrison, 2017, p. 182) What emerges, then, are counterstories – the narratives of people of color, of marginalised experiences, not often told (Solorzano & Yosso, 2001). These stories materialise as an authentic representation of educational lived experiences and the inequality in such experiences, but ones that also centers students’ explicit racial, cultural context, and cultural wealth. The educational testimonio can be a compelling and transformative process for both the writer and the reader. In challenging the pervasive theories, policies, and assumptions of academic failure, educational testimonios can shift dominant discourse away from maintaining that the problem is with individuals and toward uncovering systemic and institutionalised oppressive educational practices (Bernal, Burciaga, and Carmona, 2012). Moreover, in crafting educational testimonios, the writers can interrogate the boundaries between marginality and privilege in higher education.

Mentoring There are numerous definitions of mentoring. Some define mentoring as a process where someone of experience, superior rank or status and attainment, counsels, guides, and supports the development of their mentees (Cutri et al., 1998; Turner & Waterman 2019; Turner et al. 2012). Other scholars describe mentoring as a relationship in which the mentor shares knowledge, provides support, and serves as a role model or enables or broadens networks (Jacobi, 1991). Mentoring is also considered a tool for promoting student agency (O’Meara, 2013). Ultimately, mentorship builds on trust and can result in lifelong relationships that provide dual benefits for both the mentor and the mentee. Moreover, peer mentoring for college students has been noted to support the college transition process (Shotton et al., 2007), helping to build social and cultural capital and career development. While engaging students during their first year is key to academic success, persistence, and sense of belonging, peer-mentoring can be a valuable tool in helping first-generation Latinx college students stay the course (Phinney, Campos, Kallemeyn, & Kim, 2011; Plaskett, Bali, Nakkula, & Harris, 2018). Finally, Bernstein, Jacobson, and Russo (2010, p. 58) suggest, “The goal of mentoring is not simply to teach the system, but also to change the system so that it becomes more flexible and responsive to the needs and pathways of its members.” In their educational testimonios, Burciaga and Cruz Navarro (2015, p. 44) interrogate their educational experiences, their allyship engendered as Latinas in higher education, and what they call critical pedagogy mentorship. We view educational testimonio as an intergenerational process that challenges traditional models of mentorship. Despite the pressure to work in solitude in higher education, testimonio as critical pedagogy encouraged a co-construction of knowledge and closer working relationship between student and teacher. There is a significant amount of self-disclosure – uncommon in higher education classrooms – that comes with teaching and learning how to write an educational testimonio. It was not only the instructor who pushed students to learn, but also the student who created a teaching tool with the presentation of her educational testimonio. (Burciaga & Cruz Navarro, 2015) 271

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Why co-construct? As more Latinx students, more women, first-generation, working-class, from immigrant backgrounds attend college, our stories are crucial to shaping and reframing how higher education supports and engages students (Garcia, 2019). In 2015, our college partnered with a large nonprofit organisation to fund a peer-mentorship program supporting first-year Latinx students through community building. The program structure involves hiring students as peer mentors to help first-year students by linking them to various on- and off-campus career-building opportunities. This is how we came to our work together. Irma, Mercedes, Kathrine, and Bethany were human services students who had been students in Mery’s classes. Mery is the faculty liaison for the program and brought everyone on as peer mentors. We worked together between 2016 and 2019 during the Trump administration, a time of right-wing fundamentalist politics, anti-immigrant discourse, and the emergence of the #MeToo movement and increased Black Lives Matter mobilisation. As we met to discuss our mentoring work, we also talked about our personal and academic experiences. Often, we would talk a lot about the socio-cultural-political context of our lives. Mery brought up the possibility of writing together about our work as a process for finding value and making meaning from our experiences. To write about ourselves, rather than to be written about. To share what we had learned. We decided to embark on this research and reflexivity project. In crafting our testimonio over three years, we interrogated, reflected, revisited, examined, and shared our schooling experiences and positionality throughout, the role of mentorship in our journey, and how we make sense of our educational trajectory. Like Benmayor (2008), we aim to elevate these experiences from counter-stories to primary stories.

Irma’s testimonio I can now say I proudly identify as Mexican and Hispanic. I was born in Mexico and came to the US at a very young age. Now, part of me also identifies as American. I have learned English; I have been in American schools from kindergarten until college, and I am currently working here. I feel connected to both my Mexican roots as well as feeling American. However, it took me some time to embrace a part of both cultures. At some point in my life, I felt shame and was scared to say with freedom that I was from Mexico. People have so many misconceptions about Mexican people, and we feel stigmatised because of it. It wasn’t until college that I felt more connected to my culture because I was able to appreciate the courage it took for My parents to leave it all behind and give their children and families a chance. I cannot be prouder to know that I am part of my parents’ legacy. Neither of my parents pursued a college education. My dad only went to elementary school since he had to work to help support his family from a young age. My mom graduated from high school and completed a certification program. My dad has primarily worked in construction, and my mom worked as a housekeeper. I always felt that I was behind my classmates academically and learning a second language in school. My parents could not help me because they did not understand the language and focused on work. I was on my own. I had to rely on my teachers, but there were too many students even then to get the support I needed. I noticed that we were divided based on academic and language proficiency in middle school. Each floor was in a different color. Green was for ESL (English as a Second Language) students, orange for students who only spoke English, and yellow for bilingual students. I now realise how segregated my school was, which made 272

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me feel very isolated at the time. None of my schooling before college was culturally diverse. Yet I always struggled with feeling like I belonged in this country, especially high school, the time I mostly felt out of place. When I was applying to college, I realised how different I was. At the time, I was undocumented, not given the same options as my peers, and was treated differently. I also felt isolated and targeted by the US government. One of my biggest worries was not being able to afford school. At the time, I did not have the documentation needed to work. I also did not have someone to guide me throughout the process. My college advisor in high school told me to just apply to community colleges and gave me a list of scholarships. She would have more sessions with other students and give them more options. I later felt that she could have explained more. Being undocumented didn’t mean that I couldn’t go to college. I am shocked that I could get into college by simply submitting my application and waiting to see if I would get accepted. As I reflect, there were so many times where I could have given up honestly. Many people, even teachers, told me to give up and that my status would keep me from succeeding. Despite this experience, I always enjoyed going to school and being around my classmates. It was always present that I had to get good grades to make my parents proud. I always knew that I would be the first in my family to graduate from high school and get into college one day. My parents motivated me to go to college but did not know much about the process. I struggled to pay for my tuition in college since I was not eligible to receive any state or federal financial aid. I also struggled to choose a major. I started as an architecture major and later changed to a human services major. I felt isolated from my classmates during my first years in college. At the time, I was undocumented, and finding work that would allow me to go to college was difficult. My counselors did not share resources that they shared with other students. I was not eligible for opportunity programs that provide ongoing support for documented students. I realised that perhaps it wasn’t that the counselors did not want to help, but that there are not many programs available to meet the needs of undocumented students. Due to that experience and the lack of support, I quickly learned to advocate for myself. Throughout my first two years in college, I struggled academically. I had to balance my job with an extraordinarily intense major that required significant time for each assigned project. There were times I felt stressed and anxious about my future and continuing with college. I doubted myself and my ability to graduate because of financial pressure and an unsupportive system. I realised that it would be an ongoing fight for my education. I was also worried about what would happen when I finally graduated and began to look for a job. “Would I still be treated differently and feel like an outcast?” I wish someone could have helped me look for and take advantage of different resources inside and outside of campus. During my junior and senior years in college, I was finally introduced to different programs, such as peer mentorship. This provided ongoing support to undocumented and documented students, and the relationships I made as a peer mentor have impacted me tremendously. The process of both receiving advice from my professor and advising mentees made me more empathetic. I received advice about graduate school, my first job out of college, scholarships, and many resources from my professors’. They were even able to advocate for me when I had any issues in school. I stay in touch with some professors who mentor me after graduating. Furthermore, I was hired to my current position because my experiences as a peer mentor made me a good fit. Before becoming a mentor, I did not see much importance in it. If anything, it would have been challenging for me to trust someone my age. Perhaps I would have reached out to someone older because I thought they had more experience. As I continue to learn and grow as a mentor, I have realised how important it is for everyone to have a support system 273

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throughout college. Students need advisors, professors, and peer coaches. There could also be a seminar class for new students to learn about resources and services, including support for undocumented students. Being able to encourage students when they feel vulnerable and need help is what I liked most about my role. In crucial moments of uncertainty, support is essential. I learned to be more empathetic to mentees and their different situations and find different approaches to reach out to them, communicate, and build relationships.

Mercedes’ testimonio I am a Pacific Islander and Hispanic; my mother is from the Philippines, and my father is from Puerto Rico. Although I was raised with my Puerto Rican side of the family, I don’t forget my Filipino side, and I have a strong relationship with my older siblings and often enjoy the food. My grandmother was my caretaker growing up. Her highest level of education was the 6th grade. She was the homemaker while my grandfather worked outside the home. My aunt, who also helped take care of me, started college for nursing but could not complete her courses. After reflecting on my educational experience, I feel proud of myself. I was able to accomplish school considering the situations I have been in most of my life. Not only was I was raised by my grandmother, who is deaf and does not speak English, but when my father attempted to be in my life, he’d pick me up on weekends so that I could stay at other people’s houses. Sometimes I was able to do homework, and sometimes I couldn’t. Education is super-important; I believe it is one thing that no one can take from you. This is a lesson that I learned from my grandmother, who always encouraged me to study and graduate. I wanted to go as far as possible, mainly because no one else in my family did it. I wanted to prove that I would be the first to graduate, no matter how challenging circumstances are. I also valued learning. Even after you graduate, you are constantly learning whether you are passionate about buying a home, car, or starting a business. School had its ups and downs for me. I was bullied about how my hair and skin looked in elementary school, and eventually, I turned into the bully and got into fights almost every day. Somehow, I still had good grades and graduated salutatorian from elementary school. Middle school was challenging academically. If I did not understand my homework, I had to wait for the next day, so my teachers could explain. Eventually, I joined an afterschool program and received homework help. However, I couldn’t join too many after-school activities because I had to be with my grandmother, and she was very overprotective. Things got much better in high school. I made friends, but it was still mandatory to go straight home. Otherwise, my grandmother would pick me up. I graduated with honors from high school. However, I was pretty much on my own in college, and overall, my college experience was like a rollercoaster ride. My close friends went to different colleges, and the advisers weren’t very helpful. I worried about how I would pay for college. I learned about financial aid but filling out the papers was a hassle because they required personal information that I  knew would be a mission since I was not close to either of my parents. I was dismissed from college during my freshman year because I failed algebra twice. At that point, I did not want to return to school. However, I pushed myself to take that semester off, complete that algebra class elsewhere, and return to school the following semester. Financial aid did not always cover my tuition, and I had to work extra and save money to cover the costs. I would juggle work and school at the same time. Because no one I knew went to college, I started to doubt myself and whether I could make it. I had no one who understood. “Who was going to keep me on track?” No one in my family made it through college, so no one understood my stress and challenges at home. 274

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Being successful in college means setting goals for yourself and achieving them. It means that when you doubt yourself, you prove yourself wrong. If you thought you would fail a class, but you passed, that’s a success. If you thought you were not going to make it past your first year of college, but you’re in your third, that is a success. If your goal is to make the Dean’s list and do everything to maintain that GPA, that’s a success. A sense of belonging is an issue in college. In high school, there are guidance counselors who are always on top of the students. College is nothing like that. Students miss out on opportunities at a commuter school because they don’t spend time on campus exploring and making connections. To feel supported, you must develop relationships, but it is challenging if students don’t spend time on campus. I eventually became a mentee in a peer-mentoring program, and soon after that, I mentored others. It was not until my 3rd year in college that I developed relationships with professors, made new friends, and became more open. I took many great things away from the peer-mentoring program. First, I have improved my public speaking, creating activities, and time management. When I was a mentee, I enjoyed the times that I met with my mentor. I wanted to be the helping hand I needed when I didn’t have one. There are many sources on campus that students do not know about, and I wanted to educate them. Mentoring is more than just giving suggestions or advice. It also involves just listening at times. It’s about building relationships. Eventually, those relationships turn out to be lifelong friendships. After the peer-mentoring program, I have kept relationships with the other mentors. The other mentors and I are still in touch and support each other up to date with our personal lives, as well as with our liaison. I am still in contact with some mentees, and social media plays a role in the little communication. After graduating college, I got a job in my field and have applied a lot of the skills I developed.

Katherine’s testimonio I was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, but my family is from Puerto Rico. Puerto Ricans are a mix of native Taino, African enslaved people and colonising Spaniards. I use native words like ‘Wawa’ instead of the bus and eat ‘arroz con gandules,’ rice and beans, and if we had not been colonised, this dish would be known as Jollof Rice. My family does BOMBA on New Year’s Day, music, and dance created by slaves on the sugar plantations over 400 years ago. Racially I always end up putting down White on the census. I am, to a certain extent, a white Latina. I would be lying if I said that White Latinos didn’t have a certain kind of privilege over non-white Latinos. I have seen how I get treated compared to my partner, who is Afro-Latino. My parent’s education was different from mine. My father had tetanus at a young age and had to relearn everything from walking to eating. He finished the 8th grade and then entered a Job Corp program but did not complete it. He loves to say that he has a degree from Life University. He moved to NYC and learned English on the way, and worked many service-sector jobs. One day he had an accident where multiple doors fell on his leg. My mother was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. She also had an accident at a young age, which caused amnesia, and she needed to relearn and regain her memory over time. She made it to high school but was a few credits away from graduating. She was a stay-at-home mom for a while, then worked in cleaning services on weekends. Now she works for Meals on Wheels delivering food to those in need. I grew up in ‘the projects’ where there were shootouts daily. I have been less than 5 ft away from a shooter, needing to run away with my little brother as he turned and pointed the gun at us. As a kid, you don’t see how harmful that is. Those who grow up in violence become desensitised to it. 275

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Elementary school was more difficult than it should have been. I attended a highly rated school in the district, with the best teachers, extracurriculars, and resources. My mother always tried her best to teach me everything she knew. She even created at-home summer schoolwork for me, even though I always had honors. Academically, elementary school came relatively easy for me, thanks to my mom, but the bullies made things hard. I went to a highly rated Junior high school, but at that point, the work was much more complex, and my mom could no longer help me. I’d cry every night, attempting to do my math homework. I was also bullied in 6th grade about how I looked, and I started to go academically downhill in 7th grade. Teachers took days off, and when they were there, they didn’t teach. One teacher left halfway through the school year for maternity leave, and substitute teachers handed out crosswords for the rest of the year, and yet we were expected to perform well on the state exams. My most challenging experience came in high school. I went to a high school deemed a priority school on the verge of closing. The city almost closed the school three times while I attended. Some teachers would talk down to students. We were not assigned homework, but we were expected to pass state regents exams. The college always seemed like a dream. I knew I had to go but didn’t know how to get there. We had a college counselor who took us on trips to colleges out of our reach. She took her time helping the select few she knew would get into the best schools. I wasn’t one of those students. My grades weren’t terrible but weren’t good enough for a scholarship. She’d say I wouldn’t graduate because I had a boyfriend and felt that the college I chose was an extension of high school. But I wasn’t ready to take out loans to Long Island University, the only school she approved. I planned to be debt-free for my undergraduate education and take loans for graduate school, but to others, this didn’t seem realistic; there was no point in thinking about graduate school loans. I am the first in my family to attend college. I couldn’t ask my family for help because they didn’t know the process. Getting into college was confusing for me, but once I was in, it was much worse. Enrolling in classes, classwork, and writing papers was hard to get adjusted to. I had no one to ask for guidance and was even advised to take the wrong class, which cost my family money we didn’t have. I was afraid that my dream of college would stay a dream and that I wouldn’t be able to get through it. I also had a traumatic experience during my first year, and I almost failed all my classes. I was almost kidnapped, or so that’s what I thought. I was locked out of my apartment, and when I went to knock on my mom’s, three men in a black car chased me inside the building. I was yelling for help and began fighting off this large man. Neighbors came out and yelled at the man, and my mom ran and took him off me. It turns out they were POLICE OFFICERS; can you believe that? From that day on, I would sit on my bed ready for class but unable to leave my home due to fear. I was afraid to walk outside anytime. It even looked like it was getting dark, even if that meant being home at 5 p.m. There were a few instances where I had to take a very late class because that was all that was available, and the anxiety and fear I had every time in those classes was immeasurable. I am still trying to push myself to do things such as go to a store alone or go for a drive when it’s getting dark, but change takes time. I have come a long way since that traumatic experience, but I still have many daily obstacles. We are products of our environment, and, no matter how persistent and motivated we are, it’s hard to grow when everything is against you and your success. I became a mentee in my second year of college. My mentor was a significant influence on me. She helped guide me through the classes I needed to take, looked over my papers, and helped me network with other peers whom I hadn’t met before. I am still in contact with her, and she influenced me to become a mentor. Being a mentee allowed me to connect with 276

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students and professors with whom I wouldn’t have had an opportunity to connect. Later, as a peer mentor, I gained skills and became comfortable in leadership. I was constantly putting myself out there recruiting students who just wanted to go about their day. During this time, I also became president of the Human Services Club. We often think college life will be like the movies you see on television, but it’s harder to create a sense of community in a commuter school when students have other priorities outside of school. The connection and friendships aren’t made. I wanted my mentees to develop friendships and get out of the commuter slump we easily fall into. My favorite part of being a mentor was guiding and supporting others the way I wish I had been in my freshman year. I could network with people who work in large corporations and organisations through the program. I also developed friendships with people from different majors, and, to this day, I have friends who are architects and soon-to-be airline pilots. It allowed me to broaden my network outside of my major. I am still connected with many of my old mentees and fellow mentors. I feel like we created friendships that will last a lifetime. We checked in on each other before the pandemic and shared resources. We also remain connected with our professor and liaison, who checks in and shares valuable information. This program should be implemented in all community colleges and commuter schools. I would help other students who might have found it hard to create those friendships or had difficulty navigating through college.

Bethany’s testimonio I identify as an Afro-Latina. Ethnically and culturally, I have been raised by Puerto Ricans and feel that represents the culture I know best. Racially, I am Black and present as a Black woman. I recently took an ancestry test, and the results showed I was 38% African. Although I am aware of the colonisation of the Caribbean and the slave trade, it was comforting to have confirmation of my ancestry and where I come from. My mom could not complete high school, but she obtained a GED. This is a high school equivalency diploma. That is the extent of her educational background. She currently works as a dental assistant at a hospital in the Bronx. I have no information about my father. As a child, I excelled in school. I was not especially great at the arts or sports, but I was great at reading. I went to the New York State spelling bee twice, and I presented at a children’s math expo; I was essentially the perfect student. People regarded me in high esteem from a young age, and I constantly had to work hard not to disappoint them. As I grew older, it was harder to meet that expectation. In middle school, my health started to decline, and I was bullied for my height and weight. I’m unsure if I was as sick as often as I said I was or if I had so much anxiety about school that I made myself sick. The bullying was never physical, and I wasn’t tormented, but the taunting took its toll. I began to internalise everything the kids were saying. I thought I was nothing special, and because I was in an honors program and everyone around me was brilliant, I didn’t even think my intelligence was worth anything. I missed an incredible amount of school, which resulted in low grades, but nobody worried about me because of my high test scores. I began to flourish in high school. I loved high school so much, and, once again, I was in an honors program surrounded by like-minded individuals who genuinely wanted to be my friends. Unfortunately, I went to a large and infamous high school in the Bronx and quickly discovered how easy it was to cut class. So that’s what happened; all through my freshman year, I missed classes. It ultimately reflected on my grades, and my mother found out. I had to turn my grades around. By junior year, my grades were fine; although I discovered my complete disdain for science, my health issues popped up again. I had several stomach conditions 277

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and an ulcer and once again missed a lot of schools, but I had supportive teachers who were understanding of my circumstance. When senior year came around, my GPA (grade point average) was too low to go to any of my dream schools (I didn’t even try to apply). I settled for the public college that was a safe bet in acceptance. I now know it was a great choice, but I was ashamed of myself and what my college years would be like in my senior year. I lost the excitement for college and didn’t think I could be successful if I barely excelled in high school. Looking back, high school and college were the most defining periods for me. Although being a working student gave me pride, it was the main reason I struggled. Late nights, lack of sleep, work/life balance provided many all-nighters, and 3 a.m. cry sessions. Although working was never forced on me, my mom stopped providing for my extra expenses when I turned 18 (phone bill, MetroCard, clothes, makeup, etc.). There was an unspoken agreement that I needed to work to live my life. Being a working student is mentally draining above everything else. I was constantly thinking about meeting goals at work and passing classes. I had at least one breakdown every semester. During the last year, I had two jobs, and part-time internship, and five writing-intensive courses, yet I excelled. Receiving straight A’s two semesters in a row (even in a math class) was probably my most significant character growth. I discovered what I  was capable of, which ultimately happens when you overcome your barriers. I was tired ALL the time, yet I made time to do everything. I reflect with fond memories of those years, which helps me feel stressed in my current role. Success in college is a subjective opinion; it means many things to various people. For me, success is a culmination of things. First, to be successful, you must’ve found a major that you have a passion for; that doesn’t mean you know exactly how you want to apply it into the job market, but it does tell you that you found something you love and don’t mind continuously learning and growing. Secondly, I view my student journey as successful: I worked, interned, studied, and did well in my courses. I never gave myself credit for being a working student until I noticed friends around me quitting their job or dropping out of school because they couldn’t handle the stress. That is fine for them. Everyone’s journey is different. However, I am immensely proud that I could handle so much as a student. Initially, I thought mentoring was simply checking in on someone occasionally, having a conversation, and making sure they were okay. Mentoring required so much more effort and time than I initially thought. I had to send out emails, create events, create flyers, manage social media, collaborate with a team, and initiate and create meaningful relationships with mentees. It also helped guide me in my career. I had direct access to a population I wanted to work with and exposure to many networks to further flourish the relationship. I also had many networking opportunities that allowed for growth in my network. I gained so many friends and experiences. My mentees became my friends, many of whom I still text and talk to today. I also understood what it means to have professional expectations put upon me. I currently work with a legal defense and education agency as a human resources assistant. The high-stress, fast-paced environment, the peer-mentoring program, and loaded college schedule helped prepare me for this role. I name-drop the organisation that funded our peer-mentorship program A LOT. I didn’t make many professional relationships through the program, but the organisation and program created a foundation of what I should expect in a work environment. I took away great friendships with my mentees and fellow peer-mentors in my personal life. It’s great to have people in your life who are going through similar experiences and who share the same anxieties OR can provide a reality check when you have irrational fears. My relationship with my liaison is wonderful. I feel as though I have gained a mentor of my own through this experience. As previously mentioned, in my professional life, the program created a foundation of understanding on how to jumpstart my professional career. 278

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Mery’s testimonio I am a second-generation immigrant. My parents met in New York City in the early 1970s. They were working-class immigrants from Ecuador and the Dominican Republic, who left their home countries to work in the city’s once-vibrant garment industry and factories. They met in the city, married, but separated when I was very young. My mother raised my brother and me on her own in Washington Heights- an immigrant community then struggling with high rates of poverty, crime, and unemployment like many other areas of the city. My American educational experience began in the 1980s in my neighborhood’s overcrowded, under-resourced, segregated, ability-tracking schools. Throughout my schooling experience, I encountered systemic challenges and was fortunate to have adults who supported me. I was placed in bilingual track classrooms for most of my elementary school years, separated from the English-dominant students. Socially, many of us were mocked for speaking mainly Spanish. Most kids would stay in bilingual tracks indefinitely, although it was designed to be a transitional program. My mother advocated having me placed in a mainstream English language classroom, and I eventually tracked to the high-performing classes for the remainder of elementary school. I was zoned for a middle school that was viewed as problematic, but a neighborhood advocate helped me secure a placement in a high-performing middle school just outside of my zone district ten blocks away. This school was in the white middle-class section of the neighborhood, starkly different and more well-resourced than the primarily brown and black Latino, poor, and working-class elementary school I had attended. I did well academically and went on to a specialised high school. I am aware of my privilege. Most children have the potential to excel in school. Yet, in an unequal system that fosters scarcity and competition, few are in supportive conditions or have advocates. I was lucky. While I excelled in school, I also knew people who were invested in my success. I went to college at an elite private and primarily white institution in downtown New York City during the mid to late 1990s. These were the waning days of independent music and art venues, shoe storefronts on 8th street before the massive takeover of chain coffee shops, stores, and banks. Being accepted to a large private college was a proud moment for my family and me. We envisioned a “sky’s the limit” future. Having always been a solid student, I didn’t think much about the new skills I needed to succeed in college. I didn’t realise the culture shock I  would experience or the resources and connections I needed to make for opportunities after college. No one had talked to me about it, and I didn’t know what I did not know. My main concerns were covering the cost of tuition that my financial aid and student loans did not cover and having a fun social life, of course. I ultimately attended because some of my tuition was covered through an opportunity program designed to mentor and financially assist first-generation college students from low-income and educationally disadvantaged backgrounds. Black and Latinx working-class students were the primary support recipients in this program. I soon realised I had other things to worry about. Quickly, I felt pressure to figure things out on my own. After all, America and its bootstraps. I had many unanswered questions that I wasn’t sharing with anyone. How do I set up an email account? Why is psychology 101 so intense? Was I studying the right way? Was I studying enough? Professors advised us to study two hours for every hour spent in class, and at first, this seemed excessive. I was a good student, after all. That is until I received my first set of midterm grades. I wondered about the type of interaction I should have with professors. I was nervous about going to office hours, not knowing what I would talk to my professors about, or that, in doing so, they might realise I didn’t understand and therefore didn’t belong there. The professors didn’t look like me. They seemed so alien, 279

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different, and intimidating. I didn’t have the framework to make sense of the racial, class, and cultural differences at the time. Ultimately, I didn’t seek help when I needed it during my first year. I struggled alone. Attending a primarily white elite private college also meant negotiating cultural, class, and gender expectations. I was a commuter student. Unlike my peers, who relished in their newfound independence, I did not live in the dorms. I had to negotiate why I needed to spend so much time on campus after classes were over. While my mother valued education, the practice of being a college student was somehow always up for negotiation. The city was dangerous for young women, and ‘good kids’ were ‘inside kids.’ Furthermore, I carried the mental and emotional weight of the ‘immigrant bargain’; the immigrant parent’s sacrifice on behalf of their children must be met with educational and career success. I strove to balance between the American value of independence and freedom and the importance of familism, pressures to exhibit gender norms, and social class tensions. Even if I could have freedom, I couldn’t afford it. Affirmative action debates on whether Black and Brown kids were being given preferential treatment that they didn’t deserve in college admissions at the expense of their white peers were constant throughout my time in college. The year before I entered college, Herrnstein and Murray (1994) published The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life. This heavily contested book argued that even while environmental factors play some role, human intelligence is inherited, and IQ is the best predictor of personal outcomes. Essentially, their argument was grounded in eugenics and stated that those who were inherently bright will be the ones to succeed. Here I was, a brown daughter of immigrants, a low-income student, and a member of an opportunity program reading this book in a sociology class at an elite white college. A book that did not contextualise the systematic barriers that get in the way of students like me but instead blamed us for our failures. We read Bowen and Bok’s (1998) The Shape of The River in junior year. They argued for race-sensitive admissions to college based on evidence that such policies improved the lives of minoritised Black and Latinx and first-generation students. It was hard not to feel like I didn’t belong when academia debated the intelligence of everyone who looked like me. However, being part of a college opportunity program was life-altering. First, I would not have been able to afford and attend the university had it not been for the financial support provided by the program. I also had a mentor who was invested in my success. I saw her a few times a semester, and she checked my progress. This was especially important during the challenging first year and later when I was exploring and applying to graduate school. I also met students who became friends, some lifelong. We ventured together into activities and other aspects of college life. We shared the cultural, racial, gender, and class struggles we were experiencing. I felt less alone over time in that large and intimidating environment where I was in the apparent minority. I was part of a community of students from similar backgrounds, navigating similar issues. So, in 2015, when my department chair asked if I would oversee the implementation of a peer-mentor program for first-year Latinx students, I took it on. I initially struggled with the decision, however. As a then tenure-track professor, it would mean an incredible amount of time devoted to service instead of scholarship, which is weighted more heavily. But at our college, only 8% (29 out of 498) of faculty identify as Hispanic or Latinx in an institution where 34% of students identify as such. Given my schooling experiences and how inextricably linked these were to my place as a Latina from a working-class immigrant household, I felt the importance of representation. I also wanted to engage in a project that supported students outside the classroom and allowed me to know them more holistically. To see them in ways 280

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I wished I had been seen by faculty when I was in their shoes. It has been a challenging labor of love to develop the program at the college while balancing other aspects of my academic work, along with family life. However, the opportunity to work with incredible students has been invaluable. I have been invited to share in their personal and professional journeys. We have debated and discussed current affairs, celebrated graduate school admissions, new jobs, weddings, the birth of a child, a move into a new home, and out of state, and it all has been the most meaningful part of my teaching career.

Conclusion The longing to tell one’s story and the process of telling is symbolically a gesture of longing to recover the past in such a way that one experiences both a sense of reunion and a sense of release. It was the longing for release that compelled the writing, but concurrently it was the joy of reunion that enabled me to see that the act of writing one’s autobiography is a way to find again that aspect of self and experience that may no longer be an actual part of one’s life but is a living memory shaping and informing the present. (hooks, 2015, p. 33) In crafting our co-constructed educational testimonios, we offer a counter-narrative to the dominant normative perceptions of the college experience. We began the process of co-constructing our educational testimonios, writing individually and about the self. Each of us explored our past schooling experiences, reflecting and making sense of how they come to form part of who we are. But it was in the act of collectively bearing witness, reading one another’s testimonios, that we come to a new understanding and closer to a whole. Threaded throughout each one of our stories are commonalities that situate our individual experiences within a broader social context of education in the USA. We uncovered stigmas, inequality, marginalisation, strengths, perseverance, connections, celebrations, and successes. We also highlighted the essential role of mentorship and building supportive relationships in the Latinx student experience. Latinx are the second-largest ethnic group in the USA, and before the pandemic, Latinx students were the largest minoritised group to enroll in college. The number of Hispanic-Serving designate Institutions has grown by 94% in the past ten years (Burke, 2021). Nevertheless, Latinx college students experienced significant challenges. They are often the first in their families to attend college, are from working college or low-income and immigrant households, are language minoritised, and primarily attend public higher education institutions. Latinx college students’ stories are crucial to shaping and reframing the higher education landscapes and institutions. Because the COVID pandemic has contributed to sharp declines in Latinx student enrollment, understanding their college experiences is increasingly relevant to institutional responsiveness and highlights the importance of mentoring.

References American Community Survey. (2015). Press release. https://www.census.gov/programssurveys/acs/news/ data-releases/2015/release.html Benmayor, R. (2008). Digital storytelling as a signature pedagogy for the new humanities. Arts and Humanities in Higher Education, 7(2), 188–204. https://doi.org/10.1177/1474022208088648 Bernal, D. G., Burciaga, R., & Carmona, J. F. (2012). Chicana/Latina testimonios: Mapping the methodological, pedagogical, and political. Equity & Excellence in Education, 45(3), 363–372. https://doi.org/1 0.1080/10665684.2012.698149

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Mery F. Diaz et al. Bernstein, B. L., Jacobson, R., & Russo, N. F. (2010). Mentoring women in context: Focus on science, technology, engineering, and mathematics fields. In C. A. Rayburn, F. L. Denmark, M. E. Reuder, & A. M. Austria (Eds.), A handbook for women mentors: Transcending barriers of stereotype, race, and ethnicity (pp. 43–64). Westport, CT: Praeger. Blackmer Reyes, K., & Rodríguez, J. E. C. (2012). Testimonio: Origins, terms, and resources. Equity & Excellence in Education, 45(3), 525–538. https://doi.org/10.1080/10665684.2012.698571 Bowen, W. G., & Bok, D. (1998). The shape of the river: Long-term consequences of considering race in college and university admissions. Princeton University Press. Burciaga, R., & Cruz Navarro, N. (2015). Educational testimonio: Critical pedagogy as mentorship Navarro. In Caroline S. Turner (Ed.), Mentoring as transformative practice: Supporting student and faculty diversity: New directions for higher education. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Burke, L. (2021). HSIs on the rise. Inside Higher Ed. https://www.insidehighered.com/news/2021/04/07/ hispanic-serving-institutions-growing-number Community college first-year experience programs: Examining student access, experience, and success from the student perspective. New Directions for Community Colleges, 175, 71–82. https://edtrust.org/resource/ graduation-rates-dont-tell-the-full-story-racial-gaps-in-college-success-are-larger-than-we-think/ Cutri, R. M., Delgado Bernal, D., Powell, A., & Ramirez Wiedeman, C. (1998). “An honorable sisterhood”: Developing a critical ethic of care in higher education. Transformations, 8(2), 100–117. Garcia, G. A., (2019). Becoming Hispanic-serving institutions: Opportunities for colleges and universities. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Georgetown University. (2022). Decline in Latinx enrollment sparks concern about long-term effects. https://feed.georgetown.edu/access-affordability/decline-in-latinx-enrollment-sparks-concernsabout-long-term-effects/ Gonen, Y. (2013, March). Nearly 80% of city public high-school grads at CUNY community colleges require remediation for English or math. The New York Post. https://nypost.com/2013/03/07/nearly80-of-city-public-high-school-grads-at-cunycommunity-colleges-require-remediation-for-englishor-math/ Gutiérrez, K. D. (2008). Developing a sociocritical literacy in the third space. Reading ResearchQuarterly, 43(2), 148–164. https://doi.org/10.1598/RRQ.43.2.3 Herrnstein, R. J., & Murray, C. (1994). The bell curve: Intelligence and class structure in American life. Free Press. hooks, b. (2015). Talking back: thinking feminist, thinking black. New York: Routledge. Jacobi, M. (1991). Mentoring and undergraduate academic success: A literature review. Review of Educational Research, 61(4), 505–532. https://doi.org/10.3102/00346543061004505 Latina Feminist Group. (2001). Telling to live: Latina feminist testimonios. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Lopez, F. A. (2017). Altering the trajectory of the self-fulfilling prophecy: Asset-based pedagogy and classroom dynamics. Journal of Teacher Education, 68(2), 193–212. Morrison, K.L. (2017). Informed asset-based pedagogy: Coming correct, counter-stories from an information literacy classroom. Library Trends, 66(2), 176–218. Negron-Gonzales, G. (2015). Undocumented youth activism as counter-spectacle: Civil disobedience and testimonio in the battle around immigration reform. Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies, 40(1), 87–112. O’Meara, K. (2013). Advancing graduate student agency. Higher Education in Review, 10, 1–10. Partnoy, A. (2006). Cuando vienen matando: On prepositional shifts and the struggle of testimonial subjects for agency. PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, 121(5), 1665–1669. Pew Research Center. (2020). U.S. Hispanic population surpassed 60 million in 2019, but growth has slowed. https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2020/07/07/u-s-hispanic-population-surpassed-60million-in-2019-but-growth-has-slowed/ Phinney, J. S., Campos, C. M. T., Kallemeyn, D. M. P., & Kim, C. (2011). Processes and outcomes of a mentoring program for Latino college freshmen. Journal of Social Issues, 67(3), 599–621. Plaskett, S., Bali, D., Nakkula, M.J., & Harris, J. (2018). Peer mentoring to support first-generation low-income college students: Matching incoming college students with older peers like them can help ease their transition and show them a way to persist when the path gets tough. Phi Delta Kappan, 99/7(7), 47–53. Postsecondary Policy National Institute. (2021). Factsheets: Latino students. https://pnpi.org/latinostudents/

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24 REVEALING RACISM IS UGLY AND UNCOMFORTABLE A White teacher’s autoethnography Julie Keyantash Guertin Introduction 28 January 20XX: We are back working on résumés today in language arts, and I completely avoided my period 2 Latinx boys, A and L. I prompted H to begin working, but only to type his name on the top of his paper. I never made it back to check on him or the other boys. They like to sit together, and I completely missed their side of the classroom. I also did not look at J’s résumé. He always seems so capable that I tend to pass over him unless he directly asks me a question. That also reminds me of the sheer lack of interaction with S in period 3. He is so quiet – he never says or does anything to catch my attention – that I tend to completely overlook him. We have had virtually no contact for the entire first half of the school year. The only time I really acknowledge him is when I am taking roll. I think I am taking his lead on the quiet and reserved thing, but this is odd. Why do I skip over him? He has poor attendance, so he often is unable to do what we are doing in class because he is missing some piece or part.

When writing the journal entry above, I wanted to understand the ways in which I engage in producing racism in schools. I am a White female teacher – the most common United States teacher demographic (National Center for Education Statistics [NCES], 2012) – who is committed to social justice, but I suspect I unknowingly participate in creating a racist learning environment for my students of colour. I teach senior-level language arts and am now also a teacher librarian at a medium-size high school in the western United States. It appears White teachers can be exposed to education and training around race and racism, yet the exposure fails to eliminate acts of racism within their classrooms. Furthermore, it is possible White teachers’ classroom racism involves the less obvious behaviours that create racial microaggressions. Microaggressions are “brief, everyday exchanges that send denigrating messages to certain individuals because of their group membership” (Sue, 2010, p. xvi). Therefore, it is possible teachers’ microaggressions are effectively undercutting the palpable markers of overt racism while still maintaining the status quo. An alarming notion is that these racist behaviours exist implicitly. They are practiced and  reinforced blindly and unconsciously, thereby applied with a dysconscious (King, 1991) mindset. Microaggression perpetrators are often unaware of their doings (Sue et  al., 2007), 284

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-28

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so I wanted to recognise and acknowledge how I commit racial microaggressions toward my students of colour. In light of this, I asked the following: when and how do I permit my racial microaggressions to emerge and transgress in my classroom and in what ways can a White teacher use autoethnography to detect and examine racial microaggressions toward students of colour? I approached these questions by becoming an autoethnographer in my own classroom. Autoethnography is a powerful qualitative research method for acknowledging self and personal experience and bringing it forth to the academic conversation (Adams, Jones, & Ellis, 2015). Because of the teacher–student power structure in school, expecting students to voice their objections to racial microaggressions is not reasonable. The power structure does not encourage students to point out microaggressions and do the interrupting. Therefore, teachers must initiate a disruption of their own practice; autoethnography data collection techniques allow such a disruption by requiring reflection and reflexivity to pinpoint the moment or moments of decision and examining the situations surrounding those moments leading to microaggressions. Particularly since one of the core principles of autoethnography is to provide a basis for critique, describing and analysing the personal brings understanding to the cultural (Adams et  al., 2015). In this case, the cultural experiences are teacher-perpetuated racial microaggressions found in the classroom. The in-classroom recording techniques (including periodic video, daily self-observation and daily field notes) helped to capture in-the-moment experiences surrounding microaggressions.

Limitations This study is from a White (specifically, Iranian American, first-generation) female teacher’s viewpoint, so the receivers of the microaggressions are not directly addressed in the research study, even though the larger problem is related to their experiences with the adults in school. Another limitation could include re-fencing in which the autoethnographer misperceives an event and reorders and recategorises it internally so it fits a racial stereotype (Moule, 2012). A further limitation of the study includes using the term students of colour because it lacks an exactness. If the goal is to begin seeing students distinctly, then the term is too broad. Yet, it does describe people who are racialised and compared against the dominance of White supremacy (Sensoy & DiAngelo, 2012).

Significance of the study Contemporary racism exists in the form of microaggressions. Teachers might believe they are being overtly racially sensitive, but still be racially biased to steadily and surreptitiously degrade minoritised students (Dovidio, Gaertner, & Saguy, 2015). White teachers who can recognise their participation in institutionalised racism by understanding how their Whiteness promotes racial microaggressions can become allies to interrupt racism in schools. Practicing individual awareness in the participation in racist behaviours such as microaggressions could be a step forward to eliminating them. At the least, teachers could examine ways in which they are promoting their Whiteness through their acts of microaggressions. Autoethnography can track and illuminate the instances of contemporary racism in a way that is personal and poignant to the researcher. Most importantly, autoethnography has the potential to become personally transformative (Sandlin, Wright, & Clark, 2011) to change one’s own practice. Likewise, in doing this work, other educators may choose to take up autoethnography as a tool to reflect upon and address their own microaggressions. 285

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Method It is possible to use teacher reflection and reflexivity, observation, and self-analysis to create an autoethnography that describes the circumstances surrounding the microaggression and the form in which it can be classified (microassault, microinsult, microinvalidation), the medium (verbal, behavioural, environmental), and classification by theme (e.g., alien in one’s own land, ascription of intelligence, second-class citizenry, pathologising cultural values/communication styles, assumption of criminal status and assumption of abnormality) (Sue, 2010). Reflection is a familiar tool in the education field, particularly in teacher education, but critical reflection is performed with the added intention of processing choice as an examination and assessment (Mezirow, 1998). Autoethnographers also use reflexivity to examine the choices in relation to one’s position of power, almost as if one was looking backward and connecting the clues deductively to understand why a certain phenomenon is occurring. Reflection and reflexivity are part of the autoethnography method insomuch as they help describe the moment and the motive. For the data collection process, I essentially created a means for myself to narrate my own day and thoughts in terms of examining my microaggressions. Narrowing the written accounts to incidents, rather than entire class periods, was more manageable to relay and more tangible to describe. Of course, I narrowed even further to study one class period per day containing one lesson and it remained demanding yet practical. As the school year progressed, I became better at both noticing and remembering what to record. I used a journalistic approach to my reflexive and reflective data, and it worked well because it was logical and specific. I found it helpful to list out the experiences in the typical who, what, when, where, why and how format before jumping to the descriptive and narrative explanation. This, in my estimation, is a key step to telling the story of fact firstly before arriving at the story of feeling. Both are important in an autoethnography, but one should not precede the other. The reflective and reflexive processes made adequate space for both feeling and fact. Coding, classifying and analysing the data was good in that it commanded direction, focus, and concreteness to the microaggressive experiences, but it was dually impactful for my teaching. To clarify, the data could have been reclassified and it would probably, in some ways, still answer my research questions. The coding, classifying and analysing gave me a way to organise and think about the data, but keeping the daily observations and field journals were nearly as telling. The individual microaggressions as expressed in the reflective observations and reflexive field journals, along with the video transcriptions, gave me a rich insight into my practice and remained the essence of the experience. Coding, classifying and analysing the data was unintentionally reflexive, too. All in all, writing down the data, reading the data and analysing the data signified necessary autoethnography habits (writing and reflexive analysis) essential to cultivating an antiracist identity in that one must identify what she does on a daily basis. Reviewing the video, reflective observations and reflexive journal entries proved to be complementary and cross-informative. The 62 recorded microaggressive acts were illuminated by the sorting and classifying process because it required a re-examination of the experience with yet another perspective: time. Analysing the periodic video at the end was also helpful because it became another reference point for reality. The video helped me determine if I was writing down experiences accurately, but for this depth of introspection, video alone would not be as effective. The two media (written word and video) were most effective when used conjointly with the other data-gathering methods. Also, transcribing my own video was helpful. It provided another pass at the microaggressive experiences. Recursive analysis and re-examining 286

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my observations and journals helped me develop the findings showing what actually happens in my classroom when it comes to me perpetrating racial microaggressions. As a White high school language arts teacher, autoethnography helps reveal the more immediate and subversive strains of racism present in the classroom. A teacher’s autoethnographical data on self-committed and self-reported racial microaggressions towards students of colour determines when and how racial microaggressions occur in the classroom. Such a study also determines autoethnography’s critical self-reflexivity can promote an evolving antiracist teacher identity. Results show during a span of four months and 35 lessons there were 62 recorded and recognised microaggression incidences. This averages 1.8 incidences per day with the possibility of more microaggressive incidents that were accidentally unacknowledged and therefore not recorded. Data were classified into microaggression form and medium and tallied to determine the most common instances of each. The microaggression form and medium occurrences were categorised into Sue’s (2010) taxonomy of themes (alien in one’s own land, ascription of intelligence, second-class citizenry, pathologising cultural values/communication styles, assumption of criminal status and assumption of abnormality).

Results Racial microaggressions are present in classroom interactions between a White teacher and students of colour. Autoethnography prompts a necessary disturbance so White teachers, once oblivious to the racial microaggressions they exhibit and how they perform them in classrooms, can learn to spot their racism in action. Autoethnographic research methods are key to exposing implicit racial bias into explicit moments of teacher decision-making, transforming dysconscious racism into conscious, concrete thoughts, and interpreting previously unseen racist acts into seen and recognisable perpetrations. White teachers can use autoethnography to detect and examine racial microaggressions toward students of colour; critical self-reflexivity can promote an evolving anti-racist teaching identity. Data show I am most likely to treat students of colour as second-class citizens or treat them with an assumption of abnormality. When I treat my students as second-class citizens, I behave in ways that show I believe students of colour are somehow less worthy or important than my White students. When I treat students of colour with an assumption of abnormality, I act as if something about them is abnormal and that my White students are somehow normal. Based on the themed incidences in the data, I further examined the situations surrounding the racial microaggression moments and created six loose scenarios in which those themes occurred. The scenarios were later developed into two robust findings – uninterrogated Whiteness in the classroom and hazardous non-learning times – with specific instances of racial microaggression emergence and transgression in my classroom. It is possible to identify self-perpetrated racial microaggressions. It is possible for White teachers to self-monitor and self-assess their racial microaggressions towards students of colour. It is possible to use critical self-reflexivity to promote an evolving anti-racist teaching identity. With these three things possible, it is also therefore possible to teach teachers how to engage in antiracist pedagogy by means of self-reflective and reflexive criticism. Doing so means directly addressing what King (1991) describes as the “uncritical habit of mind … that justifies inequity” (p. 135) of dysconscious racism. To acknowledge one’s own racism is to begin to address one’s own racism. To address one’s own racism is to diminish one’s own racism. The input of racist messages from society-at-large demands a means of neutralising such input. Selfidentifying racist messages to students of colour is at the forefront of this work. Uninterrogated 287

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Whiteness dominates all aspects of the classroom, extending from teaching to White students’ behaviours; transitional time, non-academic teacher talk and other unstructured time remain especially hazardous for students of colour in terms of receiving teacher-perpetuated racial microaggressions.

When racial microaggressions emerge and transgress The moments of opportunity to commit racial microaggressions seem to appear at particular instances during the class period. They are less likely to appear during direct instruction and more likely to appear during student work time or student-led activities where the teacher has less control of moment-to-moment involvement. Since aversive racists are afraid to show their racism and, instead, avoid situations where racism might occur, the avoidance of students of colour (aversive racism) appears in the unseen, unscheduled moments, much like the earlier journal entry describes. When structure is weak, guidelines are vague and judgment is undetectable, discrimination can occur (Gaertner & Dovidio, 2005). The unstructured moments are when my racism as a White teacher emerges, as described by finding two: transitional time, non-academic teacher talk and other unstructured time remain especially hazardous for students of colour in terms teacher-perpetuated racial microaggressions.

Uninterrogated Whiteness Throughout the entire month of September, I had been mispronouncing Phoenix’s (pseudonym) name both to the student personally and aloud to the class publicly, so I looked back at my original roster on the first day of school when I initially took roll. I wondered if I had ever made a note about the pronunciation of Phoenix’s name. I wanted to see if I had paid any attention at all. As it turns out, I did handwrite how to phonetically say Phoenix’s name. What I failed to do was follow-through and learn it, which shows more blindness than awareness on my part; it shows more uninterrogated Whiteness as a standard for my classroom operation. I did not feel the urgency to look back and check earlier. I somehow neglected learning Phoenix’s name, even though I obviously asked the student about it on the first day of school, and it revealed another problem. I asked students to remind me and correct me if I mispronounced their names and I made that announcement daily the first week, saying, “Keep reminding me if I mispronounce your name. Please keep correcting me and I’ll eventually learn it. I won’t be annoyed, I’ll be thankful.” My norm for interaction appears friendly and conscientious, but it functions almost like a sideways step into permitting me to keep committing racial microaggressions by expecting students to correct me. I always thought asking them to correct me somehow released me or excused me from making mistakes because I acknowledged I might have trouble. But really, it shows how little I care to make a real change because I can keep pronouncing names incorrectly. I likely have a fear of confronting my White privilege because it means addressing my responsibility for racism in my classroom. To acknowledge I am benefitting from the privilege of choosing whether or to not to change how I address students of colour’s names in the classroom proves there is White supremacy occurring there (Sue, 2011). The uninterrogated Whiteness I have sustained in the classroom means no one stops me, especially myself, so any error communicates an unfamiliarity and difference: it is another way to other Phoenix. Ultimately, it was my responsibility to pronounce names correctly. My constant mispronunciation was a verbal insult and an assumption of abnormality about the student. Phoenix 288

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did not correct me, I did not learn Phoenix’s name accurately, yet I placed the blame on the student for not reminding me. Not only that, but I also changed the spelling and pronunciation as if there was something wrong with it. Because I had now misspelled and mispronounced Phoenix’s (Latinx) name, I hesitated to even call on Phoenix for fear of making another mistake. For example, in the heart of class we were listening to Macbeth aloud and answering comprehension questions as we progressed through the play. I was at my desk running the CD through my computer and speakers which stands opposite to the side of the room in which Phoenix sits. When Phoenix raised a hand to answer a question, I nodded at Phoenix instead of saying the student’s name. Perhaps it would not have been so odd, except that I address everyone else by name when they answer a question or make a comment with a raised hand. This was completely about my unwillingness to make another error, but my reluctance was causing a different type of microaggression. I did not want to look bad, but I did not care enough to practice Phoenix’s name correctly. I engaged in a behavioural microinsult demonstrating my assumption of abnormality towards the student’s name and my discomfort with a language other than English. Because of my racially implicit bias, I unconsciously believe English names should be used. Because of my aversive racism, I am too scared to admit I did not pay close enough attention to use Phoenix’s correct name and I allowed myself to act differently (Sue, 2011). I have different expectations for myself and others, so nodding at a student somehow seemed acceptable rather than saying the student’s name like I normally would. Practicing Phoenix’s name was not a priority, even though I could have easily repeated it one afternoon on my drive home and perfected it. Instead, I only appeared to care in the moment when an error affected me and how I looked.

Hazardous non-learning time Non-learning time is hazardous for students of colour in terms of receiving racial microaggressions. The time before class begins, after class ends and the transition times between activities appears to contain opportunities for racist remarks and interactions to occur. Examples in the data include times when a student of colour asked me for the date and I did not look up to answer or when a student of colour inquired about missing assignments and I responded less encouragingly than I might to a White student. These are moments when I have pretended there is some other issue at play (e.g., a direct answer, but not a friendly one; missing assignments are a student’s responsibility). Instead, such neglect confirms “discrimination will occur when an aversive racist can justify or rationalize a negative response on the basis of some factor other than race” (Gaertner & Dovidio, 2005, p. 620). Hazardous non-learning time also includes moments of decision-making when students are not involved, such as determining how much effort to exert when tracking absentee students who miss assignments.

Teacher-warmth Often during the hazardous time periods, but not limited to them, are moments where I, as the teacher, am more accepting of off-task, disruptive, or non-academic behaviour from White students than from students of colour. Even students who interject ideas by interrupting one another receive a more positive response from me if they are White. I more closely identify 289

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with White students and was more lenient with them because of our in-group status (Dovidio et al., 2015). Though I would rationally argue I do not want to treat my White students differently, I seem to do it whether I want to or not (Bonilla-Silva, 1996).

How racial microaggressions emerge and transgress The first finding helped me determine how my racial microaggressions emerge and transgress: uninterrogated Whiteness dominates all aspects of my classroom, extending from my teaching to my White students’ behaviours. I found specific situations arose around my spelling and pronouncing names, my responding to student questions and how I limited or expanded opportunities for students. The most common microaggression was a behavioural microinsult pegging the student as a second-class citizen or viewing the student with an assumption of abnormality. The abnormality results when the researcher, a person of the dominant White culture acts as if her “norms, values, and approaches are the only ones – the right ones – …” (Katz, 2003, p. 121) and anything else appears strange or different. They can be loosely grouped into situations that highlight the moments of thoughts, decisions and actions that arise to encourage racial microaggressions. My own behaviours affect how students act towards one another, as well. I noticed if I allow White students to interrupt a presentation from a student of colour, I am less likely to correct their behaviour. If I allow White students to clap at the end of a presentation, but the student presenting was not actually finished yet, I have granted the White students of the class permission to exert their power over students of colour. If I appear annoyed by a question from a student of colour and somehow show exasperation, it seems as if I  give permission to White students to show exasperation towards that student as well. Such exasperation gives grace to both implicit and explicit beliefs and systems of superiority that White students inherit (Gross, 2011). Therefore, my microaggressive behaviours become part of the classroom fabric and my behaviour perpetuates the continuation and acceptance of racial microaggressions. Dangerously, my personal behaviour sets the tone as the norm for interaction. If it appears I have allowed racist or discriminatory behaviour on the part of myself or other students, it develops into an acceptable way to act day-to-day or moment-to-moment. I  consider such behaviour allowances between myself and White students relating to Dovidio et al.’s (1997) theory of in-group benefits. White students benefit or feel satisfied by following my patterns and I, in turn, (unconsciously) approve of their behaviours as members of the same group. Students appear to repeat and enhance the microaggressions I commit by repeating the patterns. For example, if I mispronounce a Latinx’s name and use what I consider to be an English substitution, then it seems to become acceptable for White students to also use an English substitution. Mispronouncing a Latinx student’s name, for example, upholds a pervasive US attitude that non-White names are unwelcome (Kohli & Solórzano, 2012). Another example is when I talked to White students and guessed a nickname; by itself it is not racially microaggressive, except that I do not share the same level of familiarity with students of colour. The classroom norm becomes one of friendliness and familiarity (read: warmth) towards White students that is not shared with students of colour. Shuffling a Black student’s paper to the back of the stack and the running out of time to talk to the student about her essay is an example of that student missing opportunity for feedback. Over the years, something like this has probably happened often enough to

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directly impact the student’s learning. I thought my reasoning for saving it until the end was to have more time rather than less time to discuss the errors, but if more time was necessary, I should have talked about it first, not last. This example demonstrates the student having absolutely no control of how poorly a teacher might treat them. Shuffling a paper is relatively untraceable, yet something like it day-in and day-out likely affects every facet of  learning. This  is  a prime example of aversive racism. Rather than admitting my discomfort with helping a Black student and acknowledging that discomfort directly, I found ways to avoid dealing with the student completely. I communicate different expectations for students based off race, and it is not always done subversively. For example, when I encouraged students to apply to a variety of public and private colleges because certain colleges might offer more aid to students of colour, I was asserting that the student of colour applicants were poorer than the White students. Also, not offering to display an Asian student’s essay up on the wall with the rest of the essays was a way to punish the student because it was going to be turned in late. These are examples of the disguised hegemony used to place White students at the advantage point (Picower, 2009). Acting as if the value of accomplished, individual hard work (Jones et al., 2013b) was somehow threatened because the student wasted time in class quietly gave me an excuse to put that student in a disadvantaged role of not allowing her essay to be displayed. Another time, I interrupted a Latinx student during a presentation to ask if his paper was finished. I did not ask everyone else if their papers were finished before they gave their presentations, but it was because I was assuming the Latinx student’s paper was not finished. I was demonstrating my different expectations based off race by dysconsciously doubting and questioning my Latinx student’s ability to finish on time.

Autoethnography to detect racial microaggressions Research question two asks what ways a White teacher can use autoethnography to detect and examine her racial microaggressions towards her students of colour. Sue et al.’s (2007) theory of microaggressions is durable enough to contain the daily microaggressions of the classroom. The biggest challenges include detecting microaggressions as the perpetrator and making time to record the transgressions as they occur in the moment. Learning to also create moments for reflection is possible, but it is a skill. The realisation that my practice is changing does two things. First, it reminds me that for the 62 microaggressive acts I noticed, there might be another 62 that went unnoticed. That is unsettling but expected; it is the ugly and uncomfortable element of revealing my racism for public and professional scrutiny. Critical self-reflexivity is the wholly personal side of the professional being. Complementing that is the second observation: the practice of trying to recognise microaggressions strengthens one’s ability to do so even more. It is not that I am altogether stopping racial microaggressions in my classroom, but the practice is helping me become better at recognising them more quickly and head them off. Practice is productive for cultivating an antiracist teaching identity. Matias (2016) declares White people as having a responsibility to enact racial change and such change stems from acknowledging race in the first place. She likened maintaining Whiteness as abuse, and I agree. I also agree that centring the White experience of a White subject might provide a worthless and self-indulgent catharsis that does not aid racial security (Leonardo, 2013). So, then, how do White teachers really change? Engaging with the internal work of applying social justice both personally and professionally (Abrams & Todd, 2011)

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inspires teachers to move forward with the work, as if it builds momentum. So, examining the self encourages more ongoing and relentless inspection. In terms of noticing race, White teachers must be actively combating racial microaggressions regardless of how ugly and uncomfortable it may feel, since unaddressed teacher racism creates hostility (Leonardo, 2002) in a classroom, anyway. So, one must confront it, or the alternative becomes confirming racism in the classroom. Sue (2011) identifies ways in which White people fear examining themselves and their race. Those fears include appearing racist, realising one’s racism, confronting white privilege and taking responsibility to end racism. One of the pitfalls of mitigating specific and personal changes is being wary of what I think is useful change for “us” in the classroom. I must watch that I am not deciding what is right for the collective us when there is no such thing; that would be assuming I know best for each race and centring my Whiteness in the middle of it all. I must consider that I have a White identity that may ultimately make it hard for me to see (Apple, 2003; Matias, 2016) what “we” need unless I continue to interrogate my White identity through reflective and reflexive practices (Freire, 1970). I do not want to become what Hayes and Juarez (2009) deem a White liberal who believes she deserves a “good White people’s medal” (p. 740), much like an aversive racist might function. Forging an antiracist teaching identity is not about persona, but, rather, it is a pursuit taking the form of a project rather than an image (Leonardo, 2013). White teachers like me often are unwittingly committing racial microaggressions in the classroom (Hytten & Warren, 2003; Sue et al., 2007) and part of combating institutionalised racism is interrupting those patterns of behaviour. To interrupt the pattern, teachers must first recognise those patterns of behaviour in themselves and acknowledge their roles in social and historical issues of power. It is not easy, per se, but it is in every way accessible. It is complex work with simple ingredients; to examine one’s own microaggressions in this aspect, one needs no special equipment, no special computer program, no special permission, no special recommendation. One unintended benefit of the research process is that I watched each class period for racial microaggressions, even though I was only writing about one. Also, I was reflecting on all aspects of the lesson, assessment, student interaction and experience and my own shortcomings as a professional alongside the microaggression focus. It was excellent professional development in terms of examining all elements of my practice as a teacher. Truly, I gave myself a wealth of data on many aspects of my teaching in addition to the racial microaggressions.

Conclusion A White teacher who can make the implicit become explicit, the obscure become obvious, the covert become overt is not solving racism, per se, but rather bringing racist practices and attitudes to light and solving some of the mystery of racism. The amelioration can begin when a teacher owns the vulnerability it takes to become a White ally. My findings support that it is possible to self-identify some racial microaggressions through autoethnography, which is encouraging since 83% of the US teaching force is White (NCES, 2017). White teachers can continue the important work of teaching students, but they can identify and transform their practice as they go, improving year after year instead of habitualising racist attitudes and practices. Revealing one’s own racism is ugly and uncomfortable, but altogether necessary for practical transformation of those charged with the enormous task of teaching children in a complicated, racialised society.

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References Abrams, E. M., & Todd, N. R. (2011). White dialectics as multidimensional, contextual, and transformational. The Counseling Psychologist, 39(3), 423–437. Adams, T. E., Jones, S. H., & Ellis, C. (2015). Autoethnography. Oxford University Press. Apple, M. W. (2003). Freire and the politics of race in education. International Journal of Leadership in Education, 6(2), 107–118. Bonilla-Silva, E. (1996). Rethinking racism: Toward a structural interpretation. American Sociological Review, 62(3), 465–480. Dovidio, J. F., Gaertner, S. L., & Saguy, T. (2015). Color blindness and commonality: Included but invisible? American Behavioral Scientist, 59(11), 1518–1538. https://doi.org/10.1177/00002764215580591 Dovidio, J. F., Kawakami, K., Johnson, C., Johnson, B., & Howard, A. (1997). On the nature of prejudice: Automatic and controlled processes. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 39, 510–540. Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the oppressed. Continuum. Gaertner, S. L., & Dovidio, J. F. (2005). Understanding and addressing contemporary racism: From aversive racism to the common in group identity model. Journal of Social Issues, 61(3), 615–639. Gross, J. P. K. (2011). Education and hegemony: The influence of Antonio Gramsci. In B. A. U. Levinson (Ed.), Beyond critique: Exploring critical social theories in education (pp. 51–79). Paradigm. Hayes, C., & Juarez, B. G. (2009). You showed people your Whiteness: You don’t get a “good” White people’s medal. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 22(6), 729–744. https://doi. org/10.1080/09518390903333921 Hytten, K., & Warren, J. (2003). Engaging Whiteness: How racial power gets reified in education. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 60(1), 65–69. Jones, S. H., Adams, T. E., & Ellis, C. (Eds.). (2013a). Handbook of autoethnography. Left Coast. Jones, J. M., Dovidio, J. F., Vietze, D. L. (2013b). Psychology of diversity: Beyond prejudice and racism. Wiley-Blackwell. Katz, J. H. (2003). White awareness: Handbook for anti-racism training. University of Oklahoma. King, J. (1991). Dysconscious racism: Ideology, identity, and the miseducation of teachers. Journal of Negro Education, 60(2), 133–146. Kohli, R., & Solórzano, D. (2012, May 26). Teachers, please learn our names!: Racial microagressions and the K-12 classroom. Race, Ethnicity and Education, 15(4), 1–22. https://doi.org/10.1080.13613324.20 12.674026 Leonardo, Z. (2002). The souls of white folk: Critical pedagogy, Whiteness studies, and globalization discourse. Race, Ethnicity and Education, 5(1), 29–50. https://doi.org/10.1080/13613320120117180 Leonardo, Z. (2013). Whiteness as technology of affect: Implications for educational praxis. Equity and Excellence in Education, 46(1), 150–165. Matias, C. E. (2016). “Why do you make me hate myself?”: Re-teaching Whiteness, abuse, and love in urban teacher education. Teacher Education, 27(2), 194–211. https://doi.org/10.1080/10476210.2015 .1068749 Mertens, D. M. (2014). Research and evaluation in education and psychology. Sage. Mezirow, J. (1998). On critical reflection. Adult Education Quarterly, 48(3), 185–199. Moule, J. (2012). Cultural competence: A primer for educators. Wadsworth. National Center for Education Statistics. (2012). Fast facts: Teacher trends. http://nces.ed.gov/fastfacts/ display.asp?id=28 National Center for Education Statistics. (2017). Total number of public school teachers and percentage distribution of school teachers, by race/ethnicity and state: 2011–12. https://nces.ed.gov/surveys/sass/tables/ sass1112_2013314_t1s_001.asp Picower, B. (2009). The unexamined Whiteness of teaching: How White teachers maintain and enact dominant racial ideologies. Race Ethnicity and Education, 12(2), 197–215. Sandlin, J. A., Wright, R. R., & Clark, C. (2011). Reexamining theories of adult learning and adult development through the lens of public pedagogy. Adult Education Quarterly, 63(1), 3–23. Sensoy, O., & DiAngelo, R. (2012). Is everyone really equal? An introduction to key concepts in social justice education. Teacher’s College Press. Sue, D. W. (Ed.). (2010). Microaggressions in everyday life: Race, gender, and sexual orientation. John Wiley & Sons.

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25 AUTOETHNOGRAPHY AS ACTIVISM Social media, influence, and community building Ceceilia Parnther Introduction As is acknowledged throughout the handbook, autoethnography is “an approach to research and writing that seeks to describe and systematically analyze (graphy) personal experience (auto) in order to understand cultural experience (ethno)” (Ellis et al., 2011, p. 1) The tradition is an exercise in reflection, culture, and communal analysis. The experience of self-reflection and deep critical work centering self demonstrates awareness, vulnerability, a commitment to situating personal knowledge, often in the service of activism and connectedness (Adams et al., 2017). The techniques center identity and invite the community to interrogate and engage with their own experiences (Adams et al., 2017; Are, 2021; Boylorn, 2018). Autoethnographic roots are foundationally narrative traditions that across the world had existed long before rules of rigor placed expectations on cultural and social phenomena and cannot be contained in a traditional sense (Bhattacharya & Kim, 2018; Griffin, 2012). Research on social media and autoethnography is emergent but is rapidly increasing (Atay, 2020; Atherton, 2020; Brown, 2019; Dunn and Myers, 2020) for several reasons. First, technology is embedded in everyday life. Second, digital natives see social media as a natural extension of their lived experiences and become more prevalent in autoethnography (Atay, 2020, Atherton, 2020). Third, the impacts of social movements often felt on college campuses, and in my role as an assistant professor of higher education leadership, I bear witness to the power of activism using social media and hear the stories from various stakeholders. National media outlets regularly look to social media to craft a story based on the curated posts of activists and storytellers who seek to shed light on social issues, and the global reach of the internet only amplifies this opportunity. Often, silos, resource limitations, and context cloud shared understanding. Compelled by personal stories, captured using visual, audio, and text elements, groups, are spurred to collective action (Lantz et al., 2016). There are incredible scholars making sense of this work. I find myself needing new ways to make sense of the role social media data plays in the stories we tell about ourselves, the ways we position ourselves digitally and face to face, and how these are represented in understanding how online communities and social media function as narrative, is a promising step in meaning making. I am inspired by scholars of digital autoethnography

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-29

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(Atay, 2020), critical autoethnography (Adams et al., 2017; Atherton, 2020; Boylorn & Orbe 2020; Holman Jones, 2016), social media ethnography (Postil & Pink, 2012), negotiation of digital structures and realities (Barassi, 2017), decolonising autoethnographic methodology (Bhattacharya, 2018), and democratic participation (Hoffman, 2016). I also acknowledge the activists, communities, students, and colleagues who continue to change and shape how I think of these concepts. As a Black, cisgender woman in the United States whose multiplicity of identity shows up in visually identifiable and culturally invisible ways, I walk in the discomfort of racially fraught spaces despite privilege. The stories and studies that reinvigorated social movements were painful, redemptive, and curious. In particular, the murder of George Floyd, the racially disproportionate survival outcomes of the COVID-19 pandemic, and the racialised and economised inequities experienced in a rapidly automated and technological environment have shaken my core. Academics often accept norms to participate in the exercise of academia and its perceived rights and privileges. I am no different. The options for someone in my position are few: be outspoken in exemplifying truth to power, work within systems in an attempt to change systems, or passively acquiesce, enjoying the privileges that come with being seen as nonthreatening, either in stature, voice, or study. Despite the clear, liberating voices of brave and resolute autoethnography (Griffin, 2012), I have admittedly used every choice. Boylorn (2013) describes the dichotomy best in her autoethnography, including her life and work as a blogger and activist as being pulled in two directions, one insisting that I keep my mouth shut when other people were around, and the other requiring that I live my life with my mouth open. My audience further shifted from family members to an academic audience. (p. 74) This came to a climax when I took on dissertation mentorship and worked with students who felt confined by traditional requirements of demonstrating rigor, objectivity, and analysis. I wanted better for them. For marginalised communities, this challenge abounds. Bhattacharya and Kim (2018) articulate a related struggle as they challenge the qualitative discipline to become culturally expansive enough to consider how knowledge derives from cultural traditions that disrupt standard Westernised expectations of rigor and process. The work aligns with my articulation of the courage necessary for authenticity in qualitative research. There is power in the representation and possibilities of cultural ways of knowing. Using his own story through an analysis of six months of Twitter posts and related engagement methods, Atherton (2020) sees his study, and digital autoethnography, as emancipatory for teachers who many seek to express themselves as they navigate a global pandemic and surge of technological change. The resulting empowerment impacts activism and expands understanding. Mai and Laine’s (2016) autoethnographic study on blogging activism and micropolitics for women in Tunisia and Vietnam is one such example, as they “consider the dynamics of oppression and resistance in the context of daily concerns, intergenerational encounters and conflicts, and the shaping of a global identity” (p. 895) using constructed meaning making of Facebook posts, Facebook groups, and Tumblr posts. Given the flexibility and nuance of autoethnographic strategies, engaging in these studies requires the courage and trust of researchers to create possibility models inclusive of culture and community. The hope is that the resulting experience is a story of survival, change, and joy in the academy. Pillay’s (2020) essay highlights the growing chasm between social media’s 296

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reach and open expression in activism while acknowledging the gaps in understanding between the academic community and a growing population of scholars committed to diversifying knowledge production. Activism in autoethnography aligns social justice and transformational qualitative pedagogy, feminist paradigms, and critical theories. Social media platforms as data offer a technological solution to gains and shifts in knowledge over time, both as a record of behavior or a suggestive tool. Digital communities offer solace and respite (Mai & Laine, 2016; Orth et  al., 2020; Tanksley, 2019) to many marginalised communities, in many cases fortifying them with spaces for joy and release that are at times unavailable. Tanksley’s (2019) dissertation study of the impact of social media and activism found that amid such movements, including #sayhername, #BlackLivesMatter, and Black women, college students use social media and the resulting online communities as places of social support, empowerment, and visibility. Online community involvement has grown exponentially as well as the protests for divestment, improved living conditions, academic programs, racial and gender discrimination, and financial support. Social media companies are aware of the power of these communities, and the most popular of these embed community language in guidelines and descriptions of the platforms.

The power of community in activism There is a broader personal history to my collective awareness. Personal testimony has long been instrumental in my life. Praise reports were a tradition growing up in a charismatic Christian household. These are best described as individual stories of resilience against all odds, offering hope that faith would provide no matter the circumstance. These stories were told with a flourish. Wearing their Sunday best, my elders would wait patiently for their opportunity to share. Even as a child I could recall the storytelling cadence. The beginning struggle or difficult circumstance, followed by the crossroad or moment all hope was lost, a glimmer of hope, the choice to seek God, and concludes with the blessing that eventually flowed forth. Whether supporting struggling families, protesting racial injustices, or offering familial capital to those lacking, these stories were a foundation for progress. The resultant victories offered hope to keep going even through insurmountable odds in these churches. The message was clear. No matter what, faith and perseverance lead to freedom and victory. Call and response fervently urged the congregation to engage: Call:  God is good Response:  All the time Call:  And all the time Response:  God is good

I remember the excitement of these stories as a child, yet also feeling nervous, as if someone would ask me to stand and share God’s goodness at any moment. The support within the room was beautiful but also asked a vulnerability of me that I could not provide. However, it was easy to find my way; the outline came in the form of a song I hear as loudly now as I could then: When I look back over my life And I think things over I can truly say that I’ve been blessed I’ve got a testimony 297

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Sometimes I couldn’t see my way through But the Lord He brought me out Right now I’m free I’ve got the victory I’ve got a testimony I have a testimony –Clay Evans “I Got a testimony” My formative years consisted of this tradition at least once a week. I have mixed emotions about its utility. I found myself questioning my loyalty to my faith traditions regularly because of my life’s circumstances, my inability to be vulnerable, to demonstrate the unflappable strength and martyrdom often performed by Black women, and ultimately, to submit my fear and struggles to prayer. Yet, despite my inability to give back, the prayers and stories from those memories are currency in my life, providing encouragement and trust in me no matter the circumstance. This fortification did not require an academic term yet remains as meaningful a lesson as I have ever known. As a community member, I’ve inherited these stories, and I am indebted, recognising a personal responsibility to show up for the community. The value of storytelling and community stories that elicit loyalty, create change, and inspire hope will never leave my subconscious. These stories often occur face to face, yet parallels exist in the comfort of oral tradition and digital narrative (I now use social media to make sense of honor I bestow on church elders while unpacking the racialised and gendered complexities of these faith traditions). Today, I can connect with former members of my “church homes,” supporting community causes, laughing at memes that depict the culture of our shared upbringing. Facebook pictures of church trips are a source of comfort and feel like a breach of privacy. Social media shifts in ways that include online communities and digital diaries. The resultant data, evidence of revisiting memories and documenting experiences depict these complexities. Dating myself as a MySpace user and LiveJournal lurker, I have witnessed the evolution of the online community. Users collect artifacts representing their feelings at the time and context in both examples. Timestamps allow a captive audience to lock into the story, navigating through as quickly as new content is posted. Social media provides a textbook definition of cultivating a story in all of its decadence. Influencers are paid to curate lives of aspiration. Indeed, these are often embellished to seem idyllic but remain effective. Successful storytellers find a niche or position and lean into that content. These feelings seep into everyday lives, the personal and professional, and can impact activism. Naturally, autoethnographic methods and the resultant analysis of naturally occurring events in an organic social, cultural, and political context is well suited to this structure (Atherton, 2020). More than ever, social media offers connectivity, providing community and space for expression formerly limited by geographic bounds (Tanksley, 2019). For some, these bonds represent the only safe outlet for self-expression. Technology has become so ubiquitous that it has developed unique cultural identities with rules and expectations (Atay, 2020). Technological connectedness has been a balm for many who could not connect based on identity (Tanksley, 2019). Community builds passion and belief that we are greater together than apart and is a foundation of activism. Faulkener’s (2019) autoethnography uses poetry and vignettes to offer propositions that echo collective response’s influence. The study’s vignette describes activism addressing racist and sexist behavior at a university. The study surmises that (1) Autoethnographic stories can make people feel shame (pathos); (2a) Shame is one way to get those in power to act (ethos); 298

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(2b) Shame, fear, and rage are closely related; and (3) We can use autoethnography to shame those in power to do the right thing (logos) (p. 555). In this study, public acknowledgment and collective rage resulted in change. Cultural and community support and the amplification of problems in the online setting has created unprecedented opportunity to research the impact of lived experience and behavior mediated in the digital environment. Across the globe, current events demonstrate the power of social media in activism, advocacy, and research. The power of social media activism has quickly spread to higher education. Autoethnography as influence is primed to transform civility education through social media engagement (Gale & Wyatt, 2019). As with testimony and influence, social media relies on personal connection and storytelling. Activism is, therefore, empowered by the autoethnographic account. The tradition “speaks against or provide alternatives to, dominant, takenfor-granted and harmful cultural scripts, stories or stereotypes” (Adams et  al., 2017, p. 3). When this criticality is enmeshed in a methodological opportunity, it is wise to explore its potential as fully as possible. Young and McKibban (2014) use collective autoethnography to describe the experience of developing a Safe space training at a Midwest university. While a dated example, the study is helpful in organisationally guiding the reader through intentional meaning-making. The authors name the problem of marginalisation and homophobia. This study plainly states intention, an activist call to action, within its purpose. The study oscillates between authors, offering their perspectives, challenges, and relational proximity to developing the training, supporting participants, navigating professional feedback, and collaboration. The authors reiterate this call to action throughout their narratives and analysis using relational dialectic theory. While this example did not use social media, the study demonstrates activism, autoethnographic study, and a call that empowers a community, as activists acknowledged in more recent studies (Are, 2021). Given the communities of support for coalition builders online, there is much to gain from engaging social media as an effective autoethnographic tool. Are’s (2021) autoethnography of shadowbanning and censoring nudity on Instagram is one such example. She was inspired by activism addressing censorship, particularly in the disproportionality of banning sexuality in social media content disproportionately affecting “women, athletes, educators, artists, sex workers, the LGBTQIA+ community and people of color” (p. 3). Social media outlets targeted restrictions on whose bodies are acceptable to display and in what ways had personal and professional implications for anyone choosing to express themselves. The author’s experiences were depicted in sample posts to her followers via Instagram, where she experienced shadowbanning. The engagement metrics were also captured based on specific post content. In addition, her experience was captured on major news outlets around the world, during which time the #EveryBODYVisible hashtag campaign emerged to challenge the policing of select bodies. Are’s (2021) study demonstrates the risks, consequences of shadowbans, and implications for content creators, offering community and research that further challenges the status quo using her own social media data and experience. Social media as dataset, culture, and community provide a great opportunity, yet navigating content is often unclear. I use a personal story to highlight some of the tensions that autoethnography may experience in this work. Perceived influence Twenty “ish” years ago, I worked as an associate for a video dating service. We sold upscale dating packages. Vintage commercials for their services are used as the punchline for jokes on YouTube. The job was to conduct one on one interviews/sales pitches 299

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to singles in search of partners. The office was fancy, which might be called moody academia in current aesthetics. From allowable office décor, the sales script, and the way we dressed, every decision was selected to depict an exclusive atmosphere. I was the only Black employee at that branch. I was, by far, the largest woman by stature. Circumstances had long ago made going home an impossibility, and reentering that community of support felt impossible. A public family tragedy moved me farther and farther from the resilience narrative that was the fortification of my youth. I had no testimony. I needed a job. I equated professionalism with what I saw online … at that time that meant wearing business professional, tamed hair, speaking softly, not making waves. I straighten my hair. A diet of Ephedra pills, one boiled egg, almonds, a salmon filet or chicken à la George Foreman grill, and unlimited spinach kept my weight down. I went to thrift stores and purchased three blazers and three shells. I was ready. Not knowing what I was doing made me commit to looking the part and doing what I had to do to represent success. So I laughed away personal criticisms of differences, now becoming the punchline of jokes that come in these types of environments. Content creators and researchers who seek audiences (admittedly or not) curate a style, design, and way of being. Lee and Pausé’s 2016 collaborative ethnography illustrates the significance of accepting the stigma of fatness in the healthcare community. Their research identifies the dismissive nature of many healthcare professionals who dismiss healthcare concerns and focus only on size, as defined by a system that ignores differences in diverse populations. The office was designed to make potential clients feel unique and highly selective in the workplace example. The salespeople were expected to represent an ideal I did not possess. It was a sales tool. As with the job, social media often runs the risk of selling personality at the expense of an authentic story. Using digital artifacts, autoethnography balances feeling and representation. Nevertheless, authenticity always rears its head. Hiding cannot last forever; eventually, life and research demand learning into vulnerability. Vulnerability A certain nervousness comes from having someone peer over your shoulder. I remember the slight chill that would take over my body when I knew I was being “shopped”, a sales phrase that meant a manager was pretending to be a client, or listening in to my sales pitch. Cool beads of sweat would slowly trickle down my spine before speaking. I’d take a deep breath and say a silent prayer that evidence of my nervousness would not appear as wet marks on the back of my blouse. Supervisors looked for the same things, confidence and exclusivity, enthusiasm, persistence, and above all, adherence to the script. As a Black woman in this space, I had to balance demonstrating an exclusiveness that was not extended to my being. More clearly, what I mean is that we were expected to create a selective and luxurious environment, but I also had to demonstrate that I knew my place and would defer to clients who might demean or outright dismiss me. I was often given potential clients who were unlikely to choose the service, find potential matches, or meet our very loose requirements. The sales shops were evidence that we were performing the job effectively. An intercom was placed in each office so that the sales team could listen in on a client interview at any given time. A manager required me to speak with a potential client who had no intention of purchasing the service and public history of violence towards women. Later, I was told that I could use the practice. 300

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There was a significant vulnerability in demonstrating competence in this example. In research, there is a desire to demonstrate competency and success. Autoethnography as activism in social media forces the author to risk showcasing strengths, challenges, and positions. The method itself is often challenged and dismissed as selfish. At once, autoethnography lay bare the need for introspection and the introspection itself. Incorporating social media catalogs shared identity sometimes chronologically opens researchers up to scrutiny and can blur the lines between personal and professional. Naming this reality may help to liberate analysis and to recognise the sacrifices necessary to use this data, including shame, discomfort, and, in some cases, reputation. In addition, the problem addressed by a researcher activist may become a target, with those seeking to oppose a given position now equipped with enough information to launch personal attacks. Social media adopters often mitigate these risks by leaning on a good representation of themselves to influence or manage outside perceptions. Filter: The Tissue I recall a conversation where a district manager visited the office and coached – the district manager sitting across from one of my colleagues at a small, round table. Following a short sample sales pitch we all watched, he immediately started launching rapid-fire insults about her performance and experience. I was surprised to see this publicly and admittedly a bit nervous. I watched as she attempted to defend herself, and then she began to shrink in the chair. Her eyes welled up with tears. I remember watching her reach for a box of tissues at a small, round table separating her and the manager. It seemed like a split second; the manager grabbed the box of tissues, pushed his chair back, and stood up with them. Without comforting my colleague, he explained that when you force a client to consider the worst in themselves, and they demonstrate weakness (meaning feelings of inadequacy, frustration, or sadness) – the vulnerability becomes an opportunity to sell. He explained that it is in our nature to reach for tissues as my colleague had. To wipe away the evidence of our vulnerability. If the tissues are not there, vulnerabilities remain. From that day on, I knew two things, I could no longer keep tissues in the office, and I could not continue to work for the company shortly after lawsuits uncovered the realities of the business based on misrepresentation, exorbitant costs, and the potential risks for participants. Social media is often representative of an ideal image. Profile pictures and bios are a digital representation of putting your best face forward. During this time, my Friendster and AOL messenger account profiles were idyllic. The rare emotional expression usually came by changing my bio to vaguely melancholy song lyrics. Social media represented hope and promise, and, at first, the vulnerability was unnecessary. The most difficult times in my life were captured through a filter suggesting everything was fine until I could find meaningful community. It was not until national news captured the realities of my former workplace that I began engaging with online communities of former employees with similar experiences. The tissue represents techniques creators use to soften, filter, or strengthen emotion. As ugly as the analogy is, revisiting stories for analysis through a filtered lens runs the risk of edited memories, even intraditionally accepted settings. Atherton (2020) describes the role of the online persona, stating “the self can be virtual but complementary to the physical self ” (p. 51). While it is human nature to revise personal stories, social media data offer a glimpse into feelings or interactions at a given point and time. In autoethnography, researchers must reflect on these in honest ways, which cause as little harm to the individuals who represent characters in the story. 301

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Ethics Social media content demands essential ethical considerations for autoethnographic work (Ellis, 2007; Taylor & Pagliari, 2018). Sharing participants’ reactions or content data without consent is an increasing ethical challenge (Lee, 2018). The nature of both social media and social justice activism represent personal decisions that supporting characters may not be comfortable sharing in the academic publication may be an unwelcome disclosure (Orth et al., 2020). Individuals who feel safe in a social group may speak with candor, may disclose information that they usually would not. Although their contributions are a part of an autoethnography collective story, the right to share those stories, voices, and images in the name of research is more complex (Ellis, 2007). In addition, the unveiling of a study rooted in activism and disclosing challenges may change the nature of the group itself, a consequence that has disproportionate consequences for marginalised groups. Finally, specific considerations go beyond traditional notions of protecting human subjects (Ellis & Calafell, 2020). The following are 10 concerns that are especially useful when working with the data of online communities. 1 . Under what pretenses will the researcher engage the group? (Ellis & Calafell, 2020) 2. Do I have the permission of an individual or group to include them in a research study? (Ellis, 2007) 3. How will social media data be used in the context of the project? (Pearce et al., 2020) 4. What is considered public vs. private? (Taylor & Pagliari, 2018) 5. How does the research define the differences between personal content and collaborative content? (Boylorn, 2018; Ellis, 2007) 6. How is the representation of group data essential for data collection? (Ellis & Calafell, 2020) 7. What steps are taken to inform individuals of their inclusion and related impacts in the study? If none, why not? (Townsend & Wallace, 2016) 8. What steps have I taken to keep unwitting participants safe? (Ellis, 2007) 9. How, if at all, will online community participation be impacted by the researcher’s data gathering and analysis? (Pearce et al., 2020) 10. How do I distinguish analysis of textual, aural, and visual data and the relationships within and between each? (Pearce et al., 2020). Brown (2019) uses a computational digital autoethnographic methodology to mitigate additional risks inherent in revisiting digital presence, analyzing her own social media posts over eleven years. She urges autoethnography considering using social media to make rigorous and demonstrated efforts, including a computation to place appropriate values on audio, video, and textual data. Dunn and Myers (2020) contend that digital autoethnography by design requires the analysis of navigating digital identity. For example, their study navigated the impact of co-authoring a romantic relationship on a social media platform. The study is a reminder that co-autoethnography in the digital space has its own set of challenging parameters of data use, explicitly using the communication to highlight impact, change, or design. Other researchers’ focus on data usage in ways that mitigate representation issues, such as using metrics and social media data chronologically (Are, 2021). The ability to do this is dependent on the social media in use. For example, while tools like Instagram, Facebook, Reddit, and TikTok build in chronological mechanisms for achievable, buildable storytelling (Orth et al., 2020; Walker Rettberg, 2014), communities such as Clubhouse and Snapchat are more temporary locations for content, with derived data more often represented as observation data. 302

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Still, other researchers choose to outline the challenges of autoethnography in the digital world clearly. Boylorn (2013) provides an early accessible example of authentically understanding the overlap I describe. Auto/ethnography as a method allows me to write (about/for) my life and to make sense of it. Blogging allows me to do that in a more open space, which jeopardizes my anonymity but creates a larger public space for the kinds of conversations auto/ ethnography should instigate. (p. 2013) In her work, she describes the expansion of her community, and the personal responsibility she feels to “take house business to the streets” (p. 80). The span of Boylorn’s reach and accessibility as a blogger and activist is significant. In her work, she named the duality or content she creates, recognises the risks inherent in coupling both and actively chooses to do so in the name of activism. As an academic, author of the Crunk feminist collective blogger and online community, and a Black Feminist, she uses a cultural lens to make meaning out of her experiences and identities in a larger cultural context. Pearce’s (2020) autoethnographic study sheds light on the unique experiences marginalised groups face while surviving and researching traumatic, yet all too common occurrences within the community. Her case study provides a reflection addressing the secondary trauma as a researcher of trans peoples’ experiences in healthcare. Her own provides a care-centered framework that implores education to develop mechanisms for increased support as researchers navigate cultures, bodies, and circumstances subjected to trauma. Her work is a reminder of the labor inherent in these studies and offers suggestions such as advocating for additional supervisory community space collaborative and social systems to be responsive to the trauma that disproportionality impacts marginalised students (Pearce et al., 2020). When considering activists’ work, a duty of protection for self and the communities impacted in disclosure and amplification of contributions must be handled with care.

Conclusion Autoethnography will increasingly include reflections on and artifacts from social media. Higher education can benefit from these practices from multiple viewpoints. Leadership, in conception, development, and sustainment, requires intentional reflection. Social media provides a mirror to aid in understanding the varied viewpoints that converge to change over time. As in the examples of activism understanding social justice in the college, context must include these expressions using data gathered from social media content. Similarly, understanding the student experience through narrative data captured in social media expression is essential in harnessing the fiery passion and action that often leads to social change. Social media also provides connection and autoethnography aids in understanding the role of connection in organising and liberating thoughts around identity and social position. The democratising opportunities to share individual stories in online communities are captured and memorialised as evidence of perspective-shifting, understanding differences, and demanding change. The studies highlighted in the chapter offer evidence of these developments, enhancing commitment to social justice. Community reflections in autoethnography allow researchers the opportunity to add depth, spurred by the aided recall of data captured and affirmed in the online environment. 303

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Using my own experiences, I have attempted to demonstrate how autoethnography is malleable using personal lived experience and experiences to connect my cultural reality and societal frameworks. The connections I navigate, expectations I straddled, and communities I honor are represented using social media memories I can easily recall. As a research tool, the medium allows the First to connect with the naming of individual stories with the nuance and context they deserve. Next, these data allow the researcher to reconnect with communities of shared experience, related literature, and theoretical frameworks where applicable. The data also represent authenticity in commitment to social justice, freedom, and authentic joy. Issues impacting marginalised populations are often unsafe positions to hold publicly, and there is a sense of responsibility to make safe choices. Autoethnography by design is a method of emancipation. Personal data analysis aids in studying cultural norms, traditions, pedagogy, and social action even when it may not be safe to do so. For example, social media data give a descriptive record of actions that support and strengthen groups in activist contexts to understand the response to recent educational events. Reflection using social media can be tremendously effective, especially those willing to share their own experiences to inform change. A willingness to engage in a rigorous, ethical, and identity-centered process significantly benefits higher education and those seeking to support social justice initiatives.

References Adams, T. E., Ellis, C., & Jones, S. H. (2017). Autoethnography. The International Encyclopedia of Communication Research Methods, 1–11. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118901731.iecrm001 Atay, A. (2020). What is cyber or digital autoethnography? International Review of Qualitative Research, 13(3), 267–279. https://doi.org/10.1177/1940844720934373 Are, C. (2021). The Shadowban cycle: An autoethnography of pole dancing, nudity and censorship on Instagram. Feminist Media Studies, 1–18. https://doi.org/10.1080/14680777.2021.1928259 Atherton, P. (2020). My social autoethnography: How one teacher educator used digital communication to help tell his own stories. Teacher Education Advancement Network Journal, 12(1), 48–64. Barassi, V. (2017). Ethnography beyond and within digital structures and the study of social media activism. In Meikle, G., ed. The Routledge companion to digital ethnography (pp. 432–441). Routledge. Bhattacharya, K. (2018). Contemplation, imagination, and post-oppositional approaches carving the path of qualitative inquiry. International Review of Qualitative Research, 11(3), 271–285. https://doi. org/10.1525/irqr.2018.11.3.271 Bhattacharya, K., & Kim, J. H. (2018). Reworking prejudice in qualitative Inquiry with Gadamer and de/colonizing onto-epistemologies. Qualitative Inquiry. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800418767201 Boylorn, R. M. (2018). Writing lesson (s). In International perspectives on autoethnographic research and practice (pp. 228–233). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315394787-20 Boylorn, R. M. (2013). Blackgirl blogs, auto/ethnography, and crunk feminism. Liminalities: A Journal of Performance Studies, 9(2), 73–82. Boylorn, R. M., & Orbe, M. P. (Eds.). (2020). Critical autoethnography: Intersecting cultural identities in everyday life. Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780429330544 Brown, N. M. (2019). Methodological cyborg as black feminist technology: Constructing the social self using computational digital autoethnography and social media. Cultural Studies↔ Critical Methodologies, 19(1), 55–67. https://doi.org/10.1177/1532708617750178 Dunn, T. R., & Myers, W. B. (2020). Contemporary autoethnography is digital autoethnography: A proposal for maintaining methodological relevance in changing times. Journal of Autoethnography, 1(1), 43–59. https://doi.org/10.1525/joae.2020.1.1.43 Ellis, C. (2007). Telling secrets, revealing lives: Relational ethics in research with intimate others. Qualitative Inquiry 13(1), 3–29. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800406294947 Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research, 36(4), 273–290. https://doi.org/10.12759/hsr.36.2011.4.273-290 Ellis, C. D., & Calafell, B. M. (2020). Toward praxis: Interrogating social justice within autoethnography. Journal of Autoethnography, 1(2), 203–207. https://doi.org/10.1525/joae.2020.1.2.203

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Autoethnography as activism Faulkner, S. L. (2019). Shaming as a Form of Social Activism: Autoethnographic Stories. Qualitative Inquiry, 25(6), 555–558. Gale, K., & Wyatt, J. (2019). Autoethnography and activism: Movement, intensity, and potential. Qualitative Inquiry, 25(6), 566–568. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800418800754 Griffin, R. A. (2012). I AM an angry Black woman: Black feminist autoethnography, voice, and resistance. Women’s Studies in Communication, 35(2), 138–157. https://doi.org/10.1080/07491409.2012.724524 Hoffman, D. M. (2016). Against all odds: The ethnography of hope among Haitian youth in difficult circumstances. In New Directions in Educational Ethnography. Emerald Group Publishing Limited. https:// doi.org/10.1108/S1529-210X20150000013001 Holman Jones, S. (2016). Living bodies of thought: The “critical” in critical autoethnography. Qualitative Inquiry, 22(4), 228–237. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800415622509 Lantz, M. M., Fix, R. L., Davis, B. L., Harrison, L. N., Oliver, A., Crowell, C., … & García, J. J. (2016). Grad students talk: Development and process of a student-led social justice initiative. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 9(3), 290. https://doi.org/10.1037/dhe0000033 Lee, C. (2018). Culture, consent and confidentiality in workplace autoethnography. Journal of Organizational Ethnography. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800418806608 Lee, J. A., & Pausé, C. J. (2016). Stigma in practice: Barriers to health for fat women. Frontiers in Psychology, 7, 2063. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2016.02063 Mai, Y., & Laine, S. (2016). Blogging activism of young educated and global women in Tunisia and Vietnam: a two-case study. Participation and Conflict, 9(3), 893–917. Orth, Z., Andipatin, M., Mukumbang, F. C., & van Wyk, B. (2020). Applying qualitative methods to investigate social actions for justice using social media: Illustrations from Facebook. Social Media+ Society, 6(2) https://doi.org/10.1177/2056305120919926 Pearce, R. (2020). A methodology for the marginalised: Surviving oppression and traumatic fieldwork in the neoliberal academy. Sociology, 54(4), 806–824. https://doi.org/10.1177/0038038520904918 Pearce, W., Özkula, S. M., Greene, A. K., Teeling, L., Bansard, J. S., Omena, J. J., & Rabello, E. T. (2020). Visual cross-platform analysis: Digital methods to research social media images. Information, Communication & Society, 23(2), 161–180. https://doi.org/10.1080/1369118X.2018.1486871 Pillay, S. R. (2020). The revolution will not be peer reviewed: (Creative) tensions between academia, social media and anti-racist activism. South African Journal of Psychology, 50(3), 308–311. https://doi. org/10.1177/0081246320948369 Postil, J., and S. Pink. 2012. Social media ethnography: The digital researcher in a messy web. Media International Australia, doi:10.1177/1329878X1214500114. Tanksley, T. C. (2019). Race, education and# BlackLivesMatter: How social media activism shapes the educational experiences of Black college-age women. Doctoral Dissertation. University of California, Los Angeles. Available from ProQuest Central; ProQuest Dissertations & Theses Global. (2248633345). https://jerome.stjohns.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/dissertations-theses/ race-education-blacklivesmatter-how-social-media/docview/2248633345/se-2?accountid=14068 Taylor, J., & Pagliari, C. (2018). Mining social media data: How are research sponsors and researchers addressing the ethical challenges? Research Ethics, 14(2), 1–39. https://doi.org/10.1177/1747016117738559 Townsend, L., & Wallace, C. (2016). Social media research: A guide to ethics. University of Aberdeen, 1, 16. https://www.bolton.ac.uk/assets/Uploads/Social-media-ethics-study-Aberdeen-2018.pdf Walker Rettberg, J. (2014). Seeing ourselves through technology: How we use selfies, blogs and wearable devices to see and shape ourselves. Springer Nature. https://doi.org/10.1057/9781137476661 Young, S. L., & McKibban, A. R. (2014). Creating safe places: A collaborative auto-ethnography on LGBT social activism. Sexuality and Culture, 18(2), 361–384.https://doi.org/10.1007/s12119-013-9202-5

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26 DECOLONISING FEMINISM IN CLASS An autoethnography of a Bangladeshi feminist woman Sharin Shajahan Naomi Introduction I came to know about decolonial feminism and decolonialisation of knowledge while doing my PhD. My thesis on feminism and Tibetan Buddhism was inspired by decolonial thoughts and written as a contribution to the decolonisation of knowledge. Definitely I never meant to create another binary and anti-Western category. I voiced for anti-colonial, non-binary and inbetween approaches to create alternative pathways for knowledge. When I started to teach feminism in university, I noticed that feminist discourse was not beyond the risk of colonial, racist and capitalist aggression. Decolonial feminism became an inspiration for me to teach feminism. As an emerging theoretical concept by Lugones (2008, 2010), decolonial feminism empowers the silenced voices of women from the Global South as well as indigenous groups and immigrant and black communities so that they can become agents in the production of the knowledge that is about them. Decolonial feminist theory is grounded on postcolonialism, postcolonial feminism, and decolonising knowledge to develop rigorous critique of Western knowledge and representation of non-Western categories in feminism. It aims towards breaking the hierarchy of white Western supremacy in interpreting women’s experience and bring equality between different perspectives. Autoethnography, which is a research method for connecting personal to political aspects of experience, has a similar purpose in terms of resisting colonial knowledge. From my experience of writing a PhD thesis as an autoethnography, I found that autoethnography can make decolonial feminism contextualised and localised. This is a requirement for its growth and expansion in feminist discourse. In this autoethnography, I share my experience of decolonising feminism for my female university students. This will illuminate what decolonial feminism means in teaching and what it looks like. My experience as a Bangladeshi woman who struggled against patriarchy, extremism and colonialism has shaped my teaching for the class. I also invoked a meaningful allyship with the West while resisting colonial and capitalist influence in feminism. My subjectivity in teaching “emerges as one comes to understand how structures of domination work in one’s life, as one develops critical thinking and critical consciousness, as one invents new, and alternative habits of being” (hooks, 1990, p. 15). Instead of holding fast to a fixed and categorised 306

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feminist perspective, I developed a bricolaged feminist perspective in my life which I translated into the decolonial spirit of teaching feminism.

Decolonial feminism and autoethnography Decolonial feminism presents the possibility of overcoming the coloniality of gender (Lugones, 2010, p. 747). Lugones (2010) presented decolonial feminism as resistance against coloniality of power within feminism. This power is the oppressive power of a capitalist world system of power and West-centered modernity. Modernity here indicates the attempts to control, by denying the existence of other worlds with different ontological presuppositions other than a particular category set up by Western discourse (Lugones, 2010, p. 749). Modernity appears when Europe affirms itself as the “center” of a World History that it  inaugurates; the “periphery” that surrounds this center is consequently part of its self-definition (Dussel, 1995). Decolonial feminism should not be used as a premodern category. It is certainly aware of positive sides of modernity. But it is concerned about the darker sides of modernity that is constituted by colonial relation. Decolonial feminist tasks begin by seeing the colonial difference between West and others, and emphatically resisting the epistemological habit of erasing the difference (Lugones, 2010, p.753). It decenters the Euro-American dominant position in feminist discourse, and emphasises contextual understanding and local and indigenous epistemologies as part of feminist politics. A critique of the complex system of colonialisation, capitalisms and heterosexualism and patriarchy are the heart of this practice. Discourse on decolonising feminism for teaching purpose dwells on the politics of knowledge, challenging individualistic and Eurocentric aspects of feminism, finding diverse voices, and the critique of new liberal education institutions (Jong et al., 2018). Studies show that higher education institutions in the United States normalises colonial legacies of racism, sexism and classism in the classroom through curriculum, teaching and supremacy of white academics (Davis, 2010; Kuokkanen, 2007; Museus et al., 2015). Here students are taught to reproduce colonial legacies when approaching any problem. It was found that a colonial approach through curriculum and teaching could make the students of colour feel alienated and disconnected from the teaching (Davis, 2010). Decolonisation of feminism for the classroom aims to address this disconnection, the dominance of white colonial epistemologies and the absence of voice of non-Western and non-white women. Decolonial feminism can become an organic process to let the students identify the colonial approaches in knowledge. It can be an instrument for claiming epistemic authority of non-Western and non-white women and including non-Western scholars and their perspectives in the course materials. However, my observation finds that decolonial feminism in teaching or in academia needs more situatedness. Since its origin was in a Latin American context, the oppressive structure under its framework could not go beyond racial, colonial, and capitalist aspects. More localisation and contextualisation will enrich decolonial feminism in terms of identifying layers of oppressive structure against gender equality, such as religious extremism, new forms conservatism and national politics. In this regard, autoethnography could be a starting point to invoke the situatedness of decolonial feminism in a particular context and in particular experiences. Since the emergence of postmodernism, autoethnography represents a new location and space for the voice, language and narrative of the marginalised voices (Holt, 2003;Lincoln & Denzin, 2003)). In autoethnography, a researcher analyses his or her experience to address 307

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the main themes of research (Ellis et al., 2011). Autoethnography shares a common purpose with decolonial feminism in challenging the coloniality of knowledge. The superiority of the Eurocentric perspective and the representation of others are at the heart of Western colonial ways of producing knowledge (Mignolo, 2009; Said, 1979). This colonial discourse is often referred to as authoritative efforts for maintaining European intellectual lineages, styles and narratives rooted in Greek and Roman classical ways, and later in the cult of the Enlightenment thinkers like Descartes and Kant (Mignolo, 2009). The intention behind this authoritarian approach to knowledge is to exclude others in the name of non-scientific knowledge. Besides critique from post-colonial scholars, Western discourse has also been subject to feminist critique due to its rigid characteristics and disconnection with spontaneous experience, emotions, real life’s language and communication (Metta, 2015). Difficulties with speaking in a colonial discourse is felt deeply by non-white third world women who are depicted as victims in the Western discourse (Spivak, 1988). In this constrained space, autoethnography provides an opportunity to speak from multiplicity, heterogeneity, plurality, and indeterminacy of meaning (Bordo, 1990; Tsalach, 2013). This methodology can form a resistance against binary ways of thinking and speaking under colonial discourse. Autoethnography can be a useful way to enter into large areas of social and political context through cultivating knowledge of a woman’s experiences (Heyer-Gray, 2001; Smith, 1992). As a research method, autoethnography can unpack the crisis of representation of this time, the complexities of “the interpretation of embodied and intersubjective knowledge” and multiple aspects of consciousness and self-consciousness that are personally and/or politically emancipatory (Ellis, 2002, p. 402). Choosing autoethnography as the research method inevitably brings some apprehensions regarding its credibility and validity. However, qualitative inquiry in social science and humanities has experienced a paradigm shift in the last 25 years through applying innovative research methods for questioning the positivist aspect of knowledge based on objectivity and scientific rationality (Taylor & Wallace, 2007). In this changing process, the claim of truth and validity has become partial, localised, and situated (Adams et al., 2015; Beer, 2003; Denzin & Lincoln, 2000; Holt, 2003; Spry, 2011). Writing autoethnography to further this goal is neither an innocent eclecticism nor without consideration of justice (King, 2006). Autoethnography can aptly capture politics of knowledge that decolonial feminism would like to explore as a part of resistance against colonial discourse. In decolonial feminism’s quest for voice of others and non-Western epistemologies, autoethnography’s role can be extremely supportive. In this chapter, by using autoethnography, I aim to situate decolonial feminism in the context of my personal experience as well as that of my teaching. I further aim to particularity and individuality link my ideas with local and global politics. In an autoethnographic voice, I will narrate my upbringing and my orientation to the Western liberal model of feminism and later my interest in the post-colonial feminist approach. There has been an inbetweenness in my life in terms of embodying Western liberal feminist ideas and post-colonial feminist strategies. This inbetweenness was reflected in teaching decolonial feminism and connecting personal journeys and realisations to the teaching. Here decolonial feminism becomes an organic process, an integration of feminism with bricolage feminist perspectives. I use this term to denote a special feature. Bricolage originates from a traditional French expression “bricoleur” that refers to craftspeople who can use materials left over from other projects to construct new artifacts or “bricolage” (Kincheloe, 2001; Rogers, 2012). Their style is different from the engineers who resorted to set procedures and a list of specific tools to complete their works. Through the stories of my life and class, I would like to show that in bricolage feminist perspectives, there remains no singular aspect or fixed feminist school of thought. The paths of these feminist perspectives are unfolded according to demands of 308

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time, space and fluid subjectivity. Its dynamic and changing nature reminds us of the nature of real-life feminism. In my autoethnography, decolonial feminism stands with these bricolage perspectives with a purpose to show the organic manifestation of decolonial feminism in an interwoven space of classroom and lives.

My life and teaching: decolonial feminism unfolds My parents have been extremely liberal in terms of allowing their daughter to grow up as an independent career woman in a country like Bangladesh where women’s traditional roles are customarily more celebrated and respected than any professional and academic achievements. My father had encouraged me to read books and newspapers on world politics since class six and my mother motivated me to be a woman who would prioritise career and education above everything. However, just like other Bangladeshi parents in general, they expected to see their daughter to fit in to society, marry and appear to be a good woman in the eyes of the community. In my childhood, I spend four years in Afghanistan during the Nazibullah government’s regime. Memories of that era and the relatively free lifestyle of the pre-Taliban regime are still fresh in my memory. When the Taliban took power for the first time in the 1990s and began the brutal oppression of women, I was in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Even though I was living far away from Afghanistan, as a woman I experienced a great terror. During that time, I felt strongly that my rights were not guaranteed in a third world country, as they could be sold or compromised in the name of religion and peace at any time. My fear escalated daily as I grew older and encountered increasing restrictions from family, society and schools. Those restrictions were reactions to the fear of lack of security and losing the image of a good girl in the community. I had little choice with regard to clothing style, lifestyle and even conversing about different topics. There were unwritten laws for women. Every woman from the middle class would know and maintain these laws. At some point, I developed a disgust for any societal and cultural norms related to gender. Sometimes, I would lose control and engaged in a heated debate with my relatives and friends. That gave me nothing but the title of an arrogant woman. My reaction was to develop a deep inclination for a Western lifestyle. While studying law, I felt extremely connected to liberal and radical feminism without any critique. After completing a bachelor’s degree in law, I started professional life as a researcher for a non-governmental organisation (NGO) that worked for women at the grassroots level in Bangladesh. That job opened a new journey for me through personal, financial and social independence. I had the opportunity to travel to many areas of Bangladesh that I had never visited before. Many of my friends were not allowed to have the privilege of travelling without parents or family members, even for professional purposes. As part of my field trips, I encountered the plight, struggle and dis-empowerment of rural women. I realised that I was confined in a Western liberal model of understanding women’s agency, choice, and independence. Instead of analysing women’s choice and agency through the dichotomous eyes of active/ passive, independent/dependent, empowered/victim, I noticed how women’s choice, agency and freedom mediated the existing cultural norms, values, relations and desire (Niyogi, 2011; Pande, 2015). In this regard, the relationship between active/passive, domination/oppression and choice became blurred and complex (Niyogi, 2011). My immense interest to study abroad and taste Western freedom took me to Australia to complete a master’s degree under the Australian Leadership Award. Initially I became highly excited and delighted to be myself, to wear whatever I wanted, and to talk openly without being afraid. Those good days lasted only 18 months! After completing my master’s, I had to return to Bangladesh in order to meet the conditions of the scholarship. After returning, 309

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I suddenly found myself to be in an alien place with a strange feeling of non-belongingness to my culture and community. Not only that, but I also started to adopt strange strategies to avoid attention in roads, which I never did before. For example, I started to cover my head while going out. I did not use a Hijab or veil. Instead, I covered my head with the same scarf with which we were supposed to use to cover our chest. There are some unwritten codes for evaluating women’s modesty in the community in Bangladesh (Azim, 2010; Jasim Uddin, 2015; Khan, 2014). These include maintaining a good woman’s image in the public and private spheres (e.g. not to argue with men and elders, not to have a loud voice while giving an individual opinion) and covering certain sensitive parts of the body (such as legs and breasts). “Purdah” is considered to be an expression of a high level of modesty, which is mostly practiced by covering the head and the chest. However, a Hijab is not a part of cultural codes of modesty, although in recent years the practice of Hijab wearing has been increased. Covering my head gave me lots of comfort and confidence to use public spaces. Covering my head also uplifted my status and credibility in my family and community. I pondered on the fragility of polarising the categories of active/passive or freedom of choice in an unconditional manner. I became aware of conditions, depth, levels, extents and fluctuations of these categories. My subjectivity under the postcolonial feminist approach could be considered as an inbetweenness of a female subject who negotiated with power for a strategic purpose (Gordan and Almutairi Areej, 2013). While white Western liberal feminism would judge my subjectivity as docile and submissive, a postcolonial feminist approach would consider it as a strategy or negotiation that decentered humanist notions of autonomy and reason. My strategic negotiation was temporary and fluid, and it vehemently challenged the fixed binary ways of thinking. Under Western intellectual knowledge, negotiation, compromise and compliance are constructed in opposition to “resistance”. For a Bangladeshi woman like me, however, negotiation can be very strategic if it is based on achieving certain goals that I desire. Obioma Nnaemeka has seen this negotiation as an exchange, a give and take with the opposition force and structure, a kind of strategic adaptability for gradual change in the long run (Nnaemeka, 2003). This phase of life, along with my doctorial work on decolonial knowledge and post-colonial feminism, had a profound influence on my venture for decolonising feminism when I began an academic job. I purposefully lived an invisible life for one and a half years. I then received a scholarship to study a PhD in Australia and I was more than happy to return to that country. But soon I fell into the despair of loneliness and financial struggle. Although I was surrounded by extremely kind and supportive people and happy to practise long hours of meditation, I began to feel tired. I realised freedom was conditional, even in the West. An illusion of having complete freedom collapsed. However, as a woman from the third world, freedom was more conditional to me than it was, for example, for white men and white women from the upper class. While writing an autoethnography for my PhD thesis, these issues were inevitably addressed. I found the Western liberal feminist discourse to be inadequate in critically analysing categories such as ‘freedom’ and ‘agency’ in the non-Western context and life. My PhD thesis became a resistance against Western colonial discourse and a voice for decolonising knowledge and epistemologies. After three and a half years, I had to return home from Australia. By that time, I realised that to the West, I am the other. To my community, by contrast, I had to fit in. After completing my PhD, I started my first academic job at an international women’s university in Bangladesh. Female students from 19 different countries of Asia were studying here. Suddenly, life changed drastically. This university’s multicultural environment made me feel at home. I began to wear Western clothes again, without having any fear of being judged. This time, I also included

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sharee (traditional Bengali dress) among my favorite attire. This phase was certainly unlike the one when I was covering head. My choice changed, depending on the circumstances. I loved teaching young feminist students who were very passionate to do something for the country and the world. I found a cause to live with contentment. Still my uprootedness made me feel that the longing of a Bangladeshi woman to connect with family and community cannot be ignored in the journey for empowerment and independence. This longing will be always there no matter how patriarchal the society and family appear. The Western model of individual feminism was useful, but it was to some extent illusionary in my life. A non-Western/Bangladeshi woman such as myself cannot live like a Western woman in her country even if she wants to do so. The surroundings will always make her feel alienated. There are so many paradoxes, contradictions, negotiations and compromises that I need to do which mean that my story cannot be read and understood from liberal Western binary models of thoughts. As an educator, my class lectures spontaneously started to address the post-colonial parts of feminist analysis and decolonisation of knowledge while talking about women’s real-life experience in a non-Western context. I found that students loved embodied teaching rather than abstract theoretical lecture. They could connect with my feelings from their contexts and experience. I began to notice that young students from different parts of Asia were unaware of colonial difference in knowledge. Just as I had been overwhelmed with white feminist discourse and lifestyle in my university days, they too, were having the same illusion. While I was teaching feminist history, I realised that white women’s supremacy was celebrated through considering the suffrage movement to be the first feminist movement in modern history. Rafia Zakaria has been critical about how white women tend to make themselves the first stars of feminist activism through the celebration of suffrage (Zakaria, 2021). Although I don’t accept Zakaria’s opinions on a binary non-white feminism, her view on some topics, such as suffrage and white women supremacy, were no exaggeration. I included black feminist suffragists and their views in the lecture and taught early-phase feminism with a critical awareness on race and class. In my teaching on first-wave feminism, I included both early liberal Western feminists and some women figures from history of South Asia who challenged gender stereotyping in that society. For instance, Queen Kalindi Rani was the only female leader and was the 46th ruler of the Chakma Circle (an indigenous group in Bangladesh). She ruled from 1832 to 1873. Whilst speaking about her to my class, I heard an indigenous girl’s excited voice: “I know her and heard her story.” When I included Begum Rokeya Sakhwat Hossain as one of the early feminists on the Indian subcontinent, girls demonstrated extraordinary interests on the topic. Her life shows that it is possible to be a feminist in the community and in connection with family. Feminism, family, marriage and community need not be in an oppositional relationship for empowering women. She was considered to be radical in her time. Her strategic methods of female liberation made sense to many girls in the class. I was looking for easy readings for the students. One American academic advised me to include books by bell hooks as primary readings for feminism. I included her book Feminism is for everybody: Passionate politics as one of the core texts for the class (hooks, 2000). Besides Rosemary Tong’s work, her books became mandatory reading for the class. Students loved them. Her radical, yet simple style of writing generated more interest in feminism. Their vision to change the society became more intersectional and strategic in nature. Owing to the students’ growing interest, I included discussion of recent cases of women rights every week. My students’ duty was to find out news about women’s issues from the newspaper and discuss it in the class. For research, I choose topics such as inheritance rights and

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purdah (the wearing of the veil). As a result, there was an engaging and enthusiastic debate on women’s choice in terms of having equal inheritance rights and wearing the veil. I suggested to them that they should have more deconstructive approaches to understand women’s narratives, appreciate multiple perspectives and not reduce the complexities of choice to a linear narrative or binary thoughts. Some students said that they understood why women would negotiate with family and culture through giving up property rights so that she could receive the support of the brothers in return; or why a woman would accept their family’s decision for her to wear the veil so that she could have the permission to go out. We never accepted these aspects as a general picture, an idealised circumstance or a counter grand narrative. Rather, we aimed to find more heterogeneity in these issues. While choosing feminist literatures on complexities of choice, I always emphasised the contexts from where these works originated. For example, feminist works on Muslim women’s agency on the veil. Some feminist works like the one by Saba Mahmood where Muslim women’s agency was reconfigured and identified in choosing the veil was based on a particular context and time of Egypt (Mahmood, 2005). These types of works should be examined with an awareness of localized aspect of knowledge and time. While bringing post-colonial feminist works onto the reading list, I always discussed their situatedness so that these ideas would not become instruments for legitimising oppression in the name of culture and religion. I never intended to establish anti-white feminism, or a feminism that compromised for no strategic purpose, or remained apologetic with regard to some violations by cultural and religious norms or highly selective in raising voice against violence. Stories from Afghanistan, Malala Yusufzai and Shirin Ebadi were parts of our conversation. I  included biographies of Malala Yusufjai and Shirin Ebadi that were about their struggle, events of raising voice against extremist and conservative group’s oppression of women’s basic rights and sacrifice that they had to do for being vocal for women rights (Ebadi, 2006, Yousafzai, 2019). Students from Afghanistan narrated their stories of fear of being attacked by Taliban for having higher study and how they struggled just to pursue study in remote areas of Afghanistan.1 One of the reasons for including these stories was my increasing concern about the rise of religion-based nationalism and the popular intellectual discourse in Bangladesh and other countries. From women’s clothing style to international politics, everywhere that trend became evident and aggressive. In this context, I felt that talking about only colonialism without identifying patriarchal structure within cultural and religious premise might create a disconnection from the ground reality of third world women’s experience of oppression. The oppressive structure in our feminist space of classroom became multilayered – ranging from patriarchy, capitalism, colonialism and racism to religious extremism and narrow nationalism. A big part of my past experience was to value healthy and non-oppressive allyship with the West. Love, connection and mutual understanding became a driving force to understand this allyship. My  teaching reflected an articulation of the relationship between third world women and white western women. To make classroom experience more interesting, I introduced some creative and therapeutic activities. These activities included teaching meditation to students, talking about mental health issues and adding performance as a part of class presentation. These activities made students more engaged in the class. One of the examples of these activities was student’s dramas on early feminist lives that transformed the class environment and we felt very connected and grateful to early feminists from both West and East. Many students who initially showed little interest in theories performed very well in these creative projects and this also resulted in a growing interest in theories.

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When we were about to start our new fall semester online, the Taliban returned to power in Afghanistan. A good number of our students were from Afghanistan. I was terrified to see this regime change. My adolescent trauma about the Taliban regime in Afghanistan returned. I found my Afghan students to be extremely scared about losing the few rights that they had before the Taliban regime. I was alarmed to see that many people, especially men, were supporting the Taliban on Facebook in the name of religion or the anti-colonial spirit. In my Facebook, I kept posting about how the Taliban regime was not in favour of women rights. To my astonishment, few male Facebook friends appeared upset with me. I was shocked to see the apologetic intellectual discourse on the Taliban regime in some countries. I identified how religious orthodoxy was overtaking national discourse in some countries. Clearly Afghanistan issues cannot be analysed without postcolonial insights. But the poor situation of women under the Taliban regime and the support for that regime on Facebook had an enormous impact on me. I found myself talking about the international standard of women’s rights discourse more than ever. To me, I appeared like Phyllis Chesler who, after her captive experience in Afghanistan, refused to be ‘multiculturally correct’ and to turn a blind eye to national patriarchal politics (Chesler, 2006). I was very disheartened to witness the Taliban regime, with their extremely restricted views on women’s rights. I disagreed with the huge support for their regime in social media with a religion based anti-colonial logic. I had no spirit left to find academic pleasure in the post-colonial debate on third world women’s subjectivity and agency on issues such as the veil, marriage and compliance with some cultural norms. This debate might be useful for women fighting for rights to wear Hijabs in France or women who are fighting against Islamophobia in the Western countries. But this debate is irrelevant to a girl who has to leave the country due to threats of honour killing and murder by extremists. This debate does not make sense to a girl in Afghanistan who will be forced to marry an older man who will assure her safety and security in a hostile war-torn country. This debate has nothing to offer to women who had to run to the shops in Kabul whilst wearing a Burkha in order to make themselves invisible so that Talibans would not beat them publicly. I wonder why post-colonial feminism and decolonial feminism has so few works that condemn this type of oppression! The return of Talibans and the huge support level of support for them from some people in the guise of religious-based anti-colonial logic made me aware of the limitations of post-colonial feminism and decolonial feminism in connecting international women’s rights law with national patriarchal politics. Decolonial feminism should not be silent about how patriarchy at the national level works in the same way coloniality works to oppress women of colour. Sometimes patriarchy from local culture can be much more violent. Decolonial feminism needs to accept and acknowledge this situation in their politics of resistance. Post-colonial feminists and feminists with decolonial philosophies need to condemn religious extremism and new forms of religion-based conservatism in national patriarchal politics with equal emphasis – like they do to colonial power, capitalism and racism. After the fall of Kabul, Afghan women’s reasonable fear of losing rights, and support for the Taliban regime from different groups and individuals in the name of anti-colonial logic, made me think of conducting a critical reexamination of post-colonial feminism. In the coming days, I would like to link national patriarchal politics with colonial power play and emphasise the value of an international women’s rights domain in ascertaining a situation. In a world which is leading towards increasing polarisation and unpredictability, decolonial feminism needs to be fluid and accommodative enough to take into consideration the needs of different circumstances. In its thresholds, not only does liberal feminism need to be critiqued for white supremacy, but also post-colonial feminism needs to be reevaluated in terms of its significance to certain contexts.

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Conclusion My discussions of decolonial feminism in my class were a reflection of my life - a navigation among terrains of Western liberal and post-colonial feminist thoughts. Their relationship remains non-binary and complex. This is more like “doing” a feminism where I and my students reinvented the meaning of feminism according to the needs of particular contexts. I have seen it as a bricolaged decolonial feminism where we collect different parts of feminist ideas and weave it with contexts and situatedness to make something new from the older parts. This is a process where changing social realities make classrooms dynamic, interactive and contextually located spaces for learning and teaching (Hill, 2014). My decolonial strategies for teaching feminism challenged the Western category of modernity and colonial hierarchy within feminism. It decentered a binary model of categorisation and universality in understanding women’s issues. It reclaimed epistemic authority of non-Western ‘other’. However, this process was done with awareness of its potentials and challenges. It was not meant for advocating for premodern practice or legitimising cultural and religious oppressive practice. Our decolonial feminism was more about connection with our situated selves and the situated selves of other women in the similar contexts. Just like the lives of women in the third world, our decolonial feminism has been vulnerable, fluid, changing, resistant and resilient. We developed a decolonial feminism that is keen to know its capacities and self-critical. My students and I realised that this self-critical practice is required for the further growth of decolonial feminism and making it a home for diverse voices.

Note 1 These are the events that happened before the Taliban took over Afghanistan in 2021. The Taliban were active in Afghanistan before this formal regime change and attacking women who were studying and working.

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27 THEY HAVE LESSONS TO TEACH ME Critical reflection and autoethnography in an Australian adult migrant English program Skye Playsted Introduction This is a chapter about a critically reflective journey that began during a two-year period when I was teaching in an Australian adult migrant English program (AMEP).1 Critical reflection in education includes an individual teacher’s reflexive approach towards their teaching practices; the “critical” also refers to questions about broader socio-political concerns, their pedagogical implications and how individual teachers view and respond to these concerns (Anderson, 2020). In this chapter I use an autoethnographic approach to describe my experiences, questions and reflections about critical issues that were new to me as a teacher entering the field of English language teaching (ELT). Although I had not considered these questions prior to working in ELT, I could not escape them as I was confronted with assumptions I had made about the people I was working with: adult students learning English who lacked access to the linguistic capital and privileges that speaking in this language afforded (Liscio & Farrelly, 2019). As I began to teach in a context that was new to me, I became suddenly aware of my own privilege as a white, monolingual, native-English-speaking teacher born in Australia. This privilege had been there all along, but had been invisible to me before this point, and so I began to read and reflect on critical issues and consider how these could change the way I teach and research (Holman Jones, 2005). The chapter begins with a brief overview of autoethnography, in which I discuss Stanley’s (2019) recent call for autoethnographic research in ELT to develop a stronger social justice focus and its need to “cross-pollinat[e]” (p. 15) with autoethnography conducted in other disciplines. I then integrate autoethnography and critical reflection (Jensen-Hart & Williams, 2010) to describe incidents I encountered during my work as a volunteer English teacher in community centre and later in an Australian AMEP (Playsted, 2019). Narratives are used to describe these critical incidents, highlighting an awareness of English as a language of power and my position in relation to this power (Pennycook, 2001). I discuss how discrimination expressed towards friends in my community prompted me to consider the “non-neutral” (Stanley, 2019, p. 16) nature of ELT as a field of teaching, and then discuss shifts in my perspective and

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-31

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classroom teaching approach as I responded to this “non-neutrality” in my own practice. In the chapter, I reflect on the role of autoethnography as a research method to engage others in critical reflection and consider some possible applications for research to encourage teacher engagement with critically reflective dialogue.

Autoethnography, ELT and a need for “cross-pollination” Autoethnography as a research method draws on personal experience to analyse cultural understandings, using elements of story writing such as narrative, character development and dialogue to describe and make sense of these experiences (Jones et al., 2016). In ELT, autoethnography has been used to explore the nature of teachers’ professional identity development (e.g., Canagarajah, 2012; Pearson Casanave, 2012). In language teacher education, Yazan (2019) has suggested that pre-service teachers should be encouraged to engage in critical autoethnography in order to help them access and express their understanding of identity formation as ELT practitioners. Because it draws on personal experiences to express insights into broader cultural phenomena, autoethnography has at times been discredited as a method that lacks the objectivity of other qualitative research methods (Delamont, 2009). However, it has become increasingly accepted in qualitative research as a method that offers researchers diverse ways to view, explore and express their experiences of culture (Adams et al., 2014). Autoethnography in ELT is still a “less-treaded path” (Mirhosseini, 2018, p. 76), despite autoethnographic writing offering an ideal space to foreground stories that capture the diversity of experiences and critical issues in the field. Even though criticality is considered a key feature of autoethnography as a method (Adams et al., 2014), this is not always prominent in ELT literature. Considering this, some researchers have suggested that ELT autoethnography should “cross-pollinat[e]” (Stanley, 2019, p. 15) with other areas of autoethnography, and perhaps draw on the critical perspectives used in other fields to bring them more clearly into view in ELT autoethnography. In the context of ELT, a critical view counters the traditional view that teaching English is a neutral and helpful endeavour, empowering English language learners with more equitable access to English-language-dominated environments. It takes into account the socially- and politically-situated nature of ELT, and raises issues of social justice such as inequity of access to employment based on linguistic background (Pennycook, 2017). For example, English is spoken and taught as an additional language by more non-native speakers and teachers of English than by native speakers (Hamid, 2016), yet in many countries the ELT profession is still “the proud privilege of expatriates” (Kumaravadivelu, 2012, p. 68) who have native English-speaking status. In ELT literature, “Western/grand narratives” (Canagarajah, 2016, p. 10) have traditionally dominated research and limited the ability of research voices from marginalised regions to bring a much-needed global perspective to research in this area (Kumaravadivelu, 2016; Rose et al., 2020). In a recent review, Stanley (2019) asserted that if we as ELT autoethnographers did not acknowledge or position ourselves in relation to critical issues, we risked perpetuating a narrow, Western view of research that would not adequately address these issues in ELT. At the time I  read Stanley’s (2019) paper, I was studying a master’s degree to teach English as an additional language, but I was not familiar with much of the critical, autoethnographic literature in this field (see, for example, Pathak, 2010; and Yazan, Canagarajah and Jain, 2021). Reading Stanley’s (2019) article brought a sense of discomfort because it pushed me, a teacher and researcher from a privileged, white background, to ask myself questions about my lived experiences (Van Manen, 1997) and my views of these experiences. Autoethnography had become a methodology I valued and wanted to employ in my writing, as I appreciated 318

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its evocative narratives that situated a researcher as a person within their scholarly writing. However, I wondered how I could I write about my experiences in a way that could meet the autoethnographic obligations of “story-making” (Bochner, 2017, p. 74), but also “give voice to people and ideas that might otherwise be voiceless” (Stanley, 2019, p. 16). I began to ask myself how I might allow others’ voices and experiences to change the way I viewed my own, as I sought to “re-read [my own] experience” (Bhattacharya, 2021, p. 135) through a more critical lens.

Teaching in a community centre: welcomed as a “new” teacher I trained as a teacher and after teaching for 20 years in schools in my local area, I decided to return to postgraduate study and to focus on adults in the ELT sector. Teaching adults was new for me, and so I contacted a friend who taught English to adults and asked if I could gain some ELT experience there. The small, community centre where I volunteered conducted weekly English language classes for adults from refugee backgrounds. Volunteers came each week to help work at the centre and were mostly retired from full-time work. Many, as I did, possessed a background in school teaching. For the students who came each week, the classes provided important social support as well as English language learning support. Some had already completed their 500 hours of funded English tuition as AMEP students, and so they came to the community classes to maintain English language skills. They were often the primary carers for their children. As the students had limited access to transport and employment in the town, the community centre picked them up with a volunteer-driven bus each week. Other volunteers offered childminding as the parents took part in their English language lessons, and students and teachers shared a brief morning tea to break the two-hour-long English lesson. It was here that I was first confronted by what I now understand is a critical incident (Brookfield, 2017). When I began teaching English to refugees, I was moved by the care they showed me. “Welcome!” they said as they held my hands in their own. The kindness shown to me by those who had experienced so much suffering brought me to a place that was humbler than any I’d known in my teaching career. I know I am becoming a better teacher because of it; I am becoming a teacher who is willing to learn and listen. I have to listen hard, because sometimes their stories come out in broken sentences, mixed with periods of silence and grief. Sometimes I don’t know what a facial expression means, or what is written in between the unspoken lines of the conversation I am part of. Between the three of us (the speaker, the online translation app, and me) we break down the walls as best we can. It’s exhausting and confronting. The worst of the stories come out when I least expect them. Most of the time, I feel inadequate and ill-equipped to deal with the complexities of this sort of teaching. I wish I had learned more languages. I wish I were more perceptive and aware of what is culturally expected in other places, so that I wouldn’t unwittingly trample over what is important to someone else. “Walking out of who we are and walking towards who others are” is how Kenneth Fasching-Varner (2017) so perfectly expressed it. Despite my own feelings of inadequacy, I know I have something to give as well as something to learn. As a teacher, I feel I have reached a high point in my teaching career: I teach those who have nothing left to lose. And yet, out of their loss, they have lessons to teach me, the “teacher”. Respect, pride, compassion, gratitude, determination, courage and hope are some of the lessons I can learn from the people I teach. 319

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Up until this point, I thought I knew a lot about teachers, students and about teaching in general. I also knew a lot about teaching English. After all, I was a native speaker of English, I had lived and taught in “my” local area for a long time, and I was doing a master’s degree in English language teaching. Yet, when I began to teach at the community centre, I wondered who these welcoming, refugee-background people were, and why it seemed that I had not seen them around town before? Why did they welcome me? I thought this was my home, and I should be the one welcoming them. With one word from a group of refugee-background women I had never met before, “Welcome!”, my assumed sense of belonging and my understanding of where I fit in the classroom as an expert, English-speaking teacher had been turned on its head. Critical seeds of doubt had been sown, and had begun to “explode [my] settled worldviews” (Brookfield, 2017, p. 71). At the same time as I was experiencing the discomfort of doubt, I was also feeling strangely at home in this new, more vulnerable position. Acknowledging and giving power to another is enacted through more than words. I did not share the same first language as my students, but I learned that much of the communication in the beginner English language classroom is unspoken. We shared few words in spoken English, but “touch and smiles and nods [could] bind us together” (Phipps, 2019, p. 34). This was more than accepting a gesture of kindness and hospitality from a student, I realised: there were forms of communication that were more important than a sentence spoken in English. I looked forward to the volunteer classes each week, and when I began teaching in a paid role at the local AMEP, I tried to continue with some volunteer teaching when I could.

Becoming a friend and a teacher: ELT is a “non-neutral” practice My introduction to AMEP was thanks to Jaya,2 who had lived with her family in Australia for nine years on a temporary visa. Jaya was an asylum seeker. When she was sixteen, the war in her homeland was at its peak. Jaya had completed high school and was hoping to begin studying at university the following year, but her parents feared for their daughter’s safety as the youngest girl in the family. Jaya was sent on a boat to another country, where she lived in a refugee camp for some years. She married there and left the camp with her husband and their two-year-old daughter to seek asylum in Australia. I met Jaya through a mutual friend who had given her my number to contact about English lessons. I helped her to enrol in the local AMEP and was subsequently offered teaching work there. Jaya was in my first AMEP class, and we have remained friends ever since. When my friend Jaya asks for help, I gain much more than I give. I share a story and jokes with her son who is the same age as my son. She offers me homemade chai and several courses of food that she prepares while I am there. I offer to help, but she asks me to sit down at the table instead. I feel guilty enjoying the flavours on my own. She waits in the kitchen, and I eat and drink as her guest before she will join me at the table. She hasn’t heard from immigration about the application to renew her temporary protection visa yet. I helped her with the application 18 months ago, but she is still waiting to hear. It’s always on her mind. They have lived here for nine years, and her husband works night shift six nights a week, even though it’s getting physically difficult for him to continue with the labour. He won’t risk leaving to look for another job. He needs the permanent work; it looks better on the visa application. The visa application is always on her mind. It’s on my mind too, but I try not to ask if she’s heard from immigration too often because I know it’s always on her mind. 320

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Jaya needs work, so I help her with a resume. They came here on a boat, and it took two days in a rubber dinghy to get to Australia. Their eldest daughter was two years old on the boat. They ate raw rice for those days in the middle of the ocean. I cannot begin to imagine the fear and desperation, the determination to make a new life for my children and leave behind everyone and everything I had known and loved. That’s not on Jaya’s resume, of course. On Jaya’s resume, there are places, schools and jobs listed from her experiences overseas. An Australian employer might not even have heard of any of these places before. When Jaya lived in the refugee camp, she helped to teach children in the camp. I remember when she was in my AMEP class, and I invited her to share with the class about her homeland. She wrote the intricate alphabet of her home language on the board and taught us how her language worked – its history and sounds and sentence structures. She seemed so at ease in front of the class and was a natural teacher; but how can I help her to express that confidence on a single-page resume in English? I take her to an aged care facility to ask about volunteer work. “If you are willing to volunteer now, maybe one day they will offer you a paid job there,” I suggest to her. Together, we take the resume to the counter. But when we get there, the receptionist speaks to me instead of to Jaya. “How long has she been here? Has she got a visa? Some of them just want a job so they can get a visa.” The receptionist’s voice is firm, and her gaze is cold and uninviting. I am too shocked to respond at the time. Jaya is standing right next to me, but she doesn’t respond, and I don’t know what to say. “Well, you could ask her yourself,” I want to say to the receptionist. “She can speak English, you know – she’s multilingual!” But I am silent. I’m afraid if I make a scene, Jaya could lose her chance of getting work here. Jaya and I leave the resume on the counter and go back to my car. I am trying not to cry, but I’m still shaken by the incident with the receptionist. I am apologising – apologising for my country and for my part in the views of who belongs here, and who does not. Jaya smiles at me and brushes it off. “It’s OK,” she says. “Some people – kind. Some people – not.” I have never experienced the kind of discrimination described in this incident. What upset me as much as the incident itself was Jaya’s resignation to it. It was clear that this was not a new experience for her. She was patient enough to guide me through my emotional response to it: this was simply the way things were for someone who lived as an outsider in a country still dominated by a white, monolingual mindset (Oliver et al., 2017). The experience with Jaya is one that has changed my perspective on my role as a teacher. In the courses I teach, and in my research with teachers, I have an opportunity to open the dialogue around challenging topics of race and language, rather than remain silent. Yes, I teach English and not political science, but I am learning to become comfortable with living in between “the pedagogical and political” (Denzin, 2006, p. 112) in my practice. Denzin (2006) was referring to the practice of ethnography but I wondered how a teacher’s work, like an autoethnographer’s, might be one that could “give voice to people and ideas that might otherwise be voiceless” (Stanley, 2019)?

Critical reflection in my teaching practice: a work in progress When we write autoethnography, we give voice to others by “re-presenting rather than representing” (Verran, 2021, p. 236) a critical issue in our narratives. Our stories are more 321

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than a record of events observed from a neutral standpoint; rather we write to provoke further reflection and questions about an issue. My critical reflection is an individual process, but I hope that describing this process autoethnographically might generate further reflection around the critical issues that my narratives have sought to highlight. When we teach, we can give voice to others as we engage in critical reflection and acknowledge our position in relation to the content we teach. In my AMEP teaching practice, critical reflection prompted me to be more deliberate about decisions I made in relation to teaching curriculum content. The other teachers and I are planning a class trip to a national park, to introduce our newly-arrived students to “local history” and places of interest. I’ve been to this national park many times before, as I grew up around here. But it isn’t until I start preparing resources about the class trip that I read more deeply about the history of the area and its importance in Indigenous culture. This place was the site of annual gatherings until the disruption caused by European settlers’ sawmills and transport stopped the gatherings. I think it is important to share history with my students that acknowledges the Indigenous culture of the land we live on, and I wonder how I can convey this in a way, and with English language, that my beginner-level students will be able to understand. In class, I share an image of a map of Indigenous Australia (AITSIS, 2021), with its many languages and nation groups. When I went to school, I only learned the names of the six states and two territories that made up Australia. I have taught the students in my AMEP class about those six states, two territories and capital cities, but I have never taught them about the 400 or more different groupings represented on the map of Indigenous Australia. Why not? And how do I explain things differently now? We look at the map of Indigenous Australia, and I explain to my class that these are places and languages. I ask students about different dialects in their home languages and then I draw my arm across the map to try and explain that English is now everywhere in Australia. I expect to spend some time explaining this, but the students seem to understand the idea of culture, language and colonisation without me talking much at all. Of course they do. Their own families and histories bear witness to years of war and linguistic and cultural oppression. The lesson that day is for me, not the students in my class. I am the one who needs to learn about the history of my country. When I was working in the AMEP, I did not discuss this decision with my teaching colleagues, nor the journey of critical reflection that prompted it. There seemed to be few opportunities for discussion about critical issues at the time I began to work in this particular organisation. Teachers and students were experiencing the pressures of funding and curriculum changes as well as the pressures of increased assessment demands (Button, 2019). While there was a curriculum to follow, decisions about how and what to teach seemed largely overshadowed by the need to prepare students for mandated assessment tasks which were to be completed at set times (for example, once a student had undertaken 100 hours of tuition). These times were nominated as benchmarks to demonstrate students’ English language learning progress, but a learning process is difficult to tie to a timeframe, and generic assessment benchmarks cannot take an individual student’s or teacher’s learning needs into account. Opportunities for

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teachers to make critically-informed decisions about how they would teach curriculum content in their classes, facilitate students’ voices in the decision-making process or engage in dialogue with colleagues around these matters were limited. Perhaps a way forward for teachers in this sector is the creation of professional spaces of inquiry and dialogue to question and consider critical issues. These opportunities for collective discussion can be valuable for teachers to reflect on their own classroom practice. Beyond the individual level of practice, participation in critically-reflective discussion groups also has the potential for teachers to take initiatives towards a more active role in areas of curriculum reform (Stenhouse, 1980). Critical reflection and autoethnography are a work in progress for me, and the work is a journey of asking questions without necessarily finding many neat and tidy answers to them. I am sure of one thing, though. If I am going to write and research, I will need to do it in the same way as I seek to teach: “not only from the stance of neutrality and distance, but also from the position of caring and vulnerability” (Bochner, 2017, p. 48). A vulnerable position is a place of listening carefully (Brookfield, 2017), where we can learn lessons from those whose voices we did not hear before.

Conclusion My reflections in this chapter are a snapshot of some of the relationships, incidents, memories, discussions, observations and readings that have shaped my teaching and research practice. Many of these are noted down in reflective journals I have kept since I began teaching in ELT. Keeping a record of your teaching experiences through some form of journalling is a practice that I can recommend if you are new to the journey of critical reflection and autoethnography. I will draw to a close with some final thoughts for reflection and discussion around the themes raised in this chapter. •

•

•

Be prepared to have your assumptions challenged, and to see things differently to the way you may have viewed them before. Critical reflection begins when we begin to look at what is familiar through “unfamiliar angles” (Brookfield, 2017, p. 16). Allow yourself time to read. Read widely and across different disciplines in educational or theoretical literature if you have the time, as there are always fresh perspectives to gain from fields outside those you are familiar with. Find spaces for critical discussion with your colleagues and students. Even if it seems that discussions raise more questions than answers about difficult issues, asking these questions can plant seeds for future change.

Acknowledgements Sincere thanks to the editors and to Stephen Heimans for helpful feedback on earlier drafts of this chapter.

Notes 1 Oliver, Rochecouste and Nguyen’s (2017) article outlines the historical context and current directions in ELT in Australia, including in the AMEP, which offers migrant and humanitarian entrants to Australia around 500 hours of English language tuition. 2 Pseudonyms are used throughout.

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They have lessons to teach me Stenhouse, L. (1980). Curriculum research and development in action. Heinemann Educational. Van Manen, M. (1997). Researching lived experience: Human science for an action sensitive pedagogy (2nd ed.). Althouse Press. Verran, H. (2021). Writing an ethnographic story in working toward responsibly unearthing ontological troubles. In A. Ballestero & B. R. Winthereik (Eds.), Experimenting with ethnography: A companion to analysis (pp. 235–245). Duke University Press. https://doi.org/10.1215/9781478013211-023 Yazan, B. (2019). Toward identity-oriented teacher education: Critical autoethnographic narrative. TESOL Journal, 10(1), 1–15. https://doi.org/10.1002/tesj.388 Yazan, B., Canagarajah, A. S., & Jain, R. (2021). Autoethnographies in ELT : Transnational identities, pedagogies, and practices. Routledge.

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28 KAUPAPA MĀORI AUTOETHNOGRAPHY Georgina Tuari Stewart

Introduction This chapter explores Kaupapa Māori forms of autoethnography for critical research in Māori/ Indigenous education and related social domains. Autoethnography is “born of the ‘crisis in representation’ [and reflects] discontentment with traditional research practices” (Houston, 2007, p. 45). This stance links it to critical theory, post-modernist and post-structuralist philosophies, and recent research approaches, including narrative research, writing as a method of inquiry, and post-qualitative inquiry (Denzin, 2014; Hughes & Pennington, 2017; Richardson, 2001). This chapter suggests that autoethnographic methods share ground with Kaupapa Māori research methodology (Pihama et al., 2002; Walker et al., 2006). Autoethnography offers benefits as a method of choice for Kaupapa Māori researchers (and Indigenous researchers more generally), especially for studying topics related to identity, and for researchers who are immersed and/or expert in the topics of their research. The point is that Kaupapa Māori research methodology is concerned primarily with the paradigm and ethics of research – it sets up the philosophical basis and provides guidance for how to approach the field, but does not specify any particular approach in terms of methods of data collection. Intent on bringing voice to their communities, Māori and Indigenous researchers in education have so far focused mainly on qualitative interview research methodologies, along with smaller numbers of other ‘traditional’ qualitative research methodologies, i.e. small-scale surveys, observation or case studies. This pattern is consistent with education research in general, which is dominated by interview research. There is no doubt that interviews are valuable for Māori/Indigenous research, given their face-to-face nature and the emphasis on experiences. But the dominance of ‘interview research’ crowds out the claims of other possible research approaches. The empirical busywork of qualitative interview research conceals its implicit background allegiances to phenomenology, humanism, and other Western theoretical and philosophical bases. A significant proportion of Māori/Indigenous researchers are immersed in the educational scenarios and topics they are investigating. In such cases, autoethnography is worth considering as an alternative form of methodology, offering a different approach to data collection and analysis that can supplement or replace interviews, surveys or observations (Chang, 2016). In this way autoethnographic methods could add to existing research toolboxes of Māori and Indigenous researchers. Autoethnography has been criticised and opposed, 326

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however, by an attitude that such methods are not ‘scientific’. But this argument is dubious, since the whole premise of qualitative research is non-scientific. Autoethnography is one form of qualitative research to consider when the primary researcher is embedded and experienced in the context of their research question. It facilitates the efficient collection of other forms of data (i.e. other than interview transcripts) and constitutes a powerful approach for investigating Māori identities and ideas, as shown by the examples below. Autoethnographic elements can combine well in a research project with other methodologies, including other post-qualitative methods such as policy, philosophical, literature or critical discourse analysis, or empirical methods such as interview or survey. Nancy Taber (2010) argued for the benefits of combining institutional ethnography together with autoethnography and narrative. As a research approach, autoethnography has existed in the literature for about 30 years, but is still considered marginal as a methodology. While the number of published books and articles written either about autoethnography or using autoethnography is growing rapidly, a journal of autoethnography has only existed since 2020 (Adams & Herrmann, 2020). The paragraphs below link autoethnography in five ways: (1) as part of the ‘auto-turn’ in research, (2) to narrative research, (3) to post-qualitative inquiry, (4) to writing [as] a method of inquiry (Richardson & St. Pierre, 2018), and (5) to decolonising methodologies (Smith, 2012). (1) Auto-turn: Probably the key characteristic of autoethnography is an attitude of starting from the life of the researcher themselves, embedded in their topic, as a source of data (Denzin, 2014; Ellis & Bochner, 2000). The auto-turn emerges from the ‘crisis of representation’ which brings attention to the positionality of the author, or the ‘politics of position’ (Jackson, 1991, p. 134). It is standard in published qualitative research to include a positioning statement, or some acknowledgement of the researcher’s link to the topic being studied. To declare one’s personal investment in one’s research topic is seen as an ethical practice consistent with the norms of qualitative research. Autoethnography extrapolates that principle to exploit as much as possible the researcher’s own experiences relating to the question being investigated. To capitalise on the researcher’s background in the context of the question adds ‘power’ to the research findings, while also simultaneously ‘weakening’ the research methodology according to norms of science and objectivity. Scare quotes are needed for these words denoting research ‘quality’ since their meanings in context utterly depend on presupposed agreements, which methodologies such as autoethnography put under a new microscope. Autoethnography is the flag-bearer of the ‘auto-turn’ in research methodology, as epistemology turns inwards, away from the Archimedean point of presumed objectivity. (2) Narrative research: Autoethnography research is necessarily written in narrative genres – how else could we write about our experiences? – so it could reasonably be considered a type of narrative research. Capitalising on the narrative writing mode demands using the devices of narrative genres to construct a text that confronts the reader with the complexity and emotional content of the situation being investigated. Arthur Bochner (1997) illustrates the power of autoethnography to convey emotion and affect when he writes about his father’s unexpected death, the collision between his personal and professional worlds it caused, and the learnings and insights that were catalysed. Autoethnography provides useful ways of illuminating the emotional or affective aspects of situations within our social and professional lives, which are seldom amenable to more traditional, empirical research methods. It has been useful for documenting issues, including: the impact at personal levels of larger changes in universities (Sparkes, 2007); the range of responses to the nexus between sport and nationalism (Bruce, 2014); the traumatic experiences of the transgender 327

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individual (Booth & Spencer, 2021), etc. Autoethnography is best utilised when the topic being studied is emotionally impactful, and of which the researcher has personal experience. (3) Post-qualitative inquiry: Autoethnography fits under the umbrella of post-qualitative inquiry (St. Pierre, 2018), which looks past the residual scientism in qualitative research methodology. Post-qualitative research takes account of 21st-century developments in science, philosophy and methodology. Elizabeth St. Pierre describes how she ‘encountered the incommensurabilities’ between poststructuralist theories and qualitative methods as she wrote her doctoral dissertation (St. Pierre, 2018, p. 603), which prompted her to develop the concept of ‘post-qualitative inquiry.’ Autoethnography lends itself to being used in combination with other non-empirical methods, such as philosophical, policy, literature, or critical discourse analysis in order to build up the ‘layers’ of a post-qualitative inquiry (Rath, 2012). ( 4) Writing as a method of inquiry: Autoethnography is fully cognisant of the commitment required to write texts that readers (students, teachers, researchers and community members) want to read, in line with a confession by Laurel Richardson that she found most qualitative research ‘boring’ to read (Richardson & St. Pierre, 2018, p. 818). Autoethnographic texts result from a process of careful reflection on one’s experiences and one’s reading (Adams et al., 2014), and thus are highly reflexive. Autoethnography provides an opportunity for intense creative introspection and is closely linked to action research and reflective practice. In these ways, the ‘data collection’ part of autoethnography can bear similarity with a notion of ‘self-interview.’ The emphasis on reflexive writing makes autoethnography a useful approach for researching complex Māori identities and ideas. As demonstrated below, I draw on personal examples to show how autoethnography works together with writing as a Māori method of inquiry (Stewart, 2021) in exploring complex topics of Māori identity (Stewart & Stewart-Harawira, 2020). ( 5) Decolonising research methodologies: The main point of this chapter is to argue that autoethnography has a place in Kaupapa Māori research, which is a local Aotearoa New Zealand form of decolonising research methodology. A similar argument is made for autoethnography as a research methodology in psychology by Trinidadian-American scholar Norissa Williams (2021). Williams focuses on the potential of autoethnography as a decolonising research approach, of relevance to “marginalized communities” (Williams, 2021, p. 2). Psychology as a discipline is closely related to education, so it makes sense that autoethnography would offer similar benefits for Māori and Indigenous researchers in both fields. Psychology research, as found, for example, in education, is heavily influenced by (arguably illegitimate) notions of scientific status, which autoethnography flagrantly breaches as a matter of course. Williams argues that autoethnography provides a means for researchers to speak powerfully against the systems of (White) power that are implicit in ‘traditional’, i.e. scientific (or scientistic) research methodologies. Williams points out that autoethnography “doesn’t just tell a story” but also includes substantive analysis “of personal experience to understand cultural experience” (p. 6). Williams recounts her personal and family experiences of cultural clashes and mental illness to explain why she turned away from traditional psychological methods and towards autoethnography: These personal circumstances charged my desire to come to understand cultural differences in the experience and manifestation of mental illness, cross cultural differences in causal attributions for mental illness; cultural rituals and healing practices, and cross cultural differences in help seeking behaviors. I wanted to know more. It seemed appropriate to start from within. (Williams, 2021, p. 5) 328

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In terms of how to go about recording personal experiences, Williams notes “[t]here is no one way to collect data for an autoethnography” (Williams, 2021, p. 6). Autoethnography is not a methodology that follows a tight process and script. This is because in writing autoethnography, researchers have available to them all the devices of creative writing, which means each researcher has agency to find their own writing voice; their own way to document and examine their experiences. In keeping with the genre, the next section provides an account of my own experiences with autoethnographic research methods.

Unexpected journey: scientific method to Māori autoethnography My interest in autoethnography is based on my own personal trajectory rather than as the result of any strategic decision. I first learned about research by studying science as a school leaver, enrolling in a Bachelor of Science and continuing on to complete an MSc in Chemistry, consisting of seven papers plus a thesis. In undertaking Master’s research in Chemistry in 1980, I  found that the theories, methods and data pertaining to my study were clear, unambiguous, and distinct from each other. Methodology concerned decisions about which chemical substances to react together and why, under what conditions, and how to assess the reaction progress and products. The literature review was a relatively simple summary of previously published papers on similar reactions. I don’t recall much attention being paid to the writing of the thesis: it mostly equated to ‘writing up’ the conditions and results of the chemical reactions conducted as experimental laboratory work. There was no mention of paradigm, ethics, politics or philosophy in my BSc/MSc studies. Apart from a one-year graduate diploma in teaching, I first studied Education at the doctoral level beginning in 2001, using my then 20-year-old MSc to support my enrolment in a Doctor of Education (EdD), studying part-time as a distance student. My return to doctoral study was catalysed by my unusual practical experience as a teacher of Pūtaiao or Māori-medium school science, and I enrolled with pre-formed understandings of key research concepts such as theory, data, findings and methodology. The EdD pathway is beneficial for students with qualifying degrees from other disciplines due to its scaffolded provisional period, typically comprising four part-time semesters of study, which cover the introduction, methodology and literature review elements of a doctoral thesis, and the writing of the full research proposal for confirmation as a doctoral thesis candidate. With my lecturer’s help, I submitted an essay I  wrote during this period to an international journal (Stewart, 2005). When the reviews came back, I was surprised to see my essay referred to as ‘research’ – a disjunction caused by the clash between my former science-based ideas of research, on the one hand, and the nature of theoretical educational research, on the other. Eventually, after gaining more experience in educational research, I came to see that qualitative educational researchers tend to occupy one of two camps: (1) those who DO consider a literature review to be research in its own right, and (2) those who do NOT; and that the difference relates to distinct ways of thinking about education, knowledge and research, all tied up with how to think about methodology and writing. These two camps relate to the way the ‘world of writing has been divided into two separate kinds: literary and scientific’ (Richardson & St. Pierre, 2018, p. 819). Researchers in the first camp view all forms of writing as potentially contributing to advancing understanding about education, while those in the second camp equate ‘research’ with the process of collecting data (conducting interviews is frequently referred to as ‘the research’ in postgraduate dissertations) that is then ‘analysed’ to produce ‘new knowledge’. The scare quotes show my scepticism towards the claims made by this thinking, stuck in the pseudo-scientific mode. A researcher (like me) coming to 329

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qualitative research from a previous training in science is confronted by the ‘pseudo-science’ trappings found throughout traditional qualitative research – both in form, such as numbering everything, and in crude ideas such as the fallacious view that a small-scale survey study counts as ‘quantitative’ research, or that using two sources of information equates to ‘triangulation’. The attitudes towards research and writing found in the first camp are linked to greater interest in the philosophy and theory of education. Those in the second camp are often explicitly motivated by the need for a wider range of views and voices to be represented in national educational discourse. The second camp is more likely to privilege ‘scientific’ modes of writing as being valid in research. Qualitative research finds application across a wide swath of scholarly fields, some of which are more heavily influenced by science (such as health sciences) and others less so (such as creative writing and the arts). The world of research overall is heavily dependent on science for accepted criteria and standards of knowledge creation. It is ironic that while the world of working science has long ago moved on from a naïve realist approach to a ‘lockstep method’ the mythical beast of ‘scientific method’ still continues to hold residual sway in social science fields of research, including education. It seems likely that using qualitative research methods in fields closer to science (e.g. health sciences) induces more anxiety about ‘scientific rigour’ than for researchers further from science, such as in the arts. Interview research may be said, for example, to require a minimum of (say) 15 interviews to be considered ‘rigorous’; and the use of coding software for thematic analysis of interview data, while made much of in methodology sections, is more scientistic than scientific. It is all too easy to create reified binaries whereby interview research (of the appropriate details) is seen as ‘rigorous’ and autoethnography and other post-qualitative methodologies are seen as ‘non-scientific’. Autoethnography makes sense if one applies relevant ethical principles and processes. Appropriate methodologies arise from: (1) the details of the research question; and (2) the details of the researcher’s connection to the research context and topic. More Māori researchers could – and perhaps should – consider autoethnography as a legitimate methodology for undertaking Kaupapa Māori research. The next section argues this case using examples from the research literature.

Kaupapa Māori research and autoethnography There is a useful affinity between critical indigenous theory, including Kaupapa Māori theory, and the ‘post’ traditions (postmodernism, poststructuralism, postcolonialism, posthumanism). It therefore makes sense that post-qualitative methods of inquiry, including autoethnography, should be useful for Kaupapa Māori and other critical Indigenous researchers, as this chapter argues. Reflexive study of the culture of Kaupapa Māori research serves Māori interests and politics, given that Kaupapa Māori research is, by definition, politically motivated and activist. Post-qualitative inquiry serves Kaupapa Māori because it interrogates claims to truth and power, which is a politically activist stance and process. Writing autoethnography allows space for using te reo Māori (the Māori language) in written research outputs (e.g. see Whitinui, 2014). This is a key point for scholars who follow the principles of Kaupapa Māori research, one of which is privileging Māori language, culture and thought at all stages of research. There is a growing level of support in Aotearoa New Zealand for including te reo Māori as an official national language in all forms of publicly funded discourse, including the science journals published by Royal Society Te Apārangi (www.royalsociety.org.nz/). There has been a recent explosion in bilingual and

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Māori-medium publishing across many genres, including academic journals and books. Of course, the borrowing of Māori words, phrases and concepts is a unique characteristic of the New Zealand form of English. The number of books on Māori topics is immense and ever-growing, and te reo Māori has always been included to various degrees within this vigorous corpus. The pressure towards biculturalism necessarily includes bilingualism, since from a Māori perspective, there is no possibility of biculturalism in Aotearoa New Zealand without te reo Māori (Stewart, 2019). The concept of Indigenous Autoethnography has been found in Indigenous Australasia for at least 14 years (Bainbridge, 2007), with Jennifer Houston (2007) addressing Indigenous Australian researchers and advocating they consider autoethnography as a research methodology. Houston uses the pronoun ‘our’ in phrases such as ‘our ancestors’ so declaring her position as an insider-researcher, i.e. identifying as Indigenous Australian. Apart from such subtle hints of positionality, this 2007 article is written in strictly academic language, drawing on the first edition of Decolonizing methodologies (Smith, 1999), and revealing nothing about the author other than her institution details. Paul Whitinui (2014) published an extended journal article on Indigenous autoethnography in which he interwove a personal expression of self-identity with a theorisation of the links between stories+writing in research, and political aims of Māori research. In a contrasting writing style to that of Houston (2007), Whitinui (2014) includes significant elements of Māori language and culture, bringing forward the author’s Māori identity into the writing of the text in (at least) three ways: in section titles throughout the paper; in a page-long two-column greeting and introduction using traditional oratory language forms (p. 457); and in the concepts included in the paper’s discussions. Values such as whakawhanaungatanga (positive relationships), tama toa (being strong in times of adversity), manaakitanga (looking after others), papa kāinga (positive home environment), nohoanga tangata (community connectedness), whakaaro tahi (interactions), tohungatanga (relevant skills and expertise), whānau (family connectedness), wairua (spiritual connectedness), hinengaro (positive thoughts and feelings), tinana (physical capability and well-being), mātauranga (relevant knowledge), and ehoa mā (positive friends) were all around me, but not within, because my primary focus while growing up was on playing sport. (Whitinui, 2014, p. 464; emphases in original) Similarly, a recent article by Michelle Bishop (2021) puts her Indigenous Australian positioning upfront from the first sentence: “I am a Gamilaroi woman belonging to the country now known as Australia” (p. 367). She states: I utilise Indigenous autoethnography as a cultural imperative to ‘walk my talk’, embedding an autoethnographic dataset of reflection, poetry, emotion, and subjective blurting in response to my experiences of colonialism in the academy. (Bishop, 2021, p. 367) These three examples all share aspects in common with the premise and presentation of this chapter. There is also a strong emergent strand of Pacific autoethnography in educational research in Aotearoa New Zealand (Fa‘avae, 2018; Iosefo, 2018; Matapo, 2018). The step this chapter takes is specifically to connect autoethnography with Kaupapa Māori (Hoskins & Jones, 2017).

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Kaupapa Māori research: is related to ‘being Māori’; is connected to Māori philosophy and principles; takes for granted the legitimacy of Māori, the importance of Māori language and culture; and is concerned with ‘the struggle for autonomy over our own cultural well being’ (Smith, 2012, p. 187). Autoethnography is an approach that allows the researcher to express ‘being Māori’ in writing their research, and, by rejecting the residual and distorted influences of science on ideas about research, enables the researcher to take up Māori philosophy and principles more explicitly, as part of a critical, politicised approach to, and motivation for, research. For these reasons I argue that Kaupapa Māori and autoethnography work well together: positing a Kaupapa Māori approach to autoethnography that I call ‘Kaupapa Māori autoethnography’. The next section below focuses in more detail on a specific example from my own research of using Kaupapa Māori autoethnography.

Applying autoethnography to research on Māori identities The complexity of contemporary Māori identities can most powerfully be presented to a reader through narratives or stories (King, 2003). The kinds of stories we can tell in autoethnographic research will vary according to circumstance, but include: • • • • • •

autobiographical narratives; re-telling personal experiences as a form of data collection; re-working interview data into ‘ethnographic fiction’ stories; re-telling traditional ethnic narratives about the world, the human being, knowledge and learning; constructing collective histories; writing short stories that provoke us to think about education in a new way; etc.

I used personal narratives in an article I co-authored with my Māori friend and colleague Makere (Stewart & Stewart-Harawira, 2020), to explore the question of recovering lost Māori identities, and how accepted notions of who ‘counts’ as Māori have shifted over time. These shifts reflect changes in the intercultural relationship between Māori (Indigenous peoples of Aotearoa) and Pākehā (settler New Zealanders, particularly those of British origins), which take place over time, in response to larger social and economic changes. Inter-ethnic liaisons and marriages have been common throughout the history of the Māori–Pākehā relationship, but the acceptance of such unions has changed over time, from both Pākehā and Māori perspectives, as have the identity choices available to their descendants. In earlier times, the identity choices available were stark: until 1951, the Māori population was counted in a separate census, and, until 1926, those identified as half-caste were assigned on the basis of lifestyle to either the Māori or European population. Since then, Māori identity has moved well past expecting a person to choose only Māori things, as in material and symbolic culture (clothing, foods, language, etc), in order to be accepted by self and others as Māori, since fully traditional Māori ways of life long ago became untenable under colonised conditions. In the contemporary milieu, a minimal claim to Māori ethnicity depends on being able to identify whakapapa (genealogical links), i.e. the primordial aspect of ethnicity, whereas the situational aspects relating to way of life are not seen as definitive. The category of who is accepted as Māori has greatly expanded in the past

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few generations, and now includes an enormous range of people, on a continuum of identity from those who know they have a Māori ancestor but are otherwise Pākehā, to those who have grown up speaking and living as Māori and could never ‘pass’ as Pākehā. The changing nature of Māori identity over the generations demonstrates what it means to say that ethnicity is relational – dynamic, sensitive to social context, not fixed within the individual person, as implied by the fallacious pseudo-biological concept of ‘race’ or the proto-genetic ‘fractions’ model of Māori identity. The project that led to the publication of this article began with an authentic personal story of loss of identity, in which my friend had been subject to a rumour that she had invented her claim to be Māori through whakapapa (ancestry). Her experience was similar to my mother’s, and in the article we each included a named narrative of lost and recovered Māori identity from our own history, written in the first person. I recalled as a child being told a patriarchal, racist, pseudo-scientific, family myth: that the ‘Māori blood’ of one ancestress in my mother’s otherwise colonial English family had been blamed for a tendency towards ‘mental illness in the women of the family’. Makere shared a few snippets of her long, difficult journey of recovering the knowledge of her whakapapa and finding people who had known her maternal grandfather as Māori. Literature that inspired us in taking this approach to exploring this important topic of complex and recovering Māori identities came from a Māori women’s journal Te Pua published 1992–4 (Harris, 1996). Jon Warren (1994) wrote about having one Māori grandparent: identifying as Māori, going to a hostel for Māori girls, but being white-skinned: “always, there was this preoccupation with white” (p. 28). Warren recalls feeling confused about her identity: “The truth was, I didn’t know who I was. But there was always someone willing to tell me” (p. 28). Reina Whaitiri (1992) recounts a more typical experience of racism, as one of only two Māori girls attending her private boarding school. She was nicknamed “Hone Heke” by fellow students as a racist caricature, and was often chosen to represent the school as a “token gesture” (p. 10) when, for example, the school was welcoming important visitors. Fiona Cram (1994) writes about being raised as white, “looking at my skin, looking at my parents’ skin, and believing I was white” (p. 21). “Who are all these Māori kids’ Dad?” “They’re your cousins.” “But I’m white aren’t I?” (p. 21). Cram documents her “steep learning curve” in acquiring enough knowledge to be accepted as Māori (p. 23). “I know about being a ‘born-again’ Māori. Meant as an insult but proudly accepted as the truth. A whakapapa that needs some work, lots of questions to raise again” (Cram, 1994, p. 23). To write about the writing of the article is to appreciate how stories can be told about stories being told, and on and on in endless narrative cycles. The narrative is an innate human form of transmitting and remembering complex arrays of information and history. Other women’s stories were also woven into the article, including that of Rachel Dolezal, who passed herself off as Black despite having no Black ancestry, and Rebecca Tuvel (2017), who included Dolezal in her controversial article likening ‘transracialism’ to ‘transgenderism’. Also mentioned was the scandal caused by photographs showing Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau as a young man wearing ‘blackface’ makeup on at least two occasions. The methodology of our article wove together personal and other narratives with critical literature work and scholarly commentary on the contextualised question of loss and recovery of Māori identities. This article demonstrates how autoethnography can add power to a small-scale study in ways that align with the principles of Kaupapa Māori.

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Conclusion The term “autoethnography” centrally denotes an acceptance of the potential and benefit of  allowing the life of the researcher to enter as a source of data into qualitative (and post-qualitative) educational research. Autoethnography, along with the theoretical ‘posts’ and other recent methodologies, has emerged as a result of the ‘crisis of representation’ in research and theory, which destabilised both the authority of the text and the autonomy of the author. In qualitative research, it greatly increased the importance of positionality, i.e. the relationship between the researcher and the research. Autoethnography is an outstanding example of an approach that aspires to complete the mission of qualitative research by stepping fully out of the shadows cast by science over educational research, in particular questions about truth and the reliability of findings. Kaupapa Māori originated as a theory associated with an Indigenous community-driven form of education in Aotearoa, and has over several decades grown into a widespread social and intellectual movement. Kaupapa Māori acts as a lens that can be placed over a research approach like autoethnography because, although it guides research paradigm and ethics, it does not specify data collection methods. Putting the two together, Kaupapa Māori autoethnography is a label for an approach to research that harnesses the power of both parent traditions, for Māori purposes, by and with Māori people. It seems reasonable to expect to see more of it in the near future. Tēnā rā tātou katoa (Greetings to all).

Glossary All Māori words are translated in brackets on first appearance. This list gives Māori words used more than once. Meanings are as used in this chapter.

Māori Aotearoa Kaupapa Māori Pākehā Te reo Māori Whakapapa

English Māori name for New Zealand Base, topic, philosophy, cause Indigenous peoples of Aotearoa European New Zealanders The Māori language Genealogy, family tree, relationality

References Adams, T. E., & Herrmann, A. F. (2020). Expanding our autoethnographic future. Journal of Autoethnography, 1(1), 1–8. https://doi.org/10.1525/joae.2020.1.1.1 Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (2014). Autoethnography. Oxford University Press. Bainbridge, R. (2007). Autoethnography in Indigenous research contexts: The value of inner knowing. Journal of Australian Indigenous Issues, 10(2), 54–64. Bishop, M. (2021, 2021/05/28). ‘Don’t tell me what to do’ encountering colonialism in the academy and pushing back with Indigenous autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 34(5), 367–378. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518398.2020.1761475 Bochner, A. (1997). It’s about time: Narrative and the divided self. Qualitative Inquiry, 3(4), 418–438. Booth, E. T., & Spencer, L. G. (2021). Giving an account of one’s current self: An autoethnographic reflection on gender identity and reincarnation. Journal of Autoethnography, 2(2), 177–193. https://doi. org/10.1525/joae.2021.2.2.177

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Kaupapa Māori autoethnography Bruce, T. (2014). A spy in the house of rugby: Living (in) the emotional spaces of nationalism and sport. Emotion, Space and Society, 12, 32–40. http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.emospa.2013.12.002 Chang, H. (2016). Autoethnography as method. Routledge. Cram, F. (1994). On knowing. Te Pua, 3(1), 21–24. Denzin, N. K. (2014). Interpretive autoethnography (2nd ed.). SAGE. Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. P. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research: 2nd edition (pp. 733–768). Sage Publishers. Fa‘avae, D. (2018). Giving voice to the unheard in higher education: Critical autoethnography, Tongan males, and educational research. MAI Journal, 7(2), 126–138. https://doi.org/10.20507/ MAIJournal.2018.7.2.2 Harris, A. (1996). “Te Pua”, Linda Smith and Reina Whaitiri (eds.) (Book Review). Women’s Studies Journal, 12(2), 137–138. No DOI but paper can be downloaded from Proquest using Google Scholar (through my AUT Library) http://www.wsanz.org.nz/journal/back-issues/12-2.htm Hoskins, T. K., & Jones, A. (Eds.). (2017). Critical conversations in Kaupapa Māori. Huia Publishers. Houston, J. (2007). Indigenous autoethnography: Formulating our knowledge, our way. The Australian Journal of Indigenous Education, 36(S1), 45–50. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1326011100004695 Hughes, S. A., & Pennington, J. L. (2017). Autoethnography: Process, product, and possibility for critical social research. Sage. https://doi.org/10.4135/9781483398594 Iosefo, F. (2018). Scene, seen, unseen. In P. S. G. Vass (Ed.), Questions of culture in autoethnography (pp. 54–64). Routledge. Jackson, P. (1991). The crisis of representation and the politics of position. Environment & Planning, 9, 131–134. No DOI but paper can be downloaded from Google Scholar (through my AUT Library). https://journals.sagepub.com/toc/epda/9/2 King, T. (2003). The truth about stories: A native narrative. University of Minnesota Press. Matapo, J. (2018). Traversing Pasifika education research in a post-truth era. Waikato Journal of Education, 23(1), 139–146. https://doi.org/10.15663/wje.v23i1.627 Pihama, L., Cram, F., & Walker, S. (2002). Creating methodological space: A literature review of Kaupapa Maori research. Canadian Journal of Native Education, 26(1), 30–43. Rath, J. (2012). Autoethnographic layering: Recollections, family tales, and dreams. Qualitative Inquiry, 18(5), 442–448. https://doi.org/10.1177/1077800412439529 Richardson, L. (2001). Getting personal: Writing-stories. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14(1), 33–38. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518390010007647 Richardson, L., & St. Pierre, E. A. (2018). Writing: A method of inquiry. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Sage handbook of qualitative research (5th ed., pp. 818–838). Sage. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. Zed Books & University of Otago Press. Smith, L. T. (2012). Decolonizing methodologies: Research & indigenous peoples (2nd ed.). Zed Books & Otago University Press. Sparkes, A. C. (2007). Embodiment, academics, and the audit culture: A story seeking consideration. Qualitative Research 7(4), 521–550. https://doi.org/10.1177/1468794107082306 St. Pierre, E. A. (2018). Writing post qualitative inquiry. Qualitative Inquiry, 24(9), 603–608. https://doi. org/10.1177/1077800417734567 Stewart, G. (2005). Māori in the science curriculum: Developments and possibilities. Educational Philosophy and Theory, 37(6), 851–870. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1469-5812.2005.00162.x Stewart, G. T. (2019). Learning from the 1991 law exams incident. International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism, 1–11. https://doi.org/10.1080/13670050.2019.1696277 Stewart, G. T. (2021). Writing as a Māori/Indigenous method of inquiry. In G. T. Stewart, N. Devine, & L. Benade (Eds.), Writing for publication: Liminal reflections for academics (pp. 41–54). Springer. https:// doi.org/10.1007/978-981-33-4439-6_4 Stewart, G. T., & Stewart-Harawira, M. (2020). “Under Erasure”: Suppressed and trans-ethnic Māori identities. Journal of World Philosophies, 5(2), 1–12. https://scholarworks.iu.edu/iupjournals/index.php/ jwp/article/view/4042 Taber, N. (2010). Institutional ethnography, autoethnography, and narrative: An argument for incorporating multiple methodologies. Qualitative Research, 10(1), 5–25. https://doi.org/10.1177/1468794109348680 Tuvel, R. (2017). In defense of transracialism. Hypatia, 32(2), 263–278. https://doi.org/10.1111/ hypa.12327

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29 IDENTIFYING IMPLICATIONS AND ISSUES Selected lessons learned from intersecting autoethnography and educational research Patrick Alan Danaher, Emilio A. Anteliz and Deborah L. Mulligan Introduction As the editors’ first chapter in the Routledge International Handbook of Autoethnography in Educational Research highlighted, and has been underscored in varied ways in the intervening chapters, contemporary autoethnographic research abounds and is flourishing. This is a testament to the far-sighted vision of the progenitors of autoethnography, and to the enthusiastic adoption and adaptations of autoethnography by diverse researchers around the world. These widely ranging applications and extensions of autoethnography attest to its capacity for empowerment and transformation of individuals and groups alike, and to its power to facilitate new understandings of ourselves, others and the world that we all share. As we also emphasised in the editors’ first chapter, and in the context of the broader scholarly corpus of autoethnographic studies, the handbook is located at the meeting point between autoethnography and educational research. Given the vast dimensions of the latter, we anchored the investigations presented here by clustering them in four themes, and we also identified three organising principles that we contended enhance the analytical power of that meeting point. We return to both sets of themes and organising principles below. This concluding chapter to the handbook is intended to fulfil two specific purposes, each aligned with one of the two main sections in the chapter: • •

To provide a necessarily selective summary of the preceding chapters in the handbook To revisit our respective chapters in the handbook to identify broader implications and issues related to autoethnography and educational research.

Selectively summarising the handbook chapters At this juncture, it is both appropriate and pleasing for us as editors to thank the contributing authors of the preceding chapters more fully and fulsomely than we were able to do in the list of acknowledgements in the handbook’s preliminary pages. We are profoundly grateful to

DOI: 10.4324/b23046-33

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every author for investing the time and scholarly energy needed to write each chapter; in combination, the chapters constitute a highly diverse, significant and timely expansion of current understandings of autoethnography in alignment with educational research. Even more importantly, we acknowledge and salute the courage and generosity of spirit that are evident in every chapter. In multiple ways, the chapters convey the authors’ and others’ ongoing struggles against all manner of challenges and obstacles. Despite the poignant and sometimes traumatic experiences that the contributors convey, the strategies that they have put in place to continue to learn, and through their learning and writing to teach to others, about the world are what also shine through like beacons of hope. This commitment to sharing understandings of self and multiple others, and to learning from and with those others, is a defining feature of the best research in both autoethnography and education, and as editors we salute the authors whose chapters make this commitment manifest. Against this backdrop, and as we highlighted in the first chapter, the handbook chapters were grouped around four themes, each of which is a scholarly subfield in its own right, and each of which afforded distinctive understandings of the interface between autoethnography and educational research. We have summarised the 27 chapters in the handbook in the context of these four themes and scholarly subfields.

Enhancing teaching and teacher education with autoethnography In Chapter 2, Karen Barley emphasises that storytelling is vital to imparting information in the area of education and research. The author hypothesises that autoethnography enables the writer to provide valuable insight into human behaviour, and that retelling stories can pull at the heartstrings. As a provider of face-to-face and online professional development, she is often given a ‘common’ piece of feedback: “Your stories caused me to have a lightbulb moment.” An integral component of her autoethnography is the epiphany as method, whereby the stories evocatively ask the audience to reflect on their own views of disability and inclusion. The author has long been fascinated with the concept of the epiphany and how that epiphanic moment can cause us to shift our beliefs or attitudes, and she began writing about the epiphanies that altered her perceptions. This then caused a shift in her teaching practice. In Chapter 3, Brian Andrew Benoit finds himself thinking about how autoethnography has contributed to reconceptualising and reimagining his work and his current identity, as well as about its impact on his future research. As a teacher, teacher educator and researcher, he has had the opportunity to combine his work on critical autoethnography with his teaching as an elementary resource teacher as well as a teacher educator in three Canadian universities. Using student evaluation forms, the author attempted to expose some of the ways in which power operates in classrooms through both the official and the non-official curricula. The act of going back allows him to understand his contemporary self so as to improve his future teaching. He explores the notion of autoethnography allowing a greater understanding of the nature of teaching and of learning about teaching, as well as aiding in the development of a greater sense of professional pride. The author asks: “Could I have done better at understanding some of the biases that I have pertaining to my own teaching and understandings? What role can and should these artifacts play in my own personal and professional development?” In Chapter 4, Anne Bradley poses the question: “How do I improve my teaching practice?” This led her on a journey of self-examination and reflection-in-action. The chapter describes the manner in which autoethnography has become foundational to her academic life, impacting

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on her research and teaching practice alike. The author examines what it means to be an educator in a postcolonial landscape in which the disadvantages experienced by colonised peoples represent a grim reality. She discusses how autoethnography differs from other forms of educational research, and she provides an overview of the processes that she follows. She then examines some of the issues and outcomes that she experienced, including the transformative potential of what she describes as the autoethnographic ripple effect. In Chapter 5, Shelley Hannigan, Jo Raphael and Peta J. White offer a narrative account of how three academics from diverse disciplines in a school of education across multiple campuses came together to focus their practice over seven years. They utilised the imperative of reform to develop a collaborative arts-based autoethnography (CABAE) as a methodological frame to scaffold interactions, and to enable deeper and more profound reflection on their teacher education practice. The authors found that arts-based inquiry generated joy and enthusiasm as well as deeper reflection and consideration. Additionally, they found that the autoethnographic practices, when managed in a collegial attitude of trust and genuine interest, created a generative space to explore new ideas together, and to publish. The value of others seeing and reflecting on their practices was key to being able to imagine and then to practise differently when reform was required. In Chapter 6, Nadia Mead hypothesises that action research is a common practice used in schools owing to its practicality and ready source of data. Thus, in a workplace where time is a scarce and precious commodity, the lure of action research is obvious. The author further posits that action research can also marginalise and exclude teachers and make their experience invisible. Nadia believes that autoethnographic research embodies values that align with teaching as its driving force as a desire to share expertise and to help others to learn. It also validates teacher experience at any stage of a career, connecting with others who share the same level of experience and who will learn from the autoethnographer’s insider perspective. Using autoethnography as a research methodology, instead of action research, reconceptualised the author’s teacher identity, validated her experiences and transformed her attitude towards a system that the author views as one that silences teachers. At a time when attrition rates reflect low morale in teaching, autoethnography restored her voice as a teacher, renewed her direction and purpose, and prevented her from leaving education.

Enlarging doctoral study and supervision with autoethnography In Chapter 7, Aruna Devi provides an enquiry into how the effective use of autoethnography can enhance researchers’ self-efficacy and their preparedness to be transformed into effective researchers. The author, as the researcher in this context, explored and reflected on her teaching experiences and the self-efficacy developed to teach students with special needs, particularly those diagnosed with autism. With an inquiry into her own self-efficacy, she became curious to learn about what other teachers felt about their self-efficacy related to teaching students with autism. This curiosity led her to explore the phenomenon more broadly within the context of a doctoral research program. The author believes that adherence to an autoethnographic inquiry is expected to enable other researchers to contribute to educational researchers’ self-efficacy in exploring their views and experiences, and to enrich further their stories to be attractive to the other readers. This may assist in shaping one’s self-efficacy beliefs in order to enhance the possibilities of implementing effective educational practices. The impetus to undertake this research was an important incident in her career development, leading to the researcher who she is today.

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In Chapter 8, Karl Matthews considers how his analysis of visual autoethnographic data enabled deeper insight into the context, human, technology and process dimensions of a knowledge management case study. One visual representation, the Mandala method, worked as a data-gathering tool to interface between ethnography and autoethnography within his PhD thesis, by reflecting on the participants and also on his own interpretations of the situational dynamics to develop his understanding of the subject. The chapter discusses his retrospective autoethnographic analysis of his doctoral study and supervision experience through his extension of the Mandala method into what he terms “the Jungian Alignment Mandala (JAM) method”. The author presents three examples of the JAM method: the first example considers his autoethnographic insight that doctoral supervisors are “terrific teachers that teach the teachers that teach the teachers” or “T10s”; the second example explores an analogy of the doctoral research candidature process being “like climbing a mountain”; and the third example contemplates the evolution of KM technologies in doctoral study and supervision. This chapter promotes the value of the Mandala method for analysing visual autoethnographic data within academic research. In Chapter 9, Nona Press and Dolene Rossi illustrate the use of two qualitative research methodologies and offer suggestions about the “methodological fusion” of phenomenography and collaborative autoethnography within one study. The focus of this research is doctoral supervision, about which heightened scholarly interest is apparent. Understanding and experiencing doctoral supervision render a methodological focus towards phenomenography, which investigates the qualitatively different ways of thinking about or understanding a phenomenon of interest. However, the study also renders a focus towards collaborative autoethnography, as the research uses the authors’ personal data as participant-researchers to describe, analyse and understand individuals and their collective experiences. The authors set out to elicit their conception of this phenomenon, and to interrogate how such conceptions reflect their actions and influence their expectations. This chapter presents a journey from ‘fusing’ two methodological approaches in a single study, and offers practical considerations with cautions and implications concerning the practice of collaborative autoethnography with phenomenography. This research contributes towards an evolving knowledge of the two methodological traditions, and demonstrates that, when ‘fused’, they can present a good ‘fit’ with specific aspects of research while maintaining the integrity of each approach. In Chapter 10, Deborah L. Mulligan presents a reflexive overview of the emotional process of her thesis writing. She links an autobiographical incident with the paradigm of autoethnography, and views this through the lens of self-narrative as a tool for meaning construction. Connections of relationality are drawn among the event of thesis writing, the aftermath of the death of her son, the anthropomorphising of a beloved family pet and herself as both a researcher and a grieving parent. The author posits that, even though research into the elements of doctoral achievement has begun attaining international interest, there are still considerable gaps in ‘coal face’ knowledge – e.g., the complex minutiae of the lived experiences of doctoral researchers as they go about earning the right to be awarded the highest of educational accomplishments. The author seeks to relate her personal narrative with the understanding that all Higher Degree by Research students’ inspirations and aspirations are unique in time and place. In her case, the thesis was an intentional performance of grief work, and it was begun as a self-transformative act. In Chapter 11, Meg Forbes employs autoethnography to explore her personal journey through post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and then to transcend these negative experiences through education. Initially unable to attend university following a violent assault, she entered university as a mature-aged student while engaged in psychotherapy, seeking 340

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to transcend her experiences by empowering herself and others. After ten years of study, and with a PhD, she began to lecture and was approached by students whose struggles resembled her own of a decade earlier. Reflecting on her prior experiences strengthened her ability to encourage her students on their own journey while maintaining academic boundaries. The author’s story demonstrates that mental health challenges in academia can be overcome with encouragement and patience from those in positions of power, and highlights the importance of remaining cognisant of this for those of us who are privileged to supervise and teach. In Chapter 12, Naomi Ryan and Deborah L. Mulligan examine the issue of doctoral supervisory praxis and life as a doctoral student. This chapter views the act of supervision through the experiential lens of a supervisor (Naomi) and a student (Debbie). It is their contention that building and maintaining a healthy doctoral relationship are the responsibility of both parties and that, at the heart of the matter, there are really only three essential questions that should be asked of both supervisor and student: “What do you bring to the doctoral relationship?”; “What do you bring to the doctoral process?”; and “What are you most afraid of?” Naomi tells her story from the perspective of a novice doctoral supervisor who values her connections with her students, and who seeks to widen her skillset. Debbie is a relatively experienced doctoral student in that she is currently undertaking her second doctorate. In Chapter 13, Jennifer Clutterbuck offers her chapter as a way of interrogating innovations around the understanding of ourselves and of the governance of data infrastructures. Her doctoral research centred on exploring a student information management system, a data infrastructure built and used in government or state schools in Queensland, Australia. When she visited participating schools, she was introduced as: “This is Jen – she’s OneSchool”. She maintains that those who worked on the School Management Systems project became so connected to one another and so associated with the project that in some ways they became synonymous with the system. Exploring the diffracted/intra-active becoming of Jen-as-OneSchool allows her to reflect on other identities that she developed and shed along the way. In doing so, she alerts those who seek to research within their own spaces of the benefits and risks of being an insider researcher or autoethnographer. Jennifer further encourages educational practitioners to explore the impact of their own diffracted professionality on their relationships with one another, with students and with data infrastructures and data more broadly. In Chapter 14, Sheila Trahar explores the expectations around the usage of autoethnography. She posits that there continues to be an expectation that those who use it – in particular, in doctoral research – will explain in detail their methodological rationale and justify and elaborate the approach’s limitations as well as its affordances, much more so than those who use other methodologies. The author utilises autoethnography to reflect critically on her experiences of supervising and examining doctorates, and of reviewing articles and other texts submitted for publication, all deploying autoethnography in different ways. She employs the metaphor of perils and threats that abound in snowy landscapes to write about how her interpretation and use of autoethnography enable her to evaluate others’ work using criteria that she synthesised from a range of sources, and that reflect her own values and expectations. The chapter foregrounds, in particular, the ethical complexities inherent in autoethnography and, in addition, proposes how it can augment the decolonial possibilities of higher education through its challenges to dominant research approaches and to privileging particular knowledges. The author concludes by proposing that autoethnography, when used wisely, strengthens educational research, thereby rendering it more authentic and relevant for our complex worlds. 341

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Conducting identity work and relationshipbuilding via autoethnography In Chapter 15, James Akpan explores his years spent in educational spaces in Nigeria and the United States. He discusses how his identity has been influenced through critical incidents in these contexts. His experience opens a new dialogue around the abuses of female students by ‘powerful’ Nigerian male professors. All of these are tied within the theoretical framework of “uncomfortable sweetness”. Autoethnography as a methodology invites developing self-incontexts. His chapter queries if the education received in Black Africa is shifting consciousness for the better. He also discusses White Western ideologies, alienation and how colonial English, as cultural capital in academia, has minimised his true voice. In Chapter 16, Patrick Alan Danaher offers autoethnography as a capacity, in concert with sense-making, to facilitate productive and sustained critical reflection on complex and sometimes troubling events experienced by individuals and groups. He builds a case for reflection as an indispensable linking of subjective experiences with broader economic, political and sociocultural trends, thereby accentuating autoethnography’s significance in bringing into alignment the otherwise contradictory forces of personal and communal, private and public, and self and other. The author demonstrates this proposition by presenting selected susurrations of his potential swansong as an Australian education professor. While this transition generates feelings of fearfulness and uncertainty, those feelings are ameliorated by the chapter’s deployment of autoethnographic analysis in concert with sense-making. In particular, the analysis is clustered around his present identity shift, informed by his longer-term identity work and relationship reshaping, and also by traversing the personal–communal, private–public and self–other divides. In Chapter 17, Gustavo González-Calvo presents his journey as a Spanish researcher who seeks to write in an evocative, critical and committed way. He explains the story of how he began to write autoethnographies, and how these allowed him to undergo a series of deepening personal, social and professional experiences that could lead to debating broader cultural issues. Since the scientific literature on qualitative and ethnographic methodologies was relatively scarce in his early formative years, his beginnings were mainly self-taught and experimental. In addition to scientific literature, he soon realised that events in his life were also an important source of data. With this in mind, he directed his research gaze to what really (pre)occupied him, what made his life meaningful, what excited him, what made him anxious and what mattered to him. Thus, the author presents a spirit of dialogue and connection between the reader and himself. In doing so, he discloses the manner in which autoethnographies can be a wonderful resource for research, for social criticism, for resonating in the minds of readers and for being re-membered (in Spanish, re-cordado, from the Latin re-cordis: to pass through the heart again). In Chapter 18, Arturo Pérez López and Patricia Varas interrogate the processes arising from the grant that Arturo had received to explore the multiculturalism of the Mexican American and Oaxacan, the positive and negative effects, and their mental, physical and spiritual toll. He wanted to dig deeply into the struggles and challenges of interacting with three cultures daily and with the dilemma of determining one’s identity, as it has affected his life. As a first-generation student, he felt conspicuously visible on campus. Arturo’s autoethnography is an exercise of self-reflection to discover his ethnic identity. The research methodology allowed the articulation of his voice through a personal narrative, while at the same time it welcomed objective information from academia and other sources. Through his writing,

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Arturo constructed a narrative built of memories and experiences, supporting it with readings on language, music, ethnic identity formation and cultural patterns of socialisation and interaction, among others. In this autoethnography Arturo embarked on an inclusive and informal method of learning, and he made important connections with cultural, political and  social sources that will prove important to him as a future researcher. In Chapter 19, Ashley Simpson is inspired by the Russian philosopher and literary critic Mikhail Bakhtin. The author hypothesises that Bakhtin’s influence on educational research is widespread, yet the translation, interpretation and application of Bakhtin’s work from Russian to English have often been problematic. The self and the other were integral to Bakhtin’s work, and these notions have also become synonymous with the dialogical and reflexive research methodologies in education. But what is meant by self and other? Through problematising Bakhtin’s notion of the crisis of “outsideness” (vnenakhodimost), this chapter discusses the reflexive merits of autoethnography by problematising the precariousness and limitations that can inhibit the approach. The author argues that autoethnography is besotted by an overspill of self, and can perpetually violate the other in research and practice. The author explores an engagement with Bakhtin’s crisis of outsideness to propose a dialogical approach for critical autoethnographic studies in education. In Chapter 20, Devi Akella examines study abroad programs. She proposes that they offer unique and novel opportunities for educators by forcing them out of their comfort zone, and by challenging them with new situations that can transform their overall personality. The author suggests that these opportunities allow the educators a chance to learn from others, build partnerships and share this expertise with others once back home. She argues that educators then reflect on these experiences and integrate them into their curriculum, classroom lectures and pedagogies in the form of informative material from another culture. This chapter presents an autoethnographic narrative of the author’s visit to the conflicted region of Palestine as a Fulbright Specialist for a duration of 42 days. The research method of autoethnography is used to illuminate her personal story of how she reacted, understood and responded to new situations, places, people and events in Palestine. In Chapter 21, Lynelle Watts and Rebecca Waters posit that some kinds of research may be conceptualised as identity-making ventures, especially for emerging scholars. The authors aim to outline different kinds of critical reflection in relation to autoethnography, and to explore some philosophical conceptions of practical identity. They consider how these might inform understandings of the self at the heart of autoethnography. The chapter begins by tracing the self-reflective nature of human social being back to the conception of what the enlightenment entailed, and how this relates to the method of autoethnography. They then move to discuss conceptualisations of practical identity, outlining the connection between its personal and social aspects. They describe the role of narrative as essential to the formation of practical identities. They then present a case study that illustrates the workings of practical identity and narrative within the context of an intersubjective encounter in Occupational Therapy practice. The chapter concludes with the implications for how the self might be accounted for within autoethnographic inquiry to provide deep and rich explorations of human experience and social conditions. In Chapter 22, Emilio A. Anteliz and Paolo Maragno present a co-authored collaborative autoethnography of their shared experiences in designing and developing a series of university continuing education programs for working engineers in Venezuela. They employ a conceptual framework, clustered around lifelong learning, identity, relationships and autoethnography, to frame their recounting of initiating and sustaining the programs between 1999 and 2006 in

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the Faculty of Engineering at the Central University of Venezuela (UCV). They also recall the politicised dimension of these programs, including both support and opposition from different faculty and university colleagues. They then reflect critically on the experience of co-authoring the chapter as their first foray into collaborative autoethnography, and they share their interest in continuing the process in future publications.

Promoting social justice through autoethnography In Chapter 23, Mery Diaz, Irma Cruz, Katherine Legarreta, Mercedes Lopez and Bethany Vazquez write from the perspective of five Latinx women from working-class families, immigrant families and different generations. They examine the statistics around the attendance and the success of Latinx college students, and they draw from critical race theory and feminist standpoint positionality to co-construct an educational testimonio. Through this method, they reflect, analyse and tell about their schooling histories, their positionality, the role of mentorship in their academic trajectory and thereafter, and the solidarity that they forged along the way. The authors’ stories seek to counter dominant narratives that often privilege private and elite White college experiences, and that focus primarily on academic outcomes as measures of success. Instead, they highlight the relational self, personal connections and sense of belonging as critical aspects of the college experience to redefine success. In Chapter 24, Julie Keyantash Guertin addresses racial microaggressions that are present in classroom interactions between White teachers and students of colour. She posits that White teachers, however, may be oblivious to the racial microaggressions that they exhibit and to how they perform them in classrooms. The author asserts that autoethnographic research methods are key to exposing implicit racial bias in explicit moments of teacher decision-making, transforming dysconscious racism into conscious, concrete thoughts, and interpreting previously unseen racist acts as seen and recognisable perpetrations. White teachers can utilise autoethnography to detect and examine racial microaggressions towards students of colour, and critical self-reflexivity can promote an evolving anti-racist teaching identity. The author notes that the teacher-as-perpetrator approach is intended not to replace the voice of the victim of racial microaggressions, but rather to pledge to it and offer a different kind of requisite insider perspective on racial inequities within the classroom. In Chapter 25, Ceceilia Parnther posits that autoethnography as influence is primed to transform civility education through social media engagement. The author suggests that influence through social media relies on personal connection and storytelling, but that it may impact on authentic representation. Social media represents a self-reflective opportunity to make sense of events. The author utilises current literature on activism and identity development to highlight social movements and to identify common themes bolstered by autoethnographic research. Specifically, she identifies exemplar pieces that galvanise communities to act, highlighting the possibilities for scholarly connection, desire for activism and power of influence. She argues that for many marginalised communities the proliferation of autoethnography as a method provides a sense of belonging in spaces that systematically exclude minority perspectives. The best practices of such research demonstrate possibilities of responsibility, and the reach of social media activism is emerging as a necessary component of autoethnography as accessible and impactful research. A proactive, rigorous and collaborative approach to supporting the work emerging from these perspectives is crucial in assisting future researchers using internet platforms at every stage of engagement. In Chapter 26, Sharin Shajahan Naomi explores her experience of decolonising feminist perspectives and pedagogy to teach feminist issues in an international women’s liberal arts 344

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university, located in Bangladesh and aiming to empower women from different countries of Asia and the Middle East. In an autoethnographic note, she reveals the intimate relationship between a teacher’s subjectivity and pedagogy in the classroom. The author realised that feminism in the class is not separate from how we interpret feminism in personalised contexts. Instead of holding fast to a fixed and categorised feminist school, the author developed a bricolage of feminist perspectives and pedagogy under decolonial feminism to address real-life questions, to break the hegemony of White Western feminism and to assess critically the application of postcolonial feminist thoughts to certain contexts (for instance, Afghanistan). This autoethnography opens up a conversation about teaching decolonial feminism in the Global South that can resonate with individuality, particularity and the need for time and contexts to challenge patriarchy, colonialisation and religious extremism. In Chapter 27, Skye Playsted utilises autoethnography to highlight critical issues in English language teaching (ELT), viewed through her eyes as a teacher working with refugee-background English language learners in an Australian adult migrant English program (AMEP). She begins with a brief introduction to autoethnography, and she discusses recommendations made in recent literature for this methodology in ELT to adopt a more critical approach. The author then reflects on the two-year period that she taught in the AMEP, and on incidents that prompted her to reconsider the assumptions that she had held about her position and privilege as a teacher. The author discusses some practical applications of critical reflection in her teaching practice, and she considers possible ways forward for teachers and researchers in AMEP seeking to engage in collective inquiry and dialogue around critical issues. In Chapter 28, Georgina Tuari Stewart advocates a Kaupapa Māori approach to autoethnography that has untapped potential as a useful methodology for Māori researchers and communities in Aotearoa New Zealand. So far in research, Māori and Indigenous education has mostly relied on ‘traditional’ qualitative methodologies, especially interview research. Interviews are seen as an effective way to collect the voices that represent Indigenous communities, who have been historically disadvantaged in education, and silenced in research. The author posits that autoethnographic methods can add to the existing research toolboxes of Māori and Indigenous researchers, but that it still faces opposition as ‘not scientific’. This attitude is highly problematic given that the whole premise of qualitative research is non-scientific. The author maintains that autoethnography is one form of qualitative research to consider when the primary researcher is embedded and experienced in the context of her research question. Autoethnography makes a powerful approach for investigating Māori identities and ideas, and it combines effectively with other methodologies. A concept of Kaupapa Māori autoethnography recognises the potential of autoethnography to support research in education conducted by Māori researchers, with Māori involvement and for Māori in uplifting the political and personal interests of Māori students, families and communities.

Revisiting our respective handbook chapters We turn now to revisit our respective handbook chapters in order to identify some broader implications and issues related to autoethnography and educational research. In doing so, we do not seek to privilege our experiences and voices above those of the other contributors to this handbook. Instead, we desire to link the autoethnographic dimension of those chapters with our role in this chapter as handbook editors pondering some of the wider lessons, not just of our chapters but of all the chapters constituting this volume. This revisiting is framed by the three organising principles that we enunciated in the first chapter 345

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in the handbook – pedagogies, positionality and power – that we argued highlight the distinctiveness of working at the intersection of autoethnography and educational research. In Chapter 10, Debbie explored her conversations with her dog El as a crucial part of her first doctoral study, and also as a key element of her continuing grief work related to her teenage son Rory’s death from cancer. Methodologically, Debbie analysed those conversations as a form of anthropomorphising self-narrative, thereby generating fresh insights into who and what constitute ‘self/hood’ and ‘other/ness’. For Debbie, educational research incorporates at least two parallel projects. The first project is the learning and life experiences of older men, which was the topic of Debbie’s first doctoral study. The second project is how completing a doctorate functioned as a type of grief work arising from her son’s death, which is the topic of her second and current doctoral study. As with the comment presented above about the handbook chapters as a whole, Debbie’s autoethnographic work has manifested considerable courage and commitment, and a generous sharing of her experiences with others, including scholars in grief studies and doctoral research alike. In Chapter 16, Patrick presented what he called selected “susurrations of a swansong” in his present role as an Australian professor of education. These susurrations referred to his current identity shift, away from being a full-time academic, to a future profile whose contours are not yet clear. This transition has been prompted by his perceived incapacity to fulfil his academic, research and service duties to the standard that he expects of himself in the available time. His continuing identity shift has been accompanied by significant reshaping in his key relationships, including his mother’s death in September 2021, and also in how he sees himself and others. In Chapter 22, Emilio co-authored with his friend and former colleague Paolo Maragno an account of their shared experiences of designing and developing a series of university continuing education programs for Venezuelan working engineers. That work entailed considerable agility of thought and practice, as well as a determination to push ahead with the initiative in spite of opposition in several quarters. For both Emilio and Paolo, their first experience of collaborative autoethnography helped them to generate new understandings of a former period in their professional and personal lives, and in doing so to glean fresh insights into themselves, into their core values as professional colleagues and into their aspirations for their ongoing lifelong learning. In some ways, our three chapters represent something of a microcosm of the broader range of occurrences and analyses presented in the other chapters in this handbook; in other ways, as with all human experiences, each editor’s situation is distinctive and indeed unique. Nevertheless, it is possible to identify both commonalities and differences among them, using the lenses of the three organising principles referred to above, that simultaneously highlight autoethnography’s wider resonance beyond each individual person. With regard to pedagogies, at one level, Debbie worked for many years as a primary school teacher, Patrick’s current position description is professor (educational research), and the programs designed and developed by Emilio and Paolo were directed at engineering education. At another level, all three chapters explicated the educative intentions and effects of their respective accounts. Debbie hopes that other grieving parents, and other doctoral candidates and their supervisors, will discern some potential lessons for themselves from her experiences, while at the same time emphasising that her approaches to grief work and to doctoral study worked for her but are not necessarily applicable to others. Similarly, Patrick wrote what is otherwise a personal and private reflection with the intention of assisting other academics who might be experiencing burnout. Relatedly, despite the passage of time since they worked together, Emilio and Paolo see value in sharing with others their efforts to circumvent opposition in order to deliver carefully contextualised education programs. 346

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In relation to positionality, all three editors acknowledge the privilege attached to the working roles that we have occupied and to the opportunities for formal education that we have enjoyed. At the same time, all three editors have been the recipients of both microaggressions and more serious instances of bullying and hostility. We have also all experienced personal trauma of varying kinds that has left its mark on our psyches. Despite the considerable differences among us, we are united by a commitment to educational research as a vehicle for personal and communal empowerment and transformation, and we share as well the conviction that autoethnographic research can likewise be educative and liberating. In terms of power, we accentuated in our respective chapters specific events or conditions that reduced our sense of agency and autonomy, and that restricted in different ways our capacity to function fully. In Debbie’s case, the death of her son Rory radically altered her previously planned life trajectory, and caused her to question otherwise taken-for-granted assumptions about who she is and what her purposes in life are. For Patrick, the seemingly unrelenting stress occasioned by academic work intensification made him challenge his capability to perform work that previously he loved and to which he assigned high value. Both Emilio and Paolo found the opposition of some of their colleagues frustrating and at times overwhelming, even though they pressed on with their initiative. Yet in all three situations, we have found strategies for reclaiming some of that lost agency and autonomy. And one of those strategies has entailed the use of autoethnography, in concert with our particular educational research projects, to analyse events often characterised by complexity, and also to develop specialised language to render those analyses even more percipient.

Conclusion In compiling this handbook, the editors wished to present a range of perspectives specifically to do with the use of autoethnography as it pertains to educational research. We sought multiple and diverse voices to highlight that our stories, although unique to each author, have resonance with the greater theme of storytelling as a relational endeavour. In these uncertain times, it is reassuring to acknowledge that other academics continue to think deeply about the constraints, challenges and contributions pertaining to educational research, and how it affects us as scholars as well as society as a whole. This connection between meaningful research and community is authentically portrayed through the application of autoethnography as a methodologically sound and rigorous practice as exemplified within the pages of this handbook. The editors wish the authors well in their future endeavours and hope that, in sharing these stories, readers will be inspired to conduct their research in this manner, and also to be comforted in  the knowledge that others have walked, and are walking, this path.

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INDEX

Page numbers in italics refer to figures and page numbers followed by n denote notes. activism 7, 36, 126–127, 267–268, 295–299, 303, 330, 344; blogging 296, 303; community 267; feminist 311; researcher 301; social justice 302–303; social media 299, 302, 344 adult migrant English program/s 268, 317, 345 affordance/s 3–4, 7–8, 58, 150, 159, 183, 193, 254, 256, 341 Afghanistan 309, 312–313, 314n1, 345 Africa/n 7, 167, 169–179, 205, 275, 277; American/s 167, 174, 176, 178; Black 171–172, 175, 342 agency 5, 12, 63–65, 70, 74, 109–110, 117, 122–123, 145, 150, 212–213, 224, 227, 229, 235, 246, 251, 271, 309–310, 312–313, 329, 347 anonymity 153, 303 anthropomorphism 115, 117–119, 340, 346 anxiety/ies 78, 80–81, 116, 118, 128, 133, 184, 188, 191–192, 207, 235, 237, 240, 276–278, 330 Aotearoa New Zealand/er 6–7, 11, 34–42, 44–45, 268, 328, 330–332, 334 Australia/n 7, 16, 39, 42, 62–63, 66, 68–69, 74, 91, 105, 116, 119, 128–129, 133–134, 138, 148, 151, 180, 183–186, 190, 192–193, 268, 309–310, 317, 320–322, 323n1, 331, 341–342, 345–346 autism 13, 18, 76, 79–80, 84, 339 autoethnography/ies: as activism 295, 301; analytic 213, 241; artistic 49; arts-­based 7, 12, 48–49, 55, 58, 68, 339; co-­ 3, 302, 339; collaborative 3, 5, 48–50, 55, 73, 102–104, 109, 112, 146, 168, 254–257, 261–262, 339–340, 343–344, 346; collective 213, 299; community 6; comparative 137; critical 27,

30–31, 50, 168, 222–229, 296, 318, 338, 343; decolonising 296; dialogic 6; digital 295–296, 302; educational 16; education-­ based 49; evocative 116–117, 213; exo-­ 3; Indigenous 331; Kaupapa Mäori 268, 326, 329–330, 332, 334, 345; organisational 183; Pacific 331; performance 3; reading 3, 160, 214; realist 24; solo 58; subjective 213, 216; textile-­based 49; visual 7, 49, 86, 95, 98–100, 340; writing 3, 6, 14, 29, 54, 75–76, 156–158, 160–164, 168, 180–183, 185, 189–191, 196–198, 200–201, 204–205, 208, 213–216, 220, 223–224, 235–236, 257–258, 268, 272, 281, 284, 286, 292, 295, 306, 308, 310, 318–319, 326–333, 338, 340, 342–343 autonomy 28, 82, 107, 111, 187, 246, 310, 332, 334, 347 Bangladesh/i 7, 268, 306, 309–312, 345 belonging 41, 69, 123, 145, 217, 270–271, 275, 310, 320, 331, 344 bereavement 115–116, 121, 123 biculturalism 39, 331 bilingualism 272, 279, 330–331 bricolage 151, 307–309, 314, 345 bullying 182–183, 192, 274, 277, 347 burnout 185, 188, 346 Canada/ian 5, 7, 26, 333, 338 candidature, doctoral student 91, 97, 103, 109, 140, 188, 340 capital 87, 157, 170, 172–173, 186, 203, 271, 297, 317, 342 capitalism/s 167, 176, 208, 306–307, 312–313

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Index career/s 11, 76, 78, 83–84, 120, 141, 183–184, 188, 192, 205, 251; academic 83, 103, 167, 180, 183, 188, 190–191, 197, 202–204, 207, 271–272, 278, 280, 309; college 204; development 78, 188, 271, 339; non-­academic 103; professional 91, 152, 204–205, 207, 278; research/er 111, 208, 339; teacher educator 59; teacher/teaching 13, 15–17, 21, 34, 62, 66–70, 79–80, 281, 319, 339; university 198, 203–204, 206–207 case study/ies 41, 86–87, 103–104, 244, 248, 303, 326, 340, 343 change/s 5–6, 11, 13–14, 16–17, 19–21, 32, 35–37, 39, 42–45, 49, 51, 56–57, 62–67, 75, 78–79, 95, 99, 103, 117, 128, 137, 146, 149, 161, 164, 168–169, 172, 178, 184, 192, 198–200, 203, 207, 209, 214, 217–218, 220, 224, 228, 233, 240–241, 255–256, 258–260, 267, 271, 273, 276, 285, 288–289, 291–292, 296, 298–299, 302–304, 310–311, 313, 314n1, 317, 319, 321–323, 327, 332 Chicano/s 218–219 China/ese 26–27, 40, 225 collegiality 12, 60, 107, 261, 339 colonialism/s 36–40, 42, 157, 159, 161–162, 169, 172–174, 178–179, 223, 306–308, 310–314, 331, 333, 342, 345 colonisation 38–40, 162, 171, 173, 177–178, 245, 277, 322 community/ies 3, 15, 34, 43, 60, 111, 133, 175, 192, 208, 214, 241, 244, 254, 267, 269, 295–296, 302–304, 309–311, 317, 344; academic 121, 145, 297; activism 267; in activism 297–298; Bangladeshi 310; B/black 306; of birth 170; building 272, 295; causes 298; centre/s 317, 319–320; class/es 319; college/s 269, 273, 277; connectedness 331; contribution/s 123; digital 297; engagement 232; environment 108; evolution 217; healthcare 300; I/indigenous 29, 36, 42, 326, 334, 345; immigrant 279, 306; language/s 297; Mäori 268, 326, 345; marginalised 296–297, 328, 344; meaningful 301, 345; member/s 298, 328; occupational 184; online 295, 297–298, 301–303; peaceful 1; of practice 44, 45, 48–49, 53, 112; of researchers 108; responsibility 213; school 63–66, 68, 70; sense of 110, 277; stories 298; of students 280; of support 299–300; support 299; teaching 69; university 203, 259, 261; workers 186 connection/s 1, 4, 16–21, 35, 40–41, 43–44, 54–55, 65, 69, 74, 109, 115, 123, 129, 137, 139, 144–146, 167–168, 172–174, 186, 193, 213–214, 238, 244, 246, 250, 259, 270, 275, 277, 279, 281, 299, 303–304, 307–308, 311–312, 314, 330, 340–344, 347

COVID-­19 53, 130, 133, 139, 185–187, 192, 254, 269, 281, 296 criticality 112, 299, 318 culture/s 2–3, 7, 15, 27–29, 34–35, 37, 38, 39, 41–44, 48–50, 58–60, 62–64, 90–91, 116, 149–150, 156, 158, 167, 170–174, 182, 197, 199, 205, 213, 215, 217–220, 223–226, 234, 239–241, 245, 247, 272, 277, 279, 290, 295–296, 298–299, 303, 310, 312–313, 318, 322, 330–332, 342–343 decolonialism/s 157, 161–162, 268, 306–310, 313–314, 341, 345 decolonisation 3, 11, 34, 40, 161–162, 170, 178, 306–307, 311 dialogism/s 168, 225–226, 228–229 disability/ies 13–16, 18–19, 79, 126–127, 129–131, 133–134, 338 discourse/s 1, 30, 35, 96, 99, 109, 150–152, 154, 167, 172, 203–204, 208, 213, 223–229, 241, 248, 271–272, 306–308, 310–313, 327–328, 330 diversity/ies 2, 4, 7, 16, 20, 24, 30, 40, 79, 95, 116, 225–226, 245, 318 e/Education 1, 3–8, 11, 13, 15–16, 24, 39–40, 42–44, 49, 51, 56, 60, 63–67, 69, 74, 76, 78–79, 81, 89, 91, 98, 102–103, 111, 123, 133, 144, 148–154, 162, 167, 169–180, 183–184, 193, 199, 202–203, 212, 215, 220, 222, 224– 225, 228–229, 233, 240, 247, 248, 255, 267, 269–275, 277–281, 286, 303–304, 309, 317, 326, 328–330, 332, 334, 338–342, 344–346; academic 133; art 56; Black African 172; civility 299, 344; college 205, 272; colonial 42, 173, 178; compulsory 62–63; continuing 7, 168, 254–257, 260–262, 343, 346; continuous 255; (Critical) Intercultural Communication 224–225; digital 148; disability 15; doctoral 103–104, 107, 109, 111; enabling 128; engineering 6, 254–256, 260–262, 343, 346; equal 20; ethics 255; formal 347; higher 26, 28, 30, 50, 76, 91, 103, 111, 144, 157, 159, 162, 183, 192, 203, 206–207, 226, 241, 267–268, 270–272, 281, 295, 299, 303–304, 307, 341; inclusive 20; Indigenous 326, 345; intercultural 220, 224; international 241; language 49, 222, 318; legal 7; liberal 307; Mäori 326, 345; mathematics 5; medical 254; migrant 7; Minzu 225; music 49; nurse 254; online 255; Pasifika 6; physical 198; primary school 81; professional 254; public 148, 234; quality 78, 237; social work 254; special 16, 18, 79; Support Staff 18; for sustainability 49; system/s 11, 39, 42, 64, 66–68, 173, 177–178, 192, 233, 240, 270; teacher 7–8, 11, 31, 48, 50, 58–60, 79, 191, 226, 286, 318, 338–339; tertiary 39–40,

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Index 42–43, 45, 126, 128–129; undergraduate 276; university 49, 126, 343, 346; vocational 39, 42; Western White 167, 178 epiphany/ies 11, 13–17, 19–21, 64, 66, 338 ethics 60, 162, 201, 302, 329; relational 153, 257, 261; research 35, 62, 80, 97–98, 152, 204, 229, 326, 334; teacher 69 examination, doctoral student 7, 97–98, 132–133, 140, 157, 188 experience/s: mastery 73, 77, 81–82; vicarious 73, 77–78, 82 feminism/s 7, 246, 268, 306–314, 345 framework/s: conceptual 42, 112, 121, 168, 181, 256–258, 261–262, 343; methodological 34, 241, 339; theoretical 96, 174, 182, 224, 233, 241, 304, 342 gaze 158, 168, 232, 234, 236, 239–241, 342 identity/ies 2, 5, 7–8, 23–24, 37, 42, 45, 49–50, 56, 58, 62–64, 66–67, 69, 74, 86, 89, 99, 103, 111, 115, 117, 121–122, 138, 145, 148–154, 162, 167–168, 170–171, 173, 180–184, 188, 191–193, 197–199, 205–206, 208, 212–220, 222, 224–227, 229, 238, 243–244, 246–251, 254–258, 260–262, 268, 286–287, 291–292, 295–296, 298, 301–304, 318, 326–328, 331–333, 338–339, 341–346 infrastructure/s: data 74, 148–151, 153–154, 341 inquiry/ies: arts-­based 48–52, 58, 60, 339 Israel/is 197, 200, 204, 236–239 knowledge/s 2, 12, 15–16, 20, 24, 30–32, 35–36, 39–40, 42–43, 49–51, 53, 55–57, 60, 64–66, 68–70, 75, 78–79, 82, 87–89, 91, 95, 98–99, 102–104, 108, 111–112, 116, 120, 139, 141, 143, 151, 154, 157–159, 162, 164, 171, 174, 176, 185, 199, 220, 222–224, 228, 232–236, 238, 240–241, 245–246, 251, 254, 256, 260, 270–271, 295–297, 306–308, 310–312, 329–333, 340–341, 347 narrative/s 3, 6, 14–15, 20, 24, 26, 28, 31, 35–36, 38–40, 42, 54, 65–67, 99, 104, 105, 106, 109, 111, 115, 117, 122, 138, 149, 156, 158–159, 162–164, 168, 173, 187, 199–201, 212–215, 223–228, 234–236, 240, 244, 246–248, 251, 257, 267, 269–271, 281, 286, 295, 298–300, 303, 307–308, 312, 317–319, 321–322, 326–327, 332–333, 339–340, 342–344, 346 Nigeria/ns 169–178, 342 Palestine/ians 168, 197, 200, 204, 232, 235–241, 343 persuasion: social and verbal 73, 77, 82

policy/ies 24, 28, 31, 44, 45, 62–63, 66, 144, 148, 150–152, 154, 167, 200, 204, 207–208, 258–260, 271, 280, 327–328 policy-­makers/ing 1, 3, 5, 148–151, 153 positionality/ies 1, 4–8, 25, 150, 153–154, 223, 228, 270, 272, 327, 331, 334, 344, 346–347 postcolonialism/s 11, 34, 225, 306, 308, 310–314, 330, 339, 345 racism/s 7, 11, 34, 36, 39, 43, 45, 178, 214, 220, 224, 270, 284–285, 287–289, 291–292, 307, 312–313, 333, 344 relationship-­building 7–8, 167–168, 232, 254–258, 260–262, 274, 342 relationship reshaping 167, 180–181, 183–184, 191–193, 342 relationship/s 1, 3–5, 7–8, 14, 19, 24, 38, 49, 58–59, 65, 74, 83, 88, 90, 102–104, 106–111, 116, 118–119, 121–123, 128–131, 133, 137–146, 149–150, 154, 160, 163–164, 167, 180–183, 188, 190, 192, 205, 213, 215, 225– 228, 234, 244–247, 248, 250–251, 256–257, 259, 261–262, 267–268, 271, 273–275, 278, 281, 302, 309, 311–312, 314, 323, 331–332, 334, 341, 343, 345–346 research: action 12, 31, 35, 62–68, 328, 339; arts-­based 51–52, 68; education/al 1–8, 15, 48, 58, 65, 75, 80–82, 90–91, 102–103, 105, 164, 183, 198, 222–223, 228–229, 254, 256, 262, 268, 323, 326, 329–331, 334, 337–339, 341, 343, 345–347 self-­efficacy 7, 73–84, 86, 107, 141, 188, 339 self-­study 25, 31, 34–35, 48, 52, 58, 60, 255 sense-­making 7, 16, 42, 151, 167, 180–183, 192–193, 239, 342 sexism/s 36, 224, 298, 307 social media 219, 256, 267–268, 275, 278, 295–304, 313, 344 South Africa/n 31, 40, 161, 197 Spain/Spanish 7, 167, 198–202, 205–207, 279, 342 state/s: physiological and affective 73, 77–78, 80, 82–83 testimonio/s 213–214, 220, 267, 269–272, 274–275, 277, 279, 281, 344 testimony/ies 270, 297–300 United Kingdom 7, 237 United States 7, 169–170, 175–176, 202, 213, 238, 269, 284, 296, 307, 342 Venezuela/ns 7, 168, 254–255, 258–262, 343–344, 346 workload/s: academic 190–191; doctoral student/s 81 350