Studies in Symbolic Interaction, 33

STUDIES IN SYMBOLIC INTERACTION

STUDIES IN SYMBOLIC INTERACTION Series Editor: Norman K. Denzin Recent Volumes: Volumes 1–32:

Studies in Symbolic Interaction

STUDIES IN SYMBOLIC INTERACTION VOLUME 33

STUDIES IN SYMBOLIC INTERACTION EDITED BY

NORMAN K. DENZIN Institute of Communications Research, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Urbana, IL, USA EDITOR OF BLUE RIBBON PAPER SERIES

LONNIE ATHENS Department of Criminal Justice, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ, USA EDITOR OF COMMODITY RACISM

RICHARD KING Department of Comparative Ethnic Studies, Washington State University, Pullman, WA, USA MANAGING EDITOR

MYRA WASHINGTON Institute of Communications Research, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Urbana, IL, USA CO-MANAGING EDITOR

DONG HAN AND YING ZHANG Institute of Communications Research, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Urbana, IL, USA

United Kingdom – North America – Japan India – Malaysia – China

Emerald Group Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2009 Copyright r 2009 Emerald Group Publishing Limited Reprints and permission service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. No responsibility is accepted for the accuracy of information contained in the text, illustrations or advertisements. The opinions expressed in these chapters are not necessarily those of the Editor or the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-84855-784-0 ISSN: 0163-2396 (Series)

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CONTENTS LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

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PART I: BLUE RIBBON PAPERS INTRODUCTION TO ‘BLUE RIBBON PAPERS’: INVESTIGATING THE EMPIRICAL WORLD Lonnie Athens

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THE WISDOM OF DISTRUST: REFLECTIONS ON UKRAINIAN SOCIETY AND SOCIOLOGY John M. Johnson and Andrew Melnikov

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SITUATING PUBLIC PERFORMANCES: FOLK SINGERS AND SONG INTRODUCTIONS Scott Grills

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THE MUSIC RINGTONE AS AN IDENTITY MANAGEMENT DEVICE: A RESEARCH NOTE Christopher J. Schneider

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THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME Jude Robinson

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THE STRUCTURE OF FLIRTATION: ON THE CONSTRUCTION OF INTERACTIONAL AMBIGUITY Iddo Tavory

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BECOMING A SOCIOLOGIST: ONE WOMAN’S JOURNEY Virginia Olesen

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PART II: COMMODITY RACISM: REPRESENTATION, RACIALIZATION, AND RESISTANCE COMMODITY RACISM NOW C. Richard King

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COMMODITY RACE AND EMOTION: THE RACIAL COMMERCIALIZATION OF HUMAN FEELING IN CORPORATE CONSUMERISM Jeffrey Santa Ana

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THE PRINCESS AND THE SUV: BRAND IMAGES OF NATIVE AMERICANS AS COMMODIFIED RACISM Debra Merskin

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YEAST: CANNIBALIZING THE ORIENT IN AMERICAN CULTURE Sheng-mei Ma

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IT’S GOTTA BE THE BODY: RACE, COMMODITY, AND SURVEILLANCE OF CONTEMPORARY BLACK ATHLETES David J. Leonard

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CONSUMING ‘‘POLYNESIA’’: VISUAL SPECTACLES OF NATIVE BODIES IN HAWAIIAN TOURISM Vernadette V. Gonzalez

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CINCO DE MAYO, INC.: REINTERPRETING LATINO CULTURE INTO A COMMERCIAL HOLIDAY Jose´ M. Alamillo

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IF SANTA WUZ BLACK: THE DOMESTICATION OF A WHITE MYTH Charles Fruehling Springwood

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UNSETTLING COMMODITY RACISM C. Richard King

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PART III: PETER M. HALL LECTURE SERIES INTRODUCTION TO DAVID ALTHEIDE’S TALK: ‘‘TERRORISM AND PROPAGANDA’’ Susan Stall

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TERRORISM AND PROPAGANDA David L. Altheide

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THERE’S OUR HITLER ENVY! ALTHEIDE’S VERSION OF FEAR IT NOW Michael A. Katovich

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PART IV: NEW INTERPRETIVE WORKS THE ESSENTIALS OF SYMBOLIC INTERACTIONISM: A PAPER IN HONOR OF BERNARD N. MELTZER Gil Richard Musolf

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COMMUNICATIVE SUSTAINABILITY: A FRAMEWORK FOR PERFORMANCE ACCOUNTING Wayne D. Woodward

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THE INTER-PLAY OF POWER AND META-POWER IN THE SOCIAL CONSTRUCTION OF ‘‘ENTREPRENEURIAL’’ PROFESSIONAL SERVICES FIRMS: A PROCESSUAL ORDERING PERSPECTIVE Mark W. Dirsmith, Sajay Samuel, Mark A. Covaleski and James B. Heian MYSTIFICATION OF ROCK Michael A. Katovich and Wesley Longhofer

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NARRATIVE FORM AND TEMPORALITY IN PUBLIC DISCOURSE: ROMANCE, TRAGEDY, AND AMERICA’S PRESENCE IN IRAQ Robert L. Young

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FOUR ETHNOMETHODOLOGICAL PARADOXES: REFLECTIONS ON THE WORK OF KENNETH LIBERMAN Scott R. Harris

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LEAVING BLACK ROCK CITY John F. Sherry, Jr.

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Jose´ M. Alamillo

Chicana/o Studies, California State University Channel Islands, Camarillo, CA, USA

David L. Altheide

School of Justice and Social Inquiry, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ, USA

Lonnie Athens

Department of Criminal Justice, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ, USA

Mark A. Covaleski

School of Business, University of Wisconsin-Madison, Madison, WI, USA

Mark W. Dirsmith

Smeal College of Business and the social thought program, Penn State University. University Park, PA, USA

Vernadette V. Gonzalez

American Studies Department, University of Hawai’i at Manoa, Honolulu, HI, USA

Scott Grills

Department of Sociology, Brandon University, Brandon, MB, Canada

Scott R. Harris

Department of Sociology and Criminal Justice, Saint Louis University, St. Louis, MO, USA

James B. Heian

Division of Social Sciences and Management, Utica College of Syracuse University, Utica, NY, USA

John M. Johnson

School of Justice and Social Inquiry, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ, USA

C. Richard King

Department of Comparative Ethnic Studies, Washington State University, Pullman, WA, USA ix

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Michael A. Katovich

College of Liberal Arts, Texas Christian University, Fort Worth, TX, USA

David J. Leonard

Department of Comparative Ethnic Studies, Washington State University, Pullman, WA, USA

Wesley Longhofer

Department of Sociology, University of Minnesota, St. Paul, MN, USA

Sheng-mei Ma

Department of English, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA

Andrew Melnikov

Department of Sociology, Eastukrainian National University, Legansk, Ukraine

Debra Merskin

School of Journalism and Communication, University of Oregon, Eugene, OR, USA

Gil Richard Musolf

Department of Sociology, Anthropology, and Social Work, Central Michigan University, Mount Pleasant, MI, USA

Virginia Olesen

Department of Social and Behavioral Sciences, University of California-San Francisco, San Francisco, CA, USA

Jude Robinson

The Health and Community Care Research Unit (HaCCRU), University of Liverpool, Liverpool, UK

Sajay Samuel

Smeal College of Business, Penn State University, University Park, PA, USA

Jeffrey Santa Ana

Department of English, Stony Brook University, Stony Brook, NY, USA

Christopher J. Schneider

Irving K. Barber School of Arts and Sciences, University of British Columbia-Okanagan, Kelowna, BC, Canada

John F. Sherry, Jr.

Department of Marketing, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN, USA

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List of Contributors

Charles Fruehling Springwood

Sociology and Anthropology Department, Illinois Wesleyan University, Bloomington, IL, USA

Susan Stall

Sociology Department, Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago, IL, USA

Iddo Tavory

Department of Sociology, University of California-Los Angeles, Los Angeles, CA, USA

Wayne D. Woodward

Department of Language, Culture, and Communication, University of MichiganDearborn, Dearborn, MI, USA

Robert L. Young

Department of Sociology and Anthropology, University of Texas at Arlington, Arlington, TX, USA

PART I BLUE RIBBON PAPERS

INTRODUCTION TO ‘BLUE RIBBON PAPERS’: INVESTIGATING THE EMPIRICAL WORLD Lonnie Athens I am pleased to introduce the second issue in Studies in Symbolic Interaction’s ‘‘Blue Ribbon Paper’’ series. In contrast to the chapters in the first issue that focused exclusively on theoretical matters, the chapters in this one are focused on empirical problems. In John Johnson’s and Andrew Melnikov’s provocative article, ‘‘The Wisdom of Distrust: Reflections on Ukrainian Society and Sociology,’’ they examine the results of a nation-wide poll that shows among other things that Ukrainian citizenry paradoxically displays little faith in any of the branches of their democratically elected government. On the one hand, this finding is paradoxical because democracy is a relatively new experience for present day Ukrainians. Since their country had been for years a puppet state of the former Soviet Union, one would think that they now would be elated by the opportunity to elect their leaders. On the other hand, the founding fathers of our nation also displayed considerable distrust in government, including democratically elected ones, such as our own. In fact, their distrust was so great that it led them to build into our constitution an intricate system of checks and balances of power among the executive, legislative, and judicial branches of our government. Although conventional psychological wisdom is that distrust of others is a sign of paranoia, Johnson and Melinkov conclude that

Studies in Symbolic Interaction, Volume 33, 3–7 Copyright r 2009 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-2396/doi:10.1108/S0163-2396(2009)0000033002

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being wary of governmental institutions and politicians may be a healthy state of affairs for a country’s citizens. The authors of our next three chapters all examine different aspects of popular culture. In ‘‘Situating Public Performances: Folk Singers and Song Introductions,’’ Scott Grills analyzes the introductions that folk singers often provide to their songs during live performances. He collected his data primarily from conducting informal interviews with folk singers and participant observing their performances over a four year period at various folk festivals held across North America. Grills, an accomplished saxophonist, who has played in several blues bands, found that introducing a song serves a purpose other than merely killing time between tunes. According to him, ‘‘song introductions provide additional information to the audience that would be otherwise unavailable, provide the artists with an opportunity to influence audience interpretations, allow for legitimizing strategies to be utilized and, importantly, allow artists an opportunity to invoke disclaimers, accounts, and justifications’’ for their performances. Thus, they afford singers the opportunity to ‘‘situate’’ a song and, thereby, help the audience to place the right accent on the meaning of their performance. As Grills points out, prefacing a public performance is not a practice unique to folk singers or even singers, but is one that writers, filmmakers, magicians, musicians, comedians, and others also use to help insure that an audience will interpret their work in the proper light. Hopefully, Grills will push his enlightening analysis even further by identifying the properties of introductions that increase the likelihood of their success in making an audience respond positively to an artist’s performance. In ‘‘The Music Ringtone as an Identity Management Device: A Research Note,’’ Christopher Schneider provides another study of popular culture. To collect data on the tunes that American youth select for the ringtones on their mobile phones, he drew on his participation observation at a secondary school and information gleaned from census data and trade association publications, such as Billboard’s ‘‘Hot Ringtones Chart.’’ To provide a framework for understanding his findings, he drew on the work of Erving Goffman. He found that for, at least, members of the American youth culture, the tunes that they select for their mobile phones’ ringtones serve as what Goffman calls a ‘‘tie-sign,’’ or critical indicator of who they are and what they are about. According to Schneider, however, this can often create potential problems of what Goffman like to refer to as ‘‘information control.’’ The ringtones on our cell phones may reveal personal information about us that we may sometimes prefer to keep hidden from others.

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Although we can switch the ringtones on our mobile phones ‘‘on’’ and ‘‘off,’’ this may not always be a practical option. Thus, depending on the audience, a ringtone can potentially reveal harmful or helpful information about our identities, and thereby, operate as either a positive or negative ‘‘tie-sign.’’ In ‘‘There’s No Place Like Home,’’ Jude Robinson examines still another important aspect of popular culture – the documentary film. She turns her perceptive eye on director Jeff Togman’s award-winning documentary, ‘‘Home,’’ which covers 10 weeks in the life of a Black middle-aged mother and her six children. The mother is confronted with the problem of whether to move her family from their present residence in an urban slum to a new residence in a ‘‘better neighborhood.’’ At first glance, the answer to this problem seems to be a no-brainer. As Robinson sees it, however, ‘‘Home’’ raises this problem to the level of a serious existential dilemma for this mother. On the one hand, she has the opportunity to move her family into bigger and better housing in a swankier part of town. On the other hand, she is reluctant to take advantage of this seemingly ‘‘golden opportunity’’ that has been handed to her on a silver platter. According to Robinson, the answer to this paradox is ‘‘Home is where your heart is.’’ As she explains, this mother’s ‘‘heart was never into moving away to a new house and neighborhood where she would be a nobody by leaving her old house and neighborhood where she was a somebody.’’ In her present neighborhood, this single-parent mother with six dependent children was a ‘‘somebody’’ because she was doing the seemingly impossible – raising good kids in a bad neighborhood. In a good neighborhood where the odds would be stacked much more heavily in her favor, however, she knew that she would no longer be considered anybody special because she would be doing only what every mother living in that neighborhood was expected to do. In Iddo Tavory’s ‘‘The Structure of Flirtation: On the Construction of Interactional Ambiguity,’’ the topic of analysis switches from popular culture to everyday life. During the course of a 14 month study, he observed over 65 incidents of flirtation, most of which took place in cafes and bars. Tavory places flirtation inside a larger class of interaction, which he labels ‘‘suspended interactions.’’ According to him, suspended interaction occurs when the interactants intentionally hold the outcome of their interaction in abeyance. In the specific case of flirtation, a possible sexual advance is made, but its ultimate meaning is purposefully left ambiguous. He argues that flirting can be advantageously viewed as social interaction that unfolds over three stages. During initial stage, the interaction between the actors has a nonsexual tenor. During the middle stage, however, an advance is made that

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changes the tenor of the interaction to a possible sexual one. During the final stage, the sexual advance that was made during the middle stage is further clarified making clear that it was a sexual advance. According to Tavory, the flirtation ceases as soon as the meaning of an ambiguous sexual advance becomes determinate. Thus, for him, flirtation is limited to the social interaction that takes place during this middle stage which lies somewhere ‘‘between and betwixt’’ making normal, everyday chit chat and an explicit sexual proposition. Tavory deserves credit for opening up for empirical investigation a class of interaction that Simmel and others have long speculated about, but few have subjected to direct empirical examination. In the last chapter, ‘‘Becoming a Sociologist: One Women’s Journey,’’ Virginia Olesen describes the circuitous route that she followed in becoming a sociologist. She organizes her narrative around what her former mentor and later colleague, Anslem Strauss, called ‘‘turning points.’’ Although all the turning points that resulted in her becoming a distinguished medical sociologist cannot be mentioned here, I will highlight some of the key ones to give the flavor of her journey. Although an undergraduate at the University of Nevada at Reno, Olesen dreamed of becoming a journalist. After earning bachelor’s degrees in both history and english at Nevada, she landed a job at local newspaper on Mare Island, California where she worked first as a cub reporter and later as the editor. Despite her obvious success at this newspaper, she became bored with working on local news and personal interest stories. An early important turning point in her career came when she applied for a fellowship to attend graduate school at the University of Chicago. Though studying communication at Chicago, she met several outstanding sociologists, including Anselm Strauss, on whom she apparently made a good impression. After finishing up her work for her master’s degree in communication at Chicago, she decided to switch to Stanford University for her doctorate degree. However, she quickly became disenchanted with the intellectual content of its communication’s programme. The next major turning point in her career occurred when she decided to transfer from the university’s department of communication into its department of sociology which she found much more intellectually satisfying. After earning her Ph.D. in sociology at Stanford, she found herself once again in the job market. Another important turning point came in her career when Anselm Strauss and Fred Davis offered her a soft money position to work on a research project on nursing careers at the University of California at San Francisco. With a great deal of hard work, tenacity, and a bit of good luck, she worked

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her way up from a soft money research position to a tenured, full professor in its College of Nursing’s Department of Social and Behavioral Sciences that Anselm Strauss help create and later headed up. I think that Olesen’s chapter should be required reading for all students in the social sciences considering a career in academics. Among other things, it shows how she deftly managed her professional life during the difficult years before affirmative action had been instituted. It also demonstrates more generally that academic careers do not always follow a straight line, that personal contacts can play a big role in your success or failure, and that you must be ready to seize opportunities when they knock at your door.

THE WISDOM OF DISTRUST: REFLECTIONS ON UKRAINIAN SOCIETY AND SOCIOLOGY$ John M. Johnson and Andrew Melnikov THE WISDOM OF DISTRUST Ukraine regained its independence in 1991, following over 7 decades of soviet domination, and about 300 years of Russian domination. Democracy and stable institutional development have proven problematic for Ukraine since 1991, arguably more so than any of the other Eastern European countries. Unlike the increasing economic development in the other countries, for example, per capita GNP in Ukraine has decreased by approximately 50% in the last decade. President Viktor Yushchenko’s ‘‘Orange Revolution’’ has promised certain westernized economic reforms, but political opposition has forced a new election scheduled for September 30, 2007. During the summer of 1993, the director of the Ukrainian National Academy of Sciences commissioned a sociological survey to monitor the current social situation in Ukrainian society, its perspectives, structures and institutions, economics, politics, and national and cultural features reflected in Ukrainian public opinion. Sociologists Natalia Panina and Evgeniy Golovakha were asked to head the survey team. In 2001, they produced a volume

$

Paper presented at the annual meetings of the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction, New York City, August, 2007.

Studies in Symbolic Interaction, Volume 33, 9–18 Copyright r 2009 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-2396/doi:10.1108/S0163-2396(2009)0000033003

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Tendancies in the Development of Ukrainian Society 1994–2001: Sociological Indicators, which reports the results of the first seven years of this exhaustive survey in Ukraine (Panina & Golovakha, 2001). Their report includes over 170 tables to summarize the polling data on citizen evaluations of the economic situation and attitudes toward economic reforms, standards of living and living conditions, consumption orientations, working activities, employment, and satisfaction with jobs. Also included are attitudes toward political orientations, social and political activity, toward state and institutional power structures, religion and beliefs, effectiveness of the legal system, the state of health, environment, and attitudes toward medical service. Everyday life, leisure, cultural activities, and interpersonal relations and psychological conditions are additionally included, as are education, mass media, knowledge, and attitudes about national identity and migration. Even the most casual reader is impressed with the exhaustive nature of the survey and the issues addressed. A close reading of the report produces an unmistakable emphasis on the high level of distrust expressed about virtually all aspects of life in Ukraine. The authors refer to these ‘‘conditions of mass distrust of the state (and) civil society institutions’’ (p. 123), and further observe, ‘‘You can only look at the population’s trust in main social institutions and power structures and see that in the average citizen’s field of trust, there are only the citizen himself, the family, and God.’’ (p. 122) To further dramatize this, one table showing the comparative trust scores across realms of Ukrainian life (Table B2, p. 53) reveals that the trust scores for astrologers are higher than those of all official state institutions, specifically the Supreme Court, the Parliament, the Presidency, the militia, the political parties, the traditional trade unions, the private entrepreneurs, and the new trade unions. The high level of distrust is so overwhelmingly pervasive throughout the report that, when combined with the very high No Response levels, a serious reader develops a healthy skepticism about whether to even believe any of this; after all, with such high levels of distrust expressed about all aspects of the social order, by what warrant would one accept these responses and trust them? This is a very serious question, and one we cannot here answer. Even if we were to hypothetically speculate that Ukrainian citizens had a higher level of trust for the pollsters than they expressed for any other official, state, or civil institution (which would put it at the lower middle level on the scale), this would involve such a high rate of error that it would compromise the survey as a whole. It remains highly plausible that such polling results from Ukraine are severely and fatally flawed. If Ukrainian polling respondents responded to the polling situation with no more trust than they expressed about all other state and civil institutions in

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Ukraine, then why did they bother to respond at all? Another good question we think. Scholars trained in symbolic interaction would likely observe that the polling situation itself should be studied as an instance of a complicated social interaction, commonly between two or more persons who are previously unknown to each other in any intimate manner, and thus a context where the emergent meanings of specific statements or questionnaire items are negotiated in a face-to-face situation. This is the message to be taken from Aaron Cicourel’s (1964) book Method and Measurement in Sociology, where he asserts that interview or questionnaire results cannot be taken as unproblematic ‘‘data,’’ but should be examined to see how it is that pollsters and relative strangers manage and negotiate meanings during a face-to-face encounter. Those familiar with the writings of Herbert Blumer would additionally emphasize that meanings in face-to-face encounters have an emergent quality to them, that they flow out of a social process (the interview or questionnaire encounter) which cannot be assumed as a ‘‘given’’ in the research (Blumer, 1969). Without really knowing these aspects about the Ukrainian questionnaire interviews, one plausible speculation is that some of them may have interpreted the polling questions as an occasion to ‘‘vote’’ for a response, perhaps intending to ‘‘send a message’’ to those in power, concerning their elected options, independently of how they ‘‘really felt’’ about the question, or what they ‘‘really thought’’ about it. Whatever the answer is to this, it is clear that Ukrainian scientists and scholars take this high level of distrust as a serious problem for the immediate national future of Ukraine, as expressed by many of the selected essays edited by Golovakha, Panina, and Vorona for the National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine (Golovakha, Panina, & Vorona, 2000). The survey polling results reported by Panina and Golovakha in Tendancies in the Development of Ukrainian Society 1994–2001 provide the animus for this chapter, and our reflections on the nature and meaning of trust, for individuals and for society. We briefly address the issue of how trust arises in the life of most individuals, what it means for their lives, and how disruptions or betrayals of trust are dealt handled. We conclude these reflections with an assertion of our position that, for Ukrainian society the ‘‘problem’’ of distrusting citizens should be recast or reformulated as an issue of social justice.

THE NATURE OF TRUST For the overwhelming number of human beings, arguably in the range 98–99%, a condition of trust is present in their lives from the moment of

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birth, even before that (during pregnancy) in most cases. Mother–infant bonding is a profound, primordial, and foundational experience for most individuals. The caring love shown by mothers toward infants is idealized and symbolized in all known cultures. In science, the world-renowned researches of Barry Brazelton (Brazelton, 1963, 1980; Brazelton, Kowslowski, & Main, 1974; Brazelton, Troncik, Adamson, Als, & Wise, 1975) have shown the profound significance of mother–infant bonding, and the well-known threevolume work by Harvard’s John Bolby (1971–1979) has shown the significance of this bonding for the larger issues of human attachment. The human animal has the longest period of dependency, when compared to other primates, so the first months of life are very important for what follows in an individual’s life. In his famous work The Art of Loving, Erich Fromm (1974) argues that early bonding or attachment is very important in terms of subsequent development, especially whether or not the child develops deep feelings of security or insecurity. Thelma Rowell (1972, p. 137) has additionally asserted this importance for other primates: Many primates are captured as infants and hand-reared as pets, then transferred to zoos when they get older. Attempts to use such animals as breeding stock have a very low rate of success: typically these ex-pets show little or no mating behavior, and the females do not care for their infants, which are then hand-reared, thus creating the breeding problems of the next generation. The histories of these zoo animals are of course varied, and the fact that some of them do breed suggests that one might be dealing with quite short critical periods during which social experience is necessary. This was investigated in rhesus infants. Isolated for the first three months produced no permanent effects, if the infants were then placed in a group, but isolated for the whole of the first year destroyed all social ability. The period between three and nine months seemed to be critical for establishing normal social behavior, although the communicative gestures have nearly all appeared in the first three months.

The significance of mother–infant bonding and these early attachment experiences can be dramatically seen in cases where the bonding is not present, or those few cases where the mother has rejected the newborn. Again, the researches of T. Barry Brazelton provide many examples of this. Other widely known examples include the many Romanian babies who were institutionalized shortly after birth during the 1970s and 1980s, during the repressive regime of Nicolae Ceausescu: even when many of these babies were later adopted by loving families, many proved incapable of transcending these early months or years of social isolation. Other wellknown examples of maternal rejection are some of the notorious mass,

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spree, or serial killers, such as Theodore Bundy, who killed 33 women (abandoned by his mother Elizabeth Cowell), Henry Lee Lucas, who confessed in killing hundreds of women across the United States (savagely beaten by his mother, who became his first murder victim), David Berkowitz, the infamous ‘‘Son of Sam’’ shooter who killed 11 people in New York during the summer of 1976 (abandoned by his mother at birth, and who rejected him later after he had located her in his late teenage years), Charles Starkweather, who killed 7 people during an 11 day spree in Nebraska (abused by his mother), and so on (see Hickey, 2005). Maternal mortality has been high historically, but in many of these cases there are maternal surrogates who step in and take the place of the mother, most commonly aunts, sisters, or grandmothers, and if possible even fathers. Infant bonding and attachment does occur with the father and others in the family, such as aunts or grandmothers, and in such cases the bonding attachments may have a cumulative effect, thus helping to produce feelings of security and being loved. Many developmental psychologists have been influenced by the seminal work of E. H. Erikson (1963) who said that children developed a sense of ‘‘basic trust’’ with their environment and its caretakers, or a sense of ‘‘basic distrust.’’ Basic trust means that the child has a generalized expectation that the external environment they encounter is basically good, and that good and positive things will most likely happen; basic distrust is the opposite. This is not to say that children do not encounter bad or untoward or inconsistent things. They do. Life is difficult and problematic. But the important point is that a child or person who has developed a sense of basic trust will process these untoward events in a different manner than the child or person who is distrustful. The distrustful child will begin to develop psychologically defensive expectations and adaptations to these untoward events or actions. Successful mother–infant bonding, especially when combined with other significant bondings and attachments within the home (father, siblings, grandparents, and aunts), lays an important foundation for later developmental success. This is not a simple, mono-causal, linear process, but one with many disjunctions and perturbations. Young children encounter conflicts and tensions within any family, and all adolescents encounter conflicts and tensions with other children and adolescents. Successful bonding tends to produce other successes in these problematic human relations, and bonding failures tend to produce other failures. Successful bonding within the home is associated with success in developing early friendships and alliances, and these are often important relationships to have when encountering life’s difficulties.

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EARLY BETRAYALS OF TRUST Although forms of trusting relations are found early in most lives, early disruptions, conflicts, and betrayals of trust are found too. These may come from within the family, with conflicts between siblings being common, or they may come from outside the family, with adolescent conflicts being common. Such conflicts or betrayals may be serious and consequential, or less serious and mild in their consequences. For young children, they may ‘‘patch up’’ or repair such disruptions, and continue their friendships. For older children who experience a ‘‘betrayal,’’ the more common pattern is to transfer one’s loyalties to a different friend, or to build a new friendship. Serious betrayals of trust possess the potential to be emotionally overwhelming, at any age. For more serious betrayals, an individual may respond with violence, revenge, or perhaps more commonly, to become less trusting. Childhood sexual abuse and childhood physical abuse can be mild or severe, but when it is in the severe range, the consequences may be profound. These are forms of betraying trust which may affect the individual for the rest of their life, in the more serious cases. During the past four decades there has developed a vast scientific literature on these topics (for a summary, see Barnett, Miller-Perrin, & Perrin, 2005). The important research of Heinz Kohut (1971, 1977) shows that infant and early childhood aggression is extremely common, and furthermore it arises as a reaction to significant others not providing crucial developmental needs. His term for this is ‘‘empathic optimal frustration,’’ which refers to the social process during which infants learn that it is not possible to have all of their needs met all of the time. This does not result because of some failure or neglect on the part of the caretakers, but because they cannot be there every minute of the time. Infants respond to the ‘‘optimal frustration’’ period with assertiveness or healthy aggression, and from this eventually learn that life is not perfect, and that the world does not exist for the sole purpose of providing for their needs. Infants also learn about their own healthy aggression from this process, and how to use it in interaction with significant others. In situation where the unmet needs are consistently and continually unmet, however, or in situations where young children are subjected to continual abuse or abandonment, then the healthy assertiveness can break down into hostile assertiveness. In the researches of Lonnie Athens (1992), for example, in severely abusive situations where the young child is ‘‘psychologically broken,’’ then the early (benign) assertiveness can become transformed into defensive or destructive rage, hostility, and

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violence toward others. In the most extreme cases of continual abuse or abandonment, the end result can be an individual who is paranoid, or even in the case of the Athens research a ‘‘dangerous, violent criminal.’’ The condition of trust is not intrinsic to the human being. Trust is learned and is learned in a slow, gradual, developmental process, a social process which includes conflicts, tensions, problems, even betrayals. Individuals learn from the betrayals of trust, just as they learn from the establishment and development of trust. As the individual grows and develops, there is an accumulation of trusting and distrusting experiences. These experiences are socially structured and stratified; those who grow up in large urban metropolises do not grow up trusting in the same manner as more isolated rural peasants.

DISTRUST IS NOT THE PROBLEM: JUSTICE IS THE PROBLEM Trust is learned. It is learned during the course of a developmental social process, often taking a considerable period of time. Distrust is also learned. Though an individual may learn to distrust over a longer period of time, it is more common for distrust to result from violations or betrayals of trust. If the citizens of Ukraine express such a high level of distrust toward their national political, state, and civil institutions, it is not because something is ‘‘wrong’’ with them as individuals, or as citizens. The distrust is a result of their lived experience of betrayal, that is, the betrayal of the political promises and expectations made by political or party leaders. In a later publication by Ukrainian sociologists and pollsters Evgeniy Golovakha and Natalia Panina (2000, p. 118), they seem to recognize this when they say: This conflict between democratic ideals and realities has a rational foundation. It influences the formation of negative evaluations regarding both the rate and depth of democratic transformation. The current duality in attitudes about democracy reflects this ambivalence in social and individual consciousness. Social-psychological ambivalence divides the society into supporters and opponents surrounding the myth of equality and security for people living under socialist state patronage. Proof of individual ambivalence is evident in perspectives of Ukrainian political and economic development. These may be mutually exclusive, for instance, support for market economy and price controls or approval of a multi-party system and distrust of all parties.

Spreading fear and distrust are ancient political tactics, and their use has a long history in both totalitarian and democratic societies. In totalitarian political orders spreading fear and distrust can be used to justify more

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central or totalitarian powers, commonly made with the promise of greater social order. But spreading fear and distrust are used in democratic societies too. The United States has a long history of ‘‘moral crusades’’ which were animated by fears of different racial or immigrant groups, drugs, alcohol, marihuana, sexual predators, and recently terrorists (see Altheide, 2006). Spreading fear in society can be a tactic to create social distance and isolation between groups, a ‘‘divide and conquer’’ strategy long favored by Western imperialists. In commenting on the death of the Russian brief experiment with democracy, former journalist (assassinated in 2005) Anna Politkovskaya (2007, p. 255) observed: Our society isn’t a society any more. It is a collection of windowless, isolated concrete cells. In one of these are the Heroes, in another are the politicians of Yabloko, in a third there is Zyuganov, the leader of the Communists, and so on. There are thousands who together might add up to be the Russian people, but the walls of our cells are impermeable. If somebody is suffering, he is upset that nobody seems concerned. If, in other cells at the same time, anybody is in fact thinking about him, it leads to no action, and they only really remember he had a problem when their own situation becomes completely intolerable y The authorities do everything they can to make the cells even more impermeable, sowing dissent, inciting some against others, dividing and ruling. And the people fall for it. That is the real problem. That is why revolution in Russia, when it comes, is always so extreme. The barrier between the cells collapses only when the negative emotions within them are ungovernable.

The founding fathers of the United States were very distrustful indeed. The leaders were highly educated men who had received a classic education. They felt that human history had been the history of tyranny, for the most part, and they elected to institutionalize their distrust in how the American constitution and government were formed. The U.S. Constitution institutionalizes distrust. They distrusted all branches of government, the executive branch, the legislative branch, and the judicial branch, and assumed that, if any or all of these had their way, the result would be the abuse and corruption of power. They created ‘‘checks and balances’’ of power, so that each branch of government was constrained in their powers because of the powers institutionalized for the other two branches. In the political oratory of politicians it is common to hear rhetorical flourishes about how Americans love liberty and the pursuit of happiness, or whatever, but in fact the foundational legal documents of the United States institutionalize distrust. Distrust is a distinct value for one who is interested in political and social justice. It is important to distrust the lofty proclamations of politicians and other institutional leaders, to cut beneath the political rhetoric to discover who is doing what to whom, and where the trails of money and profits lead.

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The checks-and-balances of the U.S. Constitution seem to have worked reasonably well for approximately 200 years, but the recent emergence of the Imperial Presidency and the subjugation of the legislative and judicial branches to executive power reminds us again of the wisdom of the founding fathers, that political tyranny has been the dominant theme of history, and that any and all political forms may transform into something entirely different over time. The meaningful institution of democracy always occurs in an historical and cultural context. It emerges and develops over time. It is unclear if the massive distrust of Ukrainian citizens will be transformed by progressive political action and social change, efforts to make the political decisionmaking processes open and transparent to all parties, efforts to create procedural justice and an independent judiciary, efforts to expand social justice to a broader spectrum of groups, interests, and organizations. But until large numbers are certain of such an accomplishment of social justice, it is wise to be distrustful of the political rhetoric and vacuous promises of politicians.

REFERENCES Altheide, D. L. (2006). Terrorism and the politics of fear. Walnut Creek, CA: Alta Mira Press. Athens, L. (1992). The creation of dangerous, violent criminals. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Barnett, O., Miller-Perrin, C., & Perrin, R. (2005). Family violence across the life span (2nd ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, Inc. Blumer, H. (1969). Symbolic interactionism: perspective and method. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Bolby, J. (1971–1979). Attachment and Loss, 3 volumes. New York: Basic Books. Brazelton, T. B. (1963). The early mother-infant adjustment. Pediatrics, 32, 931–938. Brazelton, T. B. (1980). Behavioral competence of the newborn infant. In: P. Taylor (Ed.), Parent-infant relationships. New York: Grune & Stratton. Brazelton, T. B., Kowslowski, B., & Main, M. (1974). The origins of reciprocity: The early mother-infant interaction. In: M. Lewis & L. Rosenbaum (Eds), The effect of the infant on its caregiver. New York: Wiley. Brazelton, T. B., Troncik, E., Adamson, L., Als, W., & Wise, W. (1975). Early mother-infant reciprocity. In: M. A. Hofer (Ed.), Parent-infant interaction. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Cicourel, A. (1964). Method and measurement in sociology. New York: Free Press. Erikson, E. H. (1963). Childhood and society. New York: Norton. Fromm, E. (1974). The art of loving. New York: Simon & Schuster. Golovakha, E., & Panina, N. (2000). The development of democratic political identity in the contemporary ukrainian political culture. In: E. Golovakha, N. Panina & V. Vorona (Eds), Sociology in Ukraine: Selected works published during the 90th (pp. 117–126). Kiev: National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine.

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Golovakha, E., Panina, N., & Vorona, V. (Eds). (2000). Sociology in Ukraine: Selected works published during the 90th. Kiev: National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine. Hickey, E. (2005). Serial murderers and their victims (4th ed). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publication Co. Kohut, H. (1971). The analysis of the self. New York: International Universities Press. Kohut, H. (1977). The restoration of the self. New York: International Universities Press. Panina, N. V., & Golovakha, E. I. (2001). Tendancies in the development of Ukrainian society 1994–2001: Sociological indicators. Kiev: National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine. Politkovskaya, A. (2007). A Russian diary. London: Random House. Rowell, T. (1972). The social behavior of monkeys. Baltimore, MD: Penguin.

SITUATING PUBLIC PERFORMANCES: FOLK SINGERS AND SONG INTRODUCTIONS$ Scott Grills ABSTRACT This chapter pays particular attention to the place of song introductions as an integral feature of public performance. Locating this analysis within the subculture of contemporary folk music, I demonstrate how song introductions can accomplish six important things: (1) provide an interpretive frame for understanding a performance, (2) cast performances in emotive terms, (3) situate performances in the larger context of marketing and sales, (4) contribute to moral entrepreneurial agendas, (5) align the performer’s actions, and (6) offer a venue for making disclaimers. By demonstrating how performers accomplish these things, I locate song introductions within the larger context of situating public performances more generally.

$

Chapter originally presented at the Couch-Stone Symposium, Champagne-Urbana, May 4–5, 2007.

Studies in Symbolic Interaction, Volume 33, 19–34 Copyright r 2009 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-2396/doi:10.1108/S0163-2396(2009)0000033004

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At the risk of stating the obvious, there is much more to the performance of folk music, than is to be found within musicianship alone. Technical competency is, in and of itself, inadequate for understanding an audience’s reaction to a musical performance (Becker, 1973). In this chapter, I encourage the reader to attend to the performance aspects of onstage narrative utilized by contemporary folk musicians. My purpose in this chapter is to articulate the interactional strategies used by folk musicians to locate and otherwise situate their public performance and their place within this diverse subculture.1 In this context, I am particularly interested in: the development of interpretive frames, offering claims to legitimacy and the contextualization of repertoire. First a bit of a perilous exercise – what do I mean by ‘‘contemporary folk musicians?’’ The contemporary part is straight forward enough; I am limiting my analysis to people who are writing and performing today. That is, the reader would, in Schutz’ (1962) terms, have the theoretical possibility to be co-present with the artist. I, therefore, am rather deliberately excluding an analysis of archival footage, or the wonderful Smithsonian collections. A related and important point is that my analysis is limited to artists whose languages include English. My ability to chat with artists in languages other than English is too weak to be helpful. Happily, many international artists are more linguistically competent than I, and are able to accommodate my shortcomings. But, what do I mean by ‘‘folk music?’’ Theodor Adorno (1974, p. 204) offers that ‘‘everything that has ever been called folk art has always reflected domination.’’ Although folk music has often been associated with protest, conflict, and various other manifestations of unrest (Dunaway, 1987; Rodnitzky, 1976), I am more inclined to assert, in a Blumerian fashion, that the definition of ‘‘folk music’’ is not to be found in the object itself or in an attribution of a rhetoric of domination.2 I would suggest that the most sociologically appropriate means of understanding ‘‘folk music’’ as a meaningful distinction from other musical forms is to locate the distinction within the subculture itself. What forms of music do members accept as ‘‘folk music?’’ What is played on folk radio stations’ play lists, what music is included as a part of folk festival lineups, what varieties of artists do record labels that self identify as ‘‘folk oriented’’ sign and support, and where are the debates and tensions located that result in the differentiation between subcultural membership and those that are excluded? Artists whose work is represented in this chapter include traditional acoustic singer-songwriters, vocalists, blues performers, Celtic artists, world music specialists, bluegrass artists, gospel performers, and a range of instrumentalists (e.g. fiddle

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players, percussionists, guitarists, dobro players, and harmonica/harp players). For the purposes of this chapter I am limiting my discussion to the perspectives and work of professional performing musicians – those who make a living, at least in part, in the music business. This chapter is based on an extended ethnographic research project that has involved observation, participant observation, and informal interview. Participant roles have included the following: audience member (at numerous venues and festivals in England, Canada, and the United States), conference delegate (at national and regional meetings for the folk industry), folk festival volunteer, folk festival board member and president, and saxophonist with several working blues bands. The time period represented by these various roles spans more than 20 years, however the data represented in this chapter has been collected over the past 4 years.

SITUATING PERFORMANCE: INTRODUCING THE TUNES Writing about music is, it has been suggested, like dancing for architecture.3 This is a rather glib comment that alludes to a fundamental reality of the work we are engaged in as a part of the creation of text. We are necessarily engaged in a derivative act. As Henri Bergson (1965) has wisely taught, the dissection of that which exists in time (in duration, in process) makes the subject of which we write less than it is. Writing about a meal is necessarily distinct from, and if satisfying at all, much different than the eating of the meal itself. In the discussion that follows I quite deliberately am not writing about music per se, but I wish to highlight the strategies used by artists to situate their public performances. Though sociologists have long understood the interactional importance of impression management and the accompanying rhetorical and interpersonal advantages of accounts, justifications, neutralizations, disclaimers and the like, we have been relatively inattentive to a close examination of these (and related) activities as a feature of public performance (Goffman, 1959). Therefore, while this discussion may be of particular interest to those wishing to attend to the subcultural richness that is a feature of the community context that marks folk music, I would encourage readers to also focus on the more generic themes that are included here. The work of introducing songs shares much with other attempts to situate public performance more generally. For example, the attempts of

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motion picture award winners to situate their acceptance speeches, the disclaimers used by academics as they begin conference presentations, the opening and closing presentations made by trial lawyers to juries, and the patter constructed by stage magicians are all illustrative of the audienceattentive work that may be undertaken to frame, locate and situate public performance. Therefore, this chapter makes a contribution not only to understand more about the social world of folk singers and their audiences, but also contributes to our understanding of the social process of situating public performances more generically. A word of caution, however, I would discourage readers from interpreting this work as somehow reflective of the strategies used by folk performers in all instances. Indeed, a number of artists do relatively little to introduce their performance and in fact may speak to audiences very little, if at all, beyond perfunctory comments such as ‘‘It is good to be in Baltimore’’ or ‘‘Thank you’’ following applause. As one artist articulated, I am not really a big fan of long introductions and a lot of talking. People didn’t come to hear me talk; they came to hear me sing. So that is what I do. As a singer-songwriter I feel that if you can’t understand what I mean from the song, then I haven’t done a very good job of writing it. And then there is, well, if the song is meant to be a bit ambiguous then me telling everyone what I was thinking about when I wrote it ruins the whole thing. I don’t mind people thinking I have had a bit of a wild life, when really I stole the plot of the song from a movie I was watching in my hotel room. (Female, Singersongwriter, Canadian)

However, artists have available to them the song introduction as an interactional resource, and it is to the strategies and processes associated with the situation of performance to which I now turn my attention.

INTRODUCTIONS AS PERFORMANCE It is important that song introductions be framed as audience attentive activity and as a part of the extended performance that the artist is undertaking.4 Although artists may differ greatly on the extent to which they attend more fully and deliberately to the introduction as a developed and coordinated activity, introductions are nevertheless a part of the overall performance. They very much can set a tone for a performance and may establish something of a statement of a relationship between the artist, the venue and the audience. Song introductions (or related on-stage discourse) provide additional information to the audience that would otherwise be unavailable, provide the artist with an opportunity to influence audience

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interpretations, allow for legitimating strategies to be utilized and, importantly, allow artists an opportunity to invoke disclaimers, accounts, and justifications to situate the performance at hand. Therefore, as a potentially integral part of performance, and of successful performance, artists may devote considerable backstage effort to develop, modify, and craft song introductions to effectively manage audience interpretations of the setting. One of the most important things for me is to try and use the introduction to let the audience believe that they are getting something special tonight – a little glimpse into the world of songwriting and musicianship that is not normally shared. I do this bit on learning how to play guitar and how I learned to play it. I’ve had people come up to me after a show and say it was their favorite part of the show and thank me for it. They sometimes make it clear that they thought they were getting something special, but they don’t know that I’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow night. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Producer, Canadian) The master has to be Arlo Guthrie. He can turn Alice’s Restaurant, which is over eighteen minutes long to begin with, into a forty-minute live show. The introduction, if you want to call it that, is woven right into the song as he tells the story of the song, which is in itself a story song. He really is amazing; it is as much a part of his thing as anything else is. (Male, Festival attendee, Canadian)

PROVIDING AN INTERPRETIVE FRAME As works of art, folk songs may share an element of ambiguity much like other artistic human accomplishments. The meaning of the lyrics is necessarily open to interpretation, reinterpretation and debate. Where artists achieve some level of popular recognition, the music press may pay considerable attention to the alleged ‘‘real’’ meaning of a song or song segment.5 In exceptional circumstances, the quest for the ‘‘really real’’ obscured by the lyrics can overshadow the song itself. Folk-pop artist Carly Simon’s 1973 recording You’re So Vain has produced a more than 30-year long conversation about who the male reference is in the text. Simon has never publicly identified who she is writing about, or if it is in fact a single person. As she said in a VH1 interview, People have been questioning for a long time, who it’s about-I mean, who I wrote the song about. It always strikes me as funny. That people would be THAT into what I was thinking about, that’s the greatest ego trip anybody could have y that they would be THAT interested in what you were thinking about when you wrote a song. And for that very reason, of course, I can never give it away. (Carly Simon, 1990, emphasis in the original)

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Simon’s song is, in part, about a secret, and as Simmel (1950) has wisely taught, the power of the secret is lost in the telling. A part of the appeal of You’re So Vain is that in verse Simon is publicly challenging the likes of Warren Beatty, Kris Kristofferson, Mick Jagger, and Cat Stevens. The uncertainty of You’re So Vain is very much a part of the appeal of the secret that the listener participates in, but not fully so. The song is the interactional equivalent of the secret known and not revealed. The meaning of the lyrics is not in dispute, only the individual to which they may refer. Therefore, while artists may have an interest in preserving the unknown in the song and actively participating in the creation of doubt and uncertainty (Grills & Grills, 2008), others may quite explicitly attend to audience perspectives and problems of meaning. Some such work may quite directly transform a more ambiguous song chorus into something more fully situated, by providing audiences with a resource that is not readily available in the text of the performance. In the brief song introduction below, the artist makes a connection to the labor of fishers that would not otherwise be readily available to the audience and by doing so, rather radically alters the interpretive frame that an urban, mid-western audience would bring to the text if left to their own resources. I was spending too much time in Maine and I was watching the lobster boats pullin’ up trap after trap with nothing in them that they could keep. So I wrote this song. It is called Come Up Full. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US)

Artists may also find that the audiences do not share a common language or set of cultural references that allow the ready establishment of shared meanings. If the intent of the writer is to be preserved, it may be necessary to do fairly extensive framing work. I write about rural life. If people don’t know what a holler is then the whole point of the song is lost. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US) Do you know what a truckie is? People over here don’t use the word much I guess. We use it in Australia all the time – it means a truck driver, and it is kind of important in this song. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Australian) Not that I get that much work in the US, but when I am playing down there I just don’t do as much of my French material. When I do, I try to tell them what the song is about, because I know that they are just not going to understand the lyrics. Sure there is often some French major that comes up after the show and talks to me in French, or somebody who has been transferred from Fredericton to Boston or something, but it is different knowing that most of the audience is just not going to get it. (Male, Singersongwriter, Canadian)

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Performers may also attend to the potential for audiences to make rather fundamental interpretive errors in approaching their music and may adopt strategies to resist unwelcome interpretations and to situate their performance in a preferred light. This is a song about killing a woman. Someone asked once what I would do if I ever found the perfect woman and I said that I would kill her. I would kill her so that no one else would ever have her. This is a song about that y but I didn’t do it though. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US) This song is a part of my agnostic gospel project. When I wrote it I thought, Oh no, I’ve written a deist song y but I thought if I heard it, at a Gospel or Bluegrass festival I would like it, so here it is y (Female, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US) The British and the Canadians all have a similar sense of humor. Americans are much slower to get irony, I think. I love touring there, the music is great, I always pick up a few new guitar licks, but you have to tell them, this one is a funny one, you know, I don’t really mean what I am saying, and that guy I’m singing about, John Major, he was the fucking Prime Minster. (Male, Singer-songwriter, English)

Artists may also alter the interpretive frame of an audience by locating the song in its historical context and, by doing so, modify the experience of the performance. Some artists work quite deliberately and consciously within the very old tradition of the troubadour – the singer whose songs have a purpose of disseminating information about events that might otherwise be concealed or lost to time. Examples include Bob Dylan’s Who Killed Davey Moore (written about the death of the boxer of the same name in 1963), Buffy Sainte-Marie’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (with its references to Leonard Peltier and the American Indian Movement), James Keelaghan’s Hillcrest Mine (which references the deaths of 189 miners in Canada’s worst mining disaster in 1914), and Gordon Lightfoot’s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (which commemorates the loss of 29 crewmen when the bulk freighter sank in Lake Superior November 10, 1975). These historical narratives differ from folk songs more generally in that the singersongwriter is seeking to portray some element of cultural authenticity in their performance. Therefore, some artists make a point of distinguishing such songs from works that are to be understood in more fictionalized terms. This story was in a newspaper clipping sent to me from San Jose, California. In 1965, during the Vietnam War, Lisa Kalvelage and two other women, dressed in their Sunday best, stopped a shipment of napalm by standing on a loading platform, refusing to budge. She told this story to a newspaper reporter in court after being arrested. (Pete Seeger, 1998)

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Additionally, song introductions may serve to alter the interpretive frame of the song by placing it within a human narrative, thereby locating the song relative to biography. In the quotation that follows, Pete Seeger locates his fairly well-known version of Guantanamera in the context of a place, a time and the political circumstances that he identifies as salient. I am going to sing you another song. Jose Marti was born in 1853. When he was 17 years old he was active in the Cuban liberation movement. He was exiled by the Spanish government. He spent most of his life in exile including 12 years in New York City. He wrote 70 books-poetry, novels polemics. He was one of the greatest writers in the Spanish language. At the age of 42 he went back to Cuba and this is one of his last poems as he was killed within a year in an aborted uprising. After he died people put it to a popular tune. [Singing] Guantanamera y (Pete Seeger, 1989[1963])

Seeger’s introduction of Guantanamera may also be interpreted as indicative of the emotion work that may be undertaken by artists. In her thoughtful work on gender and emotion Shields (2004) makes the simple but important point that, when we study emotion, we are studying that which people take personally. To have an emotional relationship with a person or object is an indication that it is meaningful, and often deeply so, to the actors involved. Artists may, through their song introductions, invite audience members into a personal emotive relationship with the song and with the performance and at times may reveal their own emotive relationship with the song. I lost my father three years ago now. He was the moral force in our home. He didn’t say much, but he was always there and you knew you were loved. He didn’t have to say anything. I was touring when he died. So I went home and I buried my Pa and went back out on the road again as though my life were normal. But it wasn’t and it would never be again. So I wrote these songs and I am grateful that some of you have found comfort in them too. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Midwestern US) This was inspired by my parents fighting last year [and] how much it affected me. I’m all grown up, it isn’t supposed to. But it was my way of trying to let go of it all. I called it No Peace to Keep. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US)

I have attempted in this section to give readers a sense of some of the various strategies that artists may utilize in situating performance relative to particular interpretive vantage points. Consistent with interactionist practice I have not explicitly challenged the content of what is offered to audiences. However, like others who are situating public performances (e.g. professors, chefs, politicians, and magicians) folk artists may engage in misdirection, strategic reframing, lying, or other forms of intentional deception to enhance performance and modify audience definitions of the situation. However,

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whereas the successful public performance of card and dice hustlers (Prus & Sharper, 1991) or jockeys (Case, 1991) rather centrally hinges on deceiving audiences, within folk music deception is more of an available resource than a required one.6 so he says, ‘‘I learned this one from the great Townes Van Zandt’’ and people clap and they don’t know it was from a concert video, or he says ‘‘One of the great privileges of my career was to share the stage with this guy or that guy,’’ but it was just a workshop at a festival, or he says, ‘‘this one is a love song to my lovely wife,’’ but he doesn’t tell them that it was wife number one and not number three. The audience thinks what they want to think and it is a good show. You think I’m going to call someone on it? Take Neil Young’s song ‘‘Old Man.’’ He has said on stage that song is about an old rancher on his farm, but lots of other people, me included, think it is really about is father, his old man. Neil can say it is about whatever he wants, and for all I know he doesn’t really even know what he meant when he wrote it all those years ago. (Male, Festival Board Member, Canada)

In the preceding I have paid particular attention to artists’ attempts to situate their performance through the influence audience members’ interpretation of and relationship to the song and its singing. As such, I have focused rather exclusively on material that is more fully attentive to song content and meaning. However, much of what may be included in onstage introductions may have very little to do with lyrical content and much more to do with other aspects of the life and work of singer-songwriters. As Becker (1982) has argued, art is to be understood relative to the community context within which it occurs – the art world. Therefore, like other public performers (e.g. speakers who encourage book sales, athletes promoting brand loyalty, and politicians seeking donations), folk musicians may be particularly attentive to situating their performance relative to the creation of markets and marketing opportunities more generally.

ATTENDING TO MARKETING OPPORTUNITIES Although some artists point out that the most personally lucrative side of the music business is songwriting, for contemporary folk artists who perform their own original material and are rarely ‘‘covered’’ by others, live performance provides an opportunity for direct sales of CDs (and less importantly secondary ‘‘merch’’ such as clothing). Song introductions may be used as a marketing opportunity or to attempt to create markets (Fine, 2004). In particular, artists may use various strategies to encourage audience members to: (a) attend to opportunities to purchase albums, (b) avail

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themselves of the opportunity to own a hand-signed copy of a CD, (c) purchase out-of-print CDs not available through retail outlets, (d) purchase music not currently available in the region, (e) purchase music before the official release date, and (f) provide financial support to independent artists. The following quotations illustrate these themes. I’ll be signing albums down at that little signing place at 1 or 1:30 tomorrow. So come on down. If you buy one of my albums I’ll sign that, I’ll sign your program, I’ll sign your sister. I’ll sign just about anything, but I’d rather sign my CD. (Canadian guitarist, Folk Festival) We will be taking a short intermission after we do one more for you. If you like what you are hearing and would like to support local music we have copies of both of our CDs available. They are $20 each and if you buy both of them you will get a free brownie. I’m not kidding, Danielle here makes great brownies and the only way to get one of them is to buy both CDs kids. You can’t buy the brownies, don’t ask, there might be a food inspector anywhere. Just buy the CDs. See you in half an hour. (Canadian band, community hall) We have been performing this song for a couple of years now, and reflecting our expertise in marketing, it wasn’t on any of the CDs we had to sell. We have fixed that now and it is the opening track on our new album. So if you heard it before and liked it, tonight is your chance to own it. (Canadian band, community hall) Canada has been really great to us, I mean really great, thank you. I understand that we are completely sold out in the record tent and we want to thank you for that. If you didn’t get the album you were looking for check us out on iTunes. We appreciate your support. (Australian band, Folk Festival)

MORAL ENTREPRENEURIAL WORK AND CULTURES OF SOCIAL PROBLEMS Folk artists have long been associated with social movements, social change, and moral entrepreneurial activities more generally (Cantwell, 1996). In many respects, the subculture of folk music is illustrative of what Gusfield (1989) has referred to as a ‘‘culture of public problems.’’ So much so in fact that, as I have aforementioned, some working definitions of folk music associate the genre with protest music more or less exclusively. As a subcultural venture, folk performance has, over the years, been rather closely aligned with various social movements, specifically labor movements, the peace movement, the extended civil rights movement (including racial, gender, and gay and lesbian rights movements), the environmental

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movement, Aboriginal/Indian movements, and movements associated with prisoners of conscience. Reflecting the participation of folk music and their audiences in the extended culture of public problems, artists may weave song introductions directly to performances that are explicitly oriented towards the processes of defining or otherwise engaging social problems. As such, artists may be rather fully engaged in what Blumer (1971) frames as the generic social processes that accompany the definition, legitimization, and official response to social problems. The following quotations illustrate examples of the work of folk musicians to participate in the development of community definitions of social problems. There are lots of people who get discouraged about this damned human race but every time I think about it I think of Shakespeare-it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all y but if you would like to get out of a pessimistic mood yourself I have got a sure remedy for you. Get out and help those people down in Birmingham, Mississippi, or Alabama y There are many ways to do it, you don’t have to go down there yourself. There are all kinds of jobs to be done, it takes heads and hands and hearts, and then we will see this song come true y We Shall Overcome. (Pete Seeger, 1989 [1963]) This is one of the few overtly political songs I have ever written; it is a pinhead’s view of international relations. I’d send it out to Rumsfeld but he is gone, I’d send it out to George W. but I don’t think he’d get it so I guess it goes out to Condoleeze [Rice]. (Male, Singer-songwriter, US/British) I’ve written several songs over the years that have to do with my opposition to the death penalty in my country – which is work I still do. And there are a lot of reasons for that. My opposition to the death penalty is pretty core. I object to the damage that it does to my spirit for my government to kill people because my government is supposed to be me and I object to me killing people y it is really simple. So this is called Over Yonder and it is also called Jonathan’s Song. (Steve Earle, 2003)

Although most certainly variability exists between performers and performances, artists may significantly modify on-stage moral entrepreneurial activity in light of perceived differences between audiences, venues, and settings. Under some circumstances artists may adopt on-stage strategies that more directly challenge, whereas in other performances they may select lines of action that obscure or otherwise conceal political commitments. All you people holding up your lighters during that last number. I hope you liked it, from where I am standing it just looks stupid. You haven’t accomplished a fucking thing by singing along to a song. If you want to [support aboriginal land claims] you are going to have to get off your asses at some point and do something-something other than holding up a lighter. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Canadian)

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SCOTT GRILLS Sure some of my material is pretty in your face, particularly some of my spoken word art. But if you want to make a living in this business you need to know how to match the material to the audience. If I get a job playing a rural coffee house, then I know that the people who come there on a Thursday night for my show are not there to hear my angry songs, my college show. I won’t hide who I am but if you manage yourself in such a way that people will not listen to you, you have lost any chance to have even a small influence on how they think about poverty, or gun controls, or the death rates in our urban centers. (Male, Poet & Songwriter, US-based)

DISCLAIMERS AND RELATED ALIGNING ACTIONS An additional important interactional aspect of song introductions is in the extent to which artists may draw on introductions to offer disclaimers, accounts, justifications, or other related aligning actions as a means of situating performance and portraying role competence. Artists may utilize song introductions to place the self in a particular relationship with the song and with song performance – as a means of establishing the self at a particular proximity to the performance. Singer-songwriters do not have the distance of self from the material they perform that is available to interpreters of the music of others. For example, an artist interpreting a classic blues song that appears to tolerate domestic violence introduced the song this way. I am going to do a number for you now that was made famous by the late, the great, Billie Holiday, Ain’t Nobody’s Business (audience applause). (Female, Singer, Midwestern US)

This simple introduction does not make a topic of the content of the song but associates the performance with a legendary voice among female jazz and blues singers. By doing so, the artist distances herself from the song topic. However, singer-songwriters do not have this resource available to them. As the authors of the content to be performed, their public self is very much associated with the lyrical content of the song. They may seek to make clear to audiences that they are the creative force behind the song and performance (as opposed to interpreters of the music of others), whereas at the same time engaging in distancing strategies that attend to emergent selfother identities. Here is a miserable little blues for you. I used to write a lot like these when I thought that being miserable was cool. I’m older now so this is a much more sophisticated kind of whining. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US)

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Situating Public Performances [Singing sorrowfully] ‘‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.’’ [Speaking] That is how it all starts in my set, all moaning and complaining, then I complain some more. Best you get used to it. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Eastern US) I don’t know if all songwriters have this experience, but you write a song and try it out and it is just okay you know, and you put it away and then someone you really trust says you should try it out again, so here it is. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Mid-Western US) We have got a real downer for you, but we will have fun. It is about unemployment, adversity, and a natural disaster-something for everyone. (Male, Singer-songwriter, Western US) Here is my get-even song. It may not be a great song but it should be a reminder to all of you. Don’t screw over a folk singer or we can write about you and then we can sing it over and over again. And ladies, I didn’t even change his name so if you are ever in [my hometown] and he comes on to you just run. I mean it, run. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Canadian)

Although disclaimers and accounts may be used to justify the selection of song and repertoire (Albas & Albas, 1993; Hewitt & Stokes, 1975; Scott & Lyman, 1968), performers may also use introductions to excuse performances that fail to meet subcultural expectations of professional musicianship.7 Given that issues of performance competence are many and varied, nevertheless a rather central theme is the development of instrumental competence and musical fluency. Among singer-songwriters, this typically involves learning how to play the acoustic guitar. Reflecting concerns not dissimilar from those expressed by Haas and Shaffir’s (1987) study of medical students, some folk musicians may experience considerable ‘‘stage fright’’ that is directly related to their ability to maintain and sustain audience impressions of musical competence. I’ll say, ‘‘I’m going to do one now in the key of E’’ and I move my capo, and make it look all professional, but the only way I know it is in E is because someone who was sitting in with me told me. I learned how to play the guitar on my own. When I am up there on those workshop stages it terrifies me. These other musicians, they know so much and I am really a poet with a percussion instrument with strings sitting there. (Female, Singer-songwriter, Northwest US)

CONCLUSION Many years ago, Berger (1963) argued that a rather central feature of sociology was its tendency to debunk the social worlds we study. Interactionists have proven themselves exceptionally adept at this task. We have reframed 12 step programs (Irvine, 1999), examined the relationship of fear

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and the news industry (Altheide, 2002), and revealed the social importance of the apparently inconsequential encounters between doormen and the tenants with whom they interact (Bearman, 2005). In the most modest of ways, this chapter joins this debunking tradition. The work of the artist in framing their public performance is consequential to the musicianship to follow. It may both locate the performance and simultaneously be an aspect of performance. By attending to song introductions, locating them within a performance and subcultural context, and conceptually framing them relative to public performance more generally, the interactional relevance of this apparently mundane feature of human group life is drawn out and made analytically available. If one assumes that in the study of the performance of music that the ‘‘song is the thing’’ then important, relevant, and meaningful aspects of our understanding of performance will unhelpfully lie outside of the sociologists gaze. I would respectfully suggest that the relevance of this chapter extends beyond the boundaries of folk music. The processes to which I attend have a generic quality to them that extend well beyond this subculture. The processes that folk musicians are undertaking as a part of performance – attending to meaning, managing audience interpretations, engaging in misdirection, promoting ongoing involvements, and portraying competencies – are rather central to the process of situating public performances more generally. However, an attentiveness to this dynamic in other settings requires that detailed ethnographic attention be paid to these processes where they occur. I would very much encourage other researchers to borrow from the themes developed herein to attend to the interactional equivalents present within their own research settings. For, by asking extended questions about how public performances are framed, located, and situated, we gain a much richer understanding of the subcultural context of public performance than we ever can by attending to performance alone.

NOTES 1. For an extended discussion of subcultures and their central role in understanding human group life see Prus (1997) and Prus and Grills (2003). When one places folk artists in their larger community context one begins to attend to the diversity that I allude to here – a community consisting of those such as managers, audiences, customers, coffee house owners, booking agents, reporters, recording industry participants, artistic directors, house concert promoters, and folk festival staff.

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2. For a more substantively attentive definition of folk music readers are directed to Forcucci’s (1984) discussion. 3. The original source of this quotation is unknown to me. It is attributed to both Elvis Costello and Steve Martin. It has made its way into popular culture and has been adopted by the band Dancing for Architecture. 4. For a discussion of folk musicians and their audiences more generally see Sanders (1974). 5. For a related and helpful discussion see Fine’s (2004) examination of folk art and the place of artist identity therein. 6. For an extended discussion of music, manipulation, and related questions of identity see Martin (2006). 7. In this, the strategies used by folk musicians share much with the author who attempts to distance themselves from a text by referring to it as a ‘‘first draft,’’ a research grant applicant who seeks funding for an ‘‘exploratory study,’’ and the administrator who transfers responsibility for their actions on those who report to them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT I thank Lonnie Athens, Ken Bessant, Kathy Charmaz, Sheilagh Grills, Anthony Puddephatt, and Clinton Sanders for their helpful comments on earlier versions of this chapter. Of course, they share no responsibility for the shortcomings herein.

REFERENCES Adorno, T. 1974 [1951]. Minima moralia: Reflections from damaged life. London: New Left Books. Albas, D., & Mills Albas, C. (1993). Disclaimer mannerisms of students: How to avoid being labelled as cheaters. Canadian Review of Sociology and Anthropology, 30, 451–467. Altheide, D. (2002). Creating fear: News and the construction of crisis. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Bearman, P. (2005). Doormen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Becker, H. (1973[1963]). Outsiders. New York: The Free Press. Becker, H. (1982). Art worlds. Berkeley: University of California Press. Berger, P. (1963). Invitation to sociology. New York: Anchor. Bergson, H. (1965). Duration and simultaneity. Translated by Leon Jacobson. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Blumer, H. (1971). Social problems as collective behavior. Social Problems, 1, 298–306. Cantwell, R. (1996). When we were good: The folk revival. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Case, C. (1991). Down the backstretch: Racing and the American dream. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

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Dunaway, D. K. (1987). Music as political communication in the United States. In: J. Lull (Ed.), Popular music and communication (pp. 36–52). Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Earle, S. (2003). I oppose the death penalty. Just an American Boy: An Audio Documentary. Artemis Records. Fine, G. A. (2004). Everyday genius: Self-taught art and the culture of authenticity. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Forcucci, S. L. (1984). A folk song history of America. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Grills, S., & Grills, S. (2008). The social construction of doubt: Women’s accounts of uncertainty and chronic illness. In: D. Driedger & M. Owen (Eds), Dissonant disabilities: Women with chronic illnesses theorize their lives. Toronto: Canadian Scholars Press. Gusfield, J. (1989). Constructing the ownership of social problems; fun and profit in the welfare state. Social Problems, 26, 431–441. Haas, J., & Shaffir, W. (1987). Becoming doctors: The adoption of a cloak of competence. Greenwich: JAI. Hewitt, J. P., & Stokes, R. (1975). Disclaimers. American Sociological Review, 40, 1–11. Irvine, L. (1999). Codependent forevermore: The invention of self in a twelve step group. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Martin, P. J. (2006). Music and the sociological gaze: Art worlds and cultural production. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Prus, R. (1997). Subcultural mosaics and intersubjective realities: An ethnographic research agenda for pragmatizing the social sciences. Albany: State University of New York Press. Prus, R., & Grills, S. (2003). Engaging the deviant mystique: Involvements, realities and regulatory endeavors. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers. Prus, R., & Sharper, C. R. D. (1991). Road hustler. New York: Kaufman and Greenberg. Rodnitzky, J. L. (1976). Minstrels of the dawn: The folk-protest singer as cultural heroes. Chicago: Nelson-Hall. Sanders, C. (1974). Psyching out the crowd: Folk performers and their audiences. Urban Life, 3, 264–282. Schutz, A. (1962). The problem of social reality. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. Scott, M., & Lyman, S. (1968). Accounts. American Sociological Review, 33, 46–62. Seeger, P. (1989[1963]). Carnegie hall concert. Columbia Records. Seeger, P. (1998). Liner notes to where have all the flowers gone: The songs of pete seeger. Appleseed Recordings. Shields, S. (2004). Speaking from the heart: Gender and the social meaning of emotion. New York: Cambridge University Press. Simmel, G. (1950). The sociology of georg simmel. In: K. Wolff (Ed.). Glencoe: The Free Press. Simon, C. (1990). You’re so vain – VH1 interview. Carly Simon: Official Web Site. Retrieved on April 03, 2007. http://www.carlysimon.com/vain/vain.html

THE MUSIC RINGTONE AS AN IDENTITY MANAGEMENT DEVICE: A RESEARCH NOTE Christopher J. Schneider ABSTRACT The mobile telephone is an omnipresent feature of daily life. Mobile phone technology was made readily available to the general public in the early 1980s. A ‘‘ringtone’’ is the sound broadcast from a mobile telephone indicating an incoming call. The ringtones of early 1980’s mobile phones usually consisted of a few pre-programmed monophonic (single melodic line) sounds. These tones had no significance or practical use other than as indicators of social status (of having a mobile phone) and to alert the listener to an incoming call. The increasing popularity of ringtone ‘‘realtones’’ has prompted the need to empirically investigate the way these new technologies affect how people manage the impressions they make on others. Elaborating on Goffman’s presentation of self-thesis, this research note establishes the importance of ringtone technology in situating youthful identities in contemporary society. Implications for future research are discussed.

Studies in Symbolic Interaction, Volume 33, 35–45 Copyright r 2009 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-2396/doi:10.1108/S0163-2396(2009)0000033005

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INTRODUCTION The creation of the mobile, or cellular (cell) phone (these terms will be used interchangeably) has extended telephone use, which was once largely considered a private affair, into the public sphere and, subsequently, everyday life. The novel ideas portrayed in Goffman’s (1959) influential The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, concerning imagery of the theater and social interaction, are useful when considering the use of cell phone ringtones as props to convey a particular and, one might add, favorable identity to an audience. Goffman’s central thesis contends that as social actors take into account their situational contexts; they select particular props to create a certain definition of self (depending on the situation, audience, time, place, and manner). Notably missing from Goffman’s body of work is an extended discussion of youth identity formation, especially from within the context of a total institution where one need not necessarily be confined permanently. This assumed identity becomes restricted in a place that captures the interest and time of its members; however, it may also serve as a physical barrier to social intercourse with the outside world (Goffman, 1961, 1963). For example, daily activities in the secondary education system, including learning, exercise, and eating, are conducted in the same place, in the company of other pupils required to do the same. These activities are tightly scheduled in prearranged time slots leading into other activities, and are controlled by a single fixed authority, all in an effort to fulfill the stated aims of the institution (Goffman, 1961). In these ways, the secondary education system represents a total institution. The importance of amending Goffman’s ideas here on the presentation of self, in light of new technological developments, is relevant to our greater understanding of identity management. This research note updates and builds on Goffman’s work in the following ways: it (1) explores youth identity formation in the confines of the secondary education system, and (2) considers recent developments in communication and information technologies that contribute to this process, particularly the cell phone ringtone and its ability to provide super or hyper auditory ‘‘tie-signs’’ relating to one’s identity (Goffman, 1961, 1971). According to Goffman (1971), tie-signs consist of fragmented pieces of public information conveyed by acting participants in the social realm. Through select social action, these pieces of information connect otherwise anonymous relationships between social participants, transforming the social encounter into the beginning of an anchored relationship where

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circumstances arise for the establishment of a particular social identity (Goffman, 1971). Establishing social identity at this early stage in a relationship is important, as ‘‘the beginning of an anchored relationship can depend on the memory each has of having seen the other before in a context that implies for each a relevant social identity for the other’’ (Goffman, 1971, p. 191). The manner and degree to which a ringtone, as an auditory tie-sign, is interpreted is therefore consequential to the establishment of social identity.

PREVIOUS RESEARCH Although there has been a proliferation of mobile technology in everyday life, empirical research on the social implications of mobile phone use has not kept pace with this development. To be sure, studies have been done, but they have not focused enough attention on the importance of mobile phone use on the practices that enable people to manage their identities in the presence of others. The specific concern here rests with the information people reveal about their identities during mobile phone usage and its potential impact on social interaction. However, the extant literature focuses on the national and global effects of mobile phone technology, addressing the intended (staying in touch) and unintended (always staying in touch) consequences of this technology on everyday social life (Agar, 2005; Ito, Okabe, & Matsuda, 2005; Katz & Aakhus, 2002). Other consequences of mobile technology on every day social life that have been examined, include both unwanted surveillance and the increased sense of security gained from being able to communicate with others where conventional phone lines are unavailable (Harper & Hamill, 2005; Levinson, 2004; Ling, 2004; Lyon, 2006; Reid & Reid, 2005; Rheingold, 2002; Schuchardt, 2003; Strate, 2003).

DATA AND METHODS This project occurred over the span of several months during the fall of 2006 while I was employed as a secondary education substitute teacher. Access to this setting, one that is highly protected from outsiders, allowed me to become more intimately familiar with select aspects of youth culture. The informal data gathered over the course of these dozens of observations,

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although not overtly reflected in the overall write-up of this project, informed its basic structure, direction, and outline. This project is unique in that it did not begin as a formal ethnography per se but, rather, later in some less distinct ways, developed into one. No formal structured interviews were conducted during this period due to the extreme (ages 13–18) sensitivity of the observed population. In an effort to avoid any ethical dilemmas, jottings of the day’s observations, activities, and conversations were taken down immediately on my return home, when I was both off school grounds and out of the immediate vicinity of anyone associated with the school. Extensive observations were conducted on school grounds between August 2006 and December 2006, immediately before, during (in the hallways and cafeteria), and after school and, most importantly, within the confines of the classroom. These descriptions of secondary education social life revealed that identity development and maintenance, especially among these youth, relies heavily (perhaps more than in other populations because of their limited freedoms) on props, most specifically, the cell phone. Despite formal policy against cell phone use, students would forthrightly ask if they could use their cell phones for text messaging and games after they completed their tasks (some teachers, myself included, allowed this behavior, whereas others did not). When this question was asked (as it most always was), I used my status as both teacher and trained observer to cautiously, mindful of the population, question students about their cell phones (discovering that most possessed them), their use of these devices and, in particular, their selection and use of their ringtones.

DEMOGRAPHICS OF RINGTONES According to The Cellular Telecommunications and Internet Association (CTIA), formed as a nonprofit organization in 1984, the number of wireless phone users in the United States has grown from fewer than 100,000 in 1985 to an estimated 180 million subscribers in 2004 and, as of mid-year 2006, a total of 219.4 million subscribers (CTIA ‘‘Wireless Quick Facts’’, 2006). As of July 1, 2006, the latest U.S. Census Bureau statistics estimated the population of the United States at just fewer than 300 million (299,398,484) (U.S. Census Bureau, 2006). It is almost certain that the number of wireless phone subscribers will continue to increase.

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The ringtones of early 1980’s mobile phones usually consisted of a few preprogrammed monophonic (single melodic line) sounds. These tones had no significance or practical use other than as a perceived indicator of social status (i.e., having a cell phone) and to alert the listener to an incoming call. In the past few years, however, the popularity of ringtones has exploded with the introduction of ‘‘realtones,’’ sometimes referred to as realtunes, truetones, or mastertones. These particular ringtones are 30-second excerpts of popular music recordings, such as those featured on the radio or on the top music charts (e.g., Billboard Hot 100). These tones can be easily downloaded or programmed into mobile phones compatible with this technology, which includes most, if not all, contemporary cell phones. The Billboard Hot Ringtones chart debuted at the end of 2004. Much like Billboard’s charts for album sales and radio airplay, the ringtone chart reflects the top polyphonic (multiple melodic line) ringtone sales for each week. It is based on aggregated data collected from all of the major cell phone carriers and distributors that is claimed to represent more than 90% of the market. The Hot Ringtones chart, according to Billboard, reflects ‘‘the most comprehensive market sample of ringtones worldwide and the single most comprehensive starting sample of any chart produced by Billboard to date’’ (Billboard Bows Ringtones Chart, 2004). The chart is endorsed both by CTIA and the Mobile Entertainment Forum, a global trade association representing participants in the mobile entertainment industry. Virgin Mobile USA recently announced that it now serves 4.6 million customers. In 2006, these customers alone downloaded over 14.8 million ringtones (Virgin mobile USA marks 4.6 million customers, 2007). The ringtone broadcasts information individually selected (in this instance, music), which, I contend, helps define who a person is. Apart from preprogrammed default ringtones (tones that come standard in all modern mobile phones); downloadable ringtones are purposefully selected more often than default tones (these are individually selected as well). In these instances the user must seek to acquire them (i.e., possess enough technological proficiency to download them) and pay an additional fee, ranging between $1.99 and $3.99. These fees vary, depending on the tone; for instance, monophonic tones tend to be less expensive, whereas realtones are more expensive. The simple fact that a user would pay between $1.99 and $3.99 for a 30-second snippet of a particular song (which, in all likelihood, the user may already possess), when the entire version can be purchased legally for as little as 88 cents, is certainly suggestive of the extent to which the ringtone factors into the concept of managing one’s identity.

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THE RINGTONE AS AN IDENTITY MANAGEMENT DEVICE The secondary education system operates as a total institution, established for the purpose of pursing work-like tasks (Goffman, 1961). The most basic features of any total institution concern the restriction or control of information, communication, and physical movement. Goffman (1961) contends that it is ‘‘characteristic of inmates that they come to the institution with a ‘presenting culture’’’ (p. 12). Culture is necessary for the creation of a social reality (Berger & Luckmann, 1967). Popular culture provides both shared meaning and rules of social action, thus creating the conditions necessary for human beings to symbolically communicate meaning with one another. Popular culture can be loosely described as a fluid set of characteristics, beliefs, and practices collectively accepted and understood as the basis of normalcy. Music, for example, is a significant part of popular culture. Research literature supports the assertion that age is the single greatest factor in determining one’s allegiance to music (see Denisoff, 1975; Grossberg, 1992, 1997; Rose, 1994a), and is especially the case when considering rap and hip-hop music (Keyes, 2004; Rose, 1994b). According to the NPD Group, Inc., in 2006, youth consumers were more likely to download music ringtones. Data collected in a monthly survey in July 2006 indicated that 26% of customers were between the ages of 14 and 17, whereas 22% were between the ages of 18 and 24, with females downloading slightly more ringtones than males (Rap/Hip-Hop Ringtones Rule the Market, 2006). According to the most recent age data published by the U.S. Census Bureau (2007) and cited by the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 67.2% of the U.S. population consists of people between the ages of 15 and 64 (Central Intelligence Agency World Factbook, 2007), with nearly 25% of the population under the age of 18 (U.S. Census Bureau USA Quickfacts, 2007). Ringtone selection among the observed population coincides in many ways with the research literature concerning youth music selection and hiphop. Some popular ringtones, for instance, included songs by hip-hop artists Akon (‘‘Smack That’’) and Fergie (‘‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’’). Students I observed were especially reluctant to discuss their selection of the former, because the lyrics referred to the performance of sexual acts. Maybe go to my place and just kick it, like Taebo, and possibly bend you over, look back and watch me smack that, all on the floor, smack that give me some more, smack that until you get sore, smack that oooh (Akon, 2007).

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The mere mention of this ringtone, for instance, would often induce giggle-like behavior in the classroom. The assumption was, of course, that I was unaware of the lyrical content. However, students sometimes indicated that they selected these and other suggestive ringtones (e.g., ‘‘Crazy Bitch’’ by the rock and roll group Buckcherry), not only because they liked the songs, but also, and importantly, because of the record producers’ apparent ability to ‘‘get away with’’ broadcasting inappropriate content (sexual or otherwise) right under the noses of unknowledgeable adults by wrapping in the cloak of popular culture. Culturally, politically, and socially, at least in the United States, those under a certain age (i.e., 18) are legally and collectively categorized as ‘‘youths’’ or ‘‘minors,’’ often with little (if any) regard and, in some instances, no tolerance for individualism or individualist-like behavior. As an example, consider the secondary education system where conformity to some rules (many of which are arbitrary) are not only expected, but also rigidly enforced. Acts or displays of individualism, many of which are perfectly normal and legal (say, wearing a baseball cap), that fall outside the established rules are punished and sometimes severely so (with suspension or expulsion). Youth spend a majority of their daily lives and, indeed, waking moments, in the confines of the education system; thus, the narrow social space that exists outside this system for youth to freely create and manage identities during social interaction takes on added importance. The construction of social identity occurs within a vast framework of communication, in which many actors who are sometimes unfamiliar with one another participate. These anonymous relationships, according to Goffman (1971), become meaningful only when participants act in response to fragments of information about one another that are made publicly available. Thus, the relations between these persons become mediated by ‘‘tie-signs’’ (p. 194) which point to or reveal ‘‘who they are’’. Ringtones perform the function of a special kind of tie sign in everyday life. The ringtone as an auditory tie-sign then simultaneously expresses both intentional and unintentional acts of impression management (as do many props); however, music is symbolically laden perhaps more than other physical objects and, therefore, it can be assumed that meanings derived from a ringtone can be multiple or fragmented, depending on song selection, audience members, and the time, place, and manner in which the ringtone is broadcasted (Goffman, 1959, 1971). ‘‘A tie-sign is in fact dependent on the context for its meaning’’ (Goffman, 1971, p. 197), and these contexts can vary considerably.

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Consider, for instance, the popular ringtone ‘‘Bad Boys’’ (originally released as a full-length single in 1993), recorded by reggae group Inner Circle. The ringtone peaked on Billboard’s Hot Ringtones Chart at number 30 and has remained on the chart for over 110 weeks. The song was made popular by the television program COPS (currently in its 19th season) and also by the films Bad Boys and Bad Boys 2, starring Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. The lyrics are sung over a smooth-flowing reggae composition: Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha goin’ do? Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha goin’ do? Whatcha goin’ do when Sherrif John Brown come for you? Tell me, whatcha goin’ do? (Inner Circle, 1993)

The lyrics, as stated, are not too difficult to decipher. However, to those familiar enough with either COPS or the Bad Boys films, the ringtone could be thought to convey contradictory signals to an audience that could readily interpret the tune as either a testament to the enforcement of the law and rendering of justice, thus validating the hosts’ crimefighter image (Cavender, 1998) or, considering the content of the show (e.g., lawlessness, disorderly conduct, belligerence, intoxication, and violence), as mocking the law-enforcement community. The ringtone could also offer panopticonic surveillance suggestions to those familiar with the television program: break the law and we (i.e., the police) will find you (see Foucault, 1995; Marx, 1995). Someone unfamiliar with the above television program and films could interpret the tune in various other ways (e.g., reggae has a reputation as party or anthem music and is widely associated with marijuana use). Mobile phone technology has created new standards of etiquette and consumption practices, prompting users to sometimes exert control over the unintended revelation of individual ringtone selection. In these circumstances, such as the school classroom, students would most always set their cell phones to ‘‘silent’’ or ‘‘vibrate’’ to avoid reprimand or confiscation. In other front-stage regions, users are freely able to manage multiple ringtones on one mobile phone (a process I call tone-shifting), a similar activity to the various ways in which human actors modify their style of dress for different social settings. In ordinary social situations, however, performance blunders, such as failure to control the revelation of ringtone selection, can and do occur (I refer to this as an identity blitzkrieg). In these events, the temporary loss of the ability to control these fragmented pieces of information about oneself creates the threat that an audience could interpret that information as contradicting their previously formed positive impression of the actor (Goffman, 1971), which could seriously disrupt the ongoing social

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interaction. If actors become incapable of reliably controlling the information revealed about themselves, then it makes impression management, and, in turn, social interaction highly problematical for all concerned (Goffman, 1959). When interpreted unfavorably, the ringtone could invite or generate unfavorable reaction from an audience, jeopardizing their initial favorable definition of the person, even though recovery of a positive identity may be later possible. Ringtone technology is unique, then, in its capacity to change swiftly the impression (either positively or negatively) that an actor is making on an audience. Thus, it can undermine our attempts to create or maintain a favorable impression on others.

CONCLUSION This research note spotlights the importance of the need for more empirical research assessing the relationships between technology, identity, and social interaction. Though the ringtone is meaningful, it is not the only element in establishing a social identity, nor is social identity the only element in shaping social interaction. Nevertheless, ringtone preferences are potent tie signs of people’s identities and, thereby, can dramatically affect social interaction, Thus, Goffman’s ideas on the presentation of self need to be amended in light of ways that new technological developments create new challenges for our managing the impression that we make on other people during social interaction. The next steps in this research program should include exploring the affects of ringtones on the impression management practices among different populations in other institutional settings and, more importantly, the general impact on identity of music that people buy and listen to and the public places where they go to listen to it. This is part of future writing on the subject.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I wish to thank David Altheide, Lonnie Athens, Joe Kotarba, Gary Marx, and Ariane Hanemaayer for their helpful suggestions and advice on earlier versions of this manuscript. I also would like to thank the students at the high school for sharing their thoughts and opinions with me as well as my brother Kevin whose music continues to inspire me.

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REFERENCES Agar, J. (2005). Constant touch: A global history of the mobile phone. Cambridge, UK: Totem Books. Akon. (2007). ‘‘Smack That.’’ Ringtone. Verizon Wireless/Umvd/Import. ‘‘Billboard bows ringtones chart.’’ (October 26, 2004). Available at http://www.billboard.com/ bbcom/news/article_displayjs.p?vnu_content_id ¼ 1000684908. Retrieved on January 5, 2007. Berger, P., & Luckmann, T. (1967). The social construction of reality. New York: Penguin Press. Cavender, G. (1998). In ‘The Shadow of Shadows’: Television reality crime programming. In: M. Fishman & G. Cavender (Eds), Entertaining crime (pp. 79–94). New York: Aldine De Gruyter. Central Intelligence Agency World Factbook. (2007). Available at http://www.cia.gov/cia/ publications/factbook/print/us.html. Retrieved on April 5. Denisoff, R. S. (1975). Solid gold: The popular record industry. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books. Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline & punish: The birth of the prison (Original work published 1977). New York: Random House. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Doubleday Press. Goffman, E. (1961). Asylums. New York: Anchor Books. Goffman, E. (1963). Stigma. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc. Goffman, E. (1971). Relations in public. New York: Harper & Row. Grossberg, L. (1992). We gotta get out of this place. New York: Routledge. Grossberg, L. (1997). Dancing in spite of myself. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Harper, R., & Hamill, L. (2005). Kids will be kids: The role of mobiles in teenage life. In: L. Hamill & A. Larson (Eds), Mobile world: Past, present and future. Guilford, UK: Springer Publishing. Inner Circle. (1993) ‘‘Bad Boys.’’ Ringtone. Verizon Wireless/Big Beat/Wea. 2007. Ito, M., Okabe, D., & Matsuda, M. (Eds). (2005). Personal, portable, pedestrian: Mobile phones in Japanese life. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Katz, E. J., & Aakhus, M. (Eds). (2002). Perpetual contact: Mobile communication, private talk, public performance. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Keyes, C. (2004). Rap music and street consciousness. Champaign Urbana, IL: The University of Illinois Press. Levinson, P. (2004). Cellphone: The story of the world’s most mobile medium and how it has transformed everything!. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ling, Rich. (2004). The mobile connection: The cell phone’s impact on society. San Francisco, CA: Morgan Kaufmann Publishers. Lyon, D. (2006). Theorizing surveillance: The panopticon and beyond. Devon, UK: Willan. Marx, G. T. (1995). Electric eye in the sky: Some reflections on the new surveillance and popular culture. In: J. Ferrell & C. R. Sanders (Eds), Cultural criminology (pp. 106–141). Boston: Northeastern University Press. NPD Group, Inc (September 20, 2006). Rap/Hip-hop ringtones rule the market. Available at http://wireless.npd.com/news091106.html. Retrieved on January 4, 2007. Reid, D. J., & Reid, F. J. M. (2005). Kids will be kids: The role of mobiles in teenage life. In: L. Hamill & A. Larson (Eds), Mobile world: Past, present and future. Guilford, UK: Springer Publishing.

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Rheingold, H. (2002). Smart mobs: The next social revolution. Cambridge, MA: Perseus Books. Rose, T. (1994a). Microphone Fiends’ youth music and youth culture. New York: Routledge. Rose, T. (1994). Black noise: Rap music and black culture in contemporary America. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Schuchardt, R. M. (2003). How to quit smoking using only your cell phone. Explorations in Media Ecology, 2(1), 25–34. Strate, L. (2003). The cell phone as environment. Explorations in Media Ecology, 2(1), 19–24. U.S. Census Bureau. (July 2006). National and State Population Estimates. Available at http:// www.census.gov/popest/states/NST-ann-est.html. Retrieved on January 11, 2007. U.S. Census Bureau USA Quickfacts. (April 2007). Available at http://quickfacts.census.gov/ qfd/states/00000.html. Retrieved on April 5. Virgin mobile USA marks 4.6 million customers. (2007). Available at http://www.prnewswire. com/. Retrieved on January 4. Wireless Quick Facts. (September 2006). Available at http://www.ctia.org/news_media/ index.cfm/AID/10202. Retrieved on January 8, 2007.

THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME Jude Robinson ABSTRACT The production of an ethnographic film offers a ‘way of seeing’ for researchers exploring the lives of others, and one that remains open to further interpretation. The film Home, directed by Jeff Togman, documents a momentous 10 weeks in the lives of Sheree Farmer and Mary Abernathy, as they participate in a project designed to move selected families out of the Newark slums to new houses in a ‘better area’. Home also includes interviews with others concerned in the project, and images of the local area where the old and the new houses are located. What the film reveals is the complexity of the emotional and social, rather than simply the legal and economic, decision-making process surrounding the proposed move. It also shows how two people, depending on whether or not they are part of the dominant social group, can perceive an apparently golden and life-changing opportunity very differently. Ultimately, Home gives an insight into the lived experience of a lone mother’s participation in a neighbourhood regeneration project, and powerfully calls into question the values that underpin much of our thinking about how problems of poverty and neighbourhood could, and should, be resolved.

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INTRODUCTION As the use of film to capture social behaviour has increased over the past few decades, there is some debate over how such powerful information should be used, and the results of filming presented to a wider audience (Pink, 2007). For those following a more positivist perspective, the aim is to document the lived experience as closely as possible, and to minimise first, the possible impact of filming on behaviour and, second, the intervention of the camera operator on behaviour. Inevitably this desire to intervene as little as possible in the ‘natural world’ means that the resulting film is ‘edited’ rather than interpreted, leading to the production of a film, or documentary, where much of the ‘human intervention’ has been removed (Collier & Collier, 1986; Harper, 1998). Unsurprisingly, this view of film has been criticised by film-makers coming from a more interpretivist perspective (Banks, 2001; Pink, 2007; Prosser, 1998). For these film-makers, the resulting film is not intended to simply document reality. Instead, through interaction between the researcher (who may or may not also be operating the camera) and the researched, an ethnographic account is co-created. Decisions about what can, cannot, and should be recorded are also constantly being made by those filming, and in common with all ethnographic research, there is an acceptance that any resulting film represents a partial view of the field (Ball, 1998). Furthermore, the initial film footage may be analysed and interpreted not only by the researcher(s) but also by the participants, or other people from their community, who may be able to offer their own views about what was actually going on, and what should or should not be included in the final film (Pink, 2007). Therefore applying an interpretivist perspective to film-making is essentially a co-operative and reciprocal process, where film is both used to capture and to (re)produce aspects of human behaviour, and where the context (social, environmental, physical, etc.) is an important aspect of the resulting film.

The Chance to Go ‘Over the Rainbow’ The film Home starts with dramatic filming from the recent past: original footage from the Newark Riots, showing scenes of violence both between residents, and residents and the police, the looting of businesses and the general destruction of a neighbourhood (Togman, 2005). This black and white archive footage later blends seamlessly into colour scenes from the

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Newark, New Jersey, of the present, in which director Jeff Togman contextualises the life of Home’s central character, single-mother Sheree Farmer. The plotline is deceptively simple. Sheree has been given the opportunity to buy her own home, and get out of the ghetto. After watching these opening scenes of Home, I wondered what the rest of the film could be about? Surely this was a simple choice for a mother of six young children: either stay in the ghetto where she lived, knowing that her children faced an uncertain future being exposed to an environment apparently dominated by drugs and violence, or move out to a beautiful new home in a better area? All she had to do was clear her debts, and with the assistance of the energetic, resourceful and apparently empathetic Mary Abernathy, that too would be achieved. What could go wrong? Yet this is the challenge of the film, as it dispassionately shows viewers that any study of human motivation is rarely straightforward. As Whyte (1997) found in his study of managers and workers, theories that attempt to describe predictable patterns of human behaviour are often challenged when applied to people in ‘real’ settings, as people often act in ways that seem contrary to their economic interests. Whyte goes on to conclude that this is perhaps an inevitable consequence when such theories are designed to reflect group behaviours rather than individual situated actions. This film is very much an individual story, and the action moves fluidly from the public to the domestic spheres, following Sheree through aspects of her daily life, such as feeding her children, getting them in and out of bed, keeping them out of trouble and going to work. In this way our interpretation of her ‘public’ and the ‘private’ self begins to meld, and through this beguiling picture of intimacy we appear to gain an insight into her lived reality (Goffman, 1959). As the camera is kept at eye level, viewers feel that they, too, are privileged visitors, and there is a real intimacy about the way the film bobs and weaves between the different local settings. An interpretivist perspective requires a level of engagement with the people being filmed, and therefore it is impossible and undesirable to produce an objective view of social life, one where the person operating the camera is absent (Henley, 1998). Although unsmiling throughout, Sheree appears relaxed with the camera, and happy that the film crews are there. Sheree seems to have a particularly close relationship developing with Jeff, evidenced by her apparent willingness to be physically close to the camera, and her occasional use of his name, with specific comments addressed to him rather than to the wider audience. This closeness exemplifies the reflexive use of video recording in ethnographic study, where the act of making the film is ‘not simply to record data, but as a medium through which ethnographic

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knowledge is created’ (Pink, 2007). There is a feeling that this is a collaborative project, with Sheree an active and willing participant, who is happy to have the camera trained on her and her family. This supports Banks’ (2001) view that it is possible to observe relatively natural behaviour even when there is a ‘explicit and self-conscious research agenda’ as the agreement to film is often only made once the researcher and the researched have reached some kind of understanding with one another, and so can be relaxed and informal, as if the camera were not present.

The Ideology of Dreams Through the film we also get to know Mary Abernathy, a local philanthropist, through her work in housing and regeneration and her regular encounters with Sheree. Immaculately dressed and coiffed, and exuding calm and confidence in meetings with the potential tenants for the new buildings, Mary candidly talks on camera about her own hopes and fears for Sheree and what she believes will be achieved by the move. Her confidence in what the move will mean, a home in a new neighbourhood as a fresh start for Sheree and her children, in short, the chance of a ‘better life’, is persuasive, as is her certainty that Sheree will succeed. Mary makes successive visits to the site of the new home as if to emphasise her involvement in every stage of this project, from the site, the construction, the selection of families, and her support to make sure that the families meet the criteria necessary to take possession. Mary is passionate about the project and appears not to be afraid of showing how important this project is to her, and how personal her stake is that Sheree will succeed. Or rather we get to see Mary’s ‘public’ self, as we never go with her to her actual home, nor see her performing domestic chores, which is one of the more obvious ‘boundaries’ presented by this film, although there are other boundaries that are less visible, which become apparent as the film unfolds.

Real and Imagined Perceptions of the Move As the film progresses, we become aware that the apparent ‘access’ the filming gives us to Sheree’s life is illusory. When we hear her vocalise to us (her audience) what the move will mean to her and her children, we become aware of the distances between her and her audience(s), and are made to realise the limitations of our understanding. In his critique of Mead’s (1934)

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view of the ‘self’, Athens emphasises that even when we are apparently conversing with an interlocutor, there are ‘phantom others’ who are not present: The only time during which a glimpse can be caught of our phantom community is when we are caught up in the throes of dramatic personal change. It is only when we are undergoing dramatic personal change that we become painfully aware of our companions’ presence in our lives. (Athens, 1994)

For Sheree, these ‘phantom others’ are the intended audience of the film, the wider society whose values and social codes she is aware of, but does not necessarily understand or follow herself. This perhaps explains why for her, or rather her ‘self’, the move is not straightforward. When talking to Mary Abernathy and to Jeff, she talks about needing to move for her children, and that this is the chance she has been waiting for. Yet on another level the thought of the new ‘home’ appears to cause her unhappiness, stress and anxiety, only part of which is confided to Jeff and the audience. As Denzin reminds us, ‘a discourse is always more than what is said or seen’ (Denzin, 1997). For Sheree, open gestures of help are endlessly analysed and questioned, as she reflects that nobody has ever ‘given’ her anything in her life, so she is mistrustful and scared, rather than elated and grateful. She unpicks words and phrases and looks for hidden meanings, always watching for the ‘catch’. In her world there is always a ‘catch’, relating perhaps to the work of Oscar Lewis (1968) and others around the ‘culture of poverty’, where alternative social norms govern understanding (Rainwater, 1970; Wilson, 1993). So, even when a friend visits the promised new house and goes over the agreement with the housing agent and tells Sheree (as someone Sheree has said that she can trust) that the offer is genuine and that she should take it, she appears to remain unconvinced, with none of her doubts resolved. Sheree is even suspicious of the endless help and support offered to her by Mary Abernathy, and the personal bond that Mary establishes between them seems to become another burden Sheree has to bear, another obligation to meet (Finch & Mason, 1992; Graham, 1984; Hattery, 2001). When a man she owes money to say that he ‘may be willing to come to an arrangement’ she is again suspicious, what can he want? The question of sexual favours seems to spring to her mind and is vigorously rejected, even though as part of the audience, my interpretation of what was on offer was a financial arrangement. Later, this financial offer is rejected in a burst of moral outrage: the debt is connected with her providing bail for her husband, who subsequently failed to appear in court. Why should she pay?

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She does not ‘owe’ anything. It is a personal sense of natural justice rather than an understanding of the law that appears to motivate Sheree here. Although an understandable view in many ways, her apparently moral stance at this point has dramatic consequences, as it is the failure to clear this debt, a few thousand dollars, which stands between her and the ‘dream home’. There is a real sense of suspense at this stage in the film, and although as a member of the audience I was sure all the issues would be resolved, I began to feel uncomfortable as the action continued at a measured rather than an artificially accelerated pace. The film at all times appears to be absorbed in the ‘actual’ and the ‘real’ events rather than an imagined plot sequence, and the pace appeared to reflect the long drawn out final days for all of the people involved. As the time to the deadline ticks away, Mary offers to loan Sheree the money. This generous offer of a loan, perhaps even a gift, is not taken up, but by an act of omission rather than an outright rejection. Sheree simply does not return Mary’s calls. Had she engaged with Mary around the question of money and loans, Sheree may have been out-manoeuvred, as the dialogue offered by Mary and the phantom others might have subsumed Sheree’s own inner dialogue, the one she did not outwardly share (Athens, 1994).

NEIGHBOURHOOD, IDENTITY AND THE ‘GOOD MOTHER’ It is at this moment, when Sheree appears to fail to respond to Mary’s offer of help, those of us watching the film realise it is not about the money and it never was. As Henley observes: The implicit theory of knowledge is that true social reality is not to be found at the superficial, observable details of everyday life, but rather in the underlying relationships and sentiments and attitudes that sustain them. (Henley, 1998)

Many of the activities we might have identified as ‘central’, are actually ‘peripheral’ and vice versa. The barrier to Sheree leaving the ghetto was not her debts, but Sheree herself. The apparent peripheral action, which included the problems her children were experiencing in keeping out of trouble, her explosive relationship with her beloved older daughter, the poor relationship with her ex-husband, a recovering crack-addict, the challenges of the neighbourhood, are Sheree’s lived reality – the ‘dream home’ is just that, a dream, and the attempts by others to make it part of her reality

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frightens her rather than excites her. Her status and identity are grounded in her being a ‘good mother’, as coping in adversity, managing to keep her family together and out of trouble is her life’s work (Finch & Droves, 1983; Graham, 1993; Hattery, 2001). Far from supporting her, moving to a ‘decent’ neighbourhood would actually take that achieved status away. Who is celebrated merely for merely living in ‘good neighbourhoods’? What is remarkable about ‘managing’ in comparatively affluent circumstances? Studies of health inequalities linked to material and social disadvantage have repeatedly shown that it is the relative, rather than the absolute level of poverty that people experience, that adversely or positively impacts on their lives (Bartley, 2004). It is possible that people who live in areas of disadvantage, as Sheree does, are less aware of their absolute poverty, because it is relative only to the people who live in their immediate neighbourhood. Move to a more affluent neighbourhood, but keep the same income, and you may become aware of just how poor you are. The centrality of Sheree’s personal identity as a ‘good mother’ to her decision making is supported by Hattery’s study of women caring for children, living in the United States. Although the women constructed their views of ‘the ideal mother’ in different ways, it was still the ‘centrepiece around which all the other factors were considered’ (Hattery, 2001). Their work and childcare strategies, and all concomitant economic decision making, relate to the ‘balancing and weaving’ required in the ‘work’ that women like Sheree undertake to keep their family together.

WHOSE DREAM IS IT ANYWAY? In fact, after watching the film, I came to question whose dream was it anyway? This film subtly tapped into a dominant social and popular ideology, where neighbourhood (environment) is identified as the key social determinant, and by transforming the neighbourhood (or removing to a new one), in a single ‘Cinderella’ moment, all other problems will be resolved. Although the links between geography and poverty are complex, there is a tendency to simplify the relationship (Dorling et al., 2007). It was certainly Mary Abernathy’s dream to be part of a project that gives people living in disadvantage a new opportunity. It was also the dream of the strangely anonymous woman and her daughters who did receive the house, whose tears of apparent happiness were as hard to watch as Mary’s tears when she realised Sheree was not coming to make the deadline. As a viewer, I found myself complicit in the dream, waiting for the wave of the magic wand that

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would change Sheree’s life and that of her children in an ultimate ‘home makeover’, even though the film had already revealed arguments, rifts and potential problems that were unlikely to have been resolved by a change of location, or new curtains. It was only after watching the film through for a second time that I began to realise what had been shown during the film, but that I had not seen on the first viewing, bound up as I was in the ‘fairy story’ genre. That Sheree already lived in a previously regenerated area, one that had been created some years before but had ‘de-generated’, and was therefore still seen as the ‘ghetto’, the place where Sheree and people like her, as well as others lived (Park, 1952). It could be that there was a hidden clue in the way in which Home, perhaps deliberately, mirrored the film The Wizard of Oz with the opening scenes moving from black and white into colour, except the colour scenes in Home were of an ‘over the rainbow’ vision that had degenerated into a ghetto and not the dream world that Dorothy saw. Just as The Wizard of Oz was found to be a posturing fake, using smoke and mirrors to disguise what he really was, so too are regeneration projects that fail to tackle the underlying causes of poverty and violence that create the need for people to move away from their current homes? No wonder then, that Sheree, like Dorothy, preferred her home to the ‘dream’. Therefore perhaps Sheree had greater wisdom than her audience and had seen it all before: this whole ‘experiment’ of knocking down old houses and putting new ‘dream homes’ in their place without tackling many of the underlying problems? As we know from research, expressing a preference for a particular ‘home’ is not a simple function of that home’s ‘quality’, but is linked to a person’s emotional ties to that home, linked to feelings of independence and autonomy (Graham, 1987; Hardey & Crow, 1991). Sheree was clearly aware of the importance of the social as well as the physical environment she would be living in, characterised by the centrality of ‘the family’ to her ideas of ‘home’ (Allan & Crow, 1989). If she did what others were telling her to do, she would be moving away from all of her friends, and all of her children’s friends. She would be leaving strong social ties, people (she said) she could trust and count on, in exchange for neighbours she did not yet know and, for all she knew, might have nothing in common with her. In that area, where the ‘feminisation of poverty’ means that the majority of women caring for children, whether lone parents or in a partnership, are poor, Sheree was at home. A UK study found that in some areas, where mother-centred families resided, the children were more likely to live in the local area after they had left home (Elias & Scotson, 1994). This suggests

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that mothers are the central element of geographical as well as social stability, with neighbourhoods held together through cross-cutting ties of kinship as well as friendship, rather than geographical proximity through residence. With a mid-teen daughter threatening to leave home, perhaps where her children would subsequently live was a part of Sheree’s thinking, as it is unlikely that they would be able (or even willing) to remain in the newly regenerated area. The balance sheet that was presented to the audience included her debts, the down payment on the house, the repayments she would need to make, and the future value of the house. Seemingly, Sheree would appear to be considerably in profit. However, her personal balance sheet, that actually informed her decision-making, included items that were outside Mary Abernathy’s frame of reference. Throughout the film, we had watched Sheree accessing informal sources of support within her neighbourhood, including childcare, friendship and social support, without them being given a ‘value’. Such social supports are of particular value to lone mothers who, regardless of their social and economic circumstances, may suffer from geographical isolation as well as social isolation (Allan & Crow, 2001). Emotional support enables women to ‘cope’ with poverty, is therefore an important means of sustaining positive mental health. The lack of ‘value’ given to informal sources of support is linked to the fact that, in many disadvantaged communities, reciprocity, that is, an informal but relatively equal exchange of goods and services over time, is preferred to the exchange of money (Lister, 2004). As such these sources of support may remain ‘invisible’ and certainly were not listed on any of the many balance sheets we saw flourished at various parts in the film that apparently contained all of Sheree’s assets and debts. If Sheree stayed where she was, her social position was assured, whereas if she moved to a new neighbourhood, it was uncertain (Elias & Scotson, 1994). She would be gaining a valuable house that would appreciate over time, but I would argue that the value of what she would be leaving was not adequately taken into account. Put simply, home is where the heart is. Sheree’s heart was never into moving away to a new house and neighbourhood where she would be a nobody by leaving her old house and neighbourhood, where she was a somebody. Despite the number of very moving and highly charged scenes in the film, there is a surprising lack of sentimentality about Home, which is a real tribute to the filmmakers themselves. Yet this dispassionate view also comes from the central character herself, as, despite her obvious problems, Sheree does not seem to feel sorry for herself, and it is her agency and the

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operation of that agency to maintain her own sense of self, that kept me watching.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The issues and arguments made in this article formed part of a paper presented at the Couch-Stone Symposium, 5 May 2007 at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, and I am grateful to my colleagues for the ensuing critical discussion, and to Lonnie Athens and Norman Denzin for their comments.

REFERENCES Allan, G., & Crow, G. (1989). Home and family. London: Macmillan. Allan, G., & Crow, G. (2001). Families, households and society. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Athens, L. (1994). The self as a soliloquy. Sociological Quarterly, 35(3), 521–532. Ball, M. (1998). Remarks on visual competence as an integral part of ethnographic fieldwork practice: The visual availability of culture. In: J. Prosser (Ed.), Image-based Research. London: RoutledgeFalmer. Banks, M. (2001). Visual methods in social research. London: Sage. Bartley, M. (2004). Health inequality: An introduction to theories, concepts and methods. Cambridge: Polity Press. Collier, J., & Collier, M. (1986). Visual anthropology: Photography as a research method. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Denzin, N. (1997). Interpretative ethnography: Ethnographic practices for the 21st century. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Dorling, D., Rigby, J., Wheeler, B., Ballas, D., Thomas, B., Fahmy, E., Gordon, D., & Lupton, R. (2007). Poverty, wealth and place in Britain, 1968 to 2005. Bristol: Policy Press. Elias, N., & Scotson, J. (1994). The established and the outsiders. London: Sage. Finch, J., & Droves, D. (1983). A labour of love: Women, work and caring. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Finch, J., & Mason, J. (1992). Negotiating family responsibilities. London: Tavistock. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books Ltd. Graham, H. (1984). Women, health and the family. Brighton: Wheatsheaf Books Ltd. Graham, H. (1987). Being poor; perceptions and coping strategies of lone mothers. In: J. Brannen & G. Wilson (Eds), Give and take in families. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Graham, H. (1993). Hardship and health in women’s lives. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Hardey, M., & Crow, G. (1991). Lone parenthood. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf.

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Harper, D. (1998). An argument for visual sociology. In: J. Prosser (Ed.), Image-based research: A sourcebook for qualitative researchers (pp. 24–41). London: RoutledgeFalmer. Hattery, A. (2001). Women, work, and family: Balancing and weaving. London: Sage. Henley, P. (1998). Film-making and ethnographic research. In: J. Prosser (Ed.), Image-based research: A sourcebook for qualitative researchers. London: Routledge-Falmer. Lewis, O. (1968). Culture of poverty. In: D. Moynihan (Ed.), On understanding poverty: Perspectives from the social sciences. New York: Basic Books. Lister, R. (2004). Poverty. Cambridge: Polity Press. Mead, G. (1934). Mind, self & society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Park, R. (1952). Human communities. New York: Free Press. Pink, S. (2007). Doing visual ethnography. London: Sage. Prosser, J. (1998). Image-based research: A sourcebook for qualitative researchers. London: RoutledgeFalmer. Rainwater, L. (1970). Beyond ghetto walls: Black families in a federal slum. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Togman, J. (2005). Home (VHS Tape, 85 minutes). United States: A Kikker Arts production. Whyte, W. (1997). Creative problem solving in the field: Reflections on a career. Walnut Creek: Alta Mira Press. Wilson, W. (1993). The ghetto underclass: Social science perspectives. London: Sage.

THE STRUCTURE OF FLIRTATION: ON THE CONSTRUCTION OF INTERACTIONAL AMBIGUITY Iddo Tavory ‘‘The bodies felt this contact, muffled by their clothing, as delicately indistinct as things seen in the moonlight.’’ (Robert Musil, 1995 [1952], p. 306)

ABSTRACT This chapter delineates the interactional structure of flirtation. Refining Simmel’s analysis, I show flirtation as a way in which two time frames are continuously maintained within the same interaction. Rather than moving into a future interaction by using what I term ‘‘actualization practices’’ – actions which thrust the present interaction into a future – interactants simultaneously use practices from both time frames, careful not to irrevocably shift the situation. The management of interactional ambiguity in flirtation is then analyzed as a key to examine other ambiguous or ‘‘suspended’’ interactions, where interactants must work to keep different potential future possibilities open.

INTRODUCTION In a crowded bar, two women in their early 20s are sitting together across the counter, drinking beers and talking. In the pauses between bouts of conversation, they look

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IDDO TAVORY around at others in the bar, seemingly bored. After a while, a man sitting on the right of one of them turns to her, ‘‘always crowded on Thursdays, isn’t it?’’ they start talking, mostly about the bar itself, how it became too popular for its own good, and how it used to be before. Throughout the conversation the man intermittently touches the women’s hand or shoulder, stressing his words by pressing it, and at one point, they continue talking while lightly holding hands for a few seconds. After about ten minutes, the girl’s friend says something to her, and she tells the man she has to leave. ‘‘Have to go. See you around?’’ she says, looking into his eyes and raising her chin with a little smile. The man returns a smile, ‘‘hope so.’’

This chapter delineates the structure of flirtatious interactions. As opposed to psychological or philosophical treatments of flirtation through the prism of desire or specialized language usages, I set out to chart the ways in which interactants pragmatically manage flirtations as a distinct interactional form. Though this social form has been one of the first to receive sociological attention by Simmel at the beginning of the 20th century, I argue that an analysis of the ways in which this social form is performed in action, extends Simmel’s analysis from a study of ‘‘distances of desire’’ to the question of the management and performance of interactional ambiguity. Thus, the study of flirtation becomes an interactional case in a larger class of ‘‘suspended interactions,’’ where interactants’ main aim is not to define the situation, but rather to leave it open to possible, potential, futures. The delineation of everyday social ‘‘forms’’ has been, of course, at the heart of interactionist literature since its inception (see, Davis, 1959, 1961; Garfinkel, 1956; Glaser & Strauss, 1965; Goffman, 1959, 1963, 1967; Katz, 1996). Yet, though this varied literature was influenced by Simmel (1971), interactionist sociology substituted and developed key-features of Simmel’s sociology of form. With its focus on the pragmatic emergence of social structures and emphasizing interactions’ constant construction and management, the abstract notion of ‘‘form’’ was augmented by an attention to process and embodied action. Thus, in Goffman’s (1963) study of Stigma, to take a classical example, what counts as a ‘‘stigma’’ is extremely fluid, from a bald spot hidden with a bad hairdo to the color of one’s skin. Far beyond Simmel’s static analysis, the interactional elements that tie these cases together in a common form are found in action, and in the resulting similarity in situated impression management. But where most studies of such interactional structures focus on interactants’ attempts to ‘‘define the situation’’ or control information to suit their pragmatic ends (e.g. Goffman, 1963, 1967; Glaser & Strauss, 1964, 1965), I argue that flirtation is an interactional form in which ambiguity itself is the object of interaction. Thus, the parties in the interaction must

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navigate the situation so it does not become congealed into an interaction in which roles are well-defined. As in a series of other social interactions – from the tentative entrance into a group, to the giving of suspended judgment – interactants must simultaneously manage multiple, and sometimes conflicting, interactional roles. As such, the analysis of flirtation can be read through the concept of ‘‘awareness contexts’’ (Glaser & Strauss, 1964). On the one hand, the interactants usually know they are involved in a flirtation, making it an ‘‘open awareness context,’’ in which information is not withheld. However, the management of flirtation requires interactants to suspend precisely this knowledge, drawing it closer to a ‘‘pretense awareness context,’’ where ‘‘both interactants are fully aware but pretend not to be’’ (ibid, p. 670) and Zerubavel’s (2006) analysis of the ‘‘open secret,’’ where the continuation of the successful interaction is dependent on interactants mutually constructed avoidance of disclosure. This study thus points toward a class of interactions that was previously left largely overlooked. In these interactions, which may be termed ‘‘suspended interactions,’’ (and of which flirtation is only one case) actors purposely manage different interactional frames (Goffman, 1974) simultaneously, leaving different unfoldings of the situation potentially open. In addition to flirtation, I argue that this class of social interactions includes two sub-sets: (a) specialized social contexts where abeyance is a pragmatic goal in itself. Such interactions include, for example, the first stages of interaction with a possible in-group member, ‘‘small talk,’’ or the suspension of judgment in formal and informal settings and (b) stages of everyday interactions where a frame shift is contemplated and tested by interactants but not actualized for various reasons, such as fear of failure or the lure of ambiguity itself.

METHODOLOGY To analyze the interactional structure of flirtation, I have compiled fieldnotes of occurrences of flirtatious interactions in public spaces over a course of 14 months between 2006 and 2007.1 This methodology was chosen after a pilot study made it clear that flirtatious interactions were so fleeting that any study of a specific site – such as a ‘‘pick-up’’ bar – would not enable me to focus on flirtations as they interactionally unfold. Fieldnotes described not only the contents of talk, but also embodied aspects of the interaction – how interactants positioned themselves, looked at each others, or touched. I collected over 65 observations, out of which 15 were collected

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in bars, 32 in cafe´s, and approximately 17 in other places – such as cafeterias and common-rooms in a large university. This study design thus puts two important limitations on the ability to claim these interactions to be generally representative both in cultural and gender terms: the flirtations were mostly recorded in the United States, and except for two, were performed by man–woman dyads. After (and during) the collection of cases, I coded the data for emerging analytical themes (Strauss, 1987; Charmaz, 2006). After the temporal structure of flirtation emerged as a central theme, I used precepts developed by Analytic Induction, as I attempted to reach a fit between the emerging theorization and empirical findings, trying to find the ‘‘odd case’’ at every turn (Katz, 2001). I have proceeded to shape and reshape the categories used in this study, and continually attempted to find cases which would not fit with the emerging framework, until a point of saturation was reached, and further honing the categories was redundant.

TEMPORALITY AND THE STRUCTURE OF FLIRTATION Flirtation seems to have been one of the first micro-interactions to be given formal analysis. Simmel’s (1984 [1911]) essay on flirtation is a widely read classic of the formal structure of gender and desire. Analyzing flirtation through a neo-Kantian philosophy of desire, he defines it as ‘‘the ability and inability to acquire something’’ (Simmel, 1984, p. 134).2 Thus, for Simmel, this duality of flirtation means that it is a game of possibilities. The woman (who, for Simmel, is almost always the one who flirts) plays with the possibility of her acquiescence to men’s desire. She does not take a firm stand, but rather plays a subtle game of ‘‘double entendre,’’ captured physically by the coquettish turn of the head that simultaneously signifies love and indifference. Through the spatial metaphor of ‘‘distances of desire’’ central to Simmel’s sociology of form, he then conceives of flirtation to be a willful decision not to decide – a form which is both pregnant with potentiality and freedom. This emphasis on desire has resulted in moving the study of flirtation from the realm of sociology to that of literature (Kaye, 2002; Miller, 2003; Throsby, 2004), psychology (Adams, 1994) and later on linguistics (e.g. Egland, Spitzberg, & Zormeier, 1996). The study of flirtation took on questions of sublimation, desire, and language, whereas the social form

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of flirtation was abandoned. Simmel remained a heuristic and stylistic point of reference, but his sociological analysis was not further developed. In what follows, I show how extending Simmel’s metaphor of space and distance, as well as his psychological–philosophical language of desire, and focusing on an analysis of interaction and time, provides an understanding of how flirtation is managed and maintained in everyday interactions. Flirtation is usually seen as a sexual advance, defined in such ways as ‘‘playful behavior intended to arouse sexual interest’’ (Princeton Wordnet, 2009). In a well-defined interaction, a flirtation is seen as the process of change to a sexual relationship. To formalize matters, if a and b are connected to each other in a professional relationship, and a starts shifting the interaction to a sexual tenor, the flirtation stage would consist of the shifting of the relation between interaction frame A (say, a professional framing of the relationship as a waiter–customer interaction) to interaction frame B – a sexual interaction. An implicit part of this definition includes a change of the interaction-roles taken by interactants, such that the roles of both interactants in interaction A are different in interaction B (e.g. from a waiter–customer interaction to a lover–lover interaction). This definition of flirtation can be written down as the middle stage in the following interaction sequence: Non-intimate interaction frame A with interactant roles a-b- Flirtation (reframing)intimate interaction frame B with interactant roles c-d.

What this formalization highlights is that flirting is never conceived as the actualization of the reframing (i.e., the sexual or intimate interaction itself) but only as the shifting, intermediate stage. When the transformation of the relationship is actualized into an intimate relationship, it ceases to be considered as part of the flirtation. A second structural element of this initial sequence, which is made more apparent by formalization, is that the flirtation interaction may exist without actually leading to the third and final stage of interaction. What must appear is the future possibility of this change, which frames the flirtation as a possible leading stage to a different, more intimate interaction. Thus, on many occasions (if not most of them) the process might never be completed, the definition never actually changed: as one interlocutor told me, ‘‘I go with my wife to parties sometimes, and we know that when we are there it is ok to flirt. We flirt, but we go home together.’’ In fact, to be recognized as flirtation, the interaction must not be actualized, as the second of actualization ends the flirtation. To take a wellknown interaction pattern, the second that a woman asks a man out for a

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date, the flirtatious interaction is altered. Both if she is rejected or if the offer is taken on, the definition of the interaction has been irreparably changed.3 In temporal terms, the flirtation can be thus seen to have a very specific kind of ‘‘future orientation’’ built into it, which implies the possibility of a future, but not its actualization. Although in many interactional sequences, actors implement a set of ‘‘actualization practices’’ – pragmatic practices that signify the passage from one set of roles and socially legitimate possibilities of action to another – interactants in flirtation avoid exactly those possibilities. It is this avoidance that makes flirtation not only a ‘‘definition of the situation’’ in itself, but also a projection of a possible future, and a calibration of the present in terms of this possible, potential future – an interaction which is, in terms of the future project, locked ‘‘betwixt and between’’ (Turner, 1969), suspended in mundane liminality. Positing flirtation as a liminal interaction should not be misconstrued as claiming that flirtation is not an interaction in its own right, that it is only an interactional bridge connecting well-defined interactions, rather than being a distinctive interaction defined in its own right. And yet flirtation is an interaction which is engaged and disengaged, which is tied to its own way of being and becoming. Perhaps paradoxically, flirtation actually is a wellbounded interaction, defined exactly through the maintenance and management of a specific form of temporal liminality. This liminality, in turn, can be specified by the following interrelated characteristics. First, the future interaction role-set is uncertain and depends on both parties’ continued interactional efforts. Second, the change in interaction – if one does indeed occur – is not fixed to a definite point, but is rather elusive and vague. Thus, the difference between flirtation and other changes of interaction frames which necessitate an actualized and nonreversible role change is in the openness and ambiguity inherent in the flirtatious interaction. The girl asking somebody out on a date is performing an actualization practice. When approaching the other she knows that a variant of two possibilities is in order. Either the other accepts the advance, or he rejects it. Though negative responses are often prefaced with an apology and an explanation (Jefferson, 1980), a rejection tends to irrevocably change the relationship if not terminate it, whereas an acceptance will change the relationship into a ‘‘dating’’ relationship. However, in flirtation, this actualizing practice is suspended, and the interaction can continue almost indefinitely in this stage. The puzzle then becomes, how is flirtation achieved? How do interactants manage an interaction where the actualization practice has not been done, but that simultaneously achieves the liminality of flirtation?

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These questions require, in turn, a shift from the analysis of flirtation in relation to its effect on a future change in the interaction structures, to a consideration of the interactional structure of flirtation itself. To return to the concept of liminality, it seems that flirtation can be thus defined as a type of mundane ritual, following the same general structure as the initiation ceremonies depicted by van Gennep (1960) and later by Turner (1969). In both formulations there is a previous interactional role-set, and a later one, and in both the focus is on the middle stage which is perceived as liminal. For Turner, one of the distinct and most important characteristics of liminality is the suspension of hierarchy between two states of structure – the realm of ‘‘communitas’’ is opened by a seemingly ‘‘empty’’ and anarchic realm of antistructure (Turner, 1969). This effect, in Simmel’s words, is that of an ‘‘enticing gamble’’ (Simmel, 1984, p. 143), where both potentiality and freedom are experienced and played at. Since flirtation is a future-oriented interaction in which the future is not clearly defined, flirtation colors the whole interaction in a structure of future possibility. Possibility is, admittedly, an ill-defined and tricky concept. However, here I mean by it simply an interaction in which the future roles of interactants are not actualized. This aspect of possibility structure in the flirtation interaction thus means that the third stage, that of the shift, is not necessary for a successful flirtation interaction. Rather, a successful, or ‘‘felicitous,’’ flirtation is one in which this future possibility is referred to in the interaction without ever materializing and taking over the original framing of the interaction. Thus, what is necessary for a successful flirtation is the mere possibility of this vague future interaction, the raising of the future possibility in the present, and not its actual transformation. To use the theoretical frame I have developed earlier, flirtation is an interaction defined as one in which a change of frames is played at, but where actualization practices are avoided. The question then becomes a practical one, concerned with the way in which this kind of interaction is managed without performing actualization practices. How do the interactants know that they are engaged in flirtation, without actually moving away from their previous role set within interaction? To answer this question, I will draw on a few examples from my field-notes: (1) About 1:00 PM. Two people, a Brunette woman, in her early 20s and a young blonde man, about the same age, are sitting in a cafe´. They sit at a table, in front of each other, but a little distant, the guy is leaning backwards. They first talk about work, talking about other people in their work environment. The cafe´ has many people coming for their lunch break from surrounding businesses, and they seem to be co-workers. The

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IDDO TAVORY woman says something about how cold it was the past few days. They start talking about the weather. The man leans a little forwards, looking at the girl ‘‘the nights here are the real problem’’ the girl says ‘‘yea’’. He continues, ‘‘it’s nice to go dating in the winter, you get to cuddle up.’’ The guy says it in a softer voice, a bit quieter than the preceding talk. The girl says ‘‘didn’t have that for a while y’’ The conversation turns to someone at work, now talking about his sexual exploits.

What can be gleaned through this example is the way in which the embodied positioning of the actors play a role within the interaction. When the man leans forward toward the woman, and says that ‘‘it’s nice to go dating,’’ the flirtation is apparent both in the way he leans toward the woman and in the way his tone softens. The gaze, roaming and not making extended eye contact before, is suddenly fixed on his ‘‘partner.’’ In one sentence, he changes the interaction into a flirt. Looking at the practices themselves it seems that the bodily alignment, the tone of voice, and even the words being said, are actually practiced within intimate relationships, rather than in a co-worker interaction frame. Thus, when the topic of conversation changes, but especially in the way bodies are situated toward each other, the practices are taken from the possible future of intimate interaction. Without actualizing a change in the interaction frame, the parties temporarily – and fleetingly – perform practices as if they had already actualized the change, only to revert back to the co-worker interaction frame. To take another example: (2) Jay, a graduate student, is sitting in the graduate lounge. Usually wearing long sleeve shirts, he comes with a short sleeve, making visible a tattoo on his arm. Gloria comes into the lounge, and looking at him, exclaims that she didn’t know he had a tattoo. She comes nearer, and he leans towards her, so she can get a better look at it. ‘‘It is really beautiful’’, she says, and reaches her hand, outlining the tattoo on his arm with her finger, caressing it lightly. After outlining it, she draws back, saying she loves tattoos.

Here, the actual touch, the caressing of the tattoo, is not an interaction done between fellow students. Rather, it is a moment of intimate bodily alignment, which transforms the interaction into the possible future of an intimate interaction. Yet, without breaching the interaction with an actualization practice that would irreversibly change the interaction, the interaction is suspended between the past–present interaction frame (the previous definition of the relationship – here, of fellow students) and the future–present (the potential future possibility – here, the intimate interaction). The way this suspension is done, however, is through performing practices from both sides of the temporal divide, being in both the past–present and the future–present at the very same time.

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Thus, in the flirtation interaction the previous roles are kept as a frame of interaction, whereas practices from a tentative–future interaction are practiced without ever taking over the interaction completely. Put in this way, the flirtation can be seen as a dual interaction occurring at the same time: one which is past–present oriented, and the other future–present oriented, where practices from the potential future are incorporated into the present. In example (1) earlier, the two interactants do not actually change their frame of interaction, they remain co-workers, not lovers. However, practices from a possible future intimate interaction are inserted into this interaction: the proximity of bodies, the lowering of tone, the sexual innuendo and the choice of topic. Notice also, that although flirtation seems to be over after this brief exchange, the topic of conversation turns back to work, but now to sexual encounters in the workplace – and in a sense continues the flirt (see also, Osella & Osella, 1998). This duality of interaction roles serves to destabilize the roles of interactants past–present roles by practicing the possibility of different roles in the future. In the earlier example, both the interactant roles are destabilized. Should the woman agree to redefine the interaction as flirtatious, she has now, besides the interaction role of co-worker, a new interaction role, that of an interactant in an amorous relationship – if only for a fleeting moment. The role of co-worker is rendered temporarily irrelevant, destabilizing the present role of the co-worker, though without erasing it. Playing along with the flirtation, the co-workers do not break the boundaries of the flirtation by making an actualization move such as going out or having any sort of physical contact, which might irretrievable change their roles as co-workers. The co-workers continue the co-worker interaction, but can also transcend their role in the interaction by raising sexually related issues, or even by aligning their body language in ways that would seem inappropriate in a co-workers interaction. Similarly, in the interaction brought at the introduction to this chapter, the flirtation is constructed through the tension between a ‘‘polite’’ conversation, and the physical contact between the interactants. Although the conversation itself revolves around a mundane topic, the simultaneous touch destabilizes it, introducing a different frame of interaction. This duality can also be manifested in one of the characteristics most commonly attributed to flirtation (Simmel, 1984), the ‘‘Double entendre’’: (3) At a bar, a group of friends are sitting around the table, chatting. One of the women, in her late 20s, sits with a partner, and is talking to another man, who is sitting next to her partner. During the conversation, her partner gets up and walks away to the bathroom. She moves to the chair to her left, so that she now sits next to the man she

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IDDO TAVORY talked to. He laughs and says, ‘‘Seems like we are playing musical chairs.’’ She fixes her eyes on his, and retorts, ‘‘My very favorite game.’’ The man mumbles something inarticulate, and turns his gaze to another friend at his other side.

Here, the woman performs the flirtation by echoing the sequence started by the man she is talking to. But where the man seems to be referring to a spatial movement, the way she repeats his simile takes him unaware. By fixing her eyes on him and changing the tenor of the statement, it becomes unclear if the ‘‘musical chairs’’ refer to the actual shift in seating arrangement or a much more radical one, that of partners. Thus, the double entendre allows for the same interactional point to belong to two time frames at once, building ambiguity into the moment. But the reaction of the man in the earlier example stresses another element of the flirtatious interaction – it is a joint project, simultaneously requiring the feigned ignorance and cooperation of both interactants. In Glaser and Strauss’ (1964) terms, flirtation can be thus analyzed as a specific kind of ‘‘pretense awareness context.’’ But where the ‘‘pretense’’ context in Glaser and Strauss’ work refers to information-management where both interactants ‘‘pretend not to know,’’ in flirtation, the pretense refers to actors continued management of suspension and interactional ambiguity. This also means that if one of the interactants does not want to, or cannot, enter the flirtation interaction attempted by the other, he or she can ignore the adumbration of different future roles. Thus, the man in the earlier example does it, perhaps clumsily, by abruptly shifting his attention to another person. In another example, a waitress neatly rejects a flirtatious interaction started by a client: (4) A man in his early 30s is sitting at the table of the restaurant, dressed casually with jeans and buttoned white shirt he is working on his laptop. The waitress approaches him smiling and says hello (probably a regular). He asks the waitress ‘‘had a good Valentine’s?’’ She pauses a second, then says ‘‘yes, I went out with my boyfriend.’’ The man says ‘‘oh, that’s nice,’’ and asks for a coffee.

Here, it seems that the customer starts flirting with the waitress, using his superficial acquaintance as a regular customer, he broaches a topic that is completely irrelevant to the waiter–customer relationship, and that has both a personal and romantic undertones. Not discouraging the advance in any explicit manner, the waitress answers his advance by telling him that she indeed had a happy Valentine’s, with her boyfriend. Explicitly continuing the interaction in a completely coherent manner, she implicitly nips the budding flirt, and reassumes her role as waitress. The reaction of the customer is telling, prefacing his response with a change-of-state ‘‘oh’’ token

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(Heritage, 1984), he signifies that new information was added to the conversation, changing it, and restoring the previous interaction roles of waitress and customer. The way flirtation is structured, borrowing practices from a possible future interaction without actually going through an actualization practice, allows the waitress to restore the situation without explicitly rejecting the man, or creating any sort of awkward social scene. However, this may not always be the case. As anthropologists such as Yelvington (1996, 1999) have demonstrated, flirtation can become a thin veneer which hides sexual harassment. Indeed, it is exactly the way in which the sexualized interaction is not actualized, which makes it so hard to counter such flirtations, and women (Yelvington, 1999) may sometimes only acquiesce to flirtation, as they fear that any resistance will only result in an escalation of the harassment. Not having any clear actualization practice to complain against, the structure of flirtation may actually make it much harder to file against the advances of the other party. And yet, although flirtation entails obvious risks – loss of face, and the much more disturbing power structures it might imply – it is also seen as an enticing possibility by many. But why is the flirting interaction entered into in the first place? Why not propel interactions into the future from one interaction role frame to another? One answer is the one offered by Simmel (1984), claiming that the flirtation is a way to increase freedom. Before taking the choice, when different options are still open to the flirting interactants, they feel that a world of possibilities lies in front of them. This is also why women are more prone to flirt in Simmels’ analysis: not having much power once the situation is well defined, they extend the period of uncertainty, where they still have the potential power to define the situation. In temporal terms, in the flirtation interaction, goals and roles are not stated clearly, the interaction roles are not actually changed, but only hinted at, not proceeding to an actualization practice. Thus, the flirtation can be seen as a prelude, a relatively safe way of checking the grounds before an actual change of interaction roles is attempted. If the frame change of interaction is seen by one of the parties as tenuous, she can begin it by a flirtation, which operates as a way to save face, in the occurrence of a rejection of the future interaction frame. However, many flirtations are never actualized, nor meant to be actualized by the flirting parties. Thus, there is a second, related motive to enter into the flirting interaction. As I argued earlier, the past–present interaction roles of interactants are destabilized in flirtation, a destabilization that can be seen in itself as an enticing possibility. This future orientation of the interaction has

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much in common with Bergson’s (2001 [1889]) differentiation between future and past orientations. In ‘‘Time and Free Will,’’ Bergson analyzes aesthetics, excitement and anticipation as related concepts which are tied to a future possibility, a future which is pregnant with possibilities and therefore enticing, as against a past orientation which is seen as a tethering and restraining the subject. Thus, the future, in its vagueness, is seen as a site of potentialities, where the subjects’ freedom is manifested. Seen from this angle, flirtation is a way of aesthetisizing relationships by making them pregnant with potentials and possibilities which a well-defined interaction lacks, a way to transcend the scripts of institutionalized interaction by bringing in an undefined future into a narrowly defined present. Through the avoidance of actualizations practices and the simultaneous insertion of practices from a possible future into the present situation, the aesthetics of the future can be experienced in the present interaction – the structure of the future tinting the present with potentialities.

DISCUSSION Based on ethnographic observations in public places, this chapter charted the ways in which flirtation is performed. Though Simmel (1984) understood flirtation as bound by structures of distance and desire, I argue that the ways in which actors flirt can be better described through an analysis of the management of temporality. Seen as a liminal stage between a nonsexualized and a sexualized interaction, flirtation was described as an interaction where both practices relevant to a current role-set and a possible-future one are simultaneously presented. Thus, elements such as bodily alignment, tone of voice and even occasional touch of flirting interactants are borrowed from a possible future, in which they are already engaged in a sexualized or intimate encounter, whereas other aspects of the same interaction remain in the modality of the past–present. Within the flirtatious interaction certain boundaries cannot be crossed. Practices that would irrevocably shift the situation: a straight-out invitation, extended bodily contact, etc., are avoided. Instead, without actualizing the change in interaction, the flirting interactants blend the present with the possible future, destabilizing and changing the interaction to create an interactional space pregnant with possibilities and potential – options which may be more enticing for interactants than an actualized definition of the situation. This co-presence of different practices is achieved through a number of ways: changes in the positioning and alignment of bodies, double-entendres

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and topical shifts in the situation. Through these interactional strategies, and careful not to inadvertently actualize a well-defined interactional frame, interactants construct the interactional moment as ambiguous and full of possibilities. There are a few fronts in which this chapter calls for further research – both specific to the question of flirtation, and pertaining to a more general class of similar interactions. First, this analysis focused on heteronormative– Western interactions. Further studies could chart the ways in which different social groups and societies perform flirtation. Such research can examine both the scope of the flirtation form and delineate the specific – culturally bound – actualization practices that are avoided in flirtation. As such, the analysis of flirtation may open a vista of comparative research of the moments where interactions are irrevocably changed. However, the case of flirtation is but one of a more general class of social interactions, a class that may be termed ‘‘suspended interactions.’’ In these interactional sequences, interactants purposely suspend the actualization of one specific future, keeping different potential unfoldings open and suspending both relatively narrowly circumscribed patterns of action until some specified or unspecified future date (which may or may not come). This general class of interactions can be further broken down to two subsets: one in which the suspension is built into a sequence of usually welldefined interactions and relationships, and another in which the suspension of the potential future is a regular and defining characteristic of the interaction. The first category of interaction includes social contexts where ambiguity and the co-existence of practices from different role-sets appear in the interstices of other forms of interaction. Thus, in the biography of most relations, shifts in interactional roles are often attempted and enacted. Whether between lovers, in the workplace, or among acquaintances, relationships are marked by episodic entrance into such suspended interactions. As in flirtation, this ambiguity in the midst of well-defined relationships, can be entered either to test the grounds for a future framechange desired by one of the parties, or for the sake of suspension and ambiguity themselves – used to aestheticize relationships by injecting them with uncertainty (Bergson, 2001). Yet suspension of potential futures is a structural aim and defining characteristic of some interactions. These include, among others: (a) representative interactions, where the parties interacting are doing so as delegates or representatives of others who are not present in the face-to-face interaction, and thus must keep as many future possibilities open for the

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consideration of others (e.g. the diplomatic tendency to use opaque and ambiguous terms); (b) ‘‘small talk,’’ where interactants avoid speaking about certain matters by centering the conversation on trivialities; (c) institutionalized suspensions of judgments, such as that performed by a judge refraining from making a final decision on a case while awaiting information on the defendants’ conduct. An especially relevant ‘‘suspended interaction,’’ is a common feature in the practice of ethnography, where the involvement of the researcher and her position in the community is seldom defined in hard and fast ways. Not able to either be personally detached from the members in the field or ‘‘go native,’’ the ethnographer and those she researches are constantly engaged in practical negotiations, where different identities and practices are constantly played at without a definite actualization. This maintenance of ambiguity is not only performed by the ethnographer to establish rapport, but often by members in the field. As an example, in an ethnographic project in a Jewish orthodox community in Los Angeles (Tavory, 2007), I have encountered situations where my own position – as an ethnographer on the one hand, and a Jew on the other – was used by members to keep me from stating decisively if I wish to enter the group as a member, or remain an observer: At Rabbi Dagan’s house, as we sit and wait for his wife to return home, he asks if I want him to arrange a marriage match for me. Squirming, I say ‘I don’t knowyI am not sure how religiousy’ He stops me before I complete the word ‘religious.’ ‘Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not talk about it.’

Sensing that I may distance myself from the community by commenting on my level of religious observance, the rabbi literally stopped me in midsentence, changing the subject. Finishing the sentence would have actualized my position as researcher, formulating my own position vis-a-vis the community. By averting this possibility, the rabbi keeps my position suspended not only in the eyes of the rabbi, but more importantly for the possible newcomer – me. Thus, in suspended interactions, simultaneous and conflicting practices are carefully produced in action. Rather than thinking about these specialized interactions and episodes in the biography of relationships as chaotic and anarchic moments of break and transformation, the study of flirtation may provide clues for their analysis as a social form in itself – an interaction which has its own logic of production, a form which involves the competent production of ambiguity and suspension.

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NOTES 1. Like all studies of interactional forms, if not more generally, this study is locked in a hermeneutic circle of recognition and analysis (Ricoeur, 1979). Thus, to focus on flirtatious interactions, I had to implement my own folk-recognition of the interaction I set to study, which were then analyzed for emerging themes. 2. For Simmel’s philosophical position, see especially book I of ‘‘The philosophy of money’’ (Simmel, 1990 [1900]). 3. Conversation analysis is perhaps the most rigorous (if not the only) area of study that deals directly with such ‘‘actualizations.’’ Thus, to take two examples, Schegloff and Sacks (1973) show how conversation-endings are ‘‘done’’ and ‘‘undone’’ through wordings and silences that signify that the conversation had come to an end. Recently, Beach (1993) showed how frame changes occurs with words such as ‘‘okay,’’ moving the conversation from one topic to another, thrusting it into the future.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank the following people who suffered to hear or read earlier drafts of this chapter, and offered invaluable comments: Kathy Charmaz, Michael Flaherty, Lior Gelernter, Shawn Halbert, Eva Jablonka, Jack Katz, Lori Kendall, Steve Sortijas, Kristin Surak, Stefan Timmermans, Ana Villareal and Amit Zoref. Lonnie Athens made critical comments on an earlier draft. This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Mel Pollner, who helped me throughout this project. I can only hope that fragments of his humor and penetration somehow made their way into this chapter.

REFERENCES Adams, P. (1994). On flirtation. London: Faber. Beach, W. A. (1993). Transitional regularities for causal ‘‘okay’’ usages. Journal of Pragmatics, 19(4), 325–352. Bergson, H. (2001 [1889]). Time and free will: An essay on the immediate data of consciousness. New York: Dover Publications. Charmaz, K. (2006). Constructing grounded theory: A practical guide through qualitative analysis. Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications. Davis, F. (1959). The cabdriver and his fare: Facets of a fleeting relationship. American Journal of Sociology, 65(2), 158–165. Davis, F. (1961). Deviance disavowal: The management of strained interaction by the visibly handicapped. Social Problems, 9, 120–132. Egland, K. I., Spitzberg, B. H., & Zormeier, M. M. (1996). Flirtation and conversational competence in cross-sex platonic and romantic relationships. Communication Reports, 9(2), 106–117, California State University.

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Garfinkel, H. (1956). Conditions of successful degradation ceremonies. American Journal of Sociology, 61(5), 420–424. Glaser, B. G., & Strauss, A. (1964). Awareness contexts and social interaction. American Sociological Review, 29(5), 669–679. Glaser, B. G., & Strauss, A. (1965). Awareness of dying. New York: Aldine. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Anchor. Goffman, E. (1963). Stigma: Notes on the management of spoiled identity. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Goffman, E. (1967). Interaction ritual: Essays on face-to-face behavior. New York: Doubleday Anchor. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame analysis: An essay on the organization of experience. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Heritage, J. (1984). A change of State Token and aspects of its sequential placement. In: J. M. Atkinson & J. Heritage (Eds), Structures of social action: Studies in conversation analysis (pp. 299–345). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jefferson, G. (1980). On ‘trouble-premonitory’ response to inquiry. Sociological Inquiry, 50, 153–185. Katz, J. (1996). Families and funny mirrors: A study of the social construction and personal embodiment of humor. American Journal of Sociology, 101(5), 1194–1237. Katz, J. (2001). Analytic induction. In: N. J. Smelser & P. B. Baltes (Eds), International encyclopedia of the social and behavioral sciences (pp. 480–484). Oxford: Elsevier. Kaye, R. A. (2002). The flirt’s tragedy: Desire without end in Victorian and Edwardian fiction. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Miller, D. (2003). To seduce or to flirt, that is the question. Time & Society, 12(3), 281–291. Musil, R. (1995 [1952]). The man without qualities. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Osella, C., & Osella, F. (1998). Friendship and flirting: Micro-politics in Kerala, South India. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 4, 189–206. Princeton Wordnet. (2009). Flirtation. Available at http://wordnet.princeton.edu Ricoeur, P. (1979). The model of the text: Meaningful action considered as text. In: P. Rabinow & W. Sullivan (Eds), Interpretive social science (pp. 73–101). Berkeley: University of California Press. Schegloff, E. A., & Sacks, H. (1973). Opening up closings. Semiotia, VIII(4), 289–327. Simmel, G. (1971). Georg simmel on individuality and social forms. In: D. N. Levine (Ed.). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Simmel, G. (1984 [1911]). Georg simmel: On women, sexuality, and love (pp. 133–152). Translated by Guy Oakes. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press Simmel, G. (1990[1900]). The philosophy of money. London: Routledge. Strauss, A. (1987). Qualitative analysis for social scientists. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tavory, I. (2007). Seeing religiosity: Embodied distinctions in a Jewish orthodox community. Paper presented at the Stonybrook Ethnography Conference, New York, March. Throsby, C. (2004). Romanticism and flirtation. Literature Compass Online, 1. Turner, V. W. (1969). The ritual process: Structure and anti structure. Chicago: Aldine Publishing Co. Van Gennep, A. (1960). The rites of passage. Translated by Monica Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. Chicago: the University of Chicago Press. Yelvington, K. A. (1996). Flirting in the factory. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 2, 313–333. Yelvington, K. A. (1999). Power/flirting. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 5(3), 457–459. Zerubavel, E. (2006). The elephant in the room: Silence and denial in everyday life. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

BECOMING A SOCIOLOGIST: ONE WOMAN’S JOURNEY Virginia Olesen I get an e mail from Lonnie Athen: ‘‘As the editor of the SSI ‘Blue Ribbon Paper’ series, I invite you to submit a paper addressing the above Question (‘How I Became a Sociologists’). I say yes. On November l7 he sends more details: ‘We are particularly interested in the experiences that lead to choice of careers and particular sociological views and interests.’’

Though flattered, I am also anxious. This is a step into my past, present and future fraught with difficulties: Which stories to tell? Which to gloss? Which to forget? What format: Epistolary? Theatrical? Novelistic? Research report? (Chase, 2005). Moreover, I have just moved into a retirement community after 30 years in a wonderful home, a shift entailing considerable emotional and physical demands. Do I have the mental energy to undertake such an archeological dig? In keeping with Lonnie’s invitation to write how I became a sociologist and how my interests developed, I here foreground those and pay less attention to other parts of myself, though I fully recognize that these are intertwined. Following Mead (1934) and; Athens (1994), I view the self as a shifting composite of different and mostly unified selves. The unwieldy, rich sociological stories demand recounting all by themselves. These stories constitute a series of transformations in my sociological self, transformations deriving from interactions1 and the emergence and unfolding of self in social and cultural epochs and in institutions where we fashion our lives and are fashioned (Strauss, 1993; Harding, 2007):

Studies in Symbolic Interaction, Volume 33, 75–94 Copyright r 2009 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-2396/doi:10.1108/S0163-2396(2009)0000033008

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VIRGINIA OLESEN Individuals, the history that makes them, and the history they make are unique not because they emerge at particular moments because they are crafted in a specific fashion, but because they are the outcome of a unique process, itself a product of individual action and social structure. (Fenstermaker, 1997, pp. 209–210)

That said, we can now begin the journey that I followed in becoming a sociologist, examining various phases, cycles and turning points, and bearing in mind that ‘‘Experience is at once already an interpretation and in need of interpretation’’ (Scott, 1991, p. 779).

BEGINNINGS: THE GREAT DEPRESSION, WORLD WAR II Growing up in a small (l,000) Nevada town in the l930s and 1940s, I acquired a neophyte’s sociological eye and sensibility, though, of course, not an analytical framework from which to make sense of that social world. The everyday life in that little town encouraged perception of subtle, but nevertheless very sharp social, cultural, economic, racial, gender, and class differences among its residents. In that milieu at the height or the depth of The Great Depression in 1931 when I was six and my only sister four, my father’s business failed, our family lost our home and my mother, thanks to the Works Progress Administration (WPA), became the breadwinner, drawing on her training as an elementary school teacher. Little wonder then, that her mantra, as we proceeded through the local schools, was ‘‘You have to be able to earn your own living when you grow up.’’ With those words ringing in our ears, my sister and I went in the 1940s to the University of Nevada in Reno 100 miles away. At that time, it was not only the lone campus of the state university, which expanded later to Las Vegas, but was also the only institution of higher education in the entire state. Back then, very few high school graduates went on to university. If it were not for my mother’s hard work and vision, we could never have gone to college. Entering the university, I dreamed of a career in the State Department, so signed on for majors in history and English literature. Sociology courses, reputedly boring, could not compete in my mind with the courses that I was taking in my two majors. My interest in journalism was steadily growing. Not only was journalism stimulating, but it held the promise of ‘‘being able to earn your own living.’’ But, when graduation time came in June 1947, I did not have a job. I passed the hot, Nevada summer days in a stew of anxiety worrying about if and where I could find work. Finally in August, I got a job

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as the assistant editor on a small weekly newspaper published on the Mare Island, California, shipyard for Navy personnel, residents, civilian workers and towns people. I think my mother breathed a deep sigh of relief. I know I did.

POST–WORLD WAR II AND THE 1950S If I thought Lovelock highly stratified, Mare Island was in another league. The shipyard, a venerable institution dating to the Civil War, employed naval personnel from seamen to admirals as well as a highly differentiated civilian work force. Status consciousness was more pervasive than anything that I had experienced either in my hometown or at the University of Nevada. Beyond the daily experience of stratification in its various versions and forms, being a journalist in that setting brought me face-to-face with and plunged me into bureaucracy in ways I had never known. This was not the romantic, journalistic adventure I had envisioned on graduation, but a careful treading of acceptable paths to find or create interesting stories that could be published. That was not hard to do. The great manufacturing ‘‘shops’’, as they were called, each devoted to specialties that produced the submarines for which Mare Island was famous, were dramatic locales with abundant, compelling human stories. I was doing ethnography, but did not know it. It was a comfortable life: a good job with a good salary, particularly after being promoted as editor. I might well have stayed on, but after seven years the journalistic work had become too routine for me: stories that I wrote one year sounded similar to those that I had written in previous ones, so what was once a challenge for me, no longer excited me. When my journalism professor at Nevada, Alfred Higginbotham, wrote me about a tuition fellowship to the University of Chicago to study mass communication for a master’s degree in an interdisciplinary program, I jumped at the opportunity. I resigned from my position as editor, packed my bags, and drove across the country alone to Chicago.

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO: A MAJOR TURNING POINT I still vividly recall the excitement of being at the University of Chicago in the mid-l950s. It was an unending feast of delights: one stimulating class after another; memorable meal time talk at the dorm where I lived; daily, lively contacts with graduate students in archeology, history, anthropology,

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sociology, geography, literature, and interaction with great Chicago faculty: Everett Hughes, Lloyd Warner, Sol Tax, and Robert Redfield. This heady mix proved fertile ground for the first stirrings of a sociological self, quite unformed and still in the shadow of my journalistic self. In particular, two encounters started me on my way in becoming a sociologist, Anselm Strauss’ course in Sociological Social Psychology and working in David Riesman’s office. Strauss’ course was the first sociology course that I had taken, one that I recall with pleasure still to this day more than 50 years later. Anselm would come into class, ascend the lecturer’s platform and in his soft voice talk of Mead and symbolic interactionism. I quickly realized I had to sit in the front row or miss the exciting ideas he presented. Symbolic Interactionism (SI) literally turned the lights on. I found a framework for the Nevada and Mare Island experiences and much more. I landed in Riesman’s office on loan from the University Hospital clerical pool where I worked at a typing job to earn money to replace my diminishing savings. There I had extensive contact with Riesman, a generous, thoughtful supervisor-mentor. His exciting class on popular culture led me to work on two research projects, one the study of leisure then underway under his direction, and the other, a study of lyrics of popular music being done by Don Horton. These two projects were my first encounters with sociological research, albeit at a very humble level. When the time came to consider what to do after Chicago, however, I did not see myself as a sociologist. I did my master’s thesis on children’s use of television. I still entertained notions of working in mass communications, an upgraded version of my undergraduate dreams of being a journalist, but I had little idea of how to go about getting a job in that field. While on my way to the library one day in my second and final year, I noticed by chance a poster for pre-doctoral Ford Foundation Fellowships at Stanford University to study mass communication. That sounded like an exciting opportunity in the field I thought I was still interested in. I received a fellowship and drove back to California in the summer of 1956 leaving the University of Chicago’s gray, majestic Gothic buildings for Stanford’s creamy Spanish colonial architecture.

ANOTHER TURNING POINT: THE STEP TO SOCIOLOGY Once at Stanford, I found that study of mass communication was a grave disappointment. I could never re-ignite the spark of intellectual excitement

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that I had earlier felt at Chicago, except with graduate student friends in English, sociology, and history. It did not help that the political climate at Stanford was for the most part quite conservative: when I wore an Adlai Stevenson button in the dining hall, one server accused me, ‘‘You’re a Commie!’’ Moreover, I did not perform well in the classes which held little interest for me. Needless to say, I slept poorly, spending many nights worrying about how to rescue my career, stay in graduate school and finish with a marketable degree. Finally, I gathered my abundant Chicago sociology credits and transferred to Stanford’s Department of Sociology. There I felt at home. In the flexible but demanding, stimulating and highly informative, well rounded and enriching program, I regained the excitement I had known earlier, though there was little discussion of symbolic interactionism. I felt myself growing a sociological self: Richard T. LaPierre’s incisive classical theory classes, Robert Ellis’ offerings on social stratification, Paul Wallin’s impeccable methods seminars, and Edmund Volkart’s social psychology courses, in which he discussed his work on W. I. Thomas. Because the faculty encouraged taking courses in other disciplines, I also studied anthropology with Bernard Siegel, George Spindler, and Gregory Bateson. However, most memorable were Volkart’s pioneering course offerings in medical sociology which were among the first in the country (Bloom, 2002, pp. 133, 138–144, 147). My fellow grad students and I eagerly and enthusiastically took his seminars: he was a very good teacher, supportive and challenging, and conveyed a keen interest in medical sociology. His courses made a lasting impression on me. I began to think of medical sociology as a possible specialty. Everything was going well for me in sociology when I developed an ovarian cyst. I swung between anxiety about potential malignancy, and depression about being forced to end my studies if it were malignant and require lengthy treatment. Fearful, I dilly dallied, but finally went to the excellent Stanford student health services, had surgery and, afterwards, was hospitalized. Fortunately, the cyst was benign, so radiation or chemotherapy were not necessary. With the enthusiasm of one saved from a painful fate, I returned to finish my work on my Ph.D. degree.

INTO THE JOB MARKET Entering the job market in 1959, I had only a few nibbles. Then Anselm Strauss wrote to ask if I would be interested in a position on a research

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project that he was organizing at the School of Nursing, University of California, San Francisco, which Fred Davis would direct. David Riesman had brought me to Strauss’ attention. It looked very promising, though some fellow students scoffed at work in a school of nursing. Ever the optimist, Volkart, who was a generous and highly supportive mentor, told me: ‘‘You can make of it whatever you want.’’ That was all that I needed to hear. I flew to Chicago for a memorable day long interview with Strauss and Davis and eagerly accepted their offer. I was elated: I was an older graduate (all of 34 which to me now seems very young), and a woman in a thin job market. There was no affirmative action in those days. I also felt very lucky: this was not only a good chance for me to get in on the ground floor of medical sociology, which at that time was not a widely recognized subfield of sociology, but also to work with Chicago interactionists. It did not hurt that the position was in San Francisco. We were all in transition: Strauss moving from Michael Reese Hospital in Chicago; Davis, from the Polio Foundation in New York City and I, from graduate school. I was by now seeing myself as a sociologist, talking and thinking like a sociologist. My journalistic self now had almost faded away completely. The intertwining of our lives was concurrent with an institutional transition that would provide opportunities and shape our selves and biographies for decades even as we helped shape the institution. A remarkable, far sighted nurse educator, Helen Nahm, who held a doctorate in psychology from the University of Minnesota, had just become dean at the UCSF School of Nursing. Nahm, who was determined to upgrade baccalaurate nursing education by the introduction of the social sciences and research training, learned of Strauss from Everett Hughes. She recruited Strauss to UCSF to lead this effort. The vehicle which was to provide social scientists to work with nurse faculty at the UCSF school, was a three year NIMH grant to do an ethnographic study on how students become nurses. Nahm and Strauss, now on the UCSF faculty, had written the grant. Later, Elvi Whittaker, an Estonian-Canadian from the University of British Columbia, who had studied nurses, joined the project team.

UCSF: CONTEXTS OF BECOMING Development of a sociological identity is not predicated solely on contacts with other sociologists. This process implicates other actors, sometimes quite significantly, as I found at UCSF. UCSF is not a general campus, but

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a health sciences campus (Schools of Nursing, Pharmacy, Dentistry, Medicine, and numerous bench scientists). We were usually seen by the other professionals with whom we daily interacted at that resolutely male, pale and medical bastion as a pretty strange bunch of folks. Indeed, we were clearly ‘‘the other.’’ We were often mistaken for social workers or frequently queried, ‘‘What exactly do you do?’’ These sometimes irritating encounters sharpened my views of myself as sociologist, for I had to fully and clearly explain just what I did do. No theoretical flights into the sociological stratosphere here! Just solid, everyday talk about our work and sociology. Not always easy to do. As an antidote, our ethnographic work (Olesen & Whittaker, 1968) immersed us in the students’ worlds – public and private – in ways which harked back to the Chicago school of ethnography (Deegan, 2001; Rock, 2001). For the students, we were ‘‘their sociologists,’’ a flattering, but sometimes restrictive attribution. For the faculty in nursing during the three year study, we were colleagues, but not quite, as the uncomfortable wall of the research relationship was always between us.2 In the daily stimulating interactions with Davis and Whittaker, my symbolic interactionist’s selves emerged in discussions about the fieldwork, its problems and promising conceptual issues. Strauss occasionally joined us, but was busy, with Barney Glaser, with their studies of dying patients and their development of grounded theory (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). Over the years, the issue of ‘‘otherness’’ faded somewhat. More social scientists, notably anthropologists and psychologists made their way on campus, so we were no longer so unusual. We gradually become players in Academic Senate and campus politics, a way to be visible as sociologists, though sometimes with challenging difficulties, as I found on the UCSF Institutional Review Board (the human subjects committee) where for several years I was the only woman and the only social scientist. These years sorely tested me. The physicians and bench scientists who dominated the committee disdained qualitative social science research and deemed it ‘‘soft’’ and ‘‘unscientific.’’ Since many of the nursing research projects under review utilized qualitative approaches, I often engaged in fiery exchanges to defend and explain this style of work, sometimes successful, often times not, and always wrenching from my viewpoint as a sociologist. In 1968, thanks to Strauss’ leadership, skillful negotiating and the good will he had built in the School of Nursing, we successfully maneuvered our way through campus politics and university bureaucracies to establish a doctoral program in sociology.3 That gave us recognizable and creditable academic footing at the university. When the School of Nursing

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departmentalized in 1972, we became the Department of Social and Behavioral Sciences. We were now a structural unit in the university with legitimate claims on its resources, and no longer merely a group of social scientists in someone else’s department. I served as the first chair, but after three years stepped down to help with care giving for my terminally ill mother. I also realized that university administration, even in such a small department and school, was not my forte and that I had better stick to research and teaching. Equally critical, earlier in l966, I was moved from a research grant position to a tenure track appointment, one of the last to become available at UCSF before the hard times of the Reagan years in California. In l967, I earned tenure. These structural changes were personally satisfying and professionally reassuring: I had an institutional, as well as disciplinary base, for my sociological self. For the first time in my academic life, I felt anchored. The institution and I had both changed (Harding, 2007).

BEYOND UCSF Though our research and interactions with social science and nursing colleagues at UCSF were stimulating, it nevertheless lacked the intellectual vivacity of a general campus. Consequently, even before getting tenure and certainly after, meetings and conferences in sociology and other disciplines became and continued to be important sources of new, stimulating ideas needed for the growth of my sociological self (Holstein & Gubrium, 2000). I eagerly participated in ASA’s medical sociology section, which I chaired in 1978 and in the bi-annual International Social Science and Medicine meetings. These activities enlarged my views of medical sociology, where my work fit and where significant differences lay. From the Social Science and Medicine (SSM) meetings life-long contacts came with British qualitative and medical sociologists whose conceptual sophistication challenged and altered, always for the better, my sociological imagination. The most dramatic non-UCSF educational context that I experienced was at the American University in Cairo. I spent five months there in 1976 to help my colleague and friend, Cynthia Nelson, an anthropologist, establish a medical sociology/anthropology program in AUC’s social science curriculum (Nelson & Olesen, 1977). This required working across disciplines, being sensitive to the multiple complexities in Egyptian life (social class, gender, religion, rural/urban, colonial history, and globalization). It was mind

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blowing, but incredibly stimulating. I left Cairo a wiser sociologist and a happy one – I felt that I had accomplished something worthwhile. No account of impact on my sociological self in contexts beyond UCSF would be complete without the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction (SSSI). At national, international, and regional meetings, SSSI has always been a rich source of enriching, stimulating, and professional and personally rewarding experiences for me. One of the most memorable, still the source of great professional pleasure, was Carl Couch’s comment on meeting me for the first time: ‘‘Olesen, you did a damned good ethnography!’’ (The Silent Dialogue). SSSI also opened new intellectual vistas, which I will discuss later. When the Society gave me the George Herbert Mead Award in 1996, I was deeply touched and honored. The impact of this recognition on me was so great that for a long-time I could scarcely incorporate it into my sociological self. In fact, I sometimes still say to myself, ‘‘Was that really me they gave the George Herbert Mead Award to?’’

Altering Selves: Emergent Interests The Nursing Careers Project, which provided a strong, creative impetus for my sociological evolution, has had a lasting effect on how I approach and think about ethnographic research and sociological inquiry in general. I can imagine few career beginnings where one would be so fortunate. Although I had never done fieldwork, I found that my many years of interviewing and observing people as a journalist proved useful, but analyzing data was a different animal altogether. I found that how one reports a story has important implications for your later analysis. There are no naked facts because observation and theory are combined together in their very description. I learned that how one reports something always is to some degree theoretically driven. Davis’ superb observational, analytic and writing talents, and Whittaker’s supremely subtle thinking helped me learn this lesson and acquire my general analytic skills. My fieldwork experience later brought me an invitation to join an interdisciplinary team that included David Riesman. The team was assembled to do a three-year field work study of competence-based education at various institutions across the country that had tried to make reforms in their educational programs (Grant, 1979, pp. 439–490). Working with an interdisciplinary team, participating in a large scale study and addressing policy issues proved to be a highly demanding, but very stimulating experience for me (Olesen, 1990b, pp. 219–227). Among other

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things, I realized that I could use symbolic interaction and qualitative methods to study policy issues.4 Returning to the Nursing Careers Project, we gathered and analyzed more data as part of a follow-up studies. By the time this project had finally drawn to a close, we had produced a substantial body of publications on professional socialization, emotions, cultural symbols, and women’s roles.5 Did our work make a difference in higher education in nursing? I do not think that even our centerpiece, The Silent Dialogue, influenced policies or practices, perhaps because our findings depicted students as active rather than passive participants in the learning experience, which was in opposition to the then prevailing view, or alternatively because the interest in the field had shifted from broader questions about nursing careers to the narrower question of what the minimal requirements should be for entry level nursing positions. Other consequences of our project made a bigger impact. Paradoxically, the advice that we gave while conducting this project to faculty members and later to graduate students in nursing at UCSF about their research ultimately had a much bigger influence on nursing education and research than our project’s actual findings. In this unanticipated way, we realized Dean Nahm’s vision of a proper nursing education (Olesen, 2007, p. 418). After the nursing career project ended, we did not continue our studies on socialization. Times had changed. Funding for research projects, like the one that we had conducted, had largely dried up. Interest had shifted away from the study of socialization to clinical issues. Qualitative research projects had also fallen out of favor among major granting agencies (Steinmetz, 2005a, 2005b). Practically speaking, the only remaining sources of support for research projects on this topic employing qualitative methods were small grants from university research offices (Davis, Lin, Gan, & Olesen, 1992). Besides, I had grown tired of socialization studies and was looking for fresh research adventures. Remembering my days working in the University of Chicago’s typing pool and my criticisms of sociologists and feminists who focused on women in elite occupations or exotic or deviant pursuits to the exclusion of occupations in which most women were employed, I got a small grant from Eliot Liebow’s Center for the Study of Metropolitan Problems in NIMH to study temporary clerical workers. I and a gifted graduate student, Fran Katsuranis, found that these women had exercised far more control over their work environments than we had anticipated. Moreover, their views of themselves were not solely based on work, but also from other activities, such as playing a musical instrument, singing, doing arts and crafts, etc. (Olesen & Katsuranis, 1978). Years later, when Eliot Freidson expressed admiration for our small study, I felt an unseemly surge of

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intellectual, feminist and sociological pride and regretted not pursuing this research further, given what has now happened in the US labor market.

FAILURE AS TURNING POINT Concurrent with these research projects, I had teaching responsibilities, including a required undergraduate social psychology course for student nurses. Modeled after Strauss’ memorable class that I took during my graduate studies at University of Chicago, this class fared well until the early l970s. Then one offering went completely sour. Since I had up until this time regarded myself as a ‘‘good’’ teacher, this was not only a big jolt to me, but also a very unpleasant one. Until this happened, my course evaluations had supported my view of myself as a good teacher, but now something had clearly gone wrong. Nursing my bruised ego and sifting through the ruins, I concluded that deep ethnic, racial, sexual, marital, social class, and educational differences among the students necessitated a radical change in the content of this course. Reluctantly, I abandoned the Chicago influenced social psychology and completely revised the content of the course to focus on the social psychology of women’s health, praying that this would engage the highly diverse students. It did the trick. By moving my feminism from the background to the forefront of myself, I was able to rescue my tattered teaching reputation and restore my self-confidence. This personal transformation involved much more than resuscitating my self confidence and teaching reputation. I had been aware of and sympathetic to the Women’s Movement for some time, but it was this painful incident that finally drew me into it all the way. Other feminists have written about the feelings of togetherness and belonging that the movement evoked in them. I shared that experience. The emergence of the Women’s Liberation Movement and the Women’s Health Movement brought new found awareness of belonging and potential to realize social justice for women that I had not previously experienced in the male worlds of sociology and UCSF. Those were exciting days. In those dawning moments of the Women’s Movement, I realized I was onto something important. Like many women, I was angry about the treatment women received. What better place to take action than in the health care system? Though I thought demonstrations, marches and protests of all sorts were critical, and, indeed participated in them, I also believed that some solid knowledge base was necessary if matters were to be changed. Working through contacts I no longer remember, I obtained federal funding for a two-day,

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international research conference at UCSF on women as health care consumers in the new era, the first one in the United States (Olesen, 1975) and one that helped place women’s health issues in the spotlight. I had to work across disciplines and with federal bureaucrats, a new experience that not only refined my interpersonal skills, but also expanded and humbled me as a sociologist. Meanwhile, collaborating with feminist colleagues on our faculty, Lucile Newman and Ellen Lewin, anthropologists, and Sheryl Ruzek, a sociologist, I also organized graduate social science classes on women’s health, including feminist theory, policy, and research. These courses, which vigorously criticized and veered away from conventional medical views about women and their health issues became the ‘‘Women, Health and Healing’’ specialty in the UCSF Graduate Sociology Program.6 Thanks to a three-year grant that Ruzek, Lewin, and I obtained in 1982 from the Fund for the Improvement of Post Secondary Education, these new classes also planted the seeds for curricular innovation movement that spread far beyond UCSF campus.7 Adele Clarke, a feminist symbolic interactionist, who was finishing her doctoral work in UCSF’s sociology program, later joined us. Our joint efforts refined conceptualizations of and concerns about women’s health that changed the landscape of this entire field of study.8 My participation in this effort also solidified my identity as a feminist sociologist, sharpening not only my sense of who I was, but also my sense of where and how my research might make a difference in women’s lives.9 Fresh Directions The circuitous route that I traveled in becoming a sociologist took a new and important twist in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Two events precipitated these changes in my sociological self: Norman Denzin’s ‘‘Cultural Studies Panel’’ at the 1988 Mid-West Sociological Association meetings and the 1990 British Medical Sociology Conference. Denzin’s cultural studies session and others like it, such as Howie Becker’s and Michal McCall’s performance piece were so provocative that they challenged the very foundation on which my then sociological self rested (Athens, 1995). Only vaguely aware at the time of the new currents in deconstructionism and postmodernism, I was literally swept away by the presentations that the panel members made. I later wrote: From the podium begin to flow words, ideas, revelations and emotions so daring, so stimulating, so divergent from the usual dessicated presentations that I feel intellectual

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jubilation. What’s been going on? What are these new ideas? Some seem tantalizingly similar to conversations in the long ago days of our ethnographic studies at UCSF. Where do I learn more about this? How does this fit with ‘standard’ sociology? The meetings over, I fly home, a phoenix risen from the ashes of a sociology that seems out of step, out of tune and strangely old fashioned. But is this just trendy? Have I been seduced by the compelling artfulness of the presentations and overlooked the sociology in them? I have no answers, but float, savoring something new and exciting, but, not sure of what it is or, where I could fit. (Olesen, 2001a, pp. 267–268)

The postmodern turn created a huge controversy in sociology. Since this controversy has been amply documented elsewhere, (Rosenau, 1992; Charmaz, 1995; Delamont & Atkinson, 2004), I do not need to recount all the details of it here. Instead, I will limit myself to the impact that this controversy had on me. In retrospect, I was never closely tied to the positivist strands in SI or qualitative sociology. Because of the vestiges of my former romantic journalistic self, I was very open to entertaining and trying out these provocative ideas. Did I go postmodern? I can still recall my revised feminist theory class in which students and I would literally wallow our way through the postmodern/deconstruction mazes. I also asked my students to ‘‘perform’’ their term papers in my social psychology of illness class and in my qualitative feminist research class. From my years of attending Denzin’s stimulating cultural studies panels (Olesen, 2001a, 2001b), talking with my colleague Adele Clarke, who was taking grounded theory around ‘‘the postmodern turn’’ (Clarke, 2005), not to mention the teaching of my feminist theory class and my qualitative research classes, I was well prepared to confront the issues of reflexivity, voice, the hermeneutics of field work, validity, voice, text, and more. This struggle, which endures to this day, has sharpened my qualitative research and deepened my appreciation for the history and untapped potential of qualitative research. Eventually, I concluded that Kathy Charmaz’s (1995) social constructionist’s position is a highly sensible one. These sometimes mystifying and frustrating labors in the postmoderndeconstructionist vineyards prepared me to accept an invitation from Norman Denzin and Yvonna Lincoln (1994) to contribute a chapter on feminist qualitative research to their handbook, which Peter Manning (2003, p. 1035) aptly termed ‘‘a landmark’’. I found that writing that chapter (Olesen, 1994) and its subsequent revisions (Olesen, 2000b, 2005) was incredibly demanding, requiring that I move across disciplines, grapple with controversies within feminist thought, explore tensions among qualitative methods in fields which seem to expand exponentially with each passing

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year. The writing and revising of this chapter has continued to this day to affect my views of myself as a sociologist. An invitation from organizers of the 1990 British Medical Sociology Group’s annual meeting to give the plenary address changed me in a different way. They had accepted my suggestion that I address issues of emotions in health care, which, at that time, was a neglected issue in medical sociology. I saw this as a golden opportunity to take my long-time interest in medical sociology in a new direction by examining the profound changes that the US health care system was now undergoing. Our now highly cost conscious health care system demanded that health professionals speed up their delivery of physical care at the expense of their previously valued emotional care, a problem which I labeled ‘‘emotional lag.’’ I realized that I had to think through very carefully how both macro- and micro-sociological processes shape our work and selves, a type of analysis with which I had precious little experience. It took me several months of intensive study to get myself up to the speed required for me to speak before a British academic audience as one who was highly knowledgeable about this issue. I was pleasantly surprised to find that my speech at this group’s annual meeting was very well received, which was a milestone in the further development of my sociological self. I had broken the boundaries of my previous self by doing something which before that time, I never dreamed that I could do (Athens, 1995; Olesen, 1990a).

SOME FINAL REFLECTIONS During the almost 54 years that my story of how I became a sociologist covers, I unsurprisingly witnessed great changes in my three areas of sociological specialization: qualitative methodology, medical sociology, and women’s studies. Although there have been some ups and downs, qualitative sociology with some important exceptions has steadily grown since the 1960s in its influence and importance (Best, 2006; Fine, 1993; Sandstrom & Fine, 2003). We now have a larger theoretical and methodological repertoire than ever before in our history to choose from, especially for studying large scale societal issues with important policy implications. Today, the biggest problem facing qualitative sociologists remains obtaining funding from research granting agencies (Steinmetz, 2005a, 2005b). Medical sociology has also grown leaps and bounds over the last half century. Inquiries have begun to be made in bio-medicalization and globalization. There also has been a renewed interest in the old problem of

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the costs and quality of health care delivery, the breadth of its coverage, along with disparities in its availability. As the health care crisis deepens in our society, I expect the interest in these problems will continue to grow. Medical sociologists will be increasingly called on to contribute to their solution After 40 years of feminist scholarship, I think that feminist sociologists have left an indelible mark on the discipline. It is now an intellectual strand in sociology that must be reckoned with, although feminist sociologists continue to argue among themselves over the degree to which this is true (Laslett & Thorne, 1997). Although much has changed for the better for women regarding their access to faculty positions, their impact on curriculum, their participation in policy-relevant research, and their general influence in the discipline (thanks to Sociologists for Women in Society), much remains to be accomplished. More generally, feminist research is particularly needed on how gender, race, class, sexuality, and age intersect in diverse societies. I am hopeful, however, that the increasing numbers and sophistication of present-day feminist sociologists, both novices and veterans, can, eventually, move this critical work to new levels.

INTO THE FUTURE I retired early (1993) to take advantage of the benefits that my fiscally pressed university offered to persuade well-paid senior faculty to stand down. Thirty-three years of demanding teaching and committee work at UCSF were enough to persuade me to accept the university’s offer! I have not experienced retirement as particularly difficult or painful. However, I have found that my role as a retired sociology professor is one which must be executed with great finesse and flexibility. As far as one’s local colleagues are concerned, the trick is to remain interested in their problems and work, but not obtrusive; to be helpful when possible, but not overbearing. As far as with one’s colleagues elsewhere are concerned, the gambit is to remain current and lively. As far as myself is concerned, the tactic is to remain busy and productive, not fritter my time away, and enjoy the relief of not sitting on committees or preparing for classes. Retirement for me was a calendar marker to be sure, but in terms of my sociological self, more a way station than ending point. I have papers to finish, boxes of data from old projects to analyze, files full of memos on ideas for new papers to reflect on, and speaking and writing invitations to consider10, so there is still plenty of work for me to do. My life is

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‘‘continually open to new formulations, resisting determinancy’’ (Holstein & Gubrium, 2003, p. 850). I look forward to developments in my three areas of interest (qualitative, medical, and feminist sociology) that will present new challenges and bring more opportunities for my sociological self to grow. Over my long career, my sociological self has evolved in ways that I could have hardly anticipated at its beginning. I certainly do not plan to stop evolving as a sociologist now because I am retired. My intention is to wear out, not rust out. It’s the only way to go!

NOTES 1. The Vietnamese Buddhist concept of ‘‘interbeing’’ can be integrated with symbolic interactionism. (Olesen, 2000a). On interaction, space prevents acknowledgement of many wonderful clerical staff members in three universities, particularly UCSF, who were significant for me. Academic careers and selves are not only the fruits of scholarly work and collaboration, but also derive from staff labor and institutional knowledge. 2. Soon after our research started, the turbulent and challenging Civil Rights and Anti-Vietnam War movements swept American Universities, but never fully took root at UCSF, though a powerful Black Caucus emerged. We marched and sat in protests elsewhere. 3. By 1968 there was a small ‘‘critical mass’’ of sociologists, including Leonard Schatzman and Barney Glaser, which made establishment of the doctoral program possible. 4. This was an extraordinary project. Each team member did field work regularly over three years at his or her own site which the entire team also visited once to become acquainted with participants and programs at the site, to help the individual team member to assess and analyze emergent findings. I studied the Mt. Hood Community College Nursing Program near Portland, Oregon (Olesen, 1979). We exchanged all our field notes, analyzed others’ notes as well as our own and wrote memos. This episodic field work posed special demands (Olesen, 1990b, pp. 223–226), but I could see I could do field work beyond a single setting. 5. The project produced numerous papers on the nursing profession. I cite here those most closely related to my emerging sociological selves and interests (Davis & Olesen, 1963; Olesen & Whittaker, 1964, 1966, 1968; Whittaker & Olesen, 1964). 6. The Women, Health and Healing Specialty quickly became and continued to be the site for gifted graduate students to complete their own feminist-sociological projects which further shape expand sociological analysis of women’s health issues. 7. Our three summer teaching institutes drew national and international university teachers starting social science women’s health courses in various disciplines or women’s studies. We produced curricular materials, such as a bibliography on the health of minority women of color, one of the few at that time, an important contribution in the pre-cyber scholarship era (Ruzek, Anderson, Clarke, Olesen, & Hill, 1986).

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8. We outlined theoretical issues leading to new perspectives on women’s health (Lewin & Olesen, 1985), we emphasized diversities and complexities to criticized scholarly and medical homogenization of women’s issues (Ruzek, Olesen, & Clarke, 1997), and examined post-structural, post-colonical and post-modern perspectives to revision women’s health (Clarke & Olesen, 1999). 9. UCSF presented many opportunities to undertake feminist interventions which ranged from the informal, for example, reminding male colleagues that I, too, held a doctorate and wished to be addressed the same way they spoke to my male colleagues in sociology or psychology (Dr. or professor) rather than by my first name, to confrontations with campus institutions. Colleagues in nursing and I successfully struggled to change Academic Senate by laws to enable senior nurse faculty to sit on the powerful Committee on Academic Personnel where previously they had been excluded. The Chancellor’s Committee on the Status of Women, an administrative committee, which I chaired (1984–1986), did a major study of salary discrepancies between male and female faculty members. 10. My paper in a festschrift collection honoring my friend and colleague, Meg Stacey, British medical sociology pioneer who had significantly influenced my sociological, becoming set fresh directions for my sociological self (2001b). Kathy Charmaz, a leading medical sociologist renowned for her work and, a major grounded theorist, involved me in two enriching collaborations, one on ethnographic research in medical sociology (Charmaz & Olesen, 1997), one on SI and medical institutions (Charmaz & Olesen, 2003). Two nurse researchers, Diane Hatton and Anastasia Fisher, included me in a group at the Rockefeller Study Center at Bellagio to add feminist sociological perspectives to their project on health of incarcerated women (Olesen, 2009).

ACKNOWLEDGMENT I am enormously indebted to two critical and helpful readers: Lonnie Athens’ wide ranging editorial criticisms and suggestions for theoretical and substantive changes greatly improved the initial draft. Anne Davis’ close, thoughtful reading helped polish and improve later drafts.

REFERENCES Athens, L. (1994). The self as a soliloquy. Sociological Quarterly, 35(3), 521–532. Athens, L. (1995). Dramatic self change. Sociological Quarterly, 36(3), 571–586. Best, J. (2006). What, we worry? The pleasures and costs of defective memory for qualitative sociologists. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 466–477. Bloom, S. W. (2002). The word as scalpel: A history of medical sociology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Charmaz, K. (1995). Between positivism and postmodernism: Implications for methods. In: N. K. Denzin (Ed.), Studies in Symbolic Interaction (Vol. 17, pp. 43–72). Greenwich, CT: JAI Press. Charmaz, K., & Olesen, V. (1997). Ethnographic research in medical sociology: Its foci and distinctive contributions. Sociological Methods and Research, 25, 452–494. Charmaz, K., & Olesen, V. (2003). Medical institutions. In: L. T. Reynolds & N. HermanKinney (Eds), Handbook of symbolic interaction (pp. 637–656). Boulder, CO: Alta Mira. Chase, S. (2005). Narrative inquiry: Multiple lenses, approaches, voices. In: N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds), The sage handbook of qualitative research (3rd ed., pp. 651–680). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Clarke, A. E. (2005). Situational analysis: Grounded theory after the postmodern turn. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Clarke, A. E., & Olesen, V. (Eds). (1999). Revisioning women, health and healing, feminist, cultural and technoscience perspectives (pp. 3–48). New York: Routledge. Davis, A., Lin, J. Y., Gan, L., & Olesen, V. (1992). Young pioneers: Preliminary analysis of a study of baccalaureate nursing students in the people’s republic of China. Journal of Advanced Nursing, 17, 1161–1170. Davis, F., & Olesen, V. (1963). Initiation into a woman’s profession: Identity problems in the status transition of coed to student nurse. Sociometry, 26, 89–101. Deegan, M. J. (2001). The chicago school of ethnography. In: P. Akinson, A. Coffey, S. Delamont, J. Lofland & L. Lofland (Eds), Handbook of ethnography (pp. 11–25). London: Sage. Delamont, S., & Atkinson, P. (2004). Qualitative research and the post-modern turn. In: M. Hardy & A. Bryman (Eds), Handbook of data analysis (pp. 667–682). Sage: London. Denzin, N. K., & Lincoln, Y. S. (Eds). (1994). Handbook of qualitative research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Fenstermaker, S. (1997). Telling tales out of school: Three short stories of a feminist sociologist. In: B. Laslett & B. Thorne (Eds), Feminist sociology, life histories of a movement (pp. 209–228). New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Fine, G. A. (1993). The sad demise, mysterious disappearance and glorious triumph of symbolic interactionism. Annual Review of Sociology, 19, 61–87. Glaser, B. G., & Strauss, A. L. (1967). The discovery of grounded theory. Chicago, IL: Aldine. Grant, G. (1979). Epilogue: New methods for study of a reform movement. In: G. Grant, P. Elbow, T. Ewens, Z. Gamson, W. Kohli, W. Neumann, V. Olesen & D. Riesman (Eds), On competence. A critical analysis of competence-based reforms in higher education (pp. 439–490). San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass. Harding, N. (2007). On lacan and the becoming-ness of organizations/selves. Organization Studies, 28(11), 1761–1773. Holstein, J. A., & Gubrium, J. F. (2000). The self we live by, narrative identity in a postmodern world. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Holstein, J. A., & Gubrium, J. F. (2003). The life course. In: L. T. Reynolds & N. J. HermanKinney (Eds), Handbook of symbolic interactionism (pp. 835–856). Boulder, CO: Alta Mira Press. Laslett, B., & Thorne, B. (1997). Feminist sociology, life histories of a movement. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Lewin, E., & Olesen, V. (1985). Women, health and healing: A theoretical introduction. In: E. Lewin & V. Olesen (Eds), Women, health and healing: Toward a new perspective (pp. 1–24). London: Tavistock-Methuen.

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Manning, P. K. (2003). Semiotics, pragmatism, narratives. In: L. T. Reynolds & N. J. Hermann-Kinney (Eds), Handbook of symbolic interactionism (pp. 1021–1040). New York: Alta Mira Press. Mead, G. H. (1934). Mind, self and society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nelson, C., & Olesen, V. (1977). Notes on a first course in medical social science in the Arab Middle East. Medical Anthropology Newsletter, 9(1), 5–7. Olesen, V. (1975). Women and their health: Research implications for a new era (DHEW Publication No. (HRA) 77-3138). Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Health, Education and Welfare. Olesen, V. (1979). Overcoming crises in a new nursing program: Mt. Hood community college. In: G. Grant, P. Elbow, T. Ewens, Z. Gamson, W. Kohli, W. Neumann, V. Olesen & D. Riesman (Eds), On competence. A critical analysis of competence-based reforms in higher education (pp. 335–362). San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass. Olesen, V. (1990a). The neglected emotions: A challenge to medical sociology. Medical Sociology News, 15, 10–15. Olesen, V. (1990b). Immersed, amorphous and episodic field work: Theory and policy in three contrasting contexts. In: R. Burgess (Ed.), Field work issues (Vol. 2, pp. 205–232). Greenwich, CT: JAI Press. Olesen, V. (1994). Feminisms and models of qualitative research. In: N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 158–174). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Olesen, V. (2000a). Of crystals and inter-being. Address to the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction upon Receiving the SSSI Mentor Award. SSSI Notes, 27(3), 3(http://espach. salford.ac.uk/sssi/sssinotes/2000_Vol._27_Issue_3.pdf ). Olesen, V. (2000b). Feminisms and qualitative research at and into the millenium. In: N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 215–256). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Olesen, V. (2001a). Do whatever you want: Audiences created, creating, recreated. Qualitative Inquiry, 7, 267–273. Olesen, V. (2001b). Resisting ‘Fatal Unclutteredness’: Conceptualising the sociology of health and illness into the millenium. In: G. Bendelow, M. Carpenter, C. Vautier & S. Williams (Eds), Gender, health and healing, the public/private divide (pp. 254–266). London: Routledge. Olesen, V. (2005). Early millenial feminist qualitative research: Challenges and contours. In: N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds), The sage handbook of qualitative research (3rd ed., pp. 235–278). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Olesen, V. (2007). Feminist qualitative research and grounded theory: Complexities, criticisms and opportunities. In: A. Bryant & K. Charmaz (Eds), The sage handbook of grounded theory (pp. 417–436). Los Angeles, CA: Sage. Olesen, V. (2009). Social capital: A lens for examining health of incarcerated and formerly incarcerated women. In: Hatton, D. C. & Fisher, A. F. (Eds.), Incarcerated women: Justice and health for an internationally excluded population. London: Radcliffe. Olesen, V., & Katsuranis, F. (1978). Urban nomads: Women in temporary clerical services. In: A. H. Stromberg & S. Harkess (Eds), Women working (pp. 63–72). Palo Alto: CAL Mayfield. Olesen, V., & Whittaker, E. W. (1964). Role making in participant observation, processes in the researcher-actor relationship. Human Organization, 26(Winter), 273–281.

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Olesen, V., & Whittaker, E. W. (1966). Adjudication of student awareness in professional socialization: The language of laughter and silence. Sociological Quarterly, 7(Summer), 381–396. Olesen, V., & Whittaker, E. W. (1968). The silent dialogue: The social psychology of professional socialization. San Francisco, CA: Jossey- Bass. Rock, P. (2001). Symbolic interactionism and ethnography. In: P. Atkinson, A. Coffey, S. Delamont, J. Lofland & L. Lofland (Eds), Handbook of ethnography (pp. 26–39). London: Sage. Rosenau, P. M. (1992). Post-modernism and the social sciences: Insights, inroads and intrusions. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ruzek, S., Anderson, P., Clarke, A., Olesen, V., & Hill, K. (Eds). (1986). Minority women, health and healing in the U.S.: Selected bibliography and resources. San Francisco, CA: Women, Health and Healing Program, Department of Social and Behavioral Sciences, University of California. Ruzek, S. B., Olesen, V., & Clarke, A. E. (Eds). (1997). Women’s health, complexities and diversities. Columbus, OH: Ohio StateUniversity Press. Sandstrom, K. L., & Fine, G. A. (2003). Triumphs, emerging voices and the future. In: L. T. Reynolds & N. J. Herman-Kinney (Eds), Handbook of symbolic interactionism (pp. 1041–1058). New York: Alta Mira Press. Scott, J. (1991). The evidence of experience. Critical Inquiry, l7, 773–779. Steinmetz, G. (2005a). Introduction. Positivism and its others in the social sciences. In: G. Steinmetz (Ed.), The politics of method in the social sciences. Positivism and its epistemological others (pp. 1–56). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Steinmetz, G. (2005b). Scientific authority and the transition to post-fordism: The plausibility of positivism in US sociology since l945. In: G. Steinmetz (Ed.), The politics of method in the social sciences. Positivism and its epistemological others (pp. 275–326). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Strauss, A. L. (1993). Continual permutations of action. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Whittaker, E. W., & Olesen, V. (1964). Faces of Florence Nightingale. Human Organization, 23(Summer), 123–130.

PART II COMMODITY RACISM: REPRESENTATION, RACIALIZATION, AND RESISTANCE

COMMODITY RACISM NOW C. Richard King Begin anywhere: the grocery store or the liquor store, the toy aisle at the department store or discount outlet, a news weekly or fashion monthly, the local ‘‘ethnic’’ eatery, the much anticipated tourist destination or even the more edifying heritage site, the latest trend in home furnishing or chic couture, the musical styles topping the charts, no less than the manufactured lifestyles associated with them, video games, health regimes, and almost every holiday punctuating the national calendar. Begin with the illusions of choice and cliche´s of desire that clothe the political in the personal, which at once not only reproduce hierarchies and identities, but also fosters (albeit in a decidedly limited fashion) forms of reinvention and resistance. Above all else begin with the language of advertising: the trademark, the slogan, the billboard, the glossy magazine spread, the television spot, the calculated campaign, and the brandscape. In short, begin with the equipment of life, the techniques of the self, the grammar, and vocabulary of the spectacle in all of its permutations, essentially the stuff of life in the here and now, variously described as postmodern, late or fast capital, neoliberal, neoconservative, post-industrial, decolonial, and neoimperial. Begin anywhere as it has no end. Indeed, wherever one looks, however one feels, whatever one consumes almost invariably pivots around commodity racism. Over the past century and half, it has radically altered the production of racial images, ideologies, and identities, easing the detachment of race from its biological moorings, whereas fostering the reiteration of racialized

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networks of domination. Emergent at the intersections of imperialism and industrial capital, in the nascent consumer culture of the Victorian era, commodity racism has mutated in response to the intensification, diversification, and globalization of post-Fordist, consumer capitalism as well as the emergence of an era that (falsely) congratulates itself on moving beyond race and racism through an embrace of the principles of colorblindness and multiculturalism. As such, unraveling commodity racism now promises to unravel the reigning racial formation, highlighting the novel conjuncture of structural arrangements, and signifying practices that make race meaningful as social construction, material force, and lived experience. This thematic section of Studies in Symbolic Interaction concerns itself with five relationships between commodification and racialization, gathered together under the shorthand, commodity racism: (1) the processes and practices which imbue commodities with racist/racialized significance; (2) the processes and practices of selling commodities through race; (3) accounts and interpretations of race, race relations, racial difference, and the like offered through commodity/commodified texts; (4) the commodification of racialized difference (as a destination, set of pleasures, and technology of self); and (5) the processes and practices deployed to question and challenge dominant articulations of racialization and commodification. In short, the contributors unpack a constellation of relationships fundamental to the contours of contemporary North American sociohistorical formations, illuminating the racialization of commodity production, circulation, and consumption, whereas exposing the commodification of racial difference, identity, and relations. To this end, it asks three intertwined questions: (1) how do commodities racialize? (2) how are commodities racialized? and (3) how do consumers and communities resist? Commodity Racism: Representation, Racialization, and Resistance brings together eight essays to examine the complex, contradictory, and often contested articulations of commodification and racialization in the United States. It endeavors to offer a critical and comparative assessment of these relationships, which pushes beyond approaches anchored in a black:white paradigm to explore commodity racism in the (often neglected) contexts of Native American (including Hawaii), Asian American, Latina/o America, and the (supposedly raceless) white mainstream. Topics examined include the racialization of Santa Clause, athletes, and ethnic festivals, the centrality of branding, trademarks and copyrights to commodity racism, the centrality of racialized consumption to identity formation and subjectification, and strategies of consumer resistance.

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COMMODITY RACISM The fundamental issue of this thematic section, as phrased in abstract terms by hooks (1992, p. 23), is that the consumption of racial difference, or as she puts it, ‘‘eating the other,’’ and its profound effects: ‘‘When race and ethnicity become commodified as resources for pleasure, the culture of specific groups as well as the bodies of individuals, can be seen as constituting an alternative playground where members of dominating races y affirm their power-over.’’ Though this nicely encapsulates the subject at hand and associated consequences, it does little to contextualize or account for changes over time – both of which are crucial if are engage commodity racism now. In her classic work, Imperial Leather, McClintock (1995, pp. 207–231) traces the multiplication of racism during the late 19th century. Specifically, she elaborated on the emergence of commodity racism, that is, the creation of racial registers beyond the then dominant language of scientific racism, allowing it to speak about the scope and significance of racial difference to new audiences formerly excluded by class, education, literacy, and gender. McClintock, furthermore, highlighted the ways in which marketing and exhibitions emerged as consumer spectacles, seizing on racial difference to inscribe narratives of difference and desire. Importantly, this novel economy of signs simultaneously rested on prevailing understandings of gender and imperial expansion. Little better attests to this complex articulation, McClintock continues, that soap, which simultaneously knitted together domesticity, empire, and race. Selling soap meant selling race, gender, sexuality, and empire. In its initial formulation, particularly in the context on the then expanding United Kingdom, ‘‘Commodity racism – in the specifically Victorian forms of advertising and photography, the imperial expositions and the museum movement – converted the narrative of imperial progress into mass-produced consumer spectacles’’ (p. 33, emphasis original). Of course, commodity racism was neither restricted to Victorian Britain nor exclusively preoccupied with colonial cosmologies. In the context of the United States, for instance, during roughly the same period McClintock discusses, whereas consumer culture certainly offered a language to work through the racial logics of imperial expansion, blackness, the legacies of slavery, and racial rule proved equally important in the exhibition, marketing, and circulation of commodities (Hale, 1999; Manring, 1998). In this context, its initial articulation – on myriad products, countless advertisements, and sundry mementoes and curios – commodity racism not only knitted together race and gender, public and private, self and other as it established the

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boundaries, but it also provided a framework for lived relations. Recent studies of consumer culture in the United States make plain that advertising and branding, no less than commodities and their uses, bound whites and blacks to particular roles and relations. In the era following Reconstruction, the symbolic violence of the marketplace mirrored the lived terror and gruesome brutalities of Jim Crow. Specific commodities, such as Aunt Jemima pancake mix, emerged from vernacular culture (in this case minstrel shows) and crossed over as brand and world’s fair exhibit to reinforce prevailing views of blacks (as servile, dependent, and inferior), remind whites of their presumed superiority, justify exclusion, and reiterate nostalgic fantasy of the South before the Fall. Importantly, at the same time the commercialized imaginary was conjuring racial fantasies escape routes for the white consumer, emergent spaces of consumption gave them material, erecting legal and practical barrier between whites and blacks, enforcing segregation in stores, hotel, beaches, and other public accommodations (as well as schools, buses, and housing). Sign and structure met and moved through the commodity form and its circulation. Importantly, it would be both the objects and sites of consumption which would later ground freedom struggles in the South: lunch counters and department stores, sports teams and pools, boycotts of products like Aunt Jemima, and a Black arts movement that would in part animate itself through the visual interrogation of commodity racism. Perhaps in unanticipated ways, however, commodity racism survived Queen Victoria and Jim Crow. Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben still have a hallowed place among brands. Reinvented to be sure, but what has changed? Aunt Jemima without her kerchief still sands in as the iconic mammy, whereas Uncle Ben having moved to the corner office still sells stuff to and for White America, the affable and unthreatening black man, now in a suit, a token of corporate diversity programming and a tribute to the hollowness of hyperinclusivity in an era of retrenched racial hierarchies. These icons outlived the passions of protestors and were reborn in many ways because of their efforts. They point to flexibility commodity racism, its adaptability and inventiveness. For it not only has redrawn imagery to stay attuned with changing mores, it has quite literally played a fundamental role in remaking race itself. As Lury (1996, p. 169, emphasis original) argues, it has contributed to shifts in how racism operates, specifically to the shift from a form of racism tied to a biological undersanding of ‘‘race’’ in which identity is fixed or naturalized to a racism in ‘‘race’’ is a cultural category in which racial identity is represented as a matter of style, and the subject of choice.

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Indeed, according to Willis (1995) commodification contributes to a reworking of race that proposes it is little more than ‘‘a matter of style, something that can be put on or taken off at will.’’

RESILIENCY AND REVISION Commodity racism persists but has taken on novel contours in response to a changing social context (see Spencer, 2004): a context emergent in the aftermath of anticolonial and freedom struggles, the end of overt white supremacy, the exhaustion of political projects directed at justice and equality, the collapse of the metanarratives of modernity, the passing of industrial capital, the withering of the nation-state, the compression of time and space, the eruption of new media, the culture wars, the union of neoliberalism and neoconservativism, and most recently the quest for a new world order. Key to the shape of commodity racism now are new socioeconomic conditions, new racism, novel identities and associated identity politics – both expressed through and against commodity forms, and new markets.

New Economy Commodity racism as described in its classical form associated with British Imperialism and Jim Crow expressed the racial logics of a capitalist regime rooted industrial mass-production, perfected under Fordism, colonial expansion, a clear, pronounced class system, and an alignment between national and corporate interests. The rearticulation of commodity racism, perhaps best described as the complement of what has been dubbed late modern, postmodern, or liquid modern, and associated post-industrial, global, or fast capital. The terms (and the differences between them) matter less than the novel formation to which they refer. Twenty years ago, Hall (1991, pp. 57–58) offered a visionary mapping of the then emergent structures, describing them as post-Fordism: Post-Fordism is a term suggesting a whole new epoch distinct from the era of mass production y it covers at least some of the following characteristics: a shift to new information ‘‘technologies’’; more decentralized forms of labor process and work organization, a decline of the old manufacturing base and the growth of the ‘‘sunrise,’’ computer-based industries; the hiving off or contracting out functions and services; a greater emphasis on choice and product differentiation, on marketing, packaging, and design, on the ‘‘targeting’’ consumers by lifestyle, taste, and culture rather than by

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categories of social class; a decline in the proportion of the skilled male, manual working class, the rise of the service and white-collar classes and the ‘‘feminization of the work force; an economy dominated by the multinationals, with their new international division of labor and their greater autonomy from nation-state control; and the ‘‘globalization’’ of the new financial markets, linked by the communications revolution.

These reconfigurations lay the foundation for the reformulation of commodity racism, but by themselves would be insufficient.

New Racism Changing material conditions have contributed to the crystallization of novel signifying practices for the connecting, conveying, and circulating racial difference and social power. What me might think of as the prevailing racial logic of late modern, consumer capitalism has increasingly come to be called ‘‘new racism’’ (Ansell, 1997; Bonilla-Silva, 2003; Collins, 2005), a phrase meant to describe the persistent and powerful presence of racial stratification and symbols in a moment in which racelessness might be the dominant desire, underscoring important changes that have occurred in the wake of the Civil Right Movement and the ongoing (racialized) wars at the heart of America: the war on drugs, the war on terror, and the culture wars. Coming to terms with the force of (commodity) racism today requires an acknowledgement that the victories secured more than a generation ago in struggles for racial freedom, social justice, and decolonization have become the contested terrain of neoconservative retrenchment. An awkward juxtaposition, to be sure, new racism does push us recognize that social injustice and racial inequality fester in the USA, often in ways more pronounced and chronic than four decades ago, and provide tools to identify the terms and tactics that enliven, embody, and excuse it. Bonilla-Silva (2003) conceives of colorblindness as a primary building block of the racial ideologies that supports and extends the reigning racialized order of things. Like all ideologies, he continues, colorblindness works because it offers a set of frames to account for and make sense of race and racism. Specifically, he suggests that within a the context of new racism whites employ four frames: (1) abstract liberalism, an ethos blending individualism, a rhetoric of equality, and choice; (2) naturalization, or the assertion that ‘‘racial phenomena y are natural occurrences’’ (p. 28); (3) cultural racism, the appeal to culture to explain difference; and (4) minimization, or efforts to reduce or dismiss the continuing significance of race and racism. His schema echoes Ansell’s earlier work, which identified

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three elements of new racism: ‘‘a sanitized, coded language y disavowals of racist intent and y a shift from a focus on race and biological relations to a concern fro cultural differentiation and national identity’’ (Bonilla-Silva, 2003, p. 57). Collins (2005) recognizes the shifting ideological contours, but draws our attention to its connection to material conditions. She concurs with Ansell and Bonill-Silva that the centrality of culture to contemporary forms of racism is paramount: In prior periods in which biological theories were used to justify racist practices, racism and antiracism had a seemingly organic and oppositional relationship. One could either be for racism by believing that Blacks were biologically inferior and deserved the treatment they received or one could be against it by rejecting these beliefs and pointing to racial prejudice and institutional discrimination as more important in explaining Black disadvantage. These distinctions no longer hold for many White and Black Americans. Under the new color-blind racism that erases the color line, racism itself seems to have disappeared. (p. 45)

To trace and prevent this disappearance, Collins (2005, p. 54), identifies key structural issues: emergent global economic flows, transnational webs of power, and ‘‘new patterns of corporate organization,’’ all of which perpetuate racial hierarchies without the rule of law or state