379. (Re)Presentation and Voice. William G. Tierney. University of Southern California. This article considers the accessibility of language in scholarly work and ...
(Re)Presentation and Voice William G. Tierney University of Southern California This article considers the accessibility of language in scholarly work and discusses what makes a work boring and what the implications are for those who have a broad range of inquiry. In particular, the author discusses the development of the text in qualitative research and the struggles authors face as qualitative researchers. The author first considers the role of the author in the text and he then takes up the issue of readership. He subsequently discusses the relationship between the researched and the researcher and offers avenues for further consideration.
Early in the semester, I asked my graduate class on curriculum theory if they had any questions about the reading, which happened to be an article of my own; there was the usual silence that follows for a few seconds. I caught Craig’s eye and he felt compelled to speak. &dquo;I think I’m having a difficult time with it. I’ve read other things you’ve written in other classes. This is different. It’s more.... It’s not down to earth; it’s more.... It’s sort of dry, sort of -.&dquo; &dquo;I think the word you’re searching for is ’boring,’ I said. &dquo;You think it’s boring.&dquo; Craig laughed along with the rest of the class and commented, &dquo;Yeah, I guess I do.&dquo; The topics I have chosen to write about, and the manner in which I have written them, often provokes antithetical reactions in readers. One person bemoans all the &dquo;storytelling&dquo; that I do in one article, and another person wonders why I have gotten so theoretical in another. Part of my problem is the range of inquiry I have chosen to study and document. I have done works that have looked at various aspects of decision making and change in higher education (Tierney,1988). I also have done projects that looked at the struggles that lesbian and gay people face (Tiemey, 1992a), and I also have spent a good deal of time trying to portray and analyze the challenges in Native American education (Tierney,1992b). Although all of my work is qualitative, I often have written articles about a particular theoretical aspect of inquiry that is void of data (Tierney,1991). The monograph that my student mentioned was in this category Although I certainly have no regrets about my choice of topics, such a diversity of inquiry invites commentary that is not always welcome. Some years ago, for example, when I went for an interview for a position as an untenured assistant professor, the dean, having reviewed my resume, told me, &dquo;You appear to be something of a dilettante. You’ve written about all &dquo;
Qualitative Inquiry, Volume 1 Number 4,1995 379-390 © 1995 Sage Publications, Inc. 379
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these different things, done different things.&dquo; I replied to him that I was not certain if he meant his observation as a compliment, but I would take it as one if by dilettante he meant someone who had wide-ranging interests. I tend to think that he did not mean his comment as praise, but over the years I have not changed my ways; if anything, I have tried to expand my repertoire. In this article I consider the accessibility of language in scholarly work and consider what makes a work boring and what the implications are for those who have a broad range of inquiry. I write this text from a particular subject position and for a particular group of scholars. I concern myself here primarily with the development of the text in qualitative research and the struggles we face as qualitative researchers. In doing so, I do not wish to imply an either-or dichotomy where we assume that qualitative research is good and the other is bad, or that somehow the issues I raise here may not be issues for quantitative researchers as well. I simply wish to focus on representational practices in qualitative inquiry and leave to others more versed than I in quantitative work the dilemmas that my issues may raise. I also concentrate on the development of qualitative texts that is geared toward change. Although I certainly respect those who conduct &dquo;knowledge for knowledge’s sake,&dquo; I concentrate here on those of us who are involved in social science inquiries that in some way hope to change the world. The article has three parts. I first consider the role of the author in the text, and I then write about those who are our readers. In the third part I discuss the relationship between the researcher and the researched. I conclude with a summary about how my work continues to develop as I ponder these issues.
THE AUTHORIAL PRESENCE There is a cartoon making the rounds in anthropological circles where a postmodern day anthropologist is involved in dialogue with a Trobriand Islander. The caption has the Trobriand Islander saying, &dquo;But enough about you. Why don’t you ask me a question about myself and my people.&dquo; The issue of reflexivity in qualitative texts has created a great deal of discussion
and debate over the last decade. Indeed, James Clifford (1986) observed, &dquo;Writing has emerged as central to what anthropologists do both in the field and thereafter&dquo; (p. 2). Daphne Patai (1994) wrote of her concern about the &dquo;excess of rhetoric and methodolatry&dquo; (p. 61). &dquo;We should not,&dquo; she argues, &dquo;anguish quite so much over our own roles&dquo; (p. 65). She continues: The crisis in representation notwithstanding, babies still have to be cared for, shelter sought, meals prepared and eaten. People who stay up nights worrying about representation should consider what would happen if all the sewers in their city were stopped up, or if garbage collection ceased for three weeks. They should ask themselves whether the crisis in representation is a crisis in the same sense as the crisis in Bosnia, whether the problem of foundationalism is of the same kind as the problem of malnutrition. (p. 65)
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It would be too easy to dismiss her cranky complaint and respond in serial fashion: If the sewers were clogged or garbage stopped being picked up, it would be quite a mess in Los Angeles; Bosnia is a tragedy of horrendous proportion; foundationalism and malnutrition are not the same. I am usually in bed by 10:00 p.m. and thus do not worry about much until I arise at 5:00 a.m.
And
yet Patai, like the hypothetical Trobriand Islander, has a point that ought acknowledged. Indeed, Patai’s criticism is quite helpful in large part because she is one of us; she has written self-reflexive texts and underto be
stands the
epistemological
issues that led to the death of
positivism.
To
comment on her idea,
however, we need to consider first how self-reflexivity has worked its way into textual practice. Once upon a time, the story goes, the &dquo;I&dquo; could not be found in our qualitative texts. &dquo;Whenever possible,&dquo; our teachers would tell us in graduate school, &dquo;Use the passive voice. Personal statements have no place in scholarly writing.&dquo; In our desire to ape the natural sciences and appear rigorous, we sought to eschew any form of personal relationship to our research subjects. If we could not produce objectivity in a sterile laboratory such as our confreres in the natural sciences, we could at least maintain objectivity in our writing. In 1922 Bronislaw Malinowski (1961) wrote about the purpose of scientific ethnography: &dquo;The time when we could tolerate accounts presenting us the native as a distorted, childish caricature of a human being are gone. This picture is false, and like many other falsehoods, it has been killed by Science&dquo; (p. 11). Thus, in the name of science, we established an authorial presence of omniscience and omission. The assumption was that science would be able to accurately portray the lives of those whom we studied. The result of qualitative researchers’ faith in science and our absent voice did not result in atrocities equal to that of Bosnia, or even to that of clogged sewers. Ultimately, however, what we learned was that our faith was misplaced. We thought we understood people and we were wrong. Our misunderstanding was as much epistemological as methodological. We thought a real world existed and over time we realized that humans construct their worlds through the manipulation of symbols and language. Issues of identity became problematic. Researchers defined homosexuality as aberrant behavior only to learn that such labels got in the way of understanding the men and women whom we studied. White researchers studied Navajo ways to understand a primitive society and of consequence created a racial hierarchical order where Anglos came out on top. Or, we sought to understand how a group functioned, but came to write of the group absent of women. The textual result of our discovery was an infusion of first-person narratives in articles and books. &dquo;I offer no apologies,&dquo; wrote Michelle Fine (1994), &dquo;for the belief that intellectual questions are saturated in biography and politics and that they should be&dquo; (p. 31). Echoing Fine, Ruth Behar (1994) wrote that &dquo;a growing number of scholars have become impatient with
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cold-blooded analysis, which places the observer, and therefore the reader, at a safe, clinical, Mr. Spockian distance from the observed&dquo; (p. B2). Instead, we no longer hesitate to write from inside the research situation rather than outside. We construct texts that highlight how we developed our research questions, which, in turn, frame the respondents’ answers. We become actors in our own dramas rather than a disengaged director of a play We have been directing ourselves in these dramas for almost a generation; Patai’s frustration has reached the boiling point with what she perceives as academic narcissism. Where do we go from here? How do we construct our texts? Surely Patai is not suggesting that we return to the days of Malinowski’s call for scientific texts; indeed, she consistently litters her own texts with &dquo;I.&dquo; What, then, are we to do with these data we develop? I offer two thoughts.
Experimentation I have written elsewhere (Tierney & Lincoln, in press) about the boundaries of our writing. Even though our stories now include ourselves as actors and actresses, the manner in which we tell those stories has changed very little throughout this century. The structure of the text remains the same. Stories evolve in the present tense or the past tense, and they take place either in linear fashion or without reference to time. The narrator’s voice is clear, consistent, and similar to other narrators in other case
studies and ethnographies. The range of our textual
strategies is quite narrow. To be sure, we have acknowledged our narrative voices, but we have yet to expand the manner in which we present data. It is as if we all recognize that we are now allowed to
use
the first person in
a
text,
so we
all write short stories like F. Scott
Fitzgerald. Where are our Virginia Woolfs and Zora Neal Hurstons? Why do we not see qualitative research that is as broadly different as the literature of Salmon Rushdie, Marcel Proust, and Cormac McCarthy? To argue for greater experimentation in the manner in which we present data does not mean that we abandon standards for judging a good text, but it may mean that we develop dramatically different judgments about what accounts for a good text. My suggestion enables us to think about different ways to present material, and consequently, different ways to learn about those whom we study and those whom we teach. Navel gazing However much I may disagree with the polemic of Patai, I also acknowledge that she has a point. Experiments are undertakings to resolve uncertainties. By definition, some experiments will fail and others will raise new
383
questions and new experiments. In the last generation we have experimented our authorial voice and I am encouraging us to engage in new experi-
with
ments. At the
same
time, I also urge those of us who
are
concerned about
praxis and change to realize the limitations of self-reflexivity. I am not merely engaged in a methodological version of psychoanalysis of myself for my colleagues. I hope, for example, to contribute to changing academic structures that are no longer effective, to help those of us who are lesbian, gay, or bisexual develop voices of resistance so that we can change those bonds that silence us
and to enable other
peoples
who have been rendered invisible to
see
themselves, and for others to see them as they see themselves. We ought not to lose sight of such goals. As we experiment by developing a prose poem, or a short story, we consistently should question the purpose for which we are writing. We need to be able to judge why we have inserted ourselves in a text in a particular manner. The point surely is not to avoid experimentation, but to be certain that our experiments are efforts at creating change rather than merely an exercise in intellectual narcissism. Sometimes I worry that in our postmodern rush to abandon complete understanding we retreat to the easy assumption that we can understand no one but ourselves. My work in critical postmodernism, however, has taught me that ultimately my challenge is to engage in dialogue with that Trobriand Islander, and, too often of late, our own voices have overwhelmed any ability for dialogue. a
play,
DEFINING AUDIENCE, DEFINING VOICE
Regardless of one’s particular theoretical outlook, an author needs to deal with who will read the text. At times, I feel such comments are merely stating the obvious, and yet, much of the brouhaha about accessible language revolves around a misunderstanding, or lack of understanding, about those for whom we write. On the one hand, Russell Jacoby (1987) cautioned &dquo;social critics against the danger of yielding to a new Latin, a new scholasticism insulated from the larger public&dquo; (p. 236). On the other hand, Henry Giroux (1993) wrote that &dquo;the call for clarity suppresses difference and multiplicity, prevents curriculum theorists and other educators from deconstructing the basis of their own linguistic privilege, and reproduces a populist elitism that serves to deskill educators rather than empower them&dquo; (p. 157). I am comforted and troubled by the realization that such debates have occurred throughout this century. Indeed, as early as 1890, Adolf Bandelier (1916) published The Delight Makers, an ethnography of American Indians, as a novel. His rationale for using the fictional format focused entirely on for whom he wanted to write: was prompted to perform the work by a conviction that however scientific works may tell the truth about the Indian, they exercise always a limited
I
384
influence upon the general public, and to that public... the Indian has remained good as unknown. By clothing sober facts in the garb of romance I have hoped to make the &dquo;Truth about Pueblo Indians&dquo; more accessible and perhaps more acceptable to the public in general. (p. v) as
We may well scoff at Bandelier’s own romantic notions about presenting in any form, but the author recognized what others of us often fail to take into account: Different audiences demand different styles of writing. In a critique of Patti Lather’s work, for example, Stephanie Kirkwood Walker (1994) wrote that Lather’s &dquo;intense, significant, and stimulating concerns are burdened by a heaviness of prose that is coercive rather than emancipatory&dquo; (p.173). Presumably, Lather’s prose must be light rather than heavy Stan Karp (1991) wrote that Peter McLaren’s work is &dquo;written in dense, academically-
&dquo;Truth,&dquo;
inflated prose that makes for tedious reading (p. 33). McLaren too, then, ought to write in a stripped-down simple prose. If Lather’s and McLaren’s writing is critiqued for its density, then is all academic writing open to such criticism as well? Certainly the prose of some of the more respected social theorists-Foucault, Lyotard, Habermas, and Gadamer, to name only a few-also could be criticized for &dquo;density.&dquo; The concern about density also extends into the realm of qualitative research. Laurel Richardson (1994) admitted, &dquo;For thirty years I have yawned my way through numerous supposedly exemplary qualitative studies. Countless numbers of texts have I abandoned half read, half scanned. I’ll order a new book with great anticipation ... only to find the text boring&dquo; (p. 516). Richardson goes on to explain that when she &dquo;comes out&dquo; to colleagues and students about her unhappiness with the dry, flat prose that populates academic writing she finds that many others share her views. And, of course, when journalists and the general citizenry get hold of what we write, they more often than not hold it up for derision. I am troubled when we dismiss a theoretical work from any vantage point-modernism, postmodernism, feminism, functionalism, and so onbecause of the complexity of the argument. In the age of MTV and People magazine, readers have grown complacent. We demand quick sound bytes rather than patiently developed arguments, formulaic responses rather than thoughtful analyses. One wonders how Dewey-the-obscure would be received today. Plato and St. Paul would certainly come in for much of the same criticism leveled at Giroux and Lather. The point should not be whether such writers expect too much of their readers; they are developing theoretical works on important topics, not writing a TV sitcom. Is difficulty, then, a flaw in one’s writing? Not necessarily What concerns me about the nature of the critiques in this area is that authors on both sides seem to split the narrative world in two. Proponents and opponents make the same point: Either &dquo;dense&dquo; prose is good or it is bad. We have created a false dichotomy with such an assumption. We have ignored our audience and mistakenly assumed that &dquo;one size fits all,&dquo;
385
if one writing style is sufficient for all audiences. When I write a text, there at least four potential audiences for my work: my colleagues, those involved in the interviews and observations, policymakers, and the general public. When the narrative world divides in this manner, the author usually needs to develop four different narrative styles. Policymakers will not read dense prose. I have an obligation to my colleagues, however, to develop an argument and provide evidence that may be dense and of no interest to the general public. Those individuals I have interviewed also want to understand how I have portrayed them. I might bemoan that a congressional aide will not read a book that employs critical postmodernism in analyzing higher education (Tierney,1993), but if I want my ideas to reach Congress, I also need to be aware how I might reach them. Consequently, sometimes dense prose is good and sometimes it is not. Bandelier knew this 100 years ago. Why, then, have we failed to acknowledge the diversity of our potential audiences, and what might we do to enable one another to reach these groups? as
are
Good Writing I raise this issue with a good deal of trepidation because I know I open myself up for criticism from my postmodern colleagues. Nevertheless, allow me to point out that as someone who majored in English, grew up in a family that valued literature, and continues to be a voluminous reader of fiction, I believe there is much to be said for subject-verb agreement. Writing is a skill that we learn. Much academic writing today is poorly written, not because such prose writers seek to disrupt grand narratives but because they are poor writers. My hesitation in making such a comment is that we then will inevitably embark on a discussion about what constitutes &dquo;good writing.&dquo; However troubling such a discussion may be, it is imperative that we have it. But again, I would hope that the discussion does not take place within the either-or
polemic that seems to take place at present. In the previous section I mentioned authors whose writing has taught me a great deal: Fitzgerald, Hurston, Woolf, Proust, and McCarthy. Their styles are dramatically different, but each of them demonstrates a facility with the language that social scientists rarely show. My simple plea here is that we incorporate greater reflexivity in our writing than we have heretofore shown-and by &dquo;reflexivity&dquo; I do not simply mean that we use the first-person singular voice and be done with it. Let me offer one example from a text I admire: In Getting Smart, Lather (1991) wrote, &dquo;This de-centering of the author via intertextuality is a demonstration of how the author is inevitably inscribed in discourses created by others, preceded and surrounded by other texts, some which are evoked, some not&dquo; (p. 9). Any writer knows, but especially someone who subscribes to postmoderruty is aware, that there is always more than one way to present a
concept. I believe I understand Lather’s sentence here; I stumble over the
386
idea, however, not because of the difficult thought that is presented but because it is poorly written. In our writing I encourage us to think about why such sentences are constructed in a particular manner and what we are attempting to do when we develop our ideas in such a way I am not saying that we all must write in a similar manner. Indeed, I am suggesting the opposite. Our narrative scope should be as broad as what exists in fiction. Instead, it is as narrow as what exists in the natural sciences.
Implications of Experimentation My simple plea has a more serious consequence. By and large, academics learn how to write &dquo;academese&dquo; in graduate school. Writing is rarely taught, it is intuited. If we are to write differently, then we need to learn and teach those different styles. We cannot ask our colleagues to write for the general public if we have taught one another to write for ourselves. Thus graduate schools, professional associations, colleges and universities, and our informal groups need to do a better job than we are presently doing at teaching one another about the rich diversity of narrative style that exists. To experiment with narrative style and range of audience is a risky undertaking in the academy It was not so long ago that in some circles qualitative research itself was seen as the experiment. However much we may have convinced our colleagues that case studies are appropriate methodologies, an individual surely runs a risk with a tenure review committee if the manner of presentation is a play or short story rather than a traditional social science text. In true postmodern fashion, editors of professional journals often do not know how to read nontraditional texts, so narrative experiments often do not occur in those journals that are rated most highly in the academy. Further, if we reach out to policymakers or the broad public, our efforts will prove worthless to a faculty promotion and tenure committee. An article on the op-ed page of The New York Times may help sway public opinion on a particular issue, but it will not do much for the untenured political scientist with his or her review committee. A sociologist who has a short story selected for publication in a prestigious anthology of fiction may have a significant readership in the public, but not with departmental colleagues. Such hurdles are not insurmountable barriers, they are simply problems that we must recognize and work to change. The optimistic view of what I am suggesting is that I am pointing out problems with the faculty reward structure, and criticism of this structure now appears from virtually all angles (Tierney & Bensimon, in press). The structure will change, and we should clarify the concerns we have. Similarly, professional associations also need to learn how to deal with experimental sessions. We have socially constructed a conference format in
387
this century of &dquo;talking heads&dquo; where every academic has his or her 15 minutes in the academic sun. To speak at the American Anthropological Association is of vastly more importance than speaking to the United Farmworkers Union. To read a paper in a dull monotone is a surer way to academic success than to develop a different narrative strategy. Again, I am not suggesting that we drop one format-professional meetings-for another. I am arguing that we need to think more clearly about how we might enlarge and, consequently, change the textual dialogues in which we are involved. Finally, discussions about writing in social science departments is generally of little importance. One professor in a student’s career may exhibit some concern about how to write, and a dissertation proposal writing class may have a week or two about effective writing strategies, but in general we do not do much else with students. If writing is important, if we want to enable students to experiment with their texts, then we must give greater import to how to infuse discussions about writing in graduate school. Writing across the curriculum, for example, is an activity that has taken hold in many institutions for undergraduates, but has not been considered for graduate students. I am suggesting that we begin to consider similar options for graduate students in the social sciences.
THE RESEARCHER AND THE RESEARCHED If I have called for narrative
diversity in how we insert ourselves into a
text and with regard to those audiences for whom we write, then I am at least
consistent in suggesting that we need similar narrative diversity with those whom we interview, observe, study, and become engaged. Again, at times, I am troubled by our recent arguments about how to engage the researched. Discussions often occur as dichotomies. Either no thought has been given about how to involve those whom we study, or the argument is made that if our interviewees are not coparticipants in the research enterprise then the researcher is involved in an unethical undertaking. The range of qualitative research is vast. When our methodological debates decontextualize issues to create &dquo;rules of the road,&dquo; we ironically create dogmatic generalizations in a field that rejects generalizability. More often than not, for example, those individuals with whom I have worked have no interest in what I have written. A college president, a department chair, or a trustee usually have little concern about what a researcher may suggest, as long as confidentiality is assured. Because most of my work is longitudinal, 2 or 3 years may elapse between speaking to someone for 1 hour in a cafeteria and using a quote in a text. On the other hand, I have been involved with individuals in the collection of life history data or the construction of an ethnography where the participants have read every word I have written and have offered commentary.
388
The relationship of the researcher to the researched has generated a good deal of discussion of late; I confine my question here to a textual one: Given the diversity of relationships that we build with those with whom we work in a research undertaking, what might our narrative stance be? In 1978 a woman from the Bolivian mines wrote in her autobiography Let Me Speak!: I think that the people who have had the chance to go to the university should talk our language, because we haven’t been in the university and we don’t
understand much about numbers, but we are capable of understanding our national reality.... Those who study should maybe learn something about how to speak in our language with all the knowledge that they have, so that we too can understand everything that they learn. (Barrios De Ghungara, 1978, p. 58)
Domitila Barrios’s
point is neither that researchers should talk down to
people nor that readers are ignorant. Barrios is saying that individuals can understand their &dquo;reality&dquo;; she asks that researchers start speaking to a larger community than simply one another to aid individuals in changing their reality To be sure, I too am suggesting that researchers reconsider how we present our work so that the text is more accessible, that the reader is more capable of hearing from those whom we interview and observe, and that we more forcefully bring into question issues of voice and the relationship we have constructed with the individuals under study I offer an additional thought. Certainly not every piece of writing that I do needs to have clear policy implications for changing practice, but a great deal of what I write about should have such a discussion. Social science, and qualitative research in particular, deals with the interpretation of particular aspects of the constructed world. I also wrote at the article’s outset that I am concerned with praxis and change. A textual strategy that demonstrates such concern is to delineate the implications of what I have written. I offer two examples. I once wrote about a young Native American, Johnny Ortiz (a pseudonym), who was a community college student at the time I interviewed him (Tierney,1992b). He never exhibited any interest in reading what I wrote, but he was very concerned about what I had to say about his own life and his chances for success in college. I was able to &dquo;talk his language&dquo; and explain my thoughts to him in a way that I hope was helpful. Subsequently, I also have written texts that pertain to the problems that exist for American Indian students when they go to an off-reservation community college and then want to transfer to a 4-year institution. In effect, I am suggesting that we do more than simply describe the world in theoretical or methodological terms. We need to take our work one step further. Elliot Liebow’s (1993) recent work, Tell Them Who 1 Am: The Lives of Homeless Women, is another example of the kind of work that I am suggesting more of us conduct. Although his narrative style may be somewhat dry and traditional, he attempted three tasks that I find admirable. He had many of his interviewees-homeless women-read a draft of his book. Obviously, not
389
everyone wanted to read the book, but he made it available to those who were interested. He also debriefed those with whom he worked about what he
thought about homelessness. And third, he concludes his work with some very specific personal ideas about what to do about homelessness. One may quarrel with his suggestions, but at least we have something with which to
disagree; the reader is also aware why the author makes the suggestions that he does. As researchers, we often do the opposite. We present data, but we are hesitant to offer suggestions about how to solve the problems we face. Our hesitation is well founded, but ill conceived if we want to help change the world. I am suggesting, then, that we increase our ability to offer textual strategies for change that make clear to those whom we interview what we think and feel about what we have studied. At times they may actually read what we have written, and at other times they will hear from us what we have concluded. And at yet other times, the work will suggest ways to improve the situation that we have studied be it the tenure process in academe, homophobia in faculty ranks, or American Indian attrition in college. CONCLUSION In the preface to his book Liebow
(1993) wrote: I do not mean that a man with a home and family can see and feel the world as homeless women see and feel it. I do mean, however, that it is reasonable and useful to try to do so. Trying to put oneself in the place of the other lies at the heart of the social contract and of social life itself. (p. xv)
I agree. I have argued that the textual implications of that social contract multiple. As authors we need to expand the range of our narrative voice and think more carefully about what we consider good writing to be. We also need to expand the audiences for whom we write. Such expansion necessitates changes for the faculty reward structure in the academy and also for how we teach writing to graduate students and one another. Finally, it also creates a different textual relationship with those whom we study. At times they will read our work as collaborators or critics and at other times they at least will gain a sense of what we have concluded. We also will increase our interest in offering conclusions that have implications other than simply adding to one’s vita with yet another research publication. Such suggestions surely do not offer a panacea to the problems of making our work accessible; however, it is hoped that they move us beyond an argument that either we should or should not write in &dquo;plain&dquo; or &dquo;dense&dquo; or &dquo;personal&dquo; prose. One narrative size does not fit all. are
390
REFERENCES Bandelier, A. F. (1916). The delight makers. New York: Dodd, Mead. (Originally published 1890) Barrios De Chungara, D. (1978). Let me speak! New York: Monthly Review Press. Behar, R. (1994, June 29). Dare we say "I"? Bringing the personal into scholarship. Chronicle of
Higher Education, pp. B1-2.
Clifford, J. (1986). On ethnographic allegory. In J. Clifford & G. Marcus (Eds.), Writing culture (pp. 61-73). Berkeley: University of California Press. Fine, M. (1994). Dis-stance and other stances: Negotiations of power inside feminist research. In A. Gitlin (Ed.), Power and method (pp.13-35). New York: Routledge. Giroux, H. (1993). Living dangerously: Multiculturalism and the politics of difference. New York: Peter Lang. Jacoby, R. (1987). The last intellectuals: American culture in the age of academe. New York: Basic Books.
Karp, S. (1991, Winter). Critical pedagogy. Radical Teacher, 32-34. Lather, P. (1991). Getting smart: Feminist research and pedagogy within the postmodern . New York and London: Routledge. Liebow, E. (1993). Tell them who I am. New York: Free Press. Malinowski, B. (1961). Argonauts of the Western Pacific. New York: E. P. Dutton. Patai, D. (1994). When method becomes power. In A. Gitlin (Ed.), Power and method (pp.
13-35). New York: Routledge. Richardson, L. (1994). Writing: A method of inquiry. In N. Denzin & Y Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 516-529). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. W. G. (1988). Organizational culture in higher education. Journal of Higher Education, 59 (1), 2-21. Tierney, W. G. (1991). Ideology and identity in postsecondary institutions. In W. G. Tierney (Ed.). Culture and ideology in higher education (pp. 35-57). New York: Praeger. (2), Tierney, W. G. (1992a). Building academic communities of difference. Change, 24
Tierney,
41-46.
Tierney, W. G. (1992b). Official encouragement, institutional discouragement: Minorities in academe—the Native American experience. Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Tierney, W. G. (1993). Building communities of difference. Westport, CT: Bergin & Garvey. Tierney, W. G., & Bensimon, E. (in press). Rethinking promotion and tenure: Culture and socialization in academe. Albany: State University of New York Press. Tierney, W. G., & Lincoln, Y (in press). Representation and the text: Defining the narrative voice. Albany: State University of New York Press. Walker, K. S. (1994). Canonical gestures. [Review of the book Getting smart: Feminist research and pedagogy within the postmodern]. Curriculum Inquiry, 24 (2),171-180. William G. Tierney is a professor and the director of the Center for Higher Education Policy Analysis at the University of Southern California. He is currently editing a book (with Yvonna Lincoln) titled Representation and the Text: Reframing the Narrative Voice. He also recently finished a book that investigates the intersections of cultural studies, knowledge production, and sexuality in the academy.
