I saw a chameleon fish mimic the colors and patterns of its surroundings so perfectly that only his twitching nose gave him away. No. Wait. It must have been a puppy, his twitching black nose the only clue he wasn’t a fish. Please forgive me, I am not myself. I keep thinking of water. My father was a sailor. With his hair tied back he could shoot the sun and take us to paradise. He threw a hook off the stern and fed us rainbow fish for dinner. He never did like dogs.

“Bastante!” he yelled, “Enough!” when he’d had it. And when we fretted he said, “At ease, at ease,” and asked our mother, “Should we give them postre now?” It didn’t take us long to learn it meant dessert, or how to spell i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m. Please, I’d like more postre now. In that place they never gave him ice cream. I used to sneak it in. Chocolate, and he ate it with his fingers. Once I asked how he was, and Dad said, “Fit and ready for duty, sir!” Then he pointed at my step mother and said, “You know, I was once married to a woman with the same name as that one. Only the other one was much nicer.”

I fell from a great height and was caught in a sling. A meadowlark sang, and the air rushed cool against my face. No. Wait. It must have been a raptor’s cry. Yes, a red tailed hawk dove past the naked tree where sparrows perched, waiting to tease her. My mother flew to Hawaii on one of the first Pan Am airplanes. It took a long time and she met a handsome man who was not my father.

When I told my brother, he reminded me how after her shower, our mother puffed talcum powder all over herself. What a strange thing to remember when someone tells you your father is dead. She taught me to call chickens, a skill reserved for the women in our family.

Paris, 1947

He, too, was struck by the pervasive scent
of onions and the ghastly cost of the war.

They danced in a discothèque
while deer strolled through the woods.

He watched her drink coffee
with a sugar cube between her teeth.

He invited her for a walk, and she cried
Stop! But it was only a seagull.
Not a cockatoo.

They enjoyed eavesdropping in cafes.
Once, on the street, he heard a soldier ask,

What day is this? And
she replied, I don’t know. I don’t live here.

He worried that she might find him dull,
she had, after all, no gift for opera.

She said he swallowed loudly.
But not all the time.

There was a certain comfort.

Later, he would ask his bride,
Why hyacinths? And
she would reply, Because marigolds smell like dying bees.

In my clan the babies ride horses,
snug between saddle and womb,
manes flying loose in the coarse

sea breeze. We fall. We lick our wounds.
We tumble, again.
Women shriek and beat the drums

as echoes wash over. The men,
starved and impatient, die young.
But we know where to go when

the wind shifts. We know which vein
to tap. We know when the hawk descends
on a twisted course, and the red pine

bends to earth, that silence is at hand.
Stars glare down on thin clouds and drifting sand.

 Sweat crept down his back as he stepped off the rumbling bus and stood at attention with the other recruits. He’d used a cheap comb to part his hair with what he thought was military precision – on the right, in a thin straight line. But he couldn’t control that one strand growing out of his cowlick. He liked the idea of a wide-eyed cow licking his left temple but he did value order in those days, so he tried hard to control his unruly lock. He tried everything short of hair spray, which struck him as girly and he didn’t like the smell. Nothing did the trick so, as he stood there in the Texas sun, that one strand drew a proud arc and flopped right into his eyes. 

A tall guy with clippers sliced off his hair and for one hellish year of jungle warfare the strand lay stifled under a buzz cut. It never arced quite as high after that. He left the Army with his honor intact and his confidence demolished. Still, he got into Berkeley with the GI bill, grew his hair out and learned to roll a joint.  

He cultivated a taste for disorder and came to enjoy the simple act of dropping his dirty clothes on the dorm room floor. ? He made a few gestures towards revolution but he never hurt anyone. A newspaper reporter in a roiling street asked why he was protesting the war. Tears flowed from his stinging eyes and he yelled, “Why the hell aren’t you?”  

The next day, his picture was in the newspaper with a caption: “campus radical.”  

“I’m no radical!” he yelled and kicked a bike that was locked to a power pole. 

When they shot those kids in Ohio his mom cried.  She kept saying, “It could have been you!” She wanted him to come home but he hated her when she cried. By then, the strand hung loose down his hollow cheek and people stared at him when he loped down the street.

He majored in sociology because he heard it was easy. They let him graduate, much to his surprise. Then he applied for job after job and they told him he needed skills; more skills; different skills. He figured he needed camouflage so he got a buzz cut and a new shirt. Rubbing his scalp reminded him how much he disliked taking orders.  

“But,” Pop said, “You do like to eat, don’t you?”  

So he kept looking.

Then he met Debbie in a crowded pub. She and another girl sat at the bar drinking wine and laughing loud, their t-shirts so tight he could make out all four nipples pert and ready.  Debbie thought he was square with that buzz cut and Oxford shirt but later she said he had a poetic face, “Sweet, in a sad kind of way.”  

He nearly passed out when she reached up to rub the fuzz on his scalp and pressed her nipple into his shoulder. Later he would tell her the first thing he noticed in that bar was her tinkling laugh. He came to believe it was true. 

At the wedding, the errant strand once again strayed into his eyes. There’s a picture of him in his tux and her in her gown reaching up to tuck the lock back from his face with her fingertips. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.  

She tucked that hair back thousands of times. Even after their daughters were born and things got hectic, she always picked him up at work, always leaned across to tuck back his strand with her fingertips.  But there’s only that one picture. 

Debbie collected travel brochures. She taped a postcard of the Forbidden City to the bathroom mirror. His company moved to China. His unemployment ran out. She threw the postcard away. 

By the time leukemia took her, their girls were grown and gone. They came back for the funeral and couldn’t understand why he couldn’t squeeze out a single tear.   

“To hell with them,” he muttered, “To hell with everything.” He sold the house, threw all those damn brochures in the trash, and signed up for Social Security. He kept his grey hair stretched in a ponytail at the back of his neck and started smoking pot again.

“Hey! It’s legal!” He exclaimed with a cough.  

He met a biker woman from Nevada in a bar. She thought the strand made him look like Elvis and she never did tuck it back from his face. Jolene wasn’t the tucking back type, with her brown leather skin and unfiltered Camels, but she didn’t mind his mess and she had a good laugh. He liked to rest his head on her flat, little tummy. ? 

Joleen persuaded him to move to Elko and buy a twelve-foot skiff. He found winters cold but the summer fishing made up for it. She loved to angle for trout and he liked to putter with the boat. He found a measure of pride in being a veteran and joined the Rotary. On Saturdays, they drove a pickup to town to drink beer and gossip at The Star Hotel. A quiet contentment snuck up on him. 

The afternoon he passed was the hottest of the year. They were out on Ruby Marsh drinking beer with a few bass in the bucket.  

“Damn! I wish I’d brought my hat.”  

Those were his last words before, as Joleen explained to all who’d listen,  

“He just leaned over and died right there in the boat.”  

No drama and very little mess but Joleen was haunted nonetheless. She kept remembering his head in her lap, how after he died that lock of hair fell into his eyes, and how she tucked it back with her fingertips.

Evening shouldn’t be this warm.

Santa Ana. That man on the television with the wobbling chin. He says you should say the middle ‘a.’ “Some people,” he says, “are just too lazy to say the middle a.” Test it on your tongue and imagine a wind named after a saint. No. Mama says don’t listen to him with his fancy words. It was the people named the wind Santana. This wind is named for the devil.

The sun comes up dirty when Santana rolls through. The hairs prickle up from my head. Papa scoots his socks across the carpet and a spark jumps from his finger to my nose. “Static electricity,” he says. But then he has to go help out at the dairy.

We’re shut inside. Mama mutters, “Those precious cows aren’t even his.”

She squeezes my shoulder and tells me about the strong man who thought he could stop the wind. He climbed the cliff wall, hugging cold rock until he hauled himself over the edge and stood panting on the bare mesa. He stared straight into the dark eyes of the wind eagle. Her claws clutched the edge of a massive nest in the topmost branch of a dying tree. When she flapped her wings the wind snapped hair into his eyes. Tears cooled his temples. His kerchief tugged loose and flew away. The snaps of his shirt tore open one by one until it, too, sailed away, sleeves waving.  With a gasp he landed on his back and his pants stole out from underneath. They, too, took flight. Socks and shoes dribbled along behind. He lost his hair and eyebrows strand by strand. He lies there now. Prone. Clinging to the base of that dying tree.

You don’t close drapes against Santana. Better to watch the desert unhinged. Tumbleweeds bound in elegant arcs. A rusty slab of corrugated tin revolves in the air high above the barn. Dust devils twirl through the fields. Little tornadoes sucking water from crops. An invisible hand rips out our mulberry tree. Roots dangle in the desiccated air.

Fire to the West. Smoke erases the sun.

Santana’s churning. Get ready for a night of howls and whispers. Walls shudder in the dark; beams moan. Fingers of dust sneak under the doors. A window cracks. Coyote howls. Mama says no sleep for the wicked.

When sun finally rises the earth so still and the air so clear. Colors hurt your eyes—red sand, purple mountains, sapphire sky pierced in the west by leftover stars.

A chain saw slices the faraway quiet and Mama snores on the sofa. 

I slip outside and down the path to the corral. Trash huddles in the bottlebrush: plastic bags, baling wire, a Barbie doll with no clothes at all.

I throw some hay to my hungry little mare hunkered there behind the wood pile, black tail snug against her chestnut rump. Her eyes swollen shut leaking sludge. She smells me and nickers but she can’t see

all those stiff black birds scattered across the field.

My colleague sent a 10-year old article that captured several issues I’ve been grappling with in my research and in my life. (One of the great advantages of a career in gerontology is that the two converge as we grow older!) The article is quite dense, with fabulous theoretical twists and turns, so the bit that resonnated for me might not even be the central thesis from the author’s (or your) perspective. Still, here’s what I got. Masquerade is essential and constant throughout the adult life-course, and particularly in later life (?) . Partly we’re forced into it by the ageism that surrounds us as, for instance, when we disguise our sexuality to conform with normative expectations or when we dress or behave in ways considered “age-appropriate.” And partly it permits a bit of experimentation – a playful trying-on, as it were, of diverse options or “masks.” But to the extent that a social (or physical?) environment requires disguise it impairs the development (? or at least the expression) of authentic identities. This is no surprise, really. But I think it’s interesting to ask ourselves as we navigate our social environments to what extent each setting permits congruent expression of both our surface and our deep selves. We must also consider the cost of incongruity. When we crossed our eyes at the teacher she used to stay, “Stop that or they’ll get stuck that way!” Might the same thing apply? Even as we are consciously playing made-up roles might we get stuck that way? A good part of my life has been the search for settings and relationships that permit me to be authentically myself. Sometimes I think it’s not about the setting, but my own cowardice.If only I were stronger, braver,smarter, more sure, I would just BE MYSELF. So for me, this article brought a key insight – it’s not all about me. The social environment, or at least some settings and relationships, demand duplicity in exchange for security, acceptance, acclaim. Maybe one gift of old age will be the opportunity to transform or exit these settings.

Biggs, S. (1999). The “blurring” of the life-course: Narrative, memory and the question of authenticity. Journal of Aging and Identity,4(4), 209-221.

Paper presented at the Gerontological Society of American, Nov. 16, 2012, San Diego

Here’s a deceptively simple summary of an approach borrowed from Douglas Ezzy’s 2002 book, Qualitative Analysis:

1. Compile the stories
2. On the first of several reads through you collection, note and bracket your responses to the story: what you believe, what you doubt, what touches you (Here’s an example of what I mean)
3. Analyze the explicit content, the discourse, and the context of each story focusing on insights and understandings
4. Consider the latent content that lies unsaid between the lines (see Braun & Clarke article under Narrative Research Methods for more)
5. Compare and contrast stories for similarities and differences in content, style, and interpretation
6. Consider the effects of background variables(ie: history, geography, gender, age)
7. Identify stories or content that illustrates your themes, insights, and understandings

Increasingly, social science researchers are using themes and approaches from literary theory to develop rich, fine-grained analysis of discourse. Here, I think Derrida’s question, “What is this text responding to?” can be extremely helpful.

You’ll find more in-depth consideration of narrative methods (and more detailed discussion of various approaches) in my paper titled, “Refining the Narrative Turn: When does story-telling become research.”

Other resources are listed and reviewed on the page titled, “Books and Articles on Narrative Inquiry.”

Review

Ellis, C. (2004). The Ethnographic I: A methodological novel about autoethnography. Walnut Creek: Alta Mira Press.

I took up this book as part of my ongoing struggle to force my creative and scholarly selves to cohabit the same turf. As a novel, it lacks punch. There’s death and drama, but  no narrative arc. Ellis presents herself, the protagonist, as an accomplished, if sometimes puzzled, academic who is unreservedly devoted to her students. The character doesn’t ring true, possibly because it lacks Foucault’s “fundamental and originating contradiction.” But as an academic work the book succeeds beautifully. I found myself eagerly turning back and forth between text and notes, marking up margins and noting which references to track down next. I’m now in the process of tracking them down, and have found several gems in the process.

The narcissistic strain of autoethnography makes me squirm, even as I appreciate the presence of authors as multi-dimensional, less-than-perfect human beings. At the same time, the book offers a pointed critique of traditional social science as not just dull, but deliberately obscure. Ellis (and her husband, Art Bochner) suggest that the criteria some resaerchers cling to with such vigor serve to constrain and conceal. Researchers hide behind rituals and rules and, as a result “the literature,” as my students love to call it, is dull as bathwater.  Ellis and her colleagues suggest that judicious use of fictional devices might produce a “literature” that is evocative, informative, and effective — an interesting claim worth further consideration.

Musing

Standing before the full-length mirror in my bedroom I am confused. This morning when I posed in my underwear I thought, “Not bad for 53. You go girl!” This evening it’s “How did you get so stocky so quickly? Cover that thing up now!” How can the same mirror present such contrasting images in the space of a single day? Isn’t anything true for more than 12 hours? This, I think, is the source of my mistrust of authobiography – my never-ending quest for eternal truths. When I let go of that, life becomes more interesting. I redefine what I mean by truth – I’m thinking it’s personal (it grabs ms), it’s relevant (to someone else) and it’s fluid (changing). Letting go of eternal truths enables me to ask what my judgmental response says about older women in our culture. It brings me to interface between personal and political, where feminist theory once resided. And this is what I like about autoethnography.

Auto-ethnography is quite seductive. It’s the ultimate post-modern research approach and you don’t even need Ethics (IRB) approval! Examine your life then use your knowledge of social theory, history, philosophy, and/or anthropology to reflect on what this means for you and others.
There are measures for assessing the quality of auto-ethnographic reports: resonance, validity, and narrative truth. Aha! Someone cares about truth! This would suggest that it’s not just navel-gazing. Then Allan Sparkes (2001)[or was it Carolyn Ellis, 1999?] offered more evocative criteria: “the use of systematic sociological introspection and emotional recall; the inclusion of the researcher’s vulnerable selves, emotions, body ad spirit; the production of evocative stories that create the effect of reality; the celebration of concrete experience and intimate detail; the examination of how human experience is endowed with meaning; a concern with moral, ethical, and political consequences; an encouragement of empathy; a focus on helping us know how to live and cope; the featuring of multiple voices and the repositioning of readers and “subjects” as co-participants in dialogue; [and] the search for a fusion between social sciences and literature…” (p 214)

Auto-ethnography combines personal and societal reflection, teasing forth the warp and the woof of our social fabric. Shifting our gaze back and forth from internal to external in a way that others can follow. I stuck my toe in with Love Stories of Later Life, and plan to dive in headfirst in my next book, Parenting Reflections. It’s a bit scary. Who wants to be accused of self-indulgence? But hey, “you gotta do what you gotta do.” And where did that come from?

Narrative Studies

Abbott, Andrew (2007). Against Narrative: A preface to lyrical sociology. Sociological Theory, 25(1). 67-99. A careful, well-argued piece that seeks to map the parameters of a "lyrical sociology." Abbott argues that such works: take an engaged nonironic stance towards the subject at hand, include specific location of the subject in space and time, use strong figuration & personification, and aim to communicate the author's emotional stance towards their subject rather than explain the subject. He touches on debates in ethnography as well. Beautifully written, with literary elements.

Ahmed, A. (2015). Retiring to Spain: Women’s narratives of nostalgia, belonging, and community. Policy Press An exemplary study with superb application of narrative theory and methods. Ahmed integrates social science and literary theory to provide a fine-grained analysis of women’s stories. (Please see my review in the April, 2016 issue of The Gerontologist.

Carpenter, L. & Emerald, E. (2009). Stories from the Margin: Mothering a Child with ADHD or ASD. Post Pressed. Conducted in Australia, this study is embedded in an ethic that calls on research to be of direct benefit to vulnerable populations. Chapter 1 offers a detailed description of the methodology. I haven’t read it yet, but the reviews are excellent. You’ll find them here: http://www.e-contentmanagement.com/books/339/stories-from-the-margin-mothering-a-child-with.

Carpenter, L., & Austin, H. (2007) ‘Silenced, Silence, Silent: Motherhood in the margins’, Qualitative Inquiry, vol.13, no.5.660-674. Here’s an article based on the same study. It’s a terrific read. I like their description of how they created space for stories, “we designed the interview space to give women a moment to stop the action, tell their story and reflect.” Bordieu’s ideas are introduced and applied beautifully.  

Blumenfeld-Jones Donald. “Fidelity as a Criterion for Practicing and Evaluating Narrative Inquiry.” Life History and Narrative. Eds. J.A. Hatch and R. Wisniewski. London: Falmer, 1995.

Borins, S. (2011). Governing Fables: Learning from public sector narratives. Charlotte, NC: Information Age Publishing. (A classmate of Larry’s at Harvard, Borins, per the flyleaf, “applies narratological theory to public management and politics.” Interesting approach.)

Braun, V. & Clarke, V. (2006). Using thematic analysis in psychology. Qualitative Research in Psychology, 3, 77-101. (A nice clear, step-by-step approach that many of my students have found helpful. They do a  nice job distinguishing explicit and latent content.) 

Carter, Duncan and Sherrie Gradin. Writing as Reflective Action.

Clandinin, D.Jean and F. Michael Connelly. (2000). Narrative Inquiry: Experience and Story in Qualitative Research.

Clandinin, D. Jean (Ed) (2006). Handbook of Narrative Inquiry: Mapping a methodology. Sage Publications.

Cowling, W.R. (2008). An essay on women, despair, and healing: A personal narrative. Advances n Nursing Science, 31(3), p. 249-58.

Czarniawska, Barbara (2004). Narratives in Social Science Research. Sage Publications. The first chapter is available for free online. It provides an excellent brief history of narrative analysis and a useful typology of narrative research.

Fraser, H. (2004). Doing Narrative Research: Analyzing personal stories line by line. Qualitative Social Work, 3, 179-201. (This one’s really good!)

Gubrium, J.F. & Holstein, J.A. (1998). Narrative Practice and the Coherence of Personal Stories. The Sociological Quarterly, 39(1), 163-187. An excellent articles that aims to provide “an analytic vocabulary for describing the practical production of coherence in personal stories.” It gives clear examples and in-depth discussion of key concepts such as: narrative ownership, footing, reflexivity,slippage, linkages, and coherence. A must-read for anyone beginning a narrative study.

Herman, D. (Ed.) (2007). The Cambridge Companion to Narrative. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Hermann, Marie-Luise (2007). Narrative gerontology: Survey of current literature and research. Psychotherapie und Sozialwissenschaft: Zeitschrift fur Qualitative Forschung. 9(1), 7-32.

Hollway, W. & Jefferson, T. (2000). Doing qualitative research differently: Free association, narrative and the interview method. London: Sage. Written by researchers from the UK, the book offers a distinct approach that takes into account (equally) the narratives of researcher and interviewee. They call for data analysis that doesn’t fragment the text but focuses on the whole, noting links and contradictions; and for privileging free-association over coherence.

Jones, K. (2008). Narrative Matters: The power of the personal essay in health policy. Journal of Health Care for the Poor and Underserved, 19(3), p. 1011.

Jones, R., Latham, J. & Betta, M. (2008). Narrative construction of the social entrepreneurial identity. International Journal of Entrepreneurial Behavior & Research, 14(5), p. 330.

Josselson, R, Leibich, A.& McAdams, A. (2003). Up close and personal: The teaching and learning of narrative research. Available online.

Josselson, R. & Liebich, A. (1995). Interpreting Experience: The narrative study of lives. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Laszlo, J. (2008). The Science of Stories: An introduction to narrative psychology. Longon: Routledge.

Knudson, R.M., Adame, A.L., Finocan, G.M. (2006). Significant dreams: Repositioning the self narrative. Dreaming, 16(3), 215-222.

McAdams, D.P., Josselson, R., & Lieblich, A. (eds.)(2006). Identity and Story: Creating self in narrative. APA Books. (Part of a series called “The Narrative Study of Lives.”)

Pagnucci, Gian. Living the Narrative Life: Stories as a Tool for Meaning Making.

Pratt, M.W. Arnold, M.L., & Mackey, K. (2001). Adolescents’ representations of the parent voice in stories of personal turning points. In McAdams, D, Josselson, R., & Lieblich, A. Turns in the Road: Narrative studies of lives in transition. American Psychological Association. (Part of a series called “The Narrative Study of Lives.”)

Phoenix, C. & Sparkes, A.C. (2008). Athletic bodies and aging in context: The narrative construction of experienced and anticipated selves in time. Journal of Aging Studies. 22(3), p. 211.

Randall, W.L. & McKim, E. (2008). Reading our Lives: The poetics of growing old. NY: Oxford University Press.

Reissman, C. (2008). Narrative methods for the human sciences. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Reissman, C. & Quinney, L. (2005). Narrative in Social Work: A critical review. Qualitative Social Work, 4(4) 391-412. This article outlines standards of “good” narrative research: preparation of detailed transcripts, and analysis that addresses language, narrative form, and purpose. They offer 3 exemplars, and speculate on why the “narrative turn” has resulted in relatively little social work research in the U.S. compared to the U.K. Very useful piece.

Runyan, W.M. (1982). Life Histories and Psychobiography: Explorations in Theory and Method. New York: Oxford University Press. (A classic by my mentor in the study of individual lives.)

Rutten, K., Mottart, A., & Soetaert, R. (2010). Narrative and Rhetoric in Social Work Education. British Journal of Social Work, 40, 480-495. (They used Burke’s theory of dramatism to analyze fictional narratives with SW students. Very interesting!)

Swenson, C.R. (2012). Dare to Say “I”: The personal voice in professional writing. Families in Society, 93(3), 233-239. DOI: 10.1606/1044-3894.4213. (A terrific article that argues for letting our selves be present in our scholarly writing.)

Wells, K. (2011). Narrative Inquiry (Pocket guides to social work research methods). New York: Oxford University Press. (An excellent resource for social workers!)

Wengraf, T. (not dated) Guide to The Biographic-Narrative Interpretive Method (BNIM). He’s at London East Research Institute, University of East London, UK.

Wenner, J.A., Burch, M.M., Lynch, J.S., & Bauer, P.J. (2008). Becoming a teller of tales: Associations between children, fictional narratives, and parent. Journal of Experimental Child Psychology, 101(1). P. 1.

Westerhaus, M., Panjabi, R., & Mukherjee, J. (2008). Violence and the role of illness narratives. The Lancet. 372(9640), p. 699.

Wiessman, C. (2007). Narrative Methods for the Human Sciences. Sage Publications. (An inexpensive paperback — chock-full of material. Excellent resource!)

Autoethnography

Anderson, L. (2006). Analytic Autoethnography. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35(4), 373-395.

Berger, (2001). Inside Out: Narrative autoethnography as a path toward rapport. Qualitative Inquiry, 7(4), 504-518.

Chang, Heewon (2008). Autoethnography as method. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press.

Clough, P.T. (1997). Autotelecommunication and autoethnography: A reading of Carolyn Ellis’s Final Negotiations. Sociological Quarterly,

Duncan, M. (2004). Autoethnography: Critical appreciation of an emerging art. International Journal of Qualitative Methods. Retrieved 1 July, 2009 from http://www.ualberta.ca/~iiqm/backissues/4_1/html/muncey.htm.

Ellis, C. (1999). Heartful Autoethnography. Qualitative Health Research, 9(5), 669-683.

Ellis, C. (1997) Evocative Autoethnography: Writing Emotionally About Our Lives. In Tierney, W.G. & Lincoln, Y.S. (Eds). Representation and Text: Reframing the narrative voice. New York: SUNY Press

Ellis, C. (1997) Evocative Autoethnography: Writing Emotionally About Our Lives. In Tierney, W.G. & Lincoln, Y.S. (Eds). Representation and Text: Reframing the narrative voice. New York: SUNY Press.

Ellis C., & Bochner, A.P.(2006). Analyzing analytic autoethnography: An autopsy. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 35, 429-449.

Grant, A. & Zeeman, L. (2012). Whose Story Is It? An autoethnography concerning narrative identity. The Qualitative Report, 17, 1-12. (This article offers a beautiful presentation of auto-ethnography that resists (even as it reveals) oppressive master narratives. It clearly elucidates other key constructs: backstage stories, narrative neglect, narrative entrapment, privileged meaning and subjugated meaning.)

Humphreys, M. (2005). Getting personal: Reflexivity and autoethnographic vignettes. Qualitative Inquiry, 11(6), 840-860.

Meneley, A. & Young, D.J. (2005)(Eds). Auto-ethnographies: The anthropology of academic practices. Orchard Park, NY: Broadview Press.

Muncey, T. (2005). Doing autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 4(3), Article 5. Retrieved 1 July, 2009 from http://www.ualberta.ca/~iiqm/backissues/4_1/html/muncey.htm

Pelias, R.J. (2003). The academic tourist: An autoethnography. Qualitative Inquiry, 9(3), 369-373.

Pratt, M.W., Arnold, M.L., & Mackey, K. (2001). Adolescents’ representations of the parent voice in stories of personal turning points. In McAdams, D.P.,Josselson, R., & Lieblich, A., (Eds). Turns in the Road: Narrative studies of lives in transition. American Psychological Association.

Reed-Danahay, D.E (1997) (Ed). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. Oxford: Berg,

Roth, W.-M. (2008) (Ed). Auto/Biography and Auto/Ethnography: Praxis of Research Method.

Sparkes, A.C. (2001) Autoethnography: Self-indulgence or something more? In Bochner, A & Ellis, C. (Eds) Ethnographically Speaking: Autoethnography, Literature, and Aesthetics. Alta Mira Press.