Stalling, Falling, and Flying

When I decided to take up anthropology as a discipline I had a vague notion that long periods of travel were going to be part of the job. Actually, it was one of the parts of the job that really excited me. I was never under the illusion that fieldwork was a really comfortable process, but neither did I think I would ever have a right to complain about how hard it is. After all, it is in difficulty that I find reward. It is in the confrontation of my limits that I am able to really challenge the world around me. When I realize I lack the ability or experience to move forward, I am forced to ask how I can possibly move forward while also asking why this particular instance should prove difficult. So now I think I should maybe write a little about what has begun to take shape now that I am here. I'm not going to start with some sort of high-flying theoretical claim about fieldwork. I want to instead talk about the personal experience of seeing the weakness in my approach and the excitement of trying to overcome these points.

Since arriving here I have made fast friends with one of my room mates, and as such have had a wonderful introduction to living in Germany. But almost immediately I discovered, with great horror, just how limited my German has become from years of not practicing. Part of the problem is naturally that my vocabulary has become remarkably small and I have great difficulty phrasing things. While I can read German rather well, when it comes to speaking, conversing, and listening it as though I have forgotten everything I have ever learned. This is certainly an obstacle on its own, but not one that is insurmountable. Part of learning a language is surrounding oneself with native speakers, getting used to the cadence of the language as it's spoken, and slowly building up functional competency. But the real difficulty actually comes from my own, illogical reservations. I lose confidence. I fear making a fool of myself and I trip up over my words. I become painfully aware of my Anglophone accent and I just fail. This has manifested itself, partly, in my avoiding new social situations. This is, I believe, a critical fault if I am to continue my research. To be sure, I have spoken to a few people, listened intently, and understood what they were saying to me. But when I want to express something and engage, I find that I simply don't have the language competency to express my thoughts the way I would like to. And this is where the frustration sets in. I genuinely want to approach and engage people in a meaningful and thoughtful way, but what instead comes out is something akin to a German speaker who has been kicked in the head by a horse after a night of heavy drinking.

This is not some way to say that fieldwork is difficult in Germany. Of course I am not learning a new language previously unrecorded by Western civilization. To say that it could be worse misses the point entirely. The point is I am reminded how fieldwork is so incredibly human. It's not that I have lost language competency, it's that this loss affects me specifically. Almost every anthropologist goes through a sense of alienation in the field, either because of their language or because of interpersonal difficulties. Like me, there are periods where the anthropologist retreats to his tent/room/shelter and seeks the comforts of home. Where Malinowski sought refuge in novels, anthropologists today can run from the difficulties of fieldwork by delving into cyberspace. They can write blogs about how weird fieldwork is. But the process of seeking refuge is specific to one's own circumstances. Refuge may be sought out of anger, frustration, depression, loneliness, or desperation. And once refuge is found, maybe all anthropologists have the sense that they are not accomplishing anything. The anthropologist may resolve himself to pushing the matter and getting something done. But that's the really wonderful part about fieldwork, it happens even when you aren't taking notes (actually, it happens especially while you aren't taking notes). There have already been instance where, while trying to sleep, it will dawn on me that I had had a real, ethnographic encounter that I didn't even bother to jot down. Essentially, I think fieldwork (at least in my case) will be about getting out of my own way. Let failure and embarrassment be what it is- I can always take more German classes.

I have now taken to going to a café in the vicinity and reading others' reflections on their fieldwork in order to draw up some confidence, courage, and excitement. And I sit outside and hear spoken German on the street, I am drawn to the need to get over my own, personal hang ups, and confront the limits that are real and fabricated alike. Had I chosen to be a textualist, I never would have had to confront myself in this way. Fieldwork has value not only in the production of anthropology in the academy, but in the production of a self that is capable of moving outside itself and finding comfort in whatever may face it.

Of Fieldwork, Germany, and the Process of Being Alone

One of the defining features of Anthropology, and one of the reasons I was so drawn to the discipline, is the process of fieldwork. Fieldwork has the mythical image of being a time where the anthropologist disappears into his or her site of study, learning the natives' ways, and analyzing everything he or she comes across. I think more realistically, fieldwork will just prove to be a constant process of trying to disappear into the field and being shocked, amazed, and baffled by all the ways these efforts are thwarted. While I have only been here for a week, I have already witnessed some of the ways this trip differs from my last transatlantic trip in 2009.

I have no real "agenda" here in the field. Certainly I am to gather notes, explore the possibilities of various projects for further study, and I am to meet people and improve my language. But those goals are rather nebulous and make fieldwork seem rather languid. On a day to day basis I have this itching feeling that I should be out where things are happening. And yet, if I knew where things were happening I think I would already know the field quite well. Instead, my days are filled with the mundane elevated to the point of interest (to myself at least). Often times I wonder if I am engaged in sloth or research yet to be recognized. I do ordinary things most days. I take the U-Bahn to the city center and walk around. I ask people questions before they quickly scurry away leaving me to puzzle over what linguistic faux pas I may have made. I go to the store and try to crack the logic of German grocery shopping and I come home to cook. But despite this flooding of mundane, daily activities, I have filled pages of my fieldnotes. Where does this level of productivity come from? Is it a false productivity? Am I doing enough? In many ways I have resolved to leave these questions unanswered while I am in the field. The moment I begin to treat these questions seriously, I believe, is the moment I begin to lie to myself about the nature of fieldwork.

I have discovered, however, that there is a process to being alone. This is both true in the fact that I now have to get cozy with my internal dialogue with little recourse to an outside voice. At night I sit in my room and dwindle away the last few hours of my day on the computer. I make some casual notes, read a section from the books I brought alone, and I listen to nothing. And in the course of the week I have found that these behaviors have slowly moved towards making me something else. This loneliness is what makes the field, well, the field. There are no comforting distractions big enough to ever take my mind off of itself. The Internet is only so familiar before I realize that it lacks the kind of comfort it has back home. I am out of context, and its wonderful. For so long I thought that fieldwork must suffer negatively from the fact that the anthropologist can simply log on, read in his native language, and communicate back home. But I was wrong. What I thought was a loophole to the act of being in the field has in fact proven to (thankfully) be a false promise. There is no going back. I am here, even when I get these small windows to look through. And I am here because the small, mundane acts I wrap my life with are now different. They are in German. They are kind of weird to me.

So what have I learned in a week? Well, I can see how people can say the field is a difficult place to be emotionally, mentally, and physically. From adjusting to time zones to realizing that my German isn't where it should be, I can see all the difficulties that are going to befall me (ok, not all the difficulties, but a good handful of the ones most pressing at the moment). But I'm excited about it! I wanted to do anthropology because I could get out of the library and talk to people. And for all the cynicism about what we do, I do believe there is tremendous value in fieldwork. I'll leave all the skepticism and complaining for when I get home. While I'm here, I may as well fake like I know what I'm doing. And at some point, I'm fairly certain I actually will know what I'm doing.