Introduction I wanted to write about a perfect event so that I could learn how it happened and duplicate it often enough to realize all my dreams. Just this last year I have thirsted daily for “lemonade.” I tired at first to quench my thirst with other seemingly suitable liquids, but none sufficed. It had to be lemonade, sweet-tart, cool, cleansing. This perfect nectar springs from an unlikely beginning. Healthy and refreshing, lemonade can surprise even the most seasoned lemonade lover. The first sip of the first summer batch taken after a long cold winter finally recedes into its annual hibernation can sometimes pucker the mouth. After its tartness finally makes peace with a reluctant tongue, its sweetness rewards the drinker with renewed sense of freshness and joy. Recipe for Fresh Lemonade 6 fresh lemons 2 c. sugar Water to fill 1 gal. jug Juice 6 fresh lemons. Put the juice into a 1 gallon jug. Add 2 cups of sugar. Add enough water to fill 1 gallon jug and stir well. Pour over ice and sip slowly until your mouth no longer puckers from the initial tartness.
From a tiny seed is born a tree When I was born, my mother, out of ignorance, desperation, or perhaps disappointment, planted a “lemon” tree. I say ignorance because I cannot see how she could not know that lemon trees cannot grow in the area of Illinois where I was born and grew up. However, it could have been desperation, because she did not expect to give birth to a partially deformed child. Why she chose to plant a lemon tree and not a hardier, more suitable variety of fruit tree, was a mystery until recently. I didn’t understand until I once again tasted “lemonade.” The tree sprouted from a seed my mother must have saved while making lemonade the summer before I was born. At 16, she found herself married and expecting a child. The stories of how that happened vary depending on who tells. Having been 16 and with raging hormones, I know which version I can accept. Having been that age and desperate for acceptance, I can accept too that the truth no longer matters. My mother was given lemons and so she made lemonade. Pregnant, my mother married my father and I was born. A perfect event Seldom does anyone say that the more work they are given, the more they want. Graduate school was like that for me, the more work I was given, the more I wanted. I thrived. I found myself surrounded by extraordinary perfection – unconditional acceptance, firm encouragement, and unbelievable productiveness. It was as if the planets of academic experience had aligned themselves perfectly for the first time. At no other time have I ever been more overextended and productive, and overjoyed as a result. “I am not an expert in that area, but think it’s great that you want to explore it.”
“That’s a great question.” “Don’t be disappointed if you are not accepted. Few are their first time. Just do it anyway; you have nothing to lose.” “Congratulations. You’ve done it!” Their words challenged and inspired. I never feared rejection because I knew I was already accepted by my heroes and mentors. I drank my lemonade with some of the best in the discipline. The cool, refreshing elixir was concocted like stone soup. Everyone brought something to the mix. The water was provided by the university in the form of structure, tradition, and opportunity. The sugar was provided by the faculty. They embraced me, encouraged me, and shared my joy unselfishly. I provided the lemons from my own tree. All my past “lemons” -- disappointments, challenges, near failures, and tragedies were just bitter enough to help me appreciate the water and the sugar as they were presented and to be open to the possibilities to envision the end result. Together we mixed the world’s most perfect lemonade. The lemon tree that shouldn’t have I wanted to explore my perfect event without regret and without revealing the one person who sowed the seeds of my personal lemon tree, the one who gave me lemons time and again. At first it was easy to exclude her because I did not recognize the tree, nor did I remember the tart juice from its fruit. I spent years trying to forget. The pain could be overwhelming at times and I feared that if I remembered, I would be stuck in bitterness. I feared that I would not be able to move past the tartness and taste sweetness.
My lemon tree should not have survived. It should have withered from the cold winters, and the long periods of neglect. But my tree was watered and fed, often just in time to help it survive a while longer until it could produce yet another lemon. At first the fruit was small and nearly unrecognizable. It paled next to more hearty store-bought fruit. Of course, I would not at the time recognize the difference. The juice from both exhibited the same tartness. “No.” “Shut up!” “See what you made me do.” The egg began to burn and I was blamed. I asked questions and created tension. I failed at 6 or 7 to tell her that the burner was too high. I forgot to mention that eggs cook at a fairly low temperature and that the hard brown edges cannot be digested. I was a curious child and I tried her patience. Cooking the perfect egg requires a little patience. She had very little. She was nonetheless most generous. She gave me a ripe, beautiful lemon. “I’ll teach you to never squirm in church again!” she screamed as she began to beat me. My father intervened and took her away long enough for me to escape. Church still suffocates me. I haven’t gone in years and the threats that I’d be “struck by lightning” if I misbehaved never materialized. My life has not been more tragic than any other average life. The irony is that I believe I am happier and more successful than many of the others with whom I attended Catholic school and most of those that remained true to the faith. I unconsciously stored that lemon away with the first until I could figure out what to do with it. I didn’t realize at that young age what I was given.
I had a taste of how things might be if only my basket of lemons were not so full. I rested in her caressing arms and learned to embrace lasting thankfulness. That year I went for one blessed week to church summer camp. I had my first memorable taste of pure, fresh lemonade. I think I must have had lemonade before, but the memory was lost, covered over in the bottom of my lemon basket. I left my lemon basket at home that week. I was always somewhat forgetful. I liked being happy and forgetting easily left no room for agony. I was too naïve to know that having so many lemons was a rare gift. It wasn’t that my peers had fewer lemons so much, as it was that they had so many other fruits. They had more new clothes. They were allowed to go to the skating rink. They had birthday parties every year, not just at ten. They had heard the music and knew the words to the songs of “The Sound of Music.” Their lemons more often spilled out and never puckered their mouths. Their lemons seemed smaller and less tart. My week consisted of three glorious meals a day, a warm bed in a cabin surrounded by trees, and my first taste of doing something so well that someone else felt threatened. My camp counselors were geniuses. In a week they not only each cared for about ten girls’ daily needs, they also found time to speak with us instead of talking at us, lead us to the table of abundance, and coordinate a production of the music of the movie, The Sound of Music. I had not heard of The Sound of Music before my week at summer camp. I sang much before that, but I do not recall what I sang other than the ABC Song. I know I loved singing, but I can only see myself singing in a pantomime. My voice is muted and no one can hear me. That week the counselors taught me the choruses to Sound of Music songs. They tried to teach me to sings the solo pieces, but I couldn’t learn both the music and the lyrics in such a short time. Another girl already knew the lyrics to all the songs and was given the lead role in the
“You’re a good student, you’re a minority because you are a woman, and you are a first generation college student. Are you interested? “Sure.” “Great, I’ll mail you the application.” Months later when I completed the program, collected my stipend, and bonded with my advisor, the foundation was set for my perfect event. The second fantastic event emerged when I applied and was accepted to my masters program. Even with the McNair Program, which prepared me for and gave me the skills I needed to successfully apply for and complete graduate school, I still felt uncertain. My previous experience made me expect that the opportunity would be cruelly pulled away and I would be left with nothing but sadness and regret. Being accepted meant that, even if I didn’t attend, I was worthy. Me, only me. Me as myself. I gladly accepted, eager for the challenge and honored by the opportunity. Graduate school was perfect. Every lemon that came my way acted as a super motivator that drove me harder. I maintained a 4.0. I researched and presented my research at conferences across the country. I received recognition for my work. I received praise from my instructors. Even when the department chair ignored me, I knew I was a star. Her lemons could not fill my basket. My basket even began to shrink. I look back now and realize that the accomplishments and successes will always be with me as a source of great pride. What elements came together to make the experience so triumphant? I was nurtured by my faculty.
I was encouraged to take chances. I was inspired by a great body of knowledge and the lives and work of wonderful theorists. My faculty never doubted my ability. My faculty allowed and encouraged me to think, question, and do works in areas that they did not fully understand. All the lemons disappeared from my basket and could no longer sour my self-esteem, or my belief in myself. Most important, my husband cheered me on.
I learned to make lemonade at last. It was the world’s greatest lemonade ever made and I did it. I know that, had my mom not planted that lemon tree when I was born, I would not have developed the character, strength, and determination to overcome all the adversity that came my way. I know that if a few kind and nurturing mentors had not stopped when they saw me struggling to offer their aid, I would not have had the sugar to make the lemonade. They made it all so sweet. I know that, if I had not been allowed to take the water from the spring instead of the muddied rivers, the lemonade would not have tasted so sweet. I do not regret or grieve now for all that might have been or for all that was taken from me. I do not wish that the pain I suffered had been lessened. I am truly a better person than I would have been. This I know in my heart and in my soul. The waters still run clear and fresh, the lemons are a blessing that are sweeter than any other lemons that ever grew before, and the sugar flows freely from the hands of those wonderful angels that follow my footsteps in case I fall or lead the way though darkened passageways. I have made the world’s best lemonade. Epilogue - 2012
I just graduated with my Ph.D in Educational Technology with a minor in Research and Applied Statistics. The experience was enlightening, challenging, and at times, frustrating, but I did it. My soul mate cheered, badgered me actually, me on. My former advisor cheered me on. Once again my lemonade making expertise served me well. I have once again made the world’s best lemonade.
When I chose to complete an autoethnography in order to fulfill the requirements of a Narrative Inquiry class, I had only minimal understanding of the implications. As the course progressed and I read more about this qualitative research method, I began to have my doubts. I procrastinated and when I did put forth effort early on, my stomach often became queasy. I am not a revealing person. Richardson (1994) tells us that: Autoethnography can be a very difficult undertaking because this form of scholarship
highlights more than ever issues of representation, “objectivity,” data quality, legitimacy, and ethics. Although working through these challenges can lead to the production of an excellent text, the intimate and personal nature of autoethnography can, in fact, make it one of the most challenging qualitative approaches to attempt (p. 521). For me, the challenge would be particularly difficult. I would need to recall events that I’ve spent decades trying to forget. After recalling these events I would need to relate them without conveying bitterness or anger. I have every right to be angry, but I believe that by focusing on my goal to understand something positive in my life, I could ultimately write about bad experiences in a positive light.
Additionally, Ellis recognizes feminism’s role in the development of autoethnography, saying that in reflexive ethnography, a feminist tool, researchers incorporate their personal experiences and standpoints in their research by starting with a story about themselves, explaining their personal connection to the project, or by using personal knowledge to help them in the research process (Ellis in Ellis & Bochner, 2000). In the Dictionary of Qualitative Inquiry (2001) it states that it is commonly claimed that the striking stories that frequently comprise autoethnography are intended to illustrate and evoke rather than to state or make a claim, and that the author of such a text aims to invite readers into the text to relive the experience rather than to interpret or analyze what the author is saying (Schwandt, 2001). Dyson adds to this by expalining how autoethnographers use metaphor to order thought, experiences, and to construct a reality about lived experiences rather than use particular procedures, to generate format and empirical truths (Dyson, 2007). These three key descriptions, only a small part of the literature, tell me the basics I need to know in order to begin the assignment. Additional readings expand, corraborate and confirm the methodological path I must take. Many of the other writers about autoethnography quote the work of Denzin and Lincoln: Dyson; and Ellis and Bochner Klinker, Spry, and Porter whom I looked to for additional clarification asnd inspiration (Klinker & Todd, 2007; Porter, 2004; Spry, 2001). Klinker offered that the researcher as the intrument of data collection [works] through personal reflection, conversation, introspection, emotional recall, and sharing (Klinker & Todd, p. 167). Spry synthesizes Denzin and Lincoln, Ellis and Bochner, among myriad others: autonethnography is a radical reaction to realist agendas in ethnography and sociology which privilege the researcher over the subject, method over subject matter, and maintain commitments to outmoded conceptions of validity, truth, and generalizability.
Autoethnography writing resists Grand Theorizing and the façade of objective research that decontectualizes subjects and searches for singular truth (Spry, 2001).
Finally in Wall (2008) we are treated to an excellent description of autoethnographic emphases drawn from several bodies of research: Autoethnographers vary in their emphasis on auto- (self), -ethno- (the sociocultural connection), and -graphy (the application of the research process) (Reed-Danahay, 1997). Although some consider a personal narrative to be the same thing as an autoethnography (Ellis & Bochner, 2000), others use autoethnography as a means of explicitly linking concepts from the literature to the narrated personal experience (Holt, 2001; Sparkes, 1996) and support an approach as rigorous and justifiable as any other form of inquiry (Duncan, 2004).
the most part, I am beyond the deep emotions. I look through a self-detached lense to make sense of something good, so that I might create more such good events in my life.
Duncan, M. (2004). Autoethnography: Critical appreciation of an emerging art. In Wall (2008). International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 3(4), Article 3. Retrieved June 28, 2005 from http://www.ualberta.ca/~iiqm/backissues/3_4/html/duncan.html. Dyson, M. (2007). My story in a profession of stories: Autoethnography - an empowering methodology for educators. Australian journal of Teacher Education , 36 (1), 36-48. Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity. In N. Denzin, & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research (2nd ed., pp. 733-768). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Holt, N. L. (2001). Beyond technical reflection: Demonstrating the modification of teaching behaviors using three levels of reflection. In Wall (2008). Avante, 7(2), 66-76. Klinker, J., & Todd, R. (2007). Two autoethnographies: A search for understanding of gender and age. The Qualitative Report , 12 (2), 168-183. Porter, N. (2004). CMA methodology: Autoethnography. Retrieved March 25, 2009, from Computer-Mediated Antropology: http://anthropology.usf.edu/cma/CMAmethodology-ae.htm. Reed-Danahay, D. E. (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. In Wall (2008). Oxford, UK: Berg. Richardson, L. (1994). Writing: A method of inquiry. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 516-529). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Schwandt, T. (2001). Disctionary of Qualitative Inquiry (2nd ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Sparks, A. The Fatal Flaw: A Narrative of the Fragile Body-Self. Qualitative Inquiry 1996; 2; 463 Spry, T. (2001). Performing autoethnography: An embodied methodological praxis. Qualitative Inquiry , 7 (6), 706-732.