No. Just no.

*A quick disclaimer: this is an angry one.*

Dearest UCT,

It was a dark and still summery night a few weeks back, and I got a phonecall from a student I tutored once upon a time. As she explained the reason for her call I moved from annoyance, to disbelief, and finally to anger. The conversation, admittedly more than roughly paraphrased, went something like this:

"I remember you spoke a lot about Khayelitsha when you tutored me. Do you know people there?"
"Er, yes. Why?"
"I am doing research there and I need to talk to people."
"Ok." I said, "and?"
"And I was hoping you could put me in touch with some people."
"Uhmmmm..."
"I don't need to talk to that many, just some."
Already my spidey senses are tingling, and I start to suspect that this conversation is not going to end well.
"Ok," I start, "let me just get this clear in my mind. You are doing research in Khayelitsha but you don't know anyone who lives there? Or works there? And you don't have anyone facilitating your entry?"
"No."
"Right." I pause to let that sink in a little, I'm hoping that she realises the flaw in her plan and puts down the phone. But she doesn't so I ask: "Ok, what is this research about?"
"It's about shack-flooding."
"Huh?"
"I'm researching, well, my group is researching what happens when it rains and shacks flood."

It's here that I entered my quiet phase of disbelief. Was someone pranking me? Was this woman for real? I had so many questions, I started with the most innocuous: "what group?"
"My group from class that the lecturer put us in."
Ah, so not a legitimate NGO then. Or think-tank. Or popular education passionistas. Or anyone vaguely qualified to do this work.
She continues: "We are planning on completing the research on Saturday."
It was Tuesday night. Again, I "uhmmed," and then overwhelmed by how clearly she was not thinking, just asked, "so do you have someone who speaks Xhosa in your group."
"No, I don't know. Maybe. Actually I think so."

It was at that point that I lost it. I tried to start off gently, I really did, but I was starting to get edgy.
"So you know this research project of yours, well now to you, it's just that. Research. To people, real people, it's their lives. Their shacks flood. Their whole lives. Their children. Their everything. It floods."
"Yes." She agreed. I don't think she understood. I don't think she's ever seen Lansdowne Road between Mew Way and Baden Powell during the winter. Don't think she's seen the shit--real not metaphorical--that tumbles and sticks to the shallow-water-covered road.
I have so many things to say. Things I want to make her understand. "Well, you can't just go in and treat Khayelitsha like a science lab and the people there like rats in your experiment."
Silence.
"I mean, there are organizations that spend years and years doing this kind of research, on-the-ground, with people. Research that has an impact. What's going to be the impact of your research?"
"We have to do it for class."

For class. For a grade. For a course, a degree. For graduation and Dr Max Price tapping your head with a funny black hat as you kneel in Jammie Hall. For black robes and striped hoods and lunch in Leslie Social; did you try the mini quiche, it's delicious.

I tell her: "it's Tuesday. You want to "do" this research on Saturday. You have planned nothing, you know no one there, you can't speak Xhosa and you don't know why this research is useful? So I'm sorry but I can't help you. I do know people in Khayelitsha, no well I don't just know people, I care about people. And I'm not asking them to talk to you."

I had said my speech. I took a breath. I expected some back-tracking, at the very least. What I got was:
"So you can't help me?"

There I stood, phone pressed against my angrily sweaty cheek, speechless. Until,
"No, I can't. I would seriously suggest you think about this research and why you're doing it and what is means but no, I can't help you."

I've been wanting to write this post since then, so why only today? Well, it's research ethics time for my students--and yes, they come from a university well-resourced enough for them to have a two-to-one ratio of student to research support staff so there's less scope for catastrophe, but I could go on about why it's not only the institutional resources that differ--and in this morning's seminar one of them mentioned that they hadn't met a researcher of the kind described in the readings on 'things to avoid doing'. I responded, "I have." And I told them the above story.

One of the readings we discussed--it's a little outdated and the context is different but the message is equally applicable I feel--made an argument that: "Researchers should not look upon Indians as curiosities... Professors and graduate students who have "always been interested in Indians" must understand that Indians do not exist just so they can acquire merit or graduate." Substitute "Indians" for "poor people" and reread.

I'm angered by my ex-tutling who was so unthinking, but I'm furious with her course convenor. Who encourages this kind of research? Who allows students to engage with marginalized people as objects to be studied; who sanctions projects where The Poor have their poverty described and then graded? University-community engagement is not a good in itself, particularly when it is done just to tick a box. And call me a cynic--I'm a seasoned one when it comes to the motives of the powerful--but I'm sure that's what it was. Social Responsiveness is becoming a way to say "Me! Pick me! Look at me leaving the Ivory Tower and getting my hands and my MacBook dirty on the Cape Flats. Look at me and praise me!" And by "praise me" I mean, let this count toward my next promotion.

Yeah well, I'm looking and I'm judging. I'm seeing academics who have lost touch through the postcolonial project of re-imagining the academy, lost touch not with reality necessarily, but with humanity. And oh yes, UCT, I'm looking at you. I'm looking at you sitting comfortably on the slopes of Devil's Peak, there on the land that Rhodes left you, with a bird's-eye view of the objects in your experimental playground, and I'm kind of ashamed to say that I'm one of yours. Ofcourse there are academics who do wonderful and sensitive engaged research and I'm not taking away from them. But those other lost academics are.

That's all. Rant over.

Bestest,
Jen


1. Devon Misehuah, 'Suggested Guidelines for Institutions with Scholars Who Conduct Research on American Indians'

No complaints

For the how manyeth Saturday I'm sitting in my office writing my thesis. At this point, I've been writing it for so long that it seems habit now, ritualistic. Two laptops have come and gone since it's conception, litres of rooibos have been drunk, whole crates of smarties snacked, rolls and rolls of toilet paper cried and sniffed into. I've received such insufficient and inappropriate support from my academic department and they knew when they accepted my research proposal--a proposal that proposed not a question but an attitude--that I was going to need oodles of hand-holding. If my words lack the anger that should decorate my Christmas tree of complaint, it's because I have no more anger to give them. Now I just feel abandoned. Betrayed even.

Anyway, so here I sit. I wanted to remind myself why I chose to do this research as oppose to something easier, less complicated, less political. I suppose, I want to know whether I have reason to complain. Because yes, I'm sitting here struggling with the thesis component of the research, but I said from the beginning, from that first presentation to the department, that I valued something else. That I wanted something else. That I was sick of how research gets done, that the ethics of it makes me profoundly uncomfortable, that I wanted to be a different kind of researcher. Can I complain now that I've taken this route? I read over a couple of the texts I've received from my "research participants" in the last couple of days.

"Molo Thandeka kuyabanda u know what i was thinking about u 2day, we all mis u Lots of love"

"Molo Thandeka, Oh we mis u my angel u know what, we used to c the face full of love on friday, u left a big gap in our events, Yr poster is still on the wall (wathint'abafazi) Keep Well enjoy (mama)"

"Hi Girl, u'r so special gift from God, I really appreciate that. Thandeka we will c u next tm. Sleep well my Angel, Mama Monica"

No.

I can't complain.

If I'm honest with myself, I know that more than a thesis, this is what I wanted from my masters degree. I wanted to build relationships, to cross the institutionally constructed barriers between "university" and "community", I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to replace an ethic of consent with an ethic of caring. I did all that. My thesis is one smidgen of something so much bigger, and so much more meaningful. I argue in my thesis that "doing well" shouldn't be the grade on an artefact of knowledge, it should reflect the process that brought that artefact into being.

Maybe I'll still write a good thesis. Maybe someone will read it and it will resonate. Maybe.

Who knows.

"Molweni molweni everyone!!" I start my text, "Just wanted to say hi quickly and to send you all my love..."

Nay-Nay on the hand-holding

I haven't had much more than a sniff of the N2 in recent weeks. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls. Just to prove that I'm not a totally unproductive schmuck, I'll share something of what I've been writing about for thesis purposes...

So, there's this whole model of engaged research right, to which universities the world over are hitching their ivory towers. One of the big things that this model values is building relationships with communities. In South Africa, where universities are characterized by a history of exclusion, making the institution seem less inhospitable is a worthwhile activity. It's all fine and well having these aspirations, but, and here's where I start to smell a rat, if an institution isn't willing to prioritize the hand-holding Kumbaya singing, then hells, it mustn't expect to lose its reputation of elitism and inaccessibility. AND, invariably, when the Kumbaya singing comes up against, say, something like the production of knowledge--which come on, we all know is the real business of universities--then you must rather just roll up the campfire in a ream of papered institutionalization and give it all up.

A little to abstract for you? Let me offer an analogy.

The Masincediswe Seniors Club have ongoing knitting projects in which they expect me to participate. So I have mismatched knitting needles and a bundle of grey wool and need to turn that all into a tangible product. A couple of weeks back, I arrived at the EWC to find Ma’Sophie sitting outside with her back to the sun.
“Molo ma,” I offer a smile and a greeting. We chat for a bit, about the week, about the change in the weather. And then she tells me, “they missed you inside.”
I couldn’t visit last Friday, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it since.
“Ndiyazi,” I tell her, I know. “I missed them too.” I turn to the bungalow’s door but before I can go inside, Ma’Sophe reaches for the knitting in my bag. I untangle the errant threads from the bag’s zip and pass the woollen bundle to her.
“Is this all you’ve done?” she looks at my efforts disapprovingly and shakes her head. I’ve added only a few rows in the last two weeks. “You are being lazy!”
More guilt. I look down, I look at her, “I know ma, I’m sorry, I was so busy this last while.” I offer a contrite smile and a “I’ll do better, I promise.” It’s a promise flavoured by desperation.

Sadly, it’s not the first time the women have commented on my “lazy hands”. Back in the days when I was still on my ridiculously misguided ethnographic data collection mission, I’d sit with my book as they’d sit with their sewing: me taking notes, them stitching and knitting and beading. They said I had lazy hands, because as far as they could see, I was doing nothing.

And so my lazy hands are back. The deadline to complete my thesis, a shining artefact of knowledge, edges closer, day-by-day. Between reading and writing, I’m not knitting. My mismatched needles and grey wool lie at the bottom of my bag, occasionally making it onto my lap. But you can’t, no matter how much you want to, type and knit simultaneously.

Right now, I have a research grant, an academic department, and an impending deadline, all telling me: Jen, you need to finish (To be fair, I suspect my department isn't wildly interested in what I'm doing). My masters degree requires a wordy product, and my knitting, my happily tatty knitting and all that it symbolizes; it suffers. 

How's that for an analogy? 

So I'll continue hiding here in front of my Mac. Not building relationships, not singing Kumbaya, not knitting. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls...

A rock and a rock

I'm on a bit of a blog go-slow at the moment. Between my never-ending dissertation and my end of year (American academic year) annual reports for work, I've churned out enough words to drown a troupe of unsettled elephants. But, in the name of procrastination, I've squeezed out a few more words...

When it comes to people's beliefs about the world, I'm fairly relativist. People think differently in different contexts and who I am to intervene and interfere when I have not experienced the reasons that ground their beliefs? Obviously, this applies only to people who do not have the power to resist my interference, I don't give rocks about interventions if I'm engaged with Super Power People. But see, I'm also a feminist. And sometimes I find myself in spaces where I have to compromise one of those two ideologies. Like at the Wellness Centre.

We still haven't replaced the stolen kitchen grater so I'm chopping the carrots with a bread knife into teeny tiny chunks. Ma'Monica is impressed. "You chop them so small!"
"Yes," I answer happily, "I can't cook anything so with my parents they would always just ask me to chop."
I know immediately that I have said something wrong.
"Why can't you cook?" Ma'Monica stops her soup-stirring mid-stir and turns to me almost accusingly.
I ramble out a lame defense, culminating in "so, well, I just never learnt." I don't know how I can explain to her that it's the men in my family who cook, not the women.
Ma'Monica clucks disapprovingly.
"But I can clean," I add in hurriedly, "I've always been a good cleaner!"
"Good," Ma'Monica nods, "at least you have that."
I relax but Ma'Monica isn't finished, her pause had more to do with increased concentration on the soup and less to do with letting me off the hook.
Wiping her hands on the dishtowel at the stove she turns to me and asserts, "but when you get married you will have to learn to cook. You know that?"

Right. The patriarchy and heteronormativity dance in front of me. I could say something. But then I'm stuck in another set of equally crappy norms: the white woman telling the black woman what's right and what's wrong, the middle-class enlightenment being charitably imposed on the poor, the university-educated telling the uneducated how little they know; all in a language that is native to me, and foreign to Ma'Monica. Stuck. I am stuck. The politics of knowledge dictate that in this interaction, I own the monopoly. If I was convinced that Ma'Monica felt she had the authority to tell me to shut-up and scrub the stainless steel tables with the stuff that makes my hands smell funky, then I would challenge her.

"Ah, but Jenzils," you say, "what about Freire?"

Ooh, you gain the upper hand and I start to cower.

"And then," you might continue, "surely you are obliged to do all you can to even the epistemological playing-field so that you can both challenge one another?"

I curl up into a fetal ball.

But I agree with you. And my agreement is how I got myself knotted into my ridiculously demanding research. It's not your traditional intellectual fist-fight, nay-nay. It's a different kind of demanding: evening the damn playing-field demanding. After almost a year at the Wellness Centre, and mired in privilege and guilt, I'm on the brink of concluding that it's almost impossible. There are brief shudders when I realize the ground has shifted, but I blink and my feet are back on their stilts.

Being an engaged feminist in a world of intersecting playing-fields is kak difficult.

PB and J

Monday mid-afternoon; 'nuff said. In my middle drawer is a jar of peanut butter. Well, it's no longer in my middle drawer, it's next to my keyboard with a spoon balanced on top. I heart peanut butter, not only because of its necessarily tasty-treat nature, but also because of its instrumental value...

It happened early on in my fieldwork. It was lunch-time and I sighed at my boring but budget-friendly lunch: squashed peanut butter sandwiches salvaged from my cavernous bag. I wasn't looking for sympathy but I got. The women around me understood. Everyday, staff and trainees were served peanut butter sandwiches from the trolley in the kitchen, and everyday, I arrived with a clingwrapped bundle. Our mutual dissatisfaction for lunch of this nature was the first sign that we might just be able to work together. It was the first clue that the women had that I wasn't, as Lulu put it, "some sturvy* white girl".

And so my tub of Yum-Yum (extra-crunchy) is just so much more than nut-flavoured nirvana. Although it does that pretty well as well....

* Pretentious, putting-on, the opposite of down to earth