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Compelled to Listen: The Making of an Ethnographer

Compelled to Listen: The Making of an Ethnographer Not Forgotten Compelled to Listen The Making of an Ethnographer b y M a rt h a K i n g This is how my first memory of being an ethnographer begins. It was the first time I remember seeing through the glaze and straight into the wilderness of my southern home. The author playing dress-up on Sunday morning, ca. 1982. At seven years old I knew it wasn't the time or place to throw off my light-yellow gingham and go charging into the stream, but the swift water looked irresistible on a hot Sunday in the mountains. My shoes were long deposited under a pew somewhere. I perched on a rock and slid my feet into the current, feeling the rush of ice-cold water send a shock up my legs. Momentarily blinded from the reflection of the midday sun, I blocked my face with the back of my hand, looked up the hill toward the white clapboard church, and saw my grandfather leading a line of people down through the grass toward the water. This is how my first memory of being an ethnographer begins. It was the first time I remember seeing through the glaze and http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Southern Cultures University of North Carolina Press

Compelled to Listen: The Making of an Ethnographer

King, Martha
Southern Cultures , Volume 22 (1) – Feb 28, 2016
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Center for the Study of the American South.
ISSN
1534-1488
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Abstract

Not Forgotten Compelled to Listen The Making of an Ethnographer b y M a rt h a K i n g This is how my first memory of being an ethnographer begins. It was the first time I remember seeing through the glaze and straight into the wilderness of my southern home. The author playing dress-up on Sunday morning, ca. 1982. At seven years old I knew it wasn't the time or place to throw off my light-yellow gingham and go charging into the stream, but the swift water looked irresistible on a hot Sunday in the mountains. My shoes were long deposited under a pew somewhere. I perched on a rock and slid my feet into the current, feeling the rush of ice-cold water send a shock up my legs. Momentarily blinded from the reflection of the midday sun, I blocked my face with the back of my hand, looked up the hill toward the white clapboard church, and saw my grandfather leading a line of people down through the grass toward the water. This is how my first memory of being an ethnographer begins. It was the first time I remember seeing through the glaze and

Journal

Southern Cultures – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Feb 28, 2016

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