The Research Justice

Reader:
Strategies for Social
Transformation

Edited by Andrew Jolivette in

collaboration with the DataCenter:
Research for Justice

The Research Justice

Reader:
Strategies for Social
Transformation

Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Preface
DataCenter: Research for Justice
Part I. Research Justice: Strategies for Knowledge Construction
and Self-Determination
Chapter 1 Research Justice: Radical Love as a Strategy for Social
Transformation
Andrew Jolivette
Chapter 2 Imagining Justice: Politics, Pedagogy, and Dissent
Antonia Darder
Chapter 3 Blurred Lines: Creating and Crossing Boundaries between
Interviewer and Subject
Amanda Freeman
Chapter 4 Ethnography as a Research Justice Strategy
Liam Martin
Chapter 5 Queered by the Archive: No More Potlucks and the Activist
Potential of Archival Theory
Andrea Zeffiro & Ml Hogan
Chapter 6 More Than Me
Nicole Blalock
Part II. Research Justice: Strategies for Community
Mobilization
Chapter 7 The Socio-Psychological Stress of Justice Denied: The Alan
Crotzer Story
Akeem T. Ray and Phyllis A. Gray
Chapter 8 Formerly Incarcerated Women: Returning Home to Family
and Community
Marta Lpez-Garza
Chapter 9 Disaster Justice Feat. Research Justice
Haruki Eda
Chapter 10 Undocumented Research and Researchers:
A Collective Journey to Document our Stories and Speak for Ourselves

Alma Leyva, Imelda S. Plascencia and Mayra Yoana Jaimes Pena

Part III. Research Justice: Strategies for Social Transformation

and Policy Reform
Chapter 11
Everyday Justice: Tactics for Navigating Micro, Macro and Structural
Discriminations from the Intersection of Jim Crow and Hurricane Katrina
Sandra Weissinger
Chapter 12 The Revolutionary, Non-Violent Action of Danilo Dolci and
His Maieutic Approach
Domenica Maviglia
Chapter 13 Decolonizing Knowledge: Towards a Critical Research
Justice Praxis with Dr. Michelle Fine
Transcription by Andrew Millspaugh
Chapter 14 Decolonizing Knowledge: Towards a Critical Research
Justice Praxis with Dr. Linda Tuhiwai Smith
Transcription by Andrew Millspaugh

Acknowledgements
Research Justice calls upon all community experts and witnesses
to violence, legal violations, education and health disparities and other
social inequities to be active participants in processes for change and
policy reform at local, regional, national, and global levels. The
contributors to this volume are anchored with community organizations
and non-profits as well as with academic institutions. What each author
has in common is an understanding of the power associated with the
knowledge production process as an outcome of research. I am deeply
grateful to miho kim, former Executive Director of the DataCenter:
Research for Justice for coining the phrase in 2006 and for envisioning
the framework for the type of work that this group of university and
community scholars are producing to make this book a reality. Kims
voice and articulation of the concept, Research Justice calls upon all
marginalized populations groups to place themselves at the center of
their own healing in research as an act of ceremonial recovery. The
DataCenter has continues to be represented by a powerful team of
dedicated staff members who contribute enormously to the on-going
work of articulating a research justice methodological framework. Celia
Davis, Jay Donahue, and Bill Hogan. DataCenter is also fortunate to be
represented by amazing group of board members who lead with great
vision and reciprocity in ensuring the success of the organizational

mission. Many thanks to Marla, Aspen, Carolyn, Margaret, Aspen, Jill,

Sujata, Miloney, and Max.
I also offer my thanks to Haruki Eda who has been instrumental
in thinking through some of the complexities of crafting a book of this
nature. We have done our best to construct a project that includes the
voices and methodologies of those living on the margins as well as
those who come from communities facing socio-cultural and economic
disparities. Andrew Millspaugh was extremely generous with his time in
volunteering to provide crucial transcriptions of remarks delivered by
prominent practitioners of research justice, Dr. Linda Tuhiwai Smith and
Dr. Michelle Fine. The inclusion of these leading scholars in the
manuscript is only possible because of Andrews fine work. I am also
indebted to the Provost and Vice-President for Academic Affairs at San
Francisco State University, Dr. Su Rosser. The SFSU Office of Academic
Affairs granted a sabbatical leave during the fall of 2013 which allowed
me to compete the writing and editing for this first ever anthology on
the foundations and possibilities for research justice as a new socially
engaged form of methodological inquiry and action.
My department colleagues in American Indian Studies: Joanne
Barker, Robert Keith Collins, Melissa Nelson, John-Carlos Perea,
Gabriela Segovia-McGahan, Amy Lonetree, Clayton Dumont, Jacob
Perea, Esther Lucero, Sara Sutler-Cohen, Phil Klasky, Kathy Wallace,
Amy Casselman, Jessica Hope LePak, and Eddie Madril, have also been

a wonderful resource for many years and I am very appreciative of

their encouragement of my work for the past thirteen years. I am
above all most thankful to my family. They have seen me through so
many difficult life challenges over the years. My siblings continue to
inspire me with their love of life. They along with their children are a
constant source of joy. In particular, I want to offer my love and
appreciation to my uncle Charlie, my brothers Eric, Derick, Kevin,
Nathan, and Charles and my sister Makeba. I have also found in
Melissa Attia, Justin Bernard, and Ruben Moreno new family members
who shine a light of joy so bright that I have a renewed commitment to
social justice, to human rights, and to liberation as a daily practice of
radical love and responsibility to leave the world in a better place for
the seven generations that will follow us. My heart is always with you
my Creole Bandits.

My parents have always demonstrated through

their actions how deeply they loved me and how much they wanted
me to succeed and contribute something meaningful. Even in death,
my mother has taught me to keep fighting and working to be the best
person that I can be. And since my mothers recent death in 2012, my
father has taught me how to hold on to faith and to those you love. My
parents were my first teachers when it came to research justice for
they knew that education coupled with love and an active commitment
to equality would not only make my life better but it would also add to
the circle of individuals from marginalized communities who are

working to transform the social order of power relations for the

betterment of our world. Annetta and Kenneth Jolivette you are my
hope and my

inspiration for this work.

Preface

DataCenter: Research for Justice situates Research Justice as a

vehicle for the community to be able to reclaim, own and wield ALL
forms of knowledge and information as political ammunition in the
hands of community members to advance their change agenda, in
ways that are consistent with the communitys unique cultural and
spiritual identity and values (Miho Kim, 2006).
In order for this to become reality, the community must have:
1 access to information (not just misinformation and outside expert
research but what they truly seek and deserve) that impact their
lives
2 the ability to define what is knowledge, and what is
information as well as what the methods are to produce them.
3 Capacity to produce its OWN knowledge
4 Capacity to use all forms of its knowledge
5 Control over all stages of the knowledge lifecycle that involves
the knowledge of communities, or impact themon equal
footing with all other institutions in society.
Research Justice is a key strategic component of contemporary
social justice agendas, and this process is actualized by strengthening
the communitys sustainable capacity to not only effect policies that
impact their lives but to transform the notion of who has the right to
determine

community-based

research

questions,

designs,

and

methodologies. This process must center indigenous and community of

color knowledge systems as legitimate, truth-telling experts who have

the power, agency, and ability to shape the research process and
outcomes from the beginning and completion of the research process.
To

this

end,

critical

research

support

for

indigenous

and

disenfranchised communities is hardly new at the DataCenter, which

has, for decades now, provided key intelligence as a tactically
necessary aspect of political ammunition in midst of heightened
campaign efforts to disenfranchise the most marginalized members of
society,

many

of

our

efforts

to

shift

the

policies

impacting

disenfranchised populations have led to key victories over the past

threedecades of our existence. But we also knew that for people of
color, research is one of the dirtiest words (to borrow the words of a
Maori scholar activist, Linda Tuhiwai-Smith) in not only indigenous but
other oppressed communities -having been scrutinized and delegitimized through outsider-led research. And so, we began to feel
the need for a powerful strategy to reverse the role of the passive
research subject weve been conditioned to assume as oppressed
peoples, and to proactively redefine research as a positive, if not
emancipatory concept.
Informed strategies can lead to victories but only when it is
obtained, then utilized, and deployed as political ammunition through
action to achieve an agenda.

In 2007, DataCenter conducted a movement assessment on research

oppression in an attempt to unpack the hidden barriers to grassroots
ownership of research. Through this process we found out that there
were at least five ways in which research from a traditional academic
stand point was producing inequality, a sense of exclusion, and
disempowerment in marginalized populations as a result of:
1. lack access to (accurate) data about them in mainstream sources
(e.g., Census, etc.);
2. mis/underrepresentation in the mainstream data sources;
3. assault(s) on/violation of individual political and collective
cultural rights, justified by data-backed allegation of criminality &
immorality
4. lack of community control over production, documentation,
possession and use of their own data
5. lack of mainstream political legitimacy

as

valid,

credible

producers of data;
DataCenter believes that these are some of the most evident
indications of externalized research oppression in underrepresented
and politically vulnerable communities. For indigenous communities of
North America, research oppression, both internalized and externalized
is not only systemic but historical, and is a direct legacy of more than
500 years of colonization. We also believe that research oppression
affects communities in multiple ways, and no impact on one
community is identical to the other.
Strategies to Fight Research Oppression:

DataCenter believes that research oppression can be successfully

addressed, by engaging in liberation work under three complementary
frameworks of:
1. Reclaiming

Research

by

recognizing

community

expertise

(developing ones identity as a veteran researcher and a real

expert);
2. Ensuring the Right to Know by accessing information; and
3. Envisioning Research Justice by truth-telling and shifting values
(exercising our Right to be Heard).
In Social Justice, we always affirm We (the affected communities) are
the experts and yet, community expertise is rarely seen as
comparable to mainstream expertise, spoken by mainstream research
experts. Time and again, we would encounter community leaders who
were neither social scientists nor policymakers and yet, they were the
real experts about issues they faced, and how to generate viable
solutions. Because these community experts wield a certain degree of
intimate knowledge of their own communities we found that they were
best equipped to use internal community knowledge and research to
organize and produce meaning social and political changes related to
U.S policy.
We believe in the principle of people speaking for themselves.
But what we experience is that people speak over and over again, and
those in power dont have to listen, or can simply dismiss whats been
said for one reason or another. Many times, the excuse we hear is that

community member truth-telling and testimonies, spoken or written,

are at best anecdotal, pulled from unreliable sources (their own lived
experiences),

compiled

with

questionable

methods

of

analysis

(talkstory and dialectic processes). Science is the currency of the

discourse in policymaking so, un-scientific community knowledge
can be disregarded with complete impunity. Another excuse we hear is
that community information doesnt really represent a critical mass of
the constituency and therefore, should not weigh into policy decisions
as more than a minority concern.
Clearly, putting the tools of social science into the hands of
marginalized

communities

is

one

reasonable

way

to

empower

community voices in decision-making. However, the social sciences in

and of themselves will not deliver the long-term solutions necessary to
obtain political empowerment and cultural sovereignty of nations and
peoples most impacted by current mainstream social science. The
systemic change agenda underlying this challenge is the very fact that
western science dominates the world of valid knowledge production in
policymaking. This assumption implies that communities that did not
practice western science historically lack a legitimate means of
knowledge production worthy of recognition in decision-making that
impact their own lives. In other words, research justice acknowledges
that traditionally Western science operates from a paternalistic position
of assumed superiority that has been unsuccessful in producing

meaningful reforms and social justice for indigenous nations and

communities of color. A part of the long-term vision for research justice
is that all methods of producing the building blocks of our own
worldview and realities must be recognized as equally valuable and
relevant, if not critical.
DataCenter recognizes the diversity of methods that exist around
us in contributing to a tremendous wealth of knowledge that
humankind has amassed over time. We believe in a truly multicultural
society. Genuine multiculturalism in research methods is the vision
DataCenter seeks to advance as a research justice organization. If this
were achieved, community members will be recognized by default to
be the real experts of the issues they face every day, not only
amongst their families and sympathizers, but also the policy makers
and other institutions participating in decision-making at the table. It is
within the context of this framework and vision for research justice that
this book has been written. If we truly envision a world that is more
democratic, socially just, and equitable than we must acknowledge
new, traditional, and emerging forms of indigenous and community of
color research knowledge systems that can produce lasting policy
reform at local, regional, national, and international levels. The
Research Justice Reader: Strategies for Social Transformation opens up
a set of timely and innovative discussions about the importance and
power of transforming research methodologies and practices from the

margin to the center to ensure that all voices, especially those most
impacted by social science research are not only counted and heard,
but also re-positioned from subjects to experts.

-miho kim, Former Executive Director, DataCenter:

Research for Justice

Part I. Research Justice:

Strategies for Knowledge
Construction and SelfDetermination

Chapter 1
Research Justice: Radical Love as a
Strategy for Social Transformation
Andrew Jolivette
The

Research

Justice

Reader:

Strategies

for

Social

Transformation builds upon the methodological frameworks developed

by the national non-profit organization, DataCenter: Research for
Justice.

Research

methodological

Justice

intervention

(RJ)
that

is

strategic

seeks

to

framework

transform

and

structural

inequities in research. RJ centralizes community voices and leadership

in an effort to facilitate genuine, lasting social change and seeks to
foster critical engagement with communities of color, indigenous
peoples, and other marginalized groups to use research as an
empowering intervention and active disruption of colonial policies and
institutional practices that contribute to the (re)production of social
inequalities in research and public policy. DataCenter believes that
research justice is achieved when marginalized communities are
recognized as experts, and reclaim, own and wield all forms of
knowledge and information. With strategic support, the knowledge and
information generated by these communities can be used as political
leverage to advance their own agendas for change. Research Justice
calls upon all community experts and witnesses to violence, legal

violations, education and health disparities and other social inequities

to be active participants in processes for change and policy reform at
local, regional, national, and global levels.
The Research Justice Reader examines the relationships and
intersections between research, knowledge construction, and political
power/legitimacy in society. The RJ Reader centers community experts
as vital partners in contributing to the emergence of research justice as
a powerful, transdisciplinary method that envisions the co-existence of
three forms of knowledge production (Experiential, Cultural/Spiritual,
and Mainstream, See Table 1). The Research Justice Reader examines
how the co-existence of these various form of knowledge can lead to
greater equality in public policies and laws that rely on data and
research to produce social change.
Building on the tools and visions articulated by the DataCenter,
the contributors to this historic collection write from three fundamental
aspects of Research Justice as a movement building strategy: (1)
Strategies for Knowledge Construction and Self-Determination; (2)
Strategies for Community Mobilization; and (3) Strategies for Social
Transformation and Policy Reform. Accordingly each chapter is divided
into one of the three foundational aspects of Research Justice. Each of
these chapters along with community/university research intervention
models provide students at undergraduate and graduate levels,
faculty, and community researchers with new and unique sets of tools

to produce social transformation and justice in the research processes

they will undertake throughout their lives.

Table 1: Knowledge Production

The production of knowledge in the world today is typically

constructed, transmitted, and maintained by those with the most
power and privilege in society. The poor, indigenous peoples, and
people of color, along with women, those with physical and mental
disabilities, LGBTQ, people and other marginalized groups are seldom
in a position to produce or control nor own the system of mainstream
knowledge production that is generally used to create policies that

impact these often under-served populations. In the DataCenter Model

above research justice as both a theory and a method envisions equal
political power and legitimacy for different forms of knowledge
including

the

cultural/spiritual

and

experiential.

By

centering

knowledge production and research projects based on cultural,

spiritual, and experiential frameworks we as academics attempt to
share power and in many cases surrender our own power over
research subjects. I contend that radical love as a fundamental aspect
of research justice requires that we see research participants as
members of our family and not as a group of study participants or as
sets of data to study and simply write about for our own career
advancement. We have to invest in what I call Collective Ceremonial
Research Responsiveness (CCRR).
CCRR in a Research Justice Model contains three
fundamental aspects: 1). It defines research processes as a collective
endeavor and a shared knowledge creation process between academic
and community researchers; 2). It creates, maintains, and engages
with the knowledge that is produced by community experts, traditional
knowledge keepers, as well as cultural leaders in ways that envision
research as a ceremonial act of mutual respect and co-sharing; and 3).
Only research that is responsive to the social, legal, economic, cultural,
and political policy needs as identified by community experts should be
conducted. The Collective Ceremonial Research Responsiveness Model

takes

Community-Based

Participatory

Research

(CBPR)

and

Participatory Action Research (PAR) models a step further by shifting

more dramatically the distribution of power in the research process by
seeking to build ceremonial relationships and by yielding to the specific
needs of community experts and community researchers. An example
of CCRR in action would entail the creation of cultural protocols and IRB
procedures controlled not by universities alone, but in a separate
review process controlled by community groups.
The Research Justice Reader also acknowledges and documents
the many ways that RJ functions as a daily ceremonial process of
resistance, revitalization, and cultural autonomy that supports the
knowledge production, design, dissemination and stewardship of
critical research practices by and from the communities most impacted
by the negative consequences of globalization and capitalism. This
anthology recognizes the positive and innumerable ways that people
on the margins utilize research to transform their communities with the
ultimate goal of liberation, self-determination, and self-actualized
freedom. The most fundamental goal of RJ is the development of global
citizens who actively work to transform the structures of power and
privilege to engage everyday people as research leaders, change
agents, and visionary leaders equipped with the necessary tools to
build

community

infrastructures

that

will

support

the

healthy

development of self-sustaining, grassroots, and Collective Ceremonial

Research

Responsiveness

approaches

that

will

support

the

advancement of human rights in all fields, disciplines, and social

sectors where research/knowledge is produced.
This project also centers a concept that I have worked on for the
past four years-radical love. I argue that as we re-center community
members, tribal experts, and marginalized populations as leaders in
research that we must also center radical love as a primary and
foundational component of our research agendas both within and
outside of academia. Radical love is defined as the activation of a
deeply embedded and reciprocal devotion to holistic and ethnic
specific self and community care through a balance of human feelings,
emotions, and practices that reduce egocentrism while centering a
symbiotic relationship between the physical and spiritual as coconstitutive factors of health promotion among indigenous peoples
and communities of color. Radical love in research is also about
speaking individual and collective truths no matter how painful. Radical
love in these collective essays requires that each author ask important
questions about who will benefit from their research and how we learn
from past mistakes to ensure that we are building respectful research
relationships today. In some of my previous writing, I define, radical
love within the context of vulnerability:
Radical love is about being vulnerable. It is about being
unafraid to speak out about issues that may not have a
direct impact on us on a daily basis. Radical love is about
caring enough to admit when we are wrong and to admit

to mistakes. Radical love should ask how the work in which

we are engaged helps to build respectful relationships
between ourselves and others involved in social justice
movements. Radical love asks if we are each being
responsible in fulfilling our individual roles and obligations
to the other participants in the struggle for social justice
and human rights. Finally, radical love in critical mixed
race studies, means asking ourselves if what we are
contributing is giving back to the community and if it is
strengthening the relationship of all of those involved in
the process. Is what is being shared adding to the growth
of the community and is this sharing reciprocal? Is what we
are working toward leading to a more peaceful and
equitable society? (Jolivette, 2012).
As researchers both in academia and in the community we must
be willing to constantly ask ourselves if we are being responsible in
fulfilling our individual roles and obligations to the other participants in
the struggle for social justice and human rights. Each of the
contributors to this volume were asked this precise question. Chapters
2-7 begin by examining how research justice can be used as a strategy
for Knowledge Construction and Self-Determination. In chapter 2,
Imagining Justice: Politics, Pedagogy, and Dissent Antonia Darder
examines the uses of critical pedagogy in education research and
reform within the context of international and neo-liberal articulations
of terrorism and fear that lead to a silencing of those most
marginalized within educational institutions. In a compelling manner
Darder asserts that critical pedagogy as an act of dissent must forge a
socially just pedagogy that supports political dissent in the face of
persistent inequalities [that] requires educators to remain thoughtful

about the manner in which neoconservative values and neoliberal

policies can easily conflate to protect profits and a hegemonic
stronghold on the economy while leaving those most marginalized in
a state if social, cultural, political, and economic disadvantage. In
chapter 3, Blurred Lines: Creating and Crossing Boundaries Between
Interviewer

and

Subject

Amanda

Freemans

provocative

essay

addresses her experiences as both an insider and an outsider in a

research

project

dealing

with

single

mothers

from

low-income

backgrounds an essay in which she examines the blurred lines

between being a researcher who is unexpectedly impacted by the
same issues facing her research participants.
Similar to Darders essay, Freeman claims that ultimately it is the
voices of the marginalized-in this case-poor, single women-who
become

central

to

understanding

issues

of

gender

inequality,

economic disparities, and mothering because of their own efforts in

starting a support group to chronicle their experiences and empower
one anther through their daily challenges in a society that treats the
women like second class citizens. Darder and Freeman both articulate
a framework for using research justice as a strategy for knowledge
construction and self-determination. Students and single mothers know
better than anyone else the challenges that they face and what types
of information, knowledge systems, and practices will best support
access to services while reducing social stigmas in education, health,

and employment. In Chpater 4, Ethnography as a Research Justice

Strategy, Liam Martin is even more specific in his discussion of
ethnography as a research justice methodological tactic for defining
and documenting the knowledge and acts of self-determination utilized
by both the incarcerated and the formerly. Martins chapter deals with
is strong commitment with centering the subject as the researcher. In
this case, Joe who resides in halfway house is also a co-researcher and
a participant in Martins ethnographic study. By moving Joes voice to
the center of the research as an expert, Martin underscores the
DataCenters first principle of research justice-research as a strategy
for knowledge construction and self-determination.
What better method of transformation than to center the
formerly incarcerated as the experts when it comes to understanding
life in prison as well as life after prison. Similar to Freemans chapter on
centering single mothers as experts who produce useful knowledge in
thinking through difficult questions of policy reform, Martins project
also removes the stigma of research subject or victim to be
saved to a role that gives those most impacted by research a
mechanism to contribute to their own empowerment and selfdetermination. Chapter 5, Queered by the Archive: No More Potlucks
and the Activist Potential of Archival Theory by Andrea Zeffiro and Ml
Hogan document how NMP (No More Potlucks) supports marginalized
voices and modes of knowledge production and dissemination, which

facilitate acts of self-determination and cultural autonomy among

queer writers, artists, and activists in Canada. These collective writings
are put together into a journal to document the possibilities of new
media publishing venues and a sense of urgency around the
dissemination
perspectives.

of

underspoken

Zeffiro

and

Hogan

voices
offer

and

underappreciated

practical

methods

for

understanding the importance of archives in documenting often

invisible histories. Using archival and oral history approaches the
authors unveil a uniquely post-modern method of research justice that
supplies communities with their own knowledge systems that will
support greater self-determination and international visibility. The first
five chapters of the reader along with the final contribution to the first
section of the book are in many ways not just statements about the
role of researchers and subjects in the making of the research project,
but these are also interventions into areas that I would align with a
human rights agenda. Nicole Blalocks More Than Me perhaps speaks
most specifically to the issues of cultural recovery, invisibility, and
knowledge construction/self-determination as human rights issues, as
she interweaves poetry and prose to tell the story of her own family
with that of indigenous peoples throughout history who have struggled
with trauma, poverty, and the very essence of research as a tool for
self-determination and knowledge construction as necessary steps
toward justice and liberation.

In section two, Research Justice: Strategies for Community

Mobilization we learn the story of Alan Crotzer through the work of
Akeem Ray and Phyllis Gray who enact research justice as a strategy
for mobilization through teaching. Ray and Gray explain the proves
that students undertake in studying wrongful convictions and limits of
the criminal justice system when it comes to those most marginalized
in society. Continuing with the theme of prison incarceration, Chapter
8, Formerly Incarcerated Women: Returning Home to Family and
Community also examines the impact of the prison industrial complex
on the lived daily experiences of women and mothers who were
formerly incarcerated. Marta Lpez-Garza asks critical questions about
the role that these formerly incarcerated women play in their own
healing processes in the face of societal inequalities. Again, LopezGarza like Ray and Gray reveals how issues of solidarity, collective
action, and resistance to unfair policies can lead to mobilization as well
as new forms of knowledge production. The Belmont Report which was
created by the National Commission for the Protection of Human
Subjects of Biomedical and Behavioral Research in 1978 not addressed
key guiding principles for conducting research, but it also identifies
vulnerable populations. The incarcerated and formerly incarcerated are
among the groups identified as vulnerable at-risk populations because
of the exploitation that has taken place within this segment of society.
These chapter contributions go along way toward re-imagining how we

can better support those who are at-risk or already living within
prisons. While Zainichi Koreans (Koreans residing in Japan) are not
physically incarcerated, they are politically, socially, and ideologically
displaced and removed from conversations about equity and social
justice in the face of natural disaster. In an effort to understand how
these processes work, one must consider the history and
representation of Japan as an ethnically homogeneous nation. The
displacement of Koreans, according to Haruki Eda in the face of
Japanese disaster nationalism functions in both structural and social
mechanisms that rob Zainichi of true liberation as a result of
imperialism and on-going colonial acts during natural disasters. In
Chapter 9, Disaster Justice Feat. Research Justice Haruki Eda
demonstrates how utilizing Research Justice arms Zainichi people with
effective mobilization strategies to respond to Japanese colonial rule in
the face of natural disasters that scapegoat and ignore the material
and physical losses of a minority population in an imperialist nation.
Chapter 10, Undocumented Research and Researchers similar to
Edas chapter takes up the issues of mobilization through direct
participatory research. Alma Leyva together with Imelda Plascencia
and Mayra Jaimes Pena demonstrate how placing the power of
constructing a research agenda into the hands of those being
researched can bring about powerful changes at both the micro and

macro levels of policy reform in disenfranchised populations such as

those fighting for legal status in the United States.
Part III. Research Justice: Strategies for Social
Transformation and Policy Reform examines the ways that Research
Justice as a strategy for social transformation and policy reform can recenter the political, economic, legal, and cultural concerns of
indigenous nations and across different communities of color. Chapter
11, Everyday Justice: Tactics for Navigating Micro, Macro and
Structural Discriminations from the Intersection of Jim Crow and
Hurricane Katrina by Sandra Weissinger begins the final section of the
book with a look at discrimination in New Orleans in the aftermath of
Hurricane Katrina and what mobilization tactics are most useful when
we consider the need for policy reforms that disproportionately impact
communities of color and other marginalized population demographics.
Chapter 12, The Revolutionary, Non-Violent Action of Danilo Dolci and
His Maieutic Approach offers an important overview of a key figure in
revolutionary theory, Danilo Dolci and presents the Maieutic Approach
as a tactic for achieving social and political reforms by shifting the
modes of knowledge production and power. The final chapters are
excerpts from leading international scholars Linda Tuhiwai Smith and
Michelle Fine who were both invited to deliver remarks to an audience
of nearly 600 people for the 35th anniversary of the DataCenter and to
also celebrate the 15th anniversary of the groundbreaking publication,

Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. This

event, Decolonizing Knowledge: Toward a Critical Research Justice
Praxis brings together many of the central themes of this book. Issues
of power, knowledge, and policy are covered by each of the speakers
along with remarks that will inform, inspire, and motivate students and
academics alike to study the foundations of Research Justice as new
methodological framework that can shift the balance of power in not
only producing knowledge, but also in disseminating that knowledge
and cultivating a generation of leaders who will focus more on research
as a relationship of solidarity and reciprocity to achieve liberation,
democracy, and justice for those global citizens who are most often
marginalized by traditional Western research practices that render
them invisible and/or powerless.

Chapter 2
Imagining Justice: Politics, Pedagogy, and
Dissent
Antonia Darder
Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never
will.
Frederick
Douglas

Protest beyond the law is not a departure from democracy; it is

absolutely essential to it.

Howard Zinn
The current international landscape leaves little doubt that we
are living in a tumultuous era. Steeped in the lingering political fears
of the culture of terror, dissenting voices are still discouraged or
silenced altogether, while neoliberal policies of greed and destruction
seem rendered impenetrable in the face of massive global protests.
Xenophobic pundits of the last decade denounced the Muslim world,

the poor, and the foreign, exploiting the fear of both material scarcity
and military invasion as clear and present dangers. The threat of
terrorists, immigrants, and the impoverished vividly commingle in our
historical psyches. Yet, U.S. acts of aggression persist in the Middle
East and other parts of the world, while overwhelming economic,
political, and military violence at home are made invisible by distorted
notions of patriotism and speculative schemes of corporate greed.
During the last decade, the political ramifications of conservative
zeal were not only responsible for the passage of the Patriot Act, the
war in Iraq, and the invasion of Afghanistan, but also numerous meanspirited political antics dramatically enacted in Congress, as well as
State Capitals. On the domestic scene, the rampant incarceration of
more than two million people has been justified through a flood of
media stereotypes that parade as news, reality cop shows, and pseudo
criminal documentaries, such as American Justice and Cold Case Files.
Whether at home or the international arena, U.S. citizens are
systematically

conditioned

to

perceive

the

impoverished

and

undocumented as ignorant or criminaltwo major sectors of the

population that are rapidly expanding, given the hardening structures
of economic inequality in the United States and abroad.
The fear of uncertainty generated by the tragedy of 9/11 led to
the formation of Homeland Security, which deeply shifted our
perceptions of safety on both city streets and in the air. Over the last

two decades, civil liberties seem to have been vastly compromised in

the name of protecting our borders. Through a variety of politically
induced, media campaigns, U.S. citizens are warned repeatedly of
orange alerts and aroused to question the safety of our own homes.
In turn, this has inspired nativist sentiments, giving rise to a variety of
local, state, and federal legislative actions geared toward ridding the
country of illegal immigrants. Simultaneously, widespread efforts to
militarize the border by both official border patrol agents and border
vigilantes prevail, as unemployment continues to rise for every income
groups, but particularly those in the poorest sector.

In the new millennium, Muslims and other immigrants became

the scapegoats of the culture of terror, shrouding Americas political
and economic improprieties at home and abroad. A Newsweek poll,
although fairly positive, reported that 25 percent of Americans would
consider putting Muslims in U.S. detention camps if another 9/11-style
attack were to occur.

Meanwhile, obvious and long-standing

determinants of inequalitypoor job security, insufficient income, lack

of health care, substandard education, and the wholesale incarceration
of the deeply impoverishedare ignored or dismissed as secondary to
issues

of

national

protection

or

economic

exigencies.

As

consequence, trillions of dollars have being poured into Homeland

Security and military actions at the border and overseas, while social
justice is conveniently redefined in ways that abdicate the State of any

responsibility to its distressed citizenry. Instead, the free market

continues to be touted as the great equalizer of the twenty-first
century, leaving those outside the field of its neoliberal global order to
fend for themselves or suffer the bitter consequences.
A leading proponent of neoliberal policies on the international
arena, the U. S. still remains the worlds wealthiest nation, yet one of
the most economically unequal. We live in a society in which 1
percent of the population owns 60 percent of stock and 40 percent of
total wealth. The top 10 percent of Americans own over 80 percent of
the total wealth.

At the same time, the poor are nickel and dimed

into subsistence by the increasing cost of substandard housing and

food

products,

the

lack

of

health

care

benefits,

expensive

transportation and commuting costs, poor child care options, low-wage

employment, and increasing job insecurities tied to persistent outsourcing of well-paying jobs and plant shutdowns. 5 It is disturbing to
note that neoliberals often claim that such actions are good for the
world

because

it

redistributes

the

wealth,

while

remaining

closemouthed about the staggering profits gained from employing lowwage workers and operating their enterprises in environmentally
deregulated zones.
To forge a socially just pedagogy that supports political dissent in
the face of persistent inequalities requires educators to remain
thoughtful about the manner in which neoconservative values and

neoliberal policies can easily conflate to protect profits and a

hegemonic stronghold on the economy. As such, dissenting voices that
clamor against current national policies or persistently demand greater
democratization of institutional structures are often perceived as a
danger to the unity of our American identity as a nation, justifying
the silencing of protestors and dissenters. This is even more disturbing
when the politics of neoliberalism, couched in alarmist rhetoric, is
enacted on the both the domestic and international arena in the name
of democratic life. Often, such rhetoric functions well to conceal the
inseparability of racism and class inequalities, in ways that perpetuate
the underlying social injustices at work within schools and society.
The Hidden Inseparability of Racism and Class Inequality
What tends to disappear from view is the relations of exploitation
and domination which irreducibly constitute civil society, not just as
some alien and correctable disorder but as its very essence, the
particular structure of domination and coercion that is specific to
capitalism as a systemic totalityand which also determines the
coercive function of the state.

Ellen Meiksins Wood (1995).

Contemporary struggles for democratic schooling do not arise in
vacuum. They are, instead, historically on a continuum with the dissent
and struggles of workers at the turn of the twentieth century and the
antiwar, feminist, and civil rights struggles of the 1960s and 1970s.

However, unlike earlier political protests, the civil rights movement

incorporated a liberal politics of rights, which prevailed as the common
orthodoxy for dissent. Notwithstanding, a small cadre of political
dissenters adamantly argued that any movement for social justice in
the United States should be linked to a larger international antiimperialist agenda, one that clearly challenged the inequalities and
social exclusions intrinsic to a capitalist political economy. In concert
with the times, however, the decision was made to retain a civil rights
approach, firmly anchored in a strategy of litigation to wage dissent
and organize communities. This direction in the movement was to
represent

significant

political

juncture

that,

unwittingly,

left

unchallenged the unfettered advancement of globalization in the final

decades of the twentieth century.
As a result of court gains, movement efforts in schools were
chiefly driven by repeated demands for a multicultural curriculum,
bilingual education, ethnic studies programs, and affirmative action
efforts that were principally founded upon identity politics, which
pushed aggressively against traditional institutional boundaries linked
to race and other forms of inequalities. Although this approach to
dissent most certainly served to initiate and marshal a new population
of minority professionals and elites into a variety of fields and
professions, it did little to transform the larger structural conditions of
inequality that prevailed in poor, working class, and racialized

communities. Moreover, despite its contribution to debates on race

inequalities, the race relations paradigm, unfortunately, also failed to
challenge

the

fundamental

contradictions

of

capitalism

that

misinformed policies and practices within schools and society

contradictions

that

inadvertently

conserved

and

disguised

asymmetrical relations of power.

Necessary then to this discussion is an understanding of racism
that acknowledges the totalizing logic of capitalism as inextricably
linked in ways that do not apply to other categories of exclusion. Class
inequalities encompass the States cultural and political-economic
apparatus, which functions systematically to retain widespread control
and governance over material wealth and resources. As such, racism
operates in conjunction with other ideologies of exclusion (whether
cultural, political, class, gendered, sexual, or racialized) to preserve the
hegemony of the modern capitalist state, engendering its capacity to
appropriate even revolutionary projects born of dissent and strip them
of their transformative potential.
An important study conducted by Gary Orfield 7 at the Civil Rights
Project, for example, concluded that although progress toward school
desegregation had peaked in the late 1980swith the courts
concluding that the goals of Brown v Board of Education had largely
been metthe current trend is moving rapidly in the opposite
direction.

Concerns

regarding

segregation,

therefore,

still

have

tremendous political saliency today, particularly with respect to

questions of academic achievement and the failure of U.S. schools to
educate

Latino,

African

American,

Native

American,

and

other

racialized and working-class student populations. In fact, as Latinos

became the largest minority population in the U. S., hegemonic forces
at work in the reproduction of racialized class inequalities have
rendered Latino studentswho can be considered today the new face
of segregationmore segregated today than their African American
counterparts.
Accordingly,

contemporary

theories

of

segregation

as

an

outcome of racialized class reproduction must also be considered with

respect to the politics of class struggle. This is to say that racism, as a
significant political strategy of exclusion, domination, marginalization,
violence, and exploitation, cannot be separated from its underlying
economic imperative. Thus, it should be no surprise that over 90
percent of segregated African American and Latino neighborhood
schools are located in areas of concentrated poverty. 8 In fact, students
who attend segregated minority schools are 11 times more likely to
live in areas of concentrated poverty, than students (of all ethnicities)
who attend desegregated schools.
When problems of schooling are racialized, as is often the case,
deep-seated

questions

of

economic

injustice

are

often

deeply

camouflaged. For example, poor students labeled white exhibit

comparatively

similar

social

and

academic

difficulties

as

their

counterparts of color. This is most visible in rural schools of the

Midwest or the South, where poor white students are generally the
majority.

However, this phenomenon in the United States has been

deceptively masked and obscured through the racialized portrayals of

youth of color in the media and the social sciences. It is interesting to
note that this process of youth racialization became most pronounced
following the protests of African American, Latino, Asian American, and
Native American students of color in the 1960s and 1970s. It was at
this historical juncture that the media shifted from commonplace
portrayals of white hoodlum youth as juvenile delinquents to the
commonplace racialized depictions of gangbangers as urban terrorists
that we see so readily today. The point here is that the impoverished
conditions that prevail in segregated communities are inextricably tied
to the reproduction of racialized class formationsnot some biological
or cultural predisposition. Hence, racism can only be ameliorated
through a vision of social justice and a politics of dissent firmly rooted
in the redistribution of wealth, power, and privilege. Moreover, such a
political vision must be informed fundamentally by a humanizing shift
in consciousness and a deep rooted commitment to liberation (Freire
1971).
Although much good has been attributed to the politics of Brown
v. Board of Education, we find ourselves in a new historical moment

that warrants a critical rethinking of emancipatory solutions and

strategies of dissent rooted in another time and place. Given the
lessons of the last fifty years, many solutions anchored in the race
relations paradigm of the civil rights era have been called into
question by the conditions of todays world. For instance, there are
researchers who contend that the race relations paradigm actually
functions, unwittingly, to obscure the phenomenon of racism and,
hence, the hegemonic forces at work within the sociopolitical
construction of segregation.

As such, the racialized practices founded

upon a reified commonsense notion of race inadvertently leave the

fundamental structural inequalities of an internationalized capitalist
mode of production unchanged.
The consequence is that our contemporary society has become
entrenched in the language of race as destiny, with an implicit
dictum that membership in particular races enacts social processes,
rather than ideologies and material conditions of survival. Today,
political

discourses

of

every

kind

are

structured

by

attaching

deterministic meaning to social constructs of physical and cultural

characteristics, although the racialized landscape has become far more
complex. Interestingly, this same myopic lens is often reflected both in
liberal advocates of identity politics and in those conservatives who
espouse xenophobic views of foreigners or the other. In sharp
contrast, pedagogies for social justice must seek to reinforce an open-

minded understanding and democratic vision of dissent, beyond

dichotomies of black and white. In the absence of a more complex
vision of ethnic, religious, and political differences, the outcome is an
absolutizing of social and political relations, with little room for the
formation of a heterogeneous national identity in the United States.
Instead of waging dissent, across differences, over issues and concerns
that

impact

all

communities

(i.e.,

health,

income,

education,

environment, etc.), political interests are categorically racialized. As

such, the notion of race becomes both absolute and instrumentalized
by even well-meaning theorists and policy-makers, who seek to
analyze

the

difficulties

and

concerns

of

racialized

populations.

Accordingly, the malignant ideologies of oppression that sustain

necessary capitalist inequalities and result in segregation and other
forms of social exclusion10 are left unattended or reputed as irrelevant.
A key point to be made here is that the ideology that informs
how we define a social or institutional problem will also determine our
choice of political strategies and tactics, potential solutions, and
ultimately the outcome. The busing solution of the 1970s is a useful
example. Busing was one of the predominant integration solutions
chosen to wage protest against segregationa solution anchored in a
race relations paradigm. But to the chagrin of many African American
and Latino communities, this solution actually functioned to destroy
the strength, cohesion, and coherence of community life. Some would

further argue that it was, in fact, the already more economically

privileged minorities (that, incidentally, defined the problem and chose
the predominant means for dissent), who made the greatest gains.
And, despite the interventions of the civil rights movement, forty years
later the class composition of U.S. society based on control of wealth
has failed to improve, becoming, in fact, more polarized between the
rich and the poor across all population groups. That is to say, members
of the ruling class, of all ethnicities, are wealthier today than they were
in the 1960s. Hence, the expansion of an elite, professional class of
African American and Latinos ultimately failed to dismantle the
oppressive economic and racialized policies and practices of the
Capitalist State. Instead, hegemonic practices of economic exploitation
and the hardened structures of racialized inequality became further
camouflaged behind neoliberal aspirations.
Such was also the fate of multiculturalism, which, falling prey to
both the politics of identity and state appropriation, became an
effective vehicle for further depoliticizing the remnants of political
dissent rooted in the civil rights era. Notwithstanding its original
emancipatory intent, the politics of multiculturalism was, from its
inception, flawed by its adherence to the language of race relations
and its rejection of class struggle. Moreover, the well-meaning
celebrations of difference and the hard-fought battles of a variety of
identity movements for representation failed to generate any real or

lasting structural change, beyond liberal proposals such as affirmative

action, for instance, which more often than not served the interests of
the more privileged. In the final analysis, multiculturalism became an
effective mechanism of the state, used to manage, preserve, and
obscure racialized class divisions, while in the marketplace the new
multiplicity

of

identities

generated

new

products

for

global

consumption.
Pedagogy of Dissent: Beyond Domestication
One has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.
a Martin Luther King
In the midst of empire-building abroad and the tightening of
individual civil liberties at home, radical educators have attempted to
make sense of the world through our practice and our theoretical
reflections. It was in response to the culture of terror, along with the
everyday fears and uncertainties of old, that many sought critical
pedagogy as a means to provide direction and inspiration to their
teaching,

beyond

the

widening

inequalities

that

functioned

to

domesticate the vitality of students lives and their dreams.

Unfortunately, however, critical pedagogys promise to contend
with growing oppressive conditions within schools and to develop a
consistent project of dissent has often fallen short. This has been as
much due to the repressive conditions within schools as due to its
depthless and misguided use. In the latter instance, critical pedagogy

has been reified into simplistic fetishized methods that are converted
into mere rhetoric and instrumentalized formulas of intervention,
discouraging dissent and leaving untouched the inequities and
asymmetrical power relations in schools today. But, in truth, a critical
pedagogy cannot be fully realized as merely a classroom-centered
pedagogy. Instead, it must reach beyond the boundaries of the
classroom, into communities, workplaces, and public arenas where
people congregate, reflect, and negotiate daily survival. In the absence
of such a public project, critical pedagogy can neither support dissent
nor advance an emancipatory vision for the eradication of political and
economic enslavement. Moreover, its revolutionary potential for
contending with uncertainty and despair must be grounded in the
material conditions that give rise to oppression. It is the power of this
emancipatory

perspectiveenacted

through

both

political

and

pedagogical actions within schools and communitiesthat holds the

promise for recreating a more socially just world.
Many educators in poor communities express a deep sense of
powerlessness in their efforts to teach marginalized students. In the
midst of a vitriolic rhetoric of terrorism and deceptive justifications, this
sense of powerlessness is intensified, particularly in regions where the
population is increasingly poor, diverse, and immigrant. School issues
related to academic failure, student delinquency, or classroom
inattentiveness are generally addressed in superficial or alienating

ways. The objective becomes solely to eliminate the immediate

symptom, masking the underlying social malaise. Meanwhile, the
deeply serious problems students face within schools and in their
private lives are ignored carte blanche, swept under the carpet of
institutional efficiency, meritocratic fantasies, and the politics of social
containment.
Still, the Jeffersonian ideal of educating citizens for participation
in a democratic society continues to be expressed, even by the most
conservative educators and policy-makers. Never mind that poor,
working class, and racialized students are socially and politically exiled
within schools, resulting in their academic demise. As teachers
intentionally embrace or unintentionally internalize a belief in the
neutrality and benevolence of schooling, students are simultaneously
tested, labeled, sorted, and tracked to the tune of bootstrap platitudes
of self-reliance, which readily warp the very human sensibilities
necessary for a commitment of social justice and institutional equality.
Instead, misguided notions undergird the policies and practices of No
Child Left Behind (NCLB) and Race to the Top (RTTT)touted as the
panacea for excellence. Rooted in traditional authoritarianism and the
instrumentalization of knowledge, these evidence based policies
have been translated most forcefully within public schools that serve
the most disenfranchised.

As such, this fragmented approach to schooling effectively

trumps the development of critical consciousness, civic sensibilities,
and political empowerment. Instead, students are ushered in a world of
limited

careerism,

where

college

acceptance

and

consequent

graduation are the predominant measures of academic success. In the

process, students learn little about themselves as integral human
beings

or

the

motivations

and

sensibilities

that

shape

their

understanding of the world. Students who do not march in step with

the college readiness bandwagon can find themselves shifting from
one thing to another, emotionally abandoned within a school culture
that pretends academic preparation is the only viable means by which
human success can be measured and social well-being obtained.
In the interest of capitalist accumulation, schooling in the U. S.
also socializes the majority of students to accept the betrayal of their
civil rights, in exchange for a fantasy of accumulation and security that
can never be guaranteed. The construction and control of knowledge
are at the heart of this phenomenon. Despite democratic claims,
conditions within public schools reproduce inequalities and social
exclusions through pedagogical relationships that reinforce repression
and deny most students and faculty, for that matter, their freedom and
autonomy to think and express themselves without undue fear of
retaliation. Consequently, marginalized populations are tyrannized
daily by policies and practices systematically designed to limit their

imaginations

and,

thus,

participation

in

their

empowerment.

Meanwhile, the dissonance between the culture of the school and

students lives is often dismissed as irrelevant to their education or
academic success.
Unfortunately, even well-crafted programs that claim to be
committed to social justice tend to sabotage student autonomy and
cultural integrity, compelling them to adopt prescribed ways of
knowing and manufactured identities that prove false when brushed
against the conditions of their daily experience.

12

Here, well-meaning

teachers use their authority and privilege to invalidate, intentionally or

unintentionally, students who become involved in the construction of
oppositional knowledge; thus, reinforcing students silences and selfdoubt. Unfortunately, many teachers who are able to recognize the
violence of injustice within other instructional settings are less willing
to accept that they themselves might need to make fundamental
changes in their classroom teaching, in order to support democratic
practices, including political dissent.
Critical ideas and practices in the interest of democratic
schooling must then remain central to our efforts to confront the
hidden curriculum of alienation and powerlessness so prevalent in
schools and society today. To challenge repressive pedagogical
tendencies,

educators

must

stretch

the

boundaries

of

critical

educational principles in order to infuse public contexts with critiques

that counter the violence of both ultraconservative values and

neoliberal solutions. It is a moment when emancipatory theories of
schooling that challenge deficit notions and support democratic life
must be put into action, in an effort to counter repressive national
educational agendas that render teachers, students, parents, and
communities voiceless and devoid of social agency. There is an urgent
need

for

civic

courage

herethe

kind

that

challenges

the

contemporary rhetoric of rugged individualism, self-reliance, and

economic

Darwinism,

which

shamelessly

undermines

difference,

dissuades dissent, and disrupts justice.

Through authoritarian educational practices and the imposition
of the hidden curriculum of the market place, the ideological practices
of public schooling uncritically nourish patriotic zeal, defend the
violence of war as a necessity, and justify the violation of our civil
rights in the name of national protection. Simultaneously, strident
individualism and backlash politics destroy historical memory and
impose an official public transcript (an apolitical, ahistorical, and, at
moments, blatantly dishonest spin) on events, in concert with the
imperatives of neoliberalism. Namely, the expansion of the free
market, the deregulation of environmental policies, the corporatization
of all bureaucratic institutional functions, the monopoly of the media,
and the wholesale commodification and privatization of every aspect of
our humanity.

In response to this political climate, an important role of critical

educators, then, is not only to unveil this hidden curriculum in schools
and society but also to work toward the decolonization of education, in
ways that support the reinstitution of a multiplicity of historical
memories and epistemologies tied to the survival of historically
oppressed communities (Paraskeva). For in these repressed histories is
often found the collective possibility to wage protest through a
courageous willingness to imagine a different world. As such, this
constitutes an essential dimension in forging a critical pedagogy that
can challenge civic domestication, forge the ground for political
engagement, and embrace the passion of dissent so necessary to the
transformation of our communities.
Imagination and Dissent
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You may say Im a dreamer
But Im not the only one
I hope someday youll join us
And the world will live as one
-John Lennon
A culture of fear disrupts our critical powers to imagine a
different worlda world in which our shared humanity can also be
central to our politics. The sensibilities of a neoliberal culture seem to

thrive upon cynicism, fear, insecurity, and despair.

14

Neoliberalism

renders unfettered imagination as suspicious; yet, it is precisely our

ability to imagine beyond the limited boundaries of the status quo that
opens the door to a new vision of politics and the world. As such, it is
not surprising that the voices and participation of those who refuse to
offer their consent to hegemonic structures are rendered invisible or
marked for subjugation. The crack down on civil liberties, including the
right to information, movement, and dissent, rapidly intensified over
the last two decades; and the last seven years of the Obamas
administration have done little to shift prevailing policies and practices
supporting wide scale surveillance (Torres ??/).
However, it is important to note that the practices of the
Department for Homeland Security and other institutional mechanisms
of surveillance did not materialize overnight. Since the late 1980s, an
increasing number of men and women from working class and
racialized communities have lost their civil rights as a consequence of
felony convictions and increasing rates of incarceration. In fact, the
overwhelming increase in incarceration from 1990 to 2010 constituted
the most dramatic rise in the inmate population ever witnessed in the
history of the nation (source?). Also dramatic was the increasing level
of public surveillance within many public schools, including the use of
armed personnel. In concert, it is
federal,

state,

and

local

policies

worth noting that a plethora of

were

proposed

and

enacted

specifically to repress the movement of people (but not capital, of

course) across U.S. borders.
During the last twenty years, actions were also instigated against
antiwar

protestors,

critics

of

globalization,

and

other

political

dissenters. In 2005, for example, a Flag Amendment was passed that

made burning the American flag a felony. In 2002, Joseph Frederick
unveiled a fourteen-foot paper sign declaring Bong Hits 4 Jesus.
Although he was on a public sidewalk outside his Juneau, Alaska, high
school, he was suspended. His civil rights case reached the Supreme
Court, where the courts decision drew a fuzzy line between advocacy
of illegal conduct and political dissent, ultimately limiting student
rights.

15

The Democracy Now! Archive is replete with news stories of

peace and antiwar dissidents who have been spied on, jailed, or fired
from their workplaces, including longtime progressive columnist Robert
Scheer who was fired by the L.A Times in 2005.

16

And, many know of

the light of Ward Churchill, a professor of Ethnic Studies at the

University of Colorado, Bolder who was fired for his political views,
despite the ostensible protection of academic freedom. Yet, private
militant groups such as the Minuteman Civil Defense Corps

17

at the

U.S./Mexico border and Internet terrorist hunters such as Shannon

Rossmiller

18

became the new millenniums self-appointed vigilantes,

drenched in the moralistic rhetoric of the Bush administration.

Much of the lingering commotion was fueled by the hysteria that

resulted in the passage of The Uniting and Strengthening America by
Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct
Terrorism Act of 2001, better known as the Patriot Act. In response,
Michael Steinberg, Legal Director of the American Civil Liberties Union,
encouraged political dissent saying, in times of crises, it is even more
important for citizens to dissent when the government is doing
wrong Dissent is not antipatriotic.19 Given the repressive context
illustrated by these examples, it is imperative that critical educators
take on issues of social justice publicly in a serious, forthright, and
sustained manner. To accomplish this requires that we remain ever
cognizant of the political nature of education and its inextricable
relationship to the larger societal and economic forces that govern our
lives.
As such, the relationship between pedagogy, politics, and dissent
must intermingle with emancipatory principles of engaged public life,
making it impossible to deny that dissent, though not synonymous with
democracy, is an essential political ingredient for the evolution of a just
and democratic society. Dissent is, in fact, absolutely necessary to the
enactment of democratic principles, particularly within a nation so
tremendously diverse (e.g., ethnic, gender, class, culture, language,
sexuality, etc.) as the United States. Politics stripped of dissent leaves
the powerful unaccountable, to run roughshod over the interests,

needs and aspirations of the majority of the worlds population,

irrespective of any national rhetoric proclaimed about freedom and
democracy.
Imagining justice demands that we also reimagine the world
anew. As such, Freire often pointed to the pedagogical significance of
imagination and curiosity to the process of learning, critical formation,
and political development. Unfortunately, imagination and curiosity are
aspects of education that seldom receive the attention they merit,
particularly within this democratic society. Yet, the capacity to imagine
the world beyond our current social and material conditions, with
confidence in our individual and collective abilities to enact change, is
central to any transformative process. It is the tremendous power of
imagination that opens the field for students to simultaneously reflect
on what is, as well as dream about what might be.
As students are supported in their efforts to grapple with
possibilities beyond their present conditions, they are midwifed, so to
speak, into critical social insights that unveil the hidden ideologies and
material

conditions

that

repress

their

freedom.

By

so

doing,

imagination and curiosity both compel students to break through the

silences of injustice, as well as to speak the unspeakable that
suffocates their will to be. Once spoken, new ideas of the world can be
reinvented in dialogue and critically engaged. It is through the organic
regeneration of a pedagogy of imagination that teachers, students, and

communities can become empowered, so that we might forge together

a vision of social justice, one founded on an ethical concern for our
moral responsibility as free subjects of history.
In line with radical philosophical traditions of education, both
Paulo Freire and Maxine Greene spoke often in their work about the
importance of imagination to the forging of an emancipatory political
vision. They similarly linked the notion of imagination to our capacity to
step back from a set of familiar circumstances or conditions in order to
enter into a more complex understanding of the world. By opening up
to a variety of tested and untested possibilities of knowing and
experiences of the world, we are better able to understand how
students from different cultural traditions come to think or act
differently

in

the

world.

Unlike

the

narrow

rationality

and

ethnocentrism of a conservative identity politics, critical imagination

can exist only within a realm where plurality of thought and practice
resides. This is so because critical thought requires open-mindedness
and expansiveness of vision, which can only be found through our
willingness to confront fear as a normal aspect of everyday life. This
also entails our willingness to counter, individually and collectively,
those values and practices that seek to pathologize those who dissent.
To nourish imagination within the classroom, then, is to fuel one of the
most indispensable qualities inherent in the practice of genuine
democracy and, thus, transformative dissent. For without imagination,

the injustice of an exploitive status quo is rendered intractable, as is

often the case in schools where bureaucratic power, in direct
contradiction to democratic rights and principles, represses creativity,
fosters dependency, and coerces consent.
In contrast, a critical pedagogy cultivates imagination and seeks
to create opportunities to insert students into new and unfamiliar
contexts so they can grapple with the cognitive dissonance and
ambiguity, which is intrinsic to a highly diverse society. Moreover, such
imagination is important to the process of critical dissent, because it
not only centers its focus on undoing but also is attentive to critically
rethinking conditions of inequality and offering solutions that arise
from collaboration and consensus.

20

Rather than simply entering into

dissent and conflict with wholesale antagonism, critical educators

recognize the complexity of both human relationships and material
existence and, thus, enter into conflict with not only clear values and
vision but also with a much needed sense of humility and faith in
humanity.
Humility, anchored in a politics of love, provides the openmindedness to listen to an adversary without stripping the person of
dignity and respect. 21 In the absence of humility and political
imagination, any possibility of dialogue becomes stifled. Generally, this
is so because the communication can easily become stonewalled or
oppositional. Once this happens, the two sides of a conflict become

mired in the ego-pursuit of winning the battle and being right, rather
than

remaining

focused

on

collective

democratic

intent.

Righteousness and moralism seem to be by-products of such a

contentious process, limiting the possibility of critical compassion and
revolutionary solidarity in the course for political struggle.
A critical pedagogy, through invigorating critical discourse with
imagination and faith in our humanity, supports students in building
sound epistemological and ontological pursuits in resonance with
universal principles of emancipatory life. It is here where often there is
a departure between postmodernists and those who remain committed
to the belief in the salience of class struggle and an anti-capitalist
project. Just as it was for Marx, the struggle against capitalism today is
indeed a fiercely moral one. Undoubtedly, the ferocity of Marx was as
much a part of his political convictions as it was his ability to imagine
the limitless capacity of human beings to continuously make, unmake,
and remake the world.
As

the

relentless

immorality

of

global

capital

threatens

environmental collapse, we must work tireless to enact a critical

pedagogy that is unapologetically political, ethical, and moral. To do
this, we need to teach in ways that help us to unearth the virulent
structures of power that limit our dreams, incarcerate our bodies, and
betray our love for justice. We need a revolutionary pedagogy of love
that embraces our civic responsibility as critical citizens of the world

and fully authorizes our kinship as interdependent human beings. And

from here, we can begin to break out of our one-dimensional egos and
move, instead, toward a soulful understanding of ourselves as both
collective subjects of our cultural destinies and universal beings, in a
very long and bloody historical struggle for our humanity.

NOTES
1. R.L. Ivie, Prologue to Democratic Dissent in America, Javnost/The
Public 11, no. 2 (2004): 19-36.
2. See A. Darder, Radicalizing the Immigration Debate: A Call for Open
Borders and Global Human Rights, New Political Science 29, no. 2
(2007).
3. B. Braiker, Americans and Islam, Newsweek, July 20, 2007;
available at: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19874703/site/newsweek/.
4. A. J. Noury and N.C. Smith, Bye, Bye American Dream, Political
Affairs (December 2004): 26.
5. See: B. Ehrenreich, Nickel and Dimed (New York: Turtleback Books,
2002).
6. E. Meiksins Wood, Democracy against Capitalism (New York:
Cambridge University Press, 1995), 256.

7. See: G. Orfield, Schools More Separate: Consequences of a Decade

of Resegregation (Boston, MA: Civil Rights Project, Harvard University,
2001).
8. Ibid.
9. See: R. Miles, Racism after Race Relations (London: Routledge,
1993); and A. Darder and R.D. Torres, After Race: Racism after
Multiculturalism ( New York: University Press, 2004).
10. See: P. Gilroy, Against Race: Imagining Political Culture Beyond the
Colorline (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000).
11. N. Chomsky, Profit over People: Neoliberalism and Global Order
(Seven Stories Press, 1998), 24.
12. R. Butson, Teaching as a Practice of Social Injustice: Perspective
from a Teacher, Radical Pedagogy (2003); available at:
http:radicalpedagogy.icaap.org/content/Issue5_1/10_butson.html.
13. M. Greene, Metaphors and Responsibility, On Common Ground:
Partnerships and the Arts 5 (fall 1995); available at: http://
www.yale.edu/ynhti/pubs/A18/greene.html.
14. H. A. Giroux, Public Pedagogy and the Politics of Neoliberalism:
Making the Political More Pedagogical, Policy Futures in Education 2:
no. 3-4 (2004): 494.
15. B. Mears, Bong Hits for Jesus Case Limits Student Rights, CNN
Washington Bureau (2007); available at
http://www.cnn.com/2007/LAW/06/25/free.speech/index.html.

16. See Democracy Now! (November 14, 2005); available at

http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid+05/11/14/1447244.
17. To see the Minuteman website, go to:
http://www.minutemanhq.com/hq/.
18. B. Harden, In Montana, Casting a Web for Terrorists, Washington
Post, June 4, 2006, A03; available at:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wpdyn/content/article/2006/06/03/AR2006060300530.html.
19. S. Chang, ACLU Encourages Political Dissent as a Patriotic Action,
Michigan Daily, April 12, 2002.
20. J. Hart, Meet the New Boss: You: How and Why the People Are
Taking Charge. Utne Reader, MayJune 2007, 42.
21. See: A. Darder, Reinventing Paulo Freire: A Pedagogy of Love
(Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2002), for an extensive discussion of
Paulo Freires pedagogy and the indispensable characteristics that he
identifies within a revolutionary understanding of love.

Chapter 3
Blurred Lines: Creating and Crossing
Boundaries between Interviewer and Subject
Amanda Freeman
When I started working with low-income single mothers, I was a
graduate student studying creative non-fiction writing at Columbia
University.

I taught GED classes for adults at a community service

center and remedial writing at the City University of New York. The
moms in my classes captivated me with their stories, fighting their way
back to school and past bad relationships to move their families out of
poverty. I recognized the way in which crafting a narrative could be

empowering and help them to move forward in their own lives. A

student in one of my remedial writing classes, a forty-something single
mom trying to get a better job and set an example for her two young
sons, lingered one day after class. Her questions were shy and halting.
She wanted to write, really to write. To tell the story of her fathers
abuse back in their home country when she was too young to
understand. I encouraged her. Writing can help us make sense of our
own experiences and connect with other women, I said.
Out of my remedial classes, grew an informal writers workshop.
One of the mothers wanted an outlet to talk about her husbands
cheating, another about her addict father. One mom told the group
about winning a college scholarship while her son climbed her back,
jamming a pudgy finger into her ear. But the logistical problems were
overwhelming-- conferences at school, babysitters who canceled at the
last minute, pressures at work and from fathers. After a few months,
meeting times became impossible to schedule.
Two years later, my own story began to unravel. I was pregnant
and my husband was cheating with a co-worker. I stared at the
computer screen in disbelief; his username was myweakside.

assumed we would try therapy. He was my best friend. Wed been

together on and off for seven years and engaged for two of them. But
it quickly became clear that the marriage was over, and I had to decide
whether or not to continue with the pregnancy as a single mother.

I thrashed around, unable to see a future. Thats when my single

mother students came back to me. Id taken a job substitute teaching
in an inner city middle school after moving out of the apartment with
my husband. Most days I would return home to smudges of dog crap
rubbed into the carpet by our angry little dog. One afternoon I was
scrubbing the carpet, tears and snot dripping into the heady cleaning
potion when I sat back heavily and tore open one in a stack of boxes.
Inside were black and white composition notebooks, journals from my
workshop.

I stayed there on the floor, amidst the fumes, and read

them cover-to-cover. Their stories were my medicine. Tales thick with

grammatical mistakes but honest and expressive about the endless
needs and wants of children, past hurts and unfaithful men, and hardwon victories for the moms and their kids. Their struggles helped to
put my own into context. Through their voices, I could see a future for
my daughter and me.

A year later, watching my daughter grow into the babbling,

tottering love of my life, I decided to return to school to pursue my
scholarly interest in the life narratives of low-income single mothers.
Becoming a single mother myself further sealed my commitment to
the stories and struggles of this marginalized and often misrepresented
population. I applied to PhD programs that would support my research
and found a home at Boston College, working with Research Professor

Lisa Dodson whose work centered on low-income single mother-headed

families. As a research assistant and a poverty fellow, I was assigned to
conduct annual interviews of single mother participants in an antipoverty program in South Boston.
At the same time, I enrolled in the requisite classes to complete
my masters degree in sociology. Though I had plenty of experience as
an interviewer not only from my non-fiction writing program but also
before that working as a reporter, I was not prepared for the Research
Methods version of interviewing. The seminar stressed the proper
methodology

of

interview

guide

composition

and

coding,

of

maintaining appropriate distance between the subject and researcher,

of not expressing overt emotion in response to answers that might
indicate a certain orientation or preference. For me, interviewing had
always been a natural dialogue, heavy on listening and responding,
sometimes allowing for silence, to dig deeper, to understand better, to
get the story. Now I was unsure. And listening back to a recording of
my first interview, my self-doubt was obvious. At one point, the
interviewee choked up, talking about her sons father. Why didnt I
comfort her? Offer words of understanding or compassion? Instead, I
stayed on my side of the table, averting my eyes, making notes, trying
to create distance between researcher and subject. Thankfully, the
distance dissolved quickly. Partly because Research Methods ended
and partly because while transcribing the interviews I saw the missed

opportunities for connection and discovery and the void where

compassion and empathy belonged.
But it was clear that my interviewing technique did need some
adjusting to academic research. I remembered to withhold value
judgments when I thought I might influence responses or to wait until
the women had fully processed their thoughts about, for instance, the
arcane rules and processes holding up their childcare vouchers before
responding or offering affirmation. I also realized it was important to be
mindful of the differences between my experience and that of the
women I was interviewing. In Research Methods, we read Zavellas
(1996) description of her experience interviewing Chicana women. She
discusses the problematic situation of interviewing people with whom
you may assume you have shared experiences. It was not until she
was able to acknowledge and confront the differences between herself
and the interviewees that she was able to study them with greater
success.

Zavella suggests that closer attention to the voice of the

subject is needed, and this notion began to guide my own research.

Reflexivity was essential, checking in on the ways in which my identity
and experience might be influencing my data collection, analysis and
interpretation. Obviously, the agency of the teller is central to
composing narratives from personal experience, but so are the actions
of others- listener, transcriber, analyst, and reader (Riessman, 1993,

p. 15). I paid attention to the way my pre-conceived ideas affected the

interview process.
However, I also found that my natural tendency to make the
interviews more personal and less clinical was key to full, meaty
responses. The interviewees grew to know that I was the single mother
of a young daughter. The more I opened up about my story, the more
flowed between us about toxic men and struggles to get complaints
heard by the kids teachers. They asked me questions about my
situation and I answered honestly. Their gradual understanding of
some of the commonalities we shared, despite obvious differences,
helped me to gain their trust. We exchanged stories about our
childrens fathers and girlfriends, about the blame we felt when
parents at the playground asked where the kids fathers were.

They

called and sent messages to check in when my daughter had sinus

surgery and advised me about getting extra supports from the school
when she returned. The study lasted three years, and as time passed,
the women confided in me more and more. They realized if they told
me about a boyfriend living in their public housing unit or an unfair
situation they were navigating at work or in school, I would keep the
information confidential and help in any way I could.
At the same time, the women also knew I was a white graduate
student attending Boston College. I did not live in subsidized housing.
My ex-husband was a public defender who made a decent salary and

was likely to pay child support on time, visit regularly and contribute to
college. This was not the case for most of them who received little or
no support from the fathers of their children. Though saddled with
more than a hundred fifty thousand dollars of student loan debt, I was
on my way to a second masters and eventually a PhD degree. While
my education set me apart, many of the women I spoke with were
pursuing associates, bachelors and even masters degrees. They
asked me questions about juggling my studies with single parenting.
When my father struggled to find a job after a long stretch of
unemployment and my parents were on the verge of losing their home
where my daughter and I lived part-time, I confided in a few of the
women, and they offered compassion, understanding and useful
advice.
So many of us are one illness, car accident, divorce or lost job
away from needing government assistance to help our families to
survive. There was great diversity of experiences and backgrounds of
the single mothers I interviewed. I met several women whose families
had lived in the same public housing development for generations as
well as women who had been raised by middle and working class
families, who sometimes even refused to visit them in their project
apartments. Circumstances like domestic violence, abandonment, and
addiction left many of the women to be labeled low-income single
mothers in need of empowerment.

Many of the interviewees expressed an overall lack of regard for

neighbors in their public housing community and tried to differentiate
themselves, probably in part because they were talking to me, a white
graduate student interviewer. Jane, a single mother of a five-year-old
son, moved into public housing from a shelter for survivors of domestic
violence. Jane said, of her son, Im just keeping him inside until we get
out of here. Have you seen this place? Drugs everywhere. Its just
disgusting...the neighbor upstairs has a two year old and a five year
old and the way she talks to them, youd think she was talking to an
adult. Its just so horrible. My son, you know, calls her the loud lady. Its
just not the way we were raised. We were raised poor, but not like
that.
When a person puts together a narrative of their life story, they
are creating a version of their identity to represent to the listener
(Riessman, 1993; Rosenwald & Ochberg, 1992).

Social forces, like

stereotypes, might be at work under the surface of a narrative, even if

they are not apparent from the actual text of the interview.
Respondents narrativize particular experiences in their lives, often
when there has been a breach between the ideal and real, self and
society (Riessman, 1993, p. 3). As such, the narrative presented in
the interview can also be seen as a counter-narrative responding to an
existing cultural expectations about low-income women, like that of a
neglectful, lazy welfare mother using her government issued checks for

weekly pedicures. The single mothers I interviewed constructed

narratives about their lives that resisted commonly held myths about
low-income mothers to reclaim their own versions of their identities.
All

of

the

mothers

understood

the

negative

stereotypes

associated with low-income single mothers in America. The terms

single mother and welfare dependant have come to be highly
intertwined, adding to the stereotype of the single mother as lazy and
unmotivated,

(Seecombe

&

Walters,

1998,

p.

849),

sexually

irresponsible (Luker, 1996), and young (qtd. in Bock 64). This

stereotype remains surprisingly powerful, despite the fact that
pregnancy among unmarried teens has dropped dramatically over the
last two decades while the rate for college educated, unmarried white
women in their thirties has more than doubled, and for women in
managerial and professional jobs, the rate has tripled (Sands & Nuccio,
1996).
The single mother label weighed heavily on me, even as I
resisted.

Should

conceal

my

circumstances

on

fellowship

applications? More than one person advised this might be a good idea,
until I was able to prove that I could handle the work. I will never forget
one afternoon sitting in my parents kitchen, feeding my daughter
carrots. I heard my father on the phone with a friend in the other room.
No, Im not sure about retirement, he said.

My daughter, yes

Amanda, she became, well shes a single mother now, so you know,

all bets are off. These words from the man who had bragged to his
friends about my grades and jobs for the last twenty-plus years.

wanted to yell at my dad, but I knew he was not alone. Conjure a

single mother in your mind, Id often ask in the classes I taught.
Inevitably the women they imagined were young, uneducated, welfaredependent minorities. The stigma remains powerful despite the fact
that are the fastest growing family form in this country with an
estimated 11 million single moms living in the United States.
My reaction to feeling stigmatized was to dive into my
schoolwork. My research became my refuge and many of my interview
subjects became my friends. Did I sometimes cross the boundary
between interviewer and subject? Yes. I passed along personal and
professional contacts, lent five dollars and a subway card, offered
babysitting and rides. But I never violated the trust and integrity of my
relationship with the women, as a researcher, advocate or friend.
Partly because of the rigorous disclosures and consent required by IRB
and because Ive always been open about my role, all of the women I
interviewed understood I was writing about them. And many have told
me they believe it was important that their stories are heard. They
wanted to be part of a public dialogue about low-income single motherheaded families in America, and I was uniquely situated to bring their
voices into the conversation in the academy. The experiences and
values of low-income single mothers were at the center of my research

and analysis. Dorothy Smith (1997) points to the importance of

learning about society from a standpoint on the sidelines, in this case,
through the experiences of economically marginalized women.
Being embedded in a single parent empowerment program as a
graduate student researcher enabled me to collect a wealth of original
ethnographic data. This data is now the focus of my dissertation. In
reviewing the data, what struck me most about this group of women
was their willingness to help others, despite the high levels of stress
and burden in their own lives. When my daughter went away with her
father on a five-day-trip for the first time, they offered tips and support.
When my dad had a stroke, several of the women asked what they
could do to help. Perhaps their experiences made them more
sympathetic to others, more willing to help, as they had been helped
from time to time. In fact, I observed them organize to volunteer for
Dress for Success and a book drive, share information about charter
school admissions for their kids, and raise money when one of the
moms was diagnosed with cancer. Many of the women checked in
when someone was sick or in the hospital, dog and child-sat for each
other and shared job contacts, not behaviors typically associated with
the low-income single mothers imagined by my students or my father.
I wanted to give something back to these women who had
supported me through such a difficult time in my life and offered
themselves and their experiences up to become the subjects of

academic and popular news articles about women in poverty. When I

learned the play, Good People, by Pulitizer Prize winning playwright
David Lindsay-Abair, was slated to bring the role of a single mother
from South Boston to Broadway, I knew I had to get them there. Many
phone calls and emails later, I came up with ten donated tickets. Some
carpooled and others took the bus to New York City. My daughter and I
spent the afternoon with them in Times Square, buzzing like tourists
around restaurants and street vendors.
Later, inside the theater, the women sat together in a row half
way down the orchestra on stage left. I sat in the back, watching. A few
of them laughed aloud, hooted and cheered in a way that doesnt
happen enough in Broadway theaters. I was just like so proud to say,
you know, thats like me up there. You dont see single moms on
Broadway, said one of the moms.
The play confronts the idea that the family and circumstances we
are all born into are out of our control, dumb luck.

While the main

character, Margie Walsh, played by Frances McDormand, is stuck in

Southie caring for her disabled daughter, working as a cashier, her
former fling and her daughters father, Mike Dillon, had moved up and
out. With support from his father, he earned a scholarship to college
and became a doctor, living in Chestnut Hill with a beautiful young wife
and a house full of breakables. But the point the play drives home is
this: for every one person like Mike Dillon who find a way out, there are

hundreds of people, struggling and working hard, who are still stuck.
And many of them are hard-working, good people. Many of them are
single moms.

Works Cited
Bock, J. D. (2000). Doing the right thing? single mothers by choice and
the struggle for legitimacy. Gender and Society, 14(1), Special
Issue: Emergent and Reconfigured Forms of Family Life), 62-86.
Luker, K. (1996). Dubious conception: the politics of teenage
pregnancy. Harvard
University Press.

Riessman, C. K. (1993). Narrative analysis. Newbury Park, CA: Sage

Publications.
Rosenwald, G. C., & Ochberg, R. L. (1992). Storied lives : The cultural
politics of self-understanding. New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press.
Sands, R. G., & Nuccio, K. E. (1989). Mother-headed single-parent
families: A feminist
perspective. Affilia, 4(3), 25-41.

Seccombe, K., James, D., & Walters, K. B. (1998). "They think you ain't
much of nothing": The social construction of the welfare mother.
Journal of Marriage and Family, 60(4), 849-865.
Zavella, P. (1993). Feminist insider dilemmas: Constructing ethnic
identity with"chicana"
informants. Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, 13(3), 5.

Chapter 4
Ethnography as Research Justice Strategy
Liam Martin
Joe Badillo arrived at the county jail with a cyst on his spine. The only
clue was back pain growing. For five days, he asked for medical
treatment,

while

jail officials

suspicious

of drug use left him

unattended. Then Joe lost feeling in his legs. For another week he
stayed on the bunk in his cell, each day filing a pink slip for treatment,
each day being denied. Only when he became feverish, then passed
out, was he rushed to hospital outside. Surgeons removing the cyst
damaged his nervous system. Joe spent five months in a hospital bed
unable to move his legs, another six in a rehabilitation center, before
being released to the street in a wheelchair. Broke and depressed,
heavily medicated and staying with a friend who was using, he started
selling heroin again. Six months later: return to the county jail. Caged
in the place that almost took his life, Joe Badillo formed the resolve he
would never again return.
This time Joe left for a halfway house. He had been there two
days when I moved in, an ethnographer looking to learn about prisons
from ex-prisoners. Soon I was walking with Joe through downtown

Worcester to the Sherriffs office for a probation drug test. He made the
trip with a cane and gritted teeth, breathing heavy through the
summer heat, resting on a window ledge then a stone tree pot. When
we crossed the road traffic slowed and stopped. Back in the
neighborhood where Joe was born, friendly faces interrupted every few
feet: how long you been out man? You look good man. At the
probation office, he knew the three men with crisp basketball gear and
silver jewelry. I told him it feels like an episode of Cheers. On the bus
home, the powerade drank to ease the piss test continued to take
effect. By the time we got off it was a toilet emergency. Joe put his
hand on my shoulder and sweated and spluttered slowly up the hill.
There was no rushing, until we came across an office chair with worn
orange back and shiny steel wheels discarded by the footpath. Joe
slumped in, and I pumped my legs and pushed the chair while we
laughed our way towards home.
It was moments of friendship like these made possible by
sharing a roof that underwrote the successes bringing Joe into the
project as an interviewer and co-researcher. I came to the work with
strong ideological commitments: that academics studying prisons too
often ignore the people most affected by prisons, that conventional
models of research establish unequal relationships and channel
benefits (of knowledge, resources, and prestige) upwards from
researched to researcher, and that the everyday practices

of

sociological research should be used to empower those most affected

by the problem being studied. But on the ground, living in a halfway
house and scrambling to get the research moving, much more visible
were the immediate, practical fruits of having Joe involved in the
project. Gone were my concerns about finding people to interview he
seemed to know everyone and almost three decades after leaving
school as a 14 year-old, fast became an effective interviewer. He had,
after all, spent his life cycling between prison and the street, places
where people skills are the most important resource of all, sometimes
quite literally the difference between life and death.
In that first three months I lived in the house, we did 25 life
history interviews with former prisoners, half each. They lasted around
three hours, and most were done in the Worcester Commons, a popular
place for people from the halfway houses and programs in the
neighborhood to socialize on summer days in large part because you
cant be moved along from a commons. These were ethnographic
interviews done on park benches and tables, some even on the grass,
sitting among others relaxing in the summer shade often friends of
participants. A year later, I returned to the same house for another
three month stay. Joe was still living there, and this time, I focused on
doing follow-up interviews with the people in our original network,
while he took the lead as interviewer in a project about criminal
records. I understand this work as an experiment in using ethnography

as a research justice strategy, and hope that others can learn by my

sharing the experience.
Research across Social Boundaries
Ive never been to prison. Dad did two nights in jail, once as a
union organizer caught in the wrong workplace, another as a hitchhiker
walking where people didnt walk. Uncle Steve spent three days locked
up after having his passport stolen then trying to cross the Iranian
border. A friend got six months home detention for dealing cannabis.
These are stories remembered and told for being exceptions: not one
of my friends or family has ever been sentenced to prison time.
Growing up in New Zealand, prisons entered my world only in the
abstract. I moved to America to work in an elite academic institution,
and spend my days on a campus of old stone buildings and maple
trees

on

hill

overlooking

reservoir.

The

community

is

overwhelmingly affluent and white. This always felt like a strange place
to study prisons, so I packed my possessions in a bag and headed for a
halfway house in the old industrial city of Worcester.
The house is part of a network of three programs run by the
same husband and wife - a farm outside the city, the structured
halfway house, and small number of apartments for independent living.
Some of the 12 - 15 men living there are recent arrivals directly from
prison and jail, others have been there for longer. There is no time limit
on stays. It was founded by a priest from a local university and

emphasizes integrating the house and surrounding community - I was

able to live there because of a broader policy of bringing student
interns into the house. Church groups bring meals five nights a week
and share food at a table big enough for twenty. There are no live-in
staff, and a paid former prisoner and ex-resident does much of the dayto-day running. There are strict rules: compulsory attendance at
evening meals, a 10pm curfew, mandatory attendance at four AA or
NA meetings per week, and random drug testing. But the day-today
feel of the house is quite relaxed, and the men who live there routinely
describe it as the best program in the city.
My decision to move into the house as a researcher opened an
ethical Pandoras box. I found the work of Robert Blauner and David
Wellman especially helpful in thinking through the problems - perhaps
it resonated because they too were white men initiating research in a
marginalized community. Working out of UC Berkeley in the 1960s,
Blauner and Wellmans research on race took them into AfricanAmerican neighborhoods where the researcher like the policeman
and social worker was viewed as an outsider who entered ghettos
and barrios to serve personal and institutional goals decided outside
the community of study. Both the challenges of participants and
upsurge of political activism within their own institution forced them to
confront the way conventional research practices reproduce social
hierarchies (Blauner and Wellman 1973: 314):

Scientific research does not exist in a vacuum. Its theory and

practice reflect the structure and values of society. In capitalist
America, where massive inequalities in wealth and power exist
between classes and racial groups, the processes of social
research express both race and class oppression. The control,
exploitation and privilege that are generic components of social
oppression exist in the relation of researchers to researched,
even though their manifestations may be subtle and masked by
professional ideologies.

Social scientists control the research process from beginning to

end. Norms of professional autonomy and expertise dictate that only a
social scientist can define a suitable problem for study, and the
theories and interests that organize projects respond to the need to
increase knowledge within academic disciplines and professions. The
life problems and needs of the community are secondary and rarely
the start point for research. At the point of research production
delivering a survey, interviewing, recording observations there is a
gap between the researchers purpose and the participants awareness
of what they are doing, and knowledge flows one way the interviewee
reveals often intimate and personal details, while the researcher
records neutrally, revealing nothing of their own life or beliefs. In

analysis, unique perspectives are lost in statistical summaries and

ideal-type classifications of aggregate data. There is then a large
communication gap in the presentation of research: social scientists
write for other experts, so that those who are studied cannot make
heads or tails of the research report to which their own responses
contributed. Structuring research projects in this way channels benefits
from researched to researcher. Subjects give up some time, energy and
trust and usually get nothing from the transaction. Social scientists
get grants that pay their salaries, research findings that bring
professional status, and publications that advance careers in rank and
income. These inequalities reproduce hierarchies the researcher is
often explicitly committed to breaking-down.
Recognizing these dynamics raised a range of issues as I worked
to use ethnography as a research justice strategy. Looking for
meaningful ways to challenge these institutional arrangements is
especially difficult as a graduate student, training to become a
professional

sociologist

while

being

bombarded

with

dystopian

messages about conditions in the academic job market. Publish or

perish, we are told, there will be no work for those who leave graduate
school without journal publications. Publishing in academic journals
requires styles of communicating research that all but dictates staying
close to established conventions. With this in mind, the rest of the
chapter is based not on how the knowledge produced by the project is

used, but on where I felt more room to be creative: the relationships I

established with participants in the field, and small ways I tried to
imbue

the

exploitative

researcher-researched

relationship

with

elements of egalitarianism and empowerment.

Building Relationships with Former Prisoners
As a doctoral candidate at Boston College, I get a good deal out
of doing research. Academic work with flexible hours and little outside
control is my livelihood. Upward mobility is also implied in the position:
research good enough will lead to long-term stable employment, wellpaid under even better conditions. At the same time, my immediate
financial resources are limited. To provide some perspective: I earn
about the same as my girlfriend, a Starbucks barista. Many of the
rewards I earn doing research remain somewhat intangible, difficult to
divide or deferred to the future. But the opportunity for spreading
these rewards came when I was awarded a $4000 grant by the
sociology department to spend three months living in a halfway house
doing life histories with former prisoners. Easily accessible, relatively
informal and internal to the department, the grant provided resources
outside mainstream bureaucratic channels often reluctant to fund
research organized around collaborative methods.
The grant funded not only moving to Worcester and staying in
the house for the summer, but the two main strategies I hoped would
start to breakdown exploitative structures for doing social research.

First, I brought a former prisoner onboard as a co-researcher and

interviewer to build a modest element of community empowerment
into the project, replacing the researcher-researched relationship with a
connection that included basic training and professional engagement.
Second, I committed early to putting half the grant money into the
hands of community members, paying both the co-researcher and all
interview respondents. As an interviewer, Joe got $70 for each three
hour life history, and each respondent got $40. I stressed that the
money was a wage for labor time, not a bribe for information, and
insisted on paying respondents even when people offered to do the
interview for free. The benefits provided to participants by these direct
payments were more tangible and immediate than anything else I
could come up with. If this was all I achieved, at least I put some
money into the hands of people who many times had nothing.
Its hard to imagine doing research in this setting without
providing some form of compensation: these were hard times for the
people we interviewed. One respondent, Owen Roberts, put it simply:
every time you go to jail you lose everything. Living at the halfway
house, I saw up close what this means for people coming out the other
side. Peter Tennant moved into the house the day before I arrived. He
had no bank account or assets, and leaving Worcester County jail
received nothing but the clothes he was wearing on the day he arrived,
which had been sitting, unwashed in a plastic bag, in jail storage for

the year he was locked up. Three weeks later, bureaucratic tangles
meant Peter had received a total of $14 in social welfare assistance. He
often left the house early in the morning to collect cans off the street
for the change to use the washing machine. His only pair of jeans
didnt fit, and he once spent most of a day walking around Worcester
trying to find a belt he could afford with his last $4.
But paying people for interviews also created its own problems.
Structuring research relationships as business transactions makes
establishing more open-ended connections difficult. Once a direct
payment for time model was created, more fluid relationships and
forms of exchange were pushed to the side, and I was left wondering
about how best to sustain connections over time. Where no money is
involved, a person agreeing to sit down with you signals they believe in
the importance of the research, opening possibilities for integrating
them into the work in lasting ways. Cash payments muddle the
interpretation of motives. There were also times when I worried that
paying people under conditions of often extreme material scarcity
introduced an element of coercion. How can a person with so little turn
down $40 for a few hours work? Ty Kelley and Mark Bernard, for
example, grew tired during the interview and pushed for a finish,
sliding toward disinterest and one sentence responses.
I tried to undermine the wage-labor structure of the relationships
established with interviewees by making the interview itself a creative,

human encounter. I put a lot of emphasis on the immediate, physical

surroundings, and did the interviews in places I hoped the person
would feel comfortable. Usually this was the Worcester commons, but
also included peoples houses, other public parks and the backyard of
the halfway house. These were informal settings, places where friends
gathered for conversation. When I was meeting people for the first
time on the day of the interview, I also asked if they would come a little
early so I would buy lunch usually a Subway sandwich and over
food tried to let them know what the project was all about. I used a
small, inconspicuous recorder, shared cigarettes, and never took notes
or read from the question sheet. I hinted and prodded, but ultimately
let the interviews flow in the direction set by the participant. Sparked
by questioning about being caught in the violent white backlash to
school busing in Boston, Lloyd Andrews spoke for almost two hours in
almost stream of consciousness reflection on racism and punishment,
pain and hope and violence to which I just listened, saying barely a
word.
Many of the problems of paying respondents carried-over to
paying Joe Badillo for his work as an interviewer. At one level, this was
an effective way of channeling benefits of the research into the
community: he received money for his time, some basic training in
qualitative methods, and a credential for his resume. At the same time,
the relationship was structured as a wage-labor exchange a model

hardly brimming with emancipatory potential. With the limited

resources I brought to the project, this was temporary work of the
highest order: no contract, no holiday or sick pay, not even a
guaranteed wage. Just a small payment for each interview conducted,
one at a time. No interview, no pay. This raises the issue of whether
one form of exploitation is being replaced by another, the research
participant for the temporary wage laborer. For all my efforts to
eliminate the boss-worker dynamic, the underlying structure of the
relationship established by the research remains: cash payment for
time worked.
But

despite

the

underlying

structure,

the

relationship

established with Joe Badillo rarely felt like that of a boss and employee.
Here, the business transaction was wrapped in a relationship of
friendship, and there were many exchanges of time and energy that
took place outside any financial transaction. Sometimes these blended
research and day-to-day living. Perhaps I would give Joe a ride to an NA
meeting downtown, or to the optometrists to get a pair of glasses, and
on the way we would talk about what people were saying in the
interviews, where the next recruit was coming from, or the history of
the neighborhood. At other times, they were just the back and forth
gifts of two men sharing a roof: a cigarette or a lighter, cooking a meal
and breaking bread in the halfway house kitchen. There were also lots
of laughs. On a trip to Hampton beach, I sprinkled a napping Jayme

Kenny with potato chips to induce a seagull attack - while the birds
swarmed me and Joe laughed until tears formed. Me and Jayme
nicknamed a visible hernia on Joes stomach little Joe and personified
it as a house member daily. I wore a corn cob outfit to advertise a
Farmers Market Joe got a photo and hung it on the halfway house
fridge. The value of ethnography as a research justice strategy rests on
these little moments of friendship introducing a qualitative change to
the research relationships.
Joking and humor was a constant feature of my time at the
house, an all-male space where busting balls and shooting the shit
are the default modes of conversation. A young college student out of
my comfort zone I was a constant target. The work I do is not really
considered work by the men in the house. To an academic audience,
spending time just being with people is participant-observation and
immersion in the field. To the men in the house it looks a lot like
hanging around smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The practical
work of sociology - sitting at a computer, reading and writing are also
activities that fall outside what would usually be considered work in
this setting. My dubious work ethic therefore became fertile ground for
jokes. Kevin Jones, the paid house manager, ex-convict and former
resident, went out of his way to publicly police my chore and loudly
describe my laziness to anyone who would listen. At the dinner table
where the whole house shares a meal each week night, I was often the

main topic of conversation, attacked for everything from my large

portions of food and fast eating indications I only came to the house
for the free meals to hating America or being a terrorist inferred
from my critical social views. This joking and laughing was the texture
of my daily rounds in the house.
Sometimes being a friend came into conflict with being a
researcher. I spent a lot of time with Jayme Kenney during my second
stay in the house. He was going through tough times, a recovering
heroin addict four months clean, still shaken by the recent memory of
squirming through withdrawals on the concrete floor of a jail cell, while
being berated by a guard a friend of his brother who asked
repeatedly: do you even know where your kids are? Jayme didnt. His
wife was in a drug treatment program down the road, her parents
looking after their twin sons with Department of Child and Family
monitoring. I was the first person he told when she said she wanted a
divorce. When she left the program, I drove him to find her and talk.
One day we went to swim at a local pond, she was there in a group
with another man and I talked him down from a fight. We spent lots of
nights sitting on the halfway house porch smoking cigarettes and
talking about life not just his by mine. I decided early on not to record
our unfolding relationship in field note writing and analysis. It just felt
wrong to do so: here was a man in a crisis, trying damn hard to make

things work and doing it with a smile and a laugh. It just seemed right
to be there as friend without objectifying the experience.
Within the house, I tried to align myself with the residents rather
than staff. This came to a head early in the work I had only been
there three days when Kevin Jones, the paid house manager, asked me
to complete weekly check-ins with each resident. The involved filling
in a form about their progress attendance at NA and AA meetings,
plans for housing and work, financial situation and filing it in a
cabinet in the office. This made me uncomfortable from the beginning:
sitting with the guys with a clipboard and form to fill out for the house
manager was precisely what I was trying not to do. I only did 2 checkins before mumbling to Kevin that I dont want to be involved in
monitoring residents, then just avoided doing them. After a couple of
weeks it came to a head and we had a proper conversation. I told him
that Im doing research among people who have been monitored and
controlled their whole life, and am paranoid about my research
perpetuating this. For the rest of the project he loudly and routinely
brought up how Ill do three hour interviews with people asking about
the intimate details of their life since birth, but wont do a basic checkin. My reply when I actually engaged was to say that the difference
is that I have control over how the information is used. What I didnt
say was that I was also concerned about how doing check-ins would
change my relationships with the men in the house.

There was also constant conflict between my goal of being

practically useful to participants and the endless need for more data
collection. There were always opportunities to contribute: I helped
Lloyd Andrews put together a CV, wrote a letter to the judge for Jayme
Kenny, and worked with Matt Carmine on his community college
homework. When I got a car halfway through my second stay at the
house, giving rides became part of my daily rounds. But I also felt
constantly overwhelmed by the mountain of possible things to record
in field notes and the need to organize and do more interviews. Living
in a halfway house is an amazing place for a sociologist of the prison to
learn so much to write down, so little time and I had been given
money to go there and do research, after all. Giving time to both the
daily tasks of research and the work of making practical contributions
was a constant juggling act. This is especially difficult because efficient
academic work requires routine, but helping out requires dropping
what youre doing and grabbing the moment when it comes along. It
was also intensified by most students who live in the house being paid
interns who work full-time for the organization. My ambiguous position
as an unpaid intern/researcher always pushing my time toward the
latter again opened me up for work ethic humor. Kevin Jones coined
the phrase its not what Liam can do for Banum, but what Banum can
do for Liam1 and threatened to get a t-shirt printed.
1 I use the name Banum House as a pseudonym for the program.

In these messy, human relationships with all their strains and

conflicts - lies the biggest strength of ethnography as a research justice
strategy. Living in a place over time allows for forming lasting
connections based on trust, and doing research through relationships
imbued with an ethic of friendship. Perhaps the researcher-researched
relationship will always include an element of exploitation. But where
techniques and strategies can be found to start moving benefits the
other way, these are most effective where they can be channeled
between people who know and care about each other. These
connections allow for working things out in fluid, open ways, through
the kinds of exchanges that take place in intimate relationships and
organic friendships.
Small Victories
Establishing more egalitarian relationships with participants in
ethnographic research is no panacea. The historical roots of the
method can be traced to the role of early ethnographers in colonial
expeditions alongside missionaries and cartographers - on the
frontiers of often brutal state expansions. The issue is not so much
whether these ethnographers became friends with participants, but the
role of their research in broader structures of power and oppression.
Like the ethnographer able to live in an African village because of
European infiltration of the territory, I was able to live alongside former
prisoners in a halfway house because of their marginalized position

within a broader network of oppressive relationships there would be

no such place to stay if the research was about Wall Street bankers.
Ultimately, my work should be judged on the extent to which it
challenges these structures. But framing the potential of ethnography
as a research justice strategy in these terms can easily make progress
seem out of reach. As I study the prison that place where pain and
rejection so often swamp hope - I keep my eyes open always for small
victories. I have learned there are low hanging fruit in the everyday
ways I practice ethnography and relate to people in my work.
At the end of my first stay at the halfway house, I designed and
printed a certificate to say thanks to Joe for good work. I designed it on
the computer a picture frame with scalloped edges, faded blue, Joes
name printed in big letters across the front, above the words: for
exceptional work as co-researcher and interviewer in the Worcester
prison cycle project. I got it printed at Fedex and signed my name
above the institution: Department of Sociology, Boston College. I gave
it to Joe the day before I left, he laughed and said thanks, but I felt a
little sheepish. It seemed a cheesy token, out of place, like something
only a teacher would do. Back living at the house a year later, I went to
Joes room to talk. I knocked then opened the door, leaned on the
frame looking into where he lay on the bed watching TV. I glanced
around the small halfway house room while he spoke - just wide
enough for a bed and a desk - across five, neat rows of shoes, a broken

laptop, silver blinds that cast thin lines of light through the shadows,
and then, set apart from everything else on an otherwise bare wall: the
certificate.

Works Cited
Blauner, Robert and David Wellman. 1973. Toward the Decolonization
of Social Research. Pp. 310-331 The Death of White Sociology: Essays
on Race and Culture, edited by Joyce A. Ladner. Baltimore: Black
Classic Press.

Chapter 5
Queered by the Archive: No More Potlucks and
the Activist Potential of Archival Theory
Andrea Zeffiro & Ml Hogan
Launched on January 1, 2009, No More Potlucks (NMP), is the first
and only independent web-based and print-on-demand journal of arts
and politics in Canada, housed at the Library Archives Canada.
Cofounded by Ml Hogan, M-C MacPhee and Dayna McLeod, the project
came to fruition from a longstanding friendship, and also from a fouryear volunteer experience with the Dykes on Mykes (DoMs) community
radio show at CKUT, in Montreal. The project, however, was a decisive
response to what they perceived to be lacking in contentpolitics,
ideologies, and aestheticsin arts and cultural publications, often
sidestepped and largely overshadowed by American endeavours
(Autostraddle and Bitch, for example).
Over the course of the last five years, Hogan and MacPhee have
hit the proverbial nail on the head in their assessment of what was
lacking in queer feminist arts and cultural venues of publication: 29
issues have been published, and upcoming editions of NMP are curated
months in advance. NMP supports marginalized voices and modes of
knowledge production and dissemination, which ideally facilitate acts

of self-determination and cultural autonomy. Communities of artists,

activists and academics continue to supply the journal with material
including artworks and collections, personal reflection pieces, critical
interviews, works of fiction, and poetic political interventions, which
together document the possibilities of new media publishing venues
and a sense of urgency around the dissemination of underspoken
voices and underappreciated perspectives. The focus is decidedly
Canadian, with some international content.
NMPs stake in research justice however, pertains not only to
bringing to light the journals strong feminist underpinnings, its
Canadianness, and visibly queer ethics, but also, and perhaps more
importantly, to the archival trajectory of the project and the political
implications of the Archive. To understand NMP as a queer archive, and
as queerer by the archive, is the intention of our intervention. In our
contribution to Research Justice, we use NMP as a site of inquiry to
explore how the politics of social movements such as queer, GLBT, and
feminist, are reflected in that movements preservation of itself,
though by no means always advertently.
In the discussion that follows, we attempt to address how NMP
positions itself politically through its strategies for sustenancenot so
much to come up with a definitive stance about who and what NMP is,
or how it can or will be read historically, but rather to demonstrate the
correlation between self-preservation and politics, or, in other words, to

identify the link between NMP and the activist potential of the history it
creates and tells about itself and its community. What does it mean for
a social movement to use the intention of the archive to frame itself
moving forward? NMP is also intended--as a gesture outwards--as an
opportunity to demonstrate the necessary link between politics and
action built into NMPs ideal queer feminist posturing, and to start a
conversation about the ways in which social justice serves as an
impetus to shape history differently, as a mode of storytelling.

Knowledge Inqueery
Before shifting our attention to an appraisal of the activist
potential of archival theory vis--vis NMP, it is necessary that we make
visible our association with the journal, and by extension, the process
through which this article came to be. As cofounders of NMP, Ml
Hogan and M-C MacPhee share the work of curation, artistic vision and
design, and editorship. Andrea Zeffiro has been working with NMP
since the journals inception, first as copy editor, and more recently, as
a regular interviewer and contributor. Despite the varying degrees of
involvement from those who help generate the journal, in various
capacities--though all volunteers--there is a sense of community that
emerges from the relationships forged by the journal.
The queer network is the product, and the journal its best
byproduct.

Over the past year, we (the authors of this paper) have become
increasingly invested in collaborative writing as a mode of queer
feminist inquiry, or as a method of knowledge inqueery. In part, this
means challenging what is meant by and accepted as original
contributions to scholarly knowledge and its modes of distribution. This
challenge has become a declaration of our enunciative agencies: our
capacity to articulate our lived experiences into material forms as
speech acts, written accounts, or channeled through artistic practice
is to assert ownership not only over our emotions, but our thoughts,
skills, politics and experiences. Enunciative actions are acts of critical
agency through which we engage with the world around us, and
respond accordingly. This is made manifest through our involvement
with NMP, which at its core is about reconciling feminist ideals with
queer ethics and aesthetics, as a reminder that our politics are of no
use if not implemented, articulated, and mindfully challenged on an
ongoing personal and creative basis.
And so beyond the revelation of our personal and professional
ties to NMP, and our vested interests in the publication, we engage in
dialogue

that

is

representative

of

our

personal

and

political

inclinations, both in, around, and beyond our work with the journal.
Having been formally trained as academics, we are straddling the inner
and outer worlds of the scholarly tradition. This piece is a testament to
that balancing act between scholarly reflection and activism possible

only with a certain distance to that privileged positioning. It is also

proof of how research - in our case, archival theory - can ignite activist
impulses.
Foundational Queeries
ZEFFIRO: Despite having had the opportunity of observing NMPs
evolution over the last five years, it was only recently in preparation
for this piece that I became aware of NMPs parallel trajectories: 1)
the website Nomorepotlucks.org which was launched in 2003 and
served as a virtual posting board for queer feminist events in Montreal
(Canada); and, 2) the community radio program Dykes on Mykes
which you, Marie-Claire MacPhee and Dayna McLeod took over in 2004.
HOGAN: I registered the domain name nomorepotlucks.org in 2003, a
few years after coming out of design school (Algonquin College in
Ottawa) where I had developed the basic skills to set up a website. At
the time, it was, as you say, a posting board of queer events in
Montreal and surrounding areas. It was a hand-coded static HTML
website. In 2005, the site shifted to its first content management
system (CMS) but retained much of the same purpose, to promote
events in the city with. This is also what gave NMP its meaning; no
more potlucks was a nod to feminist gatherings, but by saying no
more, we were also getting at the idea that there is more to do,
socially, for women. To get out there. To have queer public womens
culture.

The main difference in shifting to a CMS from static HTML is that

it allows for content to be archived in some sense, rather than
overwritten. I would say that this is more important than it sounds, and
something we should expand on; the archival potential of technology
has become really important for NMPs position as a queer archive.
In

2009,

nomorepotlucks.org

was

revamped

conceptually,

aesthetically, and technologically to become what is now, an online

and print-on-demand journal of arts and politics, showcasing a new
issue every 2 months. January 2014 will mark our 5th anniversary as
an independent publication.
Over the course of ten years, the site shifted from Textpattern to
Drupal to WordPress, with the technology feeding into a concern the
projects preservation. Now, with 29 issues and hundreds of pages in
print and online, various media on our server and third party sites, our
database--all of that constantly backed up. We instated the print issue
right away, with Issue 1, because it became a format that could be
housed safely. Print was something archivist knew how to care for. For
us though, its not ideal -- not everything can be preserved in print and
its incredibly labourious -- but were the first and probably only printon-demand publication at

Library Archives Canada!

As the cofounder of the journal and as the web developer and

technician for the project, I can explain in detail the archival trajectory
of the project and its political implications. I have a growing--personal
and academic--interest to tease out the ways in which archival
strategies are always in part a product of the politics of the social
movement

they

emerge

from.

As

creative

queer

feminist

intervention, I want us to talk and reflect on the kind of archival

analysis that invariably creates for the archive as much as it draws
(archaeologically) from it.
ZEFFIRO: What is fascinating for me is that despite their specific
technological and social anchors, these two paths came together and
developed into something entirely different, but also remarkably
congruent. Could you speak to the background narrative of NMP?
HOGAN: Radio was really the lead up to NMP. Dayna, M-C, and I sat
around imagining what it would mean to get artists and curators and
scholars and activists working together on a bimonthly publication. We
got the momentum and developed the ability to work together through
community radio. Through radio programming, we started to define
queer and feminist, and what it had meant to previous hosts, and how
these definitions continued to change quite a bit over time. Influenced
by academic queer theory (most of it US-based), trashy parties, trans
culture, franco GLBT initiatives, lesbian art movements, and so on, we

began to think that the common thread there would be a good basis
for a journal. I think these are terms we should explore.

What do these terms mean to you?

ZEFFIRO: For me, queer has always signaled a positionality that has to
do with the ways in which one moves through the world. Queer
postures politics, theory, identity, pedagogy point towards the
possibility that something else exists beyond the limits of a heteronormative dominant logic I suppose what Ive described is akin to a
world view. But its more than that, too. Its also very much a mode of
doing or rooted in action. To queer (verb) is to challenge the
assumptions, boundaries and biases that are taken as neutral
indicators that this is the way things should be. And the most efficient
means of queering, I think, is by creating alternatives that undermine
the status quo.
Feminism, for me, it is a struggle. And I mean this in the most
productive sense possible. I think that becoming a feminist is a
continuous process that is marked by striving to do what we know is
right even when we know it will prove to be difficult. It means that we
are onerous towards our limitations and faults, but that we see those
limitations and faults as another point of departure in building our
politic. I think that being/becoming a feminist means that even when
were not consciously deploying feminist strategies or actively

enforcing a feminist politic, feminist perspectives become ingrained in

the way that we carry out our work practically, methodologically,
theoretically, and personally - even when were not naming or
qualifying our actions as specifically feminist.
As for the feminist agenda, Im wary of employing the visibility of
women as an index of equality. In identifying the activities and
achievements, or, the material productions of women, it is evident that
women have, and continue to have influence within all facets of life.
And while taking stock of contributions is vitally important and
necessary, so too is ascertaining ideological positions that encourage
(or not) feminist perspectives and positionalities. Beyond enumerating
women, it is also necessary to examine the manner in which feminist
perspectives are permitted to shape, critique, and contribute to official
discourses.
How do you define queer and feminism?
HOGAN: As you know, Ive had similar struggles with the meaning of
feminism. Its not always been obvious to look up in academia and
see the kinds of feminisms we read about being enacted in peoples
everyday lives. I think that for me this is the only thing that matters-how politics transfer into action. This is the only hope for social
change: how you live is an embodied politic. And so while weve come
to hold the personal is political as a feminist mantra, thats where the
most painful contradictions lie. Academia seems to amplify this

because the system is hierarchical and whats perceived as rewards

often requires aligning oneself within that cadre, if not reinforcing
those boundaries. With NMP, as with the arts more generally, theres
more room to manoeuvre.
So I think Ive let go of the idea of feminist in favour of
feminism--an action-based idea rather and an identity category that
nobody can live up to all the time, mainly because feminism is not
understood by all in the same way, depending on location, experience,
rank, education and so on. As Elizabeth Grosz and Heather Davis
discuss in NMP 23

feminist theory has the potential to make us

become other than ourselves, to make us unrecognizable for better or

worse. Feminism becomes visible in moments, ways of being, theories,
gestures, art, performance, and writing. Its feminism when its
enacted. The more time I spend collaborating on projects that have
feminist values, the more I think that feminists, as people, dont exist.
Does that make sense? So its not that contradictions are inherently
unfeminist, but it does require us to be self-reflexive, accountable and
empathetic. To care about each other beyond the call of duty. Im off on
a tangent but not really.
I think we can also define queer around action--queering stuff.
But as a verb, I think it risks downplaying the bodies attached to
difference and the discrimination that comes with it. Thats still real.
So queering is problematic and useful. I think queering does work

like racing, as a reading tool. Our queer experience and bodies allow
us to read against / across moments or texts to see how fear and
desire play out. Maybe a lense is the best metaphor?
So if were talking about the reader and reception, queering
works. In the same way that in a room full of queers people will
presume others queer, NMP queers content, and perhaps, by default,
our contributors. In this sense, being queered is an effect... but Im
not sure that the verb and noun queer occupy the same conceptual
space. Something to think more about. Both feminism and queer
politics become the activist force behind NMP, though I think theres a
way in which feminism could reinvigorate queer, so for me thats the
dominant force. Because misogyny is at the root of both.
In NMP, there are an increasing number of reflection pieces that
are dissecting the limits of queer/feminist activism within academia, or
academia in relation to larger issues of social justice, as academia
tends more and more toward privatization and corporate partnerships
(NMP 28 Ceraso and Zeffiro; NMP 27 Wallace and Hogan).
ZEFFIRO: Lets talk a little bit more about the activist force behind NMP.
The journal is sustained by the participation of the queer/feminist/GLBT
community. In fact, the project is entirely volunteer driven, from the
editorial team to the artists, activists, and academics submitting
material.
Tell me a little bit more about this community.

HOGAN: I first imagine the readers to be the people featured in the

journal. And then I imagine that some of their friends, communities,
families, and part of their expanded online social networks become
readers, too. And then some readers become contributors, and the
cycle repeats itself, and grows. Its organic.
We did consider applying for funding at some point but since
money has never driven the project, nor are their funding bodies that
we know of that would cover the actual costs of labour for all involved,
we dropped the idea of money. I personally think that NMP wouldnt be
better for it. The sustainability of the journal depends a lot on the
efforts and the drive of people money, and technology for that
matter, are second to that. I do all the web and print design myself so
thats labour thats paid for through the queer network it generates.
For me, this is a real pay off. Same for M-C. As for contributors, we
hope that NMP offers a place to have their work seen if not written
about, in a context that is decidedly independent, mostly Canadian,
and hopefully queer.

Anyway, you werent really asking about money, but I guess its
a question a lot of people have. Weve managed to run this journal
online, and in print, at minimal costs, paid out of our pocket (and a few
donations in the early days). I think labour should be paid for generally,
and while I have a hard time articulating why NMP is better off without

money, for now, I think its because M-C and I do the bulk of the labour
and we answer to nobody. That kind of freedom is unusual. Queer.
Fulfilling.
Is there a way in which doing free labour for NMP seems in
contradiction with feminism? We ask ourselves this a lot, or we
did at the beginning
ZEFFIRO: I can see how a conversational thread concerning the
volunteer base of the journal can lead to a discussion about money or
lack thereof. I think your concerns intimate larger issues regarding the
devaluation of individual labour power and the cult of the intern. Its
been socially accepted that internships are a means to paid
employment but its become increasingly evident that a real job might
not materialize at the end. And this phenomenon isnt isolated to the
corporate world. Ive witnessed this within academic formations.
Regardless of the institutional location, its problematic when some
people are receiving a healthy salary, while others barely receive a
note of recognition. But to bring it back to NMP, no one receives
monetary restitution. So it isnt as though you have a cash reserve and
that your choosing where to invest it.
HOGAN: Money is just one component of value. I think youre right that
doing this kind of volunteer work has traditionally be a promise of paid
work down the line, but I do feel that being involved in NMP in any
capacity generates a lot of cultural capital. But there are limits to this

notion of cultural capital--it can just as easily become a way of

justifying free labour. I think you need to know the limits of this value
and when to cash it in.
Lets return briefly to the community in and around NMP.
Given that NMP is reliant on the participation from volunteers,
how do the editors reflect the community and allow the
communitys ideas to drive and push NMPs development?
HOGAN: As far as what people contribute, were very open and we
often publish things that push our own boundaries as editors, or that
we dont fully agree with, or that were not sure we fully understand.
We try to balance that with being accountable and responsible for the
overall publication, seeing as one contribution belongs to an issue and
influences the overall content of NMP.
The material that tends to get published in NMP is material that
might not be published elsewhere. It can be raw (NMP 14 Bellissent). A
provocation (NMP 18 Nair). A thesis (NMP 1 Lakshmi PiepznaSamarasinha). An Experiment (NMP 21 Suerich-Gulick). Blog posts
(NMP 1 Bryson) that would otherwise fade away. Its sometimes
unpolished by traditional standards of publication. For academics in
particular, this can mean work that is presented as fiction (NMP 28
Kember), or experiential writing (NMP 25 Cvetkovich; NMP 29 Gajjala)
that wouldnt be accepted by more traditional peer-reviewed journals,
that also normally have a very long turnaround time. NMP also have

works that are presented as video, audio, or any combination of these

things. For artists, NMP is a great place to not only showcase their work
but to have it reviewed and written about, either by being matched to
a curator (NMP 7 Pozniak; NMP 25 Boyce and Frater), interviewer (NMP
16 Muholi & Pearson Clarke), or an NMP editor (NMP 7 Picard and
McLeod). It is very important to write about art and to get interviews
with artists to be posted alongside the work itself. For activists, we
think NMP is a place to be heardits definitely an alternative to a
newspaper or a blog, in part because its within the context of an arts
and culture journal. And its when all three spheres come together
academic, artistic and activistthat an issue is at its best. My goal is to
get

more

francophone

content

into

the

journal

and

more

representation from outside of Montreal and Toronto, our two main

hubs. And to stay Canadian.
Activating the Archive
ZEFFIRO: In your academic work, you have discussed how the growing
popularity of online archives, including social networking sites,
unaffiliated online repositories, podcasts and blogs, reinstate the
importance of knowledge-sharing and point to the limitations of the
traditional archive, in its gatekeeping function. Specifically, you have
supported your claims with evidence of how the online archive relies
on users to participate in its ongoing development: as programmers,
curators, fans, hackers, editors, writers, organisers, commenters

(commentators?), designers, contributors, readers, etc., but also for

the preservation of the projects themselves. And, youve argued that
participation in a project online often means sustaining it: by
generating copies, conversations, and activating a culture and
community around a shared reference point, from which a project can
be both grounded and expanded.

HOGAN: Yes. And since presenting that idea at Console-ing Passions in

Boston last year, Ive been wondering: what if we take that idea even
further? What if we conceived of the queer archive as embodied in its
community. Inhabited. Occupied. What if we developed a theory of the
queer archive that was counter to ideals of property and ownership
and authorship? What would that look like I wonder...
What do you think of that?
ZEFFIRO: So the queer archive, if its embodied/inhabited/occupied,
suggests that it is alive: continuous in existence and full of activity. It
isnt something to be watched over or guarded, rather it demands
interaction. This archive would be open to mutations and forces. In
fact, it would depend on mutabilities. The queer archive therefore, is
unreliable as a linear narrative. It doesnt have any kind of
recognizable beginning point, nor does it prioritize the future. Instead,
the queer archive is fragmented. It is always in flux.

Are we proposing that the queer archive is a mode of

(archival) intervention?
Hogan: Yes, an intervention, and a creative act? To think of the archive
in this way, then, is to consider the means by which to assemble
stories, as a mode of doing that records its own trajectory and history.
Not to overstate what NMP does; it think its the conversation that it
opens that reveals its potential. It places NMP within the context of
various projects--from the Body Politic in the 70s, to Fembot launched
a few years ago, to the new Queer Public Podcast. These constitute the
queer archive, together. Over time, NMP is likely to take on more value
and a different meaning. In the present, NMP is about the network, the
people and connections, that it generates. A sense of or an attempt at
belonging through shared cultural references.
ZEFFIRO: Does NMP pose challenges to the traditional archive? If so,
how is the the archive reimagined vis--vis NMP? In what ways does
this reimagining open towards activist potentialities? And finally, what
constitutes participation for NMP?
HOGAN: I think NMP challenges the archive in a few ways. First, I think
that were queers and feminists recording our own culture, ideas, and
art. If we dont do it, nobody else will. Even in GLBT archives, the
diversity of content or contributors--women, trans folks, people of
colour--arent documented or participating in the archival project or
vision. Would you consider that an activist potentiality? I do. In some

ways NMP is even more important because its Canadian, and what we
do and say is constantly overshadowed by whats happening in the US.
I also think the online and print-on-demand publication--both of
which potentially have no final version--challenge the notion of an
original. NMP is the first, and I think only, POD journal housed at Library
Archives Canada... and I remember having to explain to the staff that
there was no print run for NMP, that it had to be ordered directly from
the printer and that only the online version contained the video and
audio and so on. Not to be all utopic about the affordances of
technology, but its proving to allow more people to broadcast, publish,
and express themselves.

Based on your work dealing with cultural politics and practices

of

emerging

feminist

technologies,

media

studies,

contemporary
and

media

histories,

transdisciplinary

research

methods, how do you read NMPs activist potential?

Zeffiro: The common thread stitching my research together has always
been one of making the invisible visible ideologies, power, knowledge
in relation to social, cultural and political contexts of production. And
what stands out for me in relation to NMP - is the visibility of its
communities. Im thinking here about the many ways in which
communities of artists, activists and academics in and around the
journal contribute to the production and circulation of a myriad of

knowledge formations. And these communities - and the scope of the

journal itself - mutate with the evolution of NMP.
So, to answer your question: I have always read NMPs activist
potential through its communities, and their modes of storytelling,
documentation, speculative thinking, in other words, in the sustenance
of a culture.
HOGAN: Your scholarly work also focuses on the practices and
processes of experimental media production and consumption; how/do
you see what NMP is doing as having activist potential?
ZEFFIRO: If I were to examine NMP as a form experimental media
production/consumption, I think I would begin by examining it
alongside the tradition of queer-feminist zines. Along with its historical
antecedents NMP shares a non-assimilationist ideology, and this
pertains not only to the scope of the journal but also to the
destabilization of queer and feminist identities in and around the
journal. Its culture is always in the making and always in process.

Using queer-feminist zines as a comparative measure with NMP is also

a way to talk more about its form or medium. When I think of a zine, I
think of a photocopied booklet that is cheaply produced and locally
distributed. Zines, in other words, are the antithesis to glossy
mainstream

publications.

So,

in

terms

of

its

medium,

zines

communicate an oppositional (publishing) culture and politics. With

NMP however, its form isnt easily read in the same manner. NMP is
slick. It looks professional, so its oppositional politics are not readily
found in its form, or chosen medium. But NMP is precisely NMP
because of the internet and digital platforms and tools that allow for
the journal to exists as it does. And the key word here is: platform.
NMP is a platform in the way that it facilitates dialogue within
and across queer and feminist communities.

It is a platform that

supports creative contribution. And for me, creative contribution

implies actions - real lived actions - that aim to instigate novel or
imaginative outcomes. It is a mode of cultural production that is
transformative.
ZEFFIRO: In preparation for this piece, we discussed the ways in which
a queer method informs both the practices and processes of NMP.
How do you define queer method?

And how has a queer method

activated NMP?
HOGAN: I think theres been a concerted effort to think through queer
as a verb/action, to steer the conversation away from identity politics.
In terms of method, its about putting politics--however shifting--into
practice, and exposing that process, making it visible.

How do you define queer method?

ZEFFIRO: I definitely agree with you. I dont think that there is a Queer
Method as some kind of preordained modus operandi. It has certainly

been sedimented within identity politics, and that tradition continues

to act as markers of queerness, but as you mention, there has been a
queerying of queernessaway from an essentialist notion of who
belongsand this has shaped a queer posture that is inhabitable and
that can be occupied by doing. Its definitely, as you say, putting
politics into practice.
How is NMP queered by the archive? I envision this as a
transformative process of sorts that has impact on the
configuration of the archive itself, but also the ways in which
the archive configures the community inhabiting it. In your
experiences,

what

marks

the

process

of

being/becoming

queered? And how do you view this process as enacted on

NMP?
HOGAN: On the site, we dont state what NMP is--we have no mandate
or vision or anything like that. We dont have a tagline or a pitch,
beyond stating that were a journal of arts and politics. We dont
identify ourselves as explicitly feminist or queer--but it comes
through in the creative labour and through the content, obviously. I
think that the content is queered by NMP, by virtue of the underlying
politics of the journal, and by committing to the project--which runs
without funds, based entirely on volunteer work. Queered also
acknowledges the way things are simultaneously recorded and
documented, if we think of NMP as an archive of sorts. That to

participate in NMP means being part of a larger project, a community

that propels forward certain politics. Unlike the more popular notion of
queering the archive, we can say that NMP plays an important part in
shaping the way things are read and and recirculated. It also means
that the identity and bodies attached to the contributions are queered,
thus expanding the notion of who counts, who gets to play, participate,
activate and ultimately queer the archive.

Chapter 6
More Than Me
Nicole Blalock
I.
I am not just me; I am all the people who come before me.
I am connected to my ancestors, not just through the blood we
share, but through the ways of life experienced by each generation. We
are connected by the life-altering events of the generations that
created shifts in social status, cultural practice, and geographic
localities.
As a researcher, I am also connected to the scholars who have
come before me. I am connected in the sharing and generation of
ancient and new knowledges with the communities and people with
whom I collaborate in my work.
There is a collective knowledge of which I am part in both these
roles, separately, and, in combination.
These are the things that are foremost in my mind when I
conceptualize and engage in educational research. Opaskwayak Cree
scholar Shawn Wilson (2008) uses the term relationality to describe

this ontological and epistemological stance. As an element of an

indigenous research paradigm, to which research justice is intrinsic,
cultivating meaningful relationship with the people, the land, and the
knowledge, is essential (see also Kovach, 2009). Equally important as
relationality to my research approach are centering on indigenous
knowledges and reflexivity (Kovach, 2009; Wilson, 2008).
There is a great responsibility upon me, particularly in my
position of privilege as a scholar, to be mindful of the lasting impacts
my decisions have on the generations.
II.
I do not want to write that my mother had a poor childhood or
that she was raised in a home troubled by alcohol abuse and parental
conflict. It feels too much like painting an image of hopelessness and
victimization to say these things; contrived even. As the youngest of
four children, with a decade separating her birth and that of her next
youngest sibling, growing up was very different for her than the other
children in the family. Although a number of photographs exist
depicting a happy family at home with two older siblings and a smile
on the faces of my grandparents from when Mother was an infant,
after thirty-four years of marriage, with three grown children, Grandma
Merle became a single mother just at the time my own mother was
reaching adolescence. This was working class America. Having grown
up in a family that changed cities frequently, and with just 8 years of

formal schooling to back her job prospects, Grandma Merle was

interested in helping her family survive.
Not many stories were handed down. It is only in the last several
years that my Auntie has been really active in tracking down our
family history, though we have been discovering bits and pieces of it
for over a decade. Although Grandma Merle had only one sister, her
mother, Jessie, came from a large family with six children. Her father, a
laid off railroad employee, committed suicide in the dining room of
their home when she was 12. A news story published about his death
reports frequent talk of suicide to family and friends; a signal of his
internal struggle.
Milton's parents were George and Mary. We know little about
them, except what Auntie was able to learn from conversing with a
cousin many years ago and from Census records. Mary is sometimes
called Margaret and the family secret no one wanted to talk about was
that she was Apsalooke.2
It is perhaps a familiar story to many, though the specific details are
different. Driven by a need to survive, families were uprooted to follow
employment; they experienced alcohol abuse and mental illness; and
tradition became a casualty given the need for self-perseverance. The
effectiveness of eliminating knowledge transmission to the disruption
2 Apsalooke translates to children of the large-beaked bird, later misinterpreted by colonizers to mean
Crow.

of indigenous cultures has be known and practiced as policy by the

governments of many nation-states for centuries. Manufactured shame
of tradition, expansive poverty, and the disruption of families through
militaristic residential schools and forced adoptions to non-indigenous
families have all contributed to the forgetting of tribal identities. The
consequences have been disastrous for generations of descendants,
resulting in the loss of history, language, family connections, and
traditions.
Obviously, indigenous nations still exist across the United States.
Efforts over the last several decades in particular have resulted in the
growth of reclaimed languages and a resurgence of traditions,
especially among those raised on or near remaining tribally-controlled
lands or in strong urban-based communities. But for a number of
families, those like mine, fueled by conditions of low employability in
rural areas and the shaming of traditional culture, community ties were
left behind as a means of survival.
Despite having established a treaty with the United States
government in 1825, reservation lands for the Crow Nation were not
formed until 1868, when Grandma Mary would have been about 30
years old. The original treaty clearly speaks to the damaging nature of
U.S. treaty-making policies, which suppressed nations rights. While
the preamble of the Treaty with the Crow Tribe of 1825 proclaims it is
for the purpose of perpetuating the friendship [between the United

States and the Crow Tribe], the very first article asserts it is admitted
by the Crow tribe of Indians, that they reside within the territorial limits
of the United States, acknowledge their supremacy, and claim their
protection. In the same spirit of subjugation, Article II states that the
federal government would extend to [the Crow Tribe], from time to
time, such benefits and acts of kindness as may be convenient.
Although nearly 75% of currently enrolled members live near these
lands, it is easy to imagine the effects on the Nations people of being
turned into a domestic dependent nation, even just in the years
between treaty-making and re-establishing (some) land rights.
According to Census records in 1880, Mary was born in New York
before moving to Michigan with George. Her parents birth places are
listed as Massachusetts. Without family oral traditions or other official
records, we might surmise that her family left their traditional territory
much earlier, or, in the face of discrimination she, or her husband, gave
the Census takers false information.
III.
Breaking out of the framework academic institutions are built
upon is an essential task for the future of indigenous peoples. The
reclaiming of our histories, storytelling, and sharing of testimonials are
just a few examples of how indigenous knowledge may transform the
academy (Smith, 1999; Wilson, 2004). In positioning our indigenous
selves as the place from which our academic selves spring forth,

traditional ways of knowledge production and sharing can be

integrated into our research practices. Such positionality, and indeed
the very act of telling the story of ones position, has been discussed
as one of the most essential elements of an indigenous research praxis
(Absolon & Willett, 2005). Despite this, there is virtually no discussion
in

academic

indigenous
membership

literature

identities
in

of

and

indigenous

how

scholars

complicated
communities

with

family

more

ambiguous

narratives

perform

their

around
positions

(Blalock, in press).
I am of mixed-heritage. On my mothers side, I am a descendant
of the Apsalooke as well as part of a line of more recently immigrated
Danish. We are also part of the direct lineage of an Englishwoman
hanged as a witch decades before the Salem witch trials. On my
fathers side, I am descended from the Tsalagi 3 and Chickasaw. We
have other European roots mixed in, which are from unknown origin,
due to a sparse oral history and document trail.
The vision that I hold for myself as a mixed-heritage woman, and
as an educational scholar, is to contribute to the decolonization of the
indigenous nations.

IV.
3 More commonly known as the Cherokee Nation.

I recognize there is a long and damaging history of research on

indigenous peoples. I am both mindful of this and a product of the very
policies and practices designed to interrupt our very existence. Yet, I
was still shocked by the difficulty of reclaiming my own history. While
volunteering as a tutor at Chemawa Indian School, I witnessed glinting
eyes and accepted the chuckles of students joking about the Cherokee
princess with her white skin. As a graduate student, I felt the sting of
rejection by indigenous scholars. The first (and only) time that I built
up the courage to identify my heritage along with my name in a call for
participation in my research, a scholar questioned my legitimacy
despite never claiming to be a tribal member. How can I be anything
other than myself? I can share my story, but I cannot transform myself
into anothers model of a real Indian.
And yet, here I am, sharing with you all, our story.
Communities have been so fractured by the colonial membership
frameworks that authenticity has become a highly contested space.
The damage of these essentialist definitions comes in being mediated
by colonizing forces it is, as defined by Grande (2004), a crisis of
power. This crisis, is constituted of the destructive membership policies
(instituted by the nation-state) restricting tribes rights to name
themselves and shape their communities in whatever way they
choose.

I have appreciated the times and places when colleagues have

given me the space to claim my identity as my own. As I continue to
develop my scholarship, I find this happens more. Moving out of the
somewhat powerless, though privileged space of graduate student, to
that of a scholar designing research for the benefit of communities,
that work has begun to intertwine with the image that others see.
Positioning oneself as an indigenous researcher is not so
straightforward as naming clans and communities for those whose
families have been disconnected. I must learn to be strong in my own
self in order to balance the conflicting external validations and
disvalidations that have in the past, and likely will in the future, be
offered by colleagues and communities. When I approach communities
and individuals about developing research partnerships, positionality
constantly comes into the discussion. While my desire to contribute to
decolonizing knowledge and knowledge transmission in indigenous
communities is rooted in my authentic desire for communities to
continue to become less fragmented from each other, this means also
accepting that I may never be recognized as a member of those
communities; that my own voice was not raised from within a
traditional indigenous knowledge system. While I work to develop
myself as an ally to indigenous educational communities, I may at
times also be excluded on account of position.

Practicing indigenous methodology as an educational scholar in

a state with nearly two dozen different nations, some of which cross
geo-political boundaries into other states, illuminates the challenges
created by the loss of being thought of as distinct nations in the nationstate consciousness. For research situated within a single indigenous
nation, methodologies arising from that nations own knowledge
structure can be engaged. But, where inquiry is situated in a context
that nations, such as those in urban centers, appropriate structuring
becomes more complex, given that indigenous knowledges are
exclusive to cultures and locales (Dei, Hall, & Rosenberg, 2000). These
issues compound when I take my own positionality as a mixed-heritage
woman into account. The same decolonizing frameworks that are
suited for pushing back against standard research frames and the
individualism of the academy, are not designed in a way that clearly
include someone reclaiming themselves from a family that has such
blended heritage.
I am here. I exist. My path into educational research with
indigenous communities has been complicated by political nature of
my position, but it is at the same time formed and informed by my
familys story. Like hooks (1990), my voice comes from a (little
discussed) margin one created by the colonized space that makes up
indigenous identity and membership.
V.

Alice Lake is my 10th great grandmother. I am descended from

David, her 3rd and youngest child to survive to adulthood. Research by
other descendants of hers has not yet uncovered any record of her
trial or even her life, but rather the aftermath of her execution. Once
she was put to death, her husband fled, leaving her four living children
without guardians. The story of her execution as a witch, which took
place nearly forty years before the witch trials in Salem, is grim. Poor
immigrants from England, Alice and her husband Henry lived in
Dorchester, Massachusetts with their five children until the day that
the youngest, less than a year out of the womb, died of unknown
causes.
It is written that Alice harbored guilt in the death of her infant
due to an attempt to abort the (presumably) first child she carried. In
his A Modest Inquiry into the Nature of Witchcraft, the Reverend John
Hale wrote of Alices execution, And she utterly denyed [sic] her guilt
of Witchcraft: yet justified God for bringing her to that punishment: for
she had when a single woman played the harlot, and being with Child
used means to destroy the fruit of her body to conceal her sin and
shame, and although she did not effect it, yet she was a Murderer in
the sight of God for her endeavours, and shewed [sic] great penitency
for that sin; but owned nothing of the crime laid to her charge.
This is one explanation for her claim to seeing the infant even
after its death, although the oral traditions of cultures worldwide have

ghosts those that haunt and those that simply need their loved ones
to help them in their journey.
Each story uncovered of my ancestors leads me to a deeper
understanding of the impact of cultural norms on individuals and
reminds me of the very different histories of each of my ancestral
lineages.
VI.
Although reclaiming will be a lifelong process, much of my
familys story is lost. I am the sixth generation from Grandma Mary,
and her parents, my seventh generation ancestors. Their lives and the
decisions they made, have shaped our family just as much as my
great-grandparents decision to emigrate from Denmark and that of my
paternal great-grandmother moving from the south to California with
my grandfather as a young boy after the death of her husband.
I believe in the power of education and the sustaining of
indigenous knowledges to contribute to the strength of other families.
Leveraging my position and my education for these purposes aligns
with the need to disrupt colonial systems that continue to negatively
impact indigenous nations today.
Research justice is my ceremonial praxis.

References
Absolon, K., & Willett, C. (2005). Putting ourselves forward: location in
aboriginal research. In L. Brown & S. Strega (Eds.), Research as
resistance: critical, indigenous, & anti-oppressive approaches (pp. 97126). Toronto: Canadian Scholars Press.
Blalock, N. (in press). Federal unenrollment impacts on scholar careers:
a study on indigenous identity and membership in academia. The
International Journal of Diverse Identities.
Dei, G.S., Hall, B., & Rosenberg, D. (2000). Situating indigenous
knowledges: definitions and boundaries. In G.S. Dei, L.B. Hall, & G.D.
Rosenberg (Eds.), Indigenous knowledges in global contexts: multiple
reading of our world (pp. 19-20). Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Grande, S. (2004). Red pedagogy: Native American social and political
thought. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.
hooks, b. (1990). Yearning: race, gender, and cultural politics. Boston,
MA: South End Press.
Kovach, M., (2009). Indigenous methodologies: Characteristics,
conversations, and contexts. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: research and
indigenous peoples. London; New

York: Zed Books.

Wilson, A. C., (2004). Reclaiming our humanity: decolonization and the

recovery of indigenous knowledge. In D. A. Mihesuah & A. C. Wilson

(Eds.), Indigenizing the academy: transforming scholarship and

empowering communities (pp. 69-87). Lincoln: University of Nebraska
Press.
Wilson, S., (2008). Research is ceremony. Halifax & Winnipeg:
Fernwood Publishing.

Part II. Research Justice:

Strategies for Community
Mobilization

Chapter 7
The Socio-Psychological Stress of Justice
Denied: The Alan Crotzer Story
Alan Crotzer, a young black male, was convicted of a crime that
he did not commit in Tampa, Florida, in 1981. Based on eyewitness
misidentification and improper forensics, he was charged and
convicted of sexual battery, kidnapping, burglary, aggravated assault,
robbery, and attempted robbery. He served 24.5 years in a Florida
prison on an original sentence of 130 years. On January 23, 2006,
Crotzer was exonerated and compensated $1.25 million from the state
of Florida (innocenceproject.org). Currently, he resides in Floridas
capital city, Tallahassee, is enrolled in a community college, and
speaks at local universities, schools and other areas of town and the
state. Crotzer uses his unfortunate experience to tell his unimaginable
ordeal and nightmare of being wrongly convicted of a crime he did not
commit. Through his oral historical account of that experience, he
raises awareness and educates others on wrongful convictions;
specifically how it could happen to anyone at any time. As a young
black male in an urban city, his ordeal involved racism and other
human rights violations at many different levels. He remains a target
of law enforcement and has had other stints with the law since his

release from prison in 2006. Despite this, he remains focused and is

self-determined to become truly free.
In Florida, Alan Crotzer is perceived as the poster child for the
Innocence Project of Florida, and as a spokesperson for wrongful
convictions. His speeches have raised the consciousness of college
students who have innovatively taken upon themselves through a class
project to intervene by becoming change agents. They have actively
worked to sponsor educational forums and fundraisers to assist the
Innocence Project of Florida. Thus, this essay chronicles how the Alan
Crotzers case has not only transformed the life of an innocent man,
but also how it has enlightened the awareness of others, who may
have taken this type of miscarriage of justice for granted. It will also
describe how a new set of emerging criminal justice leaders have now
created a sense of urgency to advocate for justice denied due to
wrongful convictions in the American Criminal Justice System. This
essay also shares Mr. Crotzers story, in his own words, and brings to
the forefront this serious flaw in the criminal justice system.
The Alan Crotzers Criminal Case
Tampa, located on the west coast of central Florida, is one of the
states best and most vibrant cities, especially in the summertime.
Tourists have dream vacations there and locals enjoy the pleasure of a
natural dream vacation, which comes with the good fortune of living in

the city or in the area. Unfortunately, on July 8, 1981, this dream

land became a nightmare spot for Alan Crotzer, who was wrongly
convicted of a crime he did not commit. At such a young age (20), his
life was turned upside down and he would spend nearly 25 years in
prison, most of his young adult life, before justice was finally granted
to him through DNA testing, which resulted in exoneration on January
23, 2006 (innocenceproject.org).
Alan Crotzer was wrongly convicted of sexual battery,
kidnapping, burglary, aggravated assault, robbery, and attempted
robbery when he was misidentified as one of the co-defenders with two
other black males, Douglas James and Corlenzo James, for a crime that
involved a forced home invasion where one of the assailants had a
shotgun. The five white people within the home were robbed and two
of the victims, a 38 year old female and a 12 year old female were
forced into the trunk of the assailants car, taken to a dark, wooded
area of town and raped by two of the assailants. However, according
to the victims, the third assailant did not participate in the rapes. After
the rapes, the assailants tied the victims to trees and left. Then the
victims freed themselves and got help from a nearby house and called
the police. Later, both victims were given rape kits at a hospital.
Simultaneously, the remaining robbery victims at the original crime
scene, the house, were able to untie themselves, and two of them got
the license plate number from the assailants Buick. They attempted

to follow the car but could not keep up with it, so they then called the
police (innocenceproject.org).
When the assailants car license plate number was run, the
Tampa police discovered that it was registered to an owner from St.
Petersburg, Florida, which is very close to Tampa. Then the St.
Petersburg police gathered a group of photographs which included the
cars owner, and showed them to the hospitalized raped victims, of
which neither could make an identification of the assailants. Even
though two of the robbery victims were not positive of the owners
identification, they still made identifications of the assailants. The
next day, July 9, 1981, more photographs were gathered which not
only included the cars owner, but also Douglas James, and Alan
Crotzer. This time, when shown to the rape victims, the adult female
made a positive identification of Douglas James and Alan Crotzer, as
well, one of the robbery victims also identified Douglas James. A
noteworthy fact discovered by police was that the owner of the car was
incarcerated on the day of the crime and that Douglas James had
borrowed his car. On July 10, 1981, Douglas James brother, Corlenzo
James, was added to the photographic line-up and shown to the
victims. This time, both rape victims and one of the robbery victims
identified Corlenzo James as the third assailant. Unfortunately, Alan
Crotzer was identified as the one with the gun who had raped both
victims (innocenceproject.org).

The victims misidentification of Alan Crotzer as the main

assailant was only the beginning of the justice denied stress on him
in the Florida Criminal Justice System. As his case went deeper into
the process, his wrongful conviction became more certain when the
biological evidence from the rape kit was tested by the Florida
Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE). Unfortunately, flawed
testimony from an FDLEs crime evidence lab analyst failed to explain
the full ramifications of the evidence. For example, the analyst
testifying on the results of the rape kits stated that semen was found
on the adult rape victims vaginal swabs and clothing, including her
underwear. Further, it was stated that the blood group markers of
semen matched the markers of both Alan Crotzer and the victim.
However, what was not stated or made clear is that when testing
evidence from a mixed sample stain of semen and vaginal secretions
from both the offender and the victim, and the results from testing do
not detect blood group substance or enzymes that do not belong to the
victim, then no possible semen donor can be excluded due to the fact
that the victims blood group markers could be hiding or masking the
offenders blood group markers. Therefore, given those facts, the jury
was misled and should have been told that 100% of the male
population (all of them) could be included and most importantly, no
male could be excluded from the analysis (innocenceproject.org).

Justice denied stress continued to be evident as Alan Crotzer

went to trial and was framed for a crime he did not commit. The
circumstances were becoming worse as the trial got underway, yet
Crotzer held out and kept stating that he was not guilty of the crimes
for which he was wrongly accused of committing. At a separate trial,
Corlenzo James pled guilty to both robbery and burglary charges.
Unfortunately, Douglas James and Alan Crotzer were tried together,
although Alan tried to have a separate trial from Douglas, who
unsuccessfully represented himself. Douglas stated that the adult
victim consented to the sexual act, while Crotzer continued to plead
that he was never there, had never participated in the crime and had
no knowledge of any of the crimes. Crotzer even stated that he was
with his girlfriend, a friend, and members of his girlfriends family on
the night of the crime. Nonetheless, horrifically, all five crime victims
identified Crotzer during the trial as the perpetrator; and more
specifically as the assailant with the shotgun, who raped both victims.
Sadly, on April 22, 1982, in a stressful, incredible case of miscarriage of
justice, based on misidentifications and faulty crime lab evidence, Alan
Crotzer was wrongly convicted of sexual battery, kidnapping,
aggravated assault, burglary, robbery, and attempted robbery and
sentenced to 130 years in prison (innocenceproject.org).
Although justice was denied to him in the beginning, Crotzer
never gave up on proclaiming his innocence. Then, advancements in

forensic science provided a second chance at freedom for Crotzer,

when in 2003 he was finally given access to the FDLE evidence from
his trial, which had been stored in a lab for many years. Fortunately,
the prosecutors agreed that the reexamination of the evidence, which
consisted of six slides of spermatozoa, should undergo three rounds of
DNA testing at three different labs. Luckily, it was the third test,
performed by Forensic Science Associates, which confirmed that Alan
Crotzer could not have been the person that raped the female victims.
In fact, the spermatozoa from the rape kit slide of the adult female
victim, was that of an unknown male. It was further concluded that it
could not have come from Crotzer, the James brothers or the womans
husband. Moreover, Douglas James even admitted that he, his brother,
and a childhood friend, and not Crotzer committed the crime. They
did not even know Crotzer before the trial. Heavenly, on January 23,
2006, after nearly 25 years, Crotzers wrongful conviction was
overturned and he was released from prison for a crime which he said
from the beginning, that he did not commit. Joining him as he walked
out of the courthouse were family members and his legal team; David
Menschel, Sam Roberts, Martin McClain, and Jenny Greenberg of the
Florida Innocence Initiative (innocenceproject.org).

The Alan Crotzers Story in his Own Words

On October 7, 2013, Mr. Alan Crotzer was telephone interviewed

about the socio-psychological stress of his wrongful conviction before,
during and after his incarceration. He discussed this miscarriage of
justice in his own words that are reported in this section.
1. Please describe your childhood and your life before
the wrongful conviction (birthplace, siblings, family
life, friends, school, disposition, general description of
life, etc.).
Okay well I was an average urban youth raised by a
single parent mom and no dad in the picture. With
my older brother who got murdered at the age of 19
in the projects over there where they call it "sunrise,"
and was killed by mistaken identity by the way. And
with my sister who was 7 years older than me. My
mom was a maid, a house keeper, a bar tender or
whatever she had to do to take care of her kids. At
ten years old I was already committing crimes but
not understanding crime.
2. Do you believe in GOD? Do you pray?
Yes I definitely do believe in God and yes I do pray. I
never gave up on God and God never gave up on
me.
3. What were your future plans before the charge?
There were two things I had in mind. The first thing
was to be a heavy equipment operator. I also wanted
to be a coast guard and I wanted to be a part of that.
4. Did you have any prior contact with the criminal or
juvenile justice system?
I was arrested at 10 for breaking and entering and
taken to the juvenile center where they didn't even
tell my parents where I was for three days. Talked to
me so nasty and so despicably that from then on I
always had a problem with authority. I was black
and they were all Caucasian and they were always
abrasive and very abusive to me as a young man
who was just asking for a toothbrush. After that I had
a problem with authority figures. At 15 I had a period
where I wasn't dealing with law enforcement,
because I noticed girls. I was also in state school for
boys and spent several months in for that. It was for
kids who were there for violence, criminal mischief,

and assaulting police officers. Every Friday, they

would pick me up and lock us up until Monday. A lot
of times my mom didnt know where I was and I
thought this was wrong. After that I was charged
with robbing a convenience store. A snatch and grab.
Either I would go in and my friend would drive us
away or vice versa. But I was convicted and served
29 months in jail and paroled for 7 months and was
out for 31 days and was arrested and wrongly
convicted for 3 counts of armed robbery 1count for
attempted robbery, 2 counts of kidnapping, 2 counts
of rape, 1 count assault with a deadly weapon and 1
count of burglary.
5. How did you feel when you were arrested for a crime
you did not commit? Did you think it was a mistake
that would be settled since you knew you were not
guilty?
I was only 20 years old, and I felt that once
everybody saw me and the victims saw me and all of
that, that they would tell everyone that I didnt do it
and that was that.
6. How did you feel when it seemed that no one was
going to believe you as time went on and you were
processed deeper into the system?
It felt horrible, like no one cared to listen.
7. Before the verdict was stated, did you think you
were going to be convicted? If so, had you prepared
mentally for such a verdict?
I really thought that it wouldnt get that far, but I
really couldnt prepare for something like this.
8. What were you thinking as the trial went on and they
were trying to convict you for a crime that you knew
you did not commit? How did it feel to be lied on
and no one seemed to believe you for such a horrible
crime?
It felt horrible, like they just wanted to find and put
away anybody.
9. When you heard the verdict, guilty, what was the
first thing that went through your head and what
impact did this have on you mentally?
I didn't believe. I honestly didn't believe it.
10. When you were given the sentence of 130 years,
how did you mentally come to grips with that much
time for a crime you did not commit?
I didnt, I still couldnt believe it.
11. Did you feel like your life had ended?

Yes I did.
12. What was the first night in prison like, after you
were handed that 130 year sentence for a crime you
did not commit?
It was horrible.
13. What was your mental state upon realizing this
wrongful conviction was a reality for you?
I was hurt and confused.
14. Did you ever feel depressed?
Yes, yes I did.
15. Did you have thoughts of suicide? Homicide?
No, I didnt because I had God on my side, and I just
didnt have it in me to cause harm to someone else.
16. Were you angry or enraged?
Neither, I was mostly upset and still in disbelief.
17. What other emotions did you have?
Just confused, hurt, mad.
18. When did you realize that prison was your reality
and what was that like?
That day when they booked me and read the verdict.
It was horrible, nothing like it before.
19. How did you cope with the day to day events of
this horrific travesty?
I stayed close to God and prayed and just kept going.
20. What was a typical day like for you?
Like being a robot, same routine every day, always
the same.
21. Did you ever give up?
No, I never did. I always had God by my side.
22. Did you think you would ever be free again?
Not until those guys decided to reach out to me.
23. Did you ever accept your miscarriage of justice or
did you believe deep within your soul that one day
you would be free?
I thought that I was gonna stay in jail forever, until
those two guys reached out to me.
24. What was the impact on your family?
It weighed heavily on my mom and she couldnt
handle it and she passed away while I was in jail.
25. What milestones did you miss while in prison that
had the greatest impact on you?
I missed being a father, and a family to my daughter.
Ya know I'm 52 and she's 26.
26. Did you pray in prison?
Yes I did.

27. After serving nearly 25 years, who or what caused

attention on your potential innocence?
Let me tell you what caused that, my lawyers David
Mitchell and Sam Roberts, and Anna Cruz.
28. How did you feel when you realized that others
finally started to believe in your innocence?
I felt like there was hope, and relieved that
somebody was listening.
29. Were you hopeful that you might have a second
chance at freedom?
Right, almost didn't feel real.
30. What was waiting for answers like for you?
You know, even though they said they were gonna let
me go, I was still not convinced until I actually
walked out of there.
31. Was the real perpetrator caught?
Yes, one was. They both were tracked down by
running the plates on the vehicle. But the other, I
dont know. I hope he finds God and tells the truth.
32. Then one day, you were told that you would be
exonerated How did you feel on the day you
were told that you were exonerated?
I didn't believe it. But when it happened I felt like I
was on top of the world.
33. Who do you thank most for setting you free?
I thank God off top, and these two young white
Jewish guys, because they didnt have to help me,
David and Sam.
34. How did your family react to this wrongful
conviction being overturned?
I mean, I really didnt have a lot of family to come
back to. My mom passed away while I was in prison
and thats all I really had.
35. How did you prepare mentally for reentry and
freedom?
I mean how could I? I mean I couldnt even believe it
was goanna happen.
36. What was the first thing you wanted to do?
I wanted a burger, I wanted a coke, I wanted to go to
McDonalds.
37. How did it feel the first day out?
It felt good but I was just overwhelmed.
38. What was the first thing you did?
We went to Starbucks. And I had no idea what
Starbucks was, and I wasnt about to let these

people pay $7 for one cup of coffee for me. Then we

went to McDonalds. I bought a big mac, a quarter
pounder, a fish filet, and a apple pie.
39. Was it hard readjusting to being free again?
Yeah, it was so many new technologies and ways to
do stuff.
40. Did you have a hard time catching up to the
technology and other societal changes?
Yeah, I had a job working as a janitor at St. Anthony's
hospital and the faucets in the bathrooms I couldnt
turn them on and I felt embarrassed and ashamed.
Then I had to have Jacob to show me how to use
them and they told me it was electronic and had a
sensor. And soon as I learned to use it I started to
use all of them and had all the water in the
Bathroom running.
41. How did you pick up the pieces of your life?
Slowly and I'm still picking them up, through school
and other things.
42. Are you angry? Do you feel free?
No I'm not angry but even though Im free I still feel
like the system still wants to put me down.
43. How often do you think about this horrific ordeal?
Everyday.
44. After exoneration, did you have other stints with
the Criminal Justice System?
Yes and I was pulled over and lied to, police officer
talking about this is a routine random check and they
harassed me and said that my plates were covered
and that was illegal when they weren't.
45. Do you believe that racism and social class played
a role in your conviction and in subsequent
treatment by law enforcement officials?
Yes I really do, oh yeah no doubt. I didnt have a jury
of my peers. There was nothing black in the
courthouse. They were just looking for someone to
pin it on.
46. Do you believe in the U.S. criminal justice system?
Is it fair?
It definitely isn't fair. And it's so easy to get caught
up.
47. What advice would you give to others?
Don't be scared. They want you to be scared. Load
that gun you got in between your shoulders and fire
away.

48. What are you doing to tell your story and to make
others aware of wrongful convictions?
Going and speaking in colleges and other programs.
49. What are your future plans? What else would you
like to add?
Finish school and get my education.
50. What is the one word that could describe your
ordeal for a crime you did not commit?
Dilemma.

New Emergent Leaders: Students as Change Agents

Alan Crotzers wrongful conviction has touched the lives and
feelings of many, including students in Florida. In fact, his story and
speeches have raised the consciousness of college students who have
innovatively taken upon themselves to intervene in this miscarriage of
justice by becoming change agents. Through a required class project,
they have actively worked to sponsor educational forums and
fundraisers to assist the Innocence Project of Florida in their work with
the wrongfully convicted and to raise the awareness of others who may
have taken this type of miscarriage of justice for granted. While
students have been working on miscarriage of justice cases in other
parts of the country, the students at Floridas only public historically
black university, a new set of emerging criminal justice leaders, took it
upon themselves to create a sense of urgency to advocate for justice
denied in the American Criminal Justice System. The class project
required and allowed them to be creative in deciding the what,

when, why, where, who and how they chose to address the
issue of wrongful convictions.
The Criminal Justice (CCJ 4939) Special Topics: Qualitative Field
Research on Wrongful Convictions is a course at an historical black
university in Tallahassee, Florida, which is designed to engage the
students in a hands-on qualitative research project focusing on a very
serious problem in the field of Criminal Justice- wrongful convictions.
As cold cases are being reopened and reinvestigated, and those once
found guilty of crimes they did not commit are now being exonerated,
this topic is gaining more popularity than ever before. As forensics
such as ultraviolet lighting, odontology and other DNA testing make
their way as prominent forces in the field of Criminal Justice, officials of
the law are focusing more careful attention on the falsely accused and
wrongly convicted. For those who are so very unfortunate in becoming
prey to such an ordeal, the results can end in a terrible stint with
justice denied. Therefore, this course provided the students an
opportunity to undertake a thorough, intensive review of cases, both
cold and hot which resulted in denied justice for the falsely accused
and wrongly convicted. It was further designed to provide students a
thorough understanding of the very complex journey of seeking justice
when it has been denied. A major feature of the class was to include
individuals from the community who are instrumental in bringing a real

life perspective to the course. Hence, Mr. Alan Crotzer was a guest
speaker in the class each semester.
Throughout the semester, students were required to complete a
two-phase class project on wrongful convictions. The research part of
the class project required students to work collaboratively in groups of
2 to 3 people to write a short, 15- page research paper. The objectives
of this assignment were two-fold: 1) to foster an atmosphere of
collaborative peer-to-peer learning; and 2) to ensure upper level
students bring to fruition the skills and abilities criminal justice majors
should be able to demonstrate upon graduation, including but not
limited to: research, communication, critical thinking, analysis, and
advocating for social change. After identifying the group members
they wished to work with, each group selected a wrongful conviction
case to research; one of the cases selected was Alan Crotzers.
The research paper included a discussion of the wrongful
conviction cases. Students summarized significant findings and
discussed what could have been done differently; what the criminal
justice system should have done then and what it should do in the
future; they also discussed any existing criminal procedures and any
constitutional protections that attempt to prevent wrongful convictions;
and they discussed the current procedural mechanisms available to
convicted individuals who seek exoneration or to vacate wrongful

convictions with new evidence. Then they discussed the reforms that
have been proposed to address the causes of wrongful convictions.
Finally, they discussed the exonerated individuals socio-psychological
state while incarcerated, after incarceration and re-entry into society;
and focused on what were the socio-psychological stressors of denied
justice on the victim (the wrongly convicted are also victims in this
ordeal), what can society and its major institutions do about this
problem, and what they could do about this problem (i.e., awareness
campaign, fundraiser to assist agencies such as The Innocence Project),
then they stated any recommendations, policy implications, suggestions
for future research, and concluded with their specific reaction to the
problem of the wrongly convicted.in other wordsJustice Denied.
The second phase of the class project allowed the students to
engage in a collaborative, applied, realistic approach that could be
used to address the wrongful conviction problem and to further impact
social change in the criminal justice system. In creating a new
emerging group of leaders among students in the class, a project
manager was chosen who led the rest of the class in constructing and
implementing an awareness program on wrongful convictions for the
class project. The rest of the students became a Task Force who
decided from the various research papers, what to include in the final
paper. The cases from all groups were analyzed as a set of cases
grouped together, summarized, discussed, and included in a chart. In

essence, they condensed the research papers into one class paper,
using the same format as the research papers, but shorter in maximum
number of pages. A description of the Awareness Program was
included in an Appendix. The Awareness Program was implemented on
or near campus.
The aforementioned class project is done each semester that the
course is taught. One semester, the class project included a forum
held at a universitys Developmental Research School which includes
students from elementary to high school. During a different semester,
a forum was held on the universitys main campus and open to the
public. Mr. Alan Crotzer was the keynote speaker at both forums. At
the second forum, the students were more adamant about moving
beyond just a forum, and wanted to do more for the cause of wrongful
convictions. Therefore, as a part of their mission to contribute more,
and thereby become emergent leaders in this area, they also added
the fundraising component in which they conducted a raffle and
donated the proceeds to the Innocence Project of Florida.
The class project on wrongful convictions was not only conducted
for a grade, but allowed the students to become extremely proactive in
educating others and making them aware of this unfortunate
encounter with the American Criminal Justice System. Many of the
students developed a keen interest in this area of criminal justice to

become a part of the solution and to help ensure that others do not fall
prey to such an unfortunate stint with justice denied. Upon
completion of the assignments, the course objectives were met and
students were more familiar with the problems of the wrongly
convicted in the American criminal and juvenile justice systems. They
were also more familiar with elements such as recent trends in cold
case reinvestigations; recognizing the factors that affect the falsely
accused and wrongly convicted; knowing how wrongly convicted
individuals are processed by the justice system, beginning with arrest
and concluding with re-entry into society; understanding the need for a
comprehensive justice strategy to deal with individuals who are denied
justice; and knowing how to communicate effectively and
professionally about the wrongly convicted in the justice areathus,
becoming emergent leaders in the field of criminal justice.
USEFUL RESOURCES:
http://writing.colostate.edu/guides/guide.cfm?guideid=60
http://writing.colostate.edu/guides/page.cfm?pageid=1300
http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/study-at-least-2000-peoplewrongfully-convicted-in-23-years/
http://www.innocenceproject.org/understand/?
gclid=CPqT_riKtLQCFQWonQodGQ4AHg

http://www.provinginnocence.org/get-involved/newslettersubscription.html
http://www.floridainnocence.org/
REFERENCES
Retrieved October 11, 2013
http://www.innocenceproject.org/Content/Alan_Crotzer.php
Telephone Interview with Alan Crotzer, October 7, 2013, Tallahassee,
FL.

Chapter 8
Formerly Incarcerated Women:
Returning Home To Family and Community
Marta Lpez-Garza
Seven years ago I began a study of formerly incarcerated
women and two years ago I completed a documentary on the topic
titled When Will the Punishment End?4 This paper examines the
experiences of the women in my study upon their release from prison,
the entities that support their efforts to rebuild their lives along with
the barriers that impede such efforts.

4 my documentary is available for viewing through the website: www.whenwillpunishementend.net

After presenting background information on formerly

incarcerated women and the literature, and my date collecting
methods, I focus on womens experiences when they are first
released and their need to find a safe shelter. I examine addiction and
the factors that lead to incarceration, and present the issues
surrounding recovery, family reunification, and the search for
employment and housing. I further discuss the women who are
activists and the issues important to them. I conclude with an
analysis of the larger problems and a critique of current policies and
attitudes toward the formerly incarcerated.
My research on formerly incarcerated women rebuilding their lives
is significant for a number of reasons. Methodologically, by applying
feminist ethnographic methods, such as personal oral narratives, in my
research and in the documentary, I have created an avenue by which
there exists a direct link/connection between the women and the
readers/viewers (Collins, 1990; White, 2008). The second significance
of this paper is that my focus on women will underscore the particular
issues women and their families face as result of their incarceration,
largely for nonviolent, drug-related offenses. Third, I examine possible
causes for recidivism. My writings, along with my documentary, will
add to the limited yet important literature on women who have come
out of prison, that critical period where they can stay out or return to
prison and the decisive factors that can lead in either direction. Lastly,

highlighting these sources of the problem will hopefully encourage

discussions of new policies and attitudes that facilitate, not hinder,
womens reentry.
Official statistics indicate that while 5% of the worlds
population reside in the U.S., nearly 25 % of the worlds 10.1 million
prisoners are incarcerated in this country. That translates to 2.29
million prisoners in the U. S., which amounts to 743 incarcerated per
100,000 population (World Prison Brief Online, 2011). The increase in
the number of women serving time since 1980 is also alarming. From
1980 to 2002 the number of incarcerated women increased eightfold, from 12,300 to 105,000 (The Sentencing Project, 2003). Of
particular significance is the disproportionate number of African
American women in prisons and jails, who comprise 46% of the
nationwide prison population while European American women
comprising 36% (National Womens Law Center & Chicago Legal Aid
to Incarcerated Mothers, 2007). One in six female prisoners in the
U.S. is Latina (U.S. Census Bureau, 2009).
In the state of California, the number of women in the prison
population has increased fivefold since the early 1980s, 65% of whom
are sentenced for non-violent property and drug crimes (California
Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, 2005). Although African
Americans comprise only 6.2% of Californias population, they

account for 28% of the states incarcerated African American women.

The Latina prison population runs close to their state population at
around 30-35% (California Department of Corrections and
Rehabilitation, 2011; U.S. Census Bureau, 2011).
The increase in the prison population, particularly among
women, is directly linked to the influx of drugs into their
neighborhoods and the Get Tough on Crime agenda rolled out by
politicians since the mid 1970s.5 One-fourth of all U.S. prisoners are
drug violators with non-violent crimes (California Senate Bill No. 617,
2005), and over half of the 100,000 plus women in prison across the
country are serving sentences for non-violent drug related crimes
(Levi and Waldman, 2011).
Scholars in the field have found that both the overall spike in the
population of the prison-industrial complex and the racial and class
imbalance therein cannot be understood apart from the War on
Drugs that greatly facilitated this increase (Alexander, 2010; Mauer &
King, 2007). Coincidentally, the influx of crack cocaine into poor and
inner city neighborhoods occurred as deindustrialization wiped out
hundreds of factories and businesses along with hundreds of thousands
of working class jobs beginning in the late 1970s.

5 With the Nixons Administration and accelerated in the Reagan and subsequent administrations.

A major difference between when a woman goes to prison,

versus when a man goes to prison, is the increased likelihood of a
family falling apart when the mother is imprisoned. When a man goes
to prison the mother of his children frequently keeps the family
together. However, when a woman goes to prison either she is a single
mother or, if a man is in the home, he often makes a precipitate
departure, thereby leaving the children in someone elses care. The
children of a woman who goes to prison are either sent to live with a
family member (if that individual is financially able and does not
possess a felony record), or to foster care where the siblings may be
separated. Moreover, women are often incarcerated at a considerable
distance from their families residence. Visiting a mother in prison is
therefore often not an option for children, thus creating a physical gulf
between them for considerable lengths of time. In short, one
significant difference between the incarceration of a woman and a man
is that, in the former case, the family often falls apart and the children
experience trauma and loss as result of that separation,
Methods
For this paper, I relied on the raw material I collected between
2005 and 2009 which we also utilized to make the documentary. This
material includes the initial 17 audio interviews, the 55 hours of film
footage plus my extensive notes written throughout the years of my

study. Participants for my research were selected largely through Dr.

Marilyn Montenegro (who has provided social work services for women
in prison and women leaving prison for over 20 years) and the project
directors of three sober living homes for women: Susan Burton at A
New Way of Life in Watts; Kim Carter at Time for Change in San
Bernardino; and Monica Stel at Harbour Area Halfway Houses in Long
Beach; as well as through Shirley Torres, Director of Curriculum and
Training at Homeboy Industries/Homegirl Caf.6
The Literature
Excellent research has been conducted on the causes and
consequences of mass incarceration of poor people and people of
color. Included is the decisive book The New Jim Crow by civil rights
advocate and litigator Michelle Alexander (2010), who lays out the
details of the U.S. system of maintaining a permanent second-class
citizenship through massive incarceration. Physician Gabor Mate
(2008) writes convincingly and movingly about addictions,
incorporating the fields of medicine, developmental neurobiology,
social sciences and history. Reports by governmental offices,
foundations and institutes have additionally contributed to our
understanding of the purpose and consequences of incarcerating of
6 I was drawn to the topic from my involvement with Community Coalition for Substance Abuse Prevention and
Treatment which had been working with South Los Angeles service providers in assisting community members
returning from prison in search of employment, housing, drug treatment programs and hoping to regain custody of their
children.

poor and minority communities (e.g., Childrens Defense Fund,

2007; National Womens Law Center & Chicago Legal Aid to
Incarcerated Mothers, 2007).
Notwithstanding the outstanding contributions by these and
other scholars, the research topic on which I have concentrated my
research in the last seven years focuses on the challenges women in
particular face in their transition from prison back into their
communities. Among the most prolific, if not the leading, expert on
women leaving prison is Patricia OBrien. In her extensive work,
conducted largely in the Midwest on formerly incarcerated women -at times in concert with colleagues -- OBrien notes the limited
research on this subject. My research parallels Patricia OBriens in
that we both address questions related to women leaving prison,
rebuilding their lives, reconnecting to family members and children,
and how parole or supervision processes affect womens ability to
renegotiate their reentry after incarceration (OBrien, 2001, p. xi).
We both reflect upon and listen to the women regarding what they
need to rebuild their lives. Applying a feminist methodological
approach, she, as I, relies largely on the voices of the women
themselves as the main source of her data collecting. In her work,
OBrien presents her concept, empowerment framework, which
refers to the external socio-economic resources surrounding the
women along with the internal resources within the women

themselves, that they marshal together to rebuild their lives (OBrien

2001, Chapter 5). Other important contributors to the field are Keta
Miranda and Juanita Daz-Cotto who specifically studied
Chicana/Latina experiences with the criminal justice system, and Kim
Carter7 (along with Disep Ojukwau and Lance Miller) who conducted
extensive research among women in prison and those release on
topics such as education, employment, finances, and access to health
services.
Upon Release from Prison
For all the people who are imprisoned, the majority of prisoners
are eventually released (Travis, 2005). What happens to these women
who are released from prison? How do they reenter society? What
helps them stay out? What are the barriers to their reentry?
As Susan Burton, founder and Executive Director of A New Way
of Life stated Being released from prison holds a lot of anxiety .
You have just been given back all your choices, in a split second from
having no choices to having a lot of choices. Women leave prison
theoretically with two hundred dollars gate money, but often have
to pay prison for the clothes they wear when they leave, and if no one

7 Kim Carter was also instrumental in my own research, allowing me access to her half way homes for women, Time
for Change Foundation in San Bernardino, California.

picks them up at the prison gate, they pay for their transportation to
their destination.
A typical scenario among the women in my study is that they
board the bus to downtown Los Angeles, and arrive at the bus depot
adjacent to skid row where they are surrounded by drugs, drug
dealers and pimps who can readily identify women fresh out of prison,
wearing the standard prison clothing and carrying a box or bag. So,
the womens chances of getting caught in the web of drugs and
abuse in those trouble spots on the way to their destination are high
and they risk the chance of running out of money, becoming
homeless and strung out if they do not leave these danger zones
quickly.
Because it is standard practice for documents to be destroyed by
jail personnel after a prescribed period of time, the women leave prison
without identification (e.g., California drivers license or social
security), and therefore cannot check into a hotel/motel. So when a
woman is released, she needs to obtain some form of personal
identification. Now if a woman does not have a place to stay because
she got caught in the web of one of the danger zones, such as the bus
depot surroundings mentioned above and because she may not have
family or friends on whom she can rely, then she is homeless. If a
woman becomes homeless, she cannot get her ID because she does

not have an address. This set of developments is one of the first

obstacles to a womans successful reentry. This perpetual cycling of
people back into prison has been coined a closed circuit of perpetual
marginality (Wacquant, 2000).
The perils a woman encounters upon release from prison makes
finding a safe shelter immediately absolutely crucial. Monica Stel,
Executive Director of Harbour Areas Halfway Houses, relays a story of a
woman who, upon release from prison, did not have a ride home:
the only person she knew that she could call was the pimp. He paid for
the cab for her to get from jail to Long Beach and she spent 3 days
doing services to pay for the cab. By the time she was done with that
she was so loaded she couldnt get out of the addiction, and she was
off in prison now doing another term. Precisely because many
women cannot rely on friends or family members, they often turn to
those who draw them back into the life that led them into trouble.
Unfortunately, the system and government officials (e.g., parole
officers) that still have jurisdiction over them do not help the women
find housing.
For those women fortunate enough to not end up on the streets,
there are recovery or sober living homes. Regrettably, too many of
these recovery shelters serve to merely warehouse the women and
minimally assist them in their attempts to rebuild their lives. In my

research, I encountered three among the very few actually helpful

recovery homes.8 Because women convicted of drug felonies are
banned from services such as Section 8 housing (according to HUD
guidelines), many welfare services, CalWorks benefits and federal
subsidies such as college loans, these recovery homes provide crucially
needed transitional shelter and supportive services such as regaining
custody of children, parenting classes, getting into drug and alcohol
programs, life skills training, job placement, medical referrals and
counseling (Allard, 2002; interview, M. Stel, June 29, 2007; interview, K.
Carter March 17, 2008). Evidence suggests therefore that if women do
not find this transitional space immediately upon their release and if
they do not receive the services they need, then the cycle of addiction
and incarceration is virtually inevitable.
How women become addicted and why? This problem has been
extensively studied and written about (Daz-Cotto, 2006, p. 31-52;
Mate, 2008; Swartz, OBrien and Lurigio, 2001). The findings in my
research are similar to the findings among these scholars. A major
indicator is childhood sexual abuse. Up to 95% of incarcerated women
who have come through the doors of the transitions homes in my study
have been sexually abused as children. Along with this are physical
and psychological abuses that continue into adulthood where some
8 As mentioned above, the three are: Harbour Areas Halfway Houses (Long Beach); A New Way of Life (Watts in
South Los Angeles); and Time for Change (San Bernardino).

women are drawn into abusive relationships with partners who exploit
them, beat them, pimp them, and so on. In addition are issues such as
racism, classism, sexism and homophobia. Classism is a big factor.
Women from poor and working class communities do not have access
to counseling which may assist them addressing in a healthy and
healing way the abuse and violence theyve experienced. When
traumas from the abuses are repressed or ignored, healing does not
take place and the pain is ameliorated by drugs, alcohol and other
forms of anesthetizing, readily available in their neighborhoods. Not
addressing these deeper issues related to drug addiction is one more
reason the cycle continues.
Returning to Family and Children
Reuniting with children is particularly urgent for some women
and yet it remains a loaded and emotionally charged issue. In the
cases where the children have been raised by relatives who allow and
give space for the reconciliation to take place, the focus is on whether
a woman has the wherewithal to support herself and her children. Can
she find employment? What entity will financially assist her? Is she
eligible for schooling and training? Is she eligible for SSI, that is are
there mental or physical reasons she cannot find employment? Can
she receive public assistance? As established above, she is ineligible
for Section 8 housing as a result of her felony, so in the Los Angeles

area this essentially means she is unable to obtain affordable housing.

And while her children may be eligible for various welfare benefits, she
is also not eligible because of her felony record.
Aside from the concrete physical needs of her children, a woman
often is faced with the psychological and emotional consequences of
her separation from them. The children may be angry with their
mother for abandoning them, for finding drugs more important than
them and they may be more attached to their caregivers or, on the
other hand, resentful because they have been abused or treated badly
by the relative caretaker.
While a large number of the children of women sent to prison are
cared for by family members, 10% of children who lose their parents
through incarceration become themselves wards of the state, housed
in foster homes and agencies (Carter, Ojukwu, & Miller, 2006; Little
Hoover Institute, 2004). In 2003 there were 97,261 children in foster
care in California (Childrens Defense Fund, 2007). Obtaining custody of
ones children becomes exponentially more complicated when the
children are in the foster system. A woman must show that she is able
to care for her children and has a safe place for them to live, which is
difficult to accomplish given the limited access she has to services and
resources. Consequently, if her children have been placed in foster
care, a mother released from prison needs to move quickly to regain

custody of her children before her time runs out and her children
become adopted. What unfortunately takes place is that while the
mother attempts to regain custody of her children, they live in
uncertain and often unfriendly environments.
Reunification with the family is often fraught with the very
history that led to a womans fall into despair and addiction and
eventual incarceration. Family members in turn are tired. They are tired
of the cycle of addiction and incarceration and the broken promises of
recovery. Family members have also been the victims of their loved
ones addictions, experiencing the theft of their possessions and
having drugs brought to their homes. On the other hand, they are often
the causes of their children or spouses addictions. They may have
been the abusers or allowed the abuse to take place. They themselves
could also have been victims of abuse as children and are holding onto
unresolved pains and fears. Often most family situations are a
combination of both scenarios, where the families are factors in the
addictions as well as the victims of the addicts misdeeds.
Employment
Clearly a criminal record is a barrier to womens attempts to find
gainful employment.
Conservative statistics indicate that only 4 out of 10 formerly
incarcerated women find employment in regular labor market within

the first year of release (Womens Prison Association). In one study

conducted in San Bernardino, California,9 81.6% recently released
women had not been employed full-time in over a year (Carter,
Ojukwau & Miller, 2006, p. 43). Without jobs how will they be able to
support their families, pay rent and their bills and become productive
members of their communities and society? According to Kim Carter
founder and executive director of Time for Change Foundation if a
person cannot find a job, cannot find housing, then there is nothing
tangible to connect her back to the community.
There are numerous barriers to employment; including lack of
education and training. However, most experts in the field agree that
employers systematic exclusion of anyone with a felony record is the
major barrier to their access to gainful employment (Employers Group
Research Services, 2002; Legal Action Center, 2004). Kim Carters
study found that the one thing formerly incarcerated people would
change, as they rebuild their lives, would be the elimination of the
Have you ever been convicted of a felony? box on employment
applications. If they did not have to check that box the respondents in
her research study strongly believed that they would have a fair and
reasonable chance to start again, to secure employment and become

9 San Bernardino is located thirty minutes east of Los Angeles.

productive members of society (Interview, K. Carter, March 17, 2008;

Carter, Ojukwau & Miller, 2006).
In my conversations with the women in my study, I heard of
numerous thwarted attempts to find employment. Michelle, for
instance, applied for 45 jobs within the course of a two-month period to
no avail. On her 46th attempt, she lied on the application and
checked No on the box. Interestingly so, she received a call from that
46th employer requesting an interview. There Michelle admitted having
lied on her application. However, upon hearing of her felonies, the
employer stated that these had nothing to do with the job for which
she was applying, but admitted that had Michelle checked the box,
she, the employer, would not have called her back for an interview
(Interview, M. Freeman, March 17, 2008).
Variations of this story include Maribels. After months of
frustration and disappointing search for work Maribel found only two
potential employers; one in which she was honest with the coffee shop
manager who advised her not to check the box because her superiors
would not hire ex felons. Maribel lied in applying for the other
position and the employer did not conduct a background check and
hired her.
It is increasingly clear that formerly incarcerated women have a
difficult time securing employment. Many suspect that checking the

box plays a major role in employers decision whether or not to hire

formerly incarcerated applicants. What are their options if society does
not consider hiring these women irrespective of their and their families
needs? This is an important question to raise in light of the high
recidivism rates throughout the U.S.10
Those Who Become Activists
What leads to activism? The majority of formerly incarcerated
women do not become activists, but for those who do, their reasons
are closely linked to their purpose and meaning in life. Susan Burton
became an activist once she understood the devastating consequences
the larger picture had on formerly incarcerated women and their
families. She reconnected with her voice and found ways and
avenues to speak out about it and that naturally turned into activism
(interview, S. Burton, November 12, 2007). For Rhonda Jones, being an
activist was a way -- instead of giving into the fear she was holding
inside -- to use the energy she felt in a positive way (interview, R.
Jones, January 18, 2008). As Kim McGill eloquently stated at a Peace &
Justice Summit, formerly incarcerated women have been told
repeatedly that they should be ashamed, and that they do not deserve
the rights offered to most others in our society. They are consistently
and deliberately reminded of their status as second class
10 In California alone, the rate of recidivism (the highest in the country) is between 65% to 70% within 18
months (Petersilia, 2000).

citizens/residents, each time they fill out an application for

employment, for housing, or try to get an education. The message is
that they are undeserving of rights that other people in this country
partake in (McGill, 2005).
Nonetheless, those women in my research who realize the larger
societal and economic picture from which their issues arise gain the
self confidence and readiness to fight back for the rights that every
human deserves, including ourselves (McGill, 2005). Most formerly
incarcerated women, as much as anyone else, search for lifes
meaning, and yearn for family and gainful employment. They realize
that a new direction entails a change in both themselves and society in
general, what OBrien calls the empowerment framework.
Benign neglect and regressive laws led formerly detained men
and women to organize among themselves and begin All Of Us Or
None efforts to challenge the rampant discrimination against prisoners
and former prisoners in the U.S.11 This organization, as reflected in
their name, explicitly challenges a politics that affords inclusion and
acceptance for a few but guarantees exclusion for many (Alexander,
2010, p. 242). Its members encourage cities and counties across the U.
S. to overhaul their hiring practices. This campaign called Ban the Box
pursues strategies that differ from city to city, county to county. This
11 Chapters of All of Us or None are located in Los Angeles, San Bernardino, East Palo Alto, Santa Cruz, San
Francisco, Oakland, also in the states of Texas and Oklahoma.

approach envisions potential employers focusing on learning about

applicants potential before checking their records. Although many
cities and counties have repositioned or banned the box altogether
(e.g., Compton, Boston, San Francisco, East Palo Alto), Los Angeles city
council and county have repeatedly avoided and dismissed the issue,
despite numerous attempts by All of Us or None members and their
supporters.
To understand the pervasiveness of drug addiction and massive
incarceration in this country one must understand the national and
international political and economic context wherein these phenomena
take place. According to OBrien (2006), understanding the political
context of female incarceration is crucial to unraveling the war on
drugs program and the industrial prison system. I submit that two
major context or causes of drug addiction and incarceration are
international in scope but play out in a specific manner within the U. S.
The first is Economic Restructuring which began in the 1980s, triggered
by the stagflation of the previous decade and resulted in plant closures
in low income and working class neighborhoods thereby causing
widespread loss of employment. It came in tandem with Reagan
Administrations cuts in social services followed by the more recent
2008 budgetary crisis.
I watched our community became saturated with cocaine
while many corporations

that supplied jobs to those communities were relocating to other

countries. So there was
a loss of income, jobs and revenue for many people in the
community while there was
saturation of a drug that would relieve your depression from the
loss of your income and
community.
Susan
Burton

A combination of deindustrialization and reindustrialization -- two

sides of the same economic restructuring coin -- continue, acerbating
the loss of good paying working class and white collar jobs (Bluestone
and Bennett, 1982; Wilson, 1997). These two components of economic
restructuring have manifested differently in different parts of the
country, depending on the makeup of the regions economy. In the Los
Angeles region a combination of deindustrialization and
reindustrialization has taken place. Deindustrialization occurred
primarily in those areas where heavy industry, manufacturing plants
were located (e.g., South Los Angeles, and adjacent working class
cities of South Gate, Bell, Cudahy), and reindustrialization cropped up
where banks, financial entities, corporate headquarters and other
professional types of businesses were located (e.g., downtown and
west side areas of Los Angeles) near the more affluent vicinities. In
those areas where many manufacturing industries were shut down, the
largely African Americans and Latino residents whod previously made

a modest living, were downsized by economic restructuring. Since

1980s, most laid off workers either remain unemployed or find
(under)employment often in the growing service sector (e.g., fast food,
sweatshops) for less than half of their of previous salaries and without
benefits (Ong, 1989).
The second global context within which addiction and
incarceration takes place is from the political dealings at the
international level, which began in the early 1980s. The Reagan
Administrations illegal exchange of money, military equipment, and
drugs among the U.S., Iran and Nicaraguan Contras in Honduras
(fighting the Sandinista Government) eventually exposed the Iran
Contra Gate scandal. This dark alliance led to massive influxes of
drugs, namely crack cocaine, into poor, inner city enclaves of Los
Angeles which, in turn, were reeling from plant closures, layoffs and
cuts to social services (Alexander, 2010, p. 5-6; Ruppert, 1999; Webb,
1998). The association revealed between the appearance of crack
cocaine in our inner cities and the government secretive workings
which led to the Iran Contra scandal, has done little to resolve the
ongoing unabated problems of mass drug addiction and mass
incarceration (Ruppert, 1999; Webb, 1998).
This elaborate set up is linked to the Prison Industrial Complex,
one industry that has certainly grown as result of economic

restructuring, locking up, among other people, the laid off/unemployed

workers and their children. This, along with the disease of addiction,
has shattered communities and families. This larger picture is a critical
piece to fully comprehending the War on Drugs and the growing Prison
Industrial Complex and how principally poor people get caught up in
the cycle of addiction and incarceration. To understand this connection
is the first step to changing the conditions and policies that currently
exist in this country
In conclusion, in this paper I highlight the obstacles to womens
successful reentry, which include the lack of provisions in prison to
address addiction, destruction of personal documents (e.g., I.D.) by
prison personnel, difficulty in finding safe shelter which consequently
leads to homelessness, which in turn creates the difficulty in obtaining
identification as well as the services they need to rebuild their lives. I
also point out the excessively high unemployment rates for the
formerly incarcerated. Employers refusal to hire the formerly detained
is one more major obstacle to recovery.
Furthermore, if deeper issues, such as childhood abuse, poverty
and economic deprivation, are not addressed we can be assured that
the cycle of addiction and incarceration is virtually inevitable for a
large portion of formerly incarcerated women. Given the consequences
discussed here, we need to ask ourselves why we continue to maintain

tough on crime policies which are costly and do not allow people to
reintegrate back into society. We need to ask ourselves why we live
within a culture in which the punishment never ends for what
purpose and for whose benefit?
To date this country and the state of California have been
unwilling to examine evident reasons that lead to incarceration.
Instead, a tough on crime culture has been created on which
politicians base their campaigns and careers. They and the media
generate and feed on the fear and hatred the public feels toward
people who commit even the most innocuous non-violent crimes. This
manufactured fear produces regressive and ultimately self-defeating
policies. For example, between 1996 and 1999, approximately 32%
(37,825) of women in state and federal prisons for drug offenses were
parents of minor children, and once released the women have been
banned from receiving CalWorks,12 as result of Clintons revisions to the
welfare system, (California Department of Corrections and
Rehabilitation, 2006). This punitive law is a considerable barrier for
women attempting to become responsible parents and support their
children upon their release from prison.
Instead of spending money on education, health issues (including
recovery programs) and employment opportunities, we expend millions
12 CalWorks is the California version of the federal program Temporary Assistance to Needy Families (TANF)

of dollars in the sink hole of the Prison Industrial Complex, filling the
coffers of private industries in the business of running prisons at the
expense of the taxpayers. This approach is extremely self defeating
whereas, on the other hand, drug treatment programs reap more
positive results and are cheaper in the long run yet are largely
discounted by the powers-that-be (Alexander, 2010; OBrian, 2006;
Interview, G. Killian, June 25, 2007).
We in California can see the budgetary consequence which is
partially the outcome of this philosophy of repeatedly locking people
without the necessary support for rehabilitation. As mentioned earlier
in this paper, we cannot address drug addiction (the leading cause of
incarceration among women) by repeatedly placing people in prison.
So while we continue to ignore the sources of the problem, we
perpetuate a system with policies and a culture which facilitates the
cyclical journey where the women are incarcerated for their drug use,
placed in prison where their addiction is not resolved, then released,
yet not allowed employment, housing or social services nor offered
sufficient recovery alternatives. Who benefits from this not merely
inhumane but also ineffective approach to solving the social ills in our
society?

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http://www.ihra.net/contents/1055

Chapter 9
Disaster Justice Feat. Research Justice
Haruki Eda

Nature may be the primary cause of a disaster, but very little of

its consequences are natural. In fact, some researchers suggest we
develop an understanding of disasters as relational events between
the natural, environmental, and ecological on the one hand, and the
political, sociological, and cultural on the other. According to Picou and
Marshall (2007), the categorization of disasters has evolved over time.
Initially, disasters were classified as either natural or technological, and
new categories were suggested later to account for naturaltechnological (or na-tech) disasters, as well as terrorism. However,
Picou and Marshall suggest the need to move beyond the limitations

imposed by such simple theoretical classifications, for three reasons.

First, some disasters we have conventionally considered natural are
increasingly viewed as anthropogenic, or human-made. Second,
regardless of the perceived naturalness of the disaster, the
subsequent severity and duration of chronic impacts may be ascribed
to anthropogenic factors. Finally, some of the most recent disaster
events cannot be clearly characterized as any of those four categories.
Moreover, Clarke (2006) reminds us of the possibilities of the worst
case, in which everything that could possibly go wrong goes wrong,
whether natural, technological, social-structural, institutional,
economic, or environmental. This suggests the importance of
addressing the interrelated nature of our precarious world. As trite as it
sounds, humans are not in opposition to the nature, but we are part of
it.
People from various socially marginalized communities have the
most intimate knowledge of the relationship between the natural and
the socio-political dimensions of disasters. They know, in other words,
that disasters do not impact everyone equally. Social inequalities based
on indigeneity, race, class, gender, disability, immigration status, and
sexuality all factor into numerous aspects of disasters, such as the
causes, vulnerability, population impacted, evacuation process,
mortality, efforts for rescue, access to relief aid and housing, speed of
recovery, media representation, and subsequent social change.

Activists and scholars on environmental and climate justice also make

similar points that the issues of settler colonialism and social justice
must be addressed along with environmental problems, as well as
racism and other forms of oppression within various environmental
movements (e.g. Bullard, 1999; Pulido, 2000; Schlosberg & Carruthers,
2010). Central to such projects is, therefore, to incite epistemological
changes, or shifts in the ways in which we create and legitimize
knowledge. Specifically, people who are most impacted by a particular
issue must be recognized as the experts of the issue, and their
knowledge must be recognized as community expertise. As the other
chapters in this volume vividly illustrate, for marginalized communities
with limited access to resources, mobilizing information through
research is crucial for this process.
Drawing on this insight, I propose the concept of disaster justice,
a process of bridging together struggles for social justice and
decolonization on the one hand and efforts into disaster preparation
and response on the other. While I do not pretend that I know the best
way of doing this, I aim to broaden the discussion by presenting some
cases in which grassroots communities organized themselves to
address inequalities and injustices in the aftermaths of disasters. In
particular, I examine the relief work of some community organizations
after two major disasters in Japan in 1995 and 2011. I believe their
work highlights some of the principles of disaster justice that could be

informative, if not directly replicable, for other communities and

localities across the world. Focusing on how they mobilized people,
money, and information, I argue that paired together, research justice
and disaster justice greatly enhance each other. Fundamental to this
process is reclaiming of the grassroots, transnational, decolonial,
anticapitalist, antiracist, feminist, queer, and accessible knowledge
systemswhich we have long been cultivating. To contextualize my
arguments, let me briefly discuss Japans historical, social, and political
climate in which disasters may often exacerbate the pre-existing
injustices by consolidating colonialism, imperialism, and nationalism.
DISASTER NATIONALISM
Japan has a long history of what I call disaster nationalism.
Japanese nationalism is a cause and an effect of imperialism and
colonialism, as well as their legacies that are very much alive today.
They can be traced back to the time when Japan began to modernize
itself by waging wars with and colonizing other neighboring countries
in the name of the Emperor, whose power was restored in 1867. In
1879, the Japanese gained full control over what had used to be the
Ryukyu Kingdom and been made into Okinawa Prefecture; around this
time period, they also assimilated the Ainu by force, legislation, and
discrimination, gradually but steadily. In 1895, the Empire of Japan
defeated Chinas Qing Dynasty in the First Sino-Japanese War, which
took place largely in Korea over the control of Korea. This allowed Japan

to take over Taiwan. Ten years later, the Japanese Empire also defeated
the Russian Empire in the Russo-Japanese War, which took place
largely in Manchuria over the control of Korea and Manchuria. This led
to the colonization of Korea by Japan. Koreans of course did not remain
docile; throughout the colonial period, they continued to resist. In
1919, they organized the March First Movement, which spread all over
the Korean Peninsula and mobilized millions of people. This was
portrayed as a series of violent riots in the Japanese mass media, and
the image of unruly Koreans became further popularized.
It was under such a circumstance of ethnic and racial relations
that a M-7.9 earthquake hit the Tokyo Metropolitan area in 1923. The
Great Kanto Earthquake also caused tsunami, landslides, and
enormous fires, killing approximately 105,000 people. Rumors spread
out immediately after the earthquake, in fact only a couple of hours
afterwards, that unruly Koreans were setting things on fire, bombing,
and poisoning wells, as well as murdering, robbing, looting, and raping
the Japanese. State officials took part in propagating these rumors via
telegram, and peoples sense of chaos and crisis was further
exacerbated by the proclamation of martial law on the next day, which
was expanded on the day after (Japan Federation of Bar Association,
2003). Martial law was usually to be invoked in a state of emergency to
activate the military forces to restore order, presupposing a body of
enemies threatening the nation-state, whether foreign forces or

domestic military coups. However, the stereotypes and rumors made

the state officials, military, police, and ordinary citizens excessively
vigilant and fearful of the Korean and Chinese residents (Kim, 1978).
This resulted in an organized massacre of approximately 6,000
Koreans, which was conducted by the military and civilian vigilante
groups. Encouraged by the government, these groups threw cordons to
interrogate passersby; to tell Koreans apart, hey asked everyone to say
a Japanese phrase that is difficult for Koreans to pronounce. The
massacre victims included not only Koreans and the Chinese but also
those who had been mistaken as such due to their dialects (e.g.
Okinawans) or speech disabilities, as well as socialists.
Another historical example of Japanese disaster nationalism is
the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. At the time of
the bombings, about 50,000 and 20,000 Koreans were residing in the
cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, respectively. A simple calculation
from the total 420,000 and 270,000 victims in each city lets us
estimate that roughly one in ten atomic bombing victims and survivors
were Koreans (Kawaguchi, 2008). If we focus on Hiroshima, about one
in five lives claimed immediately by the bombing itself were Korean.
This fact has not gained full recognition in the mainstream narratives
of the bombings. Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park was created in 1954,
but there was no acknowledgement of the Korean victims until 1970,
when the Hiroshima chapter of the Korean Residents Union in Japan

(Mindan) erected a monument. Yet the city did not give permission to
build it inside the Park, and it was established outside of it, across a
river. Moreover, many of the Korean survivors have since returned to
Korea, both northern and southern side of the border. Those in the
Republic of Korea, so-called South Korea(footnote), could not receive
any compensation they deserved from the Japanese government until
2003; meanwhile, those in the Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea,
or North Korea, remain uncompensated despite various efforts
(Ishikida, 2005). Importantly, the erasure of the Korean victims and
survivors accentuates the dominant narrative of the atomic bombings
that Japan is the only country to have been a victim of nuclear
weapons, hence that only the Japanese people have such a collective
experience and memory of shared victimhood. Thus, Japans peace
education ironically works to consolidate nationalism.
These examples point out two dimensions of disaster nationalism
in Japan. First, disastrous events have often resulted in a heightened
sense of nationalism, as shock, grief, trauma, fear, anxiety, insecurity,
and confusion circulate and intensify in what Sara Ahmed (2004) calls
affective economies, materializing in the symbolic collective body of
the nation. These emotions become attached to signs of threat and
contained in the bodies of non-Japanese residents. Second, how
disastrous events are narrativized and commemorated is deeply
implicated in nationalist ideologies. Many writers on narrative, trauma,

and collective memory agree that the social understandings of the past
are actively constructed in the present, the collective experiences of
trauma are culturally mediated, and these processes are highly
political (e.g. Alexander, 2012; Alexander, Eyerman, Giesen, Smelser,
& Sztompka, 2004; Eyerman, Alexander, & Breese, 2011; Neal, 2005;
Polletta, 2006; Sarat, Davidovitch, & Alberstein, 2007; Zeruvabel,
2003). Dominant nationalist ideologies help structure the dominant
accounts of disasters, which in return help enhance nationalist
sentiments. Thus, in both of these dimensions, disasters reinforce the
boundaries between those characters who figure and others who are
absent in the narrative of national victimhood. With this knowledge in
mind, in the next sections, I examine how marginalized communities in
contemporary Japan have responded to major disasters to articulate
counter-narratives of disaster justice.
CASE I: THE SOUTHERN HYOGO PREFECTURE EARTHQUAKE IN 1995
A M-7.3 earthquake hit the urban center of Kobe and its
surrounding areas early morning on Tuesday, January 17, 1995,
claiming more than 6,000 lives and displacing more than 300,000
residents. It was the most devastating disaster in the country at that
time since the World War II. As a port city and an industrial hub, Kobe
has historically been one of the major destinations in Japan for
migrants from Korea, China, and India. More recently, it has received
migrants and refugees from the Philippines, Vietnam, Brazil, and Peru,

among other countries. Kobe consistently ranks among the cities with
the highest proportion of residents with non-Japanese nationalities.
Many of these migrants had founded their communities through labor,
religious, and ethnic networks in the face of harsh discrimination and
racism, establishing ethnic enclaves in certain parts of the city. The
houses and buildings in which they lived tended to be old,
overcrowded, and vulnerable to earthquakes and fires, as in the case of
Nagata Ward, which houses one of the largest concentrations of
Zainichi Koreans, or Korean postcolonial exiles and their descendants
residing in Japan. While non-Japanese residents accounted for 2.9
percent of the citys total population in 1995, they made up 4.0
percent of the victims in Kobe (Sasaki, 1995). My paternal grandmother
was one of the thousands of Zainichi Koreans whose houses were
demolished by the disaster; she survived fortunately because she was
sleeping on the second floor when the ground floor was crushed.
Despite its large population of non-Japanese residents, Kobe was
not equipped to aid them in a disaster situation. In the aftermath of the
earthquake, those who did not have sufficient Japanese skills suffered
from lack of information in languages they could understand; without
language support, they could not obtain crucial information on the
extent of devastation, evacuation procedure, relief aid, governmental
compensation, housing and relocation, and so on. Undocumented and
unauthorized migrants underwent extreme hardship because they

could not receive aid and support for fear of deportation. Regardless of
immigration status, many migrants who had not joined the national
health insurance system were forced to cover the entire medical costs
incurred by the disaster. Some of the Vietnamese survivors also faced
racist discrimination at the evacuation spaces due to stereotypes,
language barrier, and cultural misunderstandings. Japanese evacuees
would feel threatened by the group of Vietnamese evacuees or irritated
by their young children. In the stressful post-disaster situation, this
would easily lead to conflicts that would only be exacerbated by the
lack of language resources. Meanwhile, the Vietnamese also had
conflicts among themselves due to political and ideological differences
between northern and southern Vietnam. Furthermore, many of the
Vietnamese evacuees could not secure a temporary housing to
relocate to for a few reasons: their social networks were limited in
comparison to those of Japanese survivors; most temporary housings
were constructed in the suburbs far away from their community and
too inconvenient as a place for short-term relocation; and elders and
people with disabilities were given priority for temporary housings,
while many Vietnamese families had a large number of children and
could not be accommodated.
In spite of such structural inequalities that hit the migrant
communities, local residents often helped each other out, pooling
resources and working together. The history of the Takatori Community

Center (TCC) illustrates such resilient actions. Immediately after the

earthquake, local survivors who lived near the Catholic Takatori Church
in Nagata Ward, including a large number of Vietnamese residents,
gathered and organized themselves at the Church, establishing the
Takatori Church Relief Station. They provided meals for the local
survivors (including themselves), organized the young volunteers who
came from all over the country, and housed a temporary medical care
facility that was operated for three months by doctors and nurses from
Catholic hospitals throughout Japan. Unofficial evacuation spaces like
this church, Korean schools, and small parks did not initially receive
relief aid from the government, so the volunteers brought food to such
places. Supporters of the Vietnamese community established the
Vietnamese Survivors Relief Liaison Group, addressing the housing and
relocation issues, among many others. A priest, himself a Vietnamese
refugee, was sent from Shizuoka Prefecture to the church, and he
helped bridge the language gap. They shortly merged with the Hyogo
Prefecture Foreign Residents Livelihood Restoration Center, which had
been providing support for Korean survivors; together they formed the
Kobe Friendship Center (KFC) one month after the earthquake. In the
meantime, within two weeks from the disaster, FM Yoboseyo, a small
Korean language community radio, started airing relevant and accurate
information, learning from the experience of the 1923 massacre. They
reached out to the Takatori Church Relief Station and the Liaison

Group, and the Vietnamese community radio FM Yeu Men was created
to provide critical information in Vietnamese. Within a few months, the
two radio stations merged together and established FM YY, which now
airs programs in Japanese, Korean, Chinese, English, Vietnamese,
Spanish, Tagalog, and Portuguese. In non-disaster times, their
programs focus on raising awareness about issues around the migrant
and/or ethnic minority communities, as well as discussing the cultures
and histories of these diverse communities.
This shift for multilingual and multicultural services helped the
evolution of the Takatori Church Relief Station, which was later
renamed as the Takatori Relief Station in 1997 and the became the
Takatori Community Center in 2000. As an umbrella organization, the
TCC today houses nine organizations including FM YY, mainly working
with the migrant and ethnic minority communities, as well as elders.
These organizations, for example, provide and coordinate professional
translation services in 28 languages, offer a community space for
Japanese Latin American children, or work to empower women from
various parts of Asia. In 2001, NGO Vietnam in KOBE was formally
founded out of the KFC to specialize in organizing the local Vietnamese
community; currently, it offers language classes, works on anti-drug
campaigns, organizes community events, and conduct advocacy work.
The KFC then became independent of the TCC in 2003, continuing to
provide advocacy, research, language, and educational services for

Korean and other non-Japanese population, particularly children and

seniors.

As these stories illustrate, in the aftermath of the 1995 earthquake, the

local survivors immediately came together and organized other
volunteers and themselves for relief and reconstruction. Gradually, as
the needs of the local communities shifted, many organizations were
established, merged together, became independent, and grew larger.
More recently, these organizations have worked on projects sponsored
by the city of Kobe and other governmental offices, organized lectures
and symposia, hosted numerous concerts, events, and festivities,
published multilingual resource media, created job opportunities for
migrant workers, appeared in a number of films and TV programs, and
won multiple awards. They have also been playing critical roles in the
subsequent disaster situations within the country and beyond in terms
of providing migrant communities with information and other forms of
support.
These actions taken by the grassroots communities are not
necessarily considered as research in the conventional sense.
However, they are certainly mobilizing community knowledge to
enhance social justice in response to the disaster, as various
governmental offices did not have appropriate knowledge (nor,
sometimes, an intention) to serve these communities. Initially, their

activities centered on securing access to essential information for

survival, as well as organizing themselves as community-rebuilder.
While they used preexisting social networks, they also made new
connections and cultivated relationships beyond language, nationality,
and ethnicity. Eventually, the communities around the TCC came to be
known as the experts on the issues of culturally sensitive post-disaster
relief and recovery. In other words, their community knowledge rooted
in their lived experiences has come to be regarded as a valuable body
of information that the government, the media, and the academy now
seek to share in partnership. Although questions around the ownership
of their knowledge remain to be explored, the case of these
communities provides an important and impressive model for future
post-disaster community building.
CASE II: THE GREAT EASTERN JAPAN EARTHQUAKE IN 2011
The 1995 earthquakes that hit my parents hometown left me,
eight years old at that time, a profound sense of impermanence and
precariousness. Yet it was only years later that I realize how structural
inequalities impact disaster consequences and how the nation-state is
woven into dominant narratives of disaster. I came to the United States
in 2006 to attend San Francisco State University. During my
undergraduate years, I became involved in the Bay Area-based Zainichi
Korean community organization, Eclipse Rising, which recognizes and
celebrates the rich and unique history of Zainichi Koreans in Japan,

promotes Zainichi community development, peace and reunification in

the Korean Peninsula, and social justice for all oppressed groups in
Japan, the United States, and beyond, through transnational education,
advocacy, and solidarity (Eclipse Rising, n.d.). It was founded in 2008
by a group of Zainichi Koreans with diverse backgrounds, and it has
organized film events locally, developed a transnational solidarity
education tour to Japan, and collaborated with other radical Korean
American groups and organizations across the country. This was the
first time in my life that I was able to fully embrace my Zainichi Korean
subjectivity and articulate it through a collectivity in which I felt safe as
a queer person.
I was with my friends in and around Eclipse Rising when I heard
the news of the earthquakes, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown on March
11, 2011 in Japan. We were in Riverside, California to present a panel
together at a conference. I thought it was just another earthquake,
until we saw the video footages of the tsunami washing away
everything, back in our motel. Yet it did not hit me emotionally while
we were in Riverside; after coming back to the Bay Area the next day, I
stayed alone in my apartment watching news on the disaster,
becoming sleepless and depressed. Although my family was not
impacted at all this time, it was difficult being so far away and still
wanting to share the sense of absolute despair and hope for change.
Soon enough, however, I witnessed how the post-disaster trauma

became nationalized. Both within and beyond Japan, the victim of the
disaster is the Japanese nation-state, rather than the actual people in
the northeastern region including migrant and ethnic minority
population. The national flag was suddenly omnipresent; the rhetoric of
national disaster was deafeningly pervasive. While the victims and
survivors immediately came to symbolize the nation that must be
rescued and saved, they still remain largely as a narrative figure that
merely legitimates the state, with little voice to narrate their own
experiences other than how grateful and empowered they are, if
they are allowed to speak at all.
Against the grain of such disaster nationalism, members of
Eclipse Rising came together to discuss what we could do. Our answer
was to establish a philanthropic bridge between grassroots
communities between Japan and the U.S., and within a few days after
the disaster, we co-founded the Japan Multicultural Relief Fund (JMRF)
in partnership with Japan Pacific Resource Network (JPRN), a nonprofit
organization also based in the Bay Area for Japan-U.S. cross-cultural
grassroots education and exchange. The relationship that Eclipse
Rising and JPRN had previously been cultivating culminated in this
collaborative project, in which JPRN as a 501(c)(3) organization
technically houses the JMRF in order to facilitate the flow of financial
relief aid, while Eclipse Rising mainly mobilizes and provides necessary
volunteer labor. Our immediate work included soliciting donations,

applying for grants, communicating with benefit event organizers,

collecting information about the disaster-struck regions, and identifying
the grantee organizations in Japan, all the while learning how to
establish a relief fund by doing it. The Fund was soon endorsed by
Peace Development Fund, awarded a grant by the Levi Foundation, and
became a beneficiary of various local charity events including the San
Francisco Board of Supervisors Fundraiser. Meanwhile, seven recipient
organizations were identified on the basis that they had established
records of working with marginalized populations: non-Japanese
residents, migrant workers, single-parent households, people with
disabilities, and older adults. Here, Solidarity Network with Migrants
Japan (SMJ), one of the recipient organizations, was in fact among the
people and organizations that Eclipse Rising had visited during the
previous summer as part of their education and solidarity tour to Japan.
Some members also had had a connection with another recipient
organization, NPO Woori Hakkyo, which supports Korean schools in the
Tohoku region. Most of the tasks, administrative or otherwise, were
carried out by volunteer labor; this includes the logo design, website
design and coordination, volunteer coordination, research, and
translation.
As a result, in May 2011, the seven recipient organizations
received approximately $6,300 each for their relief efforts. In
particular, NPO Woori Hakkyos support for the Korean schools was

significant in Japans political atmosphere in which Korean schools

continue to be excluded from the governments high school
subsidization programs, as it partially offset the insufficient amount of
governmental aid to the destroyed Korean schools. More recently, the
JMRF delivered additional aid money to SMJ and Hotline Chamae,
supported by the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, a human
rights and social justice organization based in Cambridge, MA. SMJ
used this money to build a multicultural community center and
cafeteria in the town of Minami Sanriku, which was utterly destroyed
by the tsunami. This center have been envisioned and run by a
multiethnic leadership team, which includes local Filipina women. It
provides a space for the local community to interact across generation,
nationality, and culture, while securing a safe local food supply system
in light of the nuclear radiation issues. Initially, the cafeteria struggled
to become financially independent, as the donations had been used up
to establish the building and obtain equipments. The leadership team
was working as volunteer labor until a translocal support system was
developed. Through multiple campaigns, this project mobilized
volunteers and supporters all over the country. First, volunteers knit
small key chains, which will be wrapped with Sansa Caf postcards by
the project team. These products are then sold at various venues
around Japan along with meal vouchers, which will be issued for local
residents in Minami Sanriku. Thus, support from people elsewhere

directly benefits both Sansa Caf and the local customers. As of June
2013, more than 2,200 meals have been provided through this system.
In the meantime, Hotline Chamae has been working to establish a
national multilingual hotline service for women-identified migrant and
ethnic minority people affected by the disaster. This project is aimed to
connect domestic and sexual violence survivors with appropriate
counseling, support, and services; in addition, it will advocate with the
Japanese government and Japanese feminist movements to provide
permanent infrastructure, training support, and administrative support
to sustain multilingual services for such women survivors.
In all of these instances, many of us, both the survivors and
supporters, conducted various kinds of research. Some of them may
not be seen as research in a traditional academic sense, however:
finding local organizations that were serving vulnerable populations,
through the Internet and personal connections; surveying media
reports on how the disasters impacted these communities; conversely,
pointing out the lack of media coverage on non-Japanese victims and
survivors; interviewing the survivors about their needs and concerns;
translating information into English; finding events to do outreach at;
observing the extent of damages done to Korean schools; sharing
stories of desperate farmers in the areas around the nuclear power
plant, and so on. In fact, most of what we did is informal knowledgesharing, quite far from academic rigor. Yet I would like to emphasize

that all of these research activities were done for the aim of relief,
recovery, and reconstruction. We needed to mobilize resources, not
theorize inequalities and disaster. We needed to listen to each other,
not consult journal articles. We needed to create and disseminate new
knowledge out of our grassroots community knowledge, not consume
and rely on unreliable information provided by the state. Research, in
this sense, was crucial for our efforts to move necessary people and
money. Like the 1995 earthquake, this more recent case also highlights
the various ways in which ordinary peoples knowledge was organized
quickly and effectively to counter disaster nationalism. Importantly, the
transnational and translocal connections of solidarity developed, and
further strengthened, through this relief process.
DISASTER JUSTICE
Drawing on these examples, I propose a concept of disaster
justice. I argue that disaster justice is a necessary process of
combining the struggles for social justice and decolonization on the
one hand and the efforts into disaster preparation and response on the
other. It is necessary because the dominant discourse of disaster
nationalism blurs the boundaries between the social, cultural, and
political (or subjective) dimensions and physical, material, and
technical (or objective) dimensions of disastrous events and their
aftermaths. The strategies to counter this must therefore address
these multiple dimensions altogether. Specifically, disaster justice

promotes the understanding of preparation as response, as well as

response as preparation. Disasters will happen (again), and global
climate change is only exacerbating the situation we live in. Some
disasters are recurring, like hurricanes, and others are unprecedented,
like nuclear meltdowns. Some disasters only impact limited
geographical areas, like tornados, and others have global
consequences, like global warming. Some disasters are sudden and
drastic, like earthquakes, and others are gradual and difficult to
recognize, like water and air pollution. And all disasters are further
complicated by structural inequalities around class, race, gender, age,
ability, and sexuality. To respond to a disaster, therefore, cannot be
over when everything goes back to normal, when the normal predisaster conditions were already oppressive. The response must
address various injustices as an inherent part of the cause of the
disaster. Similarly, to prepare for a disaster cannot be merely to
conduct drills and stock up necessary items without considering who
will and will not actually have access to resources. The preparation
must pay close attention to how previous disasters have impacted
different communities differently, and it must entail fundamental
social, cultural, political, and infrastructural changes. This is precisely
why disaster justice is a process that takes a holistic approach
combining response and preparation altogether.

Indispensable to this process of disaster justice is research

justice. The process of research justice may entail numerous principles,
and the first is perhaps to recognize research oppression. As many
scholars like Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999) and Shawn Wilson (2009)
sharply critique, academia remains a fundamentally oppressive
institution that continues to privilege certain voices over others
through its research agenda and curricula. Research justice as a critical
response seems to entail at least two overall interrelated and
simultaneous processes. The first is to make academic and other
authoritative knowledge relevant and accessible to those who never
had access previously despite always being the subject of research.
This requires doing away with jargons, holding researchers
accountable, teaching about fewer White men and more women of
color, providing more resources to students of color, and so on. The
second is to democratize research by enabling communities of color
and Indigenous communities to create and mobilize their own
knowledge as legitimate and valid as more mainstream types of
knowledge. This requires privileging of community expertise over
outside experts, providing methodological training and support,
supporting scholars of color, and asserting the grassroots communities
ownership of knowledge, as well as actually listening to these
communities. I emphasize here that what is imperative in this process
is reclaiming of the grassroots, transnational, diasporic, Indigenous,

decolonial, anticapitalist, antiracist, feminist, queer, and accessible

knowledge systemswhich we have long been cultivating.
By engaging in the dual processes of research justice and
disaster justice, we must continue to build a society that can sustain
and persevere through disastrous times together. Information
regarding a disaster situation must be accessible and transparent
much unlike how the Japanese government has handled the nuclear
meltdown with secrecy and deception. Meanwhile, the survivors must
have the capacity and resources to mobilize their grassroots
knowledge and represent themselves in the way they regard
appropriate and meaningful. Disaster justice asserts that a society that
is truly just, peaceful, and sustainable is also prepared for the worst. It
is about promoting multilingual resources and culturally relevant
education; it is about housing everyone in safe housings; it is about
securing safe working environments; it is about conserving energy
while promoting green and clean energy; it is about growing our
own food; it is about training ourselves to be collaborative, not
competitive; it is about furthering demilitarization and prison abolition;
it is about establishing accessible public transportation; it is about
having affordable and reliable healthcare; it is about eliminating sexual
violence; it is about advancing trans*-sensitivity; and it is about
cultivating grassroots solidarity for collective healing. In reality, these
might be difficult if not impossible to achieve, but it is nevertheless a

blueprint that we can and shall work on and towards. Disasters will
happen, over and over again, but it is possible to make them less and
less disastrous for everyone.

Notes

Bibliography

Chapter 10
Undocumented Research and Researchers:
A Collective Journey to Document our Stories
and Speak for Ourselves
Alma Leyva, Imelda S. Plascencia and Mayra
Yoana Jaimes Pena

Disclaimer
We consciously do not not identify as Dreamers or use the word
Dreamer to share our narrative and write this journey. The word
Dreamer has been constructed to refer to a select few individuals who
have

been

considered

the

exception

to

gaining

access

and

opportunities within the United States, and we choose to not

perpetuate this narrative. Although the term has been re-appropriated,
reframed and reclaimed by various individuals within the immigrant
youth movement, within a larger context the word Dreamer continues
to represent exceptionalism and a new form of model minority when
discussing immigration.
The Healthy California Survey Project
The Healthy California Survey Project is the first statewide
research initiative in California where immigrant youth were a part of
the development, carrying out, reporting and dissemination stages of
the research. Immigrant youth are more commonly the subjects of
research, and have limited opportunities to produce knowledge about
their own lives. In the summer of 2013, thirty-seven immigrant youth,
including the coordinating team, conducted statewide research on
health care access and barriers for immigrant youth in California. The
interns were a part of the Healthy California cohort of Dream Summer;
a national internship program for immigrant youth, led by immigrant

youth. Prior to the Dream Summer program, the coordinating team led
the development of the research project.
The amount of power and authority researchers have over
information was evident in the development stages of the project. All
decisions that guided the direction of the work held power; the creation
of the survey, the population we work with, eligibility, the cities and
regions that are captured, the number of surveys, etc. Such decisions
are generally made by a few individuals, and often without the
involvement of the communities that will be researched. The overall
structure gives those sitting around a table enormous amount of power
over the narration of a community's story. Recognizing this dynamic,
the team was intentional about implementing a research justice
framework.
Research justice offers a paradigm shift in research practices. It
begins with the premise that the community is the expert and positions
them as the drivers of the research agenda. It recognizes and tries to
heal past colonized and oppressive research processes, and challenges
traditional practices of knowledge creation, expertise, resource sharing
and dissemination. Even participatory research, community based
research can fall back into traditional roles of researcher and subject,
allowing limited opportunities for community participation. Research
justice validates the understanding that immigrant youth have the

capacity to produce information and document our own experiences;

recognizing the knowledge and agency we have over our lives, and
that we are in the best position to represent our interests and tell our
stories. Our goal as researchers was to capture the experiences of our
community

and

package

that

information

into

data

that

is

representative of our populations experience.

The time frame we were working under constructed an
environment where the team had to move quickly to develop the
project. Along the way there were capacity and timeline barriers that
did not fully allow us to work more collectively with our community. The
team had three months to develop a survey, coordinate a statewide
research project and organize a summer program to carry out the
research.

Initially there was a core team of three members; Saba

Waheed, the research director for the UCLA Labor Center, Imelda S.
Plascencia, the project coordinator of health initiatives of the Dream
Resource Center, and Mayra Yoana Jaimes Pena, research coordinator
of the Dream Resource Center; additional team members came on
board as we got closer to the summer program.
The

development

of

the

survey

involved

having

open

conversations with each other, team members of the Dream Resource

Center that are also immigrant youth, and outside conversations with
friends and family that live undocumented lives. Saba guided the team

and wisely reminded us that you dont learn how to write a survey
until youve done one. Looking back, the team has recognized that
there are sections we could have rephrased, and questions we could
have changed or added that were not captured. Through this process
Saba allowed us to learn through the experience while trusting our
decisions and direction. This approach was an empowering element for
the team and a guiding principle for working with marginalized
communities that have normalized their oppression.
After the survey was finalized and approved, we began to heavily
plan for the summer internship. Planning for our research team of
interns was very exciting, tiring, and required lots of collective
strategizing. There was plenty of work to be done, and our team
needed to grow. Alma Leyva, our second research coordinator of the
Dream Resource Center, joined the team and hit the ground running.
At this point we were finalizing host organizations, intern project plans,
the orientation trainings, and detailing how we would meet our goal of
400 surveys

across

California.

Two

weeks

before

the opening

orientation, we added two Northern California intern coordinators to

the team; Marco Antonio Flores and Perla Flores. Once our team was
finalized, we began to understand that this project was becoming more
than just research.
The Opening Orientation

After several months of preparing, the team was eager to meet

and work with the Healthy California interns who would adopt healing
justice and research justice tools as forms of activism. Dream Summer
interns first came together for an opening orientation in Los Angeles
where they were trained for the research project and summer
internship. The Healthy California interns came from a diverse
background in terms of education, age, skills, sexual orientation,
politics, activism, immigration status, race and geographical regions in
California.
The opening orientation consisted of a two-day training where we
introduced research justice to the team and provided context as to why
health is a significant topic for our community. The first day involved a
lot to cover and not very much time. We discussed and provided
context to health care in the United States, provided an introduction to
research justice methodology and shared skills on conducting surveys.
The second day concentrated on plans to reach our goal of 400
surveys; planning out our travel dates throughout the state, and
collectively brainstorming outreach methods. Conversations about
health care access personally resonated with many individuals in the
room. There was an unspoken understanding of what it meant to be
undocumented and uninsured. For many interns and coordinating team
members, the topic was very present in their homes in their families.

Once the opening orientation was complete, the Healthy

California interns traveled back to their hometowns. They were placed
with different host organizations throughout California where they
carried

out

project

that

focused

on

health

for

immigrant

communities, and conducted surveys for the research project.

The Summer Process
Drawing away from traditional methods of research was a
learning and unlearning process for the group. The team was actively
pushing research away from the confines of academia which commonly
generate a disconnect from community. This undertaking comes with a
lot of push back, hesitation and questioning; however, this process was
necessary

to

empower

our

community

and

acknowledge

their

expertise.
The workload throughout the summer was very heavy and
consisted of overseeing the research team, connecting with host
organizations, developing curriculum for the closing training, and
troubleshooting all aspects of the program, all while traveling up and
down

California

collecting

surveys.

For

the

coordinating

team,

everyday of the project was a conscious effort to adapt our work to our
community; an effort that is driven from love and a critical analysis of
perpetuated oppression. In addition, the research and coordinating
team was taking in all of the trauma, neglect, frustration and pain that

comes with being denied your human right to wellness and health.
Throughout our travels we intentionally promoted healing justice
practices with immigrant youth that participated in the survey. We
shared the work of the Collective of Immigrant resilience through
Community Led Empowerment (CIRCLE) Project which creates healing
justice spaces for undocumented individuals to have courageous
conversations about their experiences. This was an active way of
reforming harmful research practices that may have triggered or
opened wounds we caused through our research process.
Even though connecting to community was a necessary and
inspiring part of the process, it also became the most tiring. Traveling
meant spending most of the summer away from home and loved ones.
There was always work to be done, and there were very few days off.
Having so many expectations and goals was unrealistic and dangerous
for the team. By the end of summer we were tired and on the verge of
burning out. These tensions were reflected in our relationships with the
interns and their work. In our desire to have an impactful summer, we
pushed our interns and created goals that made it difficult to conduct
sustain

healthy

working

environment.

Reflecting

back,

we

acknowledge that we were conducting health work in an unhealthy

way. Although research justice work is important, it is equally
important for us to take the time to slow down and take care of each

other. By the end of the summer we exceeded our goal of 400 surveys
and reached 550.
Closing Orientation and Gallery Walk Exercise
For the closing orientation we brought the team of researchers
together again to share the preliminary findings. At this point, there
were no stories connected to the statistics, just numbers. We split the
findings into five different areas and displayed the statistics in five
sections across the room for a gallery walk exercise. We organized
ourselves to diligently document the researchers comments and
reflections of the findings. Reviewing the data allowed for the team to
feel confident about having an opinion and speaking on the topic. For
the most part, the research team was not surprised by the numbers;
the information validated the reality in our communities that we as
undocumented people know too well. There was a lot of information to
take in as the interns walked through the gallery. It was a very heavy
and emotional day for the team.
Being undocumented is something that impacts every aspect of
our life, but also something that we dont want to think too much
about. It is an uncertain reality that does not provide for much peace of
mind. Walking through the gallery triggered a lot of emotions and
frustration for the research team. These were not just numbers on the
wall, they represented our families and loved ones; people that were

being disregarded when they were ill and in need of support. After the
exercise we ended the day with small healing justice circles. Although
it was important to provide the space to vent and express what this
journey has been like, it was not enough to address the harsh reality of
being undocumented and uninsured.
There was a lot of growth during the summer, and it was evident
through the conscious and thoughtful conversations that took place
during the closing orientation. This journey allowed for the interns to
acknowledge themselves as researchers and recognize their capacity
to produce work on their own lives; a rare opportunity that exists for
our community.
Analysis of Research Findings
The analysis of the data was another major part of the research
project. We spent a lot time learning the skills we needed as we went
through the process. There were many variables to work with, and
using SPSS as a tool for analyzing data was at first intimidating, and it
tooks some time for the coordinating them to feel confident with our
expertise. Even though we were uncomfortable, this new tool taught us
a lot about trusting ourselves with our work and our skills. This process
challenged us to step out of our comfort zone and own our roles as
researchers.
There is a lot of power that comes with the analysing of data.

One of the biggest learning experiences with data analysis was the
power of stories through numbers. Although the numbers are
objective, the way that they are used arent. As the coordinating team
we had a chance to look at the data, make decisions on what to
highlight and what to disregard. It was an empowering experience to
shape our narrative and use the data to highlight our needs.
Moving Forward
This journey has been a personal and professional learning
experience. The summer in itself was emotionally and physically
challenging, but through it we have learned how to approach this
process in a healthy and collective way. The positive outcomes that
have come from this experience include; interns having the
confidence

to

understanding

participate
of

how

in

health

research,
barriers

developing
impact

the

deeper

immigrant

community, having an opportunity to listen to the needs of our

community, developing sustainability practices for our immigrant
youth movement, and most importantly, implementing a new
framework for conducting research with immigrant communities.
Through this experience we have recognized the need to
incorporate reciprocity between the researchers and community
members, as well as wellness practices within the research justice
model. When we are well, we are less likely to hurt others and

ourselves. Wellness is a critical component to sustaining our resilient

struggle for change.

Without it, our praxis is impacted and it is

reflected in the our models of creating change.

In February of 2014, we released part 1 and 2 of the report
Undocumented and Uninsured: A Five-Part report on Immigrant Youth
and the Struggle to Access Health Care in California. In the same
month, Senate Bill 1005 was introduced in California, which would
provide health care access for all Californians independent of
immigration status. This new development was significant to our work
because as the community that is directly impacted by the exclusion, it
was not enough to produce the work or documenting the stories of
families and communities. It is significant that the report be used as a
tool for greater change to occur. As we are continue to disseminate the
findings, we are having conversations with community members and
disseminating the information to individuals that are in key positions to
create change. We hope that our work will continue to have a
significant impact in the lives of undocumented communities and in
our pursuit of social justice.
Pursuing Research and Personal Reflections
Alma Leyva
Practicing research justice has personally been an empowering
experience. However, there is a great difficulty that comes with

conducting research in your own community. The possibility of

triggering your experiences, or of your participants, is present as
wounds are opened through the research process. This dynamic
became evident throughout our Healthy California Survey Project when
we began to have conversations with immigrant youth across the
state.
It has been a beautiful experience to listen to people throughout
California who have shared my undocumented journey. As they
revealed their stories, I couldnt help but feel that their lives were a
reflection of mine. I remembered going through those same painful
feelings of neglect and fear that come with being undocumented.
Being a part of this process allowed me to reflect on the times that I
was the subject of research, and the disconnect I felt when they left me
with my open wounds.
For researchers that are not undocumented and conducting
research, it seems justified to enter our community and extract
information.

As

academics

that

are

supported

by

educational

institutions, their perspective of knowledge production takes away

from their position as guests in our communities and homes.
Challenging this perspective is why I continue to actively engage in
research justice.
Imelda S. Plascencia

I developed an interest in research my last year at UCLA when I started

to feel like a guinea pig among the various interviews and research
studies on the lives of immigrant youth. The dominant narrative
produced the perception of a new brown model minority that embodied
a narrow perspective of the immigrant reality.

Initially there were

stories that victimized immigrant youth and glorified their assets, while
simultaneously blaming immigrant families for their courageous acts of
migration. It was a narrative that was not constructed or guided by our
immigrant community or that I felt comfortable perpetuating.
As an undocumented, queer, brown female who was raised in La
Puente, participating in research initially seemed like an elite practice
that

was

beyond

my

rationale.

Through

the

immigrant

youth

movement I learned the importance of community members being able

to speak for themselves, and the development of research doesnt
stand outside of that. I began to question the production of knowledge
and the purpose that it served within our community. There were a lot
of questions that I was challenged to consider that were often too
painful to think about. Who is benefitting from the analysis and
findings that are produced? What impact is research having on the
actual community? What harm is being caused by the production of
research? How is research uplifting or empowering the community it is
dissecting? Why arent we a part of the process, when they are talking
about our lives? How are researchers considered experts when they

are not a part of the community? After engaging in personal reflections

and various discussions with mentors, I began to perceive research as
a form of active resistance and decided to conduct my own research
project as a senior at UCLA.
Ive consciously engaged in research since then, and my position
at the Dream Resource Center has allowed me to do so in formal ways.
As I have continued to engage in this work, it has been evident that
researchers and academics outside of the undocumented community
hold various blind spots. They have the potential to misinterpret and
misguide

our

reality,

when

ultimately,

it

is

our

families

and

communities that must live with the consequences. These dynamics

often remain unquestioned and unacknowledged, further expressing
the need for research justice practices in academia.
Mayra Yoana Jaimes Pena
As someone who is undocumented and part of a heavily
researched community, I personally understand how intrusive research
can be. It feels strange to read about the experiences of people in my
undocumented community, especially when the information doesnt
accurately capture our reality. Instead, research often offers an
assumed narrative that scratches the surface of the struggles faced by
undocumented immigrants. Being aware of the harm that research can
cause, I did not want to replicate ruthless research methods that take

information from communities.

As the Healthy California research project was emerging, I
initially played a consulting role where I provided recommendations on
working with the undocumented population. Through my work with the
Collective

of

Immigrant

Resilience

through

Community

Led

Empowerment (CIRCLE) Project I was familiar with facilitating healing

justice

circles

and

consciously

approaching

undocumented

communities. The CIRCLE Project utilizes Critical Race Theory (CRT) as

a framework to guide the courageous conversations that take place in
the circles. Research justice parallels CRT through a social justice lens
that acknowledges the importance of communities speaking for
themselves.
The Healthy California research project has been a very
empowering learning experience. Understanding myself as a person
who holds authority and power to conduct research has positively
impacted my perception of self. As a circle keeper I have recognized
that there is a lot of internalized oppression that occurs within our
community. Much of it is due to the hostile social environment that we
live in, the constant dehumanization, and micro aggressions that we
face on a daily basis. Experiences such as these inhibit our ability to
realize the power we hold as individuals and as a community.

Part III. Research Justice:

Strategies for Social
Transformation and Policy Reform

Chapter 11
Everyday Justice: Tactics for Navigating Micro,
Macro and Structural Discriminations from the
Intersection of Jim Crow and Hurricane Katrina
Sandra Weissinger
No matter how determining the sociocultural order appears to be,
only human beings, actively reflectively and collectively, can be said to
be the inventors of social worlds. And only human beings acting
reflectively and in concert can reinvent them.
Joe R. Feagin and Hernan Vera, 2008:214.

Researchers have a responsibility to become familiar with, if not

a part of, the social movements they are studying. They should know
the social problem at hand from the perspectives of all involved and
then, upon investigation, choose a side. This should be done in this
order, unless the researcher is an organic intellectual someone who
has experienced the personal trouble under investigation and
considered their connection to others working against systemic
oppression. Upon coming to know the group facing oppression, if not
domination, researchers have a responsibility to act as a conduit a
tool for those engaged in activism to further their abilities to be
successful in policy changes and getting their message out to a larger
audience. Certainly, a researcher will have their biases and opinions.
Those should be reflected in the research write up in addition to doing

the work to move social movements forward through strategy building.

In short, we make our skills available to those involved in the day-today fights because we see ourselves as social change agents (rather
than using our skills solely or primarily to further our academic
careers).
As consultants, conduits, archivists, and allies for movement
activists, we produce and distribute our research findings in order to
radicalize outsiders (Feagin and Vera, 2008; 1-3, 214). Our work
supports insiders struggling through layered and systemic oppression.
It is the least we can do with our privileged positions. Therefore, it is
essential to be thorough in ones reporting so that participants are
not further traumatized (by misrepresentations), face less ethnic
insensitivity, and so that readers of our work see clear, actionable
steps articulated like a blue print from which to build and gain clear
knowledge of the goals of activists (Feagin and Vera, 2008; Fontes,
2004; Pastor et. al. 2006). These rules have guided my work both in
the classroom and in my writing. My biography, as a professor and
scholar in post-Katrina New Orleans, has shaped every class lecture
and activity I have engaged in the last four years. Often, occupying this
space (as an activist, who is a scholar in order to be a better activist
see Gamboa, 2013) has made my sociological imagination strong, as I
am placed in the middle of social problems and amongst people (my

friends, colleagues and peers) struggling to make sense of

contradictions to equity.
That was the case when I began research on North South
University13. All around me, folks associated with the school came to
me with or made me knowledgeable about the limitations, or slow
recovery, of the university since Hurricane Katrina. Arguably, versions
of this inequality existed before, as this school was created as a last
ditch effort to enforce Jim Crow segregation (Francis, 2004; Pope,
2013). These post-Katrina limitations, what Pastor et. al. (2006) has
called second disasters14, shaped the learning and work environment in
stressful ways. As I sought to be of service and also make sense of the
social interactions at the school, I found it necessary to conduct
research which would be both relevant and liberation based. That is, I
wanted to illustrate how micro, macro and structural discriminations
shape the space. More than this, I wanted to document the resiliency
13

North South University is a pseudonym I use. While there are numerous

newspaper articles about the school in addition to legal suits all citing the schools
proper name- I have made a choice to provide some level of anonymity to the school.
I do this for my former students who are not yet ready to acknowledge the tenuous
position of the university. I do not want to further traumatize them, as I do not want
to add to the stresses that make earning a college degree difficult.

14In the Wake of the Storm, authors are very clear: how people fair after a natural disaster is a result of
deeply rooted systems of privilege and discrimination (Pastor et. al. 2006:iii). Because of such hidden,
often taken for granted oppression, communities at the margin often, and rightly, fear that they will suffer
through slow recoveries via agencies (government and insurance) and workers who fail to share
information and/or prioritize other communities for needed assistance (Pastor et. al. 2006:iii). This has
certainly been the case at North South University. There, students, staff, and faculty struggle with the slow
rebuilding and lack of a clear plan as it concerns the restoration of their campus and academic programs.

of those at North South. While I struggled too, as I was an active

participant, I occupied a privileged position by which I could extricate
myself from the university by accepting a job else where. This
placement allowed me to understand, astutely, what technology
limitations in classrooms meant for my students. Where other
academics have documented classrooms of shame
(http://classroomsofshame.tumblr.com/), I knew that I had seen and
taught in the worst of them and that having an entire campus in such
disrepair is an outgrowth of deeply entrenched systems of race and
class based domination.
The following is my attempt to put this fight on paper. To provide
insiders with assurance that they are not crazy or bourgeois that
what they deal with daily is, in fact, a manifestation of Jim Crow style
segregation, state sponsored discrimination, secondary marginalization
and daily micro discriminations by school leaders, or misleaders as
Carter G. Woodson would call them (Cohen, 1999; Woodson, 1933). I
engage by documenting the steps adherents of the school have taken
since Hurricane Katrina. I argue that these steps were not selfish or
impractical, but warranted due to the lack of transparency by leaders
and the slowness of rebuilding the school after the storm. Each of the
strategies documented were political an attempt to change
ineffective and marginalizing politics at the school (in addition to the
culture of New Orleans, Louisiana and the United States that allowed

this HBCU (Historically Black College or University) to languish behind

area universities in terms of post-Katrina rebuilding and over all
university resources). Each attempt to make changes supplied strength
to the burgeoning activist struggle, tucked just behind the veil of the
trailer campus.
To tell this story, I analyzed civil court cases at the Orleans Parish
court house, Times Picayune (the major newspaper in New Orleans)
articles, the informal North South student Facebook page, and through
informal conversations while working on the North South campus as a
professor of sociology. From their work to restore the school and rise
above being treated as a joke or second-class citizens in New
Orleans and Louisiana I argue that informal activism (work by those
not in a formal social movement organization, yet still banded
together by shared interests) by many different parties and to address
many different personal troubles, taken together, worked to build a
movement for educational equity at the school (Naples, 1991; Stall and
Stoecker, 1998). The stories and strategies at North South are just part
of a larger push for equal access to education, regardless of class,
gender, race or difference. These strategies can be used at other
schools in order to push leaders to be accountable to their
constituency, and empower organic intellectuals of those communities,
who work for educational equity, with a listing of possible alternative
tactics.

Participants did not always have picket signs, but certainly they
acted, every day, to be change agents. To set right what imbedded Jim
Crow and Katrina induced trauma had made prevalent, a part of the
taken for granted (by many in the city and state) atmosphere. Here, I
provide a brief description of the school and adherents. Then I move on
to illustrate different strategies to empowerment. Lastly, I discuss how
these strategies have impacted North South and left a cadre, though
small, of individuals actively attempting to leave the university a little
bit better for those that follow them despite attempts from insiders
that seek to mislead others by encouraging their silence and patience.
North South University, A Brief History
In 1959, those interested in equality for Blacks felt the backhanded sting of North Souths creation. The hard work put into the
fight for integration, Brown v. Board of Education, was summarily
ignored as the state of Louisiana broke ground in a New Orleanian
Black neighborhood to build the school (Francis, 2004 and Pope, 2013
solidly provide a background of this school). Lamented as the Jim
Crow school, according to Francis (2004) and DeBerry (2011) area
activists wrote letters, spoke passionately and attempted to boycott
the new and segregated Black university. In their minds, New Orleans
already had HBCUs. HBCUs built before Brown and out of activist
leanings. With new legislation and a new state institution a short
distance away (now known as the University of New Orleans), they

could not understand how the state could so boldly trample upon their
rights.
Despite their objections, New Orleans activists and Black college
hopefuls realized that their tactic, to boycott the school and enroll in
the predominately white state institution could not work. They faced
arrests and an intolerable climate on that campus. With the labors of
the schools first chancellor, Black communities warmed up to North
South training their anger into something productive and lasting
(DeBerry, 2011; Francis, 2004; Lorde, 1984; Pope, 2013 and
Weissinger, 2012). They created a school with little into something
Black New Orleanians could feel pride in. Creating a strong and
impressive school of Social Work and a library that would lend
materials to community members, regardless of whether they were
students at the school a liberation library (Francis, 2004). After the
storm, this pride would be eroded with students transferring schools
and telling newspapers of the disappointment in the offerings and
professionalism of employees (Pope, 2013).
Though not without struggles (outside police forces on campus,
sit-ins by students, and the revolving door of leadership), students
continued to enroll at North South and the school became a valued
asset to Black communities in the city. At each step, adherents worked
to create a space more equitable and suited to their needs. Many of
the hard earned changes took a hit in 2005. The buildings that had

been fought for filled with high water and that water stood. It stood in
the gymnasium and destroyed the pool. It stood in all the buildings,
ruining the first floors. It stood in the library and ruined the collection.
Books that provided knowledge for both students and community
members were destroyed. They remained destroyed, out of reach, until
2013 when rebuilding of the library finally begun. Without a campus
or resources and without homes, students and workers felt acute loss
and displacement navigating both home and school second disasters.
They connected online, then in borrowed buildings and then in
FEMA trailers. This progress was welcomed in the early years after the
storm. But, nearly a decade after the disaster, adherents feel left
behind and are organizing for change a campus of permanent
structures one that looks like other universities in the city (majority
white and HBCUs). A campus with resources, such as a library. Isnt
this, after all the civil rights activism, something that can be expected?
But in a colorblind, yet discriminatory society, the fact that students of
color are going without has been co-opted. Bringing up race means
that someone is a race-baiter, even as the facts remain the same:
students of color, who wish to earn a college degree are, at this school,
being treated as second class citizens.

Legal Strategies to Empowerment

To reach their goals of educational equity, adherents have

engaged in a series of different tactics. These tactics were done by
people acting alone for personal and group justice and acting in
unison with others for the benefit of group uplift at North South
University. The first strategy, taking place after Katrina, are civil law
suits. On the surface, many of these suits appear self-serving to
remedy a wrong done to individuals. Putting the claims of plaintiffs in
context, it becomes clear that they were engaged to remedy both
personal troubles and group issues. In the broadest sense, such suits
worked to build a foundation and set a precedent. Lack of transparency
and bullying by leaders should not be accepted. More than this,
individuals have the right to work to make the school, their
community15, better and without retaliation.
The Whistle-Blowers
After Hurricane Katrina, North South University needed to
demonstrate that the school was still relevant and could attract preKatrina enrollment numbers. Even now, this issue remains a key
feature of most reports about North South University (the most recent
and thorough example comes from Pope, 2013). One way to
demonstrate that the school was experiencing a rebirth was by

15Activists at the margins, even if they do not readily label themselves as such, cannot distinguish or
compartmentalize the work they do. Rather, as highlighted by Nancy Naples (1994), work engaged in is for
themselves, their neighborhoods and their communities as each sphere of life intersects and shapes the
others.

showing service to the larger New Orleans community, specifically by

socializing high school students to the expectations of college. To that
end, North South offered a dual enrollment program for high achieving
high schools students. Youth could take classes at North South and
earn both high school and college credits. On paper, this sounds like a
wonderful, empowering program. But a deeper look, via civil court
documents, unveils that the impact of such a program may have been
manufactured.
The Whistle-Blowers, Linda Tolbert-Mosley and Timotea Sanchez
Bailey, were certain that some of the students listed as participants
never actually attended classes, yet North South still used their names
and enrollment status to gain resources from the state. Certainly,
students change their minds or drop out and perhaps this was part of
the reason for disparities. But, according to the civil court case file
(2007), when the plaintiffs brought the issues to the attention of their
supervisors at the school, they felt that their claims were valid, yet not
taken seriously. It was at this time that the two moved boldly, going
above their supervisors, writing an anonymous letter to North South
System brass and other state level educational leaders.
Upon receipt of the Whistle-Blowers anonymous letter, North
South leadership questioned the direct supervisor of Linda TolbertMosley and Timotea Sanchez Bailey. He was fired, according to his
widow, because of this scandal. Later, as a result of the stress endured,

he died driving his widow to also file a law suit against the school.
Seeing that their boss had been terminated, yet the original problem of
ghost students remained, the Whistle-Blowers came forward, revealing
their identity. This unleashed what they saw as retaliation by North
South leaders. Both claimed that they were demoted, lost pay and
suffered physically from the stress.
At this point, the two sought legal counsel and proceeded to
court. The scandal broke, reported in the Times Picayune newspaper. In
the end, the Whistle-Blowers were offered jobs with equivalent pay at
the school. In 2012, only one was listed as employed in the school
directory. If a dual enrollment programs still exists, no mention could
be found in online university documents (2010-2012) or to the
knowledge of faculty, staff and students I spoke with.
The Student Government Association President
Having heard of the ghost student disparities, Christopher
Jackson, North South Student Government Association (SGA) President,
confronted university leaders including the chancellor. In his civil suit
(2008), he claimed that he was bullied and silenced. Rather than
receiving a reasonable explanation or plan of action regarding the
ghost student allegations, Jackson states that he was told to mind his
business on several occasions by the chancellor of the school and
later by campus police officers. After being called as a witness for the
case of Linda Tolbert-Mosley and Timotea Sanchez Bailey, Jackson

received a visit by North South campus police at his home a FEMA

trailer set up on school grounds.
Jackson was apprehended by the officers (both still employed as
of 2012, according the universitys website) and placed in a police
vehicle. Once under the officers custody, Jackson was questioned
about his involvement in the Whistle-Blower suit. According to case
documents, upon noting his involvement, Jackson was beaten by law
enforcement and called a fag and faggot. He was then delivered to
the Orleans Parish jail a jail the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC)
filed a complaint against in 2012. According to the SPLC:
The federal complaint describes a facility where violence and
widespread
contraband including knives and drugs are the norm. It also
notes the
facility is understaffed and that deputies are poorly trained and
supervised
often complicit in the abuses suffered by the prisoners.
(Southern Poverty Law Center,
2013)
Once at the jail, however understaffed and poorly trained, officials saw
the student was injured and transferred Jackson to a hospital, so that
he could get care for the injuries he claimed North South officers had
inflicted. The campus police claimed, however, that it was Jackson,
instead, who battered them.
What the Whistle-Blowers and Jacksons claims demonstrate are
examples of individuals standing up to injustice, even without the
support of a larger social movement organization. They are doing just

what needed to be done, a widely shared impetus for community

work by those facing marginalization, yet not a part of social
movement organizations (Naples 1991:478-479). In this case, the
injustice came from multiple layers embodied in micro, macro and
structural discriminations. First, micro discrimination and secondary
marginalization took place as the result of administrators and workers
at the school. Certainly, keeping the university open was a primary
concern to leaders. But demanding that staff evaluate programs, yet
not evaluate them thoroughly (as to miss discrepancies and to keep
their mouths closed upon finding them), destroys the legitimacy of
claims that the university provides a unique service to New Orleans.
This claim, still serves, ironically, as the key go to argument by school
leaders as to why the school should exist at a time where state leaders
have slashed funding and have considered merging the institution or
closing it altogether (Pope, 2013).
Second, system administrators and state officials (who received
the anonymous letter), as a group, acted in a manner that allowed
macro discrimination to operate within this educational institution.
Their in-actions, as supported by university operating papers, provides
a layer of sovereignty to individual leaders. A practice, which in this
situation, hid discrimination under the guise of procedure. Even if the
various bodies involved did not fire Thomas (the supervisor of the
Whistle-Blowers), they did so by consent. Even if they did not beat

Christopher Jackson, failing to supply support (via an external

investigation) set up an environment in which school officials (already
called out as being corrupt) could bully students and staff wishing to
see high school students served with education at the university. In
both case files, at any point had university officials provided
transparent answers and action plans, the progression towards a civil
suit would have halted. None of these plaintiffs wanted to go to court.
Rather, this was a final action engaged in because all other means of
communication had been perverted. And the fact that communication
issues seem to guide the environment speaks to how discriminatory
practices are imbedded into the system of the university (structural
discrimination).
Students and Transparency
Like Jackson, Rachael Hart Johnson (in 2009) sought transparent
explanations for school officials actions. As a transfer student from an
area community college, Johnson was told by an adviser that the
credits she earned, to gain an associates degree, could be applied to
earning her bachelors degree. When it came time to graduate,
Johnson was told that she was ineligible. In her civil suit, she claimed
that she had exhausted all channels within the school to remedy the
problem. At each avenue, she was given a different answer and
directed to another school official. This theme, of exhausting all
possible avenues within the school, is seen in the previous cases noted

and in the claims of university adherents after (lawsuits from former

faculty in 2012 and 2013 exemplify this). Silencing tactics, as engaged
in by school officials (and as lamented by adherents of the school), do
not offer transparent explanations. Rather, they make tired the person
with a legitimate concern until they stop asking questions or simply go
away. This form of micro discrimination (being ignored by individuals)
and macro discrimination (attempts to follow disempowering school
and university system protocols) cost plaintiffs time and emotional
energy resulting in human waste (DuBois, 1903).
Johnson, however, wanted a degree and was unwilling to go
away. She was not fully dismayed by the layers of injustice. Instead,
she was vocal, making known that none of the administrators she was
sent to see would put, in writing, actionable steps that she could take.
Johnson states:
Dealing with [North South] has made me cry many nights of
frustration,
driven 40 miles each way on a day I didnt even have a class,
expose
myself to unprofessional practices from the registrars office and
worst of
allsee how a person in position to help someone would rather
use their
position to cause anxiety and stress instead of peace and
serenity.
(email from Johnson, included in court file)
Johnson did end up earning her undergraduate degree from North
South. In fact, in 2010, she was enrolled in the Masters Program for
Criminal Justice. Like one of the Whistle-Blowers, after getting the

change she needed as an individual, she stayed on with the university

seeing it as her home or community. Their reasons may be plentiful,
but certainly, law suits work to warn administrators of their limits.
Additionally, such actions are empowering for those who believe that
the university cannot or will not change if they remain silent about the
second disasters shaping their lives daily. These kinds of examples
encourages righteous discontent, on the ground, at the university.
Informal Strategies to Empowerment
While there are several other examples of lawsuits, by faculty
and students, it is important to speak about fully informal (outside of
the law, for example, but at times structured by social interactions
within a group) ways students challenged what they saw as inequality
and discrimination as they pursued their degrees. They did this by
engaging in town hall meetings and protests to save the school from a
potential merger. Students did this by engaging area media outlets and
inspiring articles in the local newspaper (recent examples include
Capo, 2013; Pope, 2013). They also did this by creating and
maintaining a Facebook page. In this venue, students celebrate
victories as well as make others aware of current problems within the
university gates.
Facebook and Social Media
Social media is easily accessible to students, as it runs on their
phones and computers. As a free tool, students can upload as many

images and statements as they wish. That is exactly what North South
students did in the decade following Hurricane Katrina. They
communicated about upcoming Miss [North South] elections, SGA
(Student Government Association) news and meetings, sports teams
and other special events. They also communicated as to where to sell
books (as the campus lacked a bookstore), travel routes (as high
waters, which flooded a portion of the campus, made travel between
classes difficult), trailers in disrepair, and how to communicate with
campus leaders when their questions went unanswered.
Though sometimes their comments seemed to spin around one
another like a venting session, as there were very few easy answers I observed multiple times in which students created actionable steps
that all could engage in. Facebook and social media serve as a way for
students to break silences, brainstorm, and respond to one another
even if they are not in the same location. Through this online
community, students and alumni can have conversations with one
another not letting the lessons learned by old-heads, during their
tenure at the school, fade away, unlearned by newcomers upon the
departure of graduates or students who transfer to different
institutions.
One area that students discussed at length concerned the state
of the campus. Nearly a decade after Katrina, North South is the only
campus in New Orleans still operating mainly out of trailers (Pope,

2013). Even universities near the North South campus (there are two
one private, one state run) appear to be rebuilt or in late stages of the
rebuilding process. Of the buildings available on the North South
campus, many endured water damage which has not been fixed. That
is, some parts of the buildings are used, but only the second floors as
the first floors are still, mainly, in disrepair. When new FEMA trailers
rolled in during the summer of 2013, students took to Facebook
unnerved, if not livid. They took pictures and talked about what should
be done next who they should talk to. As organic intellectuals, they
theorized as to why their campus still appeared as if Katrina had
occurred recently, posting readings about the history of the school as
evidence or a predictor as to why the school operated with so few
resources.
After a week long discussion, where, at times the frustration was
misdirected at one another, a student who had just graduated chimed
in with an idea everyone could agree on: taking pictures and letting
leaders know on their social media pages. This student provided a list
of Twitter handles and other ways to contact North South and North
South System brass in a public way so that they would not be
ignored. The student advised them to use their best grammar and to
stay calm when writing, as their words would be seen by a larger,
perhaps hostile, audience. When students saw a broken window, trash
overflowing, a door to a FEMA trailer that was falling off of its hinges, a

dangerous and poorly lit stairwell anything that was not as it should
be - all were to take a picture and upload it to leaders social media
pages, asking when the situation would be fixed. This kind of thinking
took the focus off of each student (who should organize what, who
should be the speaker, who loved the university more, etc.) and put
the attention back on leaders who did not talk to students about what
to expect at the school in terms of construction.
With this tactic, students, resourcefully, side stepped many of
the micro discrimination tactics that had previously been waged
against them by individual leaders. Putting their claims up on a public
venue, any one following the leader via Twitter, for example, would be
called to action. Would they ignore the evidence, a picture, or would
they start to understand the multiple problems present on the campus
problems which shapes students abilities to learn in a clean and safe
environment?
Protests
Outlets like Facebook allow students to spread the word about
town hall meetings and times where others will band together to
protest rulings by educational leaders in the state. I observed such
team work in 2011, when North South adherents attended meetings
(at the school, at city hall and later at the Board of Regents meeting in
Baton Rouge) to deter a plan to merge the school with another area
university. Students who attended the meeting in Baton Rouge got on a

charter bus. Word of mouth spread information about the time and
place to meet. Once at the Board of Regents meeting, students went to
speak before the board almost like a filibuster of sorts. One after
another, they talked about the goal of the school and merits of the
university. They talked about all they had gained by attending North
South. And when they could talk no more to the Board of Regents, they
talked to the press outside and held up signs picketing a decision to
merge the school, even as it had never been afforded resources to
rebuild after Katrina.
In addition to protests and filibustering, students also made their
concerns known to media outlets, such as the Times Picayune a
major newspaper in New Orleans. Once with news media officials,
students inspired conversations about the effect of state budget cuts
on the public university. Additionally, they made certain outsiders had
access to images of a dilapidated campus. Some students, during
interviews, discussed a major issue facing North South brass the
inability to retain and graduate students. According to one, this issue
can be solved, in part, by rebuilding the campus, providing students
with transparent answers (in one case, steps to bring back a campus
activity like the newspaper or yearbook) rather than the run around,
and employing faculty who are not so burned out that they can offer
services to the students they come in contact with (see Pope, 2013).

Certainly, if the goal of a school is to encourage students to

attend and graduate, negative publicity like this, if not addressed, will
lead to the demise of the university. It is worth inquiring, what will
happen to North South students if the school is closed? Many will
transfer other area four year colleges, but, as this was the mission of
North South until 2010 (when open admissions was ceased), many
may need to attend a community college to build their college
preparation skills. Even with all of the problems present within the
school, this movement is something most North South adherents do
not want to see. It tempers would be activists from speaking up and
illuminates the role of structural, taken for granted, discrimination in
the maintenance of higher education for people of color in Louisiana.
Effects of Strategies
In this chapter, I have provided a brief overview of the tactics
individuals at North South university engaged in. While the tactics, by
and large, occurred as single actions by individuals not formally
involved in a social movement organization, I argue that the effect is to
further bolster and change the landscape in which activists for
educational equity work within the school and state. If this was not the
case, then adherents could not rely on the work done by others before
them (see Francis, 2004, for example, in addition to the library of
articles about the school and students available at nola.com)
incorporating such knowledge into their current strategies for

empowerment. Here, I speak specifically to how each action (civil suits,

protests, social media and news coverage) talk back to and therefore
shape the atmosphere at North South University, the state of public
universities in Louisiana and provide an example from which
individuals can follow in different vicinities. That is, the work done here
although in a specific city and in the aftermath of a truly specific
disaster provides a blue print or guide for other agents of change. It
does so because their activities are broad and encompass a range of
activities any person or group can engage in many costing little (in
terms of economic resources) to the plaintiffs, or those marginalized by
the injustice. The blue print is also of importance because micro, macro
and structural discriminations are not unique to North South University.
Rather, these oppressive practices can be found worldwide.
The civil suits, although a drastic tactic, place the claims of the
plaintiff in a public record. A document which, for the most part, can be
studied by those not directly involved in the suit for years after. In
these records, one can view how micro discriminations are voiced by
plaintiffs and defended by the individuals being sued. In many cases,
several parties are listed on the suit (a common example would be a
suit in which the chancellor, as an individual was being sued, in
addition to the university and university system). One can observe
how, in these instances, an institution claims defense due to school
rules and laws yet do not question how institutional rules and values

can be imbedded with discrimination and therefore produce a

hierarchy which is disempowering.
Like civil suits, which archive past struggles, Facebook and other
social media too work to provide a public arena in which claims and
defenses can be viewed by others perhaps generating support for
ones cause. Shaming has long been a tactic used by justice
advocates. In this case, students attacked the integrity of the school
(like one would do for a company or brand) directly on the advertising
arms (Twitter and Facebook) of brand executives school
administrators and North South System leaders. Much like picketing
outside a flagship store or marching at a strategic site, students used
the desire of leaders, to publicly paint the school as recovering and
succeeding, to their advantage. This would put leaders in a
predicament: either fix the problems or defend your inaction in a public
setting, where many eyes will dissect your excuse. Saying nothing,
however, demonstrates to followers of the school brand that the claims
of activists are correct and that the leader cares too little to even
respond. This is damaging, especially as one considers the impact
responses (or failure to respond) might have on potential students. Put
another way, who would attend a school where leadership cannot be
counted on to meet the needs of their current, enrolled, students?
Lastly, putting ones body and voice on the line is a classic
organizing tool. One that students appropriated, as documented in this

chapter. From pickets to filibustering, from making it on to television to

newspaper interviews, these workers for educational equity fight back
against mistreatment in mediums outsiders of the school can see. And
in doing this, they challenge onlookers' moral compass therefore
linking them to the challenge, to move towards equality, regardless of
race or other perceived difference.
Conclusion
In order to achieve greater levels of educational equity in postKatrina New Orleans, North South students, staff and faculty engaged
in multi-tactic strategies some at the same time to get the attention
of North South, North South System and state of Louisiana leaders.
Lawsuits, social media shaming and other consciousness raising
activities have not always brought immediate, broad or long lasting
changes. Still, such tactics serve as thoughtful strategies individuals
engage in daily in order to reach the larger goal of giving everyone
access to the, often illusive, American Dream. Change rarely occurs
overnight. It is hard won. And for the generations of workers for justice
at North South University, it is clear: the arc of the moral universe is
long, but it bends towards justice (King, 1958).

References
Capo, B (2013, July, 19). With classes still in trailers, students upset at
slow [North South]
repairs. Retrieved September 15 2013, from WWLTV News Web
Site: http://www.wwltv.com/news/Students-Upset-At-SlowSUNORepairs-216208301.html
Classrooms of Shame, (2013, September, 6). Retrieved September 6
2013, from Classrooms of
Shame Web Site: http://classroomsofshame.tumblr.com/

DeBerry, J (2011, January, 30). Born of evil, [North South] still fights to
be good. Retrieved
September 6 2013, from The Times Picayune Web Site:
http://www.nola.com/opinions/index.ssf/2011/01/born_of_evil_sun
o_still_fights.html
DuBois, W.E.B. (1903 [1994]). The Souls of Black Folk. Mineola, NY:
Dover Publications, Inc.
Feagin, J. R. & Vera, H (2008). Liberation Sociology. Boulder, CO:
Paradigm Publishers.
Fontes L.A. (2004). Ethics in Violence Against Women Research: The
Sensitive, the Dangerous,
and the Overlooked. Ethics and Behavior. 14(2), 141-174.
Francis, V.T. (2004). Pride and Paradox: The History and Development
of [North South], 19541975. Unpublished Dissertation. New Orleans, LA: University of
New Orleans.
Gamboa, C (2013). I became a scholar in order to become a better
activist. retrieved September
15 2013, from Social Science Space Web Site:
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%E2%80%9D/
King Jr., M.L. (1958, February, 28). Out of the long
night. retrieved September 11 2013, from
The King Center Web Site:
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Lorde, A. (1984). Sister Outsider. Berkeley, CA: The Crossing Press.
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Wright, B. (2006). In
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Katrina. New York, NY: The Russell Sage Foundation.
Pope, J. (2013, August, 30). At [North South], the glass can be half-full
or halfempty. retrieved September 6 2013, from The Times Picayune
Web Site:
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w_orleans_the_gla.html
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NJ: Africa World Press.

Chapter 12
The Revolutionary, Non-Violent Action of Danilo
Dolci and his Maieutic Approach
Domenica Maviglia
Introduction
The figure of Danilo Dolci has been associated with the
development of a culture of peace since the period just after the
Second World War.
By analysing the work of Dolci, it is possible to discover a life of
struggle against the shackles of human existence; a life in which the
educator from Trieste challenged the artificial obstacles and invisible
mechanisms that tend to convey ready-made truths and strangle the
responsibility of critical thought and action linked to the unique
characteristics of each individual. This is the essence of the non-violent

proposal of Dolci; a civil commitment that is the common denominator

of all his fights on behalf of the weakest in society.
Violence is identified as an attitude that tends to destroy or lower
the quality of man of each individual, revealing an antagonistic,
damaging, and oppressive behaviour in the relationship with other
people and nature (Debbaut 1969). On the other hand, according to
Dolci, non-violent action is exactly the opposite; it is a constructive,
maieutic, interactive, supportive, and systemic action which does not
destroy nor overwhelm the essence of others, but instead helps others
build themselves. For these reasons, the culture of peace does not
refer to the absence of conflicts but it refers to a reconstructive and
developmental action carried out by individuals in themselves and in
their environment, in order to create a welcoming and highly
productive community. This community must be consistent with its own
basic needs and, at the same time, it must respect the identities and
differences of personal characters, developing a high level of
coherence with a world that is considered as a complex creature of
creatures.
The culture of peace and awareness-building described above
was experimented by Danilo Dolci in the microcosm of Western Sicily, a
territory that the pedagogue from Trieste described as a neglected and
morally unacceptable reality. Here, Dolci developed his ideas and he
put them in practice through a non-violent action and a maieutic

methodology that had the aim of humanising the people living in

those areas. According to Dolci, building awareness requires the ability
to identify incoherencies, explore the roots of violence, and question
ones needs, in order to build an alternative by devising a plan that from an individual and collective point of view - fully embraces the
concept of non-violent action.
For Danilo Dolci, the beginning of this democratic reform overlapped
with the defence of the right to life for those who did not have a job
and were therefore forced to live in misery and ignorance. Often, these
people had to resort to antisocial behaviour, like banditry, in order to
survive and feed their children. From this point of view, Dolcis fight
can be considered as a battle against institutional violence.
During a press conference that took place in Palermo in January 1958,
Dolci stated that you dont need to shoot to kill and that someones
death sentence can be signed also through neglect, in other words by
not guaranteeing citizens minimal survival conditions.
In order to defend the right to life, the pedagogue from Trieste
decided to follow the path of non-violence, which was decisive in
promoting the educational development of the awareness building
process and the self-planning process of development. The hunger
strike in the bed of a child who starved to death, the strikes in reverse
for employment, the peace walks, the maieutic fasts aimed at raising
awareness about the unresolved issues of the Italian democracy:

these were all tools that Dolci employed to channel the power of
oppressed people and fight against the squandering of resources and
the phenomenon of parasitism. From this point of view, great
importance must be attributed to Dolcis enquiries on different issues.
Among other publications, his lucid research on banditry (Banditi a
Partinico, Bandits in Parinico, 1955) and his interest in the living
conditions of people in the poorest neighbourhoods of Palermo
(Inchiesta a Palermo, Enquiry in Palermo, 1956) informed the national
and international public opinion about the misdeeds of democracy, its
criminal neglect, and the violation of human rights and Constitutional
law by the State itself, which proved then to be the real outlaw.
Dolci considered consciousness as the source of revolutionary
action and he described his work as resistance without shooting. Over
the years, his actions promoted the establishment of grassroots
structures that were not only for the people but also by the people.
Examples were the dams built to collect rainwater and radically change
local agriculture, the water consortium, the management cooperatives,
the Centre of Studies and Initiatives for full employment, the
Experimental School of Mirto, and the Training Centre of Trappeto. In
other words, this structural development had at its core the growth of
people in order to address common problems by identifying and
solving them creatively. Furthermore, the non-violent reform of
democracy established its own methodology: a maieutic method that

promoted processes of civil growth by fighting against the most elusive

and subtle forms of violence, those that ensured a full social control of
consciousness through the influence carried out by mechanical,
duplicating, and repetitive ways of thinking and through conformist
behaviour.
Danilo Dolci is therefore a man who, in a complete innovative
way, succeeded in challenging the sturdy, rooted, and apparently
unchangeable system of 1960s Sicily. His ability in exploring the
innermost depths of the soul allowed him to correctly perceive even
the most complex facets of identity, embarking on a genuine journey
to discover the inner I of every individual and enhance his or her
unexpressed potential (Fontanelli 1984, p. 62). Through his committed
educational activity in the town of Partinico, Dolci succeeded in
radically changing the consciousness of the people living in this part of
Sicily. He gave them the tools necessary to become fully aware of
themselves and try to get out of the situation of static oppression and
enslavement

to

which

they

were

subjected.

Challenging

the

conventional wisdom of his time, Dolci understood that the best way to
uproot the evils that plagued his society was to restrain from violent
clashes and bloodshed, and instead follow the path of pacifism and
non-violence. His pedagogic action was therefore shaped to pursue the
goal of finding peaceful solutions to every issue. In order to do so, Dolci
proposed a brand-new methodology that made a clean cut with the

past and focused on the idea of radically changing the conception of

the education process of every individual. Considering all this, it is
clear how much his action was aimed at creating new individuals who
could play leading roles in their own social contexts, fighting against all
mafias and at the same time defending democracy.
1. Non-violent revolution: resistance without shooting
To fully understand the educational thought and action of Danilo Dolci,
it is crucial to know his personal history.
Danilo Dolci was born in Sesana (Trieste) in June 1924. He grew up in a
family with strong moral principles, something that strongly influenced
his education and promoted the development of particular traits of his
personality, like the respect and value attached to the concept of
diversity.
During the Second World War, the non-violent activist educator had to
face the absurd reality of the brutality of the Fascist and Nazi regimes,
developing and showing a strong opposition and clear disapproval for
all forms of violence. His non-violent consciousness sprouted up at
the age of 19, when he was arrested by the Nazi-fascist regime in
Genoa in 1943. After a brief period of imprisonment, he was able to
escape and he found refuge in the mountains of Abruzzi, where he had
to face a life characterised by poverty and risk.
This crucial stage of the life of Dolci determined his future
choices and commitment by orienting his actions towards the

principles of non-violence and the respect of life. Dolci noted the

indifference and the contradictions that characterised the social reality
surrounding him and he started feeling a deep need to concretise his
thoughts in a coherent action (Dolci 1969, p. 12).
In 1948, during this maturation stage of his thought, Dolci had a
meeting with Father Zeno Saltini, an encounter that strongly influenced
his life. He met Father Saltini in Nomadelfia, the city where
brotherhood is law (Barone 2004, p. 18), a Christian community that
welcomed people left on the street by the war. The community was
established in the former Nazi-Fascist concentration camp of Fossoli
(Modena), thanks to the work of Father Zeno Saltini, but it was seen as
a vicious nest of rebels by the petty leading class of those years and
even by the clergy. In 1950, Dolci decided to move in the community
and started his first experience of community life, where everyone
worked for the good of the others and there was no private property.
In 1952, the educator from Trieste went to Sicily, one of the
poorest and most neglected corners of Southern Italy. Dolci moved to
the small seaside village of Trappeto, where he had already spent
some weeks with his father back in 1940 and 1941. In Trappeto, Dolci
was confronted with an absurd reality. The village lacked sewers and
even proper roads, unemployment was considered as a normal
condition, and there was the widespread idea that the street was the
natural playground and meeting place for children (Mangano 1992, p.

25). According to Barone (2004, p. 19), Dolci found a town that had
been completely left behind; a village that was totally unaware of its
needs and hence incapable of changing itself. Therefore, he started to
share the misery of those poor souls and began asking himself and
others how it would have been possible to promote change. At the
beginning, he asked some of his friends to identify the most urgent
changes needed in the community, and then he started posing the
same question to small groups of people. Eventually, after many
meetings, people started becoming aware of their needs and the
urgency of change. A very active, small group of people engaged in an
action of community self-analysis which led to the identification of two
main needs: a nursery school for children and jobs for grown-ups.
Dolcis non-violent approach started following this process. His
non-violent tactics characterised one of the brightest and most intense
chapters of the difficult civil and democratic revival of Southern Italy, in
order to rebuild it after the moral and material destruction left by the
Fascist regime and the Second World War (Barone 2004, p. 19). When
he had to witness the death by starvation of a child, Dolci went on
hunger strike for eight days, staying in the bed of the small child who
had died by hunger. He informed the authorities and the press that his
hunger strike would have continued until the country did not decide to
step back from that daunting cliff (Spagnoletti 1977, p. 42).

After a series of initiatives and the intervention of regional and

national authorities, the country started changing. Different books
describe the meetings that took place over those years, meetings that
allowed people to question themselves, learn how to engage with
others, listen to themselves and to others, decide what to do and plan
their actions. This is how the non-violent fight started, with a series of
community

self-analysis

initiatives

that

eventually

led

to

the

emergence of a full awareness about the problems and the need of a

change.
With his actions, Dolci lent his voice to the voiceless, as he used
to say. During those years, his work intensified. Between 1953 and
1954, many different structures were built in Borgo di Trappeto: a
nursery school for the children of the poorest; a Popular University
welcoming volunteers coming from all over the world; and a Popular
Library. According to Dolci, these structures were not inspired by the
need of assisting the community, but by its ability to self-structure
itself. In fact, through these spaces, Dolci gave the possibility to the
population of Trappeto to grow, to learn how to recognise its strongest
needs, and to understand exactly which resources of its territory could
be exploited (Spagnoletti 1977, p. 57).
Over these years, Dolcis actions started to bear fruit: with the
intervention of regional and national authorities, as promised, the
country began to change. Houses started being provided with running

water, and proper roads and sewers were built. The group initiatives
multiplied. The maieutic group established itself as a political group, in
order to address the problems of its people at a grassroots level, giving
concrete meaning to the concept of democracy. During the meetings of
the group devoted to the analysis of the economic underdevelopment
of the region and aimed at finding solutions to it, the group proposed capitalising on the hunch of a farmer - the construction of a dam on the
Jato river. As Barone highlights (2002, p. 27), this dam proved to be the
crucial project for the economic future of the entire area. It empowered
the population against Mafia, which had exploited the total control it
had had on the limited water resources of the territory as a powerful
weapon of oppression. After ten years of fighting and popular
mobilisation, the dam was finally built, radically improving the lives of
thousands of citizens, promoting the establishment in the entire area
of many cooperatives, and supporting a substantial economic growth.
Prior to that, in 1955, Dolci went on hunger strike to force the
Italian government to listen to the local population and build the above
mentioned dam to collect the water running during winter in the Jato
river, in order to use it to irrigate the land and support in this way the
agricultural activities of the area. As a matter of fact, the land of this
region was barren and arid for long periods of the year because of the
lack of management in the use of the available water resources. The
problem was twofold: on one side, there was the issue of the water

wasted that went directly into the sea because of the lack of proper
infrastructure; on the other side, the local mafia bosses had been
exploiting for many years the limited water resources of the area to
hideously blackmail the local farmers and control them. The nonviolent, revolutionary action of Dolci and his public denouncement of
the situation represented a great example of rebellion against the
parasitic oppression of Mafia. His struggle was fuelled by the
knowledge that the populations of fishermen and farmers living in
those areas were rich in non-violent values and in people ready to
commit and get involved in the development of the territory. The only
violent characters in this situation were represented instead by the
mafia and nepotistic groups that forced their will on the territory, and
also by the State that - through its absence - neglected the needs of
the people and - even worse - contributed in supporting the desperate
misery of that part of the country through its complete lack of concern.
The hunger strikes of Dolci affected so much the public opinion that, in
January 1956, thousands of people decided to follow his example.
Therefore, they went on hunger strike to denounce the violation of the
right to work, enshrined in article 4 of the Italian Constitution, and the
troublesome but accepted phenomenon of illegal fishing, which
stripped fishermen of their only income source. Furthermore, 1500
signatures were collected to support the request for a better
management of water supply and for opening new schools. Despite the

widespread support it received, the public manifestation was stopped

by the authorities, presenting the peculiar argument that public
hunger strikes were illegal (Barone 2004, p. 23). In 1956, Dolci
promoted another initiative, the strike in reverse, which involved
hundreds of unemployed citizens that wanted to draw attention on the
need of rebuilding a countryside road left in terrible shape by the
inaction of local authorities.
In May 1958, in the neighbouring city of Partinico, Dolci founded
the Centre of Studies and Initiatives, using money collected by
different groups of friends in Italy and abroad, and funds received with
the Lenin Prize, which was awarded to him the previous year. The
establishment of the Centre was the practical answer to the need of
offering the territory a structure committed in finding concrete
solutions to the problems identified through a series of meetings with
the local population by exploiting the knowledge and skills of different
experts. The activities of the Centre went beyond the municipal
boundaries and involved also the territories of Roccamena, Corleone,
Menfi, Cammarata and San Giovanni Gemini. Thanks to the Centre, the
population became more aware of the reasons behind the waste of
resources of their territories, trying to find ways to avoid it and instead
enhance their value. In order to do so, the Centre promoted the
development of common projects and it streamlined the management

of the territory, putting a considerable pressure on the public

authorities to find proper solutions to the existing problems.
In 1962, Dolci went on a nine-day long hunger strike to remind the
public opinion of the crucial importance played by the project of the
dam on the Jato river.
In February 1963, thanks to the funds allocated by Cassa del
Mezzogiorno (the Italian public fund for the South), the work on the
building site of the dam officially started, marking the success of Dolci
in the battle against the pernicious oppression of Mafia, main
perpetrator of the water racket.
In 1964, Dolci published the book Verso un mondo nuovo
(Towards a new world), in which he presented the findings of the
travels he made abroad in order to get a better insight into the pilot
experiences of participatory territory planning processes. With this
book, the pedagogue from Trieste tried to encourage individuals to
become aware of their own power and commit themselves to change.
In those years, Trappeto was already showcasing the first results of the
commitment of the local population and of Dolci, despite the
aggressive attitude of some local influential figures, like the Cardinal
Archbishop of Palermo, Ernesto Ruffini.
On September 22nd 1965, the Italian Antimafia Commission invited
Danilo Dolci, in collaboration with Franco Alasia, to bring forward
another activity aimed at tackling the clientelistic and mafia networks

of Italy: during a press conference at the headquarters of Circolo della

Stampa in Rome, for the first time in the history of the country, Dolci
publicly denounced the relations existing between politics and Mafia,
presenting the results of an inquiry carried out in the surroundings of
Palermo. The commitment of Dolci and Franco Alasia was the result of
the rising need to stress the fact that people could not grow if
subjected to the vicious effects of the established clientelistic-mafia
politics, because its logic of subjugation and oppression was the direct
opposite of the self-planning principle and the principle of genuine
democracy, which could only exist when it promoted simultaneously
the individual and collective growth of all members of its community.
Since his arrival in Sicily, Dolci had blamed the organised crime
for being one of the main obstacles to development. Thanks to a
careful,

continuous,

and

far-reaching

work, a

sound

anti-mafia

sentiment took root in the region, gradually developing all over the
territory. Hundreds and hundreds of volunteers decided to move to
Sicily and swell the ranks of this civil army, which was called the
continuation of resistance without shooting (Mangano 1992, p. 33). In
the meanwhile, there was a strong increase in the number of activities
of research and denouncements of the relations between politics and
mafia, which led to a series of serious accusations addressed to
important Sicilian and Italian politicians. Similar allegations were
levelled even against the then powerful minister Bernardo Mattarella,

the undersecretary Calogero Volpe and many other important Sicilian

government officials. More than one hundred people, including many
farmers, decided to sign their testimonies, exposing themselves
directly to possible retribution by Mafia.
On January 10th 1966, Dolci went on hunger strike for seven
days in a stable-house of Castellammare del Golfo, the birthplace of
Bernardo Mattarella, in order to take part to a movement promoting
personal and community freedom that wanted to expose the truth and
invite the government to make responsible choices and take fully
charge of its civil and moral responsibilities.
During the trial that took place in Rome in January 1967, various
documents relating to the relations of those politicians with mafia
criminals were publicly read and discussed, but the court decided not
to ear the testimonies of different witnesses. After being brought to
court on charges of calumny, on June 22nd 1967, Dolci and Franco
Alasia were sentenced respectively to two years and one year and
seven months of prison, despite the evidence of the facts and the
expulsion from the government of Mattarella and Volpe.
In 1967, in Rome, right in front of the buildings of the Parliament
and the Antimafia Commission, a non-violent protest was officially
organised. After this episode, Dolci started promoting a series of
solidarity non-violent manifestations: the March for Western Sicily and

for a new world, and the Peace March for Vietnam. More than five
thousand people took part to these marches.
In January 1968, the works for building a Training Centre for
Organic Planning officially started, but few days later they were
brought to a grinding halt by the tragic earthquake of January 15th,
which stroke in particular the area of Belice valley. Two years after the
earthquake, in March 1970, Dolci and his collaborators decided to
unveil to the public opinion the terrible reality of the people living in
those areas. To reach this goal, they started telling on the radio the
stories of all the people that were dying because of the rotting effect
of idle words and injustice (Chemello 1988, p. 322). Using the radio
broadcaster Radio Libera of Partinico, which had its studios located at
the Centre of Studies and Initiatives, Dolci relayed the voices of those
poor souls, voices that became a new source of resistance. The
voices of those people were broadcasted all over the country and they
denounced the reality of the clientelistic-mafia politics in the area. This
fact led to the intervention of the police, who pulled the plug on the
clandestine radio. Despite these episodes, Dolci and his collaborators
decided to focus on the establishment of the Training Centre for
Organic Planning, in order to find people that could investigate
thoroughly the basic needs of this territory (Spagnoletti 1977, p. 22).
For these reasons, in March 1970, Dolci bought a field of ten hectares
that was completely surrounded by nature. In December 1973, an

international seminar was organised in Borgo di Trappeto to solve some

problems relating to the opening of the Centre in Mirto. As well as the
local population, important experts took part to the seminar, like Johan
Galtung,

Clotilde

and

Maurizio

Pontecorvo,

Jacques

Vonche

(collaborator of Piaget) and Paulo Freire. Finally, during winter 1974,

the Training Centre was partly completed. Thanks to the help of
Ferdinand Conrad and other experts, Dolci launched a training program
for teachers and, in 1975, the educational activities of the Centre
started officially, welcoming ninety children. The structure proved to be
well organised since day one, allowing its young pupils to genuinely
grow by involving at the same time their respective families.
The unimaginable and inhuman reality of Trappeto back in 1952
had radically improved over the years. Not only roads, houses, and
countryside were different and better. Also the mentality of the people
had changed, becoming less fatalist and more aware of the possibility
to change and transform reality. Furthermore, the local population was
much better at organising activities, cooperating and struggling to
defend the rights of its members. All this had been made possible
thanks to the educational-maieutic power unleashed by the activities
that had been necessary to build the dam and the Training Centre.
Starting from the eighties, the methodology of Dolci was introduced in
different Italian schools and universities (from Mestre to Parma, from
Varese to Agropoli, Lingua-glossa, Messina, Cagliari) through the

organisation of research seminars and meetings, the promotion of

international research conferences and seminars, and a series of
interventions to promote the development of the poorest areas.
Travelling around Italy and all over the world, Dolci took part to
seminars in different schools. He

met with children, parents and

teachers; he explored the bonds existing between education, creativity

and non-violent development, fine-tuning his maieutic method. By
resorting

to

hunger

strikes,

strikes

in

reverse,

non-violent

occupations, peace walks, and particularly by exploiting the power of

dialogue, Dolci tried to redeem the dignity of the populations of
Southern Italy, showing them how it was concretely possible to selfmanage their communities and resources in order to leave behind the
misery created and nurtured by local politicians and mafia bosses.
2. Building change through maieutic education
During his long experience as a revolutionary man, Danilo Dolci
resorted always to non-violent resistance, which represented the main
constituent of an ethical action based on truth and on the search of a
social life in the pursuit of justice and peace. The pedagogue from
Trieste promoted with his ideas and maieutic methodology the
establishment of a planning, cooperating and transforming culture that
was very different compared to the cultural models featuring different
forms of domination. In the book Palpitare di nessi (Beating bonds),
Dolci describes domination using these terms:

domination is like a virus that slowly destroys us. The thirst for
power, the craze for oppression, makes us dizzy and controls who
is unsure, who is afraid of life and death (it makes dizzier those
who feel inferior, invisible, and afraid): it is a disease of the
relationship, the wrong answer to the lack of creative involvement.
As a matter of fact, in developed societies, domination is achieved
by

using

technology

that

is

getting

more

and

more

sophisticated, a pervasive domination, which is linked to a

prevailing violence that manifests itself in different forms, not only
physical, but also ethical and intellectual (Dolci 1985, p. 238).
From these words, it is possible to understand that according to
Dolci, domination is a sturdy, authoritarian, and ethically despicable
structure. It is the pathological expression of power that in the form of
clientelistic networks, like Mafia, inevitably intertwines with violence,
maiming individuals by taking away their ability to cooperate and plan
their lives together. To support this conclusion, the pedagogue from
Trieste talks about the need to wake up consciousness (Dolci 1969, p.
67) by reconsidering reality, which is not based on separation and
conflict, but it is founded on a kind of unity that does not eliminate the
characteristics of each individual and instead allows them to fully
develop (Dolci 1969, p. 66). Non-violence, therefore, is the right
revolution for those who want to rebel against limitation but are also

aware of the unlimited value of people and unity (Mangano 1992, p.

42).
The commitment of Danilo Dolci started from a deep immersion
in human reality, a reality that was rough, shapeless, painful,
unrealised, full of parasites. Through his work, Dolci proposed a
process to gain awareness of this reality and elaborate a project to
change it. A project that starts from the deepest aspects of this specific
reality, which is thoroughly analysed and to which the project always
refers (Mangano 1992, p. 49).
The fervour of Dolci becomes therefore, through the maieutic
method16, the true voice of this reality, allowing the individuals who are
living in it to emerge as new characters and save themselves from the
wrecking aggression of an historically hegemonic and technologically
well-equipped culture (Dolci 1996, p. 32). Reality is then carefully
studied and assessed considering different dimensions and using
different tools, resorting also to scientific analysis 17. In this way it is
possible to free human beings from rhetorical ideas, superstitions, and
complex dogmas of all kinds.
16 What characterises the experience of Dolci is his social enhancement based on the maieutic method, in
other words a growth based on mutual exchange, active participation of the subject and genuine
communication. This method must help subjects to find the truth in themselves and bring it to the surface,
similarly to the task of a midwife, to which the term maieutic refers.

17 The scientific analysis is represented by a community self-analysis through which every member of the
society becomes aware of the needs and problems of the community. These issues can then be solved only
by rediscovering the authentic creativity of everybody.

Confronted with the wide diffusion and the divisions caused by this
anthropological structure that was so strong in Western Sicily during
the sixties, Dolci contended that a form of pedagogy based on the
principle of listening, combined with maieutic education, could mark a
possible turning point for the region. According to him, education had
to be anchored in the problems of the local social context, without
limiting itself to merely promote knowledge, but devising also an
ethical-political project in which, through the maieutic method, it could
be possible to define the true meaning of the teaching-learning
process. Therefore, even education could not be seen as a simple and
direct transmission of traditional culture, but it had to aim at teaching
a critical-maieutic method. In other words, according to Dolci,
education should be embedded in society and give meaning to the life
of every human being, becoming a necessary process to create new,
creative, and collaborative individuals, in line with the absurd
complexity of their time.
The education proposed by Dolci is founded therefore on human
promotion, a concept characterised by full awareness of ones rights,
the ability to autonomously choose and plan, and the ability to
interpret and improve the resources of the territory by analysing the
existing contradictions that hinder the possibility of a concrete
democratic transformation.

Education can become an awareness building process and a

personal commitment only through a form of genuine, multilateral,
maieutic, and group communication based on creativity. Creativity is at
the core of Dolcis concept of education and therefore it represents the
overarching

feature

of

his

conceptions

of

future,

history,

and

civilisation, which convey him a revolutionary and simultaneously nonviolent character. This type of education, according to Danilo Dolci,
creates a superstructure that is installed right over the existing
structures.

This

superstructure

affects

the

existing

domination

processes by modifying them, turning a divided and dependent mass

of people into a group of daring and active individuals. From this point
of view, it is clear that the prerequisites of democracy are not only of
institutional nature, but also of cultural nature. In other words, to
nourish and develop democracy, as Dolci often said, it is crucial to
promote a collective growth at grassroots level, to promote the
awareness in people about their own value, their resources, and their
personal potential to create new structures (Mangano 1989, p. 45).
Therefore, in order to survive, democracy needs individuals who
frequently question power, giving voice to the voiceless and the
poorest in society. In other words, as practice of freedom through
non-violent

action,

education

is

the

most

influencing

and

transformational tool of our societies. It must be a form of education

that embraces the concept of human growth and evolution; an

education that - starting from the needs and the individual and
collective search of a way to meet them - uses the interactions among
individuals and between the individuals and the community to turn the
individual growth and the development of the community into a
maieutic process. Referring to this, Barone (2004, p. 26) highlights that
Dolci never presented himself as a guru. He never proposed his
methods as ready-made truths. He never claimed to tell others what to
think or how to do it. His methodology was simply a revolutionary
method based on the idea that change is impossible without the
commitment, full awareness, and direct participation of people.
Therefore, his idea of progress can be successfully fulfilled only when
everyone feels that the endeavour that must be

carried out is truly

his or hers. As a matter of fact, Dolci used to say that the best
projects, even those that on paper look like the most efficient ones, are
always seen as something unfamiliar and hostile when they are
imposed from above. Change is impossible without new strengths, but
these strengths cannot be created from nothing and they develop only
if the individuals wake up and start recognising their interests and
needs (Barone 2004, p. 27).
From this point of view, the work of Danilo Dolci can be compared
to the work of a speleologist, who has the task of bringing to light what
lies immersed in darkness. The educator from Trieste, as Barone (2004,
p. 52) notes:

is a speleologist of the knowledge and mortified human dignity

that lie buried deep below the rubble left by the civilisation of
reinforced concrete []. Along the line marked by the foxhole
between privilege and abused rights, Dolci is on this side of the
line, right at the side of other humble and honest men. This is
what is really important and what turns this man from Northern
Italy into a man from Southern Italy among other men from
Southern Italy, a Sicilian among Sicilians. Armed with a diamond
pointed axe, Dolci tears down old barriers, sheds light on the
hearts and consciousness that had long ago lost their ability to
smile and hope.
From this point of view, the lifework of Danilo Dolci represents not only
a new conception of education and revolution, but also a rare example
of human respect. The sufferance and anguish of the people in
Partinico led Dolci to perform a careful and thorough analysis of his
society, restoring the value of dialogue and in particular the value of
maieutic dialogue. This type of dialogue has the aim of teaching people
to know themselves and always search for the truth, characteristics
that make it the perfect tool to rediscover the essence of being human
and the essence of knowledge (Morgante 1992, pp. 48-50).
It is through the development of this communicative process that
individuals are identified as must be and might be: might as
potential; must as responsibility, knowledge, ethical sense that

considers each and every human being as main responsible of the

management of the world and humanity. According to Dolci, the world
is an organism with a potential for growth; it can become a creature of
creatures (Spagnoletti 1977, p. 75). At the same time, as Mangano
explains, it is also clear that this task is not easy to perform, since the
world is characterised by limited groups of human beings who exert
domination and control on nature and on other humans, in a process
which aims at in-humanising instead than promoting the authenticity
of human beings (Mangano 1992, p. 91). Nevertheless, these
arguments leave open the possibility that maieutics might become the
midwife of reality (Mangano 1992, p. 95), a non-violent methodology
that could overpower violence and promote development, because in a
world that sees violent revolution as the only way to free itself from
oppressive privileges and promote freedom and justice, maieutics
offers a well-grounded experience and all the necessary tools to
promote a true form of revolution; the one that follows the path of nonviolence.
Conclusions
The analysis of Danilo Dolcis figure highlights not only the
extraordinaire character of a man who was able to promote a deep
innovation in the social sphere, but it conveys also an outstanding
lesson relating to his renewing and innovative message, not only for
the time in which Dolci lived but also for the current age.

From different points of view, the issues that characterised the most
active years of Dolcis life are re-emerging also today, jeopardising the
social balances and the status quo that he already denounced and that
unfortunately keeps existing also today because of an unjustifiable
static order of things.
Unfortunately, in many circumstances, the complete absence or
neglect of the State about different issues has been very clear. Often,
the Italian institutions decided to intervene only after scandals or
striking events. Considering this, it is impossible to forget the words of
Dolci, who in an interview stated that: We always need to see a dead
body before someone decides to act, or those with more powder,
shoot. With these words, Dolci wanted to highlight the fact that people
in power always aim at reaching personal objectives, behaving like
animals wearing blinkers (Dolci 1989, p. 159). Therefore, even today,
the main problem remains the involvement and responsibility of every
individual against all forms of domination and oppression disguised as
institutional communication. A responsibility which translates into the
ability of everyone to become aware of the situation in order to create
communication and peace. In one of his most renown books, Inventare
il futuro (Inventing the future), Dolci (1989, p. 160) notes that peace is
not the synonym of cancellation or annihilation, but instead it
represents the involvement of everyone in everything. In order to
support the ideas of Dolci, it is crucial to turn all schools in the world

into communicative structures, destroying in this way the parasitic

hypocrisy that normally disguises itself with impunity behind the label
of democracy. Therefore, Dolci considers education as a tool to build a
new society. Nevertheless, as Morgante notes, the path leading to the
rebirth of a worthy society can take time, but progress must be made
at a constant pace. As Dolci said paraphrasing a Chinese saying, if
those who plant trees have to wait thirty years to see them bearing
fruit, those who teach cannot see immediately the fruit of their
educational work, because the process of education requires much
longer time, even 100 years. Therefore, it is crucial to plant the seeds
that will make possible this leap forward and transform a system that
conveys knowledge into a system that communicates (Morgante 1992,
p. 98).
Considering what has been outlined in the previous paragraphs,
it is clear that Danilo Dolci, thanks to his work and ideas, deserves the
title of benefactor of humanity (Morgante 1992, p. 81). Through the
humble ideas and universal values of this man, the figure of Danilo
Dolci keeps stirring the civil consciousness of people by raising
awareness and creating the will of being involved in the peaceful civil
fight that he started. Besides, his example urges others to follow him
on the path of honesty, dedication, and respect for others, with the aim
of redeeming their dignity and freeing them from their precarious
situation of persecuted, derelicts, and outcasts.

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Dolci, D. (1956). Inchiesta a Palermo. (Enquiry in Palermo). Turin:
Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1956). Spreco. (Waste). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1958). Una politica per la piena occupazione. (Policy for full
employment). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1962). Conversazioni. (Conversations). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1963). Verso un mondo nuovo. (Towards a new world). Turin:
Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1967). Chi gioca solo. (Who plays alone). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1969). Inventare il futuro. (Inventing the future). Bari:
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Dolci, D. (1970). Il limone lunare. (Lunar lemon). Bari: Laterza.
Dolci, D. (1973a). Chiss se i pesci piangono. (Who knows if fish can
cry). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1973b). Poema umano. (Human poem). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1974). Racconti siciliani. (Sicilian tales). Turin: Einaudi.
Dolci, D. (1974). Esperienze e riflessioni. (Experiences and thoughts).
Bari: Laterza.
Dolci,

D.

Stampatori.

(1979).

Il

ponte

screpolato.

(Cracked

bridge).

Turin:

Dolci, D. (1979). Creatura di creature. (Creature of creatures). Milan:

Feltrinelli.
Dolci, D. (1985). Palpitare di nessi. (Beating bonds). Rome: Armando.
Dolci, D. (1987). La creatura e il virus del dominio. (The creature and
the domination virus). Latina: LArgonauta.
Dolci, D. (1989). Dal trasmettere al comunicare. (From conveying to
communicating). Turin: Sonda.
Dolci, D. (1989). Bozza di manifesto. (Draft of a manifesto). Turin:
Sonda.
Dolci, D. (1991). Variazioni sul tema comunicare. (Variations on the
theme of communication). Vibo Valentia: Qualcultura.
Dolci, D. (1991). Sorgenti e progetto. (Sources and project). Soveria
Mannelli: Rubbettino.
Dolci, D. (1991). Verso lalba del prossimo millennio. (Towards the dawn
of the next millennium). Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino.
Dolci, D. (1996). La struttura maieutica e levolverci. (Maieutic
structure and evolution). Florence: La Nuova Italia.
Fanon, F. (2007). I dannati della terra. (The Wretched of the Earth).
Turin: Einaudi.
Fontanelli, G. (1984). Danilo Dolci. Florence: La Nuova Italia.
Freire, P. (2002). La pedagogia degli oppressi. (Pedagogy of the
oppressed). Turin: Ega-Edizioni Gruppo Abele.
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Mangano, A. (1989). Problemi e prospettive della pedagogia sociale.

(Problems and perspectives of social pedagogy). Rome: Editore
Bulzoni.
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pensare e di essere nellera atomica. (The educator Danilo Dolci. A new
way of thinking and being in the atomic era). San Domenico Fiesole:
Edizioni Cultura della Pace.
Morgante, T. R. (1992). Maieutica e sviluppo planetario in Danilo Dolci.
(Maieutics and global development in Danilo Dolci). Manduria-BariRoma: Laicata.
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with Danilo Dolci). Milan: Mondadori.

Chapter 13

Decolonizing Knowledge: Towards a Critical

Research Justice Praxis
Michelle Fine
Transcription by Andrew Millspaugh
Hello everyone! This is an awesome space. Im not used to
speaking in churches; much less churches that say Freedom and
Equality and Decolonizing Knowledge, and Justice and Truth. And
Im taken by not only the ancestors whom weve honored, but the
struggles on whose shoulders we stand; the struggles that have
probably been voiced in this very church. When I think of Oakland, I
think of a community that has long been in struggle. A community that
has fought back with power, strength, and resilience. I know that
young people last year fought against the closing of schools. Were
some of you involved in that? Yeah? And I know that this has been a
community where educators, and activists, and young people have
been fighting against the School to Prison Pipeline. So I am I am
really honored to be standing on the grounds that you have all carved
for us.
I am thrilled to be here with the Davis Center to celebrate your
35th anniversary. I feel like I have moved into a sauna with Linda
Tuhiwai Smith. We spent three days on the East Coast and now we
have come to the West Coast. And working with her Ive been just

graced to be thinking about intellectual, spiritual, political, and ethical

questions for Search Justice. So thank you for inviting me. And thank
you Rachel, and Jill, and Im going to leave people out and Andrew,
and Miho, and all of those people who wrote emails. Thank you! And
now my time begins.
To position myself, I am a faculty member at CUNY. I taught at
University of Pennsylvania for a long time before that. Ive been an
activist for mmm a long time, decades and decades. The Public
Science Project, which is at CUNY, is a coalition of educators, youth,
and activists. Students in and out of schools, prisoners in and formerly
in prison. We work with lawyers. We work with public health officials.
We work with policy makers. We work with organizers. And our task is
to engage participatory work by communities with the recognition that
people who have paid the highest price for injustice, carry the most
intimate knowledge about how to design research about that injustice.
We stand to resist what I think of as the Gated Community of
Policy Researchers who are making decisions for young people, for
educators, for homeless people, for incarcerated people, for
immigrants, for working people. Our practice of Research Justice has a
number of critical elements. One is that we believe expertise is widely
distributed even if legitimacy is not. More particular, we believe that
people who know in their bellies the pain, the resilience, and the
strength of what it takes to live in injustice deserve the right to shape

the research questions about and for their communities. Secondly, we

are very interested in research that studies and exposes what we call
Circuits of Dispossession and Resistance. That is when you are
dispossessed from your high school by a high stakes test. That has
consequences not just for your education and your economic
wellbeing. That has consequences for your housing, for your health, for
your involvement in criminal justice; for the likelihood that you can
stay in your home That you will stay with your family. So were
interested in documenting these circuits across sectors. Were also
interested in documenting the circuits that connect wealthy
communities to poor communities. That is when wealthy communities
get a better school; that money is coming out of poor communities!
And those poor communities are not just watching their school close,
but they are getting more cuts. And so were trying to understand the
circuits that distribute opportunities and resources; but also
solidarities. And Ill return to that.
The third is that were interested in research that speaks back to
social movements. Were interested in research that changes theory,
which changes policy. But much more profoundly, we are committed to
research that feeds social movements. Largely, weve been working
education justice and criminal justice. Most recently, on Stop and Frisk
that if you give me time, Ill have time talk about. I am most seriously
concerned about the ways in which pseudoscience is used to deploy a

systematic dispossession of young people from their schools. The most

particular example being High Stakes Testing, which is done in places
like New York. Its not only stratifying young people by race, ethnicity,
class, and educational opportunity. But then its evaluating their
teachers, and then those same tests are being used to close their
schools, a racial realignment like we havent seen in many decades. So
we are interested in occupying research. We are interested in
research not only for its bloody exploitive history of what Thomas Teo
would call Epistemological Violence, but we are interested in
research in the way Ignacio Martin Baro, the El Salvadorian Jesuit priest
who was killed in El Salvador He saw research as a tool of liberation.
He saw research as an opportunity to expose the collective lies that
were being told about communities. We see research as an opportunity
to not just to expose the collective lie, but in the language of Maxine
Green to release the imagination, because we must use the research
to go beyond critique and to imagine what could be. One of the
saddest moments of this neoliberal moment is that people cant
imagine what a good school looks like. They cant imagine what a safe
community looks like. They cant imagine what participatory
governance looks like, and that too is our work! We are interested in
research, in the language of Arundhati Roy, that tells a different story
than the one we are being brainwashed to believe. And we are

interested in research, in the language of Gloria Anzaldua, that builds

nos otras, us others
These are indeed treacherous times in the public. We are
haunted by swelling inequality gaps. Former Secretary of Labor, Robert
Reich, reminds us that the wealthiest 1% own at least 25% of privately
held wealth. And Michelle Alexander in her new book, The New Jim
Crow, tells us that there are more black men in prison than were
enslaved in 1850. And the Chronicle of Higher Ed continues to report
that financial aid will not be available to poorer working class students;
and maybe a small group of dreamers will be lucky. But we are not
satisfied with Talented Tenth solutions even as we celebrate minor
victories.
British epidemiologist Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett tell us that
these gaps Oh thats really silly, were halfway. Okay. These gaps
between wealthy and poor Even more than how many people live in
poverty, the gap between wealthy and poor is what predicts um
poor health, poor education, crime lack of safety, lack of housing. So
the equality gap... and when you stack up countries youll find the
United States way at the top of equality gaps. Im gonna skip Im not
even going to give time to the Koch Brothers, and the (WORD
INAUDABLE) foundation, and Walton, and Gates There was a whole
paragraph about them but were not doing it!

At the dawn of the 1900s, W.E.B. Du Bois published Crisis, a

magazine committed to chronicling the ongoing exploitation of the
African American community. He was a brilliant man. He understood
that our country would not respond to what he called the ongoing
moans of the darker race, until there was a profit to be made. We are
at that moment. If he and Naomi Klein, who wrote Disaster Capitalism,
had a baby it would be the Neoliberal Moment (OR MOMENT?
UNCLEAR) When we find the perverse braiding of poor peoples pain
with corporate profit; which has become an American past time
inscribed in federal, state, and local policy. I wanna argue tonight that
declarations of crisis have become an ideological foreplay to
privatization, pitting us one against the others. In Detroit a few years
ago, Shanendra Jones, a parent organizer demanded at a public forum
that educators should be sentenced to prison in the event that they do
not increase students test scores. I worry about this. I worry that we
have been led to believe that test scores tell us whether or not our
schools are doing well; and I worry that we have been led to believe
that prison is the only way to hold people accountable. And I worry that
we are losing a sense of solidarity. Im gonna give you one example of
solidarity that I kind of love and then three projects and then that
womens gonna yell at me. So
Sylvia Kramer, shes an evolutionary biologist, she studies the social
life of ants. And what she finds you know how those ants make those

amazing colonies? And so what she finds is that if you inject one ant
with smallpox What do we do as humans when one person is ill or
without housing or commits a crime? We banish them, we put them
away; we send them far away. So um when she injects one ant with
smallpox the entire colony licks that ant clean. And two things happen.
One is that ant better. And the second is the collective immunity of the
entire colony rises. Thats research justice!
So Im going to give you three examples, really quick ones:
So at the Public Science Project we are really blessed to have
amazing colleagues, activists, community organizers, and progressive
policy makers who turn to us and with us, and say, Theres a policy
coming up and we need to know how the people who are living in
these conditions, how they think about Stop and Frisk. How they think
about Policing with Dignity, how they think about high stakes testing
How undocumented immigrant womenhow they contend with
domestic violence So Im going to give you three projects and we will
go through the details later. In 1994, President Bill Clinton took Pell
Grants out of prisons with the Violent Crime Act. And then very very
quickly a group of women I was working with including Kathy Boudine,
Judy Clark, Donna Hilton, etcetera Uh Dalia Martinez decided to
that college had to come back to this prison. It was a maximum
security prison for women. They mobilized the community to bring
college back. They asked us to document the impact of college. We

said we would do it if we could do a participatory research project. So

we created a research camp for a year and trained a number of women
in prison to collect data with us. So we were a research team of eight
of us from inside prison, and seven of us from outside prison
documenting the impact of college on the women, their children, their
post release outcomes, and their activities Their contributions to
society afterwards. We produced a report called Changing Minds thats
available online at the Public Science Project. And it was a remarkable
experience of working with a group of women inside prison who
understood obviously a ton more than I did about prison, but also the
passion and possibilities of college in prison. And when we interviewed
their children and said, Whats it like to have mother in college in
prison? The kids would say, Shes such a pain now! All she wants to
talk about is homework. Or, Now I tell my friends my moms upstate,
shes in college. And when we interviewed the correction officers
many of them loved, and many more of them hated the program. The
said some of them said, Well I really hated this program. I cant
afford college for myself or my kids and yet theyre getting it? But I
know that at night the women are reading and not fighting. And I know
theyre not coming back. And so with that knowledge we then two
minutes offered a set of course where the correction officers could
also take classes. And at the end of that year, the women in prison who
were researchers said weve gotta have a benefit for the children of

women in prison, the children of murder victims, and the children of

correction officers; because they understood that solidarity was at the
core of this research project.
Fast forward to the third research project, most recently weve
been involved in the Stop and Frisk catastrophe in New York City. Weve
been doing a systematic study right around anybody know Yankee
Stadium? Right around Yankee Stadium is one of the toughest police
precincts in the city. Toughest, that is the most Stop and Frisk, the most
physical, the most handling, the most racial assaults on young people,
the most arrests. And the one with the most innocent arrests, ninety
percent of Stop and Frisks are innocent arrests. We went up into the
community and there was a huge outcry about Stop and Frisk. We to
the community with lawyers and with colleagues. We put together a
research group of six young people; two older women who are scared
of the police, but also scared of the young people, a bodega owner, a
former correction officer Thats the research team. They collected the
data from three thousand people in the community for The Justice
Project about their interactions with the police. About four months ago
on a chilly fall night, maybe six months ago, we got the Illuminator
which is a van funded by Ben and Jerrys in the middle of the Yankee
Stadium community projecting data up on the side of an apartment
building. And the youth researchers read the data. You can go online
and watch the video. It was, Dear NYPD like in that Robin and

Batman kind of image. And there were like Dominican drummers and
the community was sitting around us.
We surveyed 1250 people. We learned last year that you made
3702 stops in our community. Ninety percent of these stops were
innocent. We learned 42% of our young people were called racial
names by you. Please dont do that, these are our babies. Please dont
stop us when we are on the street, we live here! And we learned that
you got eight guns for those 3702 stops, and last week our local church
had a gun buyback and in an hour they got 85. Its been an amazing
project! I have some leaflets because weve now compared Stop and
Frisk in that district, district 44, and in the East Village. Anybody know
who lives in the East Village? NYU students, alright, so there are very
few Stop and Frisks in that community. But theres much more drugs
found when they stop people, much more drunk behavior, many fewer
innocent stops, much less frisking, much less throwing people on the
ground, much less racial assault, much less young people In the
Bronx and throughout New York City, young people of color are growing
up policed. So we are now bringing young people from the Bronx
together with young people from Brooklyn, together with young
hopefully from Oakland to build a kind of cross-site solidarity using
research that documents both the circuits of dispossession, but also
the powerful circuits of resistance. Thank you!

Chapter 14
Decolonizing Knowledge: Towards a Critical
Research Justice Praxis
Linda Tuhiwai Smith
Transcription by Andrew Millspaugh
Kia Ora. Greetings in my own language. Let me acknowledge the
elder who evoked at this event the ancestors that once walked this
land; who had a relationship with this land. And who are still in this
land. Thank you also, to the Data Center and the funders of this event
for inviting me here. I am also attending the American Education

Research Association meeting, but tonight I would much rather be here

with you. And thank you to all of those who organized this event. Its a
great honor for me to share a platform with Michelle Fine. I first met
her 15 years ago, invited her to New Zealand, and she has been such
an inspiration. To know that other people in the world think crazy
things like I do has really been important. Let me position myself as
well. Im from New Zealand, thats connected to California through the
Pacific Ocean. My ancestors traveled that ocean over hundreds of
years and eventually settled in New Zealand. These ancestors who had
navigation knowledge beyond what our colonizers told us traveled the
largest waterway in the world. It is our land as well as our waterway,
and I acknowledge the Pacific Ocean here in this gathering as well. My
work and what I write about has come out of my context; it has come
out of New Zealand. It has come out of a story of my ancestors, Maori
my tribal traditions, and comes out of my life. It comes out of a story of
British Imperialism; which also came out of European Imperialism
Which also came out of the Enlightenment. I studied the Enlightenment
as a history student. I had to because I wasnt taught my own history
at the University. But I became very good on the Enlightenment story. I
came to understand the interesting marriage of power, economic
wealth, spiritual and moral superiority, and the oppression of millions
of peoples in my part of the world; and in your part of the world. I dont
want to pretend that I have written anything other than what I have

written about my experience and the experience of my people. But I

thank all of you who have seen something in that story something that
resonates with your stories and with what you are interested in. If you
ask me what my current research project is, or what my research
program is, I think that Ive come to the conclusion that I research,
research. Now I could not have told you that fifteen years ago.
But I think now that I can tell you that I have really researched
the institution we know as research, the institution that we know as
academic knowledge, the institution that we know as the nexus of
knowledge, research, and power. That is what I have thought about,
not only over the past 15 years, but probably over the last 40 years as
an educator as well. In the 1960s, I did actually attend secondary
school in Illinois, and I was here in the U.S. when Martin Luther King
was assassinated. Like many of my indigenous brothers and sisters, I
was profoundly influenced firstly by Civil Rights Movement, and then
by the American Indian Movement, and then by the Feminist
Movement, and then by the Gay Liberation Movement. And when I
attended the University in the early 1970s, all those movements were
active on campus. And believe it or not, we did sit together. We did eat
together and plot together. But as an indigenous activist, we thought
our story was somewhat special. We thought it was special because it
was buried deep in our land. And that it was as much a part of who we
were as a generation, as it was about who our ancestors were, and

about who our land was. And we thought that specialness and our
radical politics gave us a different kind of voice A powerful voice, a
voice that had an alternative worldview and an alternative set of origin
stories, alternative genealogies, an alternative language for talking
about that. And we thought that was this amazing resource, it made us
proud. It made us feel that you could take away everything, but you
couldnt take away us. That we were intricately embedded in our land,
and that was a very powerful voice.
So I guess one of the critical questions that we have been asked
to address tonight is how do you use concepts of Research Justice to
create change in our world. And particularly in the world of public
policy And when I first saw this question I thought, I have no idea! I
have been trying to do for the last 25 years and I am just befuddled!
Weve tried, weve thought about it. Weve put out great research, you
might have all the evidence you like. But in the powerful world of
public policy you are also impacted by politics, by power, and by the
common sense of society. So when I unpack that question a bit more, I
think much of what we do in research and the kinds of research that I
do has to be more than just documenting the truth, or our story, or
our truth. Thats one part of it. Part of it is about mobilizing others
who believe that truth to be truthful. It is about mobilizing knowledge
resources. Its about mobilizing opinion, and experience, and
leadership in the community. Its about mobilizing language and

discourse. Its about having community leaders, it doesnt matter

whether they have read the research or not having them stand up
and support the researchers; having them stand up and support the
activists. Its about coming together despite huge differences in our
community; about knowing technically when to sing like a wonderful
choir, multiple voices but in harmony. Even though afterwards we
might go out of the room and our disharmony might come through. So
bridging the gap between Research Justice and public policy, I think is
a constant struggle. And it is something that researchers on our own
cannot do. The researchers are one part. And in fact that researcher
can be very inadequate in the communication of their research. I mean
Michelle is probably an example of someone who can communicate in
a powerful way the power of research. But so many good researchers
are not the best communicators, with great respect to those of you in
the room.
We think writing in our academic journals is communication
enough! Or we think having our students write it for us is even better!
So to speak up to the power of public policy takes a number of beyond
research strategies. It is not enough to have the evidence when those
in power select which evidence matters. You can have ten truths but if
those in power understand only one truth, then even if you are into
numbers which I am not ten seems quite big, but if youre up against a
group who only sees one truth and only one version of that truth, then

ten is insufficient. And that sort of inequality in power relations or

relations of power is an ongoing challenge. I think in my context, you
know someone has asked, Well how do you decolonize knowledge, like
what do you do! I always find that a difficult question and its like
well Firstly, in order to decolonize knowledge one has to have some
understandings of knowledge.what it means to know, what it means
to be known, what it means to come to know, what it means to
understand what is known. How do those things, how do those ideas
relate then to what does it mean to know and what does it mean to be?
How is what we are, who we are, defined by what we know; and who
tells us that. So for me growing up as an indigenous person what we
were told was that we didnt count, we didnt matter. We had no
knowledge. Our ancestors were dumb. They sailed across the Pacific by
accident. Thats what we were told. Its really hard to get to New
Zealand by accident, especially a group of men and women sailing by
accident. Because if you know the Pacific, you dont go out fishing as
men and women together on a canoe; one gender does that job. So to
wash up by accident in New Zealand without an appreciation of how to
cross the Pacific, it was one of those kind of moments when you think,
well that just cannot possibly be true! And I think sometimes those
incites tell you then that the knowledge that is in the common sense of
the world, the knowledge that is in textbooks, the knowledge that is
passed down in classrooms does a number of things. It tells particular

versions of what particular groups of people want to tell. It invisiblizes

others stories. It turns some people into heroes and heroines and
discoveries who werent actually any of those things. It tells down right
lies. It reshapes versions of stories. It obliterates peoples. It takes away
from other peoples version of what might have happened. When you
begin to understand that and you start to read; and you start to
examine the curriculum in particular then you are in the process of
decolonizing knowledge. But it doesnt just stop with the official
curriculum. Its very much about whats out in society; the myths about
Native Americans, the myths about Pacific peoples, the myths about
indigenous peoples worldwide. And the powerful use of discourse, the
use of words like savage, and barbaric, and illiterate; and the
connection of those words to a particular sets of behavior. And
therefore, the fact that they need to be colonized, they need to be
tamed, they need to be civilized, and they need to be Christianized. So
just in summary, before we move on to the next part of this talk, one of
these questions was how do we use research to transform. How do we
use indigenous community and knowledge. And I really start from a
simple base, every one of you has knowledge. Every member of a
community knows something special. Every indigenous person has
knowledge. That knowledge is important. It is important for you to
believe that you have knowledge. It is important to believe that your
knowledge is important and unique. It is important to value that you

know, to understand what it means to know something. And then it is

important to share what you know. Sometimes we tend to think what
we know is so special that its sacred, perhaps it is. But sometimes its
sacredness comes from putting the pieces of knowledge together
collectively; that thats what makes that knowledge sacred, is not that
a few people know it, but that it is known by many. Thats where I
would start. For a community to believe that what it knows about itself
is unique, and is a story that needs to be told. But that it is a story that
only they can tell.
I think if a community believes that, then the next steps in terms
of documenting, or the power of community knowledge, the power of
indigenous knowledge, it actually becomes a really exciting project.
And Ive seen lots of examples where people go, I know something, I
know something! Get out of the way, let me tell my story! It becomes
its own momentum. But it is so important to believe that you know.
Thats the first thing in many of the communities that Ive work with.
You know something, value it. Believe that you know it. Think about
you know go home one night and go wow I know something really
special! Thats fantastic! Lets have a glass of wine over it! Im going to
tell my grandchildren I know, Im a knowing person. I know
something about my experience, my world; and no one else knows
that. So that to me is the basis for building a picture of indigenous
community knowledge. How does that become data, or data as you

say? I think thats the easy bit. The easy bit is how you label the data.
You know and often thats the bit thats most alien and strange to
people. They want to tell their stories, and actually their process of
storytelling is worth spending time on. Its worth celebrating. Its worth
a public um well you used the word ceremony Andrew, but having
those stories told publicly is worth an audience. Because thats the
other thing with telling a story and believing you know something, is to
have others value your story is to have an audience for that story.
And a community audience is the best accountability you can have.
Alright? Because my communities, boy do they know bullshit
when they hear it. Boy do they know when genialities dont connect;
do they know when family histories have some significant gaps in
them. Alright? So communities are also the best accountability that
keeps the knowledge robust and rigorous. It keeps it coherent, it keeps
it connected. So its not a fanciful story, its a layered story of shared
knowledge.
I think the other thing when thinking about how you tell that story to
those in power is to remember that they do have two ears each, but
theres no guarantee that those ears listen. And the strategy is how do
you ensure that they listen through their eyes, their ears, their
stomach, their nostrils, and their skin. And I have seen so many
examples where the use of ceremony, or the use of the sacred, or the
use of spirituality, or the use of performance, or the use of poetry, or

the use of other forms of communication somehow get through the fact
that the two ears dont know how to listen. So the way that we convey
our messages, the way we speak our data is as important as
generating it. And I will finish there for now. Thank you!

About the Contributors:

Ml Hogan is Postdoctoral Fellow in Digital Curation, in the Journalism
and Mass Communication Department at the University of Colorado
Boulder, CO. Her current research is at the intersection of media,
archives and the environment. Her most recent publications revolve
around media and ecological impacts, data storage centers, media
archaeologies, queer and feminist design, and the politics of
preservation. As a practitioner, aspects of these same issues are
addressed through media arts interventions and research design
projects. Hogan is also the art director of online and p.o.d. journal of
arts and politics, nomorepotlucks.org; on the advisory board of the
Fembot collective; a new curator for the Media Archaeology Lab, and a
research design consultant for archinodes.com. She recently
completed her mandate of 6 years on the administrative board of
Studio XX. Email:info@melhogan.com Site:www.melhogan.com
Andrea Zeffiro is a researcher and writer whose work intersects the
cultural politics and practices of emerging technologies, contemporary
media histories, feminist media studies, and multidisciplinary research
methods. Over the last 10 years, Zeffiro has worked as an
ethnographer within a number of transdisciplinary research formations
alongside artists, designers, social scientists, computer scientists,
engineers, and medical doctors.
She holds a Doctorate in
Communication Studies from Concordia University, and prior to her
academic pursuits, Zeffiro spent a number of years drafting and
implementing garment-purchasing policies for the public sector while
channeling her creative energies towards AMBUSH: a line of clothing
designed and created from second hand garments. Email:
info@andreazeffiro.com Site: www.andreazeffiro.com