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Volume 14 Number 1 2019ISSN 1746-5648

Volume 14 Number 1 2019

Qualitative Research in Organizations and

ManagementAn International Journal

Qualitative Research in Organizations and ManagementAn International Journal

Number 1

The good academic: re-imagining good research in organization and management studiesGuest Editors: Nadia deGama, Sara R.S.T.A. Elias and Amanda Peticca-Harris

1 Editorial advisory board

2 Guest editorial

10 At-home ethnography: a method for practitionersDavid Andrew Vickers

27 “Good” things take time: a living story of research as “life”Fiona Hurd, Suzette Dyer and Mary Fitzpatrick

43 Reimagining organizational storytelling research as archeological story analysisJohn Teta Luhman

55 An open letter to the Universe: a reflection on conducting “good” researchStefanie Ruel

75 Being and becoming a “good” qualitative researcher? Liminality and the risk of limboVictoria Pagan

ISBN 978-1-83867-185-3

The good academic: re-imagining good research

in organization and management studies

Guest Editors: Nadia deGama, Sara R.S.T.A. Elias

and Amanda Peticca-Harris

Quarto trim size: 174mm x 240mm

EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD

Professor Iiris AaltioJyvaskyla University, Finland

Professor Paul AdlerUniversity of Southern California, USA

Susan AinsworthUniversity of Melbourne, Australia

Professor Karen AshcraftUniversity of Colorado Boulder, USA

Professor Howard S. BeckerSan Francisco, USA

Professor David BojeNew Mexico State University, USA

Professor Anne de BruinMassey University, New Zealand

Professor Marta CalasUniversity of Massachusetts Amherst, USA

Professor Julie Wolfram CoxMonash University, Australia

Professor Barbara CzarniawskaGoteborg University, Sweden

Dr Ardha DanieliUniversity of Warwick, UK

Professor Joanne DuberleyUniversity of Birmingham, UK

Professor Alex FariaFGV University, Brazil

Professor Martha FeldmanUniversity of California, Irvine, USA

Professor David FryerAustralian Institute of Psychology, Australia

Professor Yiannis GabrielUniversity of Bath, UK

Professor Silvia GherardiUniversity of Trento, Italy

Professor Evert GummessonStockholm University, Sweden

Professor Jeff HearnHanken School of Economics, Finland

Professor Chris HumphreyUniversity of Manchester, UK

Professor Liisa HusuOrebro University, Sweden

Professor Paula HydeManchester Business School, UK

Professor Eduardo InfanteUniversidad de Sevilla, Spain

Professor Sten JonssonUniversity of Gothenburg, Sweden

Dr Marjut JyrkinenUniversity of Helsinki, Finland

Professor Nigel KingUniversity of Huddersfield, UK

Professor Stephen Andrew LinsteadYork University, UK

Professor Antonio MuttiUniversity of Pavia, Italy

Professor Michael MyersUniversity of Auckland, New Zealand

Professor Stella NkomoUniversity of Pretoria, South Africa

Professor Brendan O’DwyerAmsterdam Graduate Business School,The Netherlands

Professor Anshuman PrasadUniversity of New Haven, USA

Professor Pushkala PrasadSkidmore College, USA

Dr Katrina PritchardThe Open University, UK

Dr Asta PundzieneISM University of Management and Economics,Lithuania

Professor John RodwellSwinburne University of Technology, Australia

Professor Barbara SimpsonUniversity of Strathclyde, UK

Professor Linda SmircichUniversity of Massachusetts Amherst, USA

Professor Chris SteyaertUniversity of St Gallen, Switzerland

Professor Roy SuddabyUniversity of Victoria, Canada

Professor Richard ThorpeUniversity of Leeds, UK

Professor John van MaanenMIT Sloan School of Management, USA

Professor Juhani VaivioAalto University, Finland

Dr Margaret VickersUniversity of Western Sydney, Australia

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:

An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019

p. 1r Emerald Publishing Limited

1746-5648

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Editorialadvisory

board

The good academic: re-imagininggood research in organization and

management studies

How might the current discourse surrounding good research be re-imagined and re-constituted? We argue that the current criteria and expectations surrounding whatconstitute good research may actually be restrictive to the potential that lies withinqualitative research. The aim of this special issue (SI) is, therefore, to challenge theperformative work of doing traditionally accepted good research and offer alternatives.We are pleased to present five contributions that problematize the way in which goodqualitative research is traditionally accepted and legitimated within the sphere of doing andpublishing organizational research. These five articles draw on a variety of methodologicalapproaches and creatively invoke alternative ways that help us think about how goodresearch can be (re)imagined. Our hope is that this SI creates a space for an ongoingdiscussion about the alternative ways in which qualitative methods and methodologies canbe imagined, evaluated and accepted in the broad research community.

A call to go beyond criteriaWe open this SI by asking, “What is good research in organization and managementstudies?” Criteria for evaluating the rigor and trustworthiness of qualitative research werepopularized with Guba’s (1981) focus on credibility, transferability, dependability andconfirmability. These guidelines, however, have been criticized not only for stemming frompositivist research – mirroring reliability and validity measures – but also because of theattempt to universally apply these criteria to justify what constitutes good research(e.g. Amis and Silk, 2008; Brinkmann, 2007; Devers, 1999; Johnson et al., 2006; Tracy, 2010).In this SI, we play with the notion of the “virtual cult of criteria” (Tracy, 2010, p. 838), aimingto provoke a conversation about what makes good qualitative research, from the perspectiveof different theoretical and methodological traditions. As the parameters of what makes forgood qualitative research sway, so do the ways in which researchers depict the qualitativeresearch process. However, as Punch (1986) suggests, “[A]uthentic and candid accounts ofthe backstage story of research projects are few and far between” (p. 18). A numberof scholars working within various qualitative traditions (e.g. Behar, 1996; Cole, 2013;Cunliffe and Alcadipani, 2016; Davies and Spencer, 2010; Donnelly et al., 2013;Koning and Ooi, 2013; Özkazanç‐Pan, 2012; Peticca-Harris et al., 2016) have begun tounpack how qualitative research is conducted, suggesting that it may not be a politically oremotionally neutral or straightforward process. These scholars have endeavored toproblematize the dominant tendency to neuter the research process and to present it as aready-made and by-plan design. As Özkazanç‐Pan (2012) argues, we, “as researchers areforced, unnecessarily to differentiate between ‘good politics’ and ‘good science’ ” and, assuch, our published work ends up becoming a “faint shadow of the original papersubmission” (p. 210). Unfortunately, despite the many calls for more authentic and candidbehind-the-scenes accounts, the majority of published qualitative studies continues to glossover, sanitize or omit the difficult encounters and micro-politics that researchers inevitablyexperience in the field, thus marginalizing and stigmatizing these critical experiences.

Our inspiration for organizing this SI stems from what we see as a fundamental need tonot only unveil, but also reflect upon the implications of researchers’ experiences with

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019pp. 2-9© Emerald Publishing Limited1746-5648DOI 10.1108/QROM-03-2019-681

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“doing” qualitative research. As Donnelly et al. (2013) have attested in their SI in QualitativeResearch in Organizations and Management, there are “stories behind the stories, inclusiveof the emotions, frustrations, and challenges that go along with research” (p. 5). In our SI, webuild on this body of research and attempt to decenter the way in which a certain kind ofmethodological rigor and relevance has been elevated and privileged within academicresearch. We are therefore motivated to challenge both the assumption that there is one“right” way of conducting research and the norms within academia that surround the waysin which research is evaluated as good. As a result, we ask such questions as, “What makesfor good research?” And “Who (and what) is our research good for? Is it for our participants,for the creation of knowledge, or, dare we say it, for ourselves?” This SI is dedicated toexploring, deepening and widening our understanding of what may constitute goodqualitative research, as well as to create a space where we may consider the multiplicity ofways in which qualitative research may be considered good beyond positivist rigor.

Contributions to this SIInspired by the developments discussed above, the overarching goal of this SI is to makespace for greater methodological pluralism (Harley, 2015). To this end, we invitedcontributions, that problematize, from different perspectives, the existing criteria used todetermine good research and that consider what elements of the research process may beforgotten or hidden, questioning why these may not be traditionally accepted as goodscience. In doing so, we have built a small but, we believe, important body of work in whichauthors have engaged with these ideas in order to think about alternative ways in whichgood qualitative research may be conceptualized and conducted. In the spirit of greatermethodological pluralism we, as editors, were keen on including contributions that draw ondifferent ways of conducting qualitative research. We are therefore very happy to presentfive contributions that discuss various qualitative methodological approaches, such asat-home ethnography (see David Vickers), autoethnographic research as a living story(see Hurd et al.), archeological story analysis (see John Luhman), Indigenous-basedmethodologies mixed with autoethnography (see Stefanie Ruel) and a reflexive confessionalaccount on the various identity states a researcher may experience (see Victoria Pagan).We feel that these contributions, which draw from different methodological perspectives,not only question the normative and homogenizing pressures associated with conductinggood research, but also unmask the vulnerabilities of the researcher and the beauty inherentin the chaos of doing qualitative work.

David Vickers’ article, “At-home ethnography: A method for practitioners,” opens thisSI by arguing that clean and tidy accounts are preferred and legitimated in publishedresearch, over reports that show and explore messiness and complexity. In order toenhance how ethnography is often depicted and thought about, Vickers explores at-homeethnography (i.e. ethnographic research on everyday work practices, in a setting that isfamiliar to the researcher and in which s/he participates), digging deep into the behind-the-scenes messiness of this type of research, and reflexively considering research practicesalongside fine-grained, in situ managerial accounts. At its core, Vickers rejects dominantpositivist assumptions and criticisms about both the time it takes to conduct practice-based research and insider accounts as being anecdotal and thus not “scientific.” Instead,he argues for a reflexive approach that does not focus on the published product, only, butrather on the product in tandem with the producer, the process and practices. Constantthroughout this exploration is a refusal to airbrush away the researcher’s dilemmas,which he addresses through reflexivity. In his attempt to deconstruct the backstagemessiness of at-home ethnography, Vickers highlights the physical and mental fatiguethat is part of the process of conducting quality, in-depth research. His paper provides abold openness, an honesty and an overall awareness of dilemmas researchers may face.

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In doing so, he allows readers to better judge research quality, encouraging them to learnfrom their research process.

Fiona Hurd, Suzette Dyer and Mary Fitzpatrick’s paper, “ ‘Good’ things take time:A living story of research as ‘life,’ ” comes next. Hurd and colleagues critique the hegemonic“publish or perish” culture within the landscape of a neoliberal university, which places aheavy emphasis on productivity and quick turnaround times for published research.Countering such ideals, Hurd and colleagues implore us to slow down our research processand consider the passage of time, so that we can give both ourselves and our research timeto “breathe.”As the authors argue, taking the time to embrace disorder and messiness in theresearch process is important, as it allows us to not only carve the space to capture richerand more authentic stories, but also – and perhaps more importantly – honor our researchparticipants, their experiences and their stories, which are fragments of, and thus provideglimpses into, dominant narratives. Hurd and colleagues’ paper also does justice to the ideathat research affects – and is affected by – the researcher in a variety of important waysrelating to, for instance, the fluidity of the research process and one’s own life, theresearcher’s (re)positioning as insider or outsider, and the relational underpinnings of theresearch process. The authors propose that qualitative research should not be viewed as asterile process but, rather, it should be celebrated as a fragmented and often chaotic livingstory. By extension, Hurd et al.’s paper speaks to the embodiment associated with doinggood research by highlighting and discussing the ways in which they were affected by theresearch process. Doing so provided them with an opportunity to think more carefully aboutthe affective relations between researchers and research participants. Hurd and colleagues’article thus gives us an opportunity to learn from the grittiness of their research processwhile highlighting the importance of authentically narrating and reflecting upon ourexperiences as researchers.

John Luhman’s contribution, “Reimagining organizational storytelling research asarcheological story analysis,” problematizes storytelling inquiry that relies on ex situinterviews, which, he argues, tend to ignore time, context and process. By digging deepinto Karl Weick’s (2004) and Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1981, 1984, 1986) position on storytelling,Luhman challenges dominant approaches for collecting stories that gloss over context andprocess. In an attempt to re-imagine what might constitute a good research practice forcollecting stories, the author proposes taking an approach akin to ethnographicparticipant observation when conducting storytelling research. Specifically, Luhmanproposes “archeological story analysis,” a three-step method for analyzing, in a moreconvincing manner, stories that are collected out of context and process. This new methoduses archeology’s approach to interpreting artifacts as a metaphor for interpretingorganizational stories, which he suggests can be viewed as cultural artifacts. What thisimplies is an epistemological stance of seeing stories as “dead language,” which can thenbe interpreted as a means to infer a coherent overall story. Fundamental to this process is,as Luhman points out, to engage in reflexivity so that, through questioning assumptionsand considering multivocal interpretations, meaning can be understood in relation to agreater whole.

Stefanie Ruel’s paper, “An open letter to the Universe: a poststructural reflection onconducting ‘good’ research,” examines her own experiences during her doctoral studiesthrough an autoethnographic account that relies on Indigenous-based methodologies toshowcase the inter-connectivity of her network, the broader community, and characteristicsof the physical world: the Sun, the Earth and the Universe. Through an open letteraddressed to the Universe, Ruel reflexively recounts her experiences in the field as she triedto collect data for her doctoral research. These experiences include tensions she endured,concerning deeply entrenched power relations that are inherent to the Canadian spaceindustry, which she is a part of and uses as the site of her research. Similarly, to other papers

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in the SI, Ruel critically explores the incongruences and blemishes associated with goodresearch and good management, highlighting that they may be at odds with each other.In other words, what might make qualitative research “good” also presents the potential tosever relationships and career possibilities in other realms of business. Through heraccount, Ruel reminds us of the importance of acknowledging and reflecting upon one’semotions and experiences in the field. Ruel’s paper also creates a space for us to consider ourown views by reflexively asking ourselves, “Would we continue with a research project if itmeant jeopardizing our own career?” In doing so, Ruel emphasizes the need to be brave, notonly to perhaps put career motivations aside to focus on the importance of the researchitself, but also to be bold in sharing and discussing the backstageness of qualitative researchthrough a new and unique methodological approach.

Victoria Pagan’s article, “Being and becoming a ‘good’ qualitative researcher? Liminalityand the risk of limbo,” concludes this SI by proposing that good qualitative research doesnot just involve “doing,” but also “being” and “becoming.” Pagan’s paper highlights theunsettling and in-betweenness of a good qualitative research as it intersects with the variousidentity states of “good qualitative researcher” that one may experience within the academy.Becoming and being a good researcher is neither a criteria nor an outcome; as Pagan asserts,it is a process. Drawing on her experiences as a PhD Student, Pagan examines this liminalstage of acceptance and also aggregation (i.e. completing the PhD), and points to theunpredictability and precariousness of being a doctoral student. In doing so, Pagan remindsus of the power relations inherent in being a PhD student and highlights the role of others(e.g. journal editors, reviewers, PhD supervisors, committee members, peers in one’sorganization) in the process of becoming a legitimate, good researcher (at least in the eyes ofthe academic elites, which she describes as elder, established researchers). Moreover, Pagancontends that when conducting research, researchers are placed front and center, thusexposing themselves to the uncertainty of the research process and academia writ large.Like other papers in this SI, Pagan’s paper points to vulnerability and bravery as importantaspects of the process of conducting good research.

Exposing ourselves for the sake of good research?All the papers included in this SI help us answer the question that originally inspired ourefforts: “How might the current discourse surrounding good research be re-imagined and re-constituted?”We feel that these five contributions bring with them the power to push us, asqualitative researchers, to start breaking free from the shackles of what is commonlyaccepted as good research. They do so by, for example, encouraging us to embracemessiness and disorder in the research process (see David Vickers’ and Fiona Hurd andcolleagues’ papers) and dig deeper into the complex selves that we embody as we navigatethe research process and, at times, as we stumble upon the elaborate power relations thatsurround us (see Stefanie Ruel’s and Victoria’s Pagan’s papers). The papers in this SI alsoshow us that the field of qualitative research is still a fertile ground for new discoveries and,thus, that it is possible to creatively conceive of alternative and unique ways for conductinggood qualitative research. In particular, they show us that this is possible by fearlesslyturning the gaze upon ourselves, not only as individual researchers but also as part of abroader academic community, problematizing current “doings,” and offering thoughtfulmethod(ologies)s for conducting good research (see John Luhman and Stefanie Ruel’s papersfor examples). This, we believe, is the beauty of “doing” qualitative research.

Surely, there is a sense of vulnerability and unpredictability that can arise from turningthe gaze upon ourselves, trying new things and being honest about what drives us to do so.Indeed, at times this can lead to overwhelming feelings of anxiety and even fear – fear ofbeing overly dependent on others’ judgments of our worth as academics and practitioners,or on the power that others hold over our careers, perhaps even fear of losing one’s own

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sense of self (see Stefanie Ruel’s and Victoria Pagan’s papers). Such feelings are certainly notunfounded, as there are certain risks associated with being honest and fearlesslyquestioning the dominant ways of doing things, at times possibly implying severeconsequences. As King (2003) asserts, “once a story is told, it cannot be called back. Oncetold, it is loose in the world” (p. 10). There is therefore a “nakedness” (Peticca-Harris et al.,2016, p. 397) associated with revealing – and perhaps even questioning – too much. Thus, byexposing our fallacies, are we risking to be perceived as “weak” academics? What might bethe consequences of challenging the commonly accepted ways of doing things that do not sitwell with us? As both Vickers and Ruel poignantly show in their papers, striving to conductgood research could have resulted in serious negative consequences for their careers.Similarly, we are aware of the pressure to publish in “top tier” journals, particularly as this isnow not only a criterion for tenure (see Adler and Harzing, 2009), but in many cases, for evensecuring a tenure-track academic position, particularly in a North American context.

Thinking about alternative ways in which good qualitative research may beconceptualized and conducted also entails a certain boldness and bravery. Related to thisis, for example, the way in which the contributors to this SI expose their emotional baggageas they navigate the research process. As Cunliffe and Alcadipani (2016) suggest, “we needto relax the taboo” (p. 2) when we share our own emotionally and politically laden “talesfrom the field.” We therefore applaud the SI contributors for revealing dilemmas anddifficult choices they had to make during the research process, including the need to treatparticipants (who were also employees) fairly when faced with a company-wide redundancy(as in Vickers paper), the risks associated with voicing the experiences of participants (as inHurd et al.’s paper), or deciding whether to continue with the research when a keygatekeeper vehemently suggested that the “truth” behind participants’ experiences remainhidden (as in Ruel’s paper).

Despite these challenges, the SI contributors are still very candid and honest,acknowledging an element of performativity in doing so: the need to present oneself as thegood (legitimate) academic who does good research and, perhaps because of this, feelingcompelled to hide their research struggles. By courageously sharing their struggles in thisSI, the contributors remind us that we are all human instruments of research, always at riskfor experiencing anxieties, insecurities and dilemmas. But when facing such difficult(yet very real!) feelings, how do the institutionalized expectations and understandings ofgood research affect how we conduct our research? The articles in this SI show that there isa temptation to put these aside, tucked away and hidden from the watchful eye of theAcademy. After all, feelings present a potential threat to the positivist rigor that dominatesmainstream research and the pressures are just too high to appear weak. But, by notquestioning these pressures and, consequently, by complying with them, are we then notsetting ourselves up for being both victims to and complicit in the normative requirementsfor good research? The contributions presented within this SI begin a dialogue on how wemay question, critique and problematize the current status quo, as a means to advancequalitative inquiry and the way in which we publish our work. Without falling down aprescriptive trap, our contributors suggest that good research involves turning the “quality”gaze onto how we think about and ultimately do research. In this way, they promote a newwave of reflection on traditional qualitative research questions.

These queries relate to an underlying theme found within all of the contributions: the needfor greater reflexivity. For instance, when thinking about the ethics associated with herresearch, Victoria Pagan’s work questions what she coins as her own selfish desires to be thegood academic while ignoring not only herself in the process, but also others – her researchparticipants. This takes us back to the question of “For whom is good research, good?” Such afocus encourages us to ask ourselves if “doing something” with the work that we generatefrom our research participants is also “making something” (Ashcraft, 2017, p. 49) beyond a

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mere publication; that is, what difference does it make not only to our research communitybut also for our research participants? We propose that good research practice need notsimply be covered in textbooks, or legitimated via a journal publication; rather, it should beone that allows us to develop an ethico-political awareness that is anchored in “capturedexperience” (Ashcraft, 2017, p. 52). This means that we should be brave enough to neither putour academic careers first nor obsessively focus on playing the academic game. Instead, weshould gather the courage to focus on empowering and improving the lives of everyone whomakes our research possible and this most definitely places our research participants at thetop of the list, as for without them there would simply be no research to begin with.

The SI contributors also remind us that being reflexive about one’s research and theresearch process involves the passage of time and the need to pause. For instance, due tothe risks associated with the safety and anonymity of participants with group interviewsand issues surrounding a low response rate, Hurd and colleagues felt the need to take abreak from their study. In a rather serendipitous manner, by distancing themselves from thestudy, Hurd et al. allowed their study to go through a process of “maturing” whicheventually resulted in “altered perspectives” on how to tackle many of their previouschallenges. Providing a different example, Ruel explains the need to take a break frominterviewing due to the sheer physical and mental toll that it was taking on her. Giving notonly her research, but most importantly, herself time and space allowed Ruel toacknowledge that the anxiety and anger she experienced during her research should not beignored but, rather, elevated and explored as part of the research itself.

These ideas of pausing, breaking away or breaking free from one’s research is in starkcontrast with the “academic capitalism” (Hermann, 2012) that pervades the academy and thatpushes us to obsessively focus on research productivity and the mass production of researchoutput. Although many of us are aware of this tendency to produce standardised “fast foodresearch” (Marinetto, 2018), and even express our dislike for it, we seem to continue to becomplicit in it. Thus, in a brave attempt to push us, as an academic community, to reflecton – and potentially stop – the mindless cranking of fast research output, some of the articlesin this SI speak to the importance of slowing down the research process for the sake ofresearchers themselves, their participants and the quality of the research itself.We acknowledge that as academics in today’s neoliberal university landscape, slowingdown may just not be an easy feat due to concerns surrounding tenure, promotion, journalrankings and league tables (see Mingers and Willmott, 2013; Robinson et al., 2017). However,we applaud the contributors to this SI, as they have encouraged us to reflexively think aboutthe motivations behind our research and to consider if the only goal behind producing goodwork is for it to end up getting quickly published in a good journal. Perhaps, we need toconsider the potential of slow scholarship and continue exploring “alternatives to the fast-paced, metric-oriented neoliberal university” (Mountz et al., 2015, p. 1235). As some of the SIcontributors show, slowing down helps us embrace and – perhaps more importantly – respectourselves as complex human instruments of research that need time to process experiences inthe field, reflect on instincts and emotions, generate new and imaginative insights fortheorizing and, overall, develop thoughtful theories while conducting impactful research.

Concluding commentsThe aim of this SI was to interrogate, unsettle and disrupt the idea of parameters, criteria,rigor and trustworthiness for qualitative research. As a result, we present five contributionsfrom authors who daringly ventured “out of the box” of commonly accepted ways of doingqualitative research to creatively reflect upon and continue to explore the fascinating worldof qualitative research. The contributors’ honest and candid “tales from the field” havedemonstrated that universally applied “standards” may restrict qualitative research, andthat what may be considered good research for one group or set of interests may not

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necessarily be good research for another group or set of interests. The diversity ofapproaches in this SI has carved a space that allows for greater pluralism in what mayconstitute good research. By rendering many of the invisible aspects and vulnerabilities ofresearch visible, the papers in this SI have also given us an opportunity to pause and reflectupon the ways in which we may conduct our own research. The contributions remind us ofthe importance – and necessity – to be brave, candid and honest about the research processand with our writing, even if this entails exposing some of our vulnerabilities andweaknesses. The result of this SI is, we hope, a forum for ongoing discussion about thealternative ways in which good qualitative methods and methodologies can be imagined,evaluated and accepted in the broad research community.

Nadia deGamaIndependent Researcher, Cambridge, UK

Sara R.S.T.A. EliasPeter B. Gustavson School of Business, University of Victoria, Victoria BC, Canada, and

Amanda Peticca-HarrisGrenoble Ecole de Management, Grenoble, France

References

Adler, P. and Harzing, A. (2009), “When knowledge wins: transcending the sense and nonsense ofacademic rankings”, Academy of Management Learning & Education, Vol. 8 No. 1, pp. 72-95.

Amis, J.M. and Silk, M. (2008), “The philosophy and politics of quality in qualitative organizationalresearch”, Organizational Research Methods, Vol. 11 No. 3, pp. 456-480.

Ashcraft, K. (2017), “ ‘Submission to the rule of excellence’: ordinary affect and precarious resistance inthe labour of organization and management studies”, Organization, Vol. 24 No. 1, pp. 36-58.

Bakhtin, M.M. (1981), The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays (translated by Emerson, C. and Holquist,M. and edited by Holquist, M.), University of Texas Press, Austin, TX.

Bakhtin, M.M. (1984), Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics (translated and edited by Emerson, C.),University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, MN.

Bakhtin, M.M. (1986), Speech Genres and Other Late Essays (translated by McGee, V.W.), University ofTexas Press, Austin, TX.

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Brinkmann, S. (2007), “The good qualitative researcher”, Qualitative Research in Psychology, Vol. 4Nos 1/2, pp. 127-144.

Cole, C. (2013), “Stories from the lived and living fieldwork process”, Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management: An International Journal, Vol. 8 No. 1, pp. 50-69.

Cunliffe, A.L. and Alcadipani, F. (2016), “The politics of access in fieldwork: Immersion, backstagedramas, and deception”, Organizational Research Methods, doi: 10.1177/1094428116639134.

Davies, J. and Spencer, D. (Eds) (2010), Emotions in the Field: The Psychology and Anthropology ofFieldwork Experience, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA.

Devers, K.J. (1999), “Howwill we know ‘good’ qualitative research when we see it? Beginning the dialoguein health services research”, Health Services Research, Vol. 34 No. 5, pp. 1153-1188.

Donnelly, P.F., Yiannis, G. and Özkazanç‐Pan, B. (2013), “Untold stories of the field and beyond:narrating the chaos”, Qualitative Research in Organizations and Management: An InternationalJournal, Vol. 8 No. 1, pp. 4-15.

Guba, E.G. (1981), “Criteria for assessing the trustworthiness of naturalistic inquiries”, EducationalCommunication and Technology Journal, Vol. 29 No. 2, pp. 75-91.

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Harley, D. (2015), “The one best way? ‘Scientific’ research on HRM and the threat to criticalscholarship”, Human Resource Management Journal, Vol. 25 No. 4, pp. 399-407.

Hermann, A. (2012), “ ‘Criteria against ourselves?’ Embracing the opportunities of qualitative inquiry”,International Review of Qualitative Research, Vol. 5 No. 2, pp. 135-152.

Johnson, P., Buehring, A., Cassell, C. and Symon, G. (2006), “Evaluating qualitative managementresearch: towards a contingent criteriology”, International Journal of Management Reviews,Vol. 8 No. 3, pp. 131-156.

King, T. (2003), The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative, House of Anansi Press, Toronto.Koning, J. and Ooi, C. (2013), “Awkward encounters and ethnography”, Qualitative Research in

Organizations and Management: An International Journal, Vol. 8 No. 1, pp. 16-32.Marinetto, M. (2018), “Fast food research in the era of unplanned obsolescence”, Journal of Management

Studies, Vol. 55 No. 6, pp. 1014-1020.Mingers, J. and Willmott, H. (2013), “Taylorizing business school research: on the ‘one best way’

performative effects of journal ranking lists”, Human Relations, Vol. 66, pp. 1051-1073.Mountz, A., Bonds, A., Mansfield, B., Loyd, J., Hyndman, J., Walton-Roberts, M., Basu, R., Whitson, R.,

Hawkins, R., Hamilton, T. and Curran, W. (2015), “For slow scholarship: a feminist politics ofresistance through collective action in the neoliberal university”, ACME: An InternationalJournal for Critical Geographies, Vol. 14 No. 4, pp. 1235-1259.

Özkazanç‐Pan, B. (2012), “Publishing without betrayal: critical scholarship meets mainstreamjournals”, Scandinavian Journal of Management, Vol. 28, pp. 209-217.

Peticca-Harris, A., deGama, N. and Elias, R.S.T.A. (2016), “A dynamic process model for findinginformants and gaining access in qualitative research”, Organizational Research Methods,Vol. 19 No. 3, pp. 376-401.

Punch, M. (1986), The Politics and Ethics of Fieldwork, Sage, London.Robinson, S., Ratle, O. and Bristow, A. (2017), “Labour pains: starting a career within the neoliberal

university”, Ephemera, Vol. 17, pp. 481-508.Tracy, S.J. (2010), “Qualitative quality: eight ‘big tent’ criteria for excellent qualitative research”,

Qualitative Inquiry, Vol. 16 No. 10, pp. 837-851.Weick, K.E. (2004), “A bias for conversation: acting discursively in organizations”, in Grant, D., Hardy, C.,

Oswick, C. and Putnam, L. (Eds),The Sage Handbook of Organizational Discourse, Sage, ThousandOaks, CA, pp. 405-412.

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At-home ethnography:a method for practitioners

David Andrew VickersDepartment of Management, University of Central Lancashire, Preston, UK

AbstractPurpose – The purpose of this paper is to employ a reflection on at-home ethnographic (AHE) practiceto unpack the backstage messiness of an account to demonstrate how management students can craftfine-grained accounts of their practice and develop further our understanding of management practices in situ.Design/methodology/approach – The paper reflects upon an example of AHE from an 18-month period ata chemical plant. Through exposure and exploration, the paper outlines how this method was used, theemotion involved and the challenges to conduct “good” research.Findings – The paper does not seek to define “best practice”; it highlights the epistemic and ethical practicesused in an account to demonstrate how AHE could enhance management literature through a series ofpractice accounts. More insider accounts would demonstrate understandings that go beyond distant accountsthat purport to show managerial work as rational and scientific. In addition, such accounts would informteaching of the complexities and messiness of managerial practice.Originality/value – Ethnographic accounts (products) are often neat and tidy rather than messy, irrationaland complex. Reflection on ethnographer (person) and ethnographic methodology (process) is limited.However, ethnographic practices are mostly unreported. By reflecting on ethnographic epistemic and ethicalpractices, the paper demonstrates how a largely untapped area has much to offer both management studentsand in making a fundamental contribution to understanding and teaching managerial practice.Keywords Management practice, Participant observation, Insider accounts, At-home ethnographyPaper type Research paper

IntroductionSeveral authors call for more organisational ethnographies (Samra-Fredericks, 2003;Vickers and Fox, 2010; Stewart and Aldrich, 2015). Accounts of managerial work are“distant from […] understandings and experiences of practice” (Feldman and Orlikowski,2011, p. 1246) and described in abstract ways far removed from practice. Consequently,details of daily managerial practices are largely neglected although there are notableexceptions (e.g. Dalton, 1959; Stewart, 1967; Watson, 1994; Vickers, 2005). Such accountswould provide a useful series of “thick descriptions” (Geertz, 1973) of practice and muchmore “fine grained” (Clarke, 1998, p. 63) than abstract accounts of managerial work. Thisproposal is consistent with the “practice turn” (Schatzki et al., 2001) and calls to encouragepractice-based accounts (Whittington, 2011). By applying a “practice lens” (Feldman andOrlikowski, 2011) to management, we enhance our teaching (e.g. Whittington, 2003) and itenables critical engagement between distant theoretical texts and practical application.

In taking a “practice turn” two key areas will be addressed. First, by reflexivelyexploring the research practices of an “at-home ethnography” (hereinafter AHE)(Alvesson, 2009) of managers at a chemical production site. This includes an examinationof how this AHE research was conducted by the author who was also the human resources(HR) manager in the story. The methodological learning from the study is explored.In particular – challenges in the field, writing of AHE accounts and how distance might beachieved. Then, consideration is given to the potential to advance our understanding ofmanagement practice and the teaching of it. Second, more fine-grained, in situ accountsfrom managers to develop our understanding of managerial practices. This meansovercoming the tendency to use positivist approaches by dealing with two negativeperceptions managerial students have of participant observation: the time taken to conductsuch research and insider accounts being “anecdotal” or “unscientific”.

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019pp. 10-26© Emerald Publishing Limited1746-5648DOI 10.1108/QROM-02-2017-1492

Received 13 February 2017Revised 7 November 20177 June 2018Accepted 5 October 2018

The current issue and full text archive of this journal is available on Emerald Insight at:www.emeraldinsight.com/1746-5648.htm

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At-home ethnographyAHE is “a process of creating knowledge through […] interpret[ing] acts, words andmaterials used by oneself and one’s fellow organisational members from a certain distance.”(Alvesson, 2009, p. 162). AHE utilises the researcher’s position and setting for researchpurposes. An insider is potentially better able than outsiders to investigate and interpretevents (Alvesson, 2009). This is ideal for managers conducting research projects duringtheir academic studies, as it makes a virtue out of their access and intimate knowledge.

AHE builds on ethnography through the investigation of everyday work practices(Samra-Fredericks, 2010). However, there are also distinct differences between ethnographyand AHE. Most notably, differences relate to the insider participation and outsiderobservation at various stages of the research process. Suchman (1987) uses the metaphor ofthe researcher as a canoeist who views the scene differently to the observer standing on theriverbank. Whilst access to the research setting is excellent, insiders need to be aware of the“problematic side of closeness and personal involvement”, which requires careful reflectionand an ability to “break out […] from socially shared frameworks” (Alvesson, 2009, p. 167).This “immersion must be accompanied by a critical, analytical, self-conscious awareness”(Coffey, 1999, p. 32).

Pack (2011, p. 62) offers a useful vehicle for ethnographic self-reflexivity which he arguesneeds to focus on “producer, process and product”. The author would also add practices tothis list.

The product is the output (e.g. journal article, thesis). The product is often “sanitized inleading journals, heavily influenced by the quantitative research tradition” (Donnelly et al.2013, p. 7) which either enables reflexivity to be “ducked” or at the other extreme theethnographer becomes the “central figure” (Buroway, 2003, p. 653). The product is importantbringing research into the public domain. However, presentation of the ethnography is neatand tidy rather than “messy, irrational, complex […]” (Samra-Fredericks, 2005, p. 833).Ethnographic accounts give information on the producer of the research enabling dialoguewith the reader. Issues such as role, work experience, credibility, location, gender, race and ageare usually addressed. Whilst reflexivity is important in AHE, it should not overwhelm theaccount and be “self-indulgent” (Coffey, 1999, p. 155). Instead, the reader needs to understandhow the researcher was able to have an “acceptable presence in the field [and] ordinaryinteraction […] [so that] language, gesture and silence [are understood]” (Litcherman, 2017,p. 39). Researchers need to declare “biases, goals and foibles” (Tracy, 2010, p. 841) along withtheir “epistemological and political baggage” ( Johnson et al., 2006, p. 142). However, asBrinkmann (2007) helpfully points out, many of the key capabilities we have, as qualitativeresearchers, are also moral virtues. This perhaps keeps our research and its practice in check.

Reflection on process is important, however, the term process suggests constraints, whichcontradicts our research of managerial practices. Process provides an overarchingframework in which practices exist. Whilst process provides structure, practice is aboutspontaneity and ideas. “Process has to find the least amount of constraint necessary to enactthe necessary amount of structure, to produce rigour without rigidity” (Brown and Duguid,2000, p. 93). To produce “good” research accounts “to prepare and forewarn other aspiringresearchers” (Punch, 1986, p. 13), we need to find a balance between the messiness ofpractice and the rigidity of process. We do so through being “transparent, open and honest”(Punch, 1986) about our practices to facilitate methodological learning. However, weshould not prescribe rigid methodological processes, undermine our epistemology andconstrain our ethnographic practices. Hopefully, there is room to navigate the “intricateentanglement of ethical and epistemic issues in qualitative research” (Brinkmann, 2007,p. 137). The author does not prescribe a rigid, step-by-step method to achieve “goodjudgement” (Brinkmann, 2007) instead, technical (epistemic) and ethical considerations aresurfaced. To do this reflexivity is employed to consider personal and professional dilemmas

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and tensions between the author’s roles as HR manager and AHE researcher. Such opennessleaves the author vulnerable as he is no longer anonymized (Czarniawska, 2000, p. 29).However, to fully comprehend practice we must experiment more with method rather thanattempt to imitate what has gone before (Czarniawska, 2008a, p. 14).

A “turn to practice” offers a departure for both teaching and researching management.We can continue to teach management in a sanitized way or we can explore what happens inpractice as experienced by the managers we teach. To advance, this practice turn two keyareas need to be addressed. First, more insider accounts from managers would embellish thefield and allow for more transferability of learning. Second, is overcoming two negativeperceptions managerial students have of ethnography – the time taken to conduct AHE andinsider accounts as “anecdotal” or “unscientific”.

Time taken to conduct AHEEthnography usually takes a year or more which can be problematic for students who havelimited time to complete a thesis. Academics may achieve these timescales throughsabbaticals or by multiple visits to the organisation (Pettigrew, 1985; Samra-Fredericks,2004). However, three-month ethnographic periods could address this. Stewart and Aldrich(2015) suggest two approaches to reduce research timescales. First, a shorter period ofethnographic data gathering and, second, using shorter-field methods or “rapidassessment”. Rapid-assessment accounts use other methods in tandem with short burstsof ethnography. Others have suggested “quick and dirty” (Hughes et al., 1994) and “applied”(Maginn, 2007) ethnographies. Notable examples of this in organisations include: combiningethnography with conversation analysis (Samra-Fredericks, 2003, 2010), extensiveinterviewing (Pettigrew, 1985) and diaries (Stewart, 1965). Managers make observationsand access practices as daily and AHE adds process structure to these natural observationpractices. The author would discourage quick and bland “vanilla pudding” (Ashforth, 2005)accounts. However, unlike outsider academics, insider managers save time as they haveaccess and understand the language, practices and nuances. This gives a different meaningto the word “rapid”. In addition, for practitioner students the supervisory relationship allowssome outsider questioning and distance. So rapid research periods combined with rigorousdistancing could facilitate wider use of insider accounts by practitioners.

Insider accounts as unscientificAHE involves participants immersing themselves but simultaneously they are observers withwide ranging access. They are “insiders” with a clearer understanding of the setting andpractices. However, when writing up their findings, insiders become “outsiders” who were(or continue to be) participants in the events being recounted. Operating as an “outsider” inthis writing process, their accounts become more focused on analysis of social and culturalphenomenon, creating a reflexive rather than introspective personalised account. It is adifficult balancing act “to be close to the practice of organising while keeping enough distanceto problematize it” (Czarniawska, 2008b, p. 133). AHE researchers are actively involved intheir story but some themes only emerge part way through the data gathering process orduring analysis. AHE requires “some additional efforts […] to escape the specific traps facingthe insider” (Alvesson, 2009, p. 169). During analysis, research setting is viewed as an“outsider”. A specific device used in this paper to create distance between “insider” andoutsider” is “decentring” the author through a third person writing style. This means theauthor is a character in the story but not necessarily at the centre of events. A decentred thirdperson style is also adopted to explore the author’s reflections as this paper is about AHEpractices and not about the author. Throughout the paper, all reflections are shown in“indented italics”. Where the word “author” is used it can also be taken to read researcher/

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observer and when the account is about the HR manager this also means participant. In bothcases, the author and the HR manager are one and the same person.

Insider accounts receive criticism from management students and quantitative academics.Management students tend to rely on “standardized surveys […] [and] questionnaires”(Kaczynski et al., 2014, p. 128). From the author’s experience of management students, this isexacerbated because many see “good research [is] equated with quantitative research” (Moreyand Luthans, 2013, p. 87). This is consistent with Cassell (2018) who found her MBA studentsfelt qualitative methods were unscientific or subjective compared with quantitative methodsand qualitative research is criticised for lack of scientific discipline (Komorowska, 2016).However, such criticisms presuppose research data can be acquired independently and needsto be subjected to “scientific” protocols. In AHE “good” research (if such a thing exists)relies on finding meanings and understanding how they were constructed. Research qualityhinges on face validity, reflexivity and transferability along with the debate the account createsamongst readers. Face validity comes from telling a credible account and putting the readerinto the situation to construct their own meaning through dialogue and debate. Reflexivityexposes and explores the researcher’s “blind wanderings” (Van Maanen, 2011, p. 153) and soenables the reader to understand the processes and practices of data gathering and the personwho gathered it. This may involve assumptions made, details of the author’s personalcharacteristics and make up. Again, this helps the reader judge the veracity of claims made byan account. In addition, reflexivity can heighten the creation of distance between being aninsider and an outsider by seeing events through “fresh eyes” (Alvesson, 2003). Reflexivity isnot a panacea but it is a vital part of ethnographic integrity. It enables the reader to engagewith events described and to challenge interpretations and claims made by the researcher.AHE uncovers a multiplicity of meanings and an account is another social construction.Reflexivity enables the reader to judge the “credibility” (Lincoln and Guba, 1985) and“trustworthiness” (Czarniawska, 2008b) of an account but it does not claim to discover thetruth as no such thing exists. Hopefully though, an account adds to the reader’s ownunderstanding and meaning making process. Transferability is preferred in favour ofgeneralisability in AHE. Some have claimed transferability is pandering to a positivist agenda(Amis and Silk, 2008). However, here transferability is about taking learning and meaningsfrom one setting to another. It is not about finding a quasi-standardised universal process fortransferability as no situation is the same, but lessons learned from similar situations can betransferred. Managers adopt the same approach by taking past events and identifying theirresonance in a new context. The insider accounts of management in practice we generate, thebetter we can learn, understand and teach it. The author “rejected generalisability” ( Johnsonet al., 2006, p. 142) as a condition from his doctoral viva. Instead, he demonstratedtransferability from a chemical plant into different contexts (e.g. a university, the NationalHealth Service. A personal example of an AHE study is used here to explore key issues withthe AHE processes and practices.

The story of Chemco and BurnslandThe full AHE account is reported elsewhere (Vickers, 2005; Vickers and Fox, 2010), here thefocus is on methodological issues. However, before moving to methodology there follows abrief overview of the ethnographic context. This AHE study focuses on a chemical plant,“Burnsland”, located in a rural location in Scotland. The Burnsland site had nine productionlines and was acquired for $1bn from a UK multinational (HCI) by an Americanmultinational (Chemco). As well as acquiring this site, Chemco acquired other productionsites in Holland and America and a large UK research and commercial centre:

The Author was HR Manager at Burnsland having just joined the site before Chemco acquired it.He had been working in other HCI locations for ten years, but was new to Burnsland. He was also

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studying as a part-time Doctoral student and decided to drop his “postmodern dabbling” (“takinghim nowhere fast”) and instead started documenting events at Burnsland to see what transpired.Immediately, he started to take notes, write down quotes and gather documentation. Initially, it wasthought the story would be about mergers and acquisitions or Human Resources, ultimately thiswas a by-product to the main stories uncovered. The research period lasted 18 months but atthe outset, this was an unknown and the researcher was a full time Chemco employee. The end tothe research period came at a natural break between key events at Burnsland. At the same time, theAuthor began reading a mix of literature on post-structuralism, communities of practice theoryand actor-network theory. Rather than choose an AHE approach, AHE chose the Author.The method appealed to the Author’s view that the world is socially constructed from a collection ofmeanings and sensemaking processes. By collecting these meanings and observing sensemakingin situ, the later applying additional layers of analytical sensemaking the AHE process appeared tobe a perfect fit.

At Burnsland, managers were initially excited by the possibilities the acquisition affordedthem. They talked of “symbiotic technologies and processes” and “opportunities to sharecreative possibilities and product secrets”:

The Author had a choice to remain with HCI but he volunteered to transfer to Chemco for the samereasons as the Burnsland managers and for the chance of promotion, a company car and to lead theHR function across two sites.

There was little resistance to the acquisition locally as Burnsland had both specialist capacitiesnot available elsewhere and more mass production potential than any other site. However,this changed dramatically when Chemco’s strategy became clear and most of the accountfocuses on howmanagers attempted to delay and divert the strategic intent of the organisation:

The Author, in his role as HR Manager, was involved as an active participant in this delayingand diverting.

In brief, Chemco senior management decided to rationalise production in both America andEurope – identifying what production lines to close, what to keep, invest in and develop.They asked for output figures from all production plants. The site in Holland suppliedfuture projections, whilst Burnsland supplied actual figures. Accordingly, the Burnsland sitewas compared unfavourably to the one in Holland by the post-acquisition process; unfairlyin the view of Burnsland managers because the site in Holland had no history of achievingsuch projections. However, as these future projections were higher than Burnsland’s actualfigures, Chemco decided and announced it would close three production lines at Burnslandout of a possible nine, and to make 200 compulsory redundancies (80 of which within90 days), and also made plans for two more production line closures to follow, which itleft unannounced.

The new site manager, a Chemco employee of 30 years, sought to manage this change asa planned process of closure and redundancy, but the local Burnsland managers privatelyresisted. One of these managers was then side lined by the site manager and told he wouldbe transferred, which shocked the others whose resistance to production line closures thenwent underground. Several of these managers were then given the task of delivering theclosure and redundancy programme, through a regular meeting everyone called “the engineroom”. Publicly the engine room appeared to side with the site manager, while backstage itsimultaneously set about slowing down the change programme and seeking ways to derailit altogether. The engine room managers used policies and procedures in intricate ways toslow the change down.

At the end of the research period the outcomes were: first, only two out of threeproduction lines announced for closure as part of the plan were closed on time; second, thethird production line targeted for closure was kept open; third, the 200 compulsoryredundancies did not happen, instead 100 volunteers signed up for redundancy but these

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redundancies happened over eighteen months not immediately; fourth, delays which keptthe third line open allowed engine room managers to demonstrate the site in Holland haddifficulties masked by its projected production figures and, in consequence, Burnslandsecured £9m investment into its remaining lines; fifth, the two “unannounced” productionlines privately earmarked for closure were reprieved indefinitely; and sixth, the sitemanager returned to America to take early retirement just after the research period.

The focus now moves on to methodological issues faced in conducting this AHE account.

What can we learn from how the research was conducted?The key areas of the AHE process are: gaining entry; conducting in the field; recording thedata; analysis; and exiting the field. Each of these is explored in turn.

Gaining entry to BurnslandEthnography involves outsiders “breaking into” a setting (Alvesson, 2009, p. 162). Forexample, Samra-Fredericks (2003, p. 148) talks of “protracted negotiations” to gain access.However, in AHE ethnographers are already insiders who may have “a better feeling forwhat goes on […] deeper and more profound knowledge of a setting” (Alvesson, 2009,p. 163). As Czarniawska (2012, p. 132) points out participant observation where theresearcher is a full participant like Dalton (1959) and Watson (1994) is an “undoubtedlysuperior” form of organisational research achieved:

In the AHE case recounted here, the HR Manager had worked in HR for 15 years, 10 of these forHCI prior to conducting this research. During the acquisition phase, he managed the processesrelated to transferring all European employees to Chemco. He then elected to transfer and relocatedto Burnsland as HR Manager. He had met several of his new managerial colleagues in hisprevious roles.

Alvesson (2009, p. 169) suggests that “being a newcomer and thus having to learn the localculture makes the job [of AHE] in some ways intellectually easier, but politically riskier and,possibly, emotionally more stressful”:

In this case the HR manager was a newcomer to Burnsland and Chemco but, like fellow managersbeing acquired, he was an old-hand from HCI. As Author, this meant he had some level ofdetachment and could “break out”much easier as a newcomer but at the same time he had to provehis credibility as an HR manager “breaking in”.

Gold (1969, p. 35) argues that in the early stages of entering the field “[…] informants may besomewhat uneasy about him [or her] but their uneasiness is likely to disappear when theylearn to trust him [or her]”. However, the process of gaining trust could also influence theresponses or vary the access availability:

In this case the Author did not face this problem so much as an ethnographer but more so as apractitioner. Entering Burnsland as the new HR Manager, transferring from elsewhere in the UK,meant some employees mistook him for a Chemco employee, and some saw him as being anoutsider to Burnsland. Some managers at Burnsland knew the HRManager’s career history, and hehad met several of them in his prior roles, or in the handling of the sale to Chemco. However, hegained most credibility as a practitioner by producing what one manager described as “the bestcommunication pack we have received from HR”. One of the Operations Managers said “It was[HR Manager] who wrote this”. This made the HR Manager feel pleased that his work had beenrecognised and he saw that it led to his acceptance as a full insider. However, his credibility as HRManager was quickly tested when the Site Manager announced the Operations Manager would beremoved from his job. As the HR Manager was away on business at the time this happened, on hisreturn, he was quizzed separately by three managers to find out if he had known this was going tobe announced and if he had planned his absence to avoid the issue. However, he did not know aboutthe Site Manager’s intentions. This became apparent when he told managers the Site Manager’s

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behaviour was unacceptable and if he had known he would have insisted that the OperationsManager was notified in private before telling the team. This was a challenging time for the Authorboth as Author and HR Manager as he was put under pressure and his words and his facialreactions were clearly being scrutinised by the three managers. Any concerns for the Author andhis research were a long way behind what it might have meant for his future as an effective andtrusted HR Manager.

In AHE terms, however, the author had an “acceptable presence” as an HR manager and aclear understanding of the scene being observed as both an author and an manager.

Conduct in the fieldMcCall and Simmons (1969, p. 5) argue that the researcher may become actively involved inthe activities of the field and “can thus acquire directly some sense of the subjective states ofthe participants, [however] this sense remains his own and cannot merely be assumed tocorrespond to that of others”:

Here, the HR Manager as an insider was involved in managing the redundancy process anddeciding which production lines to close. It is not assumed that the Author’s own experience is thesame as that of others nor is it assumed that his motives as an HR Manager are reflected in thebehaviour of others.

However, AHE accounts cannot ignore emotional engagement and such research cannot bedone effectively without the researcher becoming emotionally engaged:

Many of the Author’s actions as HRManager were based on his HR professional need to treat people inways they were accustomed to and legally entitled to under their contracts, which had transferred withthem. He also gained a strong feel for the impact that redundancies were likely to have on the smallrural community, given Chemco was the largest and best paying employer in the area. The Author didfeel a personal need to respect the needs and concerns of others and believed they should be treatedfairly. This is a strong part of the Author’s make up and upbringing. This was one of the reasons hechose HR as a career, and later course leadership. As the HR Manager was involved in making 200people redundant, he was aware of the need for social responsibility. The engine room managers(including the HR Manager/Author) were concerned to treat people with the same level of dignity andfairness, as they would have done in HCI. As the Author, the only issue where the Author struggledwith fairness and dignity was in relation to the duplicity towards the Site Manager. However, thepower relationship was skewed in the Site Manager’s favour. The HR manager had faced intimidationto comply from the Site Manager and the Directors above him. For example, several senior Chemcomanagers were at pains to remind him he “could have a promising future” [with the aim of getting theHR Manager to conform to their plan] and he “should align himself to the organisation”.

This is consistent with Brinkmann’s (2007) suggestion of the interplay between qualitativeresearchers’ skills and their moral virtues:

Today, the economic decline caused by these redundancies is now apparent in shop closures anddilapidated buildings in Burnsland town centre coupled with the rise in the number of cheap goodsand charity shops. As both an HRManager and Author, there was a strong personal and professionalneed to be comfortable with his own behaviour as both an insider and an outsider. Visiting thetown nowadays the Author still feels guilt and some responsibility for its demise – even if he wasinstrumental as HR Manager in saving some jobs.

During AHE observation, events and situations emerge and dilemmas arise which theresearcher must work through as they arise, making decisions that appear to be right atthe time. This view is echoed by Van Maanen (1982, p. 138) who claims there are no simple,pre-formulated answers to dilemmas since we have no a priori knowledge of the situationswe are likely to get into. Rather than sanitizing or airbrushing out our dilemmas, surfacingand addressing them through reflexivity in our writing makes the vulnerabilities of ourresearch visible even if it is not possible to resolve the dilemmas. This is where the idea of

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AHE practices (rather than prescribed processes) comes into play. There may be creativeand/or spontaneous solutions to practice issues arising in the field that cannot be prescribedfor every context and circumstance. Here contextual practice may need to override processrigidity. The researcher is usually better placed at the specific moment to make a “live”judgement of the beneficence (doing-good) and non-maleficence (avoiding doing harm) toparticipants in a rapidly changing and dynamic setting (Iphofen, 2013, p. 16). In hindsightthe judgements may be challenged and societal views may change the acceptability of suchdecisions but reflexivity enables the surfacing of how decisions were arrived at:

The HR Manager was faced with dilemmas over his values and the need to treat people fairly, withinthe law and with an eye to the longer term for the business and the community. Simultaneously hehad to cope with intimidation and threats to his role and future career. As an Author this issue wasnot explored until much later on when the Author had left Chemco and was between jobs. Althoughthe consequences for him as an HR Manager and the possibility of losing his job as a result of hisactions was a constant subconscious thought. Since these events the Author recounted his story to anHR practitioner who immediately felt the Author’s loyalties should have been to the organisation. Onfurther reading of the account the HR practitioner changed her mind as she could clearly see that theAuthor had stood up for his values as an HR professional. Personally, the Author (and HR Manager)never had such doubts as he would have rather worked elsewhere than compromise on his principlesand “moral virtues”. For the HR Manager it was always about the day job and the Author was oftenrelegated to a note taker who worked harder in the evenings. As the Author this was never aboutachieving his doctorate as there were much easier routes and until 6 months into this process it wasnot clear how this would pan out.

Recording the dataLofland (1971, p. 112) suggests that researchers should record detailed notes as soon afterobservation as possible to avoid memory lapses. This enables vivid pictures to besummoned up months later from field notes and not from vague or tainted memory. Thefield notes may take as long to write up as the time spent in observation:

In writing field notes the Author could use the common practice of Burnsland managers of writingnotes in their note books – even if his notes were more copious than normal. The Author’s noteswere written on one side of his notebook and the blank facing page was left for any personalreflections and the downloading of feelings.

Where it was not possible to make notes at the time he could write quick notes immediately aftervarious meetings, during toilet breaks, or by writing notes up and any reflections on events everyevening. During the research, he could access extensive managerial practices far beyond his HRrole. The Author was rarely marginalised and when he was, he managed persuade others to givehim access or to give him information or documentation about an event he missed. As well asextensive field notes a wide range of written documents were gathered. These ranged from e-mails,letters, procedures, presentations, agreements, media reportage and internal records.

This additional research data gathering is akin to the “rapid assessment” approachsuggested by Stewart and Aldrich (2015):

The Author decided to write down as much as possible as he felt it was better to capture everythingas it happens and decide later the relevance and importance of specific events. He also took copiesof all documentation that came his way as HR Manager.

Gathering as much information and ethnographic evidence at this stage cannot beunderestimated as the importance or “remarkability” of events is not always obvious untilsometime later:

The Author was grateful for the prior knowledge of Orr’s (1996) honest reflection that his own fieldnotes omitted certain information that was taken-for-granted and obvious to participants butperhaps less obvious and more remarkable at the analysis stage. Where data was known, but not in

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the field notes, the Author at the analysis stage had to either find the data in other documentationor it was not used as he felt that was sound rigorous AHE practice. However, given the wide rangeof topic areas the Author omitted from his doctorate this did not prove to be a substantial issue!

The physical and mental fatigue associated with AHE should not be underestimated.Working full time as a management practitioner is difficult but AHE adds an observationaland note taking role to this:

The HR manager worked 10 hours a day on average, was quite often involved in working againstthe direction his senior manager intended and had to retain competing agendas in his head andthink on his feet. All these activities were as an insider only and form part of the everyday role of amanager trying to make sense of the work situation and to use micro politics and economies of thetruth in pursuit of local interests over those of the macro organisation (Chemco). Then as anAuthor/outsider, he went home and wrote his notes up each night. It was hard some evenings tosummon up the energy or see the point of the note taking but he persevered.

Other ethnographers have made similar comments. For example, Law (2004, p. 108)describes how he “escaped” to his car to eat lunch and get some peace from theoverwhelming amount of research data and Samra-Fredericks (2005, p. 807) goes so far as tosay it is a “debilitating” research method:

The Author was new to the Burnsland region so he had just bought a new house that neededrenovation. In addition, he had started a new relationship with a local woman who he could notdisclose any of this story to due to the tight knit nature of the community. Thankfully, she got toread the full story when he left Chemco and they were married. As an Author his only soundingboard during research was a very good PhD supervisor and ethnographic stories from others forcompany. So often a lonely, exhausting and, at times, tedious experience.

AnalysisIn the field at-home ethnographers are primarily participants so tend to be close to peopleand events being studied. When they leave the field or undertake analysis they need tocreate distance. Ethnographers have a similar issue but it is not as stark because theystart as outsiders and usually they return to being outsiders. At-home ethnographers arelikely to remain as participants beyond the research period. To overcome this issue AHEaccounts need to make the taken-for-granted, cryptic and the familiar sufficiently strangeas to become critically analysable, storyable and remarkable. In the study, reported above,frequent use of quotes or indications of some cryptic utterances or action made by amanager in situ are employed. Then some context is added and care is taken explainingthe background knowledge assumed. For example (Vickers and Fox, 2010, p. 907):

[HR Manager] suggested that “HCI severance procedures could be used to manage things”.(A cryptic utterance) These procedures had evolved to resolve a specific dispute elsewhere in HCIand were common practice across sites (explanation of background knowledge assumed) […] Thus,HCI old-timers could infer from [HR Manager’s] cryptic comments that the Engine Room processusing “HCI severance procedures” would be voluntary and could be used to delay redundanciesand production line closures. Picking up on this cryptic inference, in reply, one middle managersaid: “I’m glad that [Site Manager] is away in the States”, a remark, which made transparent toeveryone that what was being agreed here, behind [Site Manager’s] back was a way of slowingdown the redundancy strategy whilst appearing to progress it by due procedure (explanation ofbackground knowledge assumed). This view was echoed by negative comments made throughoutthe meeting as participants: (a) distanced themselves from the Chemco way of managingredundancy and (b) began to see the alternative was the old HCI way […] No managerhad publicly stated a collective desire to conspire against Chemco’s post-acquisition closureand redundancy strategy but they had all begun to see and pursue an alternative strategy,of voluntary redundancies, warranted by their collective recollection of an old HCI way ofconducting redundancies.

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Alvesson (2003, pp. 185-187) suggests several ways in which the researcher may be able to lookat their familiar home base with fresh eyes, three of which were employed in this AHE account:taking naturally occurring breakdowns of participants’ understandings within the site asopportunities to inspect their assumptions and expectations; considering “irony and self-irony[…] to create a certain distance to more serious arguments put forward” (pp. 185-186); andchallenging common sense and “shaking around fixed pre-understandings” (p. 186):

The Author found (i) The acquisition and post-acquisition process pitted the incoming Chemcomanagement’s view of Burnsland against the local (newly acquired) management’s view creating anatural breakdown of assumption and expectations; (ii) The newly acquired managers readilyironized the viewpoints and manoeuvres of the incoming Site Manager, making visible amongstinsiders, emerging differences of opinion about the nature of proper or improper HR managementpractices and; (iii) The Author, whilst still an insider, then analysed daily activities withinconceptual frameworks. In these ways, the Author carried out careful reflection of his field notes to“break out” and “liberate” himself from the frameworks of Burnsland and Chemco.

This is achieved by making the home base as an insider strange to himself and reportable interms which described and explained management work practices to his own satisfactionbut viewed them through a filter of outsider analysis.

Two devices were employed to create further distance between insider and outside – athird person style in the writing of the account and using pseudonyms throughoutthe accounts:

Using this approach the Author adopts two identities as inside participant and outsideobserver, which, helps him distance himself from his own setting and research and createsdistance so that things can be seen differently. The Author prefers to write in this way as he has nointention to write an auto-ethnographic account and prefers not to adopt poetic or performativeliterary practices.

This is consistent with Gannon (2006, p. 480) who draws upon Foucault to suggest thatadopting “writing practices that aim to displace or ‘disassemble’ the self” (Rabinow, 1997,p. xxxviii). This is also the style that has been adopted in this paper as it is about oneattempt at AHE not about the author. For example:

When recently analysing the field notes as an outside observer the Author thought “wow didI actually say that – I cannot believe it.”

The downside of using pseudonyms and writing in the third person is that the reader mayget a feeling that AHE has a flavour of something covert; even though in this case the studywas overt and in the interest of ethics, managers were aware of the research.

When the Author became Burnsland HR Manager and decided as the Author to take notes ofevents, he had no idea at that point redundancies would become the key focus of events. Therewas no sense of how events would unfold or what research outcomes were likely to be, he justthought events surrounding an acquisition might lend themselves to such inquiry. As an at-homeethnographer actively engaged in the story some themes that usually emerge in the analysisphase become clear part way through the data gathering process when several stories begin toemerge within the field notes. Stories about the engine room became clear after 6 months. But thefull analysis took place after the Author left Chemco and subsequent analysis of the field noteshas identified topics such as management behaviour (Vickers, 2005, 2008), HR practices (Vickersand Fox, 2010), safety and so on.

A gap between data gathering and analysis may not be immediately clear and this can makedistance harder to achieve. However, moving from data gathering to analysis is a significantbreak in the process for distance to occur.

In this case the analysis was in three phases: familiarisation; categorising; and creating aconceptual framework.

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Familiarisation involved reading all the data line by line looking for patterns. The aimwas to look for: data that did not fit with previous knowledge, theory or officialaccounts; apparent contradictions and inconsistencies between expressed beliefs andattitudes and what was said and done at other times; actions, words or behavioursthat appeared repeatedly; things commonly done or said in one context but not in others;unremarkable and taken-for-granted common occurrences may be viewed differently andmade remarkable:

The hegemonic or official account on redundancies was to progress redundancies quickly andcompulsorily with product transfers made to other product lines around Europe and America.However, an antenarrative was evident on the redundancy process [as the example abovedemonstrates]. The data, actions, behaviours and words did not fit the official account and wererecurring. Similar behaviours and actions were also evident in other areas (e.g. safety practices andproduct transfers to other production lines).The story was rife with contradictions. If the Authorhad started out to study redundancy procedure it would hardly be regarded as remarkable orinteresting. However, the managerial practices were much more complex and definitely remarkable.

Categorising then involved going through field notes line by line and event by event lookingfor quotes and behaviours that fitted the patterns identified in the familiarisation phase:

A conceptual framework was developed. In the original AHE study (Vickers, 2005) this process wasfollowed and two key events were identified – Asset Rationalisation processes (production lineclosures, product transfers) and Engine Room processes (redundancy handling) and there weredistinct behaviours in each of these two processes with contradictions and inconsistencies betweenthem. In later research work specific issues have been considered such as HR practice (Vickers andFox, 2010) or management sensemaking (Vickers, 2008) and looked for all data relating to HR ormanagement sensemaking practices.

By applying an additional analytical lens, it is possible to create a conceptual framework toprovide a deeper form of analysis and critique of the account. The creation of a conceptualframework provides another way to create distance:

When parts of this account have been told elsewhere other lenses have been used - Actor-NetworkTheory (ANT) (Vickers, 2005); Narrative Analysis (Vickers, 2008) and Communities of PracticeTheory combined with ANT (Vickers, 2005; Vickers and Fox, 2010).

Through this reflexive (Alvesson et al., 2008) application of a critical lens we are able to usefresh eyes and “help shake around fixed pre-understandings” (Alvesson, 2003, pp. 185-187):

In this account, decentring the Author is achieved by creating distance during analysis and writingin a third person style. This enables a full telling of a realist tale with the Author as a character inthe story but not necessarily as the centre of events. Much of the analysis took place after the otherleft Chemco, although it had not been his original intention to leave.

Exiting the fieldThe ethnographer, as an outsider, knows at some stage they will leave the field. In the caseof AHE, it is about ceasing research to return to complete participation or may involveleaving the organisation for another job:

The Author remained as HRManager for another few months and then left to work in a University.The Author and HR Manager did not compromise his principles and moral virtues. The researchperiod was a tumultuous time in the Author’s life but one in which he learned a lot about himself,his professionalism and his capabilities as a researcher. Anyone who has completed a doctorateknows, it requires incredible tenacity to stick with it to the end. With AHE this was also true ofkeeping field notes, writing up nightly and remembering to collect documents. The Author wasalways an HR manager and never intended to become an academic, so maintaining professionalcredibility as well as personal values was important and incredibly challenging. Whilst leaving

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Chemco was the right thing to do it was a worrying time as needed to find another job. When theAuthor moved into academia, it was his HR professionalism that got him the job as he hadcredibility to teach HR practitioners. With a few years in a university writing up his thesis alsoenabled a “break out” and the use of “fresh eyes”. Writing about events at Burnsland invarious ways subsequently can feel like the Author is trapped in a video that we watch everyChristmas and yet see different things each time we watch it. Thankfully, there have been otherresearch projects!

Leaving the field may be determined by circumstances as in the case of Punch (1993) whenhis six months of sabbatical and holiday ended. Such a time period fits with Stewart andAldrich’s (2015) suggestions for shorter ethnographies through “rapid assessment”.Evidence exists of anthropologists in non-business settings undertaking shorter periods offieldwork (see Stewart and Aldrich, 2015) so why not in business settings?

By engaging reflexively with this AHE account and taking a “practice turn” as bothauthor and HR manager the paper takes a definite departure from rigid prescriptions ofwhat constitutes “good research”. Through this approach, the dilemmas and messiness ofAHE practice has been explored in order to help promote a new wave of such reflections.

By drawing on Pack’s (2011) product, person and process approach a clear view of AHEcan be developed from the Burnsland account. The product in this case is relatively clearcut. For the author it is a thesis and publications whereas product for the HR managermeans doing the day job in an attempt to achieve specific work goals. The person in AHE isless clear and the two roles become conflated. The author describes himself, his own foibles,characteristics and role credibility but this is intertwined with his HR manager persona.However, there are clear differences between the author and the HR manager in relation torole experience and credibility. Process is also clear in this account and on the face of it quitesimple to explain. For the author it is the AHE process framework and for the HRmanager itis the redundancy process. However, by focusing on practice, the dilemmas, choices andmessiness of AHE become more apparent and through this particular reflexive account themessiness and complexities of the HR manager’s work are clearly identified.

Finally, to add an additional layer of reflexivity and also in the spirit of this special issue,the author will reflect upon the journal peer review process. For this idea, the author is mostgrateful to one of the anonymous reviewers:

The Author has experienced reviews with previous submissions and as Ashforth (2005, p. 401)argues reviews do “separate the wheat from the chaff and thus enhance the quality of the wheat”.However, he continues by arguing that the process of review can result in writing the paper thereviewers want rather than the one the author originally intended just to ensure publication.

For the current review process, the reflexivity has been improved considerably by the reviewers’comments. The Author has finally resolved a long-standing dilemma he had always grappled withon his ethical position. Technically (epistemic) the Author has always been able to robustly defendhis AHE choices. Largely because in the pseudo-scientific world in which we live the choice isdefence or write “scientific” research. However, ethically the 2 burning questions for the Authorhave been – was I an ethical HR practitioner? And was I an ethical AHE researcher. The reviewprocess has made that visible to me and the answer now is very clearly – yes. Whilst having such adilemma was very good for the soul and made me question my practice sin both roles I can now layit to rest.

As HR Manager the Author challenged the organisations’ unethical behaviour over its processfor production line closures and subsequent redundancies. This unethical behaviour could not beraised openly as the organisations’ treatment of the first person to do so demonstrated. AsAHE Researcher the Author was overt and managers were aware of the research. By writing withpseudonym, apart from the Author, nobody is adversely affected by the publication. In additionby bringing the research to light managers and scholars may benefit in some ways fromthe accounts.

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Discussion“Science is only one form of research and other forms are largely squeezed out” (Harley,2015, p. 403) or “sanitized” (Donnelly et al., 2013, p. 7). When accounts are published theyfocus, primarily, on product with limited description of person and process. Whilst this maywell get us published, it presents research as clean and tidy and reduces our ability todefend the “anecdotal” and “unscientific” criticisms. The person and process descriptionstend to be used in a methodologically defensive way to counter this positivistic critique.Even the “distancing” practices we employ are partly pandering to the dominantquantitative methodology. Distancing in some ways reaffirms the positivistic view thatresearch can be value free. Reflexivity in such polished journal accounts also fits this patternand is either “ducked” completely (Buroway, 2003) or minimalistic in order to comply. Weneed a better balance by simultaneously articulating and reflecting and this paper employsreflexivity on AHEmethodology to unpack its messiness. It also attempts to give an accountof what it is like to undertake AHE methodology with a focus on processes and practices.

More of these fine-grained, insider accounts from managers (Samra-Fredericks, 2003;Vickers and Fox, 2010; Stewart and Aldrich, 2015) and a turn to practice would surelydevelop our understanding and teaching of management. To this end, “we need morereflexive accounts on ethnographic process and practices that demonstrate awareness of[…] dilemmas and encouraging us to admit them publicly” ( Johnson et al., 2006, p. 148). Thisopenness and honesty (Punch, 1986) gives the reader the opportunity to judge the qualityof the account and compare and contrast it with their own experiences. This use ofmethodological rigour, face validity and transferability is how our accounts should bemeasured. Through explaining the complexity of AHE we can “show, meaning [and] provideenough detail that readers may come to their own conclusions about the scene. This iscontrasted from the author telling the reader what to think” (Tracy (2010, p. 843). The debatethis generates between managers in the classroom is an additional strength of AHEaccounts and allows personal transferability of learning.

Pässilä et al. (2015, p. 71) describe practical reflexivity as deeper questioning of thetaken-for-granted, and gaining emerging knowledge from its reconstruction or maintenance inchallenging situations. Whilst most management programmes encourage reflexive practiceand continuous professional development it can be hard for educators to get students to movebeyond accepting at face value towards critical reflexivity (see Samra-Fredericks, 2003). Thisis partly because we are asking them to destabilise taken-for-granted “truths” (Cunliffe, 2009;Nicolini et al., 2004) and challenge the fabric of the system that offers them career prospectsand rewards (Cunliffe, 2009).

Samra-Fredericks (2003) argues for a critical pedagogy based on ethnographic researchthat begins with managerial practices. She argues that the mundane and “taken forgranteds” that pervade management practice” can then be unpacked and challenged. Thisapproach allows us to move beyond cognitive acquisition of knowledge, techniques and“best practice” methods towards a deeper insights about processes and practices ofeveryday management interactions. By using reflexive practice in educating managers weare attempting to “break the habits of routine thought [and thus] see the world as thoughfor the first time” (Cooper and Burrell, 1988, p. 101). By destabilising and deconstructingpractice reflexively we may “develop […] something new or different” (Alvesson et al.,2008, p. 495).

Using AHE accounts in teaching is one way to encourage the need for critical reflectionbut managers using the AHE method for themselves takes us a step further. Vince (2011)suggested reflexivity in managerial programmes would expose students to critical issuessuch as power relations, conflict and gender issues. For AHE this is especially so, asresearchers must “break out […] from socially shared frameworks” (Alvesson, 2009, p. 167).This enables managers also question their organisation and their own practices. This could

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provide fresh insights and learning and renewed impetus to critical reflexivity onmanagerial practice. However, as Alvesson (2003, p. 188) points out, this method is not forthe loyal, conformist organisational person.

ConclusionBy taking a “turn to practice” approach to AHE through reflexivity it is clear that finegrained, in situ accounts from managers embellish the field and allow for greaterunderstanding of managerial practice. “Rapid assessment” approaches mean the amount oftime to conduct AHE accounts does not need to be a barrier for students who are alsopracticing managers. A much harder obstacle to overcome is the negativity surroundinginsider accounts perceived as “anecdotal” or “unscientific”. To some extent, being reflexivein exploring the messiness of our AHE (and professional) practices is how we achieve this.However, those using this methodology have a duty to surface the ethical as well as theepistemic considerations. By publishing such accounts we are able to push back against thehegemonic institutionalised pressures that blanket and silence academia as well asmanagerial practices. We can do this by providing more “alternatives to the dominantapproach.” (Harley, 2015, p. 405). The author has used several Burnsland stories to greateffect in teaching managers and this helps managers to realise the benefits of AHE overpseudo-scientific accounts far removed from actual practice. AHE is criticised for theself-permeating the story. However, we must persevere, as “good” accounts offer deepinsights to inform management practice and learning. In addition, we must notunderestimate personal development from employing reflexivity in everyday practice.

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Further reading

Alvesson, M. and Deetz, S. (2000), Doing Critical Management Research, Sage, London.

Corresponding authorDavid Andrew Vickers can be contacted at: davickers@uclan.ac.uk

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“Good” things take time: a livingstory of research as “life”

Fiona HurdDepartment of International Business, Auckland University of Technology,

Auckland, New Zealand, andSuzette Dyer and Mary Fitzpatrick

University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand

AbstractPurpose – Although the process of fieldwork is often characterised by disorder, the requirement to adhere toa tightly defined methodology and produce timely research outputs often leads the authors to present thefindings as though the research has been the product of a linear process. The purpose of this paper isto unmask this paradox, by documenting the disorder and development of a research project 15 years (so far)in duration.Design/methodology/approach – The approach used in this paper is one of auto-ethnographic reflection,drawing on aspects of Boje’s living story approach, incorporating not only the “linear” narrative of theresearch process, but also fragments of ante-narrative, themes running above and below the dominant.Within the study, the authors are reflecting on, a range of qualitative methods, including interview, focusgroups, memory-work, and living story (ante-narrative) methods, which are employed within a criticalmanagement research methodology.Findings – The authors’ experiences show that although “messiness”may be an inherent part of qualitativeresearch, it is this very disorder, and the consequent opportunities for time and space, that allows theresearch, and the researcher, “time to breathe”. This reflexivity allows for methodological development andrefinement, and ultimately rigorous and participative research, which also honours the participants. Theauthors argue that although this approach may not align with the current need for prolific (and rapid)publication, in allowing the disorder to “be” in the research, and allowing the time to reassess theoretical andmethodological lenses, the resultant stories may be more authentic – both the stories gathered fromparticipants and the stories of research.Originality/value – The paper highlights the intertwining of stories of participants and stories fromresearch, which is a significant addition to understandings of the “messiness” of qualitative research. Thispaper adds to the growing call for the inclusion of “chaos” and authenticity in qualitative research,acknowledging and valuing the humanity of the researcher, and giving voice to the paradox between the timeto methodologically develop, and the requirement for timely research.Keywords Reflexivity, Stories, Fieldwork, Disorder, Research risksPaper type Research paper

IntroductionAlthough, in practice, the process of fieldwork is often characterised by disorder (Donnellyet al., 2013), the desire to adhere to a tightly defined methodological and theoretical traditionoften leads us to present our findings as though the research has been the product of a linearprocess (De wet and Erasmus, 2005; Ganesh, 2014). Moreover, a desire to be seen as legitimatewithin disciplines which still often privilege positivist quantitative research as inherentlyrigorous (Sarma, 2015), sees qualitative researchers attempt to mirror descriptions, andturnaround times, of quantitative studies. Indeed, Hermann (2012) reminds us that the natureof research traditions is historically bound, and argues that qualitative work, whichforegrounds subjectivity, is subject to a process of “maturing”. Could it be that in the desire topresent qualitative research as rigorously “academic” and “legitimate”, we may be ignoring animportant part of the unique process of gathering and assembling qualitative research, andmissing an opportunity to develop as researchers, and indeed as a research community?

The current context of business education is firmly focussed on the rapid turnaround ofresearch outputs, and increasingly the employment of the researcher is incentivised,

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:

An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019

pp. 27-42© Emerald Publishing Limited

1746-5648DOI 10.1108/QROM-03-2017-1507

Received 29 March 2017Revised 5 November 2017

17 April 2018Accepted 5 October 2018

The current issue and full text archive of this journal is available on Emerald Insight at:www.emeraldinsight.com/1746-5648.htm

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or contingent, on adhering to a programme of frequent publications (Dowling, 2014).Hermann (2012) terms this process academic capitalism, requiring ever increasingresearcher “productivity”, measured largely through publication number. Within thiscontext, the priority for many researchers, often through pragmatic necessity, is onmethodological approaches which offer a quick turnaround (Mingers and Willmott, 2010).Similarly, the institutional processes governing research, such as the ethics process requiresthe researcher to detail a tidy, systematic methodology and design, with any disorderrelegated to discussions of contingency, and oftentimes contain a time limit for the researchto be completed. However, as described by Donnelly et al. (2013), the research process ofqualitative research is rarely without a degree of chaos.

This paradox renders, according to Donnelly et al. (2013) “hidden stories about tellingstories of the organizational, and about doing knowledge about the organizational” (p. 6).For Van Maanen (1988), the telling of “confessional tales” involves first-person accounts ofresearch experiences, both as a reflexive tool, and a form of cultural critique (Cunliffe, 2010).Reflexivity in research is emphasised as central to interpretive and critical research, aimingto narrow the distance between the researcher and “researched other” (Day, 2012, p. 62).Indeed, Cunliffe (2010, p. 226) highlights that “whether we recognise it or not our tale is asmuch about our ‘room’ and ‘view’ as it is about the world of others”. Moreover, there is anacceptance that the process of research reflexivity often involves the passage of time, andperspective gained with periods of distance from the project. Indeed, these “pauses” in theresearch process enable a stepping back from the work, and often a return to the work witha new perspective (Day, 2012). However, filling dual roles of “researchers” and “employees”,particularly within the neo-liberal university, often requires a trade-off between researchoutput, and the time and space for maturity of the research and the researcher.

However, for Van Maanen (1988), the confessional tale is not without its critique, andindeed, he describes how in many cases the confessional tale is aimed at legitimising theresearchers’ work, ultimately to “demonstrate the competence of the fieldworker” (Ganesh,2014, p. 449). In doing so, the researcher is often more concerned with the notions above ofappearing scientifically “rigorous”, than exploring the role of fragmented, personal, andrelational aspects of research on the production of “knowledge” (Ganesh, 2014).

In this paper, we unmask this context which many of us work within, and highlight thebenefits of allowing the research “time to breathe”, and in doing so we render our (imperfect)position in the research process explicit (Daskalaki, 2012). In doing so, we go beyond theconfessional tale, and provide an example of pushing “the boundaries of powerful anddominant publication norms” (Tracy, 2012, p. 113). We describe our experiences over thepast 15 years, designing and redesigning a single research project, all within the context ofour own ebb and flows of career, fluidity of research team, and personal life. This story istold as an auto-ethnographic adaptation of Boje’s (2008) “living story” approach. Ratherthan a focus on the tidy “Beginning, Middle, End (BME)”, living story researchers focus onthe complexity of ante-narratives which occur before, after, and simultaneously to the“narrative”. For Boje and Tyler (2009, p. 173), the living story “recognises the plurality ofselves that constitute our identity, and our reflexivity that is out of time, more upon whatlies below and above”. Boje (2008, p. 1) further describes ante-narratives as involving “aform of repackaging – where new characteristics are recognized and old characteristics areminimized”, involving chaos, not in the sense of a “neglect of order” (p. 2), but whereby“order is hidden, subterranean, preconscious” aligned with such an approach, Daskalaki(2012) highlights how autobiographical and autoethnographic studies help us to“understand how our academic ‘characters’ fit the plot of our personal life and how ourexperiences as practitioners in/transform the plot of our academic scenarios” (p. 431).Therefore, in this paper, we document the living story of this research project. We concurwith Peticca-Harris et al. (2016) that the process of gaining and interacting with participants

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is often more than simply a pre-requisite of the “real” work of research, but can significantlyshape the research. Our experiences have taught us that although messiness may be aninherent part of qualitative research, it is this very disorder that provides spaces formethodological and theoretical reflexivity and growth. We argue that although thisadmission may not align with the need for prolific (and rapid) publication, in allowing thedisorder to “be” in the research, and allowing the time to reassess theoretical andmethodological lenses, the resultant outcome is more robust research. In doing so, weprovide an example of what Day (2012) and Spry (2001) consider a performative praxis ofresearch, which, aligned with our critical management background, has transformative andemancipatory potential. Day (2012) argues that this praxis, “making explicit the processesby which we come to know” (p. 62) holds significant benefits both for the researcher, andalso has significance to the collective understanding of the process of methodologicaldevelopment, as we adjust our practice to respond to ebbs and flows in the research process.Additionally, the unmasking of the subjectivity of the research process renders the powerstructures embedded in the research process explicit, in doing so having the potential totransform the nature of “research” both for the researcher and the “researched”.

Research backgroundOur story begins in late 2002, five days before Christmas, when a large-scale redundancyannouncement was made at a pulp and paper mill in a town located just 1 h from ourUniversity (Thompson, 2003). This town, once the fastest growing town in New Zealand,had experienced systematic downsizing of the local industry, and associated socio-economicdecline, over the past 20 years. The lead researcher initiated the research through an intereston both a personal and research basis, as someone with personal attachment to the industry(growing up nearby, her brother worked in forestry), and as a critical managementresearcher interested in the way in which global forms of organisation impacted at a locallevel. A second researcher joined the project as an enthusiastic research assistant, about toenter postgraduate study, with little knowledge of the context and no personal attachmentto the project, but a strong interest in critical management studies and industrial relations.

The resultant three-month strike action which resulted from the redundancyannouncement led to one of the longest strikes in NZ history. However, this industrialaction was set within the context of a general lack of support for industrial action withinthe wider New Zealand community, and wider public vilification of striking workers andunions. With this contextual backdrop, we were curious; what about this town sustainedsuch action? Tokoroa is a single industry rural town in central New Zealand, founded in1947 on land owned by New Zealand Forest Products, New Zealand’s largest privatelyowned company at the time (Healy, 1982). Tokoroa is situated 3 h south of NZ’s biggestcity (Auckland) and in close proximity to the large-scale central north island forests.The Kinleith Pulp and Paper Mill, built 8 km south of the town is a dominant presence onthe landscape and in the community. The company and government had a collaborativeapproach to town development, in a New Zealand first, and by the time Kinleith Millopened in 1954, the company housing project was the largest private housing scheme inNew Zealand.

The town was largely made up of mill workers and their families, and as such had alarge proportion of young people. The mill workforce peaked in 1980 at approximately6,000 (McCaw and Harbridge, 1990). However, as with many industry towns, the globalshift to outsourcing aspects of production has seen activities once performed locally beingexported off-shore. These include the processing of logs into pulp and the production ofpaper. Resultant large-scale redundancies have characterised the workforce, and by 2013it stood at approximately 300 workers. The impact of this downsizing was not only on thedirect employees of the Mill, but across the many supporting occupations within the

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Tokoroa workforce. The town of Tokoroa has been in a state of population andsocio-economic decline since the mid-1980s – the period also when a programme ofneo-liberal structural adjustment was implemented in New Zealand.

The town, being a single industry town, is also entwined with previous research onsingle industry towns (often called “resource-based communities” in North America). Mostof this writing has come from the North American experience, and particularly the Canadianexperience (Barnes and Hayter, 1992; Behrisch et al., 2002; Leadbeater, 2004; Lucas, 1972;Parkins, 2003; Randall and Ironside, 1996). In the New Zealand context, single industrytowns were a primary target of employment in-migration (Chapple, 1976), a term whichdescribes the moving into a community or region. Many of the towns were state-plannedand developed directly as an instrument to control unemployment in the post First andSecond World War periods. Migration from the cities to the developing towns wasencouraged and the towns became characterised by high levels of population growth, highwages, and a highly skilled workforce. During the 1960s and 1970s, due to full employmentand high demand for workers from industry, New Zealand began a planned employmentmigration programme from the Pacific Islands (Kelsey, 1997). Many of the positions offeredwere in regional industry towns, where the demand for workers was high.

The discourses of “the single industry town” have significantly changed since thegrowth period of the post-war era, and are now dominated by descriptions of decline andmeritocracy, as embedded in neo-liberalism. Where once the state played an active role inthe very early development and recruitment of citizens to these often remote locations, nownotions of individual responsibility and effort (or perceived lack thereof ) characterise therhetoric. The current popular construction of “single industry town” is of a town that is poor,dirty, slightly out of date, and somehow unable or unwilling to adapt to the new necessitiesof the global marketplace.

Theoretical positioning on project commencementThis research was initially framed within a critical management tradition (Alvesson andWillmott, 1992) and particularly a concern about the exploitative tendencies of globalbusiness within a framework of neo-liberal capitalism. Of particular interest was thewidespread adoption of neo-liberal policies and practices, and the concurrent spread ofglobal corporate activity and adoption of new work practices. From the perspective ofcritical Scholars such as Alvesson and Willmott (1992), this adoption is concerning, asneo-liberal policies seem to represent unfettered capitalism; capitalism in potentially its mostexploitative and destructive form. This concern seemed reasonable to us, evidenced byglobal and national changes in income inequality and rates of over under andunemployment. Further, the associated processes changes in the nature and structure ofwork, in particular the global division of labour, adoption of flexibility, and concurrenthuman resource management practices, seems to have moved corporate control overworkers from the workplace to every part of life, and even to the self (Fleming and Sturdy,2009). From this position, the town of Tokoroa appeared to be an example of a communityformed in the company’s interests under a Keynesian political agenda, now renderedresponsible for its own “destiny” in a world of individualised neo-liberalism. Aligned with acritical management research partial ethnographic methodology (Alvesson and Deetz, 2000),we decided that the first phase of our research would be a deep historical and contextualanalysis, carried out using secondary sources.

Phase 1: deep background studyThe background study consisted of a six-month historic and contextual analysisof the period 1920–2002, of the development of the NZ forestry industry, the town ofTokoroa, and subsequent changes occurring in the NZ political, economic, and

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employment landscape. These developments were set against a backdrop of increasedinternational business activity and global political change. Key findings from the deepbackground study seemed to reinforce our suspicions that single industry towns,embedding notions of community, work and organisation, provided specific micro-levelexamples of macro global changes. The scope of this initial phase was not only decideddue to the methodological choices we had made; it was also scoped as appropriate for amaster’s dissertation, and was carried out by the junior team member as such. The juniorteam member, although not personally connected to the case study, nor with anyparticular interest beyond a broader interest in critical management studies, was attractedto the proposition as it provided a well-defined topic, which generally takes some time forpostgraduate students.

Secondary study conclusionsOur background study of the context of Tokoroa concluded that it could be usefullyconceptualised as a micro-example of changes in the global political economy. Thisconclusion reinforced our initial critical positioning and left us feeling optimistic about thefuture of the project. The discourse embedded in the report of the initial phase reveals astrong tendency towards this critical structural analysis:

As indicated by the findings of this investigation, events that have occurred at the Kinleith Pulpand Paper Mill have been broadly reflective of changes occurring in the wider social, political andeconomic context.

The development of the forestry industry in New Zealand was a government welfaremechanism – a deliberate effort to provide employment during the Great Depression. Therefore,government ideology was key to the very first stage of development of the forestry industry. Afterthe introduction of Keynesian principles into New Zealand government policy, the development ofthe forestry industry was largely based around government social policy – with increases inactivity during times of potential high unemployment. The timing of the first pulp and paperlicense was also significantly intertwined with social objectives – in order to provide diversifiedemployment during the post-war period.

From the opening of the Mill, until the programme of structural adjustment in the 1980s and 1990s,the mill was an organisational level representation of the Keynesian ideology. In this sense, eventhough the Kinleith plant was (in theory) privately owned, the national-level ideology transferred tothe private sector ideology. The Mill represented a self-sufficient site, with each section viewed ascontributing to the overall economic well-being of the plant. Similarly, under this ideology, theworkforce held a role of significant importance. New Zealand’s egalitarian history had long valuedproduction workers alongside “professionals” and business owners, and this followed through tothe employment relations strategy at the Mill. Up until the 1980s, the workforce held significantpower, the power to work or not to work, the power to exert pressure if working conditions werejudged to be unfair, and generally received majority support for these decisions amongst thesurrounding community.

Through viewing the Kinleith case in light of the historical, political economic and social context, itbecomes possible to observe developments, which over time have become embedded within society.The reforms of the 1980s and 1990s introduced a radical form of neo-liberalism into New Zealand,containing themes such as individualism, meritocracy, and narrow economic notions of “efficiency”and “productivity”. Today, these themes are normalised within societal ideology, and form part ofthe basic framework upon which societal values and practices are formed. An example can be seenin the response from Tokoroa when plans for temporary employment during the modernisationprogramme were announced. The town was grateful for this employment, which was a markedcontrast to the full-employment philosophy of a decade earlier.

The globalisation of companies further removed the decision-makers from the site ofproduction, leading to increasing commodification of individual production sites – as

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individual plants are reduced to costs on a global balance sheet. An example of this is givenin relation to Kinleith:

CHH wants the mill to stay open but, as he stresses several times during the interview, only if thecompany can run it how it wants. If not, CHH and its American-based parent company,International Paper, will walk away from the mill and Tokoroa. He says there are too many millsalready around the world and more than 60 mills have closed in North America since 1999.Only profitable mills survive, and he claims Kinleith has lost money for the past two years(Thompson, 2003, 10 May).

Finally, related to the themes discussed above, critical theorists hold that capitaliststructures require a “cadre of docile functionaries” – individuals to carry out its work,without questioning. These individuals become docile through the hegemonic embeddingof the capitalist ideology. This case clearly illustrates the docility of large sections ofsociety – from the workers, to the surrounding community, and the wider New Zealandsociety. For example, throughout the workforce reduction of the 1980s and 1990s,the continuous change and restructuring, and increasing intensification described above,although there was occasional questioning of the detail in relation to these changes, therewas a marked lack of questioning with regards to the fundamental nature of the changes.The current changes were accepted with an air of resignation, as though they werefundamentally inevitable, as displayed in the following:

But workers too have to accept that sometimes a business has to bite the bullet and shed staff tostay in business. CHH says it has got to that stage with Kinleith. It says there is no alternative to therestructuring plan. That is something the workers and the town have sensed was going to happen.And that’s probably why Tokoroa has accepted the announcement with a sense of doggeddetermination to survive, rather than despair. The residents have been through this sort of thingbefore and have come through it. They know the company and the workers have to make therestructuring work (Mill Changes Have to Work, 30 May 2002).

The process of institutionalisation of change at the mill can be related to the analysis provided byDeetz (2000), who describes how continuous change works to destablise structures which maychallenge the organisation. Through the process of “deinstitutionalization”, workers becomedetached from all but the organisation, resulting in a loss of other forms of “meaning”, andcommunity values. Essentially, the organisation becomes the overarching focus. Part of thisprocess involves the “management of culture”, which can be seen in the Kinleith case during therecent round of redundancies.

Moreover, through the course of the dissertation, the junior researcher had developed a realinterest for the case town and the wider forestry industry, surprising even herself! Uponconcluding this study, we set out to conduct an initial small-scale collection of primary datato facilitate development of the future research focus, and also to (hopefully) lead toopportunities for quick turnaround publications. We framed this initial empirical phase as apilot study, aware of the methodological limitations to conducting a small-scale study on alimited sample.

Phase 2: pilot studyOur pilot study, conducted in 2004, was based on a set of interviews of young people whogrew up in the town, based around a set of themes which emerged from Phase 1 above:

• What are the understandings of the townspeople of the restructuring?

• What are the implications of the firm restructuring for the employees that have losttheir jobs?

• What are the implications of the restructuring for the township?

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Justification for the choice of sample lay in the prevalence of youth moving away(out-migration) from such towns, however, in pragmatic terms, we used a conveniencesample by interviewing students at our university. We conducted six semi-structuredinterviews, our participants being a mix of men and women. We thematically analysed theverbatim transcripts, initially with an open coding approach, then coalescing around keygroups of themes.

Among the issues the young people detailed were the changing role of the union in boththe workplace and the town, important changes to demographics and the impact onfriendships and informal networks, impact of unemployment and growing incomepolarisation on social services, and the impact of restructuring and downsizing of the majoremployer on the career paths of young people in the town (Dyer and Hurd, 2004).

Participants also revealed that restructuring of the company impacted the homeenvironment, including reduced family income, increases in family violence, serious healthconcerns, and the loss of friends moving to find alternative employment. These wereunexpected disclosures, and we conceptualised these as relational issues, because individualinterpretations of events might reveal wider relationship issues and concerns within thecommunity. Consistent with a critical structural analysis, at this time we framed these relationalissues within a backdrop of neo-liberal political economy, reinforced by global neo-liberalhegemony. For example, an extract from the paper published from these results notes that:

Interestingly, although all participants linked changes in the town to wider contextual issues, therewas also a significant gendered aspect to the participant’s reflections (self-disclosing reference).As an example, the women tended to refer to changes relating to families and community, whereasthe men referred to changes in work opportunity. For example, one of the women noted:

Well, like with this job, unless I had blinders on before, I never realised how many problems thereare in the town, like the amount of domestic violence, people that have no food, you know, kids thatgo to school without lunch, and just the condition of some people’s houses.

In addition, a strongly gendered division of labour became apparent, as illustrated in thefollowing excerpt:

Well in the past, I thought the working environment was pretty lax – like men would go out thereand sleep all night during their shifts if they were on night shift.

In this respect, we concluded that men and women occupy different public and private sphereswithin the community, positioned as “expert” in different contexts.

We were energised by the willingness of our participants to reflect on the changesexperienced within the town. Two participants in the pilot study offered to help us gainaccess to the town and become key informants. Our initial study had provided us withthe justification needed to embark on a longer-term research agenda. Additionally, therecruitment of informants meant the future phases could be more closely guided byparticipants, which aligned with critical research aspirations. The next phase would be to goto the town, and recruit participants who currently resided in Tokoroa.

Phase 3: going to the townAt the beginning of our planning for Phase 3 in 2005, we decided to forgo the interviewmethod used in the pilot study in favour of a group-based research method. We felt that agroup-based method would generate richer stories from the combination of personalexperience and interaction among members in the group setting (Collis and Hussey, 2003).Additionally, we had a change in research team at this time, with the junior researchertaking maternity leave from the project, and a new colleague joining, with a particularinterest in group-based methods.

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However, as we worked to apply such methods to our research context, we realized thatthese methods were inherently very risky for participants from this particular town.We neither anticipated nor were prepared for the scope of these risks to the participants andthe possible impact on their wider social and community networks, an issue we revisit aftera brief description of the design of this phase.

Memory work as a method of inquiryOur initial research design for Phase 3 used the memory-work method, a collective methoddeveloped by a group of feminist scholars (Haug and Others, 1987). Memory-work usesexperience as its empirical base to theorise how our lives are shaped by the meaning thatwe, in relationship with our self, others, and the wider social structures of our lives, ascribeto our experiences. Building on a framework of Marxist and feminist theories, the originalgroup of researchers addressed issues concerning the division of labour, power, and socialsubjugation in methodological emphasis on the collapse of subject and object, collectivity,reflexivity, and personal emancipation. Memory-work has the capacity to deal with issues ofpower and also requires special attention be paid to the “silences”, rather than just theexplicitly stated (Markula and Friend, 2005; Ryan, 2009).

The method was appropriate for our research for several reasons. First, it was developedto give voice to women ignored by prevailing cultural and research protocols, memory-workfitted our aim to explore the experiences of Tokoroa residents as a particular group of peoplewho, to some degree, are likely to have been socialized into silence through the process ofrepeated redundancy and community decline. We anticipated an element of silence as ourgroup of pilot participants had placed an emphasis on power dynamics in the town, forexample, the way in which the power of the union had been exerted during the process ofdownsizing, rendering some non-union members reticent to identify themselves.Additionally, the fact that the pilot participants had maintained specific roles in theirexpression of events (e.g. the role of “expert” worker, or “union family member”) further ledus to anticipate the influence of power relations in the town.

Second, because memory-work is broadly narrative, the method seemed appropriate foreliciting full, rich stories as opposed to small, superficial bytes of experience. Third, it wascritical to us that the residents themselves identified the most salient aspects oftheir experiences rather than follow an agenda of inquiry topics pre-set by a researcher.Memory-work ensures saliency through the use of trigger topics, which are agreed upon bythe group of participants rather than the researcher. Fourth, because we were investigatingshared experiences, the collective nature of the method was important for establishing thecommon social patterns in their experiences. Additionally, and perhaps most appealing forus, memory-work was flexible. Haug cautioned against rigidity in method: “What we need isimagination. We can […] say quite decisively that the very heterogeneity of everyday lifedemands similarly heterogeneous methods if it is to be understood” (Haug, 1987, p. 71).

In general, the method of memory-work comprises several distinct phases. First, eachparticipant writes a narrative (or “memory text”) on a topic chosen by the group memory.In the second phase, the participants come together as a group to reflect on and analyse theset of narratives. The spotlight at this stage of the research is on meaning and meaning-making. Participants question and comment to get more details and fuller descriptions ofaspects of each narrative, also working to analyse and interpret the narratives for the“common” sense or the social aspects of the experiences that are common to the group.

However, as we set to designing the research based on the memory-work method, anumber of issues relating to participant risk became apparent. The original developers ofthe method recognised that memory-work has the potential to be “ ‘disruptive anddestabilising’ for individuals” (Haug, 1987, p. 45) because it requires that participantsunravel the social conventions and patterns they have used to make sense of

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their experience; in other words, participants work to deconstruct their realities.Destabilisation effects at the individual level are not uncommon in qualitative researchinto sensitive topics. However, after discussion with a key informant, we felt that thepotential for harm in this situation went further than those risks to the individualparticipant commonly highlighted in the literature and covered in our university’s ethicalapproval process. Examples of potentially traumatic events were contextually specific, andwould have been difficult to anticipate as an “outsider” to the context, and thus difficult tomitigate for in the formal ethics process. One example is the deep historic sense of individualand collective trauma from the 1970s and 1980s strike action in the town. Local and nationalmedia focussed on the way in which the community “pulled together” during this time, andalthough there were stories of picketing strikers and strike-breakers, the majority ofdepictions of these events, some 20 years prior, were of a unified community – and judgedfrom an informed researcher perspective as low risk of significant destabilisation. However,when the subject of the 1980 strike was raised with an informant, her response was deeplypersonal, bordering on distressed. Her stories of long-term divisions in the town betweenthose striking and the remaining workers/local business owners still had a significantimpact on her personally, despite having left the town some 15 years previously.

We came away from that meeting feeling a significant degree of discomfort. Reflecting,we realised that if we were to use memory-work, participants would be asked to detailevents in their lives that possibly had been very traumatic, and then, as a group, deconstructthe meaning that they had individually made of these events. We also realised that we, asrelative “outsiders” would not necessarily be able to pre-empt, or fully comprehend, whichissues might cause destabilisation for our participants. We recognised both that theinterpersonal issues that emerged in the pilot study posed another layer of risk for ourparticipants, and that there was also risk that these relationships could become destabilisedfurther through the memory-work process. Moreover, destabilisation in the interpersonaldomain could lead to destabilisation of the perceived “self” (Dehart et al., 2010), resulting inpotential risk to our participants at the individual level.

At this point, our duty of care as researchers would need to go beyond standard ethicalresearch practices in order to safeguard these participants from possible longer-term risks.Safeguarding the participants from the risks of individual and interpersonal destabilizationis outside our skill set as business researchers and we were not in a position to offerlong-term counselling support to participants, apart from suggesting possible avenues forhelp if required. Given the sensitive nature of the research and the practical reality that wecould not guarantee re-stabilisation for individual participants, we decided that memory-workwas not appropriate. The potential risks to a participant at the individual and interpersonallevels were too great.

Although this phase represented a significant “stumbling block” in the research process,theoretically, however, it served to reinforce the underlying assumption of the project thatthe systemic processes embedded in neo-liberal capitalism work to compromise the “self”,and significantly shape the relational sphere. Therefore, although we were methodologicallyreflecting, we were not yet theoretically reflecting. We sought a new research design.

Focus groupsMindful now of the growing complexity of risk to participants, we reconstructed theresearch design on focus groups (Carson et al., 2001; Kamberelis and Dimitriadis, 2005). Wefelt that focus groups would provide us with the group-based interaction that we originallysought, but without the destabilising risks inherent in memory-work. So, with the help ofour key informants, we brainstormed the selection criteria for eight focus groups comprisedof participants sharing certain characteristics that we regarded would help establish a senseof personal safety for group members. The sample groups included four mixed gender

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groups comprising: people who had worked at the mill but were made redundant, peoplewho still work at the mill, people who had never worked at the mill and people whohave relations who had worked at the mill/made redundant. We also devised four groups tobe made up of women, comprising of: Women who worked at the mill, women who hadnever worked at the mill, women who were partnered with someone who worked at the mill,and women whose partners had never worked at the mill. In the case of female participantswho may correspond with more than one of these groups, we were to give the individual theoption of whichever group they felt most comfortable participating in. The rationale forhaving female groups was supported by our gendered findings in the pilot interview phase,and the specific experiences of women in the town.

However, at the end of a fieldwork planning session, one key informant asked how weintended to ensure the safety and anonymity of the participants. This question, raisedwithout prior knowledge of our previous reservations during the memory-work phase, wasprompted by her concern about the potential for backlash at the Mill worksite and alsowithin the community. She pointed out that certain redundancy “stories” were sanctionedwithin the community; participants who told stories that did not conform to thesesanctioned versions could face violence in their homes and the workplace and/or eventuallylose their jobs. Unsolicited, yet another key informant confirmed these concerns andemphasised the risks that casual conversations about participation in the research couldhave on informal networks and friendships within the town.

Thus, we now began to understand that not just deconstructing events, but even thevoicing of some experiences in a group situation was going to prove destabilising for someparticipants. At each phase there were aspects of risk that could not be foreseen withoutongoing exploration of the research context. For example, the nature of the single industrytown, having been constructed rapidly around a single employer, has led to a particularcommunity identity based on paternalism and the importance of the Mill. Therefore, the verycomplexity of the community dynamics and the associated potential for community-level riskcould not have been anticipated prior to uncovering critical aspects of the community historyand identity during the initial secondary phase.

As the complex risk dynamics became evident to us, we reverted to the interviewmethod. However, we struck a significant barrier to access, and despite our key informantsintroducing many participants to us, we experienced many “no-shows” and marked areluctance to talk in those participants who did attend interviews. We struggled to gain ameaningful sample and paused the project after interviewing just four participants. We feltdejected, de-motivated, and could not identify the nature of the access barrier. Moreover, theremaining two members of the team were initiating new projects in an attempt to fulfilperformance obligations, and as a “problematic” project, this research was shelved.

Phase 4: re-entering the fieldWe began revisiting the project in 2009, after the return of our junior researcher fromextended maternity leave, with the intention of embarking on doctoral study. However, thisproject was not her first choice of topic, as she too, after four years away from research, haddeveloped interests well beyond a topic she initially felt she had “outgrown”. However, aftera six-month period of developing alternative topics, she kept coming back to unansweredquestions about Tokoroa. Had this revisiting not happened, the project would likely haveremained confined to our research history.

The break had given us the chance to reflect and separate ourselves from previouspreconceptions about the project. Importantly too, during this time, we had each developedindividual research and career interests. Additionally, each of us had encounteredsignificant challenges personally over this time, including relationship break-ups, illness,and changes in our family structure. We came back to the project with altered perspectives.

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Significantly, the research team re-entered with a new purpose and redefined roles; thejunior researcher became doctoral student leading a re-focussed project, and the leadresearcher became supervisor. This was significant, as the project was subjected to thetheoretical and methodological “journeying”, and enthusiasm, which accompanies the firstphase of doctoral study.

In reflecting on the issues we encountered in previous attempts to enter the town, werealised that the university students in the pilot study who were so forthcoming withinformation were interviewed in a private place, individually, and all had moved away fromTokoroa so they were also geographically separated from the town. Additionally, werecognised on reflection that although they all identified with the town, they did all positionthemselves as having “moved on”. We had not previously realised how important thislocality and identity positioning would be to the participant responses. Applying ourconceptualisation of multi-layered risk, we realised that these risks are likely to be higher forthose who are positioned within the community, or still have active links with thecommunity. Additionally, our use of key informants may have also contributed to the accessbarriers in this case, representing a direct link between us, the researchers, and participants.It seemed participants were uncomfortable with this level of association, perhaps regardingus as quasi members of the community by association with the key informants.

Methodologically, we remained committed to a critical management agenda, althoughthe junior researcher was increasingly drawn to Boje’s (2001) living story methodology, andthe acceptance of “fragments”, of stories running over and under the dominant narrative.We began to see that for us, our conceptualisation of life in a “globalised single industrytown” could be seen as a dominant narrative, and in some ways an attempt to neatly framethis project, and to ensure timely research outcomes. This was a difficult reflection to cometo, as it contradicts our intentions to conduct inductive, participant-focussed, andemancipatory research. However, we were honest enough with ourselves to provide voice,albeit in private, to the paradox between our research intentions, and the requirements of aneo-liberal academic “career”.

Our methodological focus shifted again as we honoured this reflection, and renewed ourdesire to allow the project to honour participants, and in doing so incorporate “identity” and“community”. We investigated methods that would allow us to investigate the richcomplexity of the context and the individual’s perspective within the framing of communityidentity. Our interview design moved from semi-structured thematic to unstructured, asidefrom introductory prompting questions, e.g. “How long have you lived in Tokoroa?” and“What can you tell me about the town”? This format allowed participants to divulgewhatever information they felt comfortable doing so, without us expressing our ownassumptions about what might be important topics for discussion. Also, this lessened therisk that we might unintentionally probe issues that were sensitive to a participant,questioning that the individual might perceive as threatening.

We re-evaluated our entry approach, entering the field through publicly availablecommunity contacts (e.g. Lions Club, Public Library noticeboard, local newspaper), todisseminate information about the project, and invite potential participants to contact thedoctoral researcher directly. We hoped this might result in less perceived “exposure” byparticipants than using key informants.

In total, in Phase 3, we interviewed 32 participants, and gathered over 100 h of interviewdata. The degree of access we gained surprised us, particularly given our previousexperiences. We were introduced to key members of the community, for example, one of thefirst employment migrants from the Cook Islands, who was 85 at the time of the interview.In this case, his granddaughter was the first to approach us, and only after our interview didshe disclose that the “real” reason she made contact was to check that we were to be trustedbefore introducing us to her grandfather. However, even this highlighted risks, as although

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we gained participant consent, just after the transcript had been approved, the participantpassed away. Although we gained subsequent permission from family to continue to use thetranscript, of which they were grateful to receive, it reinforced the importance of personalaccounts, not only for those being interviewed, but also for collective memory.

The resultant analysis, doctoral thesis, subsequent publications, and future plannedphases were not the result of a tidy theoretical framing of a discrete project, but rather theresult of a time-consuming process of reflexivity and development of a project which, inmany ways, mirrored our own development as researchers and scholars.

Reflections of the emerging critical researcherAs discussed, when this project began, the research team consisted of one full-time careeracademic, and a junior research assistant. The research assistant was beginning hermaster’s degree, brought into the team due to her desire to proceed to doctoral study, andthe pragmatic need for a research assistant on the part of the other researchers. As her ownstudy progressed through the duration of this project, from master’s student to doctoralcandidate, and now to full-time academic, her reflections on the project become evidence ofthe impact of reflexivity on methodological practice:

This research forms a part of my own living story as well as that of the participants and town ofTokoroa. Revisiting my researcher positioning, I am not only “researcher” in the sense ofconducting research as a functional task. By initiating conversations about matters that may ormay not have been at the forefront of participants’ minds, and by my processes of interpretationand representation of their stories as variously entailing narratives and antenarratives, I aminevitably impacting on the living stories of my participants and myself through myrepresentations of their lives.

After spending considerable time with her research participants in their environment, shebegan to become aware of how her own story was merging with aspects of theirs. She beganto experience some of the sights and sounds reported by them and was able to imagine herown reactions to events that participants had described. This process became a deeplypersonal experience for the researcher. For example, one evening, as she drove home fromTokoroa after a day of interviewing my mind was on a story told by a participant whodescribed his experiences of a death of a mate in the forest:

I [researcher] am driving [home through this densely forested region of the country from a dayinterviewing] and I’m struck by the majesty of the trees, and just […] the endless forests […] andI’m thinking back to [research participant] and his story of going into the forest to a fatality – thedeath of a work-mate on the job. I can imagine now - this vast, quiet place in the middle of the forest,and how lonely it must be to have been working alone up there, and how frightening it would bewhen something went wrong […] it really feels like a different world out here.

The experience of driving these roads through dense forests, knowing the workers were there, hascontributed to my research in a number of ways. Firstly, it gave me insights to contextualise thestories of my participants. Secondly, and perhaps just as importantly, it gave me an appreciation ofhow I was consciously and subconsciously, hearing my participants stories through my own life’sfilters. In particular, as a young mother, who’s own mother had been heavily involved in socialwork and an advocate for marginalized groups in society, I came to reflect on how meaningful thisfamily influence had been on forming my own research interests, and in particular, why the criticalmanagement agenda may have resonated so strongly. This also gave me cause to consider howthese stories were the participants “lives”, not just research “data”.

Through imagining what might have been my own reactions to the events my participants weredescribing, I had a moment of appreciation centered on how research is a co- construction. I notedalso a caution that my interpretations may also be read as a projection that does not represent theexperiences of my participants. The experience and reflection above led to me consider my

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participants experiences with a renewed richness of understanding. I found myself far more awareof the nuances of their experiences. That my participants cannot be thought of simply asfunctionaries to the corporation or servants of the global structures of neo-liberalism deepened inmy appreciation. The participants in my research are complex individuals, experiencing complexissues in their lives. They express concerns about a complex set of priorities, values and reactionsto their circumstances.

At the time of her travelling to and from Tokoroa, and the immediacy of the reflections at thattime, she came across Kincheloe and McLaren’s (2005) Pragmatics of Hope in an Age of CynicalReason. She was particularly influenced by the passage “capitalist exploitation and relations ofcapitalist production [are just] one set of relations” (p. 321). For the researcher, this was asignificant moment of re-positioning. She came to consider that whilst influential, the powerrelations entwined with globalisation and changes to work were evident in the conversationswith my research participants, these dynamics represent just one set of relations which mayexist alongside many others, many of which are interconnected. We began to reflect on Zizek’s(2000) call that in privileging this set of power relations over all others, the critical managementcommunity was further embedding these as the apparently all-powerful and singular dominantparadigm. Wray-Bliss (2003) and Gabriel (2009) extend this call by suggesting that manyprojects in critical management studies are embedded with power relations which couldthemselves constitute an alternative hegemonic grand narrative, potentially rendering someresearchers to the margins. We began to reflect on these calls, and the way in which theposition of a seemingly “all knowing academic” had influenced our methodological choices.

Postscript: realities, reflection, and repositioningDay (2012) highlights the importance of reflecting on the roles played during the researchprocess. Day (2012) describes how assuming a role of expert–researcher embeds a certainpower structure to the research context. Similarly, a posture of the “inexperienced, in need ofclarification” (p. 70) will render different conditions to the research. Day also discusses theimportance of researcher positioning and how an explicit position of insider vs outsider mayalso render differing results. These role-based considerations resonate, as we reflect on thepast 15 years of this project, and the fluidity of the research team, both in terms ofindividuals, perspectives, and roles attributed. The response to the call of the outsider/“doctoral student” was very different to that of the “insider”-connected/“expert-academic”.Peticca-Harris et al. (2016) remind us that the processes of research we often view asadministrative, such as securing and interacting with participants, can have a significantimpact on the approach taken in the research, and indeed the research “findings”. Ourexperience has certainly affirmed this position, as although the changes in approach can beseen from a conceptual and methodological perspective, they often occurred as pragmaticresponse to issues of process and personal circumstance arose.

Reflecting on our experiences in Phase 3, of designing a group-based research method,we have become keenly aware of the multi-layered risks and implications of ourmethodological choices for our participants. Changes in their community over the past20 years have already significantly tested formal and informal networks. For example, theconflict between union members and their supporters with those who were non-unionmembers and non-supporters identified in the first phase of the research seemed to provideus with an opportunity to collect and present original data. We now understand thatresearching such issues through group methods carries significant risks at the communitylevel through the potential de-stabilizing of participants’ wider social networks.

The realities of working in the field, and our discomfort with the impacts on ourparticipants, led us to pause in our research agenda. We had a long-held commitment toresearcher reflexivity, yet we were now accepting that our efforts to reflect on our theoreticaland methodological choices had been filtered through our favoured theoretical lens. In deep

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conversations within our research team and with others, we reflected on the impacts on theindividual of a critical research agenda that tends to focus on the structural implications ofindividual experiences. We also experienced moments of humility in reflecting on ourpractice. For example, we began to recognise that we embarked on the first round ofinterviews as though “informed” about the town, yet had yet to visit in person.

However, our repositioning was not limited to our scholarly work. As researchers, weeach had personal challenges to contend with at the time of our research. These challengesmeant that at times the research was foregrounded, at times it was left to pause. The leadresearcher was also fluid, as we each experienced times where we were unable to dedicatethe time or motivation required to move the project forward. Life also happened for theparticipants. For example, in 2006, the people of Tokoroa had a major incident, the murderof a school teacher, to contend with, an event which significantly destabilised thecommunity. In addition, each of those townspeople also had private challenges and changesin their own lives. Despite the seeming linearity of research, lives continue for ourparticipants and for ourselves. Life seemingly adds to the disorder of research, but can alsoresult in unexpectedly rich data, as we have discovered from our experiences.

The resultant research was not the outcome of any specific formalised moment ofreflexivity; rather, it was the combination of the events, the fluidity of the research, and ourown careers and lives, which ended us with the positioning we assumed in the final phase.Although some of this repositioning was intentional and scholarly, much of it was due tomoments of “chance” and of life itself. Further, we found this methodological “journeying” tobe crucial to achieving quality research outcomes for both ourselves and our participants.We suggest researchers work to view research not as a discrete “project”, but a long-termrelational process in which multiple levels of findings are made along the way. Some of thesefindings are publishable, others simply add to our development as researchers and people.Moreover, our own personal changes and considerations, the fluidity both of life as aresearcher and the research team need not be seen as barriers to “completion” of a project,but rather as important aspects which bring new perspectives to the research.

This suggestion is, of course, at odds with the prevailing mandate to producemeasurable, rankable results for our institutions, but there are growing calls to re-examinethis emphasis and increasing criticism of the quality of the research outputs generatedunder this ideology (Mingers and Willmott, 2010; Ruth, 2011). We are heartened by theseconcerns and argue that the discussions at the heart of this conversation are indeed crucialto the transformation of the academic landscape. Indeed, Tracy (2012) urges us to push theboundaries of publication norms (p. 113).

In this example, the living story methodology provided for us a way to “unlock” our own(unintentionally) fixed positions, viewing not only our participants stories as fragments ofdominant and ante-narrative, but perhaps just as importantly, viewing our own theoreticaland methodological “narrative” as such. Our structural, dominant “narrative” wasinterspersed with our own experiences, fragments from our personal lives, reflectionsbrought on from hurdles in the field, weaving over, under the dominant approach. Theresulting living story is one of research, but not of a sterile process which occurs whiletrying to minimise outside influences, but one which embraces the fragments, and becomesa living story of research as life.

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Alvesson, M. and Willmott, H. (1992), Critical Management Studies, Sage, London.

Barnes, T.J. and Hayter, R. (1992), “‘The little town that did’: flexible accumulation and communityresponse in Chemainus, British Columbia”, Regional Studies, Vol. 26 No. 7, pp. 647-663.

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Behrisch, T., Hayter, R. and Barnes, T. (2002), “‘I don’t really like the mill; in fact, I hate the mill’:changing youth vocationalism under Fordism and post-Fordism in Powell River, BritishColumbia”, BC Studies, Vol. 136, Winter, pp. 73-101.

Boje, D. (2008), Storytelling Organization, Sage, London.

Boje, D. and Tyler, J. (2009), “Story and narrative noticing: workaholism autoethnographies”, Journal ofBusiness Ethics, Vol. 84, pp. 173-194, doi: 10.1007/s10551-008-9702-7.

Boje, D.M. (2001), Narrative Methods for Organizational and Communication Research, SAGE, Londonand Thousand Oaks, CA.

Carson, D., Gilmore, A., Perry, C. and Gronhaug, K. (2001), Qualitative Marketing Research, Sage, London.

Chapple, D.L. (1976), Tokoroa: Creating a Community, Longman Paul, Auckland.

Collis, J. and Hussey, R. (2003), Business Research, 2nd ed., Palgrave MacMillan, Basingstoke.

Cunliffe, A. (2010), “Retelling tales of the field”, Organizational Research Methods, Vol. 13 No. 2,pp. 224-239.

Daskalaki, M. (2012), “Personal narratives and cosmopolitan identities: an autobiographical approach”,Journal of Management Inquiry, Vol. 21 No. 4, pp. 430-441.

Day, S. (2012), “A reflexive lens: exploring dilemmas of qualitative methodology through the concept ofreflexivity”, Qualitative Sociology Review, Vol. 8 No. 1, pp. 60-85.

De wet, J. and Erasmus, Z. (2005), “Towards rigour in qualitative analysis”, Qualitative ResearchJournal, Vol. 5 No. 1, pp. 27-40.

Deetz, S. (2000), “Putting the community into organizational science: exploring the construction ofknowledge claims”, Organization Science, Vol. 11 No. 6, p. 732.

Dehart, T., Pelham, B., Fiedorowicz, L., Carvallo, M. and Gabriel, S. (2010), “Including others in theimplicit self: implicit evaluation of significant others”, Self and Identity, Vol. 10 No. 1, pp. 127-135.

Donnelly, P.F., Gabriel, Y. and Özkanac-Pan, B. (2013), “Untold stories of the field and beyond:narrating the chaos”, Qualitative Research in Organizations and Management: An InternationalJournal, Vol. 8 No. 1, pp. 4-15.

Dowling, G.R. (2014), “Playing the citations game: from publish or perish to be cited or sidelined”,Australasian Marketing Journal, Vol. 22 No. 4, pp. 280-287.

Dyer, S. and Hurd, F. (2004), “Career in a globalised economy: researching the implications ina one-industry town”, Australian Journal of Career Development, Vol. 13 No. 3, pp. 29-33.

Fleming, P. and Sturdy, A. (2009), “Just be yourself!”, Employee Relations, Vol. 31 No. 6, pp. 569-583.

Gabriel, Y. (2009), “Reconciling an ethic of care with critical management pedagogy”, ManagementLearning, Vol. 40 No. 4, pp. 379-385.

Ganesh, S. (2014), “Unraveling the confessional tale: passion and dispassion in fieldwork”,Management Communication Quarterly, Vol. 28 No. 3, pp. 448-457.

Haug, F. (1987), Female Sexualization: A Collective Work of Memory, Verso, London.

Healy, B. (1982), A Hundred Million Trees: The Story of New Zealand Forest Products Ltd, Hodder &Stoughton, Auckland.

Hermann, A. (2012), “ ‘Criteria against ourselves?’ Embracing the opportunities of qualitative inquiry”,International Review of Qualitative Research, Vol. 5 No. 2, pp. 135-152.

Kamberelis, G. and Dimitriadis, G. (2005), “Focus groups: strategic articulations of pedagogy, politicsand inquiry”, in Denzin, N.K. and Lincoln, Y.S. (Eds), The Sage Handbook of QualitativeResearch, Sage, Thousand Oaks, CA, pp. 887-907.

Kelsey, J. (1997), The New Zealand Experiment: A World Model for Structural Adjustment?, 2nd ed.,Auckland University Press, Auckland.

Kincheloe, J.L. and McLaren, P. (2005), “Rethinking critical theory and qualitative research”, in Denzin,N.K. and Lincoln, Y.S. (Eds), The Sage Handbook of Qualitative Research, 3rd ed., Sage,Thousand Oaks, CA, pp. 303-342.

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Leadbeater, D. (2004), “Mining towns and the new hinterland crisis”, Canadian Dimension,Vol. 38 No. 5, available at: https://canadiandimension.com/articles/view/mining-towns-and-the-new-hinterland-crisis

Lucas, R.A. (1972), Minetown, Milltown, Railtown, University of Toronto Press, Toronto.

McCaw, S. and Harbridge, R. (1990), “The labour government, big business and the trade unions:labour relations at Kinleith in the 1980s”, Victoria University Industrial Relations CentreWorking Paper No. 3, Wellington.

Markula, P. and Friend, L.A. (2005), “Remember when…memory-work as an interpretive methodologyfor sport management”, Journal of Sport Management, Vol. 19 No. 4, pp. 442-463.

Mingers, J. and Willmott, H. (2010), “Moulding the one-dimensional academic: the performative effectsof journal ranking lists”, Kent Business School Working Paper Series No. 239, Canterbury.

Parkins, J.R. (2003), “Forest sector dependence and community well-being: a structural equation modelfor New Brunswick and British Columbia”, Rural Sociology, Vol. 68 No. 4, pp. 554-572.

Peticca-Harris, A., deGama, N. and Elias, S.R.S.T.A. (2016), “A dynamic process model for findinginformants and gaining access in qualitative research”, Organizational Research Methods,Vol. 19 No. 3, pp. 376-401, doi: 10.1177/1094428116629218.

Randall, J.E. and Ironside, R.G. (1996), “Communities on the edge: an economic geography ofresource-dependent communities in Canada”, Canadian Geographer, Vol. 40 No. 1, pp. 17-35.

Ruth, D. (2011), “Monoculture on the intellectual landscape: research performance evaluation”, LondonReview of Education, Vol. 8 No. 2, pp. 141-151.

Ryan, I. (2009), “Profitable margins: the story behind ‘our stories’ ”, Journal of Management andOrganization, Vol. 15 No. 5, p. 611.

Sarma, S.K. (2015), “Qualitative research: examining the misconceptions”, South Asian Journal ofManagement, Vol. 22 No. 3, pp. 176-191.

Spry, T. (2001), “Performing autoethnography: an embodied methodological praxis”, QualitativeInquiry, Vol. 7 No. 6, pp. 706-732.

Thompson, G.J. (2003), “Trouble at the mill”, The Dominion Post, Vol. 2, 10 May, p. 1.

Tracy, S.J. (2012), “The toxic and mythical combination of a deductive writing logic for inductivequalitative research”, Qualitative Communication Research, Vol. 1 No. 1, pp. 109-141.

Van Maanen, J. (1988), Tales of the Field: On Writing Ethnography, University of Chicago Press,Chicago, IL.

Wray-Bliss, E. (2003), “Research subjects/research subjections: exploring the ethics and politics ofcritical research”, Organization, Vol. 10 No. 2, pp. 307-325.

Zizek, S. (2000), “Class struggle or postmodernism? Yes, Please!”, in Butler, J., Laclau, E. and Zizek, S.(Eds), Contingency, Hegemony, Universality: Comtemporary dialogues on the left, Verso, London.

Further reading

Osborne, T., Rangiawha, M. and Williams, E. (1989), Tokoroa: A Report on the Housing and EconomicClimate, Housing Corporation of New Zealand, Wellington.

Statistics New Zealand (2009), Census of Population, Wellington.

Wray-Bliss, E. (2009), “Ethics; critique, ambivalence, and infinite responsibilities (unmet)”, in Alvesson, M.,Bridgman, T. and Willmott, H. (Eds), The Oxford Handbook of Critical Management Studies,Oxford University Press, Oxford, pp. 267-285.

Corresponding authorFiona Hurd can be contacted at: fiona.hurd@aut.ac.nz

For instructions on how to order reprints of this article, please visit our website:www.emeraldgrouppublishing.com/licensing/reprints.htmOr contact us for further details: permissions@emeraldinsight.com

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Reimagining organizationalstorytelling research as

archeological story analysisJohn Teta Luhman

College of Business, Eastern New Mexico University, Portales, New Mexico, USA

AbstractPurpose – We should understand stories told in organizational settings in relation to the time, space andprocess of their telling. This, however, is problematic since many researchers, as a matter of habit, takeorganizational stories out of their context and process because they tend to collect their stories throughinterviews. The paper aims to discuss these issues.Design/methodology/approach – In order to accept organizational stories taken out of context andprocess, the author looks toward archeology and its method of interpretation of artifacts as a metaphor toguide future storytelling analysis. The author argues that storytelling researchers need the analogy ofarcheological interpretation of artifacts to be more convincing in their quest to discover meaning.Findings – If one sees stories as artifacts from past utterances that are lost to the moment in which they wereuttered, which the metaphor of archeology allows one to do, then the goal is to reason out a coherent narrativeout of the stories collected by describing their formal attributes, their spatial attributes and their chronologicalinference. After which, one might fit the collected stories within the broader cultural contexts of theorganization under study.Originality/value – The author offers the idea of “archeological story analysis” as a three-step method ofstory analysis, which allows organizational storytelling researchers to more convincingly analyze storiescollected out of their context and process. The first two steps are in the interpretation of the formal attributesand spatial attributes of the stories, while the third step (chronological inference) is an attempt to analyzestorytelling intent and impact on the life of the organization.Keywords Organizations, Stories, Analysis, ArcheologicalPaper type Conceptual paper

Organizational storytelling exists as a process created over time and space, flowing frommoment to moment and context to context (Cunliffe et al., 2004, p. 261). We should not ignoretime, context and process. Yet, that seems to be the basic practice with most storytellingresearch since, as a matter of habit, they tend to collect their stories through ex situinterviews. In this article, I search for a way to accept organizational stories that are notsensitive to context and process in order to improve our research practice.

According to Paul Ricoeur (1984), “a story describes a sequence of actions and experiencesdone or undergone by a certain number of people, whether real or imaginary. These people arepresented either in situations that change or as reacting to such change. In turn, these changesreveal hidden aspects of the situation and the people involved, and engender a new predicamentwhich calls for thought, action, or both. This response to the new situation leads the storytoward its conclusion” (p. 150). Storytelling research conducted by folklorists such as byKirshenblatt-Gimglett (1975), Hymes (1975), Georges (1969, 1980a, b, 1981) and Jones, Moore andSynder (1988), assert that stories do not exist apart from their storytelling performance, whileresearch conducted by sociolinguists such as by Sacks (1972) and others ( Jefferson, 1973, 1978;Ryave, 1978; Sacks et al., 1974), assert that listeners and tellers “co-produce” stories. Moreimportantly, organizational researchers assert that actors are able to interpret “stories as ameans of understanding organizational processes and events” (Cunliffe et al., 2004, p. 263).

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:

An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019

pp. 43-54© Emerald Publishing Limited

1746-5648DOI 10.1108/QROM-01-2017-1487

Received 23 January 2017Revised 24 November 2017

19 April 2018Accepted 5 October 2018

The current issue and full text archive of this journal is available on Emerald Insight at:www.emeraldinsight.com/1746-5648.htm

An outline of this paper was presented at the Qualitative Research in Management and OrganizationConference on April 6 to 8, 2010 in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

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research

In situ vs ex situThe implication from these three assertions for organizational storytelling research methodis a requirement for long-term engagement so as to be in situ as the stories are told over timeand space. In other words, the implication is a requirement to conduct storytelling researchin the manner of ethnographic participant observation. In a co-authored study, Luhman andNazario (2015), the methodology we used ripped stories out of their context with ex situinterviewing. Since we collected stories through interviews, we obviously did not follow thein situ procedures advocated by David Boje (1991) in his breakthrough storytelling article(pp. 110-112). Those procedures are: first, reporting the storytelling performance of tellersand listeners in the story transcript – pauses, overlapping utterances, tone, pitch, etc.; andsecond, describing the “story-line patterns” in each storytelling performance – filling instory blanks, terse storytelling, glossing, sensemaking, prediction, etc.

However, when I recently explored how organizational storytelling researchers collectedstories over the past decades, I was surprised to find that a lot of field research involved thecollection of stories via ex situ interviews which resulted in an analysis done out of context.I present my exploration of story collection methods in Table I (with a reference list in theAppendix). Out of the 30 storytelling studies in the sample, only 7 engaged in a form of insitu story collection. The other 23 storytelling studies engaged in ex situ story collection.

How can one engage in this kind of storytelling research when organizational “meaningtakes place in the telling and listening of narratives, therefore, there is not one self-containednarrative to analyze” (Luhman, 2005, p. 19)? Clearly, the dominant story collection method

Article Story collection method

Martin et al. (1983) Ex situ (archival)Wilkins (1984) Ex situ (interview, survey)Boje (1991) In situ (participant observation)Gabriel (1991) Ex situ (interview)Jermier et al. (1991) Ex situ (interview)Boje (1995) Ex situ (archival)Boyce (1995) Ex situ (group telling)Boje et al. (1999) Ex situ (interview, group telling)Boje et al. (2004) Ex situ (archival)Katzeff and Ware (2007) Ex situ (interview)Martens et al. (2007) Ex situ (archival)Boje and Gomez (2008) Mixed (participant observation, interview, group telling)McCarthy (2008) Ex situ (interview)Bridgewater and Buzzanell (2010) Ex situ (interview)Hugo (2010) Mixed (participant observation, archival)Macaulay et al. (2010) Ex situ (interview)Rhodes et al. (2010) Ex situ (interview)Vaara and Tienari (2011) Mixed (participant observation, interview, archival)Dolan and Bao (2012) Ex situ (archival)Joyner (2012) Mixed (participant observation, interview)Auvinen et al. (2013) Ex situ (interview)Collins (2013) Ex situ (archival)Conner and Fischbach (2013) In situ (participant observation)Andersen and Rask (2014) Ex situ (interview, archival)Bangerter et al. (2014) Ex situ (interview)Humle (2014) Mixed (participant observation, interview)Luhman and Nazario (2015) Ex situ (interview)Arnaud et al. (2016) Ex situ (interview, group telling, archival)Hersted and Frimann (2016) Ex situ (interview)Rooney et al. (2016) Ex situ (interview)

Table I.Sample of storytellingresearch articlesand their storycollection methods

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promotes a lack of sensitivity to context and process. Stories “flow through time, allowingfor the interpretation, reinterpretation, and negotiation of memories and anticipations offuture events” and as time moves forward, a new collectively constructed organizationalreality appears (Luhman and Boje, 2001, p. 164). But let us not simply accept mypontification: let us look at the positions of Karl Weick and Mikhail Bakhtin and see if theyagree with my concerns.

What is necessary for good storytelling research?The organizational storytelling researcher should attempt to study conversing, that is fluidand dynamic movements of dialogue rather than already finished conversation (Weick,2004, p. 410). Karl Weick wants the researcher to pay attention to the everyday utterances oforganizational members and how these utterances modify or transform stories. In otherwords, a focus on story utterances over time gives a better understanding of bothretrospective and prospective sensemaking. I infer this from Bakken and Hernes’ (2006)discussion of process theory.

There are two main process views in organization studies, the weak view and the strongview. The weak view understands organizations as the interaction between stable entitieswhere these entities (i.e. individuals) exist prior to interacting. For example, Niklas Luhmann’sposition is to regard “processes as flows of communication consisting of decisions, whereas itregards structure as codes of communication pertaining to a particular organization” (Bakkenand Hernes, 2006, p. 1612). The strong view understands organizational entities as the productof process – that is they do not exist prior but are formed by the process. Bakken and Hernesargue that Weick takes the strong process view in relation to organizational discourse:

The language of sensemaking captures the realities of agency, flow, equivocality, transience,reaccomplishment, unfolding, and emergence, realities that are often obscured by the language ofvariables, nouns, quantities, and structures. (Weick et al., 2005, p. 410, as cited in Bakken andHernes, 2006, p. 1601)

But Weick does not go far enough in their perspective. They point to the position of AlfredNorth Whitehead where verbs and nouns are simply representations of various degrees ofstabilization (Bakken and Hernes, 2006, p. 1612).

Bakhtin (1984) is concerned with the “dialogic” nature of language as living utterances –dialogue between people in particular moments, but also within a wider context. Heemphasizes the complex nature of our social world and the role language plays in itsformation and in our understanding of our experiences. He argues that all human activityinvolves language, and that understanding and meaning emerge through a continualinterplay of voices between: singular and multiple; speaker and listener responses, variousways of talking, different views and positions, present utterances and a background oflanguage, and ourselves and a greater whole. Bakhtin (1986) believes that to understandhuman activity we need to consider these living utterances because it is in the moment ofspeaking that words creates particular meanings:

To ignore the nature of the utterance or to fail to consider the peculiarities of generic subcategoriesof speech in any area of linguistic study leads to perfunctoriness and excessive abstractness,distorts the historicity of the research, and weakens the link between language and life. (p. 63)

Since understanding is actively responsive (Bakhtin, 1981), it is oriented to the past in thesense of the background of language, it is oriented to the present in the sense ofspeakers and listeners to each other in the moment of utterance, and it is oriented to thefuture in anticipation of future responses. This explains Bakhtin’s problem with linguisticanalysis – in studying dialogue as a system or compositional form – because meaning isabstracted from the speaker-listener intentions and orientations.

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For Bakhtin, language is dialogic in the sense that utterances incorporate oppositionalforces of order and disorder, and meaning plays out in multiple, tense and prospective ways.Yet meaning also has to be understood in relation to a greater whole – to social, historical,cultural and institutional conditions. Thus, context is more important than text. It is notenough to study language in the sense of already formed, structured, stable andrepresentational texts, but we need to examine how language is used and works in practicalways through utterances and exchanges made in particular contexts and moments.

I believe that both Weick’s and Bakhtin’s arguments also imply a long-term in situengagement as a research method (i.e. ethnographic participant observation) in order tounderstand each context of an utterance and its impact in other spaces and times. However,it is interesting to note that Bakhtin’s theory is based on his study of literature and thephilosophy of language, not on any particular type of social science field research. One mayponder if his expectations are really possible in field research especially when issues ofpower arise. As with Browning’s (1991) position that as we tell stories we are creating anideology of ourselves, storytelling research must make a tie “between explaining past factsand present practice” (Ricoeur, 1984, p. 165) and examine the dynamics of power.Organizational events are constantly being reinterpreted while the organization itself isre-constructing the scripted roles its members will act. Of course, there are thoseorganizational players who have “the power to make his [or her] story stick as one thoseothers will choose to live by or in” (White, 1987, p. 167; addition mine).

Organizational stories as artifactsMy conundrum remains – how can one accept the removal of time, context and process in astorytelling research project? On the other hand, can we really observe and study a livinglanguage in action? But that second question is a discussion for another time. For now,I focus on my concern of how to accept organizational stories taken out of time, context andprocess. What if I were to take the epistemological stance where I see ex situ-collected storiesas dead language. To see them as artifacts from the past just as Bakhtin’s utterances arealways lost to the moment in which they were uttered. I look toward archeology and itsmethod of interpretation of artifacts as an analogy to guide future storytelling researchanalysis. I argue that storytelling research needs this analogy to be more convincing in itsquest to discover meaning.

If we can accept the notion that a story is a cultural artifact, then the question is how dowe accomplish a reasonable interpretation of these artifacts that are taken out of their livedcontext? Like so many pottery chards buried in several different field sites being excavatedby the storytelling researcher. The archeologist proceeds to a site with a map in hand, bootson, shovels and brooms at the ready. Just like the archeologist, an ethnographer has to dig inthe dirt too: “As any ethnographer will observe of a culture, that which is foundational at thedeepest level of that culture’s mental world will be that which is rarely if ever overtlyarticulated or stated” ( Johnson, 2006, p. 124). What is important to me is their method ofinterpretation of artifacts without the advantage of direct observation of their subject’s“mental world.” Note that I am not referring to Michel Foucault’s (1989a, b) analogical use ofarcheology. Where Foucault’s “archeological method” is to examine a particular discourseover a long time span by drawing on the familiar to understand the unfamiliar and to showdiscontinuity, my reference to an “archeological method” is more a potential technique tointerpret meaning without extensive insight of context or process.

Some background on archeological artifact analysisArcheology attempts to “produce convincing accounts of the past” ( Johnson, 2006, p. 132)by getting at the meaning of a set of artifacts and their relationship to the physical

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environment where they were uncovered. Yet, how does one accomplish this feat? AlbertSpaulding gives us some direction:

What are the dimensions of artifacts whose interrelationships are the special business of archeology?Plainly there are two in the strict sense of dimensions: time and space. We want to know where andwhen artifacts were made, used, and deposited. Plainly there is another class of dimensions fundamentalto archeological study; the many dimensions which are sets of physio-chemical properties of theartifacts. We can group them for convenient reference under the label, formal properties, and collectivelyas the formal dimension. We are now in a position to define archeology as the study of interrelationshipsand transformations of artifacts with respect to the formal, temporal, and spatial dimensions. As afootnote, formal and spatial attributes can be observed directly, but temporal attributes are alwaysinferred from formal and spatial attributes. Indeed, strictly speaking artifacts are objects and do not havetemporal attributes – they merely exist. But artifacts do imply events, and events do have the propertyof occurring at a definite time, so when we speak of the temporal attributes of an artifact, we really referto an inference about some event or process implied by the formal and/or spatial attributes of the artifact.This leaves us with describing and ordering formal and spatial attributes as the primary task. These arethe empirical data of archeology and this describing and ordering are prerequisite to the chronologicalinferences. (Spaulding, 1960 as cited in Binford, 1964, p. 430)

Thus, Spaulding provides us with three basic steps in the interpretation of artifacts. Step 1 is adescription of its formal attributes (i.e. what are its internal properties). Step 2 is a descriptionof its spatial attributes (i.e. where do we find them). And step 3 is a chronological inference (i.e.how do we understand the process of their occurrence). Here is where a visual representationmay help. In Figure 1, we are shown how the existence of a cultural artifact (the Roman coin)can never be truly comprehended temporally. Not to mention that the archeologist (or in ourcase, the storytelling researcher) is also by definition a “cultural transformation” factor in thatthey too have influenced the data (aka the observer effect). But how did that coin arrive there?Why was it left there?What did the coin mean to the social actors at the time of its placement?We are left with so many questions with no way to find direct answers. Nevertheless,archeology does attempt to answer these questions indirectly.

I must admit, though, that I entered into reading about archeological methods with muchnaiveté. I thought I would find a straightforward research method and method ofinterpretation. However, what I did find was a field in as much convulsion, or as muchdiversity, as organization studies: “The struggle within various disciplines, archeologyincluded, to establish an irreducible subject – the actor, the nation, the people, the culture – ispart of a larger struggle across the humanities and social sciences to define, and harness, thecomplex forces of causation” (Smith, 2006, p. 159).

Twentieth century archeology began with a “cultural history” style, V. G. Childe’s macromodels is an important representation of this style, but it eventually turned materialistic in its

1. Roman Coin, deposited in a ditch feature located at the edge of a field2. C-transform; man-made deposition of fill to level the ditch; the fill contained in the original, Roman ditch was an n-transform, of material building up gradually over time by wind and erosion3. N-transform; erosion and wind deposit more material in the ditch feature4. A modern post is driven into the ground, disturbing context “3.” This is a C-transform

3

2

1

4

Source: A Guide to Archaeological Resources (2010)

Figure 1.Uncovering an

archeological artifact

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assumptions by trying to give greater weight toward behavior than to thought (Kohl, 1981).During the 1960s and 1970s, the field moved toward a concern for statistical analysis ofphysical and spatial properties. As Lewis Binford, the leader (Ewen, 2003, p. 13) of this“processual archeology” school of thought stated: “It has often been suggested that we cannotdig up a social system or ideology” (Binford, 1962, p. 218). Binford set out to correct thisweakness by making archeology more open to the natural science methods of interpretation.At this point, you may be thinking I am advocating the abandonment of qualitative andinductive methods of inquiry for quantitative and deductive methods. I am not. I see myargument as analogic. In fact, processual archeology has been challenged since at least the1980s in the forms of either feminist, Marxist, post-modernist or phenomenologist critiques( Johnson, 2006). Those critiques are beyond the scope of this article but they are described as“postprocessual archeology” whereas today “many archeologists see the past as a socialconstruction with multiple, equally valid interpretations” (Ewen, 2003, p. 11).

Good artifact interpretationThe methodological steps of artifact interpretation are straightforward (Ewen, 2003). First,one conducts a “material analysis” by grouping artifacts based on composition. Stories areoften grouped based on their poetic tropes and poetic modes (see e.g. Gabriel, 2000, pp. 37-40;67-82). Second, one begins to “classify” the artifacts by organizing them into manageableunits of analysis with a preference for an “emic” (an insider’s perspective) classificationscheme over an “etic” (an outsider’s perspective) classification scheme. For example, in Bojeet al. (1999) the authors requested of the participants to review transcripts and to verbalizetheir opinions and insights in a video-taped meeting held without the authors being present.At this stage the primary focus is on the chronological attributes (or time markers) and thespatial attributes (or location markers) of the artifacts under study. Finally, one begins an“in-depth” analysis of the above groupings and classifications, which allows one to movetoward a broader cultural interpretation.

One leader of the postprocessual perspective in archeology is Ian Hodder. “Interpretationoccurs at many levels in archaeological research” according to Hodder (2003, pp. 31; 35-40) whoargues for a “reflexive methodology” that requires reflexivity about one’s assumptions, relationthinking in making conclusions, interactivity with other researchers and multi-vocality ininterpreting the artifacts. Hodder (1999, pp. 32-33) also describes interpretation of artifacts as“archeological reasoning” that is essentially hermeneutic in nature. The hermeneutic circle ofwhole/part understanding is influenced by the interpreter’s “pre-understanding” of the context(either abstract or concrete). An archeologist reasons out a whole/part relationship to create acoherent story of the evidence at hand, and adjusts the story for any tensions or contradictions –all the while utilizing her or his pre-understandings to fit the data within the broader culturalcontexts through a process of “analogy and comparison” (Hodder, 1999, pp. 30-65). Hence, youmight define archeological interpretation “as the form in which a culture expresses itsconsciousness of the pastness of its things” (Smith, 2006, p. 160). Can an organizationalstorytelling researcher attempt to “express the consciousness” of the organizational actorswithout any direct observation of the stories they collected? The answer is yes by necessity.Storytelling researchers must find an analytical method to discover the broader culturalcontexts of the ex situ stories they collect.

Archeological story analysisIf one sees stories as artifacts from past utterances that are lost to the moment in which theywere uttered, then we can take the epistemological stance of stories as dead language. Whatarcheology allows us to do, then, is to reason out a coherent story out of the stories at handby describing their formal attributes (i.e. what are their internal properties) and their spatialattributes (i.e. where we find them). Then there is the utilization of pre-understandings to fit

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the organizational stories within the broader cultural contexts of the organization understudy. From that, we may arrive at some form of a chronological inference (i.e. how weunderstand the process of their occurrences).

Now I am ready to present a step-by-step method of analyzing stories collected ex situthat I propose to call archeological story analysis. The first two steps in archeological storyanalysis are:

• Step 1 is a description of the formal attributes of the story (i.e. what are the internalproperties, such as its poetic tropes and emplotment – cf. Frye, 1957 and Gabriel, 2000).

• Step 2 is a description of the spatial attributes of the story (i.e. where do we find thembeing told and re-told – geographic location, architectural location, hierarchal locationor unit location).

After one analyzes these two attributes of the collected stories, the researcher must then movetoward a broader cultural interpretation. Since stories collected ex situ (mostly throughinterviews) do not reflect stories existing as processes created in context and flowing frommoment to moment, then the storytelling researcher must attempt to “express the consciousness”of the organizational actors without the benefit of direct observation of the stories being told.

The third step in archeological story analysis is to move to understand meaning inrelation to a greater whole – to social, historical, cultural and institutional conditions. Or asHodder (2003) argued, a “reflexive methodology” that requires questioning assumptions andthe multi-vocality of interpretation:

• Step 3 is a chronological inference of the story (i.e. how do we understand the processof their occurrence without direct observation).

As stated previously, storytelling research must explain past facts, present practice, intentionsfor a future and the dynamics of power. Organizational events are constantly reinterpretedand renegotiated. Therefore, the researcher should be reflexive of the constructions of anorganization’s realty by utilizing the following reflexive questions (Boje et al., 1999, p. 341):

(1) Why did they engage in story creation? (What is happening with each story andwith the provoking and selecting of stories?)

(2) Did they engage in the imposition of values, or an ethical movement, to refine theirstorytelling? (What is closest to, dear to, each?)

(3) Did they engage in a power move by making meaning stick, freeing some andimprisoning others, or giving some no voice to negotiate alternatives?

Archeological story analysis is essentially hermeneutic in nature where there is a circle ofinterpreting the unobserved context (Hodder, 1999). Much like Rom Harré’s (1998) threeinteracting aspects of the individual self – the self we carry through time and space, the realself (values, preferences, doubts, etc.), and the self we present to the world (consciously or not).

An illustrative exampleAs an illustration on how one might apply the above three steps, I return to my co-authored study (Luhman and Nazario, 2015) in which we collected stories through ex situinterviewing to analyze each story for expressions of alienation. Here is the text of one ofour shorter stories:

Story 7: batter up

We had a guy one time on the department by the name of Mike. Mike was tall, tall and skinny andthought he was Clint Eastwood. The first time I met Mike he as in Extradition’s and he had double

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357s six inch revolvers in dual shoulder holsters. I said, “Hi, I’m Glen.” And he introduced himselfand he said you can call me Clint and I will never forget that. Later on I came to work with MikeWiggins on patrol. We pulled up in the North Valley at a peeping Tom call. Mike took out from hispatrol car one of several unauthorized weapons that he used to carry. He had a bull whip in his carand he had a long stick. The kind of stick that riots people, uh, officers could hit people from ahorse. It was like a four foot long stick, uh, nightstick. We went around the house and we saw a guysitting on several boxes peering in through this window. We actually caught the peeping Tom inprogress. Well we walked up to him; silently Mike walked up like a ninja warrior. He took a baseballbat type of swing and wopped this guys back of the legs. It hit with a loudWhap knocking this guybackward off the thing as he grabbed his legs screaming in pain. Mike then, then sitting on thisgentleman’s chest with one foot and put the stick down towards the gentleman’s throat and said uh,“you weren’t doing what I thought you were doing?” and he said “what was that?” Then he said,“peeping in that girls window” and he said, “no I wasn’t” and he said “I didn’t think so, and youwon’t do it again will you?” Mike left. (Luhman and Nazario, 2015, p. 679)

What we do not know from simply reading this story text is a lot. Did “Mike” have influenceor power in the organization? In other words, did the story about Mike say these policetactics were acceptable? Maybe the storyteller used the story to discredit Mike’s tactics.So did listeners not engage in this kind of abuse after hearing the story? Did the listenersshare the story with others, and what were their intent – to approve or discredit the tactics?A description of the formal attributes of this story – per Step 1 – was completed in theoriginal article (p. 670) as a satirical story having “comic tones and thus is identified asirony.” Since we did this storytelling collection ex situ, we did not venture onwards to myproposed Steps 2 and 3. My argument is that we should have collected the necessaryevidence to follow through with Steps 2 and 3.

A description of each story’s spatial attributes of the story – per Step 2 – would involvegathering evidence from the interviewee by asking the following questions:

• Who was listening when the story was told? What were their roles in the organization?

• Where was the story told? Was there anything important about where the storywas told?

• What happened with the listeners during the storytelling performance?

• What happened with the listeners after the storytelling performance?

A chronological inference of the story – per Step 3 – would involve gathering evidence fromthe interviewee by asking the following questions:

• What do you believe was the intent of the teller of this story? Do you believe the tellerachieved their intent?

• Do you believe the story influenced the immediate behaviors of the listeners? Do youbelieve the story influenced the future behaviors of the listeners?

• Do you know if the story was re-told by any of the listeners? Do you know what wasthe intent of the story re-teller?

In addition, following Boje’s (1991, pp. 110-112) procedures as part of Step 3, you shouldattempt to gather evidence relating to the storytelling performance concerns of pauses,overlapping utterances, tone, pitch, story blanks, tersing, glossing, or prediction. All of thisevidence would be utilized to answer what is happening with the provoking and selecting ofstories, what is closest to, dear to, each storyteller and did they attempt to make meaningstick by giving others no voice? In the words of Walter Fisher (1985), storytellingresearchers need to “account for how people come to adopt stories that guide behavior”(p. 348) in order “to justify (or mystify) decisions or actions already made or performed andto determine future decisions or actions” (p. 362).

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The three steps of archeological story analysis allows, I believe, organizationalstorytelling researchers to analyze stories collected out of their time, context and process byutilizing archeology’s method of interpretation of artifacts as a guiding analogy. It is aposition that re-imagines the current discourse around “good” research practices fororganizational storytelling, from a quite different perspective.

References

A Guide to Archaeological Resources (2010), “Diagram 1”, available at: www.thestudentroom.co.uk/wiki/A_guide_to_archaeological_resources (accessed April 30, 2010).

Bakhtin, M.M. (1981), The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays (Edited by M.M. Bakhtin and Holquist, M.,and translated by C. Emerson and M. Holquist), University of Texas Press, Austin, TX.

Bakhtin, M.M. (1984), Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics (translated by and edited by C. Emerson),University Press, Manchester.

Bakhtin, M.M. (1986), Speech Genres and Other Late Essays (translated by V.W. McGee), University ofTexas Press, Austin, TX.

Bakken, T. and Hernes, T. (2006), “Organizing is both a verb and a noun: Weick meets Whitehead”,Organization Studies, Vol. 27 No. 11, pp. 1599-1616.

Binford, L.R. (1962), “Archeology as anthropology”, American Antiquity, Vol. 28 No. 2, pp. 217-225.

Binford, L.R. (1964), “A consideration of archeological research design”, American Antiquity, Vol. 29No. 4, pp. 425-441.

Boje, D.M. (1991), “The storytelling organization: a study of story performance in an office-supplyfirm”, Administrative Science Quarterly, Vol. 36 No. 1, pp. 106-126.

Boje, D.M., Luhman, J.T. and Baack, D.E. (1999), “Hegemonic stories and encounters betweenstorytelling organizations”, Journal of Management Inquiry, Vol. 8 No. 4, pp. 340-361.

Browning, L.D. (1991), “Organizational narratives and organizational structure”, Journal ofOrganizational Change Management, Vol. 4 No. 3, pp. 59-67.

Cunliffe, A.L., Luhman, J.T. and Boje, D.M. (2004), “Narrative temporality theory: implications fororganization study”, Organization Studies, Vol. 25 No. 2, pp. 261-286.

Ewen, C.R. (2003), Artifacts: Archeologist’s Toolkit, Vol. 4, Alta Mira Press, New York, NY.

Fisher, W. (1985), “The narrative paradigm: an elaboration”, Communication Monographs, Vol. 52No. 4, pp. 347-367.

Foucault, M. (1989a), The Archeology of Knowledge, Routledge, London.

Foucault, M. (1989b), The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences, Routledge, London.

Frye, N. (1957), The Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ.

Gabriel, Y. (2000), Storytelling in Organizations: Facts, Fictions, and Fantasies, Oxford UniversityPress, Oxford.

Georges, R. (1969), “Toward an understanding of storytelling events”, Journal of American Folklore,Vol. 82 No. 326, pp. 314-328.

Georges, R. (1980a), “A folklorist’s view of storytelling”, Humanities in Society, Vol. 3 No. 4, pp. 317-326.

Georges, R. (1980b), “Towards a resolution of the text/context controversy”, Western Folklore, Vol. 39No. 1, pp. 34-40.

Georges, R. (1981), “Do narrators really digress? A reconsideration of ‘audience asides’ in narrating”,Western Folklore, Vol. 40 No. 3, pp. 245-252.

Harré, R. (1998), The Singular Self: An Introduction to the Psychology of Personhood, Sage, London.

Hodder, I. (1999), The Archeological Process: An Introduction, Blackwell, Oxford.

Hodder, I. (2003), Archaeology Beyond Dialogue, University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City, UT.

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Hymes, D. (1975), “Breakthrough into performance”, in Ben-Amos, D. and Goldstein, K. (Eds), Folklore:Performance and Communication, Mouton, Paris, pp. 11-74.

Jefferson, G. (1973), “A case of precision timing in ordinary conversation”, Semiotica, Vol. 9 No. 1,pp. 47-96.

Jefferson, G. (1978), “Sequential aspects of storytelling in conversation”, in Schenkein, J. (Ed.), Studies inthe Organization of Conversational Interaction, Academic Press, New York, NY, pp. 219-248.

Johnson, M.H. (2006), “On the nature of theoretical archeology and archeological theory”, ArcheologicalDialogues, Vol. 13 No. 2, pp. 117-132.

Jones, M.O., Moore, M.D. and Synder, R.C. (Eds) (1988), Inside Organizations: Understanding theHuman Dimensions, Sage, Newbury Park, CA.

Kirshenblatt-Gimglett, B. (1975), “A parable in context: a social interactional analysis of storytellingperformance”, in Ben-Amos, D. and Goldstein, K. (Eds), Folklore: Performance andCommunication, Mouton, Paris, pp. 105-130.

Kohl, P.L. (1981), “Materialist approaches in prehistory”, Annual Review of Anthropology, Vol. 10No. 10, pp. 89-118.

Luhman, J.T. (2005), “Narrative processes in organization discourse”, Emergence: Complexity andOrganization, Vol. 7 Nos 3/4, pp. 15-22.

Luhman, J.T. and Boje, D.M. (2001), “What is complexity science? A possible answer from narrativeresearch”, Emergence, Vol. 3 No. 1, pp. 158-168.

Luhman, J.T. and Nazario, A.F. (2015), “Alienation, police stories, and percival”, Journal of BusinessEthics, Vol. 130 No. 3, pp. 665-681.

Ricoeur, P. (1984), Time and Narrative, Vol. 1 (translated by K. McLaughlin and D. Pellauer), Universityof Chicago Press, Chicago, IL.

Ryave, A.L. (1978), “On the achievement of a series of stories”, in Schenkein, J. (Ed.), Studies in theOrganization of Conversational Interaction, Academic Press, New York, NY, pp. 113-132.

Sacks, H. (1972), “An initial investigation of the usability of conversational data for doing sociology”, inSudnow, D. (Ed.), Studies in Social Interaction, Free Press, New York, NY, pp. 31-74.

Sacks, H., Schegloff, E.A. and Jefferson, G. (1974), “A simplest systematics for the organization of turn-taking for conversation”, Language, Vol. 50 No. 4, pp. 696-735.

Spaulding, A.C. (1960), “The dimensions of archaeology”, in Dole, G.E. and Carneiro, R.L. (Eds), Essaysin the Science of Culture: In Honor of Leslie A. White, T.Y. Cromwell Company, New York, NY,pp. 437-456.

Smith, A.T. (2006), “Undisciplined theory”, Archeological Dialogues, Vol. 13 No. 2, pp. 158-163.

Weick, K.E. (2004), “A bias for conversation: acting discursively in organizations”, in Grant, D., Hardy, C.,Oswick, C. and Putnam, L. (Eds), The Sage Handbook of Organizational Discourse, Sage,Thousands Oak, CA, pp. 405-412.

Weick, K.E., Sutcliffe, K.M. and Obstfeld, D. (2005), “Organizing and the process of sensemaking”,Organization Science, Vol. 16 No. 4, pp. 409-421.

White, H. (1987), The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation,John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, MD.

Appendix. Sample of storytelling research articles

(1) Andersen, P. and Rask, M. (2014), “Creating legitimacy across international contexts: the roleof storytelling for international new ventures”, Journal of International Entrepreneurship,Vol. 12 No. 4, pp. 365-388.

(2) Arnaud, N., Mills, C.E. and Legrand, C. (2016), “Liberation through narrativity: a caseof organization reconstruction through strategic storytelling”, Management International/International Management/Gestión Internacional, Vol. 20 No. 2, pp. 107-118.

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(3) Auvinen, T., Lämsä, A., Sintonen, T. and Takala, T. (2013), “Leadership manipulation andethics in storytelling”, Journal of Business Ethics, Vol. 116 No. 2, pp. 415-431.

(4) Bangerter, A., Corvalan, P. and Cavin, C. (2014), “Storytelling in the selection interview?How applicants respond to past behavior questions”, Journal of Business & Psychology, Vol. 29No. 4, pp. 593-604.

(5) Boje, D.M. (1991), “The storytelling organization: a study of story performance in anoffice-supply firm”, Administrative Science Quarterly, Vol. 36 No. 1, pp. 106-126.

(6) Boje, D.M. (1995), “Stories of the storytelling organization: a postmodern analysis of Disney as‘Tamara-Land’ ”, Academy Of Management Journal, Vol. 38 No. 4, pp. 997-1035.

(7) Boje, D.M., Luhman, J.T. and Baack, D.E. (1999), “Hegemonic stories and encounters betweenstorytelling organizations”, Journal of Management Inquiry, Vol. 8 No. 4, pp. 340-361.

(8) Boje, D.M., Rosile, G.A., Durant, R.A. and Luhman, J.T. (2004), “Enron spectacles: a criticaldramaturgical analysis”, Organization Studies, Vol. 25 No. 5, pp. 751-774.

(9) Boje, D. and Gomez, C. (2008), “A study of socioeconomic interventions of transorganizationstorytelling among NewMexico arts organizations”,Revue Sciences De Gestion, Vol. 65, pp. 199-220.

(10) Boyce, M.E. (1995), “Collective centering and collective sense-making in the stories andstorytelling of one organization”, Organization Studies, Vol. 16 No. 1, pp. 107-138

(11) Bridgewater, M.J. and Buzzanell, P.M. (2010), “Caribbean immigrants’ discourses: cultural,moral, and personal stories about workplace communication in the United States”, Journal ofBusiness Communication, Vol. 47 No. 3, pp. 235-265.

(12) Collins, D. (2013), “In search of popular management: sensemaking, sensegiving andstorytelling in the excellence project”, Culture & Organization, Vol. 19 No. 1, pp. 42-61.

(13) Conner, S.L. and Fischbach, S. (2013), “Many shades of ‘green’: an exploration of sustainabilitystorytelling across and within university organizations”, Tamara Journal for CriticalOrganization Inquiry, Vol. 11 No. 3, pp. 27-43.

(14) Dolan, S.L. and Bao, Y. (2012), “Sharing the culture: embedding storytelling and ethics in theculture change management process”, Journal of Management & Change, Vol. 29 No. 1, pp. 10-23.

(15) Gabriel, Y. (1991), “Turning facts into stories and stories into facts: a hermeneutic explorationof organizational folklore”, Human Relations, Vol. 44 No. 8, pp. 857-875.

(16) Hersted, L. and Frimann, S. (2016), “Constructing leadership identities through stories”,Tamara Journal for Critical Organization Inquiry, Vol. 14 No. 4, pp. 149-162.

(17) Hugo, G. (2010), “Official chronicles of corporate globalization and unofficial stories ofinternational mobility: resisting patronage of meaning?” Journal of Organizational ChangeManagement, Vol. 23 No. 2, pp. 157-165.

(18) Humle, D.M. (2014), “Remembering who we are: memories of identity through storytelling”,Tamara Journal for Critical Organization Inquiry, Vol. 12 No. 3, pp. 11-24.

(19) Jermier, J.M., Slocum Jr, J.W., Fry, L.W. and Gaines, J. (1991), “Organizational subcultures in asoft bureaucracy: resistance behind the myth and facade of an official culture”, OrganizationScience, Vol. 2 No. 2, pp. 170-194.

(20) Joyner, F.F. (2012), “Storymining: eliciting stories and mining their content for cultural levers”,Human Resource Development International, Vol. 15 No. 5, pp. 627-633.

(21) Katzeff, C. and Ware, V. (2007), “Video storytelling in a transient, volunteer organization”,Business Communication Quarterly, Vol. 70 No. 3, pp. 381-385.

(22) Luhman, J.T. and Nazario, A.F. (2015), “Alienation, police stories, and percival”, Journal ofBusiness Ethics, Vol. 130 No. 3, pp. 665-681.

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(23) Macaulay, K.D., Yue, A.R. and Thurlow, A.B. (2010), “Ghosts in the hallways: unseen actorsand organizational change”, Journal of Change Management, Vol. 10 No. 4, pp. 335-356.

(24) Martens, M.L., Jennings, J.E. and Jennings, P.D. (2007), “Do the stories they tell get them themoney they need? The role of entrepreneurial narratives in resource acquisition”, Academy ofManagement Journal, Vol. 50 No. 5, pp. 1107-1132.

(25) Martin, J., Feldman, M.S., Hatch, M.J., and Sitkin, S.B. (1983), “The uniqueness paradox inorganizational stories”, Administrative Science Quarterly, Vol. 28 No. 3, pp. 438-453.

(26) McCarthy, J.F. (2008), “Short stories at work”, Group and Organization Management, Vol. 33No. 2, pp. 163-193.

(27) Rhodes, C., Pullen, A. and Clegg, S.R. (2010), “ ‘If I should fall from grace…’: Stories of changeand organizational ethics”, Journal of Business Ethics, Vol. 91, pp. 535-551.

(28) Rooney, T., Lawlor, K. and Rohan, E. (2016), “Telling tales: storytelling as a methodologicalapproach in research”, Electronic Journal of Business Research Methods, Vol. 14 No. 2,pp. 147-156.

(29) Vaara, E. and Tienari, J. (2011), “On the narrative construction of multinational corporations:an antenarrative analysis of legitimation and resistance in a cross-border merger”,Organization Science, Vol. 22 No. 2, pp. 370-390.

(30) Wilkins, A.L. (1984), “The creation of company cultures: the role of stories and human resourcesystems”, Human Resource Management, Vol. 23 No. 1, pp. 41-60.

About the authorJohn Teta Luhman is Professor of Management at Eastern New Mexico University. He has published injournals such asOrganization Studies, Journal of Management Inquiry, Journal of Business Ethics, Philosophyof Management, Emergence, and Ephemera. His research combines an interest in worker-ownership andnarrative analysis. John Teta Luhman can be contacted at: john.luhman@enmu.edu

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An open letter to the Universe:a reflection on conducting

“good” researchStefanie Ruel

Athabasca University, Athabasca, Canada

AbstractPurpose – The purpose of this paper is to reveal a qualitative researcher’s journey into finding her sense ofself during a trial she faced while conducting her dissertation research.Design/methodology/approach – Indigenous research methodologies (IRM) mixed with anautoethnography were used. A critical reflexivity position, with respect to being in the field, was adopted,melding in the Universe, the Sun and the Earth as objects that the author can talk and interact with. Thisreflexivity was captured within the letter to the Universe.Findings – Three outcomes are discussed. Notably, the implications of this work with respect topower-relations and gender. The issue of being in the field is then discussed. Finally, untangling the practicalimplications of using IRM/autoethnography as a combined method is presented.Social implications – The letter to the Universe offers a guide of sorts to other qualitative researchers, viaone person’s experience in the field. The letter is, in the end, a cautionary story for others, acknowledging thatthe author can respond to a trial in a gendered fashion, that one needs to be humble along with beingpersistent, flexible and resourceful toward achieving “good” research.Originality/value – As a Western, White woman scholar, who circles Indigenous influences, the authordemonstrated (through this letter) one possible way of embracing, and acknowledging, IRM withoutappropriating it.Keywords Indigenous research methodologies (IRM), Autoethnography, Reflexivity, Experience in the fieldPaper type Research paper

PrologueI have found, in the past few years of academic writing and presenting my work, that engagingothers in my work comes from talking about me and my experiences in Space. The outputof my research to date has, however, not been about me and my experiences;I am present in everything I write, clearly, but “who I am[1],” and what I havegone through emotionally in the science, technology, engineering and mathematics(STEM)-professional spheres are not necessarily present. I acknowledge that “who I am” and“who I am becoming” are complex constructions of my varied identities (Ruel, 2017a). In addition,my varied emotions – exhilaration, happiness, frustration, sadness, rage, etc. – are intertwined inthis gendered individual that I am and am becoming. By putting my very complexity down onpaper, in my letter to the Universe, you will hopefully learn a little more about “who I am.”

I am often asked how I came to work in space – the Space, as in the Heavens and Stars. I, tothis day, remember sitting in a movie theater, with my sister, anxiously waiting for Star Warsto come up on the screen. This was 1977, when things like Star Destroyers, Princess Leia andWookies, did not exist within the realm of our imagination, let alone in our discourses[2]. Whenthis aforementioned Star Destroyer came onto the screen, I knew, at that very moment, thatI wanted to be on that ship. I did not have a sense, on that fateful day, that my fluid identitieswould be an issue with respect to working in the Space industry.

While extensive research has been conducted in gender and diversity circles focused onengineering and science (e.g. Chu, 2006; Faulkner, 2007; Hanappi-Egger, 2013; Jorgenson,2002; Maier, 1997; Messerschmidt, 1996), many of these studies were centered on the mostvulnerable individuals, that is, women students of various ethnic/raced/culturalbackgrounds. The epistemological vacuum created by focusing on the most vulnerable

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:

An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019

pp. 55-74© Emerald Publishing Limited

1746-5648DOI 10.1108/QROM-03-2017-1511

Received 31 March 2017Revised 15 November 2017

29 June 2018Accepted 9 October 2018

The current issue and full text archive of this journal is available on Emerald Insight at:www.emeraldinsight.com/1746-5648.htm

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implies that STEM-professional women, in their late career, are just fine, thank you verymuch. I am not sure that in 1977, or in my early career as a STEM-professional, I would havesought out academic literature to know what it is like for a woman to work in the Spaceindustry. All I knew, in 1977, was that the science of Space was a draw for me, and that I hadthe support of my father, an avowed male-chauvinist (Ruel, 2018a).

Today, I am not (yet) asked why I stopped working in the Canadian space industry.I expect that this question may be framed within feelings of incredulity on the part of theperson asking the question (i.e. “How could you quit?! You had to have the coolest job ever!”).This work brings to light some of the industrial social reality of working in Space, in theform of a letter I wrote to the Universe. The letter showcases my complex self, both as aSTEM-professional woman and as an academic, and the social interactions with mycommunity of support, which included my husband, who is also a STEM-professional, andmy circle of mentors and friends/colleagues.

I navigated, in this letter, my subjective experiences framed within Foucault’s (1980)notion of power-relations, within a context of larger meanings. This drove me to search foran understanding of the web of fluid social interactions that I was a part of. This is animportant point because I did not want to perpetuate a contrast between woman and man,as binary representations within Power (with a capital P) entities (Habermas, 1984). In otherwords, the binary treatment of genders does not figure in this work; what stands out is that,yes, as a complex individual, I can embrace some feminine-ideals, just as my husband canembrace masculine-ideals. However, each of us can also transcend these ideals as we movethrough the social.

The context of larger meanings was gleaned from the Indigenous researchmethodologies (IRM), influenced by Jeff Baker’s (2017) Plains Cree epistemologicalframing of IRM[3]. IRM is recognized as a relational method, where the knowledge that isgenerated belongs to the community (Baker, 2017). The community that I refer to in thiswork is extensive, and includes the academic community with which I practice,my community of mentors, my family and my Indigenous friends that surround me.Indigenous-based epistemologies are multifaceted and are difficult to define: they are basedon nonreductionist, emotional, physical and spiritual existences, and are linked to therelationship with the Earth and the living, and to “the philosophies, beliefs, values andeducational processes of entire communities” (Brayboy and Maughan, 2009, p. 3).Indigenous-based knowledge can be “expressed in diverse languages that portray an active,animate cosmos” (Baker, 2017, p. 180). These active, animated lived experiences – which areembodied in my letter, and in this paper, by capitalizing the Universe, Earth, Stars,Knowledge, etc. – translate into epistemological questions which are not based on anindividual who is independent from others but reflects these relationships.

Part of relational IRM involves recognizing that I have many advantages, includingbeing a White woman. I am also a scholar who lived both in the quantitative (life sciences)and qualitative (Foucauldian-framed understandings of the social) world of research. Withrespect to my state of being, my acts of reflexivity, mirrored in my letter, includedacknowledging that I am not “just” an amalgam of my self- and social-identities(Ruel, 2017a). I am, and I am becoming, as an outcome of my emotions, social interactionsand relations with others and with the Earth, the Universe, the Sun, etc. (Baker, 2017;Van Maanen et al., 1993; Whiteman, 2010). This relational approach was inspired by myjourney of discovery while reading Jeff Baker’s (2017) nitâcimowinis, and Patricia Monture’s(1986) Ka-Nin-Geh-Heh-Gah-E-Sa-Nonh-Yah-Gah. I also came to realize, via my field workand the subsequent analysis of collected data focused on other STEM-professional womenin the Canadian space industry, that we shared similar challenges and experiences. Notably,the STEM-professional women in my dissertation research had their own stories to tell ofthe systemic discrimination they faced in this industry (Ruel, 2017a, b). Vigrine, a late-career

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STEM-professional, stood out for me personally as an example of how discrimination canundo an individual (Ruel, 2018b). The utter destruction of who she was and who she wasbecoming, embodied within her attributed “You’re Like a Dog” identity (Ruel, 2018b),emboldened me to find my courage and to stand up for her, and for otherSTEM-professional women in this industry. I chose to consciously embrace the “we-ness”of this journey, and to reflect it within my own cry to the Universe.

With this letter, I do not wish to appropriate the “sacred from its traditional context”(Baker, 2017, p. 186). I cannot, however, ignore the influence that Inuit, Aboriginal peoplesand First Nations interests have had on my life. My father, in the 1970s into the 1980s,worked in what was known, at the time, as the Canadian Indian and Northern Affairsdepartment. He would often go up North, calling us on shortwave radio, regaling us withstories about taking a dog team to meet Elders in various communities, or fishing for ArcticChar with the community he was visiting. He made friends that, simply said, had a lifetimeimpact on him (and I might add, that he had a lifetime impact on them). I was fortunate tospend a summer with some of his friends, learning stories and various communities’protocols. I grew up surrounded by Inuit Art and symbols throughout my house, seekingteenage comfort in Indigenous storytelling that my friend Hannah would share with mewhen we would write to each other. I also walked side by side with several Métis children,Hannah in particular, being adopted into White families. I continue, to this day, to interrelatewith a number of friends that either identify as First Nations, Inuit or Métis, or who aremarried into, and parents of, Aboriginal/First Nations individuals, or who are activemembers within band councils. I chose to reflect this relational social reality by naming thisas circling Indigenous worldviews.

This leaves the question of why I chose to use IRM, melded with an autoethnography, towrite my letter to the Universe. The special editors for this issue drewme into their question of“what is good research?” (“Qualitative research in organizations and management,” specialissue call for papers, 2016), while I was in the haze of organizational and personal turmoil.I pondered with one of the special editors, at a conference, what voice I could add to theirimportant deliberations surrounding the positivist assumptions of credibility, transferability,dependability and confirmability (Guba, 1981) as the measuring stick for what is “good.”Similarly, the eternal question of “what is interesting?” (Barley, 2006; Davis, 1971) drew meinto this question of “good” research. I knew I wanted to share with others, both academicsand STEM-professionals, my personal, relational experiences in order to help grow anunderstanding of what can happen while conducting research and working in the CanadianSpace industry. The goal for this work was to share this experience in such a way to informthe reader, so that they would not be caught unaware, as I had been. I also knew that I wantedto stay “true” to “who I am” and to “who I am becoming,” as I moved into a community ofacademics. I knew that I wanted to foster, and advocate for, a relational qualitative approach.This relational approach was a way to address what Whiteman (2010) called out as theremoval of person-hood and the “sanitized version of management reality” (p. 330) that are soprevalent in academic writing. I felt strongly that the person, as imperfect as she may be,needs to be acknowledged in management research beyond say a theory building exercisethat ignores the interlaced relations of two women interacting together (Özkazanç-Pan, 2012).

I do hope by sharing this prologue with you, the reader, at this time, that you will see “me”in the letter to the Universe. I also hope that you will see, via my shared experiences, the otherSTEM-professional women that I left behind, who continue to work in this industry and whoface various systemic discrimination experiences daily (Ruel, 2017a). You may also seeyourself, my academic colleagues, in this experience I share with you. I am provoking thereader into thinking about their field experiences, and then having their thinking shift, in an actof retrospection. Once you have read the letter to the Universe, I will guide you back to themethodology framework used, and to a discussion on the implications of this work.

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Dear UniverseThe Sun, the Moon and the “Earth [that] is my mother” (Monture, 1986, p. 160), they all worktogether to make Life possible. I embrace this Life that you, dear Universe, provide to me.My embrace is reflected in my efforts to make a difference, as you probably know. Just incase you missed me – because I know how busy you are – I will introduce myself before Iget to the point of my letter.

My White French ancestor was a simple fisherman, who arrived in 1672 onto Quebec’sshores. He understood the Water, watching the tide ebb and flow, only catching what heneeded to survive, and what his master told him he needed to provide to him. Since thattime, my ancestors have navigated many different types of occupations and relationshipswith the Earth. As for me specifically, I am a mother who tries to nurture her relationshipwith the Earth. I work hard to do life science research in Space, trying to make a differencenot only for those who are in orbit but also for individuals who are on Earth.

I also conduct organizational research, analyzing and reflecting on how we on Earthmarginalize. I have to tell you that individuals are, in certain circumstances, frustratedby these limits (e.g. Monture, 1986). Some believe that they have to fight, or go to war,against these limits (e.g. Shin et al., 2016; Yousafzai, 2013). Others believe that they cannotchange these limits, giving up the fight along the way (e.g. Bates Harris, 1991; Ruel, 2018b).Can you imagine, Universe, being identified as “The Bitch,” “Girl Engineer,” “You’re like adog,” “How can we count on you? You’re a woman, you have kids,” “Uppity Black Female”(Ruel, 2017b, 2018b; Ruel et al., 2018)? I like others before me find that, at times, we are at acrossroad with respect to these attempts to categorize us: should I continue to work tosurface these limits that marginalize? Or should I just walk away? I find navigating thesequestions, and my actions, difficult, a trial of sorts. This letter is to give you an idea of whatone of these trials looks like, and to ask you to align the Stars next time I encountersuch a trial.

I begin then at the beginning. Well, ok, not your beginning, but the Beginning withrespect to my organizational research – what I passionately want to address, and thecommunity that supports me. I then move to describing this Trial that I mentioned earlier.I also share the backstage dramas and deceptions (Cunliffe and Alcadipani, 2016) of thisTrial. I close with my plea to you.

The BeginningAs I said, I work in Space, your backyard really, in the hope of making a difference.The thing is, I have noticed that I am the only woman doing the job that I do. Oh, yes, thereare women working in Space, but they seem to be held down in lower occupationalpositions. I was fortunate when I first noticed these boundaries. Did you have a hand inthat? I am referring to having someone by my side, that I will refer to as Obi-Wan[4], whotaught me much about courage. Obi-Wan underlined that I would need to ask difficultquestions, to read (a lot) and to seek out those individuals who would elevate me. He gentlyhelped me to open my eyes, to see that I could be an instigator for change in the face ofsystemic discrimination in the Space industry.

I took my first tentative, awkward steps into questioning these limits, believing at the timethat you again, dear Universe, had a hand in this. I embarked on a grueling schedule of workand study, gaining Knowledge from those who had come before me: Acker, Baker, Burrell,Butler, Hekman, Helms Mills, Kanter, Mills, Monture, Morgan, etc. Then I “met” Foucault.I felt like the Sky had opened up in front of me! I was blown away! I realized I could look at theself in such a way to expose limits in a non-binary (i.e. man vs woman) fashion.

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You then guided me to the discovery of a beautiful place by the Atlantic Ocean. I wouldmeet my next mentor there, who would inspire and guide me, ground me in Knowledge andself-care. My courage, I freely admit, was missing upon this first meeting with Yoda, as I willcall him here. I was so tongue-tied, that I was unable to string words together to form asentence. How embarrassing! Thankfully, he saw me for “who I am,” and my possibilities.He embraced me that evening with Knowledge, compassion and confidence. I believe you alsosent me another mentor – two in one place, how lucky I felt! Ahsoka’s vibrancy, brilliance andexcitement at what I was proposing to study were palpable. We talked for hours, hardlynoticing people that milled around us. Finally, my wonderful trifecta of passionate mentorswas complete with the arrival of Stass. What a gift she was! Her compassion and spiritinfused me with peace and confidence.

With my Knowledge and my community of mentors, I felt this courage well up in me.The question of the lack of women in STEM management positions in the Canadian Spaceindustry was mine to answer! I naively believed that everything would be all right, that Icould undo systemic discrimination in an industry.

The TrialI successfully defended my dissertation proposal focused on the lack of women inmanagement positions in the Space industry. I applied for ethics approval, which wasgranted rather efficiently I must say. I was ready! I had my theoretical framework, I had mymethodology and I had my ethics approval. Ahsoka asked me, during my defense, if I sawwhat I was about to do. Retrospectively, I can say that I did not “see.” Is it because I believedyou would protect me? Is it because I did not understand what “career suicide,” as Ahsokacalled it, would be like? These questions keep going through my mind, as I go over my notesfrom the defence, and try to remember what I was thinking at that time.

I was approached to do a series of interviews on my research, and on my experiencesas the only woman doing the job, Life Sciences Mission Manager, that I did. I agreed tothese interviews, inviting the interviewers and the photographers into “my” world ofSpace. I made sure that one particular individual, whom I will call the Watcher-on-the-Wall, was involved in all aspects of this process. Remember, I wanted to break downbarriers; so, I broke down these boundaries, unburdening myself of secrets I had heldinside for so long. Why did I talk?! Why did I let everything out?! Why did you not stopme, Universe?!

The outcome of this interview came back to me for final approval. I was surprised tosee myself and my research portrayed in words. Frankly, I was a bit overwhelmed bywhat I was reading. I thanked all those involved, and gave the go-ahead to print. You musthave been shaking your head at me, Universe.

The Watcher-on-the-Wall was not happy with the final product, and she called me intoher office. A friend, a colleague and a woman working in Space did not like what I hadrevealed of this social reality; that is, that men remain in management and women arepositioned in supporting roles. “Could you change what you said?” she asked. Specifically,she did not like that I had said “it is unacceptable” that I am the only woman working inthe particular management position I held. The Watcher-on-the-Wall felt that I hadportrayed the organization in a negative light. “How could I say the things I had said?!”she asked, with a tinge of anger and surprise in her voice. She urged me again to changewhat I had said, as she tried to convince me to buy into the idea that “We really needed tokeep a ‘good’ message coming out from the organization.” “After all, we are an inspiringstory maker, aren’t we?” she asked rhetorically.

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I declined her offer to change my words. I believed, at the time, that if I grounded myarguments in “truth,” there could only be one outcome: the revelation of boundaries thatwould lead toward the improvement of Life for everyone in the Space industry.I also believed that if I trusted in this “truth,” all – Life, Space, Mother Earth andKnowledge – would see what I was trying to do and see it for what it was. What I did notsee was that my friend, my colleague and my Space sister would do her job. She would doher job so well, that she would attempt to reconstruct “truth” to meet the organization’sown needs. She also threatened to implicate “The North,” a city where those with Powerreside. She would create her own narratives to refute everything I had said, to ensure thatthe “good news” message of Space would be maintained. There was also a veiled threat oflosing my job, if “The North” found out about what I had said.

Backstage dramas and deceptions: what do I do now?!I could not believe, like Goodall (2005), that I was going to be “betrayed by the truth” (p. 495).You had to see me shaking with fear, with incredulity, as I walked out of her office,Universe. I do not remember how I made it out of that office, down the hall to my office, tocollect my personal belongings and then to make my way home. I could barely stringenough words together to tell my husband, in our kitchen, what had just happened. I felt likeI had been punched in the stomach, all the air gone from me. Fear for my own future, when Ihad only altruistic goals in mind, as an academic and as a practicing STEM-professional inthe Space industry, left a bad taste of adrenaline in my mouth; nothing I could say or do wasalleviating this adrenaline-fueled flight response. I wanted to run, as fast as possible, awayfrom this threat. “Career suicide” had begun much faster than I had anticipated, from adirection I had not foreseen.

I had thought briefly, a fleeting idea really, that the men in this industry would rise up,and protect their boundaries. Never did I think for one moment that a woman, who Iconsidered my friend, would rise up to protect the boundary Wall that separated womenfrom management positions. Universe, you tricked me into believing that a sister wouldwalk beside me, not against me, in revealing these “truths.” Why would you trick me thisway? Why would you do such a thing?

Is it not ironic, you are probably saying to yourself, that I turned to a man to helpnavigate this deception. My husband did not shake with fear, but with fury. He was able tosee how important this research was not only to me, but also how important this was forother women in this industry. Some may see my need to turn to my husband as representingthe usual division along gender lines; my husband, the savior, rides in on his horse while I,the princess, filled with fear, needs saving. The reality, as I see it, is very different that this:my husband and I were, and continue to be, in a partnership. When one is down, the other isthere to pick up the pieces, regardless of feminine/masculine-ideals.

My husband, who also works in the Space industry, and I immediately beganbrainstorming how we could save my precious research. We both acknowledged certain“facts”: I had to work fast to secure the data before the media interview, and the rebuttalfrom “The North,” came out; I had to pull on my community of mentors and supporters; Ihad to stay “true” to myself. I break these “facts” out below, Universe, so that you and I canembrace this experience and, hopefully, move past it.

Work fast!My research ethics board-approved methodology was premised on snowball sampling. Ichose this approach, after consulting with my dissertation supervisory committee and the

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literature, as I was working directly in the organization context I was about to study.This rather instrumental perspective (Cunliffe and Alcadipani, 2016) to selecting, and thengaining access to my research participants, in light of my conversation with theWatcher-on-the-Wall, had to be maintained I believed. I now needed someone to referpossible participants to me, and I needed those referrals fast as the media interview wouldbe coming out shortly. My husband started thinking about anyone who might fit mysampling criteria. He started listing names off as quickly as I could write them down. I thenbegan contacting these possible participants, scheduling their interviews to start the verynext day, and to run everyday thereafter.

I conducted the interviews after, and away, from work. Sometimes these interviewswould run over 2 h, where the participant would share their desolation as the “Only Girl” oras “You’re like a Dog […] You Need to be Kept on a Leash” (Ruel, 2017a, 2018b). Much to mysurprise, during this hurried collection of data, the interviewee felt “safe” with me, oftenreferring to “well, you know about this,” drawing me into her painful tales within herparticular social situation (Van Maanen, 2011). In contrast, internally and hidden from theinterviewee’s perception of what was happening, I was very concerned with protecting theirprivacy. I did not, at any time, indicate to these study participants that my media interviewwas coming out. I was also very careful not to acknowledge these research participants inthe hallways at work or in other industrial contexts, as I was an “insider” (Cunliffe andAlcadipani, 2016). I was filled with fear that these participants would be targeted by TheNorth and by the Watcher-on-the-Wall. I felt guilty that I could not share with them my ownpain, to tell them what I had done.

Pull on my communityI contacted my community of mentors, after the brainstorming session in my kitchen. I toldthem everything that had happened. A variety of emotions from my mentors ensued; I willsimply characterize these feelings as being strong, Universe. My community wasunanimous: I had to write everything down; I had to keep everything (e-mails, messages,etc.); and, I had to fight to keep the integrity of my research clear from this influence fromthe Watcher-on-the-Wall and from The North.

My community of mentors reached out to their own colleagues and friends who hadencountered similar pushback to their respective research. As a result, my community ofsupport grew to include other scholars who shared with me their own backstage dramas.Their realities reflected that research does have important challenges that very few writeabout or share. Some of these scholars urged me to write down what I was experiencing,mirroring my mentors’ recommendations and then publishing it as a warning to others.Some other scholars told me not to reveal my emotions or what I was doing to “save” myresearch. The risks were just too high, they felt.

I went deeper into the academic literature (e.g. Karjalainen et al., 2015) to see what othershad done or not done. I was surprised to see that some did indeed share their emotionalexperiences in conducting research or that doing research could involve dramas anddeceptions (e.g. Niemi, 2010). One thing that struck me, while reading, is that there was anaspect of linearity to them; a researcher would take one step, or take a door (Feldman et al.,2003), and then another, until they had a finished product. I started to ask myself: what iswrong with me? Why could I not just go through a door, and then another door, and get thisdone? This niggling feeling of not being “linear” stayed, pushing me forward to finish asquickly as possible, while also making me wonder indeed if I was cut out for academicresearch.

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Stay “true” to myselfI admit I did not do as well with this “fact” as I should have. I felt betrayed, in the face ofyour game-playing, Universe. I became terrified to state clearly and succinctly that “I am theonly Canadian woman who is a Mission Manager.” I forced myself to embrace this part ofmy professional identity, tentatively stating this “truth” here and there in my academic life.In my day-to-day work, of studying the human body in Space, however, I remained hiddenbehind a veneer of towing the party line and of fitting in with masculine-ideals. I believe, as Iwrite to you now, that I hid because this idea of “fitting in”within the context I found myselfin would protect me. I had not yet reconciled how to navigate the interactions with theWatcher-on-the-Wall; the initial fear I felt walking out of her office was replaced with afeeling of a lack of trust, wondering when she would pull the rug from underneath me. I alsoraged inside: how was it that I had “truth” and “facts” on my side, but the North and theWatcher-on-the-Wall could use deceptive practices to counteract these “truths”? All Iwanted was for the “truth” to come out, and for change to take hold.

My acquired Knowledge with respect to collecting data for my research, thus far, had guidedme to believe that “the interview becomes both the tool and the object, the art of sociologicalsociability, an encounter in which ‘both parties behave as though they are of equal status for itsduration, whether or not this is actually so’ ” (Benney and Hughes, 1956, p. 142, as cited byFontana and Frey, 1994, p. 361). I nodded and made a lot of affirmative noises during theresearch interviews – “Uh uh […] Oh yes […] I understand.” Internally, though, I was in a tug ofwar with the anxiety monster (The Career Psychologist, 2012). I kept asking myself “How couldwe all be equal, if deception defined our relationship and our interactions?” and “How can I nottell my research participants that something is about to explode in the press?” Kvale (1996) toldme to listen attentively during the research interviews, as the “first few minutes of an intervieware decisive” (p. 128), and that I was to be “at ease and clear about what he or she wants to know”(p. 128). I was also told that I am allowed to let my personal feelings influence the direction of theinterview (Fontana and Frey, 1994; Whiteman, 2010). Could I really let my anxiety, my rage andmy lack of trust in a colleague influence the interviews? I decided that this was just toodangerous a route to go down, and ultimately it was better for me to keep hiding.

You were suspiciously quiet during this time, Universe. I was immersed in the day-to-daySpace industry, and I was also studying the systemic discriminatory realities in this context,while trying to win this internal tug of war. I did not want to limit my “field of inquiry”(Fontana and Frey, 1994, p. 366) by the fact that I was an insider; I acknowledged that I wantedto let my participants set out what the field was (Pratt, 2009; Van Maanen, 2011). Was this justan excuse to perpetuate my hidden existence? One particular research interview stands out forme, in the blur of my feelings of rage and anxiety, while trying to let interview participants setthe field. Vigrine’s interview lasted over 3 hours, and I only asked her three questions: tell meabout yourself; what do you see yourself doing in five years; and is there anything I forgot toask you, that you would like to tell me now (Ruel, 2018b). I was nowhere in that interview;my participant was clearly “there,” crying and railing against Life and Work. I, on the otherhand, was nowhere to be found in that taped interview or in the resulting transcript.

The unfortunate outcomes of hiding were twofold: I was not present, except for a hollowvoice of “Uh um’s”; and it was draining not only emotionally but also physically. I staggeredback home after the series of non-stop daily interviews, unable to talk with anyone, let alonemove. From both a physical and mental perspective, I could see that the hiding was taking toomuch out of me. I slowly started to realize that I had to take a break from running thesenon-stop participant interviews. This realization came to a breaking point when I was takencompletely by surprise by memories during another particular intense participant interview,

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with Bramun, a STEM-professional man. I remembered, during this interview, certain eventsat work that I called “Porn Nights”: the men I worked with (years ago) would set up the screen,in a room with large windows on three sides, to watch porn while waiting for the next Spaceactivity to occur (Ruel, 2018b). I was overcome by shock and disgust: how could I haveforgotten about that?! I managed to finish the interview, and then on my way home, I asked:what does this say about me, that I had completely forgotten about these porn nights? Whatdid it say about me that I had put up with this activity all those years ago? How could I be partof this industry that condoned this type of behavior?

I postponed the two remaining interviews, after talking with my community of mentors. Iretreated into myself. I exercised; I reached out to fellow scholars, and found an escape back tothe Sun and the warmth of the Earth, while the fall turned into winter. I jumped on a plane andflew to the Pacific Ocean. I remember, as I write this letter, getting off the plane and driving tomy rental to discover that I had a beautiful patio, with lounge chairs, where I could communewith the Sun. I literally felt the strength of the Sun seep back into my core. I spent dayswalking by the Water, listening to the waves break against the shore. I threw myself intoPilates, Yoga, Barre and Circuit training, striving for balance and awareness of “who I am” and“who I am becoming.” With the Sun, the Water and the endorphins flowing, I flushed all thetoxic memories and experiences out of my system. I started teaching several hundredundergraduate students. Their questions brought me back to my early fascination with Space,and the excitement and possibilities of being on a Star Destroyer.

I am not sure, Universe, if you were responsible for this retreat; perhaps you saw that I wassuffering? The need to run away left me, and I found myself in those classrooms. I realized, as Italked and walked and breathed in the Sun, that I needed to focus on re-establishing arelationship with myself.

Where do we go from here, Universe?So, what is this letter all about? I will frame the answer to this question with two questions foryou: did I really need to go through these backstage dramas and deceptions? Did this experiencemake me a better scholar, a better person, a better STEM-professional? What I know, as I writeto you, is that I started out believing you were my friend, protecting me, walking ahead of me,making sure the road ahead was clear. I then moved to raging against you, Universe, losingtrust in a friend, and having to navigate anxiety that drained me physically and emotionally.

Youwantedme to learn something, clearly. As the Sun and the Earth rallied aroundmewhileI was close to the Pacific Ocean, I found my center again. However, you almost made me walkaway from revealing and breaking down boundaries that block STEM-professional women. Inow know that I want to continue to work to eliminate marginalization, so that Life is just a biteasier. However, I am scared by this path, not knowing at times exactly what to say or how toact. My self-confidence was affected by this experience; at times, I find myself reaching out tofriends, to my community of mentors and to scholars, to make sure I am doing the right thing orsaying the right thing. I do not trust myself as a result of this trial. So, I am asking you, in thisletter, to go easy onme next time. In other words, can youmaybemake things just a bit easier forme, and align the Stars?

ototemihtowinihk (Plains Cree for In friendship. Sincerely.)

PostscriptAs I wrote this letter to you, Universe, I think you must have been laughing; talk about theStars aligning! The media interview I gave finally came out, in two rather prominent

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business publications. Two people in particular – both women – contacted me almostimmediately to tell me they had seen it. The first was a young engineer who had recently leftthe study of Space, to pursue her own academic studies. She told me emphatically “YouROCK!” The second person was another woman who worked in Space, who told me“Looking Good!” She had ignored my revolutionary message and chose to focus on mylooks… really?!

Data for my research were all collected at the time of writing this postscript. I completedtwo participant interviews after my trip to the Pacific Ocean, and after the media interviewcame out. These two last participants requested that they be pulled from the study. I agreedwith their request, and realized that I had done the right thing in getting as much data aspossible before the media interview came out. Do I have enough data? I believe, as manyacademics do, that I could always use more data. However, part of the challenge of doingresearch is, at times, accepting that what I have is “good enough.” My ever-expandingcommunity of support, made up of my mentors, scholars and some of the participants in myresearch, all still believe in me and in my research. I think this, in and of itself, means moreto me than any more data I can collect.

I continue to walk Mother Earth, feeling the Sun on my face, smelling the cool breeze ofspring coming. I do, at times, rail against you, for what I went through. The revolutionstarted so fast, maybe too fast. I was not prepared for it; I do not know if I ever would havebeen ready. My anxiety mounts every time I think about this experience. I have learned,with the passage of time, that it is okay to be scared and anxious, to feel a sense of ragewhen it comes to my research. I believe I will make it to the other side of this experience,with your help Universe, and with the help of my community. My journey to miskasowin(Plains Cree for finding one’s true sense of self ) continues, with you walking beside me, inplain view.

As promised in the prologue, I now guide you from my letter to the methodologicalframework. Recall that I approached this work, in this way, in order to showcase a shift inunderstanding of “what is good research?” The process of self-change and acts ofacknowledging emotions while conducting research are central to this shift. These notionscannot be navigated only at the boundaries of being, however. Personal change andemotions involve sharing, just as we share the Earth, the Stars, etc. This sharingnecessitates embracing and weaving in acts of reflexivity that are attainable to the audience(Donnelly et al., 2013), and that are, in my case, grounded in Indigenous-basedepistemologies. These three ideas – “good” research, reflexivity and circling Indigenousworldviews – all fed into my journey toward miskasowin.

Methodological frameworkDiscourses, represented by stories, are one possible medium that showcase the context oflarger meanings (Saleebey, 1994). Storytelling is a practice that goes back to childhood, andis more easily accepted by individuals as a way to learn, providing a “sense of fulfillmentand of completion” (Goodall, 2005, p. 497). Stories are loosely organized, and they typicallyfocus on a single event with a goal of entertaining, inspiring and educating (Gabriel, 1998).They may instruct on “how to survive or how to accept – even how to overcome – difficultsituations” (Saleebey, 1994, p. 354) conveying values and beliefs. The meanings of a storyare “ostensibly true” (Martin, 2002, p. 73).

Stories are, by their very nature, pulling on historical events, and introduce the elementsof memory and nostalgia. The oral tradition of stories is also recognized as being relational,

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tying the past to the future, and is both method and meaning (Kovach, 2018). WithinIndigenous oral traditions, they can be categorized along two types of story making:mythical and personal narratives (Baker, 2017; Kovach, 2018). Focusing on the personalnarratives, these are centered on place and/or experiences, and on one particular aspect of anindividual’s place/happening/experience (Kovach, 2009). They can be passed, in re-storying,from one generation to another, sharing consequences of and practices in making lifechoices (Kovach, 2018). Kovach (2009) clearly identified that the researcher has aresponsibility to treat the story and its telling with respect. Finally, in Indigenous-basedstorytelling, the epistemology underlying these stories captures both the presence of atrickster and a tragic element. These vehicles underscore “the irony of living in an uncertainworld” (Kovach, 2009; Kindle locations 1727–1729).

The letter to the Universe embraced these oral traditions, conveying the larger meaningsof being within the World/Universe, where the trickster was embodied in the Universe. Theletter also embraced the relational aspects of honesty, or “truth,” between two womenworking within specific social power-relations. While one woman was presented along herbeliefs of doing her job, the other woman (me) was revealed for all to see. My “hidden self”(Goodall, 2005, p. 504) was shown to all, passing to others awareness for “who I am” and“who I am becoming,” along with a cautionary tale for others. To achieve this revelation, Iembraced two frameworks, namely, IRM and autoethnography. I present each in turn below.

Indigenous research methodologiesIRM can be used in either quantitative (e.g. Walter and Andersen, 2013) or qualitative (e.g.Baker, 2017; Monture, 1986) research. IRM are characterized as distinct methodologies fromother approaches, such as discourse analysis (Phillips and Hardy, 2002). Indigenous-basedepistemologies, that ground IRM, are at the center of IRM approaches which, according toKovach (2009, 2018), nurtures a notion of distinction from Western approaches.

Indigenous-based knowledge is multifaceted and is rooted in the relational ideas ofcommunity and family. IRM are constituted, in part, via protocols that are to be respectedand practiced consciously, given these roots. These protocols, presented below, must not bethought of as a checklist but as a conscious journey:

(1) Introducing one’s self (Martin andMirraboopa, 2003): this theme is centered on offeringthe cultural location of the individual in such a way that connections to political,cultural and social relations are understood, and acknowledged from the outset. Thisrequires the individual to demonstrate their limitations and strengths, engendering arespect and accountability to the community that is affected by the research.

(2) Centralising on Indigenous ontology (Martin and Mirraboopa, 2003): centralising thestate of Indigenous being develops an awareness, and sense of self that is necessaryto IRM. The researcher is responsible for their “knowing,” and their ways of relatingto their self and to others. They are also responsible for acknowledging that theyfulfill a role in the system; however, they do not know all. They are part of a largersystem of being and “knowing”.

(3) Use of collaborative, community-based processes (Baker, 2017; Martin andMirraboopa, 2003): embracing relational processes reflects a “belonging” to thecommunity, to the family, to the web of life and to the responsibility of maintainingthese relations. The researcher is responsible for reflecting, respectfully, thecenturies of Indigenous communities, ancestors, elders and cultures that influenceand guide them. The relational nature of Indigenous-based knowledge is then notoppositional; it is inclusive. This approach then acknowledges the Earth, theUniverse, the Sun, the Wind, Stars, etc.

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The essence of IRM is the interconnectedness of all living things, and the need to embrace adiversity of worldviews. With this foundational idea driving IRM, the question of who canconduct IRM must be addressed. I admit that I struggled with whether I could use IRM, ornot, given I am aWhite, Western woman. I spoke with many individuals, reaching out to mycommunity of First Nations/Inuit/Aboriginal friends, and to scholars who are recognized asWestern academics who practice IRM. I also reached to the academic literature, notablyWeber-Pillwax (1999), to investigate my anxiety surrounding this question. What I cameaway with was the message that some might object to my use of IRM, while others mayhonor my journey toward miskasowin through this transformative process. In either case,I learned that I had to reflect the sacredness of the Indigenous community to ensure not onlythe integrity of this research effort but also, more importantly, the integrity of thecommunities I may touch.

Given the complexity of IRM, I followed Jeff Baker’s (2017) lead and intertwined anautoethnography methodology with IRM. This was done in such a way to showcasethe possible rich descriptions of my relational journey toward miskasowin. I turn now tothis approach.

AutoethnographyAutoethnography is a methodological genre that shares the personal experiences andstories of the writer, highlighting the multiplicity of lived experiences in their relationshipswith the social world (Boje and Tyler, 2008; Ellis, 2004; Sparkes, 2000). As Yarborough andLowe (2007) pointed out, autoethnography uses personal experiences “to reflect on self-otherinteractions and the greater cultural meaning” (p. 239). This genre has many possiblebranches including personal narratives, ethnographic memoir, narrative ethnography,emotionalism, ethnographic short story, etc. The type of autoethnography I used, in myletter to the Universe, is referred to as a personal narrative “where social scientists viewthemselves as the phenomenon and write evocative stories specifically focused on theiracademic as well as their personal lives” (Ellis, 2004, p. 45). The letter is focused on me as Irelate to the Earth, the Universe, etc. It also showcases my emotions and my personalconversation with the Universe.

While a degree of fictionalization can be used in autoethnographic writing (Doloriert andSambrook, 2009), I chose not to use this approach. In other words, the “truths”, “facts” andthe emotions as I saw and experienced them are reproduced in my letter to the Universefrom my journal entries, e-mails and recall of various conversations. Only participant nameswere changed. There is a risk in taking such an approach, that is, of revealing too much.However, I felt strongly that I needed to take responsibility for “who I am” and “who I ambecoming,” and I could not do this by fictionalizing my tale.

This method’s protocols, gathered mostly from Ellis’(2004) autoethnographic treatiseon the subject, included writing in the first-person while looking at the “big picture.” Itinvolved looking outwardly to the cultural, and social, realities that influence the writer,and their experience of a particular event. The writer then looks at the “smaller picture,”focusing their lens on themselves, revealing one possible self. The final protocol involvesjumping between the big picture and small picture, blurring the lines and boundaries ofboth these pictures, meshing them together into a personal narrative that teaches,empowers, embodies and grows both the writer and the reader (Ellis, 2004). This idea ofpersonal growth, for the reader, involves a responsibility on the part of the author toencourage their reader’s own self-development, to invite the reader to be an activeparticipant in their own lives and in their own experiences (Ellis, 2004). The author of theoriginal autoethnography then becomes a sort of co-author to the reader’s futurestorytelling efforts, bridging knowledge generation from one to the other, and to otherfuture readers.

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There exist Indigenous ethnographic methodologies, as a sub-category to the broaderautoethnographic experience. Indigenous ethnographic methodologies are constructed bywriters “who share a history of colonialism or economic subordination, includingsubjugation by ethnographers who have made them subjects of their work” (Ellis, 2004,p. 46). Denzin’s (2006) work is one example of this approach. As I am not Indigenous andI have not been subjugated by ethnographers, this particular work cannot be categorized asan Indigenous ethnographic method.

With respect to the notion of circling Indigenous culture, I constructed my relationalstory as a way to depict one possible approach to an experience in the organizational andacademic world that does not necessarily have to rely on positivist, objective discourses inorder to transfer a message. I consciously integrated Indigenous-based knowledge, suchas the Universe as the trickster, and my trial as a tragic element, into this letter. I did thisin order to recreate outward and inward connections with a community. This is a differentapproach than say the one used by Learmonth and Humphreys (2012) approach to identitytheory and autoethnography. They constructed their autoethnography on their “ownsense of doubleness” (Learmonth and Humphreys, 2012, p. 101). My sense of “who I am”and “who I am becoming” is not grounded in only my becoming an academic; my sense ofself is relational, to my community, to my social world, to my interaction with the Earth,the Stars, etc.

I turn now to untangling some of the key ideas presented in the letter, in order toempower the reader.

Discussion: implications of this workThis section turns to three particular outcomes as a result of writing the letter, and thenhaving it reviewed as part of the process toward publication. The first outcome is focused onthe implications of this work. The second is focused on being in the field. The third iscentered on untangling the practical implications of using IRM/autoethnography.

Implications of this work: power-relations and genderThe framing of my gender as a performance in the field (Boje, 1989; Donnelly et al., 2013)could be misunderstood by some to mean that I see a binary difference between genderedmen and women. The initial reviews of this paper suggested that I was embracing thefeminine-ideal in my letter. The reviews highlighted that because I was emotionally undone,and that I had to rely on a man, my husband, who embodied the masculine-ideal in hisresponse to the trial, I might be perpetuating a message that women are weaker in the faceof such trials. The masculine/feminine-ideals that are represented in the letter to theUniverse transcend several important points with respect to performing gender in a binaryfashion. These gendered expressions of emotions and the possible misunderstanding ofwhat they “mean” highlighted for me that I needed to untangle the problematization ofpower-relations.

Delving into the academic literature on women working in male-dominated STEMprofessions, the performance of a woman’s gender has been the subject of positivist andpostpositivist streams of research as I introduced earlier. Etzkowitz et al. (2000), forexample, found women who did not experience a sense of belonging, in male-dominatedfields, experiencing low self-confidence and questioning repeatedly why they were there,and what they were doing. Miller (2004) suggested, in her study of women engineers in theCanadian oil industry, that occupational/masculine/organizational values specific toengineering-reinforced gender divisions. She found that women in her study “conformedto the dominant culture in order to survive and, over time, incorporated the values of theindustry […] walk(ing) a very fine line between being ‘like’ the valued-masculine

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prototype and avoiding any implication that they were not ‘real women’ ” (Miller, 2004,p. 68). Similarly, Powell et al. (2009) found that within engineering professions, womenwould perform their gender – or “undo” their gender – acting like “one of the boys,”accepting the gendered jokes, looking at the advantages over the disadvantages, therebyadopting an “anti-woman” approach. Finally, as I explained in the prologue, I surfaced theexclusionary experiences of STEM-professional women in the Canadian Space industry,by focusing on narratives and stories that present a spectrum of productive andoppressive power-relations that cannot be broken down into binary “men vs women”exclusionary experiences (Ruel, 2017a).

I recognized while considering this literature and writing my letter, that I had beenembracing masculine-ideals, on a daily basis, within the social realities of the CanadianSpace industry. Notably, acting like “one of the boys,” who stereotypically do not share or,for that matter, acknowledge having emotions was “normal” for me; I hid, constantly, “who Iam.” While I did not experience low self-confidence in my daily interactions at work, I didquestion repeatedly why I continued to work in an environment that did not appear to value“who I am.” I did conform to the dominant culture, to ensure my sense of fit in order tosurvive. One story I often tell to showcase this sense of fit is one centered on my presence ina contentious meeting. I was the only woman present at the table, arguing a key operationalpoint with a male-colleague. Neither of us would back down from our respective stance. Mycolleague challenged me to an arm wrestle, to resolve this contentious issue. The point hereis that I was accepted as an honorary “man,”who could perform the masculine-ideal of bruteforce in order to win a contentious debate.

As the letter to the Universe clearly shows, however, I do indeed have emotions (i.e.shock, anxiety, etc.). More importantly, within the safety of the power-relations ofmy marriage, I felt “safe” enough to share those emotions with someone. I could, in otherwords, perform my interpretation of the feminine in that interaction. These emotionsthat I shared in the letter were also classified by the reviewers of this paper as followinga feminine-ideal. Classification or categorization of emotions in this way does not delveinto the power-relations of these social interactions. The problematization ofpower-relations resides on the following question: why could I not have emotions inmy Space industry context but I could in my marriage? Such a question showcases thefollowing important point: I “saw” that my ability to share these emotions, not only withmy husband but also with you the reader, is representative of my new-found ability tonavigate a spectrum of doing and undoing the performance of my gender. This spectrumextends across the masculine-ideal and the feminine-ideal, and no longer must be one orthe other.

With respect to my husband’s and my gendered responses to this trial, they reflect aparticular web of power-relations within the context of social interactions. We each,respectively, embraced the feminine and/or masculine-ideals performance. The point is notto say one is bad, and the other is good; the point is to show that we can respond in agendered fashion, and ultimately that is ok. Our marriage is not an either/or type ofrelationship; it is a complex interaction between two individuals. In this event, we took ondifferent emotional responses that some may classify as feminine and masculine.I classify them as being one (my husband) was there to support the other (me), when theother was down.

As for the typical engineering-reinforced gender divisions, I did not reproduce thesein my letter to the Universe. The trial occurred between two women, not a man vs awoman. One woman (me) believed in the “truth” of her scholarly pursuits, andher wish to institute change to improve working conditions. The other woman(The Watcher-on-the-Wall) was “just” doing her job, protecting the brand of theorganization she worked for. The web of power-relations does not boil down to a

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“simple” performance of the feminine gender, or, for that matter, the binary man-vs-woman differences of social interactions. They are complex, reflecting a spectrum ofgendered power-relations that we individually enacted in our own way.

In the fieldMy various experiences of emotionally hiding, of shock, of rage, highlight several importantaspects of conducting academic research. I was completely unprepared for not onlythese emotions but also the need to re-strategize, in light of the media interview I gave.Peticca-Harris et al.’s (2016) hopscotch metaphor for navigating the research process focusedon some of the emotions that a scholar can encounter, and this constant need to re-strategize,moving us away from a linear understanding of conducting research. They also talked tothe need to be persistent, flexible and resourceful throughout the hopscotch.

My story, as an insider and a manager, adds important knowledge to Peticca-Harriset al.’s (2016) work, and to others including Donnelly et al. (2013), and the dismantling of thelinear conceptualization of conducting research and of being in the field. Having led manylife science missions into Space, I knew the importance of identifying risks, and solutions,before the actual work began to collect data. I was a trained and seasoned project managerwith field experience. I had been through the institutional issues involved in conductingand funding research, what Peticca-Harris et al. (2016) called the study formulation withplans to move forward; I had been part of informed consent briefings of astronauts, whatPeticca-Harris et al. (2016) called identifying and contacting potential informants. I had alsotrained numerous cohorts of astronauts in our research protocols, collected baseline dataand been on console, listening to multiple voice loops in my ear, navigating in-flightproblems lasting, in some instances, 48 hours (with no sleep), what Peticca-Harris et al.(2016) called interacting with informants during data collection. Never did I falter or staggerback home, in shock, wondering what had just happened. I believe, perhaps, as a projectmanager working in Space for many years, I had all the angles covered, and this dissertationresearch study would be a “cake-walk.”

While I agree with Peticca-Harris et al.’s (2016) call for scholars to be persistent, flexibleand resourceful, throughout the hopscotch, I also believe one needs to be humble.Knowledge and experience can take you far in your respective research initiatives;persistence, flexibility and resourcefulness are also important ingredients. Being humble,showing or practicing modesty with respect to one’s importance, however, is rarely putforth as a needed attribute of a researcher. I truly believed, at the time of the mediainterview, that “truth” would set women free; that if only I told the “truth,” then everyonewould rally around this “truth” and change. Making sense of this event retrospectively(Weick et al., 2005), I should not have given that media interview. Not because itjeopardized my field work and gaining access to participants, but because I was not readyfor the repercussions of the interview and fundamentally, I was not being humble.This eagerness to change an industry, that has been operating in a masculine-basedfashion since the Cold War (Ruel et al., 2017), ignored these states.

Practical implications of using IRM/autoethnographyI embraced this methodological approach with the goal of achievingmiskasowin. Part of theresponsibility of using IRM and generating Indigenous-based knowledge is that there mustbe a benefit to Indigenous peoples (Baker, 2017). As Brayboy and Maughan (2009) state,“Indigenous communities have long been aware of the ways that they know, come to know,and produce knowledge, because in many instances knowledge is essential for culturalsurvival and well-being” (p. 3). Indigenous peoples and Indigenous-based knowledge arerepresented in frustrating low numbers within STEM environments (Baker, 2017). I am

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hoping that my circling of Indigenous knowledge in my everyday, reflected in this work, willopen doors for using IRM to achieve intercultural collaboration.

The challenge remains, however, that I am not Indigenous; my ancestor, as I presented inmy letter, was a simple fisherman who arrived in Quebec in 1672. He could be viewed byIndigenous peoples as a representative of the colonizers. I was careful in this work toacknowledge that this was my journey of self-discovery, within larger meanings, and thatthis was not a study on Indigenous peoples.

As Parker (2012) pointed out, “stories certainly have politics, but not all stories have thesame politics because we can never tell it like it is. Ever” (p. 28). I specifically adopted acritical reflexivity position in my letter, melding the Universe, the Sun, Mother Earth andLife as objects that the researcher can talk, and interact, with. I also shared my emotionswhen faced with my trial. By adopting this approach, I put the neutral, or emotion-less, wayof conducting research into question. This is not novel, in and of itself; many scholarsembrace the heart-wrenching political story to get their message across, such asMonture (1986) or Özkazanç-Pan (2012) did. What stands out, in this letter, is that there is noready-made plan, as hard as we might try to design our research that way, that will protect aresearcher, or her participants, from Life happening. Ultimately, the moral is that not onlycan I be and becoming – with emotions, gender(s) and all – but I can also be open to thejourney toward miskasowin.

Conclusion: “What is good research?”[…] it’s up to us to decide just which stories we like to tell, and to listen to, and not claim that oneparticular method always generates the best ones (Parker, 2012, p. 28).

This letter to the Universe, and the accompanying untangling of this letter, helped me on myjourney. Hopefully, it also guided the reader to a better understanding of what an IRM/autoethnography can do with respect to knowledge generation. The question of “what is goodresearch?”, without falling into measuring validity and reliability, rests on the idea put forthabove by Martin Parker. That Martin can spin a yarn, I have no doubt, having met him in NovaScotia, Canada, at a conference last year. He provokes, and then withdraws, and then comes backagain, all in the name of, I believe, helping us to decide what is important, what a story can tell us,if we will “just” listen and participate in that story. If I moved you to come and talk to me,if I made you stop and think about your own social interactions, if I made you aware that youhave an interaction with the World around you, if I made you stop and think about your genderand how you embrace it/express it/undo it, have I not conducted “good” research?:

kinana’skomitina’wa’w (Plains Cree for I thank you all people).

AcknowledgmentThe author would like to take this opportunity to thank three individuals, whosescholarship and guidance helped her to bring this work together. They, in their ownrespective ways, inspired the author to write the letter to the Universe. They gave the authorpermission to present herself as she is, an emotional being that must be brought forwardinto the light, out of hiding. Nathalie Lachance, Athabasca University, who introduced theauthor to a variety of writers focused on Indigenous storytelling. Jeff Baker, University ofSaskatchewan, for sharing with the author his combined methodological approach based onaction research-Indigenous methodologies-autoethnography and his own miskasowin.Finally, Patricia Monture, Mohawk from the Six Nations Grand River Territory, Lawyer,Activist and Educator who was Full Professor at the University of Saskatchewan, forhelping the author to feel her rage via her writing. Monture guided the author to recognizethat who she is, in the Universe, should be shared and not shamed into non-existence.

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Notes

1. The poststructuralist perspective I embraced in this work was founded on the notion of difference.Difference is a difficult term to control given the misappropriation in meaning that has historicallyoccurred with this concept. The reader is cautioned to not confuse poststructural difference withimplying that the opposite of difference is sameness. Difference is used here in the sense that wereproduce uncertainties, and a range of beliefs/meanings, that we do not necessarily aim to resolve(Belsey, 2002). To this end, I have used double quotation marks around such concepts as“who I am” and “truth” to signal to the reader that I am reproducing uncertainties.

2. Discourse is used here in the larger sense of the word, embracing “everyday attitudes andbehaviour, along with our perceptions of what we believe to be reality” (Grant et al., 1998, p. 2).

3. This usage of IRM embraces the notions of Indigenous epistemologies. Most importantly, thisembrace implies that I am moving away from colonial discourses of identifying Indigenous peoplesas either being North American or Canadian.

4. Names have been changed to protect my community of support.

References

Baker, J. (2017), “nitâcimowinis: a research story in indigenous science education”, Chapter 7 in Marx, S.(Ed.), Qualitative Research in STEM: Studies of Equity, Access, and Innovation, Routledge,New York, NY and London, pp. 179-202.

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About the authorStefanie Ruel is Assistant Professor at John Molson School of Business, Concordia University, andsuccessfully defended her dissertation at Athabasca University, Canada, in November 2017. HerAcademy of Management (AOM), Critical Management Division, award winning critical feminist thesiswas an intersectionality-framed study centered on the exclusion of science, technology, engineeringand mathematics (STEM)-professional women from the Canadian space industry’s management/executive positions. Her research agenda extends to other areas including concerns centered on genderand diversity, feminist historiography and critical management studies. She has presented her work ata number of international and national academic conferences, including AOM, Gender, Work andOrganization (GWO), Critical Management Studies (CMS), the National Aeronautics and SpaceAdministration’s (NASA), Equality, Diversity, and Inclusion (EDI), Atlantic Schools Business (ASB) andAdministrative Sciences Association of Canada (ASAC). She is also a published author, most recently inEquality, Diversity, and Inclusion: An International Journal in August 2018, Ephemera’s 2018special issue on intersectionality, and a book chapter in Routledge’s Gender and Professions in late2017. Her forthcoming book, entitled STEM-professional women’s exclusion in the Canadian spaceindustry: Anchor points and intersectionality at the margins of space, is slated for release in early 2019.Stefanie Ruel can be contacted at: stefanie.ruel@videotron.ca

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Being and becoming a “good”qualitative researcher? Liminality

and the risk of limboVictoria Pagan

Business School, Newcastle University, Newcastle upon Tyne, UK

AbstractPurpose – The purpose of this paper is to re-conceptualise “good” qualitative research by discussing theintersection between “good” qualitative research and different identity states of “good” qualitative researcher.It uses the anthropological concept of liminality and related concept of limbo to help illustrate the implicationsof this intersection.Design/methodology/approach – A reflexive and personal confessional account is provided of theauthor’s “living in” the liminal transition of the identity states from full-time PhD student to full-time earlycareer researcher, questioning the author’s experiences in relation to others and the implications for the socialconstruction of “good” qualitative research.Findings – “Good” qualitative research is not just what to do but how to be. “PhD student” is a defined andtemporary transitional liminal identity state. It has a clear point of separation (acceptance and registration ofstudent status) and aggregation (“good” qualitative research signed of through thesis and viva). Contrastingwith this is the “early career researcher” identity state, any point of aggregation towards “establishedresearcher” is predicated on the unpredictability of publication and delivering impact indicators.Originality/value – The paper demonstrates unsettling and in-betweenness of “good” qualitative researchintersecting with the experience and composition of being a “good” qualitative researcher in the academy. It isimportant for debates regarding the qualities of academic development from PhD student to established researcher.Keywords Liminality, Reflexivity, PhD, Early career, Identity state, LimboPaper type Research paper

Starting thoughtsIn this paper, I reflexively examine my own experiences in becoming and being a “good”qualitative researcher in relation to doing “good” qualitative research. When I came back toacademia after a career in the private sector, I observed that the qualitative researcher’sacademic career is punctuated by certain legitimating practices linked to doing “good”qualitative research and being/becoming a “good” qualitative researcher. In responding tothe call of this special issue, I was minded to consider that while it is important to unpack“good” qualitative research, there is something equally, if not more, important inunderstanding the power relations and identity issues involved in becoming and being a“good” qualitative researcher. This is inextricably linked with how “good” qualitativeresearch is defined and by whom within our careers. Bazeley (2003, p. 269) identified there isno singular path, but illustrates these as including: a period of research training (commonlythe PhD); being appointed in an academic post; coping with teaching/research balance;growing and maintaining research alongside administrative roles; and (most obtuse)“achievement of established researcher status”. Indeed, in my own experience, it seems thatthe process and accomplishment of transition between and within these example states issubject to a range of factors. Between and during these we occupy certain accepted identitystates (Beech, 2011), for example, “PhD student”, “early career researcher” and “establishedresearcher”. This may result in periods of uncertainty and insecurity to a greater or lesserextent within the overall career of an academic qualitative researcher.

Qualitative Research inOrganizations and Management:

An International JournalVol. 14 No. 1, 2019

pp. 75-90© Emerald Publishing Limited

1746-5648DOI 10.1108/QROM-04-2017-1523

Received 28 April 2017Revised 15 November 2017

25 June 2018Accepted 5 October 2018

The current issue and full text archive of this journal is available on Emerald Insight at:www.emeraldinsight.com/1746-5648.htm

The author is grateful for the time spent by the editors and two anonymous reviewers; their extensive andthought-provoking comments were constructive and invaluable in helping the author to improve the paper.

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In particular, in considering transitions, I was minded of Van Gennep’s (1960) theory ofrites of passage, developed further in the work of Turner (1969, 1974), who described“a moment in and out of time” (p. 96) as part of the experience of such rites that mark achange from one identity state to another. Van Gennep (1960) described: a separation, wherethe person stops being one identity state, but is not yet another; a merge, where the person isbecoming the next identity state; and an aggregation, where the person is legitimated asbeing the next identity state. The period from separation to aggregation is also termed“liminality”, framed as transition, being between states, a sense of suspension andtemporary in nature. Whilst liminality may be positive in terms of movement, development,limbo implies a potentially problematic position to inhabit as there is no sense ofaccomplishment or aggregation. After all, Dante Alighieri (2005) characterised limbo as thefirst circle of the inferno, those “held in suspense” who had lived “good” lives but were notbaptised (translation: 19). The role of others in the legitimation (baptism) or otherwise ofliminars is particularly interesting to explore as it is others who “baptise” us into our newidentity states and “our knowledge is formed and shaped by our feelings about the worldand the others with whom we interact and, thus, by our emotional relations to it and tothem” (Burkitt, 2012, p. 469).

Following Shotter (1993), this includes not just questioning what to do in terms of “good”qualitative research, but what to be in terms of a “good” qualitative researcher. In anacademic career, the moment of becoming the next state is often verified by colleagues wholegitimate “good” qualitative research in different ways. I consider two identity states alongthe path towards the “achievement of established researcher status” (Bazeley, 2003, p. 269).Compton and Tran (2017) have explored roles within PhD status and their contributiontowards feelings of liminality or limbo, but I would argue that “PhD student” is a definedand transitional liminal identity state. It has a clear point of separation (acceptance andregistration of student status) and aggregation (“good” thesis and “good” viva). The liminalperiod between these points is temporary and time limited – crucially because it is ineveryone’s interests – for students to complete this phase (e.g. one of the key performanceindicators of our school is the number of PhD completions within four years).

Contrasting with this is the “early career researcher” identity state, defined as being“within their first 5 years of academic or other research-related employment allowinguninterrupted, stable research development following completion of their postgraduateresearch training” (Bazeley, 2003, p. 274). I do love the optimism in this definition, of“employment allowing uninterrupted, stable research development” (also see the findingsregarding time for research of Laudel and Gläser, 2008), but of more interest to me for thepurpose of this paper is the timescale noted here. This too would suggest a clear end;however, I would suggest that, in my experience, whilst the starting point separation from“PhD student” identity is clear, any point of aggregation towards “established researcher” ispredicated not on time, but on the unpredictability of publication and delivering impactindicators. It is also colleagues in the form of reviewers of my work who decide if it is “good”enough or not. In this respect, any change in identity state is situated between myself andothers (Thomassen, 2009; Beech, 2011).

Conceptualising liminality, limbo and identity statesIn its early anthropological definition, liminality refers to a temporally defined, relatively shortperiod of time occurring after an individual has separated from one social identity state, withits associated norms and expectations, and before they take on another identity state, with adifferent set of associated norms and expectations. There are rites, that is, common and/orexpected social practices, customs, conventions or acts, associated with the marking of thetransition between states. These serve to differentiate the different moments of the process(Thomassen, 2009). Turner (1969) also unpacks liminality in forms according to the subject

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(individual, social group and society), time (moment, period and extended length) and space(place, area, country and region), which also indicates some of the useful complexities of theconcept for making sense of individual and collective experiences in a range of social contexts.

Whilst liminality could be considered a time of absence, pause or waiting in some way, itcan be more than this, rather being a time of activity in the learning or becoming of the nextidentity state. The liminar is very much between identity states, but it is a reactive time inwhich personal development takes place, individual and collective are closely connected,and there is “the sometimes dramatic tying together of thought and experience”(Thomassen, 2009, p. 14). There may well still be expected social practices, norms orobligations within the liminal time, but these are not linked to a clear identity state and it isthis which characterises the “in-between” nature of liminality. Leaving the liminal period iscontrolled by others; the liminar may know, or think they know, the rules of transition, but itis others who decide whether or not the liminar has achieved them (Thomassen, 2009).The decision in certain situations may be more subject to individual interpretation andinterests than in other situations. The others are usually “elders” (Beech, 2011, p. 287), towhom the liminar may need prove themselves in some way in order to be endowed with there-formed identity state that is both “meaningful for the individual and their community”(Beech, 2011, p. 287). The social environment has emerged from the direction andbehaviours of those who are dominant within the field.

Bamber et al. (2017) further develop the theorising on the concept of liminality bydistinguishing Van Gennep’s original definition as “transitional liminality”, with two otherrelated concepts: permanent liminality, which “creates an enduring sense of being neither-X-nor-Y or indeed of being both-X-and-Y” (p. 3); and limbo, which is “a fixed, ‘trapped’ state […]not moving towards a threshold” (p. 8). This distinction is important, as “limbo” is frequentlybut imprecisely used in common parlance. My meaning for this paper matches Bamber et al.’s(2017) concept, more like a suspension or stasis (Capps and Carlin, 2010), as opposed to thedenotation of different states including a betweenness more similar to my understanding ofliminality. This also echoes Dante’s depiction of a place of neglect and abandonment, a place ofboth indifference at best and despondence at worst (Cantor, 1996).

Context and positioningMy “good” qualitative research?The analysis presented in this paper is both reflective (i.e. looking back on the “past” of myPhD identity) and reflexive (i.e. being in the “present” of my early career researcher identity).Reflexivity is ontologically and epistemologically more complex than reflection because itinvolves a present and active consideration of the contexts in which knowledge is produced( Jorgensen, 2007) so as to understand what is happening within the research (Alvesson et al.,2008) and the knowledge it produces. It is grounded in the questioning of any potential fordefinitive knowledge of the social world (epistemological assumption) as any type of objectivereality (ontological assumption) (Cunliffe, 2003). There is a weak subject/object distinction inmy analysis because of the intersubjectivity of myself and others in constituting meaning andexperience of “good” qualitative research. The value of this is not in claims to basis in fact ortruth, but in a provocation related to relatively common social experiences (Cunliffe, 2003).

Part of reflexivity is the requirement for consideration of the circumstances that haveenabled my research to take place at all, particularly being aware of my own upbringing,education, employment, my location in fields (e.g. academia, business school, UK), myassumptions about the generation of knowledge and social factors including resources(time, funding and supervisory support). In being reflexive, I acknowledge that, forexample, the undertaking of a PhD candidature is in itself subject to struggle as to what a“good” PhD should be; I am self-critical of my own work and recognise that my work willalso be an object of critique by others in my fields. But why we do research, what are our

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interests do not often feature in the sanitized presentation of our research. It is perhapsimportant to situate this paper with a brief description of where I have come from tothis point. Previous identity states are relevant in relation to my own behaviours andactions within the layered contexts of my research and my broader life, albeit too much toinclude in detail within the scope of this paper. Qualitative research has been part of mypurview for some time, with a 10-year career in public and voluntary sector research andconsultancy before re-entering academia as a research assistant. I received PhD funding ayear later (separating me from “research assistant” to become “PhD student”). I wasappointed as a lecturer towards the end of the final year of my PhD (separating from “PhDstudent” to become “early career researcher”).

My thesis explores social actors’ participation in two global forums, the World EconomicForum (WEF) and the World Social Forum (WSF), with the aim of creating moresustainable and equal worlds. Using Bourdieu’s social theory, I propose that the researchsettings of WEF and WSF are enactments and representations of a global field of power.In this global field of power, social actors use global capital, a form of symbolic capital, todefine the doxa of the field, that is, the taken-for-granted assumptions about issues ofsustainability and inequality that require response, how they are defined and how theyshould be resolved. I discuss the tensions and dilemmas of social actors as they enactstrategies within the field to promote conservation, succession and/or subversion of thedoxa in relation to these issues of sustainability and inequality. The nature and extent ofshifts in the global field of power as perceived by social actors is shown, with the aim thatsuch shifts will support the creation of other, more sustainable and equal worlds.The empirical material gives participant impressions of their own involvement, which hasimplications for the identities, roles and activities of global social actors.

For my PhD, I undertook 38 of what could be called interviews (e.g. Kvale and Brinkmann,2009) with research participants. These can be categorised as such because they involved inmaking a formal appointment via e-mail, arranging to speak at a particular time/day using aparticular method of face to face meeting, telephone or Skype interaction, for a specified lengthof time (driven by the research participant). In total, 12 interviews were undertaken face toface, 8 through Skype audio only, 4 through Skype with video and 14 over the telephone.Interviews ranged in time from 30 to 90m, driven largely by the availability of each researchparticipant in line with “good” ethical practice (e.g. Economic and Social Research Council,2012). Four additional research participants engaged with the research through e-mail“interviews”. These constitute interactions whereby research participants found it difficult toarrange a formal appointment to interact either because of their travel schedules, timedifferences or simply a preference to interact in this manner. These research participants weresent the list of discussion topics and they provided their responses to these via e-mail.They follow a number of the conventions of a more “traditional” interview, withquestion-answer. However, the interaction was not “live” or “real-time”, rather with delays andmissing the interpersonal reactions that come with embodied interviewing. Despite this, thematerial is congruent with that of the more standard interviews described above. Six researchparticipants offered comments, invited in the same way as other research participants, butinstead of agreeing to an interview of the formats described above, they simply provided somethoughts in response to my invitation e-mail by reply.

Writing this paper – “good” qualitative research?There is wholehearted agreement that “we need to show readers how we came up with ourinterpretations, how we made mistakes and lucky guesses along the way to capturing otherpeople’s meanings” (Lichterman, 2017, p. 38); but there is frequently a disconnectionbetween what is published in methods sections of research articles and what is written asanalysis of qualitative research processes/methodology (Donnelly et al., 2013). This paper is

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deliberately personal and emotion-laden (Dickson-Swift et al., 2009), which perhaps may bepart of a visceral academic conversation about reimagining what identity transition couldlook like for future researchers. It places the researcher central to this examination of theresearch process (Humphreys, 2005). My narratives are a form of knowledge and may be amode of producing knowledge (Bleakley, 2000), but in line with the epistemological andontological assumptions outlined above, my focus is on provoking thought about researchprocesses rather than knowledge objectives (Hayes et al., 2016). I intend to offer aself-reflexive (Hibbert et al., 2017) and confessional account (Bleakley, 2000) of “good”qualitative research experiences in being a transitional liminar as a PhD student and inbeing an early career researcher (ECR) as states in the becoming of an establishedresearcher. My fears explore that I am not currently in a transitional liminal identity state,but that I am at risk of limbo because of the reliance on the judgment of others to legitimateme. Writing this paper is also a risk and it was nearly not submitted.

Using personal journals throughout my research, I kept notes of: the decisions I maderegarding the selection of empirical material and research participants; my experiences; andthoughts as the research progressed (Lincoln and Guba, 1985; Cunliffe, 2004). I also keptmethodological notes as to why and how actions, events or things said/unsaid were ofinterest and problems encountered (Haynes, 2012). Note-taking was regularly undertakenthroughout the research, not only as a recording function but it also had transformative andinterpretive functions for me as I produced and analysed the empirical material (Cunliffe,2004). Notes were written down physically, categorised as individual prompt words, fullreports, quotes and paraphrases and records of observations, theories and methodologicalpoints (Haynes, 2012). Outside of the research and in my life as a lecturer, I still keep notesand jottings of my thoughts, reactions and experiences, continuing to “liv[e] life as inquiry”(Hayes et al., 2016, p. 129). All the notes taken throughout my research experiences haveenabled me to reflect on myself as part of the setting of that moment, affecting it and beingaffected by it (Cunliffe, 2003), as well as when interpreting the material at different stages ofthe research. This was also important for my personal and professional development as anacademic researcher, as a “good” qualitative researcher, understanding also myengagements with “good” qualitative research. These are not as systematic as theresearch journals, but they still reflect unsettling, ambiguous, incomplete expressions andsubjective identities (Hayes et al., 2016). Donnelly et al. (2013) spoke to the messiness ofdoing research and I present an account of my mess here. All of this is part of askingourselves “what in hell do we think we are up to?” (Alvesson, 2003, p. 177), the researcher’s“willingness to challenge and revise one’s initial position” (Alvesson, 2011, p. 5).

I aim to offer a reflexive account, that is, unsettling myself and my role within a set ofacademic practices, but also unsettling the set of academic practices themselves byquestioning them based on my own experiences (Cunliffe, 2009). It is both retrospective(reflective) and present to be an ongoing reflexive analysis of my own situation (Pritchard,2011), organised through a review, reflection and reflexive unsettling of my experiences.There are difficulties in representing the self (Haynes, 2011), confessional modes of writingreveal vulnerability (Schultze, 2000) and they also need to be reflexively questioned, asthey can be a construction of a particular form of self despite being presented as a form ofauthentic truth (Bleakley, 2000). Acknowledgement of this implies that there should beless expectation of finding some sort of singular truth or unifying theory in the empiricalmaterial, but rather a consideration of the relationship between researcher, researched andin the pursuit of new knowledge and understanding. Whilst “good” qualitative researchmay mean a comprehensive approach, it feels like this cannot be guaranteed bythe researcher, no matter how “good”. So, borrowing from Humphreys (2005, p. 843),through the following sections, I invite you to “participate in my life drama” by inspiringyour own reflections.

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Being, becoming … or notAs illustrated in the starting thoughts above, I have been considering my academicidentity states in relation to transitions and liminality. Identity states in the academiccareer have been identified in different ways, for example: apprentice; colleague; master;then member of the elite (Laudel and Gläser, 2008, p. 390). I am not sure that there is asclear separation or linearity between three phases of transition as Van Gennep (1960)proposed (preliminary, transitional and incorporation) because “changes in identity implychanges in the meanings associated with a person, and meanings are not simply locatedin the ‘subjects’ but in the relationship between the individual and the organisation(or society)” (Beech, 2011, p. 288). Some of these states are more clearly demarcated thanothers; for example, “apprentice” could relate to being a PhD student, “colleague” could beECR and beyond.

Being a PhD student in becoming a “good” qualitative researcherUndertaking a PhD can be considered the entry-level requirement in becoming a “good”qualitative researcher. In doing a PhD, we must develop an active and independentapproach towards research, which can feel isolated and unsettled. There is much writtenabout being and becoming a “good” researcher in the field (Fontana and Frey, 2005;Brinkmann, 2007; Kvale and Brinkmann, 2009; Giampapa, 2011; Donnelly et al., 2013), ourresearch can be designed with a set of general features of “a good qualitative researchstudy” in accordance with the rules of being and becoming a “good” qualitative researcher(the researcher should) and “good” qualitative research (the study should) (Seale et al., 2007).Here I describe my experiences of being in the transitional liminal identity state of being aPhD student as part of becoming a “good” qualitative researcher.

In considering being a PhD student as part of becoming an established academic, itcould be argued that this is not liminal because there is a certainty of the common and/orexpected social practices to be undertaken in order to achieve the doctorate. This includesdesigning and delivering an autonomous and independent piece of “good” research.Candidates prove themselves to their elders through the examination of the thesis andthrough the viva. Reflecting, I can see how this identity state had a definite starting pointof separation and I could always see the end point of aggregation. In line with thetraditional theorisation of liminality, the identity state of PhD student is time limited(usually four years maximum). Therefore, the liminality experienced was alwaysrecognised as temporary. However, this does not mean that the liminal state isnot characterised by uncertainty and in-betweenness in terms of moving towards the riteof legitimation through the thesis and viva. The process of being a PhD student has beenproblematised, for example, being “autonomous” and “independent” is situated inmasculinised, objectivist privileging of knowledge and its creation ( Johnson et al., 2000),the PhD includes “stories of trauma”, the experience of which is “some kind of badge ofhonour” (Mewburn, 2011, p. 323). Doing a PhD is a clearly defined rite of passage(Van Gennep, 1960; Turner, 1969) and, while my experiences discussed within this paperare perhaps not quite as vividly negative as these descriptions, I suggest thatthey are characterised by uncertainty that I feel relates to being a liminar. These areexplored as follows.

I designed my PhD research in response to elements of the “recipes” of good qualitativeresearch, executed and performed it according to the rules and norms of “good” qualitativeresearch. But this is not to say that the experiences in learning the craft of “good”qualitative research were always comfortable and easy to negotiate and this reveals thenature of the liminal experience; I had to make decisions and act without certainty andin the context of contradiction, some of which may have compromised the execution of“good” qualitative research in the judgment of research participants, supervisors

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and examiners. A particular situation that I felt was problematic was the followinginstance, as described in three separate journal entries:

One interviewee has agreed to speak as long as I am also speaking to [people from a particularorganization] – not sure how I feel about this – I replied to say I haven’t as yet but if there areparticular people I should, let me know – no response. I had been considering two contacts anyway[…] but no guarantees they will speak and I’m more interested in participants than employeesanyway. Feeling a bit forced. But is it exclusive if I don’t at least try?

He [same interviewee] has made an introduction for me, so that is helpful, means I have to do this – notsure how I feel about being “forced” to do this?!! But ethically I have to go ahead with this.

Was initially quite worried about this given the way it was suggested to me (or imposed on me!!)Was more reassured when it was rescheduled a few times, made me think that he wasn’t desperateto see what I was up to or trying to stop me in some way […] He was very interested in me and mybackground […] made me feel quite valued compared to other interviews who haven’t seemedparticularly bothered!

From my perspective, whilst I tried to have contact with a range of individuals and havediscussions with them in some depth, presence and absence in my work is subject to therestrictions of chance and choice, as well as the silencing of some because of the inability to speakthe respective others’ language. My interests were driving the research. I was in need ofparticipants to contribute in order for me to gainmy PhD qualification, but also participants weredriven by their own agendas to participate or not, or (in this case) engineering the participation ofothers. This particular experience highlighted the extent to which interviewees may have theirown agendas, as well as my inability to influence their willingness (or not) to share, articulate orperform the interviewee role as expected. To maximise participation, I followed their willingnessand availability, sidelining my own concerns, but being a “good” researcher in my conduct. As aliminar, I certainly had the social norms, conventions and expectations of “good” qualitativeresearch to help me in my decision making; however, these only help so far in the moment ofaction where my “agency is pushed to the forefront” (Thomassen, 2009, p. 20).

Another experience noted in my journals made me think about the notion of lying inresearch and how this affects the value judgment of “good”:

This interviewee knew that I had met a colleague – who had recommended him. He asked me if theother had talked about particular aspects of the WEF operation – I said no when in fact he had.Implications of this? Protecting confidentiality of original interviewee but lying to this one?

This illustrates the difficulty of behaving ethically as a characteristic of “good” qualitativeresearch. Am I a “good” qualitative researcher even though I lied to my participants, andcertainly was not transparent about this? Despite considering confidentiality, which wouldallow me not to say anything that would breach the confidentiality of the interviews, lyingwould seem a separate and conflicting ethical issue that is not easily reconciled. As a liminarI had to negotiate a course of action that I could live with as being “good” in the presence ofsomewhat contradictory positions (Giampapa, 2011).

Rites of passage and liminality are frequently imbued with emotion (Van Gennep, 1960;Turner, 1969), as are other social practices that affect our identity (Szakolczai, 2009; Ybemaet al., 2011). In terms of my emotions, undertaking “good” qualitative research has, at times,felt isolated with a requirement for extreme emotional control, as shown in the followingexamples from my journals:

A little brusque in the conversation, he wasn’t really initially listening to my questions, waspredicting them and directing me to website rather than giving me his experiences. This lessenedas the conversation progressed – very difficult when time is limited – I could feel the assumptionsbeing made, which I could counter to some extent but only as time went on so really only the secondhalf of the conversation that felt fully engaged.

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An older man, tried to demonstrate absolute respect despite disagreeing a lot with what he wassaying, interesting and quite “traditional” view of what trade should be. Limited recognition of orinterest in the social implications. First interview that has made me cross, I had to bite my tongue,would have been hard to hide if it had been face to face.

Here I was lying again, as I was masking how I was really feeling. In all my contacts I wasvery conscious of my perception of myself in relation to my research participants andmostly felt that I was taking a submissive position, frequently feeling that I was intrudingon their time and social space, despite the fact that they had all volunteered to participate.This intrusion was more obvious in some interviews than others, with comments in myjournals including “I felt I was an inconvenience in his day”, “not very engaging” and“typing during conversation at times – distracted? Not fully paying attention?!” I was notin control of the exchange process and would not expect to be, but this felt like I was not a“good” qualitative researcher because the research participants were not particularlyengaged in our discussions. As a liminar, I just had to learn to deal with this (get over it?)despite it being unsettling. I cannot claim that the interactions with my researchparticipants offer anything other than a snapshot insight into the areas discussed.Every expression of research is an interpretation of a set of moments as experienced andconstructed by me, my research participants and the artefacts reviewed, i.e., not just me.There is nothing wrong with a snapshot, but it feels so partial and manipulativeand certainly not “good” research, but a stressful experience for me as described inmy journals:

Decision not to chase any more interviews and start analysing. If people come back, will arrange butnot going to actively pursue. Quite relieved. Found interviewing stressful. Some easier than others butnever shook the feeling of tension when an interview was due. Feeling of excitement when arranged,and accomplishment when done, but didn’t enjoy the actual experience that much […] Frequently feltthat I was being somehow insincere as I was performing in order to get data. Frequently felt unable tosay how I really felt or offer my own opinions for fear of alienating the respondent.

The decision made had nothing to do with saturation or any of the other institutionalisedand accepted reasons for stopping interviewing in “good” qualitative research. It waspurely about my own stress and my own relief. A “good” qualitative researcher? Perhapsnot. Whilst it is a representation in good faith, the production of the thesis did, attimes, feel like a process of exclusion of significant amounts of material, themes andexpressions, not a comprehensive one. I have found this brutal (described as “hatcheting”in my journals), driven by word limit and other conventions of the candidature. I havereminded myself that future papers may emerge so that the value of the material is notlost, but some of the interrelationship between different themes in the material has beenreduced. This is something with which I feel uncomfortable as it feels partial andincomplete, as well as being something constructed for my own use and gain (not theirs).I wish I could claim otherwise. At the time may be I expected the thesis to be of moreimpact, but in complete honesty, I was instrumentally focused on producing somethingthat would pass examiner scrutiny. Perhaps my struggles to publish work from itdemonstrate my and its weakness in being any sort of instrument for change?

As a liminar, I was actively learning how do to “good” qualitative research towardsbecoming an independent researcher. I emerged from the liminal identity state becauseI was considered “good” enough to pass my viva exam by two significant elders and myresearch was considered “good” enough to be completed as a thesis, enabling me to moveinto the identity state of the ECR. I feel this is a less clearly defined rite of passage(Van Gennep, 1960; Turner, 1969), which I think presents a set of risks for me. The twomost significant and connected aspects (to me, so far) of transitioning from “good”PhD student to “good” early career qualitative researcher is: the requirement to publish,

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which requires good relationships with colleagues who review our work and judge it“good” for publication; and demonstrating impact, particularly in international terms, alsojudged in part by our academic colleagues. The implications of these are explored in thefollowing sections.

Being an ECR in becoming a “good” qualitative researcher?The next identity state of “early career researcher” is where I think the importance ofliminality and our academic identity become particularly important to explore. My currentposition as an ECR, whilst also liminal, is less clear and more uncomfortable becausemeeting the expectations of those who can legitimate me out of this identity state is muchharder. As such, we gain some credibility from the doctorate, which is soon minimised as wenegotiate being an “early career researcher”. There is a literature on early career researchthat explores the movement from supported to self-determining research, with “the earlycareer phase […] considered as containing a status passage from the apprentice to thecolleague state of their career” (Laudel and Gläser, 2008, p. 387). There are challengesassociated with this period, including questioning our own abilities, not feeling valued bycolleagues, and endeavouring to develop our “fit” to make a contribution (McAlpine andAmundsen, 2015). Example characterisations of ECRs include one that shows us as havingdeficits, for example: lacking contacts; credibility; and knowledge of university life. Anothershows us in a developmental state, for example; as developing our profession; progressingthrough our career (Hemmings and Kay, 2010).

In this respect, unlike the identity state of “PhD student”, there is a lack of clear, overtand standardised ritual (Beech, 2011). However, I also believe being an ECR constitutes aliminal identity state in becoming an established researcher, albeit as a different form ofliminality. As introduced in my starting thoughts, a distinction has been shown betweentypes of liminality. This includes one type with clear temporal boundaries marked byclear rites as transitional liminality – “a sense of being not-X-anymore-and-not-Y-yet”(Bamber et al., 2017, p. 3) – where there is a clear sense of movement towards something.Another type can be considered perpetual, where the liminars are in-between identitystates for an extended period of time (Ybema et al., 2011), a state of perpetual manufacture.This is potentially positive as the period can be considered “a revolving doorway, ratherthan a threshold” (Bamber et al., 2017, p. 7), which enables liminars to occupy an identitystate on the margins, a potentially powerful position for creativity and social change.As such, the identity state of “early career researcher” may represent a more longitudinalor perpetual liminality (Beech, 2011; Ybema et al., 2011), or, potentially, the risk of being ina state of limbo.

As an ECR, I may have to reconcile that the activities in which I invest my time, theexpertise that I grow and the experiences that help the growth process may convince someelders and alienate others. I was inspired by Hayes et al.’s (2016, p. 129) approach, that“we are trying to find ways to establish our own academic credentials while payingattention to the learning we have experienced, which has enabled us to develop our voices,yet which may have condemned us to struggle with our subjectivities in an environmentwhere even radical perspectives have a powerful grammar and set of taken-for-grantedassumptions”. There is a wider range of others to whom I feel I need to prove myself, bothin my organisational context (school and university) and my wider social scientificcommunity (Laudel and Gläser, 2008). Ending the liminal period is in the control of others,as with the PhD student identity state, but in this state it is particularly colleagues who actas reviewers, editors and/or impact assessors; “so the imagination of the judgement andevaluation of the other is crucial in terms of how we perceive ourselves to appear in theirthoughts, something which is done little justice through the simple metaphor of a ‘lookingglass self’” (Burkitt, 2012, p. 466). Whilst there may be no ambiguity in the requirement

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(publishing and impact), there is uncertainty in the achievement of these outcomes(subject to the decisions, the baptism, of others). So, although I know these are therequirements, that the liminal identity state of betweenness is perhaps bounded by therites of publication and impact, this is not enough to help me achieve the requirements – Icannot transition out of the state of betweenness – until others deem my work “good”enough. For example, I know what I have to do (publish), yet I do not know what I have todo to do this, or I do know what to do according to the various advice and guidanceavailable, but why am I not convincing reviewers? This is the present and the followingsections offer details on my experiences of this.

“Good” research involves learning to engage with other academics in ourwork – independently – but then submissively. Being an ECR feels constituted bylearning the craft of writing to persuade, following the rules of each journal and itsassociated reviewers, and this marks a shift in the focus for “good” qualitative research fromexecuting to presenting. Whilst the thesis also involved presenting at conferences andwithin my institution, and writing to persuade through the thesis, I was acting to prove myability as an independent researcher, to be legitimated by a small audience – supervisorsand examiners and PhD developmental conference tracks:

Being an early career researcher involves presenting and writing to a larger and more complexaudience of reviewing colleagues, who seem to be largely a cross, intolerant and unsupportive set ofpeople and to whom I ought to be submissive as a new entrant to their very competitive field.Too harsh? Perhaps. A massive sweeping generalisation? Definitely. But that’s what happens whenyou get 3 rejections in a week.

Knowledge is a process not a product, but we have to produce products or outputs and“the qualitative researcher through socialisation into the prevailing academic discourse[…] is encouraged to take on the ‘omniscient voice of science, the view from everywhere’”( Johnson, 2001, p. 57). I have felt a tension in academic discourse, within qualitativeresearch as well as more obviously between qualitative and quantitative disciplines,between positions that express the need for “a researcher to consider and present her workin an omniscient and impersonal tone” ( Johnson, 2001, p. 53) and those who support andvalue first-person accounts and reflexivity. There seems to be more certaintyand judgment on the part of those who see “good” qualitative research as a singularformula – for example, a recent reviewer (not of this paper, I might add […]) commentedthat I should construct my methodology with “a description of the interview method”, as if“the interview method” was one accepted and universal thing. Being liminal involves thenegotiation of these tensions and becoming a qualitative researcher in such a way thatI can justifiably claim as “good”.

The rite of constructing “good quality” outputs can feel like the requirement to be apublishing machine, not just in volume but in the right journals according to academicjournal guides, as compiled by certain academic colleagues (e.g. Chartered Association ofBusiness Schools, 2015; Ormans, 2016). It may be that our research fits with the scope of arange of journals, but as a business school scholar, “good” is indicated by particularjournals, publishing in which offers legitimation. “Good” articles must tell a good story thatis gripping and convincing the reader and we must be disciplined (controlled?) to follow thenorms and conventions that our elders expect. However, whilst there may be clarity of whatshould happen to move out of the liminal identity state of “early career researcher, there isstill difficulty in doing so”. For example, our publications must make a theoreticalcontribution, accounting for our research in a systematic and rigorous way and presentinganalysis according to orders of concepts (Gioia et al., 2013):

This is where I need to get to, this “theoretical realm” and there I will be a good researcher.This feels so straightforward yet so out of reach.

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So, in theory, I know what I need to do to move through this liminal phase and becomeaggregated as an established researcher in terms of publishing and having impact in myresearch. For the Academy of Management Journal, for example, pieces shoulddemonstrate “comprehensive, personal and transparent methods” (Bansal and Corley,2012, p. 510) amongst other requirements. Yet, it feels out of reach and I feel unable toprogress within/beyond this in-between state. Knowing what to do does not equalknowing how to get there, because one’s research has to be “good” enough, one has to be“good” enough. It has felt that it is important to follow the “mainstream” rules in order tohave a chance of publishing, but my own work is still not published. If “[i]n practiceresearch glides, more or less consciously, between two or more of these levels: thehandling of the empirical material, interpretation, critical interpretation and reflectionsupon language and authority” (Alvesson and Sköldberg, 2000, p. 248), I certainly never feltlike this – I would expect “gliding” to feel comfortable rather than feeling in a fairlyconstant state of unworthiness and relative stupidity. We must be confident andconvincing about our work, yet authentically I feel doubt, constant in-betweenness andanxiety at worst (Szakolczai, 2009). My qualitative research is not “good” enough, I am not“good” enough, reflecting the liminal identity state.

As well as the rite of publishing, with its challenges for accomplishment as outlinedabove, I feel that the liminal identity state of ECR is also bounded by the even more esotericrite of research impact. Again, it would seem that I do have the rules and conventions thatwould help me achieve impact. For example, one way in which “good” research (includingqualitative research) in the UK is judged according to impact is through the ResearchEvaluation Framework (2011/2012), which defines impact “as an effect on, change or benefitto the economy, society, culture, public policy or services, health, the environment or qualityof life, beyond academia” (Research Evaluation Framework, 2011). I struggle with this, asnoted in my journals:

I find reminiscences fulfilling and comforting at this stage in my education and career.They reinforce my confidence in what I had learned previously as well as instilling a feeling ofinspiration to draw more and deeper on past elements of my learning journey, rather thanconsigning them to something complete and ended. I feel envious of those whose research seems tobe less restricted by conventions than mine is. I feel envious of those whose research presents in amore focused way than mine ever has. I spend much time feeling at a constant deficit.

Notions of impact according to expertise are problematic because: it may be a limitedgroup who can operate in this way (unlikely to include ECRs?); “international expertise”may be narrowed according to the interests of this group; and international problems maybe defined and solved by those who have an international expert identity may bedemonstrably influential towards a range of policy, economic and business practices(Pries, 2013; McKenna et al., 2015) making it important to know more of who isparticipating, why and how. I feel challenged by this in becoming a “good” qualitativeresearcher, as noted in my journals:

Not deliberate, but I feel very submissive, this person is an expert, very warm and welcoming yetI feel humble and unworthy. I am intimidated by the situation – not caused by the participant, myown reaction – how do I control this? Worried about asking the “right” questions.

A personal fear is that ineffective transition beyond would potentially lead to a state oflimbo whereby the novice, developmental and perhaps marginalised position occupied(Turner, 1974) as an “adequate” qualitative researcher is the continuing identity state.This may be materially represented by a move from teaching and research to teaching andscholarship contract – I may not be a “good” qualitative researcher but I may be a “good”teacher and scholar […] so is there another identity state that I am moving towards, ratherthan the one I have worked so hard to accomplish? The risk of no legitimation is apparent,

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where “some academics remain confined to an early career ‘space’ and cannot, or find it verydifficult to, make the transition from apprentice to colleague or dependent to independentacademic” (Hemmings and Kay, 2010, p. 564). In this case, whence liminality? I feel that I amnot “good” enough and never will be – am I stuck in limbo? This implies being trapped andstatic it is not enjoyable, it is without potential (Bamber et al., 2017). It is possible that a mythof liminality is propagated to maintain hope, as without it we would be thoroughlymiserable. As introduced earlier, the end of the liminal period is dependent on others, elders,to legitimate us in our next identity state. But without this, in Dante’s words “The worldaccords them not the least renown. Pity and justice scorn them equally” (Alighieri, 2005translation: Inferno III 46–51).

Concluding thoughtsThis paper is based on my subjective experiences of being and transitioning between theidentity states (Beech, 2011) of PhD student and ECR, discussing and reflecting on issues ofwhat constitutes “good” qualitative research practice. Completing the PhD is one suchpractice and it would seem that the process of completion is also subject to certain rules of“good” qualitative research that students have to learn and execute appropriately, almost asan apprentice position (Park, 2005; Laudel and Gläser, 2008; Hemmings and Kay, 2010).I offer an account of the challenges involved in learning the craft (Kvale and Brinkmann,2009; Cunliffe, 2011), executing “good” qualitative research, being and becoming a “good”qualitative researcher. I illustrate some common rites of passage (Van Gennep, 1960; Turner,1969) and draw on the theories of liminality to understand the feelings of in-betweennessand the fears experienced during this indeterminate time: “the term ‘liminality’ helps us tounderstand that such major events literally and effectively transform the very mode ofbeing of those individuals involved” (Szakolczai, 2009, p. 158).

The paper is presented as a way to reveal some of the questions and problems withconceptualising “good” qualitative research, particularly suggesting an intrinsic link withidentity states involved in becoming/being a “good” qualitative researcher andexperiences thereof. Planning “good” qualitative research is one thing, executing “good”qualitative research is entirely another, as is publishing “good” qualitative research andhaving impact from “good” qualitative research. I feel that different experiences ofliminality characterise the identity states of being a “PhD student” and being an “earlycareer researcher” towards becoming an “established researcher” (Bazeley, 2003). “PhDstudent” represents transitional liminality, and “ECR” has potential for not transitionalliminality but the risk of a fixed limbo state without ever becoming an “establishedresearcher”. Whilst, in my experience, the identity state of PhD student is relativelydelineated with clear rites to the identity state of “early career researcher”, this latterliminal identity state is potentially an interminable transition – a limbo rather than aliminal state (Bamber et al., 2017). It seems that there is potential for one’s career to stalldespite doing “good” qualitative research; there is a gap between this and being a “good”qualitative researcher. A continual state of becoming implied by perpetual liminality isacceptable, perhaps because there are senses of achievements throughout,accomplishment rather than completion (Szakolczai, 2009), whereas limbo is lessacceptable because it implies stasis or “stuckness”.

There do seem to be some rites, that is, common and/or expected social practices, customs,conventions or acts that relate to the crafting and execution of “good” qualitative research.These are socially produced in the setting we call “academia” and they affect my legitimation(or not) as a “good” qualitative researcher. How we progress as judged by our elders decideswhether we accomplish the next identity state or not, for example “through a system ofrewards and punishments in which the PhD is awarded or not, in which the journal article ispublished or not, in which promotion is granted or not” ( Johnson, 2001, p. 58).

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Some rites may seem “easy” and “clear” to facilitate participation and/or production, but I amsubject to power relations that mean my legitimation is intermingled with the behest of others(PhD examiners and publication reviewers), making progression from liminar to academic lesspredictable. Judgments of “good” occur in relation to our interactions with researchparticipants (in the field) and colleagues as elders (through our writing and otherinteractions) – this indicates the significance of others – that there is no way for us to becomewithout others as playing a part in the becoming. They represent both the risk of limbo andthe possibility of becoming.

These in turn mark points of progression (Van Gennep’s, (1960) separation andre-aggregation) to different identity states in a researcher’s career. However, the periodbetween these rites (Van Gennep’s, (1960) liminality) may be difficult to determineand which may contribute towards a continual, interminable state of becoming a “good”qualitative researcher. We are left to our own devices in liminal periods – social guidance isnot completely absent – but it is up to us how to deal with this and it can be confusing anddisturbing. Understanding this as in-betweenness may help reconcile where we are, who weare and how we are transitioning or not (Beech, 2011). Although these rites may, indeedshould, represent the return of some form of structure and sense of achievingre-aggregation, what may happen is that there is not enough to legitimate me as a“good” researcher, particularly during the early career identity state.

It seems to me that the extent to which PhD students and ECRs can be legitimated anddeveloped in their career in qualitative research may be affected according to theiradherence to certain normative “good” practices as defined by established researchercolleagues. It is a contradiction that I both conform to and shape the construction of “good”qualitative research and a “good” qualitative researcher through adherence to implicit andexplicit messages from colleagues and publications – I benefit from playing the game tobecome legitimate, yet I feel that I am yet to be legitimated. Beyond the PhD, in being anECR, “good” qualitative research is linked with the publication of outputs and a new set ofrules to negotiate. In experiencing these qualitative research practices, I felt that there weretimes of being and times of becoming, linked to transitions between identity states markedby my elders (Beech, 2011). Proving myself along the way has come from demonstratingindependence (PhD) and demonstrating submission to others (ECR).

The point of considering all of these issues in relation to re-conceptualising goodresearch in organisation and management studies is that being a PhD student and beingan ECR are common identity states. An analysis of the intersection between learning andexecuting the craft of academic qualitative research according to received wisdom isprovided to ground our understanding of the importance of recognising different ways todefine “good” research in making transitions to being a “good” researcher. There may be adisconnection between the process of doing “good” research and the ways in which this isrecognised in output form. This means that “good” qualitative research intersects me andothers, with multiple interests influencing the construction of the legitimate identity stateof the “good” qualitative researcher. “Good” research expectations shift or morphaccording to who sits in judgment. I am not sure we can prepare PhD students for clearand definite transitions throughout an academic career, but perhaps what we can do isidentify and talk more about liminal experiences and the in-betweenness felt.The judgment of goodness, for someone starting out in their academic career, is madeby our elders, as would be expected, but at some point we have to be judged “good”enough ourselves to allow transition from liminal identity states to the legitimated andaccomplished identity state of “established researcher”. Elders, as the elites andestablished researchers in the academy who are in the position to legitimate, “baptise”,ECRs can perhaps also think reflexively about their own practice in relation to those whoare becoming. I certainly will, should I ever become one.

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Corresponding authorVictoria Pagan can be contacted at: victoria.pagan@ncl.ac.uk

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