Abstract
Tirohanga Whānui (Abstract): Traditional knowledge systems have been at the core of our existence as indigenous peoples since time immemorial. As an oral/aural-based society, our ancestors frequently engaged in opportunities to not only test their knowledge at different times and in different situations but also to recall knowledge through the art of story-telling. This paper seeks to (re)position autoethnography from an indigenous perspective. This will be achieved by referring to autoethnography as a culturally informed research practice that is not only explicit to Māori ways of knowing but can be readily validated and legitimated as an authentic “Native” method of inquiry. Grounded within a resistance-based discourse, indigenous autoethnography aims to address issues of social justice and to develop social change by engaging indigenous researchers in rediscovering their own voices as “culturally liberating human-beings.” Implicit in this process is also the desire to ground one’s sense of “self” in what remains “sacred” to us as indigenous peoples in the world we live, and in the way we choose to construct our identity, as Māori.
Mihimihi (Formal Greeting)
Tīmatanga Kōrero (Introduction)
Indigenous autoethnography as a distinct “Native” 2 method of inquiry requires that as a person of Māori 3 descent, I respectfully introduce “who I am” (social identity) and “where I am from” (place identity). Similarly, and from an indigenous epistemological approach, there exist other broader constructs and meanings associated with our essence as “cultural human beings”—esoterically, metaphysically, and spiritually (Shirres 2000; Meyer 2005). Hauge (2007) describes three identity theories worthy of mention: place-identity theory, social identity theory, and identity process theory. Such theories invariably locate self holistically and as a reciprocal interaction between people and the physical environment (Hauge 2007). Hauge (2007) describes this as a “transactional view of settings” where variations of place (i.e., sense of place, place attachment, place identity, place dependence, etc.) are constantly influencing a person’s perceptions, experiences, personality, and cognition. Given the relative ease of accessing technology (i.e., computers, iPhones, iPads, mobile phones, and other virtual interactive forms of communication) in today’s world, meeting indigenous peoples face-to-face (kanohi-ki-te-kanohi) is a culturally preferred and legitimate means of communicating, engaging, and interacting with indigenous peoples on their terms (Hemara 2000; Mead 2003; Shirres 2000; Wilson 2009). Durie (2001b) describes seven different kinds of whānau (family) constructs where self as an indigenous experience can be considered and constructed differently, such as whānau as kin (based on traditional ancestors), whānau as shareholders of land (land held among family members), whānau as friends (different kinds of associations outside of the immediate family), whānau-based meetings (family meetings discussing matters specific to their needs and aspirations), whānau as neighbours (neighbourly family members), whānau households (income dependant families), and virtual whānau (family we rarely see). Whānau as an indigenous construct is layered by a number of different human interactions specific to one’s place, identity, environment, and community and influenced significantly by the cultural collective. Of particular concern are families (and individuals within) who are disconnected, lack identity, and are isolated and categorized as disadvantaged, underserved, and vulnerable—many of whom we know very little about (Durie 2001a). To understand how others are affected, we must create appropriate spaces, approaches, and methods for others’ voices to be heard.
Discovering, exploring, coconstructing, and narrating notions of “self” as an indigenous person must take into account an individual’s ability to articulate meaning in relation to why their world is socially, culturally, and politically different as an indigenous person. It is, therefore, important to ask how valid, authentic, or sufficient are the stories we hear or seek to share and why would anyone be interested? And what enables or engages an indigenous person to tell their stories in ways that help others as well as themselves to better understand the inherent complexities underpinning our uniqueness as culturally connected human beings? As a Māori academic, my views, understandings, ideas, and understandings about indigenous autoethnography will no doubt differ considerably to other indigenous peoples’ perspectives and narratives. The history of the indigenous Māori people in Aotearoa New Zealand is well over two thousand years old with tribal stories etched in the landscape of a world where our ancestors lived, died, and were put to rest. Today, our tribal meeting houses (i.e., marae) remain as testimonies to those memories and serve as a cultural haven for those stories to be preserved and shared for future generations (Tauroa 1984).
A key aim of this paper is to provide a “space” to share a process of constructing a culturally distinct method of inquiry that may readily coexist in the fabric of other people’s lived experiences but is unique from a Māori world view. Although there appears to be an inherent lack of knowing how to frame “self” as an indigenous qualitative method of inquiry, many Māori researchers in Aotearoa–New Zealand24 are actively defining what research should look like from an indigenous world view and how new knowledge is created, critiqued, and shared (Jones and Jenkins 2008a). Coming to know the other as “indigenous” is a challenging task because global definitions render us all as one coherent group of people seeking similar aspirations and goals, typically stereotyping the other as being the “same” (Jones, Adams, and Ellis 2013). The difference privileges a “Native” researcher as someone who is either “Native” by birth (i.e., born of this place) and who can intuitively speak about the cultural nuisances associated with indigenous peoples’ connection to, with, and about time, space, place, and identity. In more recent times, autoethnography seeks to remain fresh and relevant and to build on notions of “coming out,” “being relevant,” and “creating alternative” perspectives to specific complex social problems (Coffey 1999; Douglas and Carless 2013; Ellis 2004; Jones, Adams, and Ellis 2013; Marechal 2010). Douglas and Carless’s (2013, 93) poem titled “Doing Autoethnography” I believe aptly identifies both the tension and potential inherent in engaging in autoethnography:
So you read my words Sketched on the page And learned of entanglement Well, here now is my flesh What say you, as I sing my song? Where do you belong?
Some key questions underpinning this paper relate to the following: 1) What does it mean to be indigenous and in particular, Māori? 2) How can Māori as indigenous peoples collectively interpret or use notions of speaking about “self” as a culturally accepted research practice to create new knowledge? 3) What are the guiding principles or ethics related to speaking about “self” as an indigenous person? 4) Who am I accountable to as an indigenous person when I choose to write about my “self”? 5) In what ways could an indigenous autoethnography approach be considered useful? and 6) What is so “Native” about indigenous autoethnography that deserves to be told? These questions are not meant to be an exhaustive list, but rather, to argue for the importance of considering indigenous autoethnography as another preferred “Native” method of inquiry. Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999, 93) contends that engaging in a discussion about research as an indigenous issue has been about finding a “voice,” or a way of finding a “voice,” or a way of voicing concerns, fears, desires, aspirations, needs and questions as they relate to research. When indigenous peoples become the researchers and not merely the researched, the activity of research is transformed. Questions are framed differently, people participate differently, and problems are defined differently, people participate on different terms.
Similarly, we acknowledge that people, identity, and culture construct experiences very differently and that to engage with/in culture as “socially interested activists” is to critique the dominant values of society and to resist ideologies that limit our ability to participate fully as tangata whenua (people of this land) and in all other areas of society (Smith 1999). Understanding and explaining the nature of our own “cultural encounter,” and as a form of “cultural and critical consciousness,” is to actively free ourselves from the more dominant forms of objectivity (Heshusius 1994). Charles Royal (2009a) argues that the “gift of indigeneity” lies in our ability to rediscover and recenter our culture from “within” as opposed to relying solely on ‘externally codified’ forms of knowledge that are often devoid of our own ways of knowing and doing. The journey is “deeply necessary” toward enabling an individual to spend time reflecting on their own cultural intellectual wisdom and to support individuals to recalibrate ones’ own inner as well as collective cultural potential (Royal 2009a). The “collective” refers to our innate cultural connectedness grounded in what indigenous peoples do together as a whānau (immediate family), hapū (sub-tribe), and iwi (tribe).35 Seeking an alternative method that extrapolates how we as indigenous peoples see ourselves, as individuals in the wider world, is therefore equally important.
The purpose of this article is to preface indigenous autoethnography as a culturally distinctive way of coming to know who we are as indigenous peoples within the research agenda. The difference privileges a “Native” researcher as someone who is either Native by birth (i.e., indigenous) or who can connect genealogically to someone who is Native and can intimately speak about the cultural underlays/overlays associated with time, space, place, and identity. Autoethnography, as the dominant discourse, has become a widely accepted method of inquiry that is grounded in an interpretive paradigm and designed to construct wider cultural, political, and social meanings and understandings (Marechal 2010; Ellis 2004; Coffey 1999) but at times lack a certain esoterically, metaphysical, and w(holistic) edge specific to an indigenous reality (Ellis and Bochner 2003; Houston 2007; Jones and Jenkins 2008a; Shirres 2000; Kapa 2009).
Tūingoa Tangata (The Rise of Autoethnography: Insider–Outsider Debate)
Autoethnography has been around for at least three decades and emerged through anthropologists’ notions of cultural studies where Hayano’s work considered being a “full insider” by virtue of being a “Native.” Hayano’s (1979) paper, titled Autoethnography: Paradigms, Problems, and Prospects, positions autoethnography as somewhat different and determined by anthropologists (i.e., intimate familiarity with those who are “Native”) or sociologists (i.e., who have become formally or informally socialized with a particular group of “Natives”) who consistently privilege their insider–outsider status (Hayano 1979). Applications of autoethnography by Ellis and Bochner (2006) considered the following positions as being synonymous with the following approaches:
The personal story matters;
autobiographical in nature;
focuses outward on the social and cultural aspects of one’s personal experiences;
focuses inward exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by various experiences and therefore may express certain emotions;
reflective in that it moves back and forth displaying multiple layers of consciousness using first person, where they themselves are dialectically revealed through action, feeling, thought, and language;
provides a source of verisimilitude or a quality of seeming to be true or relatable;
personal is both cultural and political.
Freeman (1997) also argued that through narrative, that one is in a position to survey the whole that is one’s life, and it is only through such a survey that there exists the possibility of obtaining the truth about that life, indefinite and ungraspable though it is. (cited in Bochner 2001, 151)
Similarly, a chapter by Ellis and Bochner (2003, 733) titled “Autoethnography, Personal Narrative, Reflexivity: Researcher as Subject” asked, “how important is it to make the researcher’s own experience a topic of investigation in its own right.” In this instance, using a systematic sociological introspection and emotional recall to understand one’s personal experience as stories, more so than mere essays, is considered a far more meaningful way to understand and (re)connect with people and the world they live within (Bochner 2001; Ellis and Bochner 2003). In addition, Ellis and Bochner (cited in Denzin and Lincoln 2000, 739–40) identified with a number of alternative methods of engaging “self,” including narratives of “self” (Richardson 1994); personal experience narratives, or “self”-stories (Denzin 1989); first-person accounts (Ellis 1998); personal essays (Krieger 1991); ethnographic short stories (Ellis 1995); writing stories (Richardson 1997); complete member research (Alder and Alder 1987); auto-observation (Alder and Alder 1994); opportunistic research (Riemer 1977); personal ethnography (Crawford 1996); literary tales (Van Maanen 1988); lived experience (Van Maanen 1995); radical empiricism (Jackson 1989); socioautobiography (Zola 1982); autopathography (Hawkins 1993); evocative narrative (Bochner, Ellis, and Tillmann-Healy 1997); personal writing (DeVault 1997); reflective ethnography (Ellis and Bochner 1996); confessional tales (Van Maanen 1998); ethnographic memoirs (Tedlock 1991); ethnobiography (Lejeune 1989); autobiology (Payne 1996); collaborative autobiography (Brandes, 1982); emotionalism (Gubrium and Holstein 1997); experiential texts (Denzin 1997); narrative ethnography (Abu-Lughod 1993); autobiographical ethnography (Reed- Danabay 1997); ethnographic poetics (Marcus and Fischer 1986); “Native” ethnography (Obnuki-Tierney 1884); indigenous ethnography (Gonzalez and Krizek 1994); and ethnic autobiography (Reed-Danabay 1997). Many of the examples cited by Ellis and Bochner (2000) demonstrate the depth of coming to know the “self” as a moral high ground within a western paradigm. Notions of being “indigenous” or indeed “Native” are rarely (re)claimed within the process of what counts as ethnography because the ideologies of knowing and how we come to know privy more so the observer’s account of lived experience within a global construct as to opposed to a seamless web of indigenous interactions.
Laurel Richardson (2003) argues that writing is a process of “self”-discovery and that writers have to 1) write as a way of learning more about yourself and your topic with an emphasis on “showing” more than “telling” and 2) as a method of discovery and analysis, in that, by writing in different ways we discover new aspects of our topic and more importantly our relationship to it; each are mutually inclusive, not mutually exclusive. The evocative nature of autoethnography is, as Richardson describes, “highly personalized” revealing one’s own texts, stories, lived experiences, and narratives. They are, however, actual real events that authors have encountered that are duly staged by fleshing out characters, unusual phrasings, puns, subtexts, allusions, flashbacks and flash-forwards, tone shifts, synecdoche, dialogue, and interior monologue (Richardson 2003). Autoethnographic writing can also be considered as an “honest” attempt of increasing the visibility of an author’s life first-hand, whereby locating experiences of “self” are subsequently interpreted socially, culturally, and politically (Coffey 1999). This attempt addresses the problem of speaking about the “Other” by reclaiming one’s “self” in the text, but it does not necessarily address how we come to know what it means to be indigenous or explain what it means to be indigenous from within.
In 2001, my Master’s dissertation titled “Growing Up: My Search for Identity in the Sporting Experience” described my “personal” sporting endeavors with regards to how sport contributed, both socially and culturally, to my identity as an indigenous Māori male. The experiences of playing sport were not just about striving to become a better athlete, fitting in or trying to win, the experiences also revealed how sport, though considered a safe place to reside, actually masked my search for identity (Whitinui 2001). Expression of guilt, low confidence and self-esteem, lack of belonging and trust, as a result of various social and societal pressures (i.e., family, school, lower socioeconomic conditions) were rarely understood by others, least of all by me. In the wider New Zealand context, participating in sport was considered a positive and accepted part of “growing up” as a New Zealand teenager. It also supported the stereotypical view of “building boys into men” to enable them to contribute positively to society. From a personal standpoint, and despite all the good times I experienced playing sport, once I stopped playing competitive sport, issues underpinning “Who am I” emerged more frequently.
My limited “self”-awareness and understanding about my identity coupled with a lack of understanding about my indigenous language and culture revealed my lack of knowledge, knowing and understanding what being Māori actually meant. Exploring the interrelationality between sport, identity, and culture from my own personal experiences often asked me to mask my identity as Māori (Whitinui 2001). Values such as whakawhanaungatanga (positive relationships), tama toa (being strong in times of adversity), manaakitanga (looking after others), papa kāinga (positive home environment), nohoanga tangata (community connectedness), whakaaro tahi (interactions), tohungatanga (relevant skills and expertise), whānau (family connectedness), wairua (spiritual connectedness), hinengaro (positive thoughts and feelings), tinana (physical capability and well-being), mātauranga (relevant knowledge), and ehoa mā (positive friends) were all around me, but not within, because my primary focus while growing up was on playing sport (Whitinui 2001).
Being able to reflect upon, describe, and explain these sporting experiences using autoethnography constructed a better personal understanding about how the institution and systemic role of sport co-opted and negotiated my identity as a Māori male (Whitinui 2001). Today there are a number of indigenous scholars engaged in using indigenous autoethnography as a tool to challenge misconceptions of others about their identity as indigenous peoples—historically, socially, and politically (Houston 2007; Tomaseli, Dyll, and Francis 2008). However, informed seemingly by a number of critical and indigenous discourses (Denzin, Lincoln, and Smith 2008), a number of indigenous researchers have argued for a new way of communicating how indigenous peoples see the world from their own world view (Battiste 2005; Martinez 2008; Meyer 2005; Smith 1999; Wilson 2009). Alternatively, exploring or expressing “self” has been described by some as narcissistic and an overindulgence in personifying everything as opposed to unpacking how knowledge about “self” is structured and produced (i.e., post-structural discourses). This is not to say there is an either–or way of speaking and engaging about “self” as an indigenous person, but it does imply that knowledge and knowing “self” has in some way been influenced from within existing social contexts, structures, and environments over time and should not be overlooked.
Te Anake Kupumahi (The Universal Singular)
Interpretive interactionism assumes that every human being is a universal singular and that no individual is ever just an individual (Denzin 1989). Nevertheless, every human person must be studied as a single instance of more universal social experiences and social processes (Sarte 1981). The person, Sartre (1981, ix) states, is “summed up and for this reason is universalized by his epoch, he in turn resumes it by reproducing himself as a singularity.” In other words, every person is like every other person but like no other person; and that all interpretative studies are in some way biographical and historical that surrounds the subject’s life experiences (Denzin 1989, 19). Such positions also relate to what Denzin (1989) refers to as the “universal singular” defined by Jean-Paul Sartre (1981, 19) as follows: Universal singulars are individuals who are “a single instance of more universal social experiences and social processes.” This approach recognises that all interpretative studies are biographical and historical. They are always fitted to the historical moment that surrounds the subject’s life experiences.
The idea of the “universal singular” from an indigenous perspective is not novel concept; however, “telling our stories” is not necessarily the same as how others tell or interpret their own stories. Stories for and about Māori people often emerge from a genealogy of relationships concerning love, hardships, humor, struggle, war, and lived experiences. They are also about the interconnectedness between whānau, hapū, and iwi, and between all living organisms—past, present, and future—and the meanings that come from those interactions (Jackson 2008). For example, “A person may die but then someone else is born, so the whakapapa continues in the process of never-ending beginnings,” explains Jackson (2008, 27). Similarly, using ‘Once upon a time . . .” is a matter of perception because not only do all cultures define time differently, they also see time differently. Inferred are the threads of finding one’s own understanding in these new beginnings and cherishing what Jackson (2008) refers to, as our “own intellectual tradition” whereby we invent new ways of knowing through new beginnings. Implicit in this coming to know is the overarching ethical question, “Why do I need to know and who deserves to know?” By engaging in the (re)validation of being who we say we are as Māori, we also seek to legitimate our stories through a process of self-determination that is both liberating and empowering.
Indeed, to “tell” my story let alone “show” what I want to share as an indigenous person, requires a deep sense of appreciation for the diversity of indigenous peoples’ world views, moral codes, and culture (Rachels and Rachels 2010). Therefore, indigenous autoethnography seeks to resist the more dominant ideologies by deconstructing and reconstructing various historical accounts. It also seeks clarity, socially and culturally, by constructing and materializing a new reality to protect who we are and why we are who we say we are (Jones and Jenkins 2008a).
No Wai Kōrero Taute? (Whose Story Counts?)
At the age of six years, others knew me perhaps better than I knew myself and as I developed into my teenage years I became rather introverted, shy, and aloof. In some circles, I was considered a person not to be trusted and a bit of a trouble-maker. Why? Because I often walked around with a rather sly smile on my face appearing to know things others didn’t, which made others feel rather uneasy. Unbeknownst to my peers, questions about “who I am” and “where do I fit in this world” were often at the forefront of my mind but were not being answered. Moreover, I was consistently seeking an understanding about my identity being Māori, which was often superseded by my inner need to enjoy life, play sport, keep out of harm’s way, and to be happy. Having spent such a long time in the sporting culture, the question of what constitutes a “Native” story and how we discern what a “Native” way of knowing “self” is became more pronounced. It effectively required me to delink myself from a whole host of dominant discourses and to spend more time reflecting on what constitutes being an indigenous Māori human being. For example, what we hear, see, feel/sense, taste, and touch although typical of our everyday lives (and based on our own level of knowing and associations with family, land, culture, language, and traditions) required an intuitional cultural reframing. Therefore, how we choose to start a “story” is not only an important determinant in how we place ourselves within, it also dependent upon how we really see ourselves in the world we live—asking ourselves the following questions:
Who am I and where am I from?
How well do I know myself as being an indigenous person?
What do I believe in as an indigenous person?
What angers me or lifts my spirits as an indigenous person?
What are the rules of conduct I set for myself as I make my way in the world and how do these rules relate to who I am as an indigenous person?
What am I willing to defend as an indigenous person and what lengths am I willing to go to defend it?
Answers to these questions from an indigenous world view are intended to highlight some of the critical themes or values we are likely to hold about ourselves and those we interact with. Indeed, to talk about an ethnographic self as a “Native” inquiry method is to also consider blending Te Ao Māori (The World of Māori) alongside Western knowledge constructs (Macfarlane, Blampied, and Macfarlane 2011). Macfarlane, Blampied, and Macfarlane (2011, 12) states that content cannot be considered without regard for context, as context provides the ecology wherein people exercise their individuality within a set of social relations and responsibilities. Thus throughout a blended process . . . oral and written, indigenous-grounded and science-grounded—informs and guides the professional practice (or research). When these contributing factors manifest, a synergetic momentum is likely to occur, a momentum that drives the process forward, like a waka (canoe) upon the water.
Indigenous autoethnography by its very definition asks us to consider epistemological perspectives equally and to draw together self (auto), ethno (nation), and graphy (writing). It also asks researchers interested in this method to consider their own level of connectedness to space, place, time, and culture as a way of (re)claiming, (re)storing, (re)writing, and (re)patriating our own lived realities as indigenous peoples. In many instances, merely telling our stories is not sufficient; we must also be prepared to show how stories are lived in authentically as well as meaningfully ways.
It wasn’t long ago that the lone ethnographer rode into the sunset in search of his “Native.” After undergoing a series of trials, he encountered the object of his quest in a distant land. There he underwent his rite of passage by enduring the ultimate ordeal of “field work.” After collecting the data, the lone ethnographer returned home and wrote a “true” account of the “culture” (Rosaldo 1989). Similarly, Chimamanda Adichie’s (2009) TED (Technology Entertainment Design 2009) presentation entitled “Danger of a Single Story” reminds us that being exposed to a single story is very dangerous, and that we’ve got to open ourselves up to “balanced stories” in order to get a grasp of the world around us. Telling stories of living in a world that makes grave assumptions about one’s culture, ability to communicate, write, think, feel, including social circumstances, can be very dangerous.
Our lives and our cultures are composed of overlapping stories. Inherent in every story is the desire to find one’s authentic voice, but if we only hear a single story about another person or country, we risk a critical misunderstanding of being able to truly relate to another person’s story because we have no experience or connection to that person’s life. Finding truth in a single story therefore requires that we are careful of judging specific contexts or using approaches that are only indicative of equating measures that are then rationalized as a form of social and cultural criteria (Smith 1984). Alternatively, we cannot assume that one person’s story is enough to crystalize, predict, or influence the necessary or sustainable change we often seek in telling our stories—culturally and/or politically. Rather, we must conjure cultural criticism, produce new social parameters, and reveal new sociological subjects (Clough 2000).
Prentice (2003) suggests that telling our stories is a respectable way of engaging with our realities and creates new truths of coming to know ourselves in our world. The Persian poet and philosopher Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi once said, “How many words the world contains! But all have one meaning. When you smash the jugs, the water is one.” Coming to know “self” is something we all share, but how we do this requires cultures and society to willingly accept difference(s) in race, ethnicity, gender, age, and knowledge.
Mahi Ātetenga (Indigenous Autoethnography as a Resistance Discourse)
Traditionally, authoethnography was commonly referred to as the “insider” ethnography, a qualitative research method whereby a researcher uses participant observation and interviews in order to gain a deeper understanding of a group’s culture—in that autoethnography focuses more on the writer’s subjective experience rather than the beliefs and practices of others (Hayano 1979). Autoethnography is commonly referred to as the “insider” ethnography—a qualitative research method in which a researcher uses participant observation and interviews in order to gain a deeper understanding of a group’s culture—in that autoethnography focuses on the writer’s subjective experience rather than the beliefs and practices of others (Hayano 1979). Autoethnography is now widely used (though controversial) in performance studies, the sociology of new media, novels, journalism, and communication, and applied fields such as management studies, consumerism, nursing, counseling, psychology, etc., because it elicits the following ethical and epistemological positions:
Truth likeness or trust worthiness refers to what makes what we do or who we are authenticate or believable (Mead 2003);
Counterhegemonic discourse aims to resist colonial or Eurocentric ways of knowing—based on critical pedagogy (Henry Giroux and Paulo Freire), organic intellectual (Antonio Gramsci), as well as communicative rationale (Jūrgen Habermas) that asks the critical questions such as what is the answer and why do we think or do what we do (Smith 1997);
Indigenous peoples want greater access to methods/approaches of inquiry that are more closely aligned to their ways of knowing, doing, and being. For example, oral life histories, poetry, motifs, art, performance, and performativity (the enactment of speech, the norms, nuances, and nature of language used to tell our stories) (Butler 1997);
We are all “culturally connected” human beings with our own ways of communicating what we think, know, understand, and experience from within our own worlds (Meyer 2005);
Focuses on the quintessential notions of what it means to engage in being indigenous (Denzin, Lincoln, and Smith 2008).
Exploring self as a cultural and political value–based method of inquiry seeks an implicit revisioning of critical (social justice tenants) and cultural responsive pedagogies (political and moral purposes) by enacting a resistance counterhegemonic discourse that enables indigenous peoples to narrate our own storied lives and as it pertains to restoring a cultural balance with others and the environment.
Sparkes (2003) acknowledges that exploring and engaging “self” when using autoethnography is a consistent process of experimentation as well as a process of breaking down often tightly secured boundaries. This, he argues, is juxtaposed within keeping various identities and selves separate, shored up and protected from swirling confusions we all experience in our own lives (cited in Denison and Markula, 2003, 61). Sparke’s crisis of representation (a sign of the times in terms of conducting qualitative inquiry about “self”) emerged by differentiating his own writing of “self” and in the process of privileging rigor over imagination, intellect over feelings, theories over stories, and abstract ideas over concrete ones (Sparkes 2003). Seemingly, a form of “conscious and critical praxis” emerges from within to allow the ordinary experiential self to emerge as aware, engaged, and empowered.
Mahi Rangahau Māori (Researching “Being” Māori)
From an indigenous perspective, being born Māori is not a “choice” but rather an innate cultural marker that aligns my way of life specific to living in Aotearoa, New Zealand. Being Māori is considered a gift, in that, as Māori, Papa-tū-ā-nuku (Earth Mother) and Ranginui (Sky Father) provides an indigenous “symbolic interaction” of connecting the esoteric world with the metaphysical world, and to ourselves as human beings.
Our history lays claim to Tāne-nui-ā-rangi, who as one of the seventy-two children of Papa-tū-ā-nuku and Ranginui, was responsible for creating the life principle of humankind and as a result brought forth our first known woman, Hine-ahu-one. Tāne and Hine-ahu-one later gave birth to Hine-tī-tama whereby subsequent children were to follow (Robinson 2005). From various historical records, Māori people first arrived in Aotearoa New Zealand around
Interestingly enough, being Māori today is not merely about what we do that makes us distinct to other indigenous peoples or indeed, non-Māori, but as Durie (2010) suggests, there is an innate need to focus more on our ability to more cooperatively advance our community and cultural aspirations within both the “world of Māori” (Te Ao Māori) and as “citizens of the wider world” (Te Ao Whānui). From this perspective, many Māori are ever-mindful of the changing nature of the world and our role as kaitiaki (i.e., guardians of the land). Not only do Māori consistently acknowledge the past, we also seek to construct ways to increase our visibility, socially, culturally, economically, and politically (Durie 2010). Paradoxically, Māori as the major Treaty (i.e., signed between Māori and the British on February 6, 1840) partners not only look to self-determine our future as Māori but also to engage how we as a country move forward as one nation.
In the search for understanding of who we as Māori and being able to reconnect who we are to our traditional ways of knowing helps to explain why we think, feel, and act as we do. Indeed Māori, like many other indigenous peoples, are not immune to new forms of global colonization. Today, Māori as diverse indigenous communities are likely to live a more contemporary and urban lifestyle, live away from their turangawaewae (i.e., traditional homelands), marae (traditional meeting houses), and whenua (i.e., family land), and less likely to be fully engaged in learning and practising their language, tikanga (customary practices), and kawa (customary protocols). Similarly, the nature of whānau (extended family) has significantly changed from one that was strongly based on a kinship system to one that is actively engaging cross-culturally, both here and abroad, and alongside many different cultures (Durie 2001b). In addition, these sorts of trends also reflect the typical day-to-day experiences many Māori encounter in modern times. Perhaps of greater importance is that actually understanding these different kinds of experiences and, in particular, how individuals reflect on their own unique lives as Māori is less obvious. Certainly, there is no one “universal” way we as Māori live our lives, nor is there any one model, perspective, or framework that can successfully align all Māori as being the same. Rather, we as Māori continue to create innovative and alternative methods of looking at the world and our place within. As a ‘Native’ researcher, validation is determined by a researcher’s background and tribal group membership (Hayano 1979). Locating “self” as a “Native” researcher is a deeply personal one, whereby culture, as part of one’s journey in life, is framed by our own perceptions and experiences. Over the past twenty years, Kaupapa Māori research has become a culturally relevant and integral approach to interrogating the methods we use as both Māori and indigenous researchers (Bishop 1995, 1997, 1998b, 2005; Pihama, Cram, and Walker 2002; Smith 1997; Smith 1996, 1999, 2005).
Mahi Kaupapa Māori ((Re)positioning of Kaupapa Māori Theorizing)
Over the past twenty-five years, there has been a steady increase in the number of Māori researchers attaining either a master’s or PhD qualification (Ngā Pae o te Maramātanga 2010). As a result, research that reflects a Māori world view that is inclusive of ways we engage in “coming to know” are more prevalent; and in a time of much economic uncertainty, eagerly sought. For example, a “hui” (Māori gathering) process is about bringing people together for a common purpose and is a distinct way of engaging people to make decisions collaboratively for the benefit of the tribe (Bishop 1998a). More often than not, however, Māori-based research has been viewed by Māori people with unenviable suspicion and at times even resentment, because there is a notion that “research” is more “about” Māori as opposed to working “with” Māori.
Today, new forms of critical and indigenous methods have emerged to counter the continual misrepresentation, misuse, and misappropriation of indigenous knowledge (Denzin, Lincoln, and Smith 2008). Smith (1997) for example employs a Kaupapa Māori methodology as an intervention strategy to reflect the Māori experience in research more as a “war of position.” From this position, such an intervention requires that Māori engage in western discourses using the resistive notions of conscientization, resistance, and transformative praxis (Freire 1972) to highlight how systemic or structural power continues to deny Māori access to their rights to “self-determination” in all areas of society (Smith 1997). Grappling with these sorts of transformational ideas also suggest that the politics of liberating forms of research must begin with the desires, aspirations, and dreams of those individuals and groups who have been excluded by the larger ideological, economic, and political forces that govern our society (Denzin and Lincoln 2000). For example, the development of cultural studies has often been defined through its analysis of culture and power, by expanding its critical reading to analyze how power informs issues of race, gender, class, ethnicity, and other social formations. Although the questions posed within this discipline identify who produces, regulates, or engages in the social struggle, the failure to empower indigenous peoples to “elf”-determine their own futures remains glaringly apparent (Smith 1997).
Indigenous autoethnography in one sense encapsulates both western and indigenous forms of knowing, yet in some ways neither of them. From a Māori world view, the question of what “counts” as Māori knowledge often remains an abstract idea, where we apply a strategy or approach (e.g., kaupapa Māori) and then through our own association with mainstream academic institutions apply it naively to a western or colonial and postcolonial paradigms, such as sociology or anthropology. Smith (1999, 1–19) argues that research has been inextricably linked to European imperialism and colonialism because imperialism frames the indigenous experience. As a response, indigenous peoples must respond by reclaiming our own research agendas by repatriating our cultural thinking, knowledge, and knowing. From a western perspective, Guba and Lincoln (1994) presented the notion of “competing paradigms,” where quantitative scientists were considered relatively “disinterested” in people’s experiences and were inclined to act more as objective informers to various decision- and policy-making endeavors. At this level, an individual’s “voice” becomes more like conventional benchmarks of positivistic “rigor” where the laws of science prevail and continue as the dominant discourse. Over time and with a growing level of critical and cultural conscious engagement within the academy and from within our own communities, new discourses have emerged that give “voice” and validity to those previously omitted (Guba and Lincoln 1994).
Charles Royal (1998a) during his time working at Te Wānanga-o-Raukawa (Māori-based tertiary institution in Aotearoa, New Zealand) as Director of Graduate Studies proposed a new research paradigm called “Te Ao Mārama” (i.e., The World of Enlightenment as a new paradigm). The process, though considered in its infant stage, asked the question, Which comes first, knowledge of a phenomenon or the experience of a phenomenon? Similarly, can we really know a phenomenon if we have not experienced it? Or can we really experience a phenomenon if we have no knowledge of it? Royal (1998a) suggests there is much to discuss on these questions alone but more importantly, without an appropriate methodology how can new knowledge even emerge. A key position (Royal 1998a) is that new knowledge must also be aligned with a method that is centered within a Māori world view, whereby the past informs the present and the present helps to navigate our future. In this example, whakapapa (genealogy) is used as an analytical tool traditionally employed to help understand the nature, origin, connections, and trends related to a particular phenomenon—as an organic process. Within this field of study, the whakapapa (genealogy) tool elicits certain values and beliefs that can be answered from many different positions and contributes more coherently to understanding Te Ao Mārama (our reality).
According to Royal (1998a, 83-84), Te Ao Mārama perpetuates six key concepts: rangatiratanga (ability to bind [ranga] groups [tira] together), manaakitanga (ability to mutually express mana toward each other), whānaungatanga (ability to denote the interconnectedness of all things), tohungatanga (ability to practice the art of interpreting various skills and expertise), ukaipō (ability to locate “self” in spaces and places that nourish our existence), and kotahitanga (ability to recognize unity in all things in the world). Creating knowledge and coming to know from this position is more about internalized ways of knowing (“self”) and driven by the quality (i.e., lived or learnt experiences) of one’s inner wisdom, consciousness, and passionate participation (Royal 2009a). The question, therefore, of how as Māori do we locate ourselves within the research agenda often becomes one of considering ideas about our experiences from either an “ethical” or “moral” relationship standpoint (Bishop 2005; Royal 1998a, 1998b, 2009a; Smith 1997; Smith 1999).
The location of “self” in the research agenda is therefore contestable within and across a wide range of social science disciplines, including anthropology, sociology, psychology, philosophy, political science, economics, and history. Therefore, establishing an inquiry method that is specifically about how indigenous peoples make sense of “self” requires an interdisciplinary approach because as indigenous peoples we intersect or cross a number of discipline boundaries. Each discipline in itself represents a cultural response to “self” and, therefore, must equally inform to some degree who we are as tangata whenua Māori (people of the land) in today’s society. In the same vein, “self” represented as a Māori in a mainstream research context has been highly problematic because of the value of how “others” see us within the research agenda. Indeed, one of the most significant problems of conducting research for, with, and about Māori has been the inability for the research(ers) to acknowledge Māori as being able to “self”-determine what knowledge means for us as a people (Smith 1999). It is within this very notion that indigenous peoples across the globe have had to work tirelessly to survive. Re-creating new realities under the gaze of “territorial validity” (Jones and Jenkins 2008a, 2008b) where tribal consensus determines what counts as knowledge posits a post-structural means of reinterpreting our past. The four directions (i.e., decolonization, healing, transformation, and mobilization) as well as the four conditions of being (i.e., survival, recovery, development, and “self”-determination) offer some direction in how everyone can contribute to the futures of indigenous peoples (Durie 2010).
Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999, 116–17) suggests that enabling Māori and indigenous peoples to (re)claim, (re)connect, and (re)align their own existence in a modern world today is necessary in helping to strengthen community and whānau resilience. Resilience is also about the ability of the individual to cope, manage, and bounce back in times of crisis, dislocation, grief, loss, hardship, and trauma. This can also relate to a loss of identity, self, and culture within a world focused on material wealth and societal regulation. Revealing “self” as a portal to expressing inner wisdom is not an easy concept to understand or practice. Nevertheless, the opportunity for an individual to express self in a creative, empowering, and personally satisfying manner can foster the sharing of intellectual wisdom that can help to illuminate inner wisdom.
In the world of Māori, we often refer to this form of expression as “mana” (integrity), in that not only is everyone born with “mana,” everyone has the right to express “mana” as well as the responsibility to care for “mana.” A literal definition of “mana” is that it refers to one’s ability to express integrity, respect, and love at the highest level; similarly, “mana” is also something we learn to appreciate and develop from within. From this position we can either “enhance” or “diminish” our “mana” depending on how we choose to express ourselves (Royal 2009b). Indigenous researchers are consistently working to “know more about themselves” and to protect their “mana.” For example, it is not uncommon for many indigenous researchers to engage in framing their research using an indigenous methodology (e.g., Kaupapa Māori) and to validate their research as being informed by indigenous peoples. However, understanding people’s lived and learnt experiences, such conventional methods may not always fit when exploring or examining an indigenous person’s single life. Richer and deeper descriptions about an individual’s perceptions or experiences must be outside a researcher’s primary need to merely gather information about people and to make comparisons related to cause and effect. It requires a deep appreciation for an individual’s core cultural and social essence of how they see themselves in the world they live and why.
Positioning ourselves as Māori with/in the research agenda requires an understanding that the “self” is a reflection of the “collective” as we are always influenced by a myriad of social and cultural engagements and interactions (Eketone 2008). However, writing an autoethnographic account may be considered as whakahīhī (vain, conceited, arrogant, opinionated, and officious) because it appears on the surface to consider one’s own individual view of the world exclusive of the collective. Furthermore, many Māori researchers may well avoid talking about their own personal experiences because questions about “who do you” represent when we speak about “self” is highly contestable “within” and “across” different tribal contexts or settings.
Manning (2010, 118–19) argues that the body is always more than one and is consistently active in experiencing moments, objects, associations, creations, feelings, expressions, even life in the “now-ness” and that the body is infinitely creating opportunities to engage the “actual” with the “virtual.” From this perspective, life expresses the individual’s feelings as a collective web of “bodies-becoming” across life and in the journey of one’s being becoming that can never be resolved individually (Manning 2010). Similarly, Ricoeur (2010, xx) reminds us that “even when one speaks of one’s ‘self,’ one cannot subsist from discovering the ‘Other’ in one’s ‘self’ . . . for it is only when we translate our own wounds into our own language of strangers and retranslate the wounds of strangers into our own language that healing and reconciliation can take place.” The world is a made up of a plurality of human beings, cultures, and tongues. The task of translating these interactions is an “endless one” in that humanity exists in the plural mode, and under the guise of plurality, language operates as a peculiar human trait. In many ways, the idea of translating “self” is actually the act of “taking up” and “letting go,” of expressing one’s “self” and welcoming others instills a sense of hope toward working to understand the many nuances of human life (Ricoeur 2007).
Jones’s (2010, 60) reflections on Paul Riceour’s account of “narrative identity” also suggests that “conceiving of life as a narrative unity gives us a narrative identity which provides the response to the all-important question ‘Who am I?’ which must be posed and answered in order that we may then ask, ‘How should I live?’” “Self-hood is achieved via a deep connection to all that one has experienced—positively or negatively, and assigned to an inner belief that life will, in some way, be much better once one departs. In 2011 and 2012, the AERA (American Educational Research Association) themes “Inciting the Social Imagination” (New Orleans, Louisiana) as well as “To Know Is Not Enough” (British Columbia, Vancouver, Canada) provided the space to recognize the contribution indigenous peoples’ knowledge has made to addressing some of the ongoing problems, challenges and issues facing many educators today. Although, not readily acknowledged in many of the sessions I attended at both conferences, autoethnographic accounts were being readily shared and applied via stories, narratives, autobiographies, critical race testimonies, and oral histories. The preservation of “self” and fostering the continual narrative of “self” allowed individual voices to speak about what we don’t know about indigenous students, and how stories actually create the dialectic space to better understand indigenous student ways of engaging and learning. The narratives of indigenous peoples live on in the way we honor our tupuna (ancestors), their lands, their values, their spirit, and their vision. To locate one’s “self” as a “Native” Māori researcher within the research is in many ways enacting the hopes and dreams of our ancestors to continue to survive, thrive, and prosper.
As indigenous researchers, we consistently seek to undertake research that benefits our people and our communities. Understanding cultural space, place, boundaries, ethics, morals, language, traditions, and heritage specific to being “Native” requires time. From this position, the process of recalibrating and reprioritizing what is important to being indigenous emerges. To relocate “my-self” as a “Native” Māori researcher also asks that I engage in a higher level of “critical and cultural consciousness” about my role as an indigenous researcher (Bishop 2005; Smith 1997). Moreover, knowing why and how one chooses to locate one’s self in various and specific cultural settings is an important consideration prefacing the use of an indigenous autoethnographic method of inquiry.
Mahi Tangata Whenua (Locating “Self” as a “Native” Māori Researcher)
In my previous role as a postgraduate coordinator, I have encouraged many postgraduate students to include in their writing(s) something that connects their research to “who they are” and “how their research relates to their place in the world.” The first question I often encounter is “Do you mean something about who I am or, something about me that relates to my research?” Both questions seek to empower students to validate who they are within their research and, second, to become authors of their own destiny by constructing meaning about “self” that relates to people, place, and power (Manning 2009). Indigenous peoples have a history of struggle through the process of colonization and have much to contribute in what we don’t know about indigenous peoples’ human behavior, endeavor, and resilience.
From a personal perspective, the question “Who I am?” is just as important as how the research will benefit the collective—power sharing of “self” as opposed to only being concerned about one’s own self-interest (Bishop 2005). These questions, “who you are” and “how your research relates to your place in the world,” propose an ethical and moral responsibility that enables indigenous peoples to tell their own stories and to be ever mindful of the multiple sites of struggle shaping one’s indigenous self. Historically, research for many indigenous peoples has been a “dirty word” (Smith 1999); however, the benefit of (re)engaging in cultural sites or scared spaces has enabled indigenous peoples to rewrite their history and to reclaim an indigenous world view by reflecting on some fundamental questions:
Who am I?
Why am I here?
Who are we?
What is real?
What is knowledge?
How may knowledge be applied usefully?
How is knowledge transmitted?
Who has access to certain knowledge?
How does one interpret knowledge?
With whom do I belong and share such perspectives?
Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s (1998) keynote address at the “Te Oru Rangahau: Māori Research and Development Conference” titled “Towards the New Millennium: International Issues and Projects in Indigenous Research” included examples, experiences, and events of how the adverse effects of modern forms of imperialism (i.e., neoliberalism, globalization, privatization, and user-pays) of the mid-1980s adversely affected the Māori labor workforce via redundancies in the work place and restructuring processes. Such ideas were also consistent in perpetrating the well-being of her community, and although the word “I” was rarely used, “close to home” examples explicitly inferred how the larger tribal collective, of which she remains an integral part, had been impacted (i.e., poverty, illnesses, and underachieving). Being able to engage in the “multiple sites of struggle” signals a need to engage in research that is inclusive of Māori world views, processes, and approaches and to critically engage in the misrepresentation and misuse of Māori identities (Smith 1998). Therefore, representing our lives within the research agenda is to tell our own stories so that as indigenous peoples we can self-determine our future more positively in a modern world. But “how we see ourselves” is often a challenging proposition for many because it requires individuals to unpack the many levels of colonization and to reconstruct new understandings about one’s indigenous self, culture, and identity. In this regard, indigenous autoethnography as a resistance-based discourse is deeply concerned for addressing indigenous peoples’ struggles, hardships, and challenges from culturally and politically explicit positions.
Mahi Anga Whakaaro (Creating a “Native” Method: Framing Indigenous Autoethnography)
Finding culturally appropriate spaces to tell stories face to face about “ourselves” is no longer prevalent in contemporary society because of the many forums in which to communicate. Similarly, from a Māori perspective, whakataukī (sayings/proverbs) remind us that as Māori, speaking about ourselves is often regarded as whakahīhī (vain), for example: Kāore te kumara e whaakii ana tāna reka (The kumara [sweet potato] does not say how sweet it is); Waiho te mihi mā te tangata (Leave your praises for someone else).
Such whakataukī also illustrate the depth of understanding that highlights the importance of listening, sharing, learning, and humility about one’s knowledge (Kana and Tamatea 2006). How, then, should an indigenous person develop a “Native” method of inquiry that allows one to speak but at the same time does not elicit the characteristics of being whakahīhī. This is a challenging consideration and one that takes years of practice, poise, and patience. Questions to consider when contemplating this dilemma include the following:
When is an appropriate time to share your story?
What limitations do you place on telling your story (what do you choose to share and what do you choose to leave out)?
Who are you telling your story to and why?
Will sharing your story about yourself bring people together?
Is there a sense of trustworthiness about your story and can people connect with what you are saying with regards to who you are?
These questions assist also in shaping the ethical process of framing indigenous autoethnography from a “Native” position and include the following guiding statements:
Attempts should be made to provide an “air of equality” as opposed to an “air of superiority” by becoming a full participant in how knowledge and knowing is shaped, construed, negotiated, and included as research;
Understand our own “crisis of representation” by searching for deeper meanings about one’s own identity, culturally, politically, socially, and spiritually;
Being prepared to “show,” not only “tell,” our stories is a critical aspect of sharing who we are as indigenous peoples.
As a result, four key attributes inform the framing of indigenous autoethnography intended to support other “Native” methods of inquiry (Bishop 1996, 2008; Bishop and Glynn 1999; Durie 2004, 1999; Hemara 2000; Houston 2007; Kawagley 2001; Mead 2003; Metge 1998; Meyer 2005; Pihama, Cram, and Walker 2002; Rangihau 1977; Royal 1998a, 2009b; Shirres 2000; Smith 1997; Smith 1999) and include the following:
Framing Autoethnography as a “Native” Method of Inquiry.
These four attributes are not intended to create a “prescriptive” way of defining how we research “identity,” “culture,” and “self” as indigenous peoples. Rather, the framework seeks to pursue an inner balance in the way we explore, describe, connect, interpret, and share our uniqueness as indigenous peoples. The notion of “replenishment” suggests that as indigenous peoples we are innately and inextricably linked to the people (tangata) and the environment (whenua). Indeed, from a more socio-cultural and ecological position, people and the environment nourish, sustain and protect our very existence as human beings, and through our engagement with both, we are able to strengthen our resolve to enact the other four attributes that enable individuals to be culturally engaged, well and balanced. The impact of each also replenishes one’s inner capacity and capability to interact socially, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—with respect and integrity (see Figure 2).
Indigenous Autoethnography: A Culturally Explicit and Informed Research Practice.
The aforementioned process is a self-reflexive and (w)holistic process intended to construct ongoing dialogue and to “(re)locate, (re)situate and (re)construct self” with/in the research agenda. Through a process of sharing, listening, learning, and developing mutual understandings, a number of cultural insights, reflections, and learnings emerge as cultural sites of encounter or potential that may help to repair or heal personal hardships and challenges. The essence of indigenous autoethnography is to, therefore, present a cultural way of being captured, in the Māori words mauri tū, mauri ohooho, and mauri ora (stand tall, be attentive, and keep well). This asks that we always remember who we are, where we come from, and to work for the collective well-being of our iwi, hapū, and whānau, marae, and community. A well-known whakataukī that enhances the potential to enrich indigenous autoethnography by sharing our life experiences is recalled:
Nāu te rourou, nāku te rourou, ka ora ai tātou katoa
With your contribution and my contribution, the people will thrive
He Whakaaro Whakamutunga (Final Thoughts)
The “truth about stories” (King 2003) is so much more than merely talking about being Māori, “Native,” or indigenous; but rather it is a journey of (re)connecting with specific cultural sites, spaces, and struggles that relate to our fluid past, present, and hopes for the future. Indigenous autoethnography from this perspective is therefore about reclaiming our indigenous voice, visibility, and vision (Battiste 2000; Smith 2005) as indigenous peoples in the research agenda. This can only be achieved successfully by understanding that learning about “self” as an indigenous person relates to valuing relationships with the people and the environment. Linda Smith (1999) argues that “diversity strengthens a tribe—homogeneity kills it.” Indigenous autoethnography seeks to strengthen and clarify how we as indigenous peoples want to live in the world today. Ultimately, this means speaking about “self” creates new knowledge; meanings and possibilities that inform how being Māori, “Native,” or indigenous is different. However, this coming to know is not restricted by whether one has or has not engaged in a specific community, way of life, or experience but rather the ability of the individual to think, uncover, connect, synthesize, interpret, explain, and present ways of how “self” is represented.
Indigenous autoethnography as a resistance-discourse is intended to inspire people to take action toward a legitimate way of self-determining one’s collective and cultural potential. Indigenous autoethnography also aims to “construct” stories that invoke a deep sense of appreciation for multiple realities and lives concerning indigenous peoples’ ways of knowing. As indigenous autoethnography continues to develop, distinctions between our potential as cultural human beings and what is required to protect our existence as Māori, “Native,” or being indigenous will thrive.
The need to “coconstruct” discursively our own individuality and connection to place becomes even more significant when claiming our indigenous human rights to land, lakes, rivers, forests, and streams (Kapa 2009; Manning 2009), and it requires a mind shift in our own lived realities as indigenous peoples. The need to challenge injustices as well as our own understandings about ourselves as indigenous peoples remains ever present in asking why we do the things the way we do and how these events or interactions influence our connection to culture and our own way of life (Hooker 2008). Finally, this whakataukī (Māori proverb) by Hooker (2008, 16) proposes that indigenous ways of knowing are, indeed, a dual reality that parallels the journey about coming to know self, alongside the ability to be good in all that we do.
Ka Mutu Whakataukī (Concluding Māori Saying)
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.