An Introduction to Responding Autoethnography

Abstract

In this article, I introduce the concept of responding autoethnography. The immediate inspiration for this concept was Ellis’s text on the amassing of many autoethnographic stories to generate collective consciousness. In my text, I present a different approach to collective consciousness and the relationship between stories: that is, collective consciousness is not a fusion of horizons; it is not a unified story, but a dirty, chaotic, pulsating, cluster of diverse elements. It is not a collective consciousness in the Marxist sense, but a form close to the Deleuzian complex. The second source was the issue of taking into account other autoethnographic texts so as not to reduce them. Responding autoethnography would be another way of taking into account the voices of other researchers, a form of answering beyond the dominant way of appropriating someone else’s thought. I will present responding autoethnography on the example of experiencing the pandemic.

Keywords

responding autoethnography collective consciousness dialogue writing as inquiry

Introduction

In the text, I introduce the concept of responding autoethnography,¹ which was inspired by Ellis’s text (Ellis et al., 2018) and, especially, by her concept of connecting stories and taking into account others as a means of creating collective consciousness. The multivoiced juxtaposition of various points of belief creates a common story that the reader also becomes a part of. I found Ellis’s perspective interesting, but, at the same time, too transparent, as if the various points of belief were clear to each other, whereas collective consciousness is a common understanding of the situation. Ellis tries to arrange the mess, make some order, not to follow, and intensify the dirty and chaotic. It seems to me that the collective consciousness appears to be mainly a product of reason. It can be called collective understanding, where the multivoiced fall into place and sound harmoniously. In the responding autoethnography, I will propose a slightly different combination of stories and a more rhizomatous concept of collective consciousness, closer to posthumanist sensitivity. My intention is not to close the room, but open one more in the name of diversity and pluralism.

Ellis’s proposal also inspired me to look for other forms of taking into account someone else’s autoethnographic work. The long-lasting debate about the criteria of autoethnography (Adams, 2017; Bochner, 2000; Herrmann, 2012; Holt, 2003; Richardson, 2000; Sparkes, 2000) filled me with the fear (Szwabowski, 2019a) that it would lead to the normalization, and blunt the claws of this non-method (Denzin, 2018). The requirement to take into account earlier autoethnographic literature appeared to me as a necessity for a typical review. I had been wondering for a long time how to cite this type of work so as not to start practicing “science-as-usual” (Petersen, 2015, p. 157) and not to reduce a text to a thesis or information (Basu, 2021). How to work in other articles so as not to lose what is valuable in autoethnography? Responding autoethnography is a way of having a kind of interaction with the text. In a slightly different way, such as dialogue, taking into account another voice, which is not a dead quotation, but more like situationist interception (détournement; Debord, 2005, pp. 112–114).

The structure of the text is as follows. I will begin with my understanding and practicing of (collective) autoethnography. Against this background, I will briefly present the main assumptions of responding autoethnography. Next, I will provide an example of responding autoethnography. The example relates to the experience of the COVID pandemic. On one hand, it can be said that the choice of the pandemic as a topic is purely random; it is possible that if I had not been involved in a certain research project (Szwabowski et al., 2022; Szwabowski & Więcław, 2021) then I would have chosen a different topic. On the other hand, the pandemic² was one of those events that engage our emotions, and reveal social inequalities; it put us in a completely new situation where hopes were mixed with fear, death with the promise of a better life. It intensified experiences, separated and connected, and also provoked us to undertake autoethnographic projects (cf. Markham et al., 2021). Finally, I will develop the characteristics of responding autoethnography and sketch out some opening comments. I also refer there to the issues raised by the reviewers, responding to their comments on my text.

Autoethnography as (My)/a Way of Life

I discovered evocative autoethnography (Bochner & Ellis, 2016) not just as another method of collecting and analyzing data and not only as one of the answers to the triple crisis (Denzin & Lincoln, 2005). I discovered autoethnography as a way of life (Bochner, 2017). My subjectivity as an academic changed, as did my actions, and I started writing differently (Szwabowski, 2019b). For me, autoethnography fused with experimental forms of writing, with writing as research, dirty, messy, different (Adams et al., 2015; Denzin, 2003; Gilmore et al., 2019; Pullen & Rhodes, 2008; Richardson & St. Pierre, 2005), and with poetic inquiries (Faulkner, 2017a; Owton, 2017; Speedy, 2016).

The combination of autoethnography with poetic, experimental writing was dictated, first, by the fact that poetic writing intensifies effects, opens more to dialogue, leaves space for the unspoken, and makes readers coauthors of the text (Faulkner, 2017a). The poetic style facilitates the expression of embodied experience and opens up to what is beyond human (Basu, 2021). Second, autoethnography does not give me the Truth or even a truth.³ As Ellis said, we do not tell our stories using “a traditional authorial voice” (Ellis et al., 2018, p. 131), but “analysis” appears in the juxtaposition of many voices, their resounding together. Thus, a break with the curse of a linear story (Henson, 2011, 2017) is the answer to the problem of representation; poetic, dirty autoethnography creates a story that is being constantly written while reading. Third, when a mirror is broken, it is no longer about describing, but about changing and breaking hegemonic mirrors (Denzin, 2018): The poetic hammer has the magical power of claiming social justice. It makes the act of writing an act of activism (Faulkner, 2017b, p. 89; Moe & Reinertsen, 2019). It is not without significance that the choice of writing style is dictated by my way of thinking, that is, it suits my dyslexic mind (Cosenza, 2014). The fact that I write most of the autoethnography in English, and this is not my first language, could also have affected my choice of the way of writing (Omoniyi, 2010, p. 486).

Writing is not describing, but becoming⁴—endless, opening, and liberating (Gale, 2016, 2020; Gale et al., 2013; Gale & Wyatt, 2017; Pensoneau-Conway et al., 2014; Pławski et al., 2019; Sclater, 2003; Wężniejewska et al., 2020; Wyatt et al., 2014). It is a moment of creating, causing effects, not mirroring, producing effects and the horizon of the unknown. Autoethnographic writing does not say what things are like, but invites us to a dialogue. I think that this kind of inquiry does not give us a meaning or any general idea about the topic, instead provoking readers to think and act in their own way. Autoethnography sends readers on their way. You, and I, we are hitting the road during and after dealing with such an utterance. When we read personal narrations, it becomes part of a collage that I call consciousness. I show it in a mentioned example that you can read in the following. Particular voices, stories, testimonies, experiences, images, and emotions come to us and become part of our mind, our soul—a part of the self. I, and you, we become a multivocal, a multiple personality person. A meaning appears in blurry, messy form somewhere between these voices, images, emotions, and words.

Autoethnography is not about the self, not only in the sense that it takes into account others (Spry, 2016), but in the fact that the self is only a temporary place where the cultural, social forces that call us up intertwine (Pollock, 2007; Winkler, 2018). Autoethnography makes it possible for us to make them fairly visible (cf. Morrissey, 2014). From this perspective, the self is not defined typically humanistically, but opens up to a posthumanist perspective focused on relations. I have often experienced the temporariness, fragility, and fluidity of the self in collective autoethnography. It was not entirely clear who was writing, who was becoming; our selves were combined, disintegrated, multiplied, so that the voice and the text belonged to the whole assemblage (Deleuze & Guattari, 2005) rather than to its authors, to an assemblage, which in itself was impossible to grasp, to describe, one becoming and overwriting during the project (Pławski et al., 2019).

By emphasizing the otherness of autoethnography, the related practices of both writing and reading, I was looking for other ways to take into account other people’s texts, so as not to reduce them, not to lose what is specific. Inspired by Ellis’s text, I came up with responding autoethnography.

I call responding autoethnography, created mostly from other autoethnography, as an attempt to show the assemblage of voices, images, and emotions temporarily frozen in the self. It is a kind of response-analysis, a way of continuing the discussion that avoids moving toward an authoritative creation of meaning and significance. Responding autoethnography takes into account every voice: not only autoethnographic, but also other kinds of text. Those other texts are treated as a story, even if those texts are termed to be theoretical. In these floating fragments, voices of my self also appear.

In responding autoethnography, my point of departure is when someone’s voice, emotion, picture; somebody’s story starts to be part of me. I care about this story and start to think about it, live with it. Responding autoethnography is not merely a reflection; it is more like a diffraction (Barad, 2007; Davies & Gannon, 2012). Responding autoethnography is not a mirror in which someone else’s text sees itself again. It is more of a mixture in which other people’s texts see each other differently. They become part of some assembly that gives them another power. Responding autoethnography is more like meta-autoethnography (Ellis, 2016). I bring, I care, and I transform when I do responding autoethnography. And I open and bind a story with another story, another story, and with yet another story—this intensifies the flow of collective consciousness.

Responding autoethnography is not about autoethnography, is not about someone’s stories. It starts when I have been provoked, moved by someone’s story, and when I think with it, not about it. It helps to avoid being trapped by a reason. It helps to avoid reduction to an object, to a date, or something. An article is not quoted as some stable information, as a stance, or just as one of the many references, but is included as a part of outgoing thinking and feeling.

In short, writing responding autoethnography revives others’ stories into spaces of mutual interactions and tensions. Such a revival intensifies the power of stories and creates the next composition as an autoethnographic utterance. Responding autoethnography provokes and amplifies the dance of stories that produce and intensify collective consciousness creating new connections and new compositions.

In the following, I show an example of responding autoethnography about the great COVID outbreak. Dyslexia, as well as the fact that English is not my first language, makes the rhythm of the example unreadable. While autoethnographers often refer to jazz as a metaphor for their writing, I can refer to yass,⁵ and also indicate that the flows are sometimes blocked, accelerated, and disrupted.

Example

“A new calculus to avoid crowds, avoid others who careen too close to comfort zones. Suddenly, it’s a zombie world.” (Lee, 2021, p. 226)

zombie world. . . avoid others. . . zombie world

Suddenly? I do not think so!

My friend told me a story about walking with his child. It was at the beginning of the pandemic. To avoid others he told his son that others are zombies, so during a walk his son started yelling when he saw some people:

“It is a zombie! We have to run!”

. . .zombie world. . .

I had been avoiding others before this pandemic. It was and it is a zombie world. Empty shells of workers, who are exploited in some international company or a small so-called family business, walking along the streets. Angry and hungry zombies of wannabe new capitalists elite or mobs who have lost any hope and see the last occasion for joy in the bloody violence against their sister and brother. I have been screaming like my friend’s son: “They are zombies. We have to run! Run from this zombie world!”

“I’m at a school that looks like a ghost town with weeds in the grass.” (Lee, 2021, p. 229)

“The Las Vegas strip and Times Square are ghost towns.” (Lee, 2021, p. 229).

“This town (town) is coming like a ghost town.

Why must the youth fight against themselves?

Government leaving the youth on the shelf.

This place (town) is becoming like a ghost town;

No job to be found in this country’

Can’t go on no more

The people are getting angry.” (The Specials, 2000)

Song of The Specials plays again and again in my head. First time I heard that was at the beginning of the COVID pandemic.

“This place is becoming like a ghost town, a zombie world.” . . In front of my door, I stay and dream about the end of the zombie world, about the utopia of a ghost town. I do not remember “the good old days” (The Specials, 2000) and the world before the zombie invasion.

. . .zombie world. . .

“A new mantra: wash your hands, don’t touch your face, keep your distance.” (Lee, 2021, p. 227)

don’t touch your face

your face

don’t touch

face

my face

don’t

face

touch

“Everybody is losing their faces.” (Atari Teenage Riot, 1999)

Zombie

Zombie world

“A blank promise—your words—

Nothing else than another hell-ride” (Atari Teenage Riot, 1999)

A zombie-ghost town—“we were doomed to stay still and suffer, feeling neglected and forgotten about by the rest of America during the pandemic” (Duff, 2021, p. 222). “The people getting angry.” (The Specials, 2000) “What we gonna go for?” (Atari Teenage Riot, 1999) “we risked our health weekly just to survive. . . needed to drive over half an hour away and risk my health to buy a necessity . . . I have panic disorder. . . I’m terrified of being sick.” (Duff, 2021, p. 222)

. . .zombie world. . . panic disorder. . .

. . .panic order. . .

“I continue to live in absolute fear

for

myself and my family,

watching the number of cases

climb higher and higher

in our small mountain home.” (Duff, 2021, p. 223)

I walk along an empty street and I feel free,

calm,

and happy:

no zombie-human around;

from a hill when I stay for a while I look at a city

ambulance sounds, closed image, dying city,

lack of resources, lack of infrastructure;

stay calm;

climb with me

to top of a hill;

smile;

the end is coming,

the end of life in absolute fear,

the end of a zombie world.

Now, when I’m writing these words, I feel sick. The temperature rises and I get a headache.

I have a bad cough.

What will happen if I die before I finish my text?

Does it matter?

This fear is just a habit of clinging to life.

And still

“I continue to live in absolute fear of” (Duff, 2021, p. 223)

paying bills,

risking my life,

teaching in a classroom full of COVID.

I give my life

to get

paid.

I have a bad cough;

maybe I smoked too many cigs.

I have trouble breathing, and my head hurts constantly;

everything is under control until it’s not.

I don’t know whether to go to a doctor. I can’t afford to take leave. It’s just a few lectures in a room full of people. It’s just an hour on a crowded bus. The minister said, you have to practice in-person education at all costs. His university is moving to remote. But it’s nothing new. I take the bus. A minister is a minister—I’m just an employee. But it do not mean anything. It’s all stress, all cigarettes, all poisoned air.

“have to risk myself again and again because I need,” (Duff, 2021, p. 224)

“postpone a funeral,” (Lee, 2021, p. 230)

“necropolitical capitalist.” (Liebman et al., 2020, p. 332)

Zombie world

In a zombie world, zombies ride crowded buses to work. Most without masks on their faces because the pandemic is a scam. I can feel their breath on the back of my neck. I, an academic zombie, ride with them. In a tight squeeze, on the verge, struggling to catch air, not respecting the distance, rubbing against each other, we unite in the sad role of the wage workers.

The minister says

you have to sacrifice

for the economy,

for science,

for education,

for children.

He sits safely at home in front of a screen. (Nestioruk, 2021). This is how he sacrifices for the sake of students. That’s what he says. There is no other option. Typical politician. Others have to oil the cogs of zombie capitalism.

Everything is under control until it’s not.

Would I be allowed to complete this text?

Who cares.

“fears of contracting COVID have intensified, rather than abated” (Yoo, 2021, p. 194)

“Whose lives matter?

For whom?

Under what circumstances?” (Raimondi, 2021)

“Straciliśmy już szansę na zapanowanie nad pandemią”⁶

“As Przemysław Czarnek, the head of the Ministry of National Education, explained at a press conference on Thursday, the in-person mode of teaching is necessary.” (Fakt, 2021)

“We are reaching the ceilings which is a negative scenario, which only confirms the intense trends of the fourth wave.” (Kędzierski, 2021)

“the epidemiological situation in the country is now under control. . . We have had recent deaths of people working in schools.” (Fakt, 2021)

“Koronawirus w Polsce: chaos większy niż przy trzeciej fali”⁷

“There is a shortage of personal protective equipment and supplies. The governors seem to assume that hospitals have become so rich from previous waves that they will finance themselves. It is exactly the opposite.” (Kowalska, 2021)

“Szpitale się zapełniają, coraz więcej osób przegrywa walkę o życie”⁸

“another infamous record of the fourth wave of the pandemic in our country has been broken. There have not been so many infections in Poland since April 2021.” (Wprost, 2021)

“A month ago there were no beds in hospitals because of RSV infections, today we have wards full of children with COVID-19. They are infants, toddlers, and teenagers. Some require oxygen.” (Pinkosz, 2021)

“There will again be a rush of excess deaths from the lack of access to treatment.” (Kowalska, 2021)

everything is under control

“avoid crowds, avoid others.” (Lee, 2021, p. 226)

It is impossible.

My car is broken. I take a bus. The bus is crowded, full of people. Most of them don’t wear any mask. Body to body. Breath to breath. Share death. I am going to work. Minister is sitting at home in front of the screen. I know, “the in-person mode of teaching is necessary” (Fakt, 2021). So I have to be on the bus where I see too many people. With no masks on.

It is a hoax, it is a scam.

Everything is ok.

Everything is under control.

I’m more scared than before:

not privileged to work from home.

“at this moment in time where fear and anxiety are prevalent, there are those who experience fear and anxiety on an ongoing basis.” (Herbig, 2021, p. 246)

Before the pandemic, I was constantly afraid: that I would lose my job; that the loan payments would become too high; that I would lose my rights. Fear accompanied me constantly. Something would happen, I would cease to be fully functional, and I would be consigned to the garbage heap of losers, expendable people.

But I am privileged.

“staring at a cold and lifeless screen” (Duff, 2021, p. 224)

“I have become helpless with the thought that

writing

cannot save anyone.” (Yoo, 2021, p. 194)

“Everybody is losing their faces.” (Atari Teenage Riot, 1999)

I am privileged.

“And maybe,

Just maybe,

Sip a cup of tea,

And just breathe

A sigh of relief” (Lac, 2021, p. 1130)

“What’s wrong with us?” (Atari Teenage Riot, 1999)

“I continue to live in absolute fear.” (Duff, 2021, p. 223)

Just do not breathe

in this global pandemic

of capitalism.

Reading and Writing—A Few Comments

I started my writing with Lee’s text (Lee, 2021), with her voice, her experience of the pandemic. Her article provoked me, evoked some similar experiences. She is from a different country—I have never met her, but her voice has become somewhat close to me. After Lee, I read Duff (Duff, 2021) and other texts. This is all I remember. I started to hear a lot of voices. Voices from the past also appeared. Those adding and appearing could be continued to infinite. Writing is never done (Guttorm, 2012). I am a page where a collage of autoethnography is written during reading. This way, my consciousness becomes a collective consciousness. And when I write my own story, I am haunted by all those voices that dwell in me, by the voices of strangers.

Stories do not come as coherent wholes, not as a single voice, but as polyphonic passages. In my example, I followed them. I was not fully passive, but I was not fully in control, either. I could use them, but not arbitrarily. And, although I did not deal with people, the texts had their “own force of diffraction” (Ettorre, 2017, p. 68). And they did not just resonate, but required an answer. This Other, spectacularly present, elusive, delirious, and mumbling, made demands that were not fully understood. Responding autoethnography opens up to them. It is an ethical obligation to raise that voice and respond to a vague request. The answer is an attempt to maintain the effect, an intensification of utopian, critical impulses.

The poetic form adopted by me is not the creating of “fusion poems” (Green et al., 2021, p. 2) but “disfusion poems”: it does not try to create unity, coherence. The aim of a poem is to intensify the multiplicity of voices, not to reduce the text-voice to information, thesis, or a dead footnote; it also avoids the violence of interpretation (Sontag, 2001), that is, a fragment as a quote appears on its own terms. It circulates in the assemblage in an unconscious rhythm.

The poetic form, shattered, torn apart, in constant movement, also responds to my concept of (collective) consciousness. Consciousness is always in motion, it is flowing. My readers, all you read in the pandemic example is a fragment, a moment, you saw only a temporary, precarious assemblage. I said above that it is a frozen moment of (collective) consciousness. I lied. Writing is not a description, but creating something new. Writing is a practice of becoming (Deleuze & Guattari, 2005, see Wężniejewska et al., 2020). During this creation, I was moved by the voices and emotions that had been evoked by reading autoethnographic utterances. I was driven by them. But there was also something else.

Consciousness for me is not a theoretical understanding of my own social and existential situation. Nor am I referring to a psychological understanding of consciousness. Collective consciousness is not class consciousness in the traditional Marxist sense (Lukács, 1972). It is not a state, but a becoming, rhizomatous, connecting irreducible elements, a human–nonhuman assemblage that somehow works there. An ethical response assumes the maintaining of irreducible elements, their interactions, without homogenizing them to reach a sense, without cutting out the rhizome, but rather adding elements on the “and . . . and . . . and . . .” basis (Düttmann, 2002).

Responding autoethnography does not just take into account the voices for a better world. It is haunted by dark phantoms, real monsters. When these kinds of ghosts appear, they are taken into account differently; the response attempts to exorcize them, to dissipate the darkness they create.

I was interested in creating something that would be socially critical. At the same time, being post-critical (Hodgson et al., 2017) in relation to autoethnographic text. Devoted to the critical qualitative inquiry (Denzin, 2017), I am doing autoethnography as a tool for emancipation. I try to develop a critical (collective) consciousness. I think about this fragment as an intervention, as a part of the working inquiry, where we share our stories, our experiences, and our dreams, to build an anti-capitalist world.

Responding autoethnography is a kind of critical intervention that is not Enlightenment in nature. This drives us toward nonhuman ways of being. In this way, it is open to monsters. At the same time, this way of writing and reading requires working through human subjectivity and the concept of dialogue (Gruntkowska & Szwabowski, 2022).

It intensifies connections in a flat space, without jumping to the level of representation or any other way of thinking. Whereas Salvo’s proposal of reading autoethnography does not reduce the story to a citation, to information, or to a resource, his perspective nevertheless makes a leap to a philosophical level (Salva, 2020) that is above the story itself. On a philosophical level, reason is something that dominated. The story is a point of departure to philosophical reflection. From my perspective, I read and write at an immanent level of autoethnography. Salvo is driven more by reason. I am flowing with affects.

I hope that responding autoethnography can be a space where our voices and our experiences merge together, not in a uniface idea, but as a collective war machine.⁹ I hope it helps to create a virtual community of autoethnographies. What is more, responding autoethnography can avoid a linear way of telling stories, by creating chaotic, nonlinear stories, and such autoethnography challenges the dominance of male reason (Cixous, 1976; Hӧpfl, 2000) and established ways of making sense—it belongs to the tradition of dirty writing. Fragments, unfinished texts are consistent with the approach of “study” as a specific anti-capitalist form of reflection or/and science (D’Hoest & Lewis, 2015; Lewis, 2013).

The responding autoethnography is messy and dirty. However, this is a different type of dirt from the one proposed by Fox. Fox creates the concept of dirty autoethnography as a kind of work on the self, spilling dirt of one’s self, showing oneself in an unfavorable light. Dirty work is reflective work (Fox, 2019). I find this kind of dirt in autoethnography as such. My dirt, the dirt of the responding autoethnography, points to the nonhuman soiling of the self as well as the soiling of all meanings and stories. Fuzzy, chaotic, messy, dirty, ragged, street, anarchist, and monstrous stories that spill out.

I know it can be difficult to read an example and it’s easy to get lost. And part of it is about getting lost (Lewis, 2017). I think this kind of autoethnography, this style of writing, requires the reader to chart his own path. There is no illusion of clarity, nor of logic. There is chaos you face. Second, this notation graphically reflects emotions and the circulation of sense. Third, it corresponds to my being in language. Fourth, it opens to other ways of feeling and dealing with the world—beyond the dominating reason of the Enlightenment and only-human-reflexivity.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their help with the text: reviewers, Dariusz Kubinowski, Marek Więcław, Weronika Korbal, Marcin Kafar.

Correction (June 2023): Article has been updated to reflect the correct affiliation of the author.

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.

ORCID iD

Oskar Szwabowski

Notes

Author Biography

Oskar Szwabowski is a professor of Akademia Pomorska in Słupsk, Department of Pedagogy. He is a critical educator, autoethnographer, and unfulfilled writer. He is the author of three books, and editor of several more. He has published in magazines, such as Policy Futures in Education, Research in Education, Humanity & Society, Journal of Poetry Therapy, Qualitative Inquiry, Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies, Journal of Autoethnography, International Review of Qualitative Research, Power and Education, and Journal for Critical Education Policy Studies.

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