Diving into Autoethnographic Narrative Inquiry: Uncovering Hidden Tensions Below the Surface

You pissed me off, my dissertation chair announced to the room of onlookers. I mean, you really pissed me off. When I read that section of your dissertation, I had to put the paper down for a minute. My committee nodded in agreement. As I sat confined in a small conference room at my doctoral defense, surrounded by my family, friends, and dissertation committee, I recalled my mother's swimming pool and the many summers spent swimming as a young child. I remembered standing along the edge of the pool, staring at my reflection in the water, eager to swim, but faced with a choice. My first option: a calm, mild step into the shallow end of the pool, beckoned with promise of a gradual acclimation to the cold. I could take things step-by-step, moving forward at a pace that would allow my body to adjust to the sudden change in temperature. The second option taunted the risk-taker in me--that part of myself eager to throw caution to the wind, and jump! How I suddenly longed to return my feet to the security of the pool deck. But, it was too late. I was engaged in a defense of my study--an autoethnographic narrative inquiry that revealed my innermost thoughts, truths, and vision of self as a teacher, friend, mother, and wife. While my passion and eagerness to enter the world of autoethnographic research was a thoughtful decision, it was now one I found myself second guessing. I began to wonder, Did I jump too soon? Entering the Pool of Autoethnographic Research As a doctoral student, one of my professors awakened me to the world of arts-based qualitative research--a world overshadowed in my undergraduate years by a post-positivist notion of objectivity and calculation. I suddenly understood that research did not have to be driven by numbers, statistics, and a search for absolute truth (Bochner, 1997; Bruner, 1990). Rather, research could focus on story and self. Carolyn Ellis's (1995, 2004) texts showed me the power of autoethnography. Arthur Bochner's (1997, 2005, 2012) work moved me through the power of narrative. Together, I found that qualitative research had the power to provide voice to the lived experiences of those around me--voices often too faint to be heard, or silenced by the deafening roar of policy or societal expectations. And so, I began with a dip of my toe into the pool of narrative inquiry. I became acquainted with the feel of this form of research within my coursework. This particular methodology made complete sense to me. As I learned more about the nature of narrative inquiry and the ideological views of life as transmitted through story (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000), I knew my own beliefs aligned with this qualitative approach. I paused to listen to the stories of colleagues--teachers who felt silenced by the current educational system. They shared their stories of fear, resentment, and disdain, along with tales of hope, passion, and sacrifice. They revealed a world of disempowerment, conveyed through tones of frustration, the echo of tears, and shrug of complacency. They wanted their voices heard--their stories told. But, they were fearful to tell it. They worried they might lose their jobs, or worse, they feared no one would listen. Yet, they trusted me to share their stories. I wrote articles and gave conference presentations sharing their views on scripted curriculums (Eisenbach, 2012), teacher evaluations (Eisenbach, 2014), and unique experiences within the classroom (Eisenbach & Kaywell, 2013). In doing so, I hoped to engage others in discourse. I wanted to expand our current understanding of the teaching experience and allow their stories to resonate in the hearts and experiences of others. I continued to tip-toe around the pool of research. So far, the water felt nice. In fact, refreshing. I decided to take things a step further and wade in the shallow end of the autoethnographic pool. After all, I enjoyed learning more and sharing the stories of others. …