Eleven Examples - Teaching Autoethnography: Personal Writing in the Classroom

Instructions

Spend at least twenty minutes in a public space, observing one person you have never seen or met before. The person need not be someone who strikes you as interesting. In fact, somebody who appears to be less than interesting to you is often the best choice for this assignment. This is a difficult assignment for a number of reasons. It is hard to find someone who will be still and accessible for twenty minutes; if the person moves, move with him or her. The subject also might become aware of being observed. This is not a problem; simply talk to the person if he or she inquires, or move on to another observation if it seems at all bothersome to the person being observed. Your goal is not to make someone uncomfortable but to pause and consider your environment and those who inhabit it.

Using your five senses, take notes on everything around you and everything about the person, focusing on the subject’s appearance, how she carries herself, her actions and interactions, the way she interacts with her environment, any speech you might overhear, the feeling, look, smell and feel of the space your subject inhabits.

After you have finished taking notes, as close to the observation time as possible, construct a narrative description of this person and his or her life based on the details you have recorded. This is an assignment you may enjoy doing more than once. If you are riding public transportation or have free time in a public space, you can practice your observational skills and storytelling abilities by basing pieces on this real-life observational note taking.

This is a fiction-writing assignment based on real observation and will be shared during class discussion.

Student Samples

These assignments are based on a two-tier process of taking notes first and then crafting a story. Because of the narrative nature of this assignment, although these samples are first drafts, they are quite strong.

Joomi describes a young woman eating alone. Neziah describes a couple in love riding the subway.

William describes an ill-fated encounter at a bar.

Emma describes a young man visiting her ailing father in the hospital. Anne describes a man arriving at a homeless shelter.

Heather describes a woman reflecting on her relationship on her way home from yoga. Justine describes a man reflecting on others accepting his relationship.

Jillian describes a woman struggling to finish her work. Chadbourne describes a man singing for donations. Tyana describes a woman selling jewelry on the sidewalk. Adriana describes a woman anxious about her relationship.

Melanie

Joomi Park

She loosened the neckline of her gray hoodie before picking up her spoon for another rich mouthful of Japanese katsu curry. She knew she shouldn’t be eating past six to keep her promise of a healthier diet, but she had already broken so many of her New Years resolutions that this one felt just as harmless. Besides, she felt like if she didn’t get food inside of her right that minute, she would deflate into a pile of gunk. Every time she put down her spoon, thoughts of the midterms and finals she had to study for, the never-ending calls from her overprotective mother that she had to pick up, and the rude, good-for-nothing customers she had to cater to flooded her mind. And so she frowned, and ate, and ate and for once she felt in control of her life, like her food could solve all her problems. But of course, it always hit her, how pitiful she must look to other people. Melanie Tubbs—a young, 20-year-old girl sporting a matching set of gray sweatpants and a hoodie, eating alone next to a heart-eyed couple, and staring at the chair in front of her, all on a Friday night. She noticed a group of girls in the corner, and the Asian one with brown hair kept looking up at her every so often. “I bet she thinks she’s better than me. I don’t need her pity,” she thought spitefully. Melanie tuned the girl out and let her mind wander. Soon she envisioned herself in a dramatic movie scene. The whole thing would take place in this very restaurant, and it would tell the tale of love, drama, and breakup. All she’d have to do is sit there and say a few different lines each time. Now that’d be the life. She wanted to laugh but she didn’t want to seem crazy, so she sat there in silence the whole time. Her spoon scraped the plate, indicating that her food stress session was over. She wondered if there was anything good about her moving to the city for school. Would she even get anywhere when it seemed like so many of her peers already knew what they were doing? She frowned and asked for the check. Her movie idea didn’t seem too funny anymore, so she paid and she frowned. At least her stomach was full.

Discussion Questions

• Why would somebody want to read this piece (the “Who cares?” factor)? • Can you clearly identify the author’s intention for the piece?

• How well does the author support the intention of the piece? Cite specific details that support or take away from the author’s intention.

• Is there information missing from this piece that would make its intention clearer? What else would you like to know?

• Does the author portray herself as a round character? How does she do this? • Do you trust the author of this piece? Why or why not?

• How clearly does the author establish a sense of setting/space in this piece? Cite specific details that support your claim.

• How clearly does the author establish characters other than the self in this piece? Cite specific details that support your claim.

• Did you learn anything new from reading this piece? If so, what?

• Are there particular passages with engaging language/description that stood out to you? Describe the appeal of these passages.

• Would you read more writing from this author? Why or why not?

Neziah Doe

The 1 Train rattles on in the depths of the infamous New York City subway system. I rest my hand on my girlfriend Maria’s knee as we sit down in the corner, my clean, well-cut, square-shaped fingernails trailing along the thin ochre squares that pattern her business slacks. I remember her hands shaking with nerves and she showed them to me, her crooked smile telling me in that soft- spoken voice in our trashy apartment of the time, “I have a job.” But that was three years ago, in the beginning. I rub my fingernails on her slacks, she fidgets as she leans on my shoulder, her body unsure whether she could rest all that weight upon me. Whether she should, I see this in her, that hesitation, it bothers me, consumes me. Ever since the beginning, I wanted her to crawl towards me like melting butter, like rain flowing down a clean drain. I kiss her, lightly, looking around the train smugly—this beautiful woman is mine, for as long as I live.

She flickers again and I look down at her curvaceous body. A red knitted zip-up she got for Christmas, with black designs of snowflakes and reindeer. I teased her when she left the house today wearing that so early on, it not even being close to winter. She raised her well plucked eyebrow at me, defiantly. It was my favorite look on her face, it compelled me to send her back into the bedroom, crashing against the mismatched furniture we have accumulated over the years, making sure she knew she was mine.

She whispers in my ear in Spanish teasing me about my wrinkles, the spiderweb thin lines etching themselves, claiming my skin as a canvas for their greater design, the artist of age. People said I look like my father, now sometimes when I pass mirrors I see him in there. But Papa would never come to such a big city like New York, he prefers the sweet quiet of his remote cabin in Texas. Looking in the mirror scares me sometimes.

I stare blankly at the wall behind those people I front of me, as I’ve been taught from ten years of living here—ignore all the people. Don’t ever smile—they may see your weakness. They will look at you and destroy you when they see the weakness in your eyes. I smirk. I look down at Maria, she looks pensively at the ground with her sad brown eyes, picking at her cuticles sub-consciously, her smooth ponytail grating against my skin. She looks upset, they cut her hours last week by over half, she thinks they’re going to fire her soon. Downsizing. Everyone wants more for less, she’s been scorning at random intervals for the past few days, tutting like her mother used to.

“Is it here?” she asked, out of focus with the rattling car, craning her neck.

“No, next one,” I sigh, “relax.” We hold hands, or we have been for awhile, that simple pleasure doesn’t send a parade of adrenaline down my arm every time the way it used to. The train stops. 168th, one more to go.

We shift from sitting to standing, not sure after all of these years what is the proper decorum for getting up for your stop. We smile, finally standing as the train begins to slow, Maria slips a bit. “Wanna get up?” I tease her. She rolls her eyes. The doors open. I walk out, hoping that she has followed, I stick out my hand for her to take. I wait for her to take it.

She does.