Thanks to most of you for posting your Verbal Snapshot to our class blog. YAY! The first foray into our virtual fieldworking gallery worked! I made an executive decision to move Stacy and Rachael's pieces into the vessel with everyone else's, so as not to "feature" some and not others (this is the power of the teacher, people).
I urge you to scroll through your classmates' writing and to read it carefully, looking for things you like and ways you might revise or hone your own descriptive writing.
I'd also like you to read my comments--about specificity in word choice, casual (colloquial) vs. serious language, and about capturing the tone of your fieldsite. Reading each others' fieldwriting is an important lens through which we can consider our own writing.
And, remember, this is academic writing. This is research writing. This is writing that needs to be reminiscent of Jennifer Toth and rhetorical forms (ethos, pathos, logos). Push yourselves to live up to that high standard!
I also urge you to take the poll I created (look to the right). Happy reading, and see you in the Library tomorrow at noon.
13 comments:
Seven Stars Bakery
I drove up to Seven Stars Bakery on the corner of Knight and Broadway and was surprised at how out of place this building looked. This cozy little café stood out like a sore thumb next to the drab of miserable looking concrete buildings lined up on Knight Street. I walked into the bakery via the corner door and was immediately overcome by the delicious sweet scents of the fresh baked breads and their muffins and scones. As I approached the counter to view my selections I looked around the bakery and noticed a variety of people scattered about the many seats available to sit at. Behind the counter offered a large number of delicious treats to eat. Overwhelmed by the food I looked up and turned my head to the side and noticed an enormous chalkboard hanging on the wall. On it listed all the beverages they offered along with their prices. I made a decision for myself and ordered at the register. The employee greeted me with a friendly smile and handed my coffee to me in seconds. I took it over to the opposite end of the bakery where an island held all the necessary fixings to coffee and utensils for food. I had my choice of half and half, whole milk or skim milk, sugar, equal, splenda, sweet and low or honey, and vanilla, chocolate or cinnamon powder. Once I was satisfied with my coffee I took it to a table in the corner so I could view the interactions between customers and employees with ease.
Tomorrow Fund Clinic:
“Can you take our picture?” Jeff asked, his arm extended with camera in hand. I looked at the intended subjects: three clowns (two of them professional, the other one Jeff) who were giving the brilliant colors of the clinic waiting room a run for its money, if it wasn’t an inanimate object, of course. There was a bit of irony with their wardrobes. The two clowns, wearing vibrant purples and reds underneath drab, white lab coats with fake IDs, appeared more professional than Jeff, who was stuck in the summer months with the t-shirt under his many-pocketed vest and cargo pants. However, Jeff was the one in his normal uniform, giving the immediate impression of a camp counselor, while the other two were in costumes on top of their costumes. It was easy to overlook that, considering that it wasn’t every day that two clowns in full makeup were standing in the waiting room.
With the prodding from my mother, I happily accepted his request. I got up from the slightly-comfortable green chair and hobbled next to the table. Taking the camera, I made sure the exposure was correct. Everything looked far too bright, making me want to shield my eyes from the brightness of the clowns’ clothing and the animal mural towering behind them. Jeff assured me it was fine, so I took quite a few shots. Most of the shots were posed, including the infamous “Charlie’s Angel” pose. After one last photo, which was relatively calm by their standards, I was then thrown into the picture.
My silver camera, now proof of my inner supermodel, was in Jeff’s hands. As he became the photographer, we followed his lead. “Pretend McCain is elected,” he instructed, as we all contorted our faces in fake pain. I heard laughing, as I looked back to my mom, as well as the other mom in the waiting room. Their faces brightened, matching the happy mood of the room. “Now, pretend someone let one loose,” Jeff said to us. Embarrassing as it sounded, I knew by the cheerful look on both mothers’ faces that it was a fun show to watch. However, I didn’t realize until the last second that the sneaky clown to my right pointed at me. I couldn’t help but have my first thought be “I didn’t do it!” As I did my “Thinker” pose, I knew that this would be something I wouldn’t forget. Hugs were exchanged, as I thanked the colorful characters for their time. I shuffled back to my seat and resumed observing under the fluorescent lights. Just another unexpected day at clinic, I suppose.
"La Paz" at the ABV Mary
"La paz del Señor sea siempre con ustedes" the priest says speaking to his Dominican congregation. "Y con tu espiritu" replies the fully packed Providence Roman Catholic Church in unison. Everyone is standing up facing the man at the front of the church wearing a white robe and a green stole that is draped over his shoulders down past his knees. A tall man standing next to me turns his head and faces towards me. He takes my hand saying “la paz” and makes a smile. He is paler than the rest of the Dominican community and has his black hair greased back. He is dressed in a dark orange sweater with khaki pants and dress shoes on. His cologne wafts by me and overtakes my sense of smell as he shakes my hand. He lets go of my hand and moves on to the next closest person to him. Suddenly I look over to the middle aged lady next to me who grabs my wrist and shakes it as if she missed my hand and didn’t realize it. “La paz” she says with a smile and does the same “wrist shake” to the next person closest to her. Many people are out of their seats now, moving up and down the church aisles and reaching over the dark lacquered wooden pews and shaking hands and wrists with everyone. There are hugs, kisses, smiles, and waves that are circulating like a fury of peace through the old and dark church. Everyone returns from greeting their friends, family, and strangers to their seats and begin clapping their hands to the fast beat of Meringue music that echoes through the open church. Their right fingers are hitting against the palm of their left hand, a woman across the aisle is moving her hips to the beat of the church music and everyone is facing the front of the church and clapping in an inescapable fervor of joy and smiles.
Westerly Girl Scout Troop 104
I park my car in the parking lot that Christ Church shares with the Westerly Town Hall. As I find a spot that is not reserved for a person who works at the Town Hall, I crookedly pull my car into the parking spot. After I have parked I walk into the glass entry into a section of the church. I take a left and go into the church’s basement. As I walk the familiar path to the kindergarten Sunday school room, I begin to worry that the Girl Scouts may not actually be meeting there and that I will have to search the numerous rooms in the building to find the group. To my content, as I enter the room, I am greeted by my aunt, who is the troop leader, and my six-year-old cousin as she runs over to hug me. The room has changed greatly since the last time I have been in it. There is a new floor in it and it looks very nice. Also, the tables have changed, with two tables shaped like hexagons. There is a smaller table off to the side of these hexagon-shaped tables that I sit at to observe. The table as well as the chair I sit in is made for children, so I feel cramped for the whole hour and a half I observe. On the other side of the room some of the girls are drawing on an old green chalkboard.
Before the meeting begins, the girls work together to pull the tables together so they can sit around them in a circle as opposed to sitting in two separate groups. All the girls sit around the two tables as the meeting begins. Then the assistant leader walks in with her daughter and my other cousin. She has two cups of hot chocolate from Honey Dew Donuts. One is for her and one is for the other leader. More girls arrive throughout the meeting and by the time they are all there, the table is completely filled. I do not think they could have fit any more chairs around the table. Even at this point, the girls have to squeeze together to make room for everyone who comes late for the meeting. They do not, however, stay at these tables for the entire meeting. Their meeting begins when they stand up in a circle to say the Pledge of Allegiance and something about the past weekend. Then they all sit back down at the table as one girl collects money for dues and reads the names of the girls in the troop off a sheet of paper highlighted in orange marker.
When they have all settled down after this chaotic process of taking attendance, the leader takes out what looks like an old wrapping paper tube. She explains to the girls that this is the talking stick and that when the stick is out, only the person holding it is allowed to talk. Troop 104, the name of this particular Girl Scout troop, is written on it and the talking stick is passed around the table so each girl can sign it. By signing it, the girls verify that they understand the rules of the talking stick. I notice many different things happening around the room as the talking stick is passed around to each girl. I hear the assistant leader talking to one girl about how the girl plays the flute in her middle school band. The assistant leader tells her that she used to play the flute but was not very good at it. Two other girls are playing with a watch. This makes me wonder how much time has gone by since the beginning of the meeting. I look up at the wall where the clock has always been and realize there is no clock in the room anymore.
Once everyone has signed the talking stick, the leaders begin to talk to the girls about the upcoming election. They ask the girls what they know about politics and who is running for president. One girl raises her hand and tells everybody that her second cousin was running for president but he dropped out of the race. The leaders then have the girls make posters to try to convince people to vote this year. As they make the posters, the girls all reach across the table to the crayon box in the middle of it. One girl wants a red crayon but can’t find any of that color. Some of the other girls try to help her find one and she eventually gets a red crayon. The conversations between the girls are all varied at this point but all pertain to politics. I hear one girl randomly say “It’s illegal to shoot the president” to her friend and I wonder why these girls are talking about shooting the president. Another conversation involves Barack Obama. A few girls are talking about his name and decide it sounds like Barack O’llama. They discuss why he cannot be a llama and at this point I think they are starting to become bored with this activity. After the troop has finished making their posters to get people to vote, they sit in a circle on the floor to play a game. After the game, they move once again to play a “getting to know you” game in which they spread out all around the room and many go into the hallway to write facts about themselves and then sit in their circle once again. When they end the meeting, they stand in a circle and are able to leave in a somewhat chaotic dismissal.
The Palladium is a small venue in Worcester, Massachusetts where bands perform almost nightly. If you were to drive by it, it would look like it was an olden style movie theater with the glass booth and all glass doors and a big flashy sign out front. The buildings next door are run down brick buildings, littered with graffiti and messages like “I was here” and “Jimmy loves Sally.” When I first walked in I noticed that the look of the old theater on the outside continued on the inside. It had a booth on the right which is here you would get your tickets bright colored, floral carpeted stairs that lead up to a plateau in which you can either head downstairs or upstairs. Downstairs holds some dark green, beer covered gum littered seats, a merchandise table, a bar, and a pit for standing room which is right in front of the stage. Upstairs is a balcony that arches over the entire bottom floor, just with more of the disgusting seats. I look up at the ceiling and see it designed like a church or something. The best way I can describe this is that the Palladium is basically and old playhouse that was turned into a music venue.
The show started and I ventured down into the crowd. A large man with tattoos of chains on his arms and long brown, curly hair that was damp with sweat and god knows what came up next to me. His breath reeked of alcohol and he was obviously drunk. He was screaming in my ear and telling me how good he thought the band was. I soon left the vicious pit and went up to the merchandise table. The women working there all had flower tattoos and wore low cut shirts to show off their cleavage…a great marketing technique. There was a line that was not at all a line, but more of large angry group pushing to get to the desk.
As I left the venue I smelt of alcohol, cigarettes and drugs, all not of my own accord. It was a mad rush out of the place with pushing shoving and yelling. Looking back, the venue was dark, damp and cold, but in all a very nice place to see a show despite the seemingly below par conditions.
Trinity Rep and Perishable Theatre
As I drove up to this mini theater district of Providence, I noticed the difference immediately between the two theaters. Driving along the street past Trinity, the streets are empty. The lights are out except for the bright white lights coming from Trinity's interior. The golden and glass chandeliers shine a light to illuminate the giant "Dreams of Antigone" poster on the outside wall. The box office room is dark, with three people who appear to be working. I assumed there was a performance going on, as the lobby was completely empty. The red carpet floors and beige colored wallpaper add to the antique feel of the place. It was welcoming, and yet very lonely at the same time. Outside the theater, the ivory walls were accentuated with golden designs coming out of the wall. The cobblestone street beside it made me think I was in a different place and time, about to see a show at the theater. The building gives off the feel of royalty, elegance and life.
On the opposite side of Trinity is a one-way street lined with cars, shop and cafes, a couple bars and Perishable theater. Surrounded by brick, the three-story building has four large windows that line the outside wall. There is a pink light coming from the third floor, while the rest of the building appears deserted. A sign says "Perishable + AS220: Support the Campaign". The colors are much brighter and bolder, with lime green lettering and light blue walls. A poster for an upcoming show stands out against the wall in black, red, and white. Looking in through the glass door, I can see the walls are large gray bricks, and there is a metal red staircase leading upstairs. Christmas lights surround the doorway and the main desk, which is quite small and does not look as grand as Trinity's Box office desk. Instead the feel is very artsy and edgy, and it's clear that a college student would feel more at home here. The theater itself is surrounded by cafes frequented by college students, both artists and actors alike, and clearly all coffee addicts. Many are regulars, some work there, others meet up with friends. Looking up and down the street at night, it appears to be a shady street, but it is a seemingly harmless and friendly community, with many people who share common interests.
Molly Gouveia
Black Lotus Tattoo Parlor
As I make my way past the first door or the tattoo parlor the daylight begins to disappear and a dark room with a lone florescent light above the front desk shines dimly to illuminate paperwork. The freshly vacuumed black carpet does not bring any light into the room and is the only remotely clean thing I can see. The desk is full of papers all out of order. I see a can of Coke and another empty one of the floor. There is an open bag of Doritos and a Poland springs water bottle on the gray oversized couch. I look around and notice cases along two of the walls, filled with jewelry for you ears, nose and belly button. There are also stands displaying all sorts of tattoos you might consider. I look for any sign of life and find none including the wilting tree in the far back corner with huge leaves that are turning brown and brittle. Suddenly the back door flings opened and I am blinded by what little daylight there was outside. As the door closes and my eyes adjust I see that it is just Matt the owner and tattoo artist himself.
Today he is showing me around the place. He brings me into the first tattoo room. I walk in and a wave of nostalgia rushes over me from when I had been in here six months ago. I notice much more this time around, especially since I’m not shaking from anxiety like last time. The room is the complete opposite from the lobby area. You would almost think you that when you stepped in the door you were warped into another place. The lights are bright and everything is clean and sterile and smells strongly of ammonia. There are signs all around telling you how to take care of your tattoo. What to do and what not to do. Along the counter top there are jars of cotton balls, gauze pads, and cotton swabs. It feels as though I am in a doctors office.
Matt then leads me into the next room. A storage room. This room is much more like the first room I was in. There is no door, only an old sheet that is torn and tattered from being used so much. He pulls it back to reveal a very large mess. There is a vacuum that was clearly tossed in here without any thought. Boxes upon boxes of paperwork tower over me. He tells me they have to keep everything in here for at least five years for legal purposes. Then he has to put it in a storage locker somewhere until he goes out of business. I can believe what a difference there are in the three rooms of one small building.
Hey Folks,
I'm loving these verbal snapshots. For some of you (Molly! Stacy!), its some of the best descriptive writing you've done. As you're reading them over, think about what makes one better than another. Length? The right amount of description (not too detailed, but not too vague either)? Super specific words that elicit precise images?
In a certain sense, you are doing much more than describing your fieldsite here. You are inviting us to enter your subculture, through the door of your fieldsite. As I read some of these, I could picture the beginning of your fieldworking paper, where you present to us a sort of "walking across the threshold" intro into your site and subculture.
I also think there is a certain level of seriousness with which you want to write this snapshot and describe your subculture. It can't be too sarcastic or flippant, and your word choice can't be casual. (Rachael--think about the choice of the words "horse's ass" and "horse's butt" in your description of the painting...which set of words captures the TONE of White's, of your subculture?).
So, TONE is super important here--Kevin, I think, does a good job capturing the TONE of his fieldsite. I'd like the rest of you to think about TONE and how the "vibe" of your subculture is or is not reflected in your verbal snapshots. We'll be talking about this in class this week.
Keep writing and imagining ways of portraying the people, sights, and sounds of this subculture you've chosen. Peace--
Stacy Neronha
Verbal Snapshot
Raucous laughter and loud talking echo around the huge gym-like room I’m standing in. I am feeling a little short and out-of-place standing in a haphazard circle of towering, uniform-clad men. Their buzz-cuts, camouflage uniform, and tan boots strike me as threatening, but I do not feel that way at all. All are smiling, as one man asks another if he was drunk the night before. As he launches into a story, denying drunkenness and describing a night out in “the city,” he munches on some muffin crumbs he pulls out of a brown Dunkin Donuts bag. Many others have coffees and breakfasts from McDonald’s or Dunkin Donuts. Some sit eating quietly on the equipment-covered bench we’re circling next to, but most are engaging in enthusiastic and happy conversation, thick with crude topics and heavy swearing. I see another circle similar to ours near the other end of the bench, except that circle actually consists of a few females. Two of the women are engaged in their own quiet conversation, one warming her hands on and sipping a thermos from home. Another man enters our circle, smiling and listening in. I am introduced, for what feels like the 50th time. Another handshake, firm, eyes never leaving mine as long as the exchange takes place; it was the same with all the others. I lean back against the old-fashioned looking army gun behind me. It is painted camouflage and reminds me of an old war movie. I think about the fact that I am casually leaning on something that possibly was under fire at one point, and in turn delivering its own gunfire. My eyes move along the room: seven of these identical guns stand silently, surrounded by tall walls decorated with American flags. In the center, a large American flag is hanging vertically, its age shown by its deeply yellow stripes. My attention returns to the young guy telling the story, he is laughing now as another man, older looking, gives a goofy and drunken impression of another member on “that night.” I obviously do not understand but laugh along anyway because he looks funny. The man next to me pulls me back into the conversation by asking me where I go to school. I answer, noticing that I have to concentrate on keeping my eyes locked on his, as it seems only natural to return the gesture. A command is heard from a door near the corner, and everyone turns and heads toward it, smiling and talking all the way. Sammy smiles as he walks with me and says, “Well first impressions aren’t everything, you’ll see what it’s really like later.”
Rachael Guadagni
Dr. Cook
Verbal Snapshot
Black and red, those are the colors of Whites Electric Café. The hard metal and wood furniture is spread across the rectangular space like a restaurant. No one is there except the lady at the counter. We go and order our breakfast and coffee and take a seat in the only two cushioned chairs in the back by the windows with a great view of the café. I start to take in my surroundings. The walls are completely covered in different prints or paintings. All somewhat abstract with animals and political signs. One of the signs is of a Native American wrapped in an American flag sitting on a horse with a gas pump in its but. They all say White Mice somewhere on them. I learn later that White Mice is a band that Whites Electric is helping out and doing some advertising for. You can buy all the prints and the prices range from somewhere around $150 to $6. Gradually people begin to walk in. Almost every person gets their coffee to go. Only two other people stay to eat aside from us. Many people talk to the lady and man behind the counter; everyone seems to know each other. There are many little nick knacks hidden in the many plants hanging around where we are sitting in the window. There is also a book rack with many unknown books to me. You can buy them. By the trashcan they have a decomposing Whites Electric Café mug and a caption underneath that says that they are earth friendly, this is a very artsy and hippie esk place.
Kayla Pimentel
Verbal Snapshot
As we walked through the casino, we passed groups of people cheering at the blackjack table, old women smoking cigarettes at slot machines, and couples holding hands; trying their luck at the roulette table. Everyone seemed to be having a good time; laughing and socializing with one another. We continued to walk to the back corner of the casino, descended some stairs, and finally reached the tucked away haven of poker players. Upon entering the room, everything seems to slow down a bit. The laughter and sense of excitement we had just witnessed above us is replaced by quiet conversations and intense stares. The sounds of the clicking of the poker chips and barely a murmur coming from each of the tables are the only sounds heard.
The room is simple and practical. There are no fancy decorations like in the rest of the casino, indicating that those who designed it know these players are here to do business. It is chilly and dimly lit with a lighting emphasis on each of the tables. There are 96 tables in all, scattered around the room, placed only about 4 feet from each other.
The high limit players play all the way to the right of the room. They have their own separate section , which makes them seem like they want to seclude themselves from anyone not on their level. Above each table is a flat screen television, which many players watch for sports scores or the stock market, other things try take a chance on to increase their funds. In the high limit section, there seems to be a sense of camaraderie among the players. They greet each other like old friends and float from table to table saying hello to men they have played with for many years.
As we sit down at the 75/150 Stud table, I begin to look around and analyze each player. They do not look to me like the typical poker player I had envisioned. Sitting at the first seat is Stanley. Stanley is a white male around 55 years old. He has a black and grey mustache, which resembles that of a walrus, and is moderately overweight. Stanley is slumped over in his seat at the poker table wearing a worn out pair of black sweatpants, fully equipped with elastic waistband and ankles, a grey sweatshirt with a stretched out neck, and an old pair of Velcro sneakers you’d expect your grandfather to wear. The only indication of the “high roller” lifestyle that his career suggests is the $5,000 gold and diamond Rolex fastened on his wrist and the $5,000 of chips that he sits behind.
To Stanley’s left is Gus. Gus is a loud, talkative poker player who is always joking and gossiping with the other players. When Gus speaks, everyone seems to quiet down and listen. He is a 5’8 Lebanese American with a strong accent and even stronger personality. He’s wearing a blue and brown Adidas sweatsuit, matching blue and brown sneakers, and a blue Adidas hat. Similar to Stanley, he also has a $10,000 blue Rolex strapped to his wrist. Gus seems to be one of the best players at the table; playing it safe and winning every pot that he commits to.
Another player who seems to be on Gus’s playing level is Kenny. Kenny is a 35 year old man from Laos. He has tanned skin and sits at the table wearing a poker jacket, a pair of jeans and some sneakers. He also has a bluetooth on his ear and a PDA in his hand. He seems to be doing some kind of work and gets up from the table every few minutes to speak on his phone in private.
Many of the players come and go from the table as they please; leaving for a few minutes to use the phone or go get something to eat. It is a casual setting and the players keep composed and calm, almost seeming to forget that they have thousands of dollars sitting on the table. They joke and make small talk with one another, however, in they’re minds, they only view each other as an obstruction keeping them away from their next big win.
Brittany Michel
Verbal Snapshot
As I walk in to the big, bright yellow doors - the main entrance to the building, I pass a few people having a smoke by the loading dock. The smell of the cigarettes flows from the entrance through the entire facility. White Noise is certainly not the only inhabitant of this big mill-like building. I walk up the long flight of stairs, a drumstick plays the role of a door jam. I pull the heavy door open and replace the beaten and battered stick. I walk into the waiting area. There are two worn-in 70's couches. There is no doubt that these pieces of furniture are older than me. The high-loft ceilings are held up by a brick wall painted a soft white, the remainder of the walls are a warm burnt-orange. On a coffee table there is an old, dusty reel-to-reel player - the former way of recording. On top of the player sits a small black vintage amplifier with a fading red stripe down the front.
I enter the main hall, which is painted the same orange as the waiting area. There are large, old framed posters of Frank Sinatra, Bob Marley, and The Beatles. A few other vintage style posters line the walls of the halls, along with some artistic photographs of concerts put on by the studio. The 70's motif continues through the main hall. Along the wall, the wiring and circuitry for the telephone system are exposed, and under the main breaker is a large cork board with a few advertisements for the upcoming compilation project. The halls and waiting area are very clean.
Studio B. The studio breaks from the vintage look and shifts smoothly into a more modern feel. The large room is painted a deep, blood-red. and corrugated black soundproofing pieces are placed decoratively on the walls and backs of doors. The light is dim; a tall lamp in the far corner of the room is the only source of light. The entire back wall is covered from ceiling to floor in a thick, black curtain – for sound and aesthetic reasons. This room, like the waiting area, boasts of old and worn, yet stylish cream-colored couches. There are two. Along with three black rolling desk chairs, there is seating for 8 or 9 people. Next to the couch is shiny, black mini-fridge. On top lie a few bottles of generic coke and an unopened bag of Starbucks coffee. When I enter the room, my attention is brought to the focal point of the room – a big light-wood desk with black trim against the curtained wall. Four large speakers and a twenty inch monitor sit imposingly on the very top of the desk. On the screen is LogicPro, with seven or eight tracks in view on the screen. Andy, the engineer, sits at the desk in his navy blue American Eagle sweatpants, old brown and off-white Nikes, and plain grey hoodie. His hair is short and is the same dark brown as his nicely groomed beard. His black rectangular rimmed glasses bear a striking resemblance to the pair on my own face. He is almost a part of the room. A half finished Coffee Monster sits ignored on the corner of the desk. The condensation is starting to make a small puddle at the base of the tall can. A large antique chest sits comfortably on the red persian throw rug adjacent to the desk. On top there are two amp heads – a vintage Marshall, and an Orange AD-30 are linked and running through a Fender amp from the 70's leaning against the chest. A few feet behind this, stands a black bookcase, about 5 feet tall or so, filled with hundreds of vinyl records. Not far from the bookcase is the main mixing board – black and dull silver in color with dozens of knobs and sliders set to just the right levels. The room remains neat despite the constant traffic of musicians and producers.
Brittany,
I cut and pasted your Verbal Snapshot into the Comment section for equity/symmetry. Thanks for posting!
Post a Comment