Biography and Turning Points in Europe and America 9781447307402

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Biography and turning points in Europe and America

Edited by Karla B. Hackstaff, Feiwel Kupferberg and Catherine Négroni

biography and Turning points in Europe and America Edited by Karla B. Hackstaff, Feiwel Kupferberg and Catherine Négroni

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by The Policy Press University of Bristol Fourth Floor Beacon House Queen’s Road Bristol BS8 1QU UK Tel +44 (0)117 331 4054 Fax +44 (0)117 331 4093 e-mail [email protected] www.policypress.co.uk North American office: The Policy Press c/o The University of Chicago Press 1427 East 60th Street Chicago, IL 60637, USA t: +1 773 702 7700 f: +1 773-702-9756 e:[email protected] www.press.uchicago.edu © The Policy Press 2012 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested. ISBN 978 1 84742 860 8 hardcover The right of Karla B. Hackstaff, Feiwel Kupferberg and Catherine Négroni to be identified as editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the 1988 Copyright, Designs and Patents Act. All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of The Policy Press. The statements and opinions contained within this publication are solely those of the contributors and editors and not of The University of Bristol or The Policy Press. The University of Bristol and The Policy Press disclaim responsibility for any injury to persons or property resulting from any material published in this publication. The Policy Press works to counter discrimination on grounds of gender, race, disability, age and sexuality. Cover design by The Policy Press Front cover: image kindly supplied by Catherine Négroni Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG Book Group The Policy Press uses environmentally responsible print partners

Contents Notes on contributors

iv

Introduction: Advancing the dialogue on turning points Karla B. Hackstaff

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one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

Unpacking biographical narratives: investigating stories of 9 artistic careers in Northern Jutland, Denmark Feiwel Kupferberg Turning points in the life course: a narrative concept in 41 professional bifurcations Catherine Négroni Conjugal separation and immigration in the life course of 65 immigrant single mothers in Québec Ana Gherghel and Marie-Christine Saint-Jacques Migration biography and ethnic identity: on the discontinuity 93 of biographical experience and how turning points affect the ethnicisation of biography Thea D. Boldt Biographical structuring through a critical life event: 125 parental loss during childhood Gerhard Jost Decisive turning points in life trajectories of violence among 143 young men in the barrios of Caracas: the initiation and biographical reconversion to non-violent lifestyles Verónica Zubillaga The turning points of the single life course in Budapest, 167 Hungary Ágnes Sántha Complicating actions and complicated lives: raising 187 questions about narrative theory through an exploration of lesbian lives Nicki Ward Religious conversion as a biographical turn/ing: the case of 207 Orthodox believers in contemporary Russia Liana Ipatova Conclusion: theorising turning points and decoding 227 narratives Feiwel Kupferberg

Index

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Biography and turning points in Europe and America

Notes on contributors Thea D. Boldt (PhD) is a Research Assistant at the Kulturwissenschaftliche Institut, Hessen. Her primary research interests are based on qualitative research on migration, gender, and ethnic/national identities. She is a chair of the European Sociological Association Research Network ‘Biographical Perspectives on European Societies’. Her PhD project was ‘Ethnic identities and processes of biographical reinterpretation. Case study on biographical constructions of migration on the example of Polish migrants in Germany’. Ana Gherghel (PhD) is Researcher at the Center of Social Sciences in the University of Azores, Portugal (CES-UA) and Associated Researcher at the Center for Research on the adaptation of youth and families at risk (JEFAR), University Laval, Canada. Her research interests focus on the area of life course studies and family migration, in particular the analysis of familial transitions and trajectories in an immigration context and the impact of migration on families. Karla B. Hackstaff (PhD) is Professor of Sociology and Director of Women’s and Gender Studies at Northern Arizona University, USA. She investigates the social constitution of intersectional identities through families and genders in the context of social inequalities. Relevant publications include: Marriage in a culture of divorce (Temple University Press, 1999); in 2009 two articles: (2009) ‘Who are we? Genealogists negotiating ethno-racial identities’, Qualitative Sociology, vol 32, no 2, pp 17-194 and (2009) ‘“Turning points” for aging genealogists: claiming identities and histories in time’, Qualitative Sociology Review, April, vol V, issue 1, pp 130-51. Liana Ipatova (PhD) is a researcher, visiting lecturer and coordinator of education programmes in the Institute of Sociology at the Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow. Her interests include biographical and religious studies, psychoanalysis and social anthropology. The main theme of her last papers was religious conversion to Orthodoxy as a typical and unique event in social and biographical contexts. She has published the chapter: ‘Modern features of reproduction of Orthodox tradition’, in A.B. Gofman (ed) Traditions and innovations in contemporary Russia (in Russian) (Rosspen, 2008, pp 409-56).

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Notes on contributors

Gerhard Jost (PhD) is Associate Professor of Sociology at the Vienna University of Economics and Business, Department of Socioeconomics, Institute for Sociology and Social Research, Austria. His scholarship includes areas of qualitative methods, biographical research, family, work and migration. Among diverse articles he has published recently are: ‘Jewish life stories and methods of narrative analysis’, in E. Lappin and A. Lichtblau (eds) The ‘truth’ of memory: Jewish life stories (Studienverlag, 2008), pp 223-34; ‘Scientific methods of social research as coaching procedures’, Organizational Consulting, Supervision, Coaching, Special Issue 2/2008, pp 32-42; and ‘Biography and life-course as categories in socioeconomic research’ in G. Mikl-Horke (ed) Socioeconomics: The return of economy into society (Metropolis-Verlag, 2011), pp 207-37. Feiwel Kupferberg (PhD) is Professor of Education at Malmö University, Sweden. His major research interests are societal and individual transformations, narratology and media aesthetics, entrepreneurship, creative teaching and learning and the sociology of creativity (in science, art, industry and pedagogy). His latest books are Becoming a nurse (Nyt Nordisk Forlag, 1999), The break-up of communism (Macmillan/St Martin’s Press, 1999), The rise and fall of the German Democratic Republic (Transaction Books, 2002) and Creative times (Hans Reitzel, 2006). Catherine Négroni (PhD) is Associate Professor in Sociology at Charles de Gaulle University-Lille 3, CLERSE (Centre Lillois d’Études et de Recherches Sociologiques et Économiques), France. Her research has been concerned with professional reconversions, life course studies and bifurcations, work and migrations. Her relevant publications include Reconversion professionnelle volontaire. Changer d’emploi, changer de vie: un regard sociologique sur les bifurcations (Armand Colin, 2007) and (2005) ‘La reconversion professionnelle volontaire: d’une bifurcation professionnelle à une bifurcation biographique’, Cahiers Internationaux de Sociologie, vol CXIX. Marie-Christine Saint-Jacques (PhD), social worker, is Associate Professor at the School of Social Work, University Laval, Canada, and Scientific Director of the Center for Research on the adaptation of youth and families at risk (JEFAR). For 25 years she has conducted research on family transitions, in particular the difficulties experienced during separation, remarriage and stepfamilies, as well as the adjustment of adolescents living in stepfamilies. She has published several articles on these topics and presented many communications in Canada, Europe v

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

and the US. She regularly provides training for practitioners working with blended families, and for several groups of parents coping with family blending. She is also regularly asked in the media to comment on the situation of these families. Ágnes Sántha (PhD) is Assistant Lecturer in Social Sciences at the Sapientia Hungarian University of Transsylvania, Romania. Her research areas are the sociology of the family, microsociology and social theory. Her PhD dissertation is a comparative analysis of the lifestyle single in Budapest, Hungary and Berlin, Germany, among educated urban youth, entitled ‘Lifestyle of singles in Budapest and Berlin’. She has also published a study at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Institute of Political Sciences, on the work orientations and professional satisfaction of Hungarian and German youth. Nicki Ward (PhD) is Lecturer in Social Work at the Institute of Applied Social Studies, University of Birmingham in the UK. Her teaching and research interests are focused broadly on issues of social justice and inclusion with a particular emphasis on issues of equality, diversity, empowerment and social identity, and care relationships. Alongside this, Ward is interested in qualitative research methods, particularly narrative methods, and the development of participatory research. She is currently conducting research on the needs and experiences of people with learning disabilities who are caregivers. Publications include (2009) ‘Social exclusion, social identity and social work: analysing social exclusion from a material discursive perspective’, Social Work Education, vol 28, no 3, pp 237-52. Verónica Zubillaga (PhD) has a Doctorate in Sociology from the Université Catholique de Louvain in Belgium (2003). She is Professor and Researcher at the Universidad Simón Bolívar (USB) and at the Universidad Católica Andrés Bello (UCAB); she is also Associated Researcher at the Laboratorio de Ciencias Sociales (LACSO) in Caracas, Venezuela. Her research interests and writing include urban violence in Latin America, youth, masculinities and qualitative methods. Publications include ‘“Gaining respect”: the logic of violence among young men in the barrios of Caracas’, in G.A. Jones and D. Rodgers (eds) Youth violence in Latin America: Gangs and juvenile justice in perspective (Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).

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introduction

Advancing the dialogue on turning points Karla B. Hackstaff As long as we have a notion of a self-identity, most people have a moment in their life when they have been forced to recognise, as a result of events, that ‘I am not the same as I was, as I used to be’ (Strauss, 1959, p 95).This is the basic definition of the sociological concept of ‘turning points’ provided by Anselm Strauss in his 1959 book, Mirrors and masks: The search for identity. Since then it has been an important sociological concept for investigating identities over a lifetime in the context of an ever-changing structural, cultural and interpersonal environment. Subsequent to Strauss’s work, the theoretical, methodological and empirical advances associated with the use of ‘turning points’ have been multiple, nuanced and complex. In particular, we have found that turning point, and other closely related, even overlapping concepts (such as narrative, biographical work and bifurcation) require a full-blown treatment in a collection that aims to demonstrate its enduring utility in relation to sociological accounts of life stories.Thus, this anthology uses this classical concept of turning points to understand reflexive narrations of life stories traversing organisational fields or institutions, across life events, and within diverse countries. This text provides a unique contribution to the literature in three ways: (1) it updates theoretical reflections surrounding the critical concept of turning points; (2) it integrates methodological advances in qualitative research (such as discourse analysis and interpretative methods) in relation to new empirical research; and (3) it provides an array of current international voices situated in Europe and the Americas.

Theoretical, methodological and international contexts The edited collection first took shape when Feiwel Kupferberg organised two panels on turning points for the International Sociological Association meetings of September 2008, which met in Barcelona, Spain.This context brought together international scholars 1

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

from the UK, Sweden, Germany, Denmark, France, Hungary, Russia, Canada, the US and Venezuela. While these distinct countries share a Western orientation, they nevertheless provide an array of structural, cultural and historically infused conditions for understanding how turning points relate to constructions of meaning by a nation’s members.This text addresses increasingly globalised concerns regarding the identities and simultaneously structurating forces of gender, age, ‘race’-ethnicity, class, sexuality and religion, which are, nevertheless, grounded in the unique nations and communities that we include here.This enables sensitivity to variable constructs of significance that are associated with turning points. Theoretically, the collection addresses the manifold ways that we might refine the concept of turning points, not only descriptively but also via theoretical analysis. Strauss (1959) provided a descriptive typology of turning points that captures how one’s life course comes to be understood through frames such as ‘reaching milestones’, ‘meeting a challenge’ or being ‘deceived by events in general’. This typology has been enormously useful for recognising patterns of change in our lives. Yet, as Kupferberg (see Chapter Three) indicates, Strauss’s theory was more descriptive than analytical. Further, Strauss, among other sociologists like Mills (1959) and Mead (1934), understood how history and the specificities of social context inform and structure individual experience. Nevertheless, this theoretical insight deserves further critical inquiry, particularly given the ‘narrative turn’ in the social sciences that compel sociologists to apprehend the post-structural insights concerning the relation between society and individual, the arts and sciences, as well as a new appreciation for the political and moral implications of research (Clifford and Marcus, 1986).The authors here differentially address how we should understand turning points in relation to competing and complementary concepts that have emerged to understand how the social constitutes life stories. Among these recent developments, epistemological questions are crucial if we want to re-evaluate the role of turning points. It is timely to unpack and reassess the potential theoretical pliability of this sociological concept given a postmodern world that threatens to liquefy notions of identity and hasten social change. Under these conditions and in a new century, we must ask anew: what really constitutes a turning point? Clearly, turning points remain related to the life course (Elder, 1985) and are still regularly seen as closely associated with life transitions (Hareven, 1978; Hareven and Masaoka, 1988). Increasingly, however, more analytical questions have arisen

2

Introduction

that complicate the notion and are addressed here. Is every notable life course transition necessarily a turning point? (See Chapters Four and Five.) How do multiple events come to constitute turning points? (See Chapter Three.) Can multiple turning points occur simultaneously? (See Chapter One.) To what degree are turning points planned or unplanned, controlled or uncontrolled, or finally, variable in their centrality from one person to another? (See Chapters One, Two, Seven and Nine.) If a turning point can be chosen, how is it related to bifurcation, which is marked by the characteristics of unpredictability and irreversibility? (See Chapter Two.) How does one turning point inform a subsequent one? (See Chapters One, Three, Six and Eight.) Are turning points anticipated, recognised retrospectively, and/or do they have phases related to interpretation? (See Chapters Seven and Eight.) Indeed, what are the temporal dimensions to turning points; what is their duration, frequency or order? (See Chapters Two and Three.) Who has the authority to define turning points? (See Chapter Eight.) Should scholars define turning points or is this a domain that is justly the prerogative of subjects? (See Chapters Six and Eight.) How should we understand the subjective and objective dimensions of turning points? (See Chapters Seven and Ten.) These last three questions insist that research methodologists who elicit narratives, oral histories or biographies should problematise relationships between the researcher and the researched. Methodological questions concerning research on life stories and experiences have burgeoned with narrative, discursive, feminist and critical theory. The authors here implicitly and explicitly address the methodological questions and relate these to their particular, substantive area of empirical research (that is, artists, workers, single mothers, those experiencing early parental loss, lesbians, immigrants, youth gang members or religious converts). Most authors consider: How does the analysis of turning points relate to the method we use to collect empirical data? How is the meaning of turning point revealed by the case study, the oral history, the life story, the interview or ethnography? Can a late modern era that frames our lives as increasingly mobile and disconnected, and thus reflexively self-constructed via narrative, be better represented and/or understood by employing a concept like turning points (Giddens, 1991)? To ask who should define turning points is to recognise the crisis of representation in the previous 50 years or so. Politically astute epistemologists question just who gets to define what is real, true or noteworthy and as such have challenged traditional positivist approaches to research where objectivity is assumed rather than interrogated (see 3

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

Chapter Eight, for example). Other authors address how to incorporate the subjective element and retain an element of realism and materialism that acknowledges social constructions that might inform turning points (see Chapters One and Three). How might we use narrative theory to integrate subjective and objective elements in research? Surely the subjective dimension is a crucial corrective to historic imputations of meanings paraded as objective, yet a material dimension of history remains critical, paradoxically, if we are to recognise the hegemonic forces that can structure social and personal trajectories. In short, subjectivity seems necessary if insufficient for comprehending change that qualifies as a turning point once we realise the extent to which self-identities are also socially constituted.

Structure of the book The chapters have been organised to reveal ways that they ‘speak’ to one another, not only substantively but also theoretically. The book is organised to take into account the clusters of conditions and institutional contexts for understanding turning points, as well as the theoretical underpinnings that participate in other theoretical networks in late modern societies. We begin with two chapters – ‘Unpacking biographical narratives: investigating stories of artistic careers in Northern Jutland, Denmark’ by Feiwel Kupferberg and ‘Turning points in the life course: a narrative concept in professional conversions’ by Catherine Négroni. Each chapter provides muscular reviews of the literature on turning points for readers as they proceed to address their own empirical data on turning points in careers, respectively addressing the becoming of artists, and the choosing of occupational change by employees.As both authors show, turning points are intrinsic to narrative given their temporal dimension and that the subjective and structural are implicated one with the other. Feiwel Kupferberg’s chapter describes a research project on artistic career patterns in Northern Jutland, Denmark. It discusses how the interpretative work of a biographical researcher might change over the course of time, as more and more layers of interpretation are identified. Such layers need to be gradually unpacked by the researcher, as they are not immediately visible. One of the main obstacles for such a multilayered interpretative work seems to be the problem of incommensurability of or movement between alternative paradigms that Thomas Kuhn discovered. Such incommensurability

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Introduction

makes the translation of discourse or movement from one paradigm to another difficult. Incommensurabilities can be found both within the narrated stories of the interviewee, different available theoretical and methodological approaches and between current theory and the empirical material itself, suggesting that interpretative work is a highly complex activity which needs to be studied for its own sake. In her chapter, Négroni provides a review of international dialogue as well as French discussion on turning points as a background for her argument that the concept of turning point is best understood as a narrative concept which, via phases of latency and decision making, enables action. This argument is evidenced by her analysis of interviewees who have experienced bifurcation in their professional lives in France. Occupational change is the context for Négroni to relate bifurcation and the processes of instability during a turning point, instead of focusing on the lived experiences on either side of a turning point. She theorises that gestation of the ‘turning point’ for employees contains the troubles of the past and the bifurcations of the future at once. Thus, the concept of turning point might contribute to a theory of action. In the third chapter,Ana Gherghel and Marie-Christine Saint-Jacques provide a nuanced yet systematic evaluation of how life transitions, particularly conjugal separation, may or may not constitute turning points in the context of immigration. They conduct biographic interviews of immigrant single mothers of different ethnic origins in Canada to analyse whether or not immigration represents simply a transition or a turning point in the life of immigrant families who experience a conjugal separation after settling in the destination society. Using a life course approach, they develop models of familial trajectories. They find that for some single mothers a juxtaposition of transitions – immigration and separation – can represent an important bifurcation of their trajectory that suggests a turning point in their life course, yet others who may differ by lifestyles, perceptions and pre-migratory realities may not experience such a turning point in the life course. Thea Boldt’s Chapter Four also treats the concept of turning point in relation to the experience of immigration; and, like Gherghel and SaintJacques, she similarly questions whether overt change like immigration is necessarily a turning point for the actor. Boldt analyses a case study of a 50-year-old Polish migrant in Germany who exemplifies certain biographical strategies when dealing with unexpected and sometimes dramatic biographical changes like migration. She analyses how the dynamics of turning points are connected to the phenomenon of 5

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

ethnicisation of biographical experiences and emerges, in this instance, with the need for personal belonging to an ethnic group. Most important, she argues that in the case of migration biographies, we must recognise that biographical reinterpretation processes are not random and do not happen throughout the life course; instead, structures are more often reproduced or reiterated rather than transformed, and turning points are often centred on an initial turning point and are structured accordingly. Like Thea Boldt, Gerhard Jost’s research (Chapter Five) is located in Germany and he emphasises the biographical work that constitutes turning points as well as the relationship between one’s past and present life. Jost provides fresh theoretical insights by analysing three case studies on how children cope with the loss of a parent during childhood and its lifelong consequences; he argues that if we examine life events as experienced during childhood, then we can contribute to a better understanding of ‘turning points’ since children have a different range of action and a sense of time more protracted than adults. He finds that a critical life event like parental loss offers extensive, but not exclusive, potential for structuring the concerned person’s life story; in some life stories, it is an essential turning point, while in other life stories, other events play an equally important role. As life proceeds, new events can evoke the earlier turning points in both positive and painful ways. Chapter Six, by Verónica Zubillaga, is on turning points relevant to young who experience the pull of violent gangs and the constraints of poverty in Caracas, Venezuela. Theoretically, her chapter relates to Boldt’s chapter insofar as it address the importance of context and group belonging. She examines the usefulness of the concept of turning points in the effort to understand, first, the biographical narratives of young men who initiate and sustain a trajectory of violence, and second, the narratives of biographical reconversion related by young men who develop a trajectory of violence, but who managed to redefine their identities, lifestyles and life projects to repudiate violence. Based on a series of life stories collected between 2000 and 2006 with a range of young people, Zubillaga finds that the emergence of projects with an existential sense, and the presence of other allies – social and familial – are indispensable to confirm and sustain the second turning point. In Chapter Seven, Ágnes Sántha studies the specific phases and turning points of the life course that influence whether young people choose being single as a way of life or become single by virtue of structural conditions. To consider singlehood as a turning point is unique insofar as it is generally seen as a waiting site for the turning

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Introduction

point of marriage.The research focuses on a group of relatively young (25-40) urban singles from Budapest, who live alone and have neither a durable partnership nor children, and are from the upper social strata, with a high education. The methodology entailed conducting life course interviews with 15 Hungarian singles, eight women and seven men, and relying on discourse analysis. Inquiring how turning points relate to the experience of being single, Sántha finds that in spite of increasing numbers of singles and the thesis of individualisation or choice, Hungarian singles experience singleness as a transitory stage in life. Sántha’s chapter on singleness as a way of life is echoed in the following chapter, by Nicki Ward, on turning points in lesbian lives, insofar as both attend to family configurations that still lie outside ‘normative’ family structures symbolically, in spite of symbolic and statistical changes. Nicki Ward’s Chapter Eight focuses on changing family structures in modern Britain. She theoretically investigates how turning points function in public–private analyses, that is, how public narratives are constructed and affect personal turning points and, further, spur modifications of identity. Epistemologically, Ward takes a material discursive approach, and applies it to the biographic-narrative participatory method influenced by feminist theories. She conducts a life story interview and a stage two analytic interview with nine women who identify as lesbian between the ages of 26 and 49. Ward examines the narratives of lesbians in terms of their imagined life course trajectories, experienced contradictions and their agentic responses. She suggests that lesbian lives can be understood as epiphanies that enable the comparison of narrative plot lines with emergent or changing identities constituted by institutional and cultural discourses. Further, as her participatory method attests, she considers the question of textual authority, and deeply involves participants in the research.Ward argues that we need to ethically consider whether scholars, in contrast to participants, have the right to define turning points. We locate the chapter by Liana Ipatova after Ward’s because both attend to the relationship between public and private discourse, in spite of the seeming difference between lesbian lives and religious converts. Liana Ipatova’s Chapter Nine examines the growth in religious conversion among orthodox believers in Russia at the end of the 20th century. While the larger study draws on 30 biographical interviews with women between 20 and 50 years of age and on self-narratives drawn from the internet, Ipatova focuses on four case studies to illustrate a fourfold typology on religious conversion. Using a discursive

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Biography and turning points in Europe and America

approach, Ipatova analyses how religious conversion is a representation, where individuals re-evaluate and adjust their biographical projects to Orthodox values, thereby aligning public and private narratives. She shows that discursive frames, rhetorical forms and biographical patterns that are manifest in Orthodoxy serve as tools, if unconsciously, for constructing one’s own life narrative on conversion. We end with Feiwel Kupferberg’s Chapter Ten, which frames and highlights the advances represented here – theoretically and methodologically. He reveals the importance of integrating the notion of ‘event’ into our comprehension of narrative – and understanding that we are not necessarily speaking of institutionalised or ritualised life course transitions, but turning points granted or constructed by the individual. Kupferberg builds an analysis of narrative devices (for example, the narrator/character divide, the structurating factor of time and the myth and modes of narration) to illustrate the contributions in the text, and he points to the enduring sociological promise of turning points as a tool for deconstructing narratives that subjects confer with meaning. References Clifford, J. and Marcus, G.E. (1986) Writing culture:The poetics and politics of ethnography, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Elder, G.H. (1985) ‘Perspectives on the life course’, in G.H. Elder (ed) Life course dynamics: Trajectories and transitions 1968-1980 (Project of SSRC Committee on the Life Course), Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Giddens, A. (1991) Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the late modern age, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Hareven,T. (ed) (1978) The family and the life course in historical perspective, New York: Academic Press. Hareven, T. and Masaoka, K. (1988) ‘Turning points and transitions: perceptions of the life course’, Journal of Family History, vol 13, no 3, pp 271-89. Mead, G.H. (1934) Mind, self and society, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Mills, C. Wright (1959) The sociological imagination, New York: Oxford University Press. Strauss, A.L. (1997) Mirrors and masks:The search for identity, revised 2nd edn, New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers.

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one

Unpacking biographical narratives: investigating stories of artistic careers in Northern Jutland, Denmark Feiwel Kupferberg

The concerns of sociologists when engaging in biography research are different from both the caring professions and oral history. Although there are clear parallels between, in particular, oral history and sociological biography research concerning methodological issues related to how to conduct and interpret biographical interviews (Charlton et al, 2007; Perks and Thomson, 2009), there are also important theoretical and conceptual differences. The latter originate from the knowledge interest of sociologists that partly coincide with but are nevertheless slightly different from historians.This can be illustrated by the works of Alessandro Portelli (1981, 1991, 2003). What mostly interests Portelli is how Italians who participated in the Second World War interpreted this single historical event. What were the moral lessons they drew and how did they create meaning out of it? Sociological biography research is also interested in events, indeed the concept ‘turning point’ can only be understood or conceptualised as an event. It is not action, or structure, or order; it is something elusive from a sociological point of view, since ‘events’ do not have any strict or stable status in sociological theorising.The very concept belongs to a different intellectual terrain, the country in which the professional historian feels at home but where the sociologist feels at a loss. In order to become comfortable with this elusive concept, sociologists need to translate it into their own language of action, structure and order.The problem of translation between disciplines has been a cornerstone in Thomas Kuhn’s works on the history of science (1962, 1974, 1977, 2000). What Kuhn suggests is that all scientists or scholars are trained in a particular discipline and that this training has far-reaching effects on how they understand what science is or how to go about working

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Biography and turning points in Europe and America

in a scientifically legitimate manner.This close identification with one’s disciplines creates problems of translation. It is not only that the same phenomena, say, a ‘biographical interview’ is described with different words (biographical interview/oral history) – these words actually do not mean exactly the same things.Psychologists of memory (Lundh et al, 1992) talk of semantic networks and nodes that connect words and phenomena described by words, but these networks are never identical, which means that translations are never exact, only approximate. Ultimately this can seriously block easy and fluent communication and make attempts of interdisciplinary cooperation slightly irritating, energy demanding and eventually felt as a waste of time. Kuhn calls this phenomenon ‘incommensurability’ (Hacking, 1983).Although Kuhn does not refer to psychological research on how long-term memory functions, the concept he eventually arrives at to describe incommensurability, the different types of ‘taxonomy’ or systems of classification in different disciplines (Stanzel, 1984; Hacking, 1995), is very close to the psychological concepts of semantic networks and nodes, controlling what paths of association are shortest and feel more ‘natural’ and what paths take a much longer time to traverse, feel somewhat strained or artificial or are judged as not very convincing, problematic, unbelievable and ultimately illegitimate.What is interesting about Kuhn’s concept of ‘incommensurability’ is that it describes much of the challenges biographical researchers face.They are, on the one hand, sociologists who have been trained in the methodology of conducting and interpreting structured or semi-structured interviews, where the researcher is more or less completely in charge (Kvale, 1999). Now they have to face the slightly uncomfortable or unusual situation of not being fully in control but move to a situation where interviewer and interviewee are interlocutors about a topic which the subject of research is much more knowledgeable about than the researcher. The researcher has to supress any preconceived knowledge he or she might have in order to produce an interpretable document out of the interview. The problem of incommensurability of language does not stop here, however; it only begins. It is when we come to the phase of interpreting the material that the real challenges emerge. How does one combine the sociological vocabulary with the different types of semantics that have to be learned in order to make a valid interpretation of such subjective material? Here the sociologist needs to enter such foreign terrains as linguistics, narratology, dramaturgy and so on. But the problem of incommensurability is not only of an interdisciplinary kind – it can also manifest itself in cultural clashes

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Unpacking biographical narratives

between the conceptual world of sociology and the particular ‘other’ that the sociologist is interested to investigate. This creates problems of translation between the biography researcher and the people interviewed that are not very easy to overcome. Understanding the slightly foreign or different language of the world of the informants who, referring to slightly other ways of classifying the world, other ‘taxonomies’, becomes a task in itself. What might look as something highly familiar to the sociologist, turns out not to be the case at all. The language used by those interviewed might contain secrets. This is why such biographical interviews sometimes have to be unpacked not only once or twice, but several times. One of the life worlds for which a sociological or biographical training might seem to present few problems of translation is the art world. Many things that artists do indeed make sense from a sociological point of view, and this sense making seems to be possible to reach and reconstruct by sociological concepts and theories. But the ease with which the biographical researcher seems to reach the cognitive goals, the very triumphs of the biographical method in this somewhat esoteric (Hughes, 1964) area, can turn out to be illusive. Important aspects, even those that concern the familiar concept of ‘career’, can turn out to be defined or understood in a slightly different and hence confusing manner. Perhaps artists are not interested in careers at all, at least not in the sense that sociologists use the word? But if they are not interested in careers, what are they interested in? How do artists go about constructing the meaning of life? Once the sociologist realises that artists use different ways of categorising the world, different taxonomies, it becomes complicated. Being trained in a different taxonomy is what makes it so difficult. How do we translate from one language to the other?

Artistic careers in Northern Jutland In the early summer of 2002, I and my research assistant Bibi Bording, who was preparing her Master’s degree at the Sociology Department of Aalborg University in the Northern part of the Danish Peninsula (Jutland), interviewed a number of artists in the region but also other actors within the ‘artistic field’ that could be described as being part of the ‘art world’. Both concepts are well known for sociologists.The ‘field’ concept was introduced by the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu and has also been used in his own studies of artists (1974, 1995).The concept ‘art worlds’ was originally invented by Danto, an art philosopher, but

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most sociologists know it from the book by Howard Becker (1982). Victoria Alexander’s standard book Sociology of the arts (2003) mainly refers to Becker’s core idea, that artistic work and careers are, from a sociological point of view, not fundamentally different from, say, the work and career of plumbers. In both cases work and career is pursued by ‘doing things together’. Just as the plumber is judged by customers, there is an art audience that imposes its aesthetic standards on the artist (illustrated by the reference to ‘squares’ among jazz musicians in a chapter in Becker’s book Outsiders).In contrast, Nina Zahner, in her work on Andy Warhol’s career Die neuen Regeln der Kunst. Andy Warhol und der Umbau der Kunstbetriebs im 20. Jahrhundert (2005), refers to Bourdieu’s field concept of ‘consecration’. For Bourdieu a field, like a magnetic field, contains strong elements of power. In particular ‘symbolic power’ (Bourdieu, 1974) is strived for. Symbolic power takes a particular form in artistic fields. Whereas economic capital is most important in the field of business and social capital is crucial in the field of education, symbolic capital in the artistic field is mainly dependent on cultural capital. Hence artists are busy accumulating cultural capital, since this is what gives them access to symbolic capital. It is this process that Bourdieu calls ‘consecration’. Strangely neither Becker nor Bourdieu were particularly concerned about a third aspect of artistic careers which is foregrounded in PierreMichel Menger’s work (1989, 1999; Menger and Gurgang, 1996). For Menger artistic careers are highly uncertain or risky from a labour market and economic point of view. Incomes are unstable and can vary immensely between artists – being unemployed for longer or shorter periods is normal. Although Menger’s work is mainly based on performing artists, the core concept of uncertainty seems to be applicable to visual artists as well. The latter are usually not employed, they work more like small businesspeople or entrepreneurs do. They have an idea and try to find patrons or customers who are willing to pay for supporting that idea.

Research design, sample and access The uncertainty of artistic careers probably intrigued us most at least at the beginning of the project and most of our questions were related to that topic. It also informed our sample. As suggested by Moulin in his classical work on the French art market (1987), the way the uncertainty of artistic careers is coped with in the visual arts is through a number of economically supporting institutions such as art critics, art galleries and art museums. These institutions function as mediators between 12

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the artist and potential buyers (art collectors). In Northern Jutland we found that there was yet another institution that made life easier for artists, namely art associations that provided exhibition halls for aspiring artists and where some of the exhibited art works were than allotted among the paying members after the end of the exhibition, so these were also included into our sample.As to the choice of sample of artists, we received help from a local artist and part-time librarian employed at the university library. The librarian at our first meeting, having been informed of what the project was about (artistic careers and in particular the economic uncertainties of entering such career) as well as our ideas about a sample that could be described as representative in an ‘analytical’ sense, helped us to make a list of artists whom we could approach.The list was homogeneous in the sense that all were some kind of visual artists, but at the same time heterogeneous, as there were both established and non-established artists, male and female, working with different types of materials (ceramics, textiles, iron sculpture, painting) but also styles (realist, abstract, installation) represented in the sample.

Biographical interviews Most interviews with the informants, both artists and non-artists, were made either in their home or at work. Two interviews, both with a key person, the installation artist/part-time librarian Bruno Kjaer, took place at my office at the university. Before each interview we (or rather my assistant) made a telephone call, introducing the idea of the project and referring to our key informant. It worked without problems in all cases, apart from the interview with the local museum curator, who first declined to participate due to lack of time, until this problem was solved by a telephone call from Bruno Kjaer. One of the few highly successful artists (the ceramicist) did grant us a long and pleasant interview in her garden (three hours as the sun was setting) but later withdrew from the project (probably because she had during the interview voluntarily revealed some intimate details from her youth and previous marriage that she probably had second thoughts about). Another highly successful artist (probably with the highest income of them all) was unable to find the time necessary. This left us with only two successful artists (in the sense that they could live off their art), the textile artist and a realist painter. All the others had to find other ways of financial support to make ends meet. The method or heuristic technique (Abbott, 2004) we used during all the interviews with artists was the basic heuristic rule of the German

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School (see Chapters Four and Ten): let the interviewee start with an improvised narrative, don’t interrupt but wait patiently until this first originated story has been completed! Then ask questions that take their point of departure from the improvised narrative itself! In this way the researcher maximises the chance that the story one gets is as close as possible to the way the informant tries to make meaning of events that happened in the past. This is because the biographical method, as oral history, is not interested in facts as such but how such facts are interpreted by the subject: ‘Oral sources tell us not just what people did, but what they wanted to do, what they believed they were doing, and what they now think they did’ (Portelli, 1981, p 99). When trying to interpret the interviews we, as oral historians, also used the basic insight of recent theories of identity (Giddens, 1991; Stenberg, 2002) and in particular meaning (Bruner, 1986, 1990).When individuals try to establish meaning in life they use narratives, but such narratives are not invented by the interviewee during the interview. Narrative structures already exist in the shape of cultural scripts (see Chapter Ten, this volume). Indeed as argued by Polkinghorne, when subjects try to remember what happened, to reconstruct memory, narratives become the ‘organizing principle of human experience’ (Polkinghorne, 1988, p 17).Again the similarity with oral history is striking. Grele (2007) cites Tonkin’s seminal work Narrating our pasts where the interpretation of the researcher rests on the methodological assumption that ‘the mode or genre in which temporal accounts occur in order to grasp the character of the interlocutors’ social action and to evaluate the information that the account conveys’ (Tonkin, 1992, p 3).The first sociologists exploring the power of narratives to unlock or decode this cultural script for improvised narration were Labov and Waletzky (1967).According to Labov (1972), everyday storytelling tends to follow the same basic scheme in order to accomplish the feeling of ‘drama’. The narrator starts with an ‘abstract’ which summarises the main point.Then the narrator provides some ‘background’ information. After having described the ‘initial situation’ there is a ‘complication’ followed by an ‘evaluation’ and a ‘coda’ (for a somewhat different version, see Kohler Riessman, 2008, p 92; for a critique, see Patterson, 2008).Kress and van Leuwen (2001, p 119) provide a good example of how such a simple but dramatic narrative works: Abstract: ‘Listen what my baby did the other day.’ Background information: ‘Well you know the piano I bought for her.’ Initial situation: ‘So far she’s only been kicking at it.’ Complication:‘But yesterday I was just sitting 14

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there, reading a magazine, and suddenly I heard her play differently, and then you know, I looked around and there she was, playing it with her hands.’ Evaluation: ‘Isn´t that amazing?’ Coda: ‘I bet she’s going to be a star.’ Stories of this sort provide the core for most narrative practices everywhere in the world, in all culture and at all times. Hence they have a ‘universal value’ that is particularly interesting for sociologists. They are part of the life world and seem to be a natural way to convey information (Abbott, 2002). As suggested by speech act theorists, we never merely describe the world. Statements about the world are ‘illocutionary’ (Searle, 1969; Austin, 1975), that is, they seek to accomplish something, to change the world. It is in order to serve as speech acts in the above sense that stories are built around or rather build up feelings of dramatic tension. This is the reason they are often structured around some memorable event (indeed, most narratives seem to be reconstructions of what cognitive psychologists call ‘episodic memory’ and not other parts of longterm memory such as ‘semantic memory’, ‘procedural memory’ or ‘perceptual memory’ and so on; see Lundh et al, 1992, and Schacter, 1997). A memorable event usually suggests something unexpected or out of the ordinary (a concept close to Strauss’s 1959 ‘turning point’; see Chapter Ten). At the same time, however, these events have to be told in a certain way that makes them worth listening to.This is where the dramatic ‘scheme’ that Labov found characterised stories of this everyday type come in. The narrator needs to draw attention to him/ herself but also to hold that attention until the end. Since people have very limited working memory and tend to retain the last things said (Donald, 2001), the concluding coda seems to be just as important as the attention-drawing abstract. The ‘abstract’ forces the audience into the position of listener, the ‘coda’ makes the story memorable and the rest conveys the information in a dramatic manner.From the point of view of sociology it is this ‘dramatic’ aspect that makes a biographical interview valuable from a research point of view. We are not looking for or expecting the informant to reconstruct his or her life history in a ‘paradigmatic’ but ‘narrative’ manner (Bruner, 1986; Polkinghorne, 1988). The job of the biographical interviewer is to avoid the argumentative mode of the academic text (Bazerman, 1988) as much as possible during the interview. In a narrative context arguments tend to become retrospective evaluations from the point of view of the present rather than attempts to ‘relive’ the past. Arguments

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made in the present also tend to ‘legitimate’ actions and choices made in the past, that is, they have an ‘ideological’ function. Instead the interviewer should try to probe the informant into ‘reliving’ the past as it was experienced at the time, reproducing the actual value hierarchy and circumstances out of which the intentions and moral of the lived past was brought about.The guiding question should be, what made choices in this lived past meaningful (and morally acceptable) for the informant at that particular time (time of the past)? These choices might not feel meaningful or legitimate today because life circumstances and value hierarchies have changed. The point is that these previously experienced relevance structures of everyday life are precisely what the biographical interview must seek to capture and make visible through the biographical interview. This is the reason why the strategy of the biographical interviewer should aim at stories that seek to relive the past. For this purpose a ‘narrative’ mode is preferable to a ‘paradigmatic’ (argumentative) mode of telling a life story. By challenging the informant to stick to the narrative mode, the researcher can be more certain that the told story stays as close as possible to the lived life (I here abstract from the complications of the narrator/character dialectic mentioned in Chapter Ten).

Sociological narratology: personal and social destiny Narratology is only one important tool for unpacking the stories that come out in biographical interviews. Before I present a complementary model the researcher might find valuable in order to decode certain ‘gaps’ of meaning emerging in biographical narratives (as these are analysed during the research process), I will try to illustrate how a sociologically informed narratological analysis of a biographical interview can be made through an in-depth interpretation of my key informant, the part-time artist Bruno Kjaer. At the time of the interviews (early summer of 2002) he was in his mid-fifties and had been employed as a librarian at the library at Aalborg University for many years. We conducted two interviews with Bruno Kjaer. During the first interview he shortly described his own biography, where he basically told us that he was an installation artist and that he had chosen to become a half-time artist, since this allowed him to be more ‘authentic in his art’ as he did not have to do art for a living.During the second interview, this first ‘presentation of self ’ functioned as a kind of ‘coda’ in Labov’s sense. It thus served as the conclusion toward which Bruno Kjaer’s second narrative was directed. At the start of the second interview, Kjaer represented an ‘abstract’ which seemed to suggest a 16

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conflict between this personal destiny that he had at the present arrived at and a ‘social’ destiny or what his life should have been had it followed its normally expected family-determined life course. This conflict is immediately explained by adding background information and facts about the initial situation: ‘I ... well you could say that I should actually never have become an artist. I come from such a real worker’s family and, eeeh ... where you are not interested in art, and they are not interested in it. I then later discovered that my father had cut out the reviews about me, this is something I have discovered myself, he never spoke about it, it is also something you do not ask about ... that’s his business to preoccupy himself with ... that’s what I do.’ Kjaer here indicates a cultural conflict between the world of art and the world of workers’ families but also some unstated norms that allow for a compromise between these two worlds. In spite of the fact that art as such was not present physically in his family – it was absent as ‘cultural’ capital in Bourdieu’s sense – the father seems nevertheless to be proud of his son’s accomplishments in the ‘symbolic’ field of art (Bourdieu, 1974). This suggests that the family values were not in principle in opposition to the values of art as such; it was rather not seen as a ‘realistic’ choice for a worker’s son (Bourdieu, 1990b). The father acted in accordance with Bourdieu’s sociology of family-structured life trajectories (see Chapter Ten), where changing class positions is not seen as impossible in principle, but difficult in practice to accomplish, hence the father’s pride in his son’s achievements. The other norm in working-class families foregrounded in the start of the narrative is a kind of mutual tolerance based on not asking questions, “it is something not asked about”. This in turn seems to lead to what Isaiah Berlin conceptualised as a ‘negative’ definition of freedom (Berlin, 1979). Being or remaining a working man was not defined as an ideal goal (positive freedom); it was merely a realistic goal. Hence if one’s son is going to pursue another goal, that is up to him, “that’s his business to preoccupy himself with ... that’s what I do” (negative freedom).These two norms, the realistic norm of choosing an occupation which is in reach for a worker’s son and the tolerance based on not asking/negative freedom, are what Bourdieu would call ‘homological’, that is, they somehow seem to belong to the same ‘practical logic’ (Bourdieu, 1990a) of meaning and meaning creation.

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Becoming a worker is not seen as an ideal goal, it is only a realistic goal. Not spending too much talk on life choices hence seems to be logical. Why talk about something that is ‘normal’ or ‘self-evident’? Not talking about these issues at the same time indirectly creates an autonomous space of action. Since the father will not pry into what you are doing, workers’ sons are free to experiment with their lives as they like – that’s none of the father’s business. As in Labov’s scheme, this ‘abstract’ is followed by a ‘complication’ that changes the informant’s personal destiny or life course. This complication is clearly a ‘turning point’ in Bruno Kjaer’s life. It appears for the first time in the ‘improvised’ (impromptu) narrative (Schütze, 1984) and is repeated a second time in more details by the prompting of one of the research interviewers. In the first (impromptu) version, Kjaer emphasises the importance of change of social environment or milieu. The turning point is associated with changes of ‘significant others’ or a change of social relations, new role models and an accompanying resocialisation and professional training: ‘When I was 16 I for some reason began to be interested in visual art, actually in contrast to all my comrades, I went around alone and visited exhibitions and began to work with the things gradually and this way I come in contact with the milieu in Aalborg. At that time there was something that was called, it actually still exists, it was called “the institute for art and culture” which ran something like an evening school, and there I came in contact with people like me, and it was a pleasure to meet others who had the same interests. And it, there is some education organised and there are, you could say older artists from the city.Then you automatically enter the milieu ... well one thing follows the other and you get to know them and come to their workshops and this way I become trained.’ Later in the interview, after the ‘impromptu’ version had exhausted itself, we returned to this issue and received a second, ‘prompted’ version. This time the focus was interestingly less on social relations (significant others) and more on the aesthetic experience as such: ‘I remember what a great experience it was to go to an exhibition … how shocked I was when I at that time and another time … there was this among other things a big exhibition at a technical school, I believe it was a kind of 18

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technical school, technical seminar, where I saw a painter whose name is Anders Kirkegaard for the first time, and I was really shaken. You are 16, your whole apparatus for receiving is put to work and then you come in here and then you see such a painting which was completely different from what I was used to. It started many things, but why I suddenly came to the idea to walk around and look at exhibitions. I don’t know, I don’t have any explanations for it.’ This suggests that career aspects that sociologists have been trained to look for does not fully capture the ‘relevance structure’ of all artistic experiences. There seems to be an experiential element here, which the sociological language has great difficulties in capturing. We need to translate this experiential dimension somehow, but how? What does it mean from within sociological language itself? How can it be translated and can it be translated at all? Here we encounter the ‘incommensurability’ problem that Kuhn talks of.

Rational choice and contradictory feelings The analysis above suggests that a biographically informed narratology might help us to overcome the false dilemma between a ‘constructivist’ and ‘realistic’ approach. Sociological concepts are also ‘constructions’ (Searle, 1996) and hence neither more nor less ‘objective’ than aesthetic concepts used by artists to try to make sense of artistic experiences. But a sociologically informed narratology might also be helpful in order to see how objectivistic (structuralist) and subjectivistic (agent-oriented) accounts of lived lives within sociology itself seem to be two aspects of the same thing (this phenomenon can be compared with Abbott’s interesting concept ‘fractalisation’; see Abbott, 2001).A case in point is Strauss’s (1959) ‘subjectivistic’ (emotional) concept of ‘milestone’ and Hughes’ ‘objectivistic’ (rational) concept of the entrepreneurial risk taking due to the uncertainty about careers in modernity.The problem with such supposedly rational choices in modern societies is that social actors rarely have the information necessary to make a well-informed, fully rational choice. We have to make do with the less than perfect degree of knowledge that we actually have. In my study of Danish nurses (Kupferberg, 1999), some informants told us that had they known the drawbacks (such as being called in for work at all times due to lack of personnel, which frequently destroyed private plans) they would have reconsidered and possibly chosen a different profession (on the 19

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contrary, a nurse who had originally chosen to work as a pharmacist was pleasantly surprised by nursing work, because now she could at least spend time talking intimately with a patient). But due to the inherent uncertainty of modern life, social agents also have strong feelings about making such seemingly rational choices (Hughes, 1964). These feelings are revealed in the following excerpt from the biographical interview with Bruno Kjaer’s case, at a time when he was considering whether to make the career choice of becoming a full-time artist or play it safe, by training himself for another, ‘normal’ or less risky ‘profession’. We can, if we want, describe such a situation in objectivistic terms (rational risk taking). But we can also describe it in more emotional terms. In the latter case, Strauss’s ‘subjectivistic’ model of how turning points are experienced emotionally seems to be more adequate. ‘I was working with graphics, no I am a graphic artist, so I got the opportunity to see the machines there, it was a pleasure to come and go at such a place ...and one of them I went with was called Ole Tophoj, and I saw how much graphics he made and at that time I considered whether I should apply to the art academy or if I should do something else…. I am actually trained as a librarian, I became that in 1981 and together with it I worked in graphics. In 1982 I have my first exhibition at Charlottenburg and eh ... in the middle of the nineties I come into a gallery, an art gallery in the city, we are a few who share an art gallery, and in this way you extend your circle of acquaintances ... eeh – and in 1981 ... I become a member of something called Saehrimmer, the union of artists, which is seen as an Aalborg group and that means, now I am the youngest, than I have some older friends who partly can guide me, partly help me to get my art out.’ Although the emotions do not come out very strongly here, this might be an effect of the fact that Kjaer in the narrative also represses the structural uncertainty of making career choices. The latter (the uncertainty) is not directly mentioned in the narrative; it is merely hinted at. Given that artistic careers, as suggested above, are indeed extremely uncertain, we can assume this to be the case as a kind of ‘background’ knowledge (Searle, 1996), helping us to decode the more or less unspoken message here. Let us assume that we are dealing with

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a situation that is characterised by uncertainty. What kind of feelings would we expect? Here Strauss typology might be helpful. What kind of ‘turning point’ are we talking of here? It is certainly not a ‘last straw’, since last straws liberate us to make a move. It is not ‘meeting a challenge’ either, because the challenge is not confronted but avoided. Nor is it merely a self-assessment or ‘milestone’, since the element of self-assessment leads nowhere. It rather seems to represent a fourth category, which we could call ‘blocked decision’ (perhaps best illustrated by Strauss’s metaphor of the fast-moving train coming to a stop).Such a ‘blocked decision’ is not merely a subjective account or creation of meaning; it also reflects a structurally imposed dilemma.The objective ‘problem situation’ of the agent (Popper, 1999) forces the individual into a stand still. His previous dreams of becoming a full-time artist are interrupted as he chose not to enter the art academy to become a full-time artist but instead decided to enter the school for librarians in order to ‘play it safe’. Art became a ‘hidden’ or ‘secondary’ career choice, although he would subjectively have preferred another choice. This suggests that a subjective interpretation of biographical interviews is not in contradiction to, but opens up for a complementary objectivistic interpretation. Indeed both Bourdieu’s theory of the importance of family background and Abbott’s theory of occupational choice as exclusively or mainly determined from ‘within’ the system of professions itself (see Chapter Ten) might have been relevant. A possible interpretation of Kjaer’s account of his career choice could be that he did not apply to the art academy because these schools were elite schools with very few openings (Elkins, 2001).There is nothing in Kjaer’s narrative so far that supports such an interpretation, however.The most plausible interpretation is Bourdieu’s theory of the importance of family background. Kjaer’s choice to enter the school for librarians is rational in the sense of being more ‘realistic’. Such realism is probably more frequent among individuals raised in a working-class or non-academic environment. This suggests that Giddens’ (1991) more ‘voluntaristic’ theory of individuals making choices that are primarily structured by subjective meaning making (biographical narratives) might have a hidden class agenda. This is how the world looks like if you have been raised in an academic environment; it is not how the world looks if you happen to have been born and raised in a working-class environment (this could be another version of the ‘incommensurability’ problem raised by Kuhn).

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Complication and moral Narratives do not only help us to unpack the complicated relations between objective structures and subjective shaping or constructions of meaning. Narratives do more; they raise the issue of moral worth. Making ‘realistic’ choices seems to lack moral stature and makes the person appear as not very daring, even boorish perhaps. The story cannot end here; it would be unsatisfactory as a narrative. It also turns out that the story is indeed incomplete – we are only halfway through. There is indeed yet another ‘complication’, and it comes precisely when everything looks perfect and rosy: ‘And there I go for many years, until the mid-eighties, than I cannot stand making graphics anymore. I actually had a lot of success as graphic artist, and a research is made that year by the national union of visual artists, what the artists make as an income, and there I could see that I was placed at a very good, eh, end, but ... eeh ... then I drop it, at the same time there is a development, things begin to develop, I begin with a new material and I take up new problems, eeh, and other type of tasks arrive, decorative commissions and other things begin to arrive. In this way things happen to you, you can always try to be better at what you work with and also to enter the right places at the right exhibitions.’ A complication arrives. Although Kjaer opted for a primary career as a librarian, his secondary and hidden career as a visual artist takes off and achieves a life of its own. This very success leads him to the brink of a third turning point that he approaches with a degree of daring and lack of realism missing in the previous turning point, when he chose the safe road of living ‘for’ rather then ‘off ’ art, by getting a librarian degree.This time he is intent not to repeat the mistake. Being successful in his secondary career as artist, he becomes more daring and rejects the easy success he has accomplished so far. Kjaer now reinvents himself as an artist, moving from ‘graphics’ to become the ‘installation’ artist that he is today (at the time of the interview). This is a new artistic identity, but not only in terms of the sociological concept ‘career’ but also in terms of ‘aesthetics’. He has found his personal destiny at last – or so it seems – and this completes the narrative. He has arrived at the ‘coda’ presented for us already at the first interview.This turning point fits well with Strauss’s concept of ‘milestone’. Given the degree of ‘consecration’ or symbolic capital 22

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he had accumulated, he could make an assessment that allowed him to move on in life. The narrative construction also fits well with Fuchs-Ebaugh’s model (1988). There are ‘first doubts’ (being fed up with graphic art), looking for an ‘alternative’(finding installation art) and constructing an ‘ex-identity’ as a former graphic artist who has moved on to ‘new material’ and ‘new problems’. But the logic of it all is moral. Kjaer’s story now achieves the degree of moral stance lacking in the second turning point, dominated by a ‘realistic’ choice natural for a working-class child.

Dramaturgical structure of biographical narratives But narratives do not only introduce issues of morality into biographical narratives. Such narratives are cultural constructs that exist independent of any narrator and impose or at least suggest themselves for the narrator trying to construct subjective meaning out of his life experiences.These cultural constructs do not exist in a social vacuum, however. Theories of dramaturgy emphasise the sociological elements of how dramas are constructed by culture. A script is not merely a cultural artefact; it always refers back to social reality. If we look at how drama is constructed, what we find are social actors interacting. There is the ‘protagonist’ who is assumed to pursue certain goals or ‘objects’. There is also the ‘antagonist’ (say, the present encumbant of a revered position for the protagonist waiting for a job opening or a possible contender for the same job opening). The protagonist hence encounters ‘obstacles’ that need to be overcome in the given ‘setting’ (see Chapter Ten). But the protagonist is not alone; he or she is assisted in pursuing his or her goal by a ‘helper’.If we retell Bruno Kjaer’s narrative in these dramaturgised terms, it turns out that his social as well as personal drama is structured around two main conflicts in his life.The first conflict as we have seen is a classical ‘father–son’ conflict, where the son is the protagonist, in a given setting (working-class family), resisted by an antagonist (the father), who prefers his son to become a worker as the more realistic goal but in a stubbornly taciturn manner (avoiding the topic). From a moral point of view, the father represents society, which is structured for the purpose of keeping things as it is.The conflict starts because the goal of the son is to become an artist. In order to realise this goal, the son receives assistance from a number of ‘helpers’, older or experienced artists, who seem to function as alternative father figures or role models.This ‘primal’ conflict is repeated in a ‘secondary’ conflict or theme that reappears again and 23

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again in Kjaer’s narrative, made visible by the distinction between the ‘authentic’ artist who lives ‘for’ art and the non-authentic artist who merely lives ‘off ’ art. The story here gets a second type of moral twist suggested by White (1981), and the narrative acquires a new meaning. There is moral ‘danger’ waiting ahead for the artist who happens to become too successful for his own good in the marketplace. Success in the marketplace, Bourdieu’s ‘economic capital’, represents a clear threat to the ‘symbolic capital’.The latter has the highest value in the artistic field. In other words, if one seeks to achieve consecration as an artist, a successful ‘bourgeois’ life is not what one should aim at – it is the wrong goal.Emphasising this dramaturgical element makes us aware of a more abstract turning point that looms somewhere in the deep cultural and moral structure of art worlds which is difficult to capture within at least some sociological semantics (uncertain careers), but which makes perfect sense within artistic or aesthetic semantics (but which needs to be translated into sociological terms such as Bourdieu attempted). Again the problem of ‘incommensurability’ presents itself as a challenge for the sociological researcher. This more abstract narrative turned out to have been present already at the first interview, done mainly for the purpose of access and research design. Here Kjaer argued that successful artists, living ‘off ’ their art, gradually became less authentic. This could be seen in the tendency to ‘repeat’ themselves rather than moving on and exploring new areas (as he himself had done when shifting from graphics to installation art). According to this moral tale, in order to become commercially successful, the artist feels a pressure to stop experimenting and stick to the same forms of presentation (and perhaps also motives). The work of the artist begins to look like an industrial ‘brand’ or ‘logotype’ which is precisely what marketing strategists recommend for companies competing in the global marketplace. Such a ‘branding’ strategy in reality means to abandon the value hierarchy of artistic fields where symbolic and not economic capital is ranked highest (Bourdieu, 1995). It is in order to counter such a ‘danger’ that artists need to preserve the ‘purity’ (Douglas, 2002) of the artistic value hierarchy. This imminent moral danger is represented by certain agents operating within the artistic field of which the pure artist (living ‘for’ rather than ‘off ’ art) needs to stay clear, such as owners of art galleries as well as private collectors (Moulin, 1987). There are several strands in Bruno Kjaer’s narrative that support this dominant and dramatic moral tale. His first ‘abstract’ in Labov’s sense, presented during our first, business-like interview, stated that he was a part-time artist and that this was a conscious choice, allowing him to 24

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stay true to the authentic values of the artistic community. In the second interview the ‘abstract’ is rather the foregrounding of the father–son story. This new ‘abstract’ is abandoned though later in the narrative, as the interview returns to the storyline of the first narrative of the authentic artist. This time we are told more details of Kjaer’s choice of becoming a part-time artist. The moral of this second narrative is that by becoming a part-time artist he made a personal sacrifice for art. When working as a graphic artist he showed signs of commercial success. He referred to scientific research that compared the incomes of working artists in Denmark, and according to this research, Kjaer was at the time placed at the ‘very good end’ of the scale, which suggests that at that time he was in a position where he could have lived ‘off ’ rather than merely ‘for’ art, had he chosen to stay within this line of art. Given the commercial success he had achieved at the time this research on the incomes of artists in Denmark was done, he could in principle have abandoned his job as a librarian and have become a full-time artist. Instead, by moving into installation art, he practically destroyed this realistic chance of becoming a full-time artist. Hence he made a sacrifice. He avoided the ‘danger’ of selling out, fearing that he would become too successful for his own good as an artist, and abandoning the ‘pure’ goals of art, symbolic capital, for the dangerous temptation of accumulating economic capital.

Pragmatic motives and compromises So far we have concentrated purely on Kjaer’s individual case. This case seems to fit Bourdieu’s theory very well, both in the general sense (how careers are shaped by early socialisation in families of origin) and Bourdieu’s specific theory of artistic careers (the predominance of symbolic capital over economic capital in the value hierarchy in art worlds). According to Bourdieu (1995), the ‘rules of art’ are indeed structured around this very conflict. This neat conclusion becomes fuzzy, however, as soon as we broaden the analysis and start looking at the other artists interviewed for the study.Indeed, what is striking is the highly ‘pragmatic’ way in which most contemporary artists in the sample interviewed (12 artists) seem to approach this issue and the length to which they seem to be willing to go in striking the necessary compromises in order to survive as artists. If we start with the youngest artists we interviewed, those who were only in the beginning of their career, these did not seem to be worried at all about getting ‘too’ successful. Their main strategy was to become known not only in the artistic community but also in the wider society as such. Here 25

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the existence of a ‘public sector’ which is (not yet) run only according to monetary values but where ideals of democracy and fair treatment is somehow still alive, helps to put off the ‘dangers’ of living ‘off ’ and not merely ‘for’ art.An artist in his thirties, Lars Wilhelmsson, seems to have achieved his first goal, to get public support and publicity for his art. The ‘helper’ here was the arts council in the city which financed several of his experimental art projects. In his narrative the moral danger of living ‘off ’ art is virtually absent. Another young artist, Sanne Moe, a former nurse who receives unemployment benefits, is mostly concerned about getting fair treatment from the unemployment agency. The main threat or danger as she sees it is that the agency (which in Denmark is administered by trades unions) will deny her the right to receive welfare benefits, due to administrative regulations which forbid people receiving unemployment benefits from doing any kind of work, even if it happens to be unpaid, because you are then categorised as no longer available for the labour market. Jenny Hansen, a relatively successful weaver of art tapestries, at the time of our interview, had reached the point in her career where her own income from the sale of these tapestries was almost equal to her husband’s, a high school mathematics teacher. It seemed she took great pride and satisfaction in no longer being financially dependent on her husband. He still helped her, but now his help had the form of expert assistance – her routine is that she starts by painting a small picture, 10 × 10 inches. This model is then enlarged 5-10 times and transformed into a visual pattern on which she can start stitching the tapestry (she puts colour to the yarn herself). This involves some mathematical calculations where her husband’s skill as mathematician is of great help. Far from sensing any ‘danger’ of her relative success, it had helped her achieve the financial independence that Ibsen thought women also had a right to strive for (as suggested in Ibsen’s play ‘A doll’s house’). Poul Anker Bech, the most commercially successful artist who had taken the leap from half-time artist (he formerly worked as teacher) to full-time artist some years before the interview, did not seem to have any moral scruples about taking this step. On the contrary, he described it as the fulfilment of a dream, a lifetime achievement. He talked relatively little about his own role in accomplishing this dream. Instead he mentioned the crucial role of a ‘helper’, the national arts council, as decisive for this ultimate turning point in his life (a ‘last straw’ in both Fuchs-Ebaughs’ 1988 and Strauss’s 1959 categories). He applied for and got a five-year grant to study art abroad. It was after returning home that he decided to quit his job as a teacher in

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order to become a full-time artist. When we asked him about the dilemma of artistic originality versus commercial branding, he did admit that it bothered him somewhat. He had lately observed a tendency to repeat himself. Although he would have preferred to move into new terrain, the type of art he made (identifiable although somewhat abstract landscapes that expressed feelings of some sort) had become very popular, at art galleries and public exhibitions.He often received private commissions from people who usually did not buy original art (collectors), but who made an exception in order to present an extraordinary gift at some upcoming social ritual within the extended family/kinship group (coming of age, weddings etc). He admitted that he sometimes felt tired of having to do the same thing, but since it paid handsomely and allowed him to devote himself full-time to artistic work, he felt it was worth it. It was also in itself a token of success to have achieved such a status in a small country like Denmark, where, according to the informants, there were no more than a dozen visual artists who had managed to live off their own art, that is, who had arrived at the status of full-time artists.This suggests that there is not only one (as argued by Bourdieu) but several competing discourses circulating in the art community, and that the social forces working in the artistic field are far more complicated than the consecration/ symbolic capital moral tale repeated by our key informant (Kjaer). Although the moral discourse of ‘purity and danger’ certainly is one of them, there are other, more pragmatic discourses around as well. In our material we found several such less puritan and more pragmatic discourses: • the public discourse of democracy and rights that should be helpful and not discriminate against visual artists; • the ‘feminist’ discourse of financial independence for women as a precondition both for equality in marriage and artistic as well as socioeconomic success; • the ‘career’ discourse that valued the life achievement of becoming a full-time artist as the fulfilment of a dream which was only possible for a select few and where public art institutions had a particular responsibility to select these few. If we read Bruno Kjaer’s narrative through this extended filter, it turns out that the main reason he foregrounds the ‘moral’ discourse might have been a painful awareness that he was not among the chosen few who had made the ultimate turning point of becoming a full-time

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artist secretly yearned for as the ultimate sign of success. The ‘last straw’ allowing for this transformation was missing.This would explain why his presentations of his own personal destiny to such a degree emphasised his achievements but also his sacrifices for the sake of art. He did after all manage to enter a secondary career as an artist, although his working-class background worked against it. He did, indeed, at a time earn a lot of money from his art when he worked in the medium of graphic art, but he sacrificed his career chances for the love of art by moving into a new medium (iron installations). Iron is a costly installation and installations in general are not something you ‘hang on the wall; they have to be commissioned, mostly by public authorities. Although relatively successful in this field, the income is not large and steady enough to motivate a transition to a full-time career as an artist. The fact that Bruno Kjaer brooded on these issues at the time of the interviews does not necessarily mean that he merely wanted to ‘legitimise’ his previous life choices that had led to this ‘incomplete’ life trajectory.This is only one possible interpretation.Another possible interpretation came out during one of the last interviews we made with a private collector, a retired school psychologist, who had been collecting contemporary art and supported young, upcoming Danish artists throughout most of his own professional career. During an interview in the collector’s summerhouse in Blokhus (where the walls in all the rooms were covered with modern paintings from floor to roof), we received the somewhat surprising information that Bruno Kjaer had confided to this collector his secret wish to become a full-time artist for several years, without Kjaer being able to make up his mind. This suggests that there might be several, alternative autobiographical narratives going on at the same time. Such ‘presentations of self ’ are never identical; they depend at least to some degree on the particular audience that happens to watch our performance and whom we seek to impress.To us, as relatively successful academics who were not part of the art world, it was important to stress those aspects of the biography that proved the ‘success’ of his career. For this purpose, foregrounding the ‘moral’ discourse served the goal that the agent wanted to achieve in this particular context of self-presentation. In another social context, facing a different audience, another self-presentation might have been more proper, and hence the story became somewhat different, with pragmatic issues at the front and the ‘moral’ discourse moving somewhat into the background.

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Mimesis and language As suggested above, narratives contain a strong ‘dramatic’ element that need to be taken into account as we try to interpret biographical interviews, but narratology might not always be enough. As suggested by Donald (1990, 2001), seen from an evolutionary (biological) point of view, humans communicate not only through language, which is a relatively late type of invention. Before language evolved, we communicated our intentions and information through bodily gestures, facial expressions and the like, which Donald called ‘mimetic culture’ and which I will simply call ‘mimesis’. Indeed, according to Plato, art is essentially about mimesis, and the literary theorist Auerbach claims that on one level, this element of mimesis is still present in literature (Auerbach, 2003), although it is rarely foregrounded in contemporary theories of literature, which tend to emphasise ‘semiotic’ meaning (Eco, 1978; 1984). Not all meaning is of a linguistic kind, however. Some types of meaning can be conveyed much more effectively and economically by, say, facial expressions and bodily gestures (indeed the ‘magic’ of the theatre and the cinema seem to derive from precisely these aspects; see Bergman, 1989, and Naremore, 1988). As suggested by Erving Goffman in The presentation of self in everyday life (1979), the presence of mimesis or conversations with gestures is always present as one layer of communication. In effect, when humans communicate, they use their competence in decoding the meaning of gestures as a way to check the honesty of a spoken message. If these two happen to divert, the ‘mimesis’ part of a conversation is used as a ‘corrective’ devise.The awareness of these two layers of communication plays an important part in the theory and practice of the theatre (Martin and Sauter, 1995).Thus a common practice before rehearsing a play is when the director and actor meet in order to go through the manuscript (text) and ‘collate’ it (Vestin, 2000). To collate means to compare, and what is compared are not only their different interpretations of any given text but two levels of possible meaning of the text, what is said on the ‘manifest’ level and what is actually meant on a ‘latent’ level or the ‘subtext’.This ‘collation’ activity is extremely important, since it will help the actors to actually perform the play. Whereas they will on one level (speech) say their lines, they will on another level communicate what they really mean, the ‘subtext’, by facial expressions and bodily gestures.

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Social games Biographical researchers need to be aware of such subtexts as well, as they represent an even deeper level of interpretation and ‘incommensurability’ challenge that has to be faced in interpretative practice. Such ‘subtexts’ might only become visible, however, if we compare different interviews with each other, that is, make use of the assembly of empirical material (interviews) collected by the researcher. This assembly serves not only as a kind of ‘documenting context’ (see Fogerty, 2007) but also as an interpretative tool. In order to understand how this works, I need to make a theoretical ‘detour’.So far I have been uncritically using the concept ‘field’ to denote the world of art. The concept was introduced by Bourdieu (1974), but is it actually a physical concept even if it is used in a metaphorical manner (as when Bourdieu uses the concept of ‘forces’, presumably magnetic, electric or gravitation to describe what happens here).This physical metaphor seems to be somewhat misguided, however. In other contexts Bourdieu instead talks of social games. Here the ‘beliefs’ in the value of the rules of the game (‘doxa’) are seen as necessary for finding meaning in committing oneself to, investing in, these games (Bourdieu, 1990b). This alternative way of conceptualising social fields is more in accordance with modern speech act theory. According to Searle (1969), social games are constituted by (or sometimes merely regulated) by man-made (invented) rules. Such rules also function as creative resources. Skilled players who know how to play the game well tend to use the same rules in a more autonomous and flexible manner.Where the ‘novice’ is obsessed with ‘doing it right’, that is, following the rules, the ‘connoisseur’ is more interested in the details or to ‘play the game well’ (Kupferberg, 1999; Flyvbjerg, 2001). If we agree that visual arts is a social game in this sense, the question then becomes what it means to play this particular game ‘well’ rather than merely ‘right’. For this purpose we need to know who the final arbitrator is, if there is one. Who decides who is playing the game well?

Social recognition According to White and White’s (1965) classical study on the origins of the modern art market, Canvases and careers, and Moulin’s (1987) more general study on the French art market, with the emergence of the modern art market there is no ultimate judge; instead there is a constant negotiation going on between several of the main players. Whereas in the ‘traditional’ system the most important negotiations 30

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of the game took part between the artists and the museum curator (or the appointed jury of artists serving as museum’s curator for a particular exhibition), with the arrival of the modern art market two new agents took over as the most important ones: (1) the gallery owner (art entrepreneur) who, in a sense, ‘owns’ the artist and his/her work, selling it to the highest bidder and with particular investment strategies of ‘bidding up’ the prices of ‘his’ artists; and (2) the art critic who uses his or her status as art expert to elevate a particular artist, school or group of artists (Crane, 1989;White, 1993). In modern art markets the two tend to supplement each other (Rauterberg, 2007). Several aspects in Bruno Kjaer’s narrative seem to make this sociological assessment of the modern art market questionable, however. First of all, an important role in his early developing self-identity seems to have been the social recognition he received by other artists. Several of these groups or ‘artistic communities’ pop up in his narrative, which suggests that artistic communities themselves still seem to play an important role for the self-identity of artists. The latter provide social networks (social capital) for budding artists, but they also help artists to achieve aesthetic competence (cultural capital). Moreover, other artists also play an important role in achieving ‘symbolic capital’ or social status within this particular social game or field. Kjaer mentions being admitted to exhibit at exhibitions censored by other artists as well as membership in some artistic associations seen as particularly important for his self-identity (feeling of self-worth). Although Kjaer has so far failed to achieve the type of artistic selfidentity which depends on the ability to generate an economic income necessary for a ‘respectable’ lifestyle expected at his age and family commitments (he is married and had children to support), he had, on the other hand, been able to produce an impressive number of ‘signs’ indicating some kind of social success or ‘symbolic capital’. The only thing missing seemed to be the ultimate turning point, of being able to quit one’s job to become a full-time artist. Or so we believed, until I happened to get an interview with the local museum curator.

Subtexts as disturbances It was during one of my interviews that I finally realised that such internal social recognition is only part of the game and that there is a final arbiter of the artistic game. With this discovery a completely new and surprising aspect of artistic consecration emerged.The way I arrived at this discovery was not by close reading of any singular text but by comparing all the texts that I had collected so far. Out of this 31

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‘intertextual’ analysis, a new and surprising ‘subtext’ emerged, but not immediately. As I looked through the interview I had conducted with the local museum curator, something disturbing appeared, the subtext that I at first could not make any sense of at all. My interview with the local museum curator lasted about an hour. I refrained from using a tape recorder but took notes, sending the curator my transcript reproduced in memory, and got back a corrected version. Here is what disturbed me: the museum curator (a woman) had just told me that museums in Denmark have an internal division of labour. The museum in Aalborg specialises in 20th-century art, in particular modern and contemporary Danish art. Having previously interviewed several installation artists in Northern Jutland – besides Bruno Kjaer I had also met two other local artists whom Bruno Kjaer had specially recommended to include in our sample, both of them happened to be teachers – I brought forward their common complaint that the local art museum did not promote or was hostile to installation art.The curator immediately replied that this was simply not true. On the contrary, she had arranged several exhibitions of installation art, inviting precisely these artists to exhibit their work. I did not know what to answer at the time and the issue was dropped. The disturbing answer kept on looming in my mind for years; in fact I never finished my written report on the project for this very reason. I simply could not make sense of it. Several years later I happened to listen to a paper given by Nina Tessa Zahner on the ‘consecration’ process among artists at an art sociology conference at Luneberg in Germany, as illustrated by the career of Andy Warhol. The paper summarised a doctoral thesis, published under the title ‘Die neuen Regeln der Kunst’ (‘The new rules of art’) that I later read.What had struck me already at Zahner’s presentation was that the concept possibly provided a key for decoding the dissonance between what Bruno Kjaer and the other installation artists had told me about their difficulties with the local museum curator and the information I received directly from her. Could it be that the museum curator was actually the sovereign ‘judge’ of the artistic game that I had been looking for? But what was it that had made her such? Obviously different museums have different social status.Warhol’s major complaint was that he had been invited to exhibit at the less prestigious Guggenheim museum (which is known for its avant-gardism) but had been denied entrance to the more prestigious Moma (Museum of Modern Art). Hence Warhol’s process of artistic consecration had not yet been fully completed. But this explanation could not itself provide the clue I was looking for. All the installation artists (including Bruno Kjaer) had been invited to exhibit their work 32

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at the locally placed but nationally endowed modern museum of art. So what was the fuss about? Rereading the interviews years later, after the hypothesis of the ‘consecration’ of artists had replaced the original guiding hypothesis of ‘uncertainty’, didn’t help much. Nowhere in the narratives, neither in the biographical interviews with the three installation artists nor in the expert interview with the museum director, could I find any possible clue for the complaint or dissatisfaction of the three installation artists. For all practical purposes they had indeed been fully ‘consecrated’ by being allowed to exhibit within the sacred hall of this modern version of the feudal cathedral.

Silence and sovereign power There must be something I had missed. What could that be? If it was not in the text (the narratives), where could it be? Could the actual, hidden meaning be hidden in the ‘subtext’? The profession of acting is the art of expressing the tension between text and subtext through the dual communication of spoken language and bodily gestures (mimesis), but in a culture dominated by the ‘text’ (in written form), we do not have to observe it in an actual performance.As mentioned above, what happens when the director and the actors ‘collate’ is that they work through the written text. It is through this careful reading that they decode or discover the ‘subtext’ which is hidden within the text, in the ‘gaps’ of meaning (Eco, 1984) detected by the act of reading (which presumes the creativity of the reader). This other text, the ‘subtext’, is later made visible on stage by the dissonance of forms of communication that Goffman talks of, but this dissonance is already hidden inside the text itself, it is opened up or unpacked though the collective reading (collation).In this particular case, however, the text with the hidden ‘subtext’ cannot be revealed by looking at any specific narrative. We need to look at all the interviews together in order to identify the ‘gaps’ in the narratives. These gaps seem to point to the hidden ‘subtext’ (Vestin, 2000), which it is the researcher’s job to unpack. This subtext only comes out by comparing the texts with each other. Let us say artists long to be ‘consecrated’, as Bourdieu suggests, and let us say that this means to be exhibited at the most prestigious museums, as Zahner argues (Zahner, 2005). But this is obviously not enough, something more is at stake here. What can that be? Theatrical theory and practice on ‘collation’ suggests that we should look for or rather try to imagine the subtext that is never directly spoken but somehow exists between the lines.

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What is it that is not outspoken? What is even better than having been invited to exhibit at a museum while still alive? What could it be but the satisfaction of knowing that one’s work will be a permanent part of the museum that is bought and not only exhibited? This is what Kjaer and the other installation artists complained about, without saying this in an explicit manner. Why was this important? If a museum buys your art rather than merely borrowing it for a transitional exhibition, it becomes a permanent part of a museum’s collection. The difference does not seem to be important from within sociological theories of identity (Honneth, 1992) that merely look for signs of social recognition, but there is recognition and there is recognition. Artists seem to look for some kind of ultimate recognition, the type of consecration that only comes about by becoming part of the permanent collection of a prestigious museum (immortality).But who has the power to make such a crucial ‘consecration’-type of decision if not the museum curator? The latter was a kind of sovereign in this particular kingdom, she alone had the right to control this crucial resource, withholding or releasing the final sign of recognition from the art world, that gave this social agent her particular unspoken level of status and power. The thing is that no one I had talked to, neither the artists nor the museum director, nor the other actors in the art milieu, ever mentioned this sovereign power. Perhaps this is what distinguishes sovereign power from other forms of power in the first place. It cannot be spoken of, this is its basic (hidden) rule.This again suggests limits to the contemporary dominant theory of power. Foucault’s ‘discourse’ theory (Fairclough, 1992) claims that what characterises modernity is that everything can and must be spoken of. There are no secrets any more; not even those of the most intimate kind (as sexuality) have been able to withstand the ‘will to knowledge’. The latter has impregnated all life spheres. The conspiracy of silence related to the sovereign power represented by the role of the local museum curator in Northern Jutland suggests that this is not necessarily so. The unspoken subtext of consecration through immortalisation in the case of the local art scene in Northern Jutland seems to suggest the real presence of highly traditional, sovereign power, also in contemporary modernity. This and the findings above, that Bourdieu’s ‘traditionalist’ theories of how career choices are made, suggest that we need to think twice before we uncritically accept current theories of late modernity or postmodernity.Modern societies are much too complex to be reduced to one category; modernity needs a taxonomy which is much more sensitive to the full divergence and complexity of modern life, which sustains both more traditional social forces and attempts to replace them with something more liberating 34

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where individuals are free to make their own life choices. Moreover we need to deconstruct discourse theory, since discourses themselves seem to be ultimately incommensurable. There is a problem of translation here as one moves from one semantic to another. This problem needs to be foregrounded in order to increase the methodological reflexivity of biography research.

Conclusion One rarely explored way to describe what is unique about biography research is Kuhn’s concept of incommensurability. With incommensurability Kuhn meant that the world of science is not linguistically homogeneous. There is not one ‘true’ method to be pursued but a plethora of methods. This does not exclude the fact, however, that one can learn from other disciplines and accompanying methodologies, but it creates a problem of translatability that needs to be attended to. But incommensurability can take many forms. Sociological biography research and oral history are very similar in terms of methods of collecting data; the distinction between the two is rather related to interpretation, where sociologists and historians use different concepts and theories that are not easily translatable to each other. The problem of incommensurability also appears within biography research itself. Some traditions emphasise objective structures, other focus more on subjective interpretations. Again, these do not have to exclude each other, but one must be aware of the different ways of conceptualising the world when engaged in concrete interpretations of biographical material. Further problems of incommensurability/translation occur when we enter in particular the subjective type of analysis. Here knowledge of narratology and dramaturgy is very helpful. Such knowledge does not come naturally for a person trained in sociological theory and methodology; there is an initial learning resistance related to semantic issues that has to be overcome. Finally the problem of incommensurability might also help us to become more critical to contemporary sociological theories of careers, identity and power. Different class perspectives tend to impregnate even the abstract concepts sociologists use. We also need to be aware of not only what is outspoken but also what still remains unspoken is kept in silence. Such unspoken silences might be surrounded by highly talkative discourses. Sociologists need to approach the latter from a critical point of view.The core power problem of contemporary modernity might not be that discourse is everywhere. The prime 35

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function of such discourses might not always be to invade private or intimate spheres that were previously ignored and hence protected by silence. Discourses themselves can also function in a way that the philosopher of science, Imre Lakatos (1978), called a ‘protective belt’. It can protect core values of minorities by deconstructing hegemonic ideas of what is ‘normal’ and ‘pathological’ (see Chapter Eight).But it can also serve as a protective shield for pockets of sovereign power that still exist in contemporary modernity, power that is rooted in silence but uses discourse to erect a new construction that drowns the silence of sovereign power. It fills the gaps of meaning with more or less meaningless words, whose only function is to avoid talking of what is silenced. This suggests a practical ‘utility’ or ‘empowering’ effect of biographical methodology that bridges the concerns and interests of professionals (and potentially also social movements) for biographical methods (Chamberlayne et al, 2004), and the childlike curiosity of sociologists for obtaining knowledge for its own sake (Popper, 1957). References Abbott, A. (2001) Chaos of disciplines, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Abbott, A. (2004) Methods of discovery: Heuristics for the social sciences, New York: W.W. Norton & Co.Abbott, H.P. (2002) The Cambridge introduction to narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Alexander, V.D. (2003) Sociology of the arts: Exploring fine and popular forms, Oxford: Blackwell. Auerbach, E. (2003) Mimesis: The representation of reality in Western literature, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Austin, J.L. (1975) How to do things with words (2nd edn), Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.Bazerman, C. (1988) Shaping written knowledge, Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Becker, H.S. (1982) Art worlds, Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Bergman, I. (1989) Laterna magica [The magic lantern], Stockholm: Månpocket. Bourdieu, P. (1974) Zur Soziologie der symbolischen Formen [Towards a sociology of symbolic forms], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bourdieu, P. (1990a) The logic of practice, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1990b) In other words, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1995) The rules of art: Genesis and structure of the literary field, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. 36

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Bruner, J.S. (1986) Actual minds, possible worlds, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.Bruner, J.S. (1990) Acts of meaning, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Chamberlayne, P., Bornat, J. and Apitzsch, U. (eds) (2004) Biographical methods and professional practice, Bristol: The Policy Press. Charlton,T.L., Myers, L.E. and Sharpless, R. (eds) History of oral history: Foundations and methodology, Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press.Crane, D. (1989) The transformation of the avant-garde, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Donald, M. (1990) The origins of the modern mind, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Donald, M. (2001) A mind so rare: The evolution of human consciousness, New York and London: W.W. Norton. Douglas, M. (2002) Purity and danger: An analysis of pollution and taboo, London: Taylor & Francis. Eco, U. (1979) A theory of semiotics, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Eco, U. (1984) The role of the reader: Explorations in the semiotics of texts, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Elkins, J. (2001) Why art cannot be taught, Urbana and Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press. Fairclough, N. (1992) Discourse and social change, Cambridge: Polity Press. Flyvbjerg, B. (2001) Making social science matter: Why social inquiry fails and how it can succeed again, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fogerty, J.E. (2007) ‘Oral history and archives: documenting context’, in T.L. Charlton, L.E. Myers and R. Sharpless (eds) History of oral history: Foundations and methodology, Lanham, MD:AltaMira Press, pp 197-226. Fuchs-Ebaugh, R.M. (1988) Becoming an ex: The process of role exit, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Giddens,A. (1991) Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the modern world, Cambridge: Polity Press. Goffman, E. (1959) The presentation of self in everyday life, New York: Doubleday Anchor Books. Grele, R. (2007) ‘Oral history as evidence’, in T.L. Charlton, L.E. Myers and R. Sharpless (eds) History of oral history: Foundations and methodology, Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press, pp 197-226. Hacking, I. (1983) Representing and intervening, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hacking, I. (1995) ‘Working in a new world: the taxonomic solution’, in P. Harnich (ed) Word changes: Thomas Kuhn and the nature of science, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, pp 259-74.

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Honneth, A. (1992) Kampf um Anerkennung. Zur moralischen Grammatik sozialer Konflikte [The struggle for recognition.Towards a moral grammar of social conflicts], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hughes, E.C. (1964) Men and their work, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Ibsen, H. (2001) Et dukkehjem [A doll’s house], Oslo: Gyldendal. Kohler Riessman, C. (2008) Narrative methods for the social sciences, London: Sage Publications. Kress, G. and van Leuwen, T. (2001) Multimodal discourse, London: Hodder. Kuhn, T. (1962) The structure of scientific revolutions, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Kuhn, T. (1974) ‘Second thoughts on paradigms’, in F. Suppe (ed) The structure of scientific theories, Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, pp 458-82. Kuhn,T. (1977) The essential tension, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Kuhn, T. (2000) The road since structure, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Kupferberg, F. (1999) Kald eller profession – At indtraede i sygeplejerskerollen, [Calling or profession: Entering the role of nurse] Copenhagen: Nyt Nordisk Forlag Arnold Busck. Kvale, S. (1999) InterView, Copenhagen: Hans Reitzel. Labov,W. (1972) Language in the inner city, Philadelphia, PA: University of Philadelphia. Labov, W. and Waletzky, J. (1967) ‘Narrative analysis: oral versions of personal experience’, in J. Helm (ed) Essays on the verbal and visual arts, Seattle:American Ethnological Society/University of Washington Press, pp 699-701. Lakatos, I. (1978) The methodology of scientific research programmes, Philosophical Papers Volume I, edited by John Worrall and Gregory Currie, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lundh, H.-G., Montgomery, H. and Waern,Y. (1992) Kognitiv psykologi [Cognitive psychology], Lund: Studentlitteratur. Martin, J. and Sauter,W. (1995) Understanding theatre: Performance analysis in theory and practice, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell International. Menger, P.-M. (1989) ‘Rationalité et incertitude de la vie d’artiste’ [The rationality and uncertainty of artistic life’, L’Anné sociologique, vol 39, pp 111-51. Menger, P.-M. (1999) ‘Artistic labor markets and careers’, Annual Review of Sociology, vol 25, pp 541-74.

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Menger, P.-M. and Gurgang, M. (1996) ‘Work and compensated unemployment in the performing arts. Exogenous and endogenous uncertainty on artistic labour markets’, in V.A. Ginsburgh and P.-M. Menger (eds) Economics of the arts: Selected essays, Amsterdam: Elsevier, pp 347-81. Moulin, R. (1987) The French art market:A sociological view, Chapel Hill, NC and London: Rutgers University Press. Naremore, J. (1988) Acting in the cinema, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Patterson, W. (2008) ‘Narratives of events: Labovian narrative analysis and its limitations’, in M. Andrews, C. Squire and M. Tambou (eds) Doing narrative research, London: Sage Publications, pp 22-40. Perks, R. and Thomson, A. (2009) The oral history reader (2nd edn), London and New York: Routledge. Polkinghorne, D.E. (1988) Narrative knowing and the human sciences, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Popper, K. (1957) The poverty of historicism, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Popper, K. (1999) All life is problemsolving, London and New York: Routledge. Portelli, A. (1981) ‘The peculiarities of oral history’, History Workshop Journal, vol 12, Autumn, pp 96-107. Portelli, A. (1991) The death of Luigi Trastulli and other stories: Form and meaning in oral history, Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Portelli, A. (2003) The order has been carried out: History, memory and meaning of a Nazi massacre in Rome, New York: Palgrave. Rauterberg, H. (2007) Und das ist Kunst? [And that is art?], Hamburg: Fischer. Schacter, D.L. (1997) Searching for memory, New York: Basic Books. Schütze, F. (1984) ‘Kognitive Figuren der autobiographischen Stegreifeerzählung’ [‘Cognitive figures in autobiographical narration from memory’], in M. Kohli and R. Günther (eds) Biographie und soziale Wirklichkeit. Neue Beiträge und Forschungsperspektiven [Biography and social reality: New contributions and research perspectives], Stuttgart: Metzler, pp 78-117. Searle, J. (1969) Speech acts: An essay in the philosophy of language, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Searle, J. (1996) The construction of social reality, London: Penguin. Stanzel, F.K. (1984) A theory of narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stenberg, H. (2002) Att bli konstnär [Becoming an artist], Lund: Lund Dissertations in Sociology 46. 39

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Strauss, A. (1959) Mirrors and masks:The search for identity, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Tonkin, E. (1992) Narrating our pasts:The social construction of oral history, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vestin, M. (2000) Regi – kreativitet och ledarskap, Stockholm: Carlsson. White, H.C. (1981) ‘The value of narrativity in the representation of reality’, in W.J.T. Mitchell (ed) On narrative, Chicago, IL and London: The University of Chicago Press, pp 1-24. White, H.C. (1993) Careers and creativity: Social forces in the arts, Boulder, CO: Westview Press. White, H.C. and White, C.A. (1965) Canvases and careers: Institutional change in the French painting world, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Zahner, N.T. (2005) Die neuen Regeln der Kunst. Andy Warhol und der Umbau der Kunstbetriebs im 20. Jahrhundert [The new rules of art. Andy Warhol and the reconstruction of the artistic enterprise in the 20th century], Frankfurt/New York: Campus.

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Turning points in the life course: a narrative concept in professional bifurcations Catherine Négroni

Introduction In this chapter I examine how the turning point concept is defined in academic literature and its use in the life course field. While the main tendency in social sciences is to ignore the concept of the turning point, some researchers are keen to study the concept in greater detail and to try to give it a theoretical status. My interest in this concept took shape in my research on voluntary professional change and by my participation in a broad debate on this concept initiated at the 2003 conference, ‘Bifurcations and Events’,1 highlighting a number of major changes in postmodern society and their implications for institutions, history and biography. Many different explanations have been put forward, each giving rise to various terms with similar meanings, such as ‘turning points’ (Hughes, 1958; Abbott, 2001), ‘revolutions’ (Kuhn, 19622), ‘events’ (Sewell, 1996) and ‘bifurcations’ (Balandier, 1998). As I observed at the 2003 conference, the turning point concept has been addressed within a variety of disciplinary fields (history, economics and sociology) and at various scalar levels, from macro to micro. I would like to focus on the concept of the ‘turning point’ by examining the advances made in the theoretical field before going on to detail my own findings based on empirical research. I propose to approach the turning point concept by reviewing the current literature on the subject, as produced by major researchers in the field of sociology, and to outline a theoretical explanation of the turning point concept and the empirical work performed in various fields. With this in mind, this chapter is organised into three sections. First, I provide an overview of the theoretical concept of the turning point. This is necessary because there is no common definition. I then relate 41

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it to the notion of bifurcation. Does the concept of turning point embody bifurcation itself, or is it described as a nebulous process that is not clearly perceived and which leads to bifurcation, or is it an event that marks an epoch or allows a person to turn the page (Leclerc-Olive, 1997)? Based on an analysis of these authors, as set out below, a turning point is understood as a result of bifurcation, a decision-making process, and as an analysis of bifurcation.The second part goes on to explore the turning point as a biographic junction, where I reflect on my research into voluntary professional conversion.3 This is based on empirical research undertaken in Lille, France, into voluntary professional changes. I collected 55 life stories of men and women at different stages of their biographic junction. As part of this approach, I focused on the narrative dimension of the turning point concept that has already been mentioned in previous research but never fully explored, in which ‘latency’ reveals how the bifurcation decision is taken as part of a professional change process. Finally, in the last third, I put forward a typology of the turning point concept, which aims at discerning different types of turning points and the various motives associated with voluntary professional conversion.

Overview of the turning point concept This section explores a range of different sociological research addressing the concepts of transition, bifurcation and turning point from different empirical perspectives.Although this is not an exhaustive review, it might provide fresh insights that will help us examine these concepts in greater depth in the context of voluntary professional conversion developed in the second section of this chapter.

Life course transitions and life course turning points Hareven and Masaoka (1988) worked with two cohorts, one in Japan and the other in the US, between 1910 and 1950, and explored the similarities and differences between ‘life course transitions’ and ‘life course turning points’.They analysed people’s perception of continuities and discontinuities over their life course. Their aim was to show that cultural norms govern the timeliness of life transitions. In this regard, they used the concept of transition and the concept of turning point. The key question the authors asked themselves was as follows: in which case are transitions considered normative by people undergoing them and which transitions are viewed or experienced as ‘turning points’? They defined the concept of transition as the movements of individuals 42

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and families along their life course within socially constructed timetables. According to them, the major transitions that individuals underwent in their work and family lives were normative: starting a job, leaving home, getting married, etc. They identified a transition as ‘normative’ if a major portion of the population experienced them, and if society expected its members to undergo such transitions at certain points in their lives. Furthermore, transitions were normative if they conformed to socially constructed timetables; but there was no correspondence between transitions and normative transitions, and not all transitions were normative. A normative transition could be transformed into a turning point under the impact of certain events. For Hareven and Masaoka, it was important to empirically distinguish between transitions that remained ordinary events and transitions that became turning points. They attempted to identify conditions when a transition became a turning point. They noted the impact of world events (Kaufmann, 2008), such as economic crises and natural disasters. As such, the two cohorts reacted in different ways to the economic crisis that followed the Second World War. Furthermore, normative transitions could generate a turning point. For example, a birth when it coincides with the loss of a father’s job or with the father’s death could be a critical turning point. They linked turning points with the notion of events. Normative transitions and non-normative transitions could generate a turning point and depend on the disruptive potential of the event. Hareven and Masaoka’s work illustrates that the strength of an event determines a turning point, and its irreversible nature.4 A turning point is like a turn in the life course. It could be defined as an objective part of experience that strengthens the life course; it could be a consequence of actions occurring as part of an event. However, it does include a subjective element, as Hareven writes: ‘Turning points are subjectively defined by the individuals undergoing them’ (Hareven, 1988, p 275).The subjective dimension defines the meaning of a turning point. The meaning of a turning point is determined by the interpretation of an individual. Hareven and Masaoka specified that a turning point could be seen as a transition; they stressed that the perception of a turning point by the individual concerned the way she or he related this change to their life course.The narrative dimension was part of the definition of a turning point. It should be noted that a turning point is essentially a process, which involves and disrupts the life course as a milestone. The turning point is seen as a Janus with a double face – a subjective and an objective face – and the individual chooses its meaning. I now

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present the work of Fuchs-Ebaugh (1988), who examined the turning point concept within different social universes.

The turning point or becoming an ‘ex’ Fuchs-Ebaugh’s work (1988) was about the experience of becoming an ‘ex’. Fuchs-Ebaugh explored a wide range of role changes, including ex-convicts, ex-alcoholics, divorced people, mothers without custody of their children, ex-doctors, ex-nuns and transsexuals, and focused on voluntary exits from significant roles. Fuchs-Ebaugh saw turning points as part of the process of deciding to leave a role. In this regard, she is in accordance with Lofland and Stark: ‘A turning point is an event that mobilizes and focuses awareness that old lines of action are completed, have failed, have been disrupted, or are no longer personally satisfying and provides individuals with the opportunity to do something different with their lives’ (Lofland and Stark, 1965, p 870). For Fuchs-Ebaugh, a turning point introduced a new role exit model. She focused on the functionality of a turning point in the decision-making process. In some cases, events were considered as major events in someone’s personal life, while in other cases, an event was minor but took on a symbolic importance because it occurred in a context in which desire for change was ambiguous, because the decision to escape from the situation remained a continuous question. It should be borne in mind that a turning point is regarded as a fairly important event; it could be combined with other personal events in the past, introducing a major change that invites the individual to build a new model for action. Individuals are also considered as active agents in their trajectory; they intervene in their own biography.

Turning points in religious conversion To further the examination of turning points, it is interesting to consider turning points within the context of religious conversion (see also Chapter Nine, this volume). It should first reveal another way in which turning points are used and second, reveal how bifurcation5 is an individual and a voluntary choice. As such, it is interesting here to mention the work of Lofland and Stark (1965).They developed a model for explaining the conditions for entering into a religious congregation. They argued that their model was universal. All individuals who were converted to a new religion matched up with this model. The model suggests that ‘total conversion’, involving behavioural as well as verbal commitment, was a function of the accumulation of adequate 44

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conditions. They investigated two types of conditions or factors. The first were predisposing conditions, comprising attributes of people prior to their contact with a cult.The second set of conditions related to situational contingencies; these conditions led to a successful recruitment of people predisposed to the conversion. They reported seven necessary conditions: a person must experience an enduring and acutely felt tension, a religious problem-solving perspective, have a self-designation as ‘a religious seeker’, encounter the movement or cult at a turning point in life, have an emotional bond with believers, neutralise extra-cult attachments and be exposed to an intensive interaction with other converts.The first three factors were identified as predisposing; the four last factors were regarded as situational factors. In the absence of these seven factors there was no total conversion.The model was regarded as a process; the more an individual satisfied the model conditions, the more the probability of conversion transpired. This model offers the possibility of comparing the turning point concept in two contexts: religious and professional change. First, it is interesting to note that all of the life stories featured a radical life change: people relate such changes like fairy tales in which life is wonderful now, whereas before the conversion it was terrible. It should be noted that the first three conditions, when they occur together, mark a change of perspective, since when the person becomes identified as an active searcher on a quest for religious answers, the conversion appears inevitable. The transformation presents certain similarities with the process that I outlined in my work on voluntary professional conversions (see Négroni, 2007). However, if the process relies on facts and actions necessary to lead individuals to a voluntary professional conversion, the individuals describe the process as a set of sequences that they pass through towards a new professional universe.

The turning point as a social object Snow and Phillips’ work (1980) on religious conversion challenges the model put forward by Lofland and Stark. Their criticism focused on two aspects that tended to characterise a turning point. The first consisted in the idea that the social conditions and elements of a situation involving turning points constituted social objects and that, as such, their sense was not intrinsic, but fluctuated according to the universe of the speech (Mead, 1938, p 89). The second aspect was a corollary of the first as it strengthened the idea that the meaning itself was continuously emerging and evolving. Snow and Phillips (1980) relied on the postulate that personal biographies as well as history were 45

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constantly redefined in the light of new experiences. Given that, the conversion implied the adoption and use of a new discursive universe and vocabulary of reference. A process of retrospective interpretation would follow, which was strikingly intensified in the conversion situation. More directly, the criticism that Snow and Phillips applied to Lofland and Stark concerned their understanding of the turning point concept. According to them, the turning point concept was ambiguous. If a particular situation in one’s life constituted a turning point, it was not a given, but largely a matter of definition and attitude. They showed that when we wanted to connect the turning point in the past, we were confronted with a problem of reinterpreting its meaning. In their research, certain events that were seen as routine may have emerged as highly significant after one adopted the NSA6 worldview. And when NSA converts discussed turning points in their lives, they seldom referred to the categories identified by Lofland and Stark.These changes – divorce, unemployment, the end of school – were frequently mentioned, but not as turning points; they were expressed as transitions in the life course. Instead, this designation seems to be reserved for the point at which members felt themselves emotionally, cognitively and morally at one with the group. Then, in conjunction with the latter observations, Snow and Phillips emphasised that what was defined as a turning point was contingent on the interpretative schemas of the group in question. As such, a turning point could be constituted by an illuminated insight or renewed faith. The second difference between Lofland and Stark’s work and Snow and Phillips’ work follows from the first, yet rather than occurring at the moment the movement was encountered, a turning point could be identified after contact with the movement. A turning point might be conceptualised as an element of the process of conversion rather than a precipitating condition. It may symbolise the conversion itself. Snow and Phillips’ critical analysis offers new perspectives on our understanding of turning points.The turning point is only one artefact, a symbol or conversion; it does not have two faces, a subjective and an objective one, as we saw before in Hareven and Masaoka’s work and in Fuchs-Ebaugh’s work. The turning point is constructed a posteriori and has to be referred to the individual’s circumstances in order to be understood. We should also bear in mind the eminent work of Hughes (1958) on turning points and especially on the transition between stages. He developed the idea that transition stages could, to a greater or lesser extent, be predictable, short or long, ritualised or institutionalised. We now explore the definition of turning points in Andrew Abbott’s work. 46

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The turning point as a narrative concept Andrew Abbott explored turning points as part of the life course. He defined it as a narrative concept and explained a turning point as follows:7 ‘Turning points are best envisioned as short, consequential shifts that redirect a process. The concept is inevitably a narrative one, for a turning point cannot be conceived without a new reality or direction being established, a judgment that requires at least two temporally separate observations. Not all sudden changes are turning points, but only those which are succeeded by a period evincing a new regime’ (Abbott, 2001, p 258). He went on to talk about the dialogue between structure and actions and proposed to define structure in the life course as follows: ‘Much of social reality, I argue, can be imagined as a structure in which actors proceed through trajectories to their ends, then face the striking and to some extent randomising moments of turning points’ (Abbott, 2001, p 25). According to Abbott (2001), the social was formed by social structures, which were organised into networks.The social was in constant motion; it contained structures with more or less stable regimes, some of them reproduced themselves and others were arrangements of structures that generated distortion and opportunities. The disruption of continuity in a stable structure generated distortion and opened the structure up to many possibilities. These possibilities contained potential actions that were going to be realised in order to construct continuity and stability. In this way, Abbott referred to a dialogue between structures and actions. Possibilities must emerge before action. Possibility and action together provided the two necessary moments for the narrative structure of a turning point. If we apply the model to the life course, ‘long enduring structures’ would refer to the ‘personal character’8 of the individual.This means that they are difficult to disassociate. Abbott went on to specify that,‘When there is a disruption of comprehensibility in a functional model, structures have a particular arrangement that is always being re-enacted in action in order to generate a new stable model’ (Abbott, 2001, p 259). Abbott stated that the social process had a memory, which means that we act in relation to this social memory. The second point that is interesting to consider is the perception of the turning point as an inherently narrative concept. For Abbott, a definition that approached the turning point as a process occurring over time was inadequate; it provided an opaque vision of the clearer version of the turning point as a narrative concept. Although the relegation of the turning point to the realm of subjectivity was based on the pretext that it was always reinterpreted a posteriori, which is the 47

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view of most rational choice theorists, it failed to explain the turning point that does not arise from an immediate interpretation. A turning point has duration in time and it is a central concept in the subjective interpretation of the past. Furthermore, there is one element that Abbott needs to re-examine: how might we determine what a real turning point is? For Abbott, ‘A true turning point, as distinguished from a mere random episode, has the further character that the trajectories it separates either differ in direction (slope, transition probabilities, regression character) or in nature (one is “trajectory-like”, the other is random)’ (Abbott, 2001, p 250). In addition: ‘A major turning point has a potential to open a system the way a key has a potential to open a lock, in both cases, too, action is necessary to complete the turning point’ (Abbott, 2001, p 259). Following Abbott’s line of thought, we can conclude that a turning point is, above all, a narrative concept, the narrative dimension of which orders a disruptive situation. On the other hand, Balandier affirms that: ‘a mobile structure associates the ideas of disorder and waste and has been chosen to express a new fact: waste of energy and matter is very different to a situation of order; it could restore order. It should be noted that it is possible to transform disorder into order; and the crucial point would be this new qualitative status called bifurcation’ (Balandier, 1988, p 51). Balandier’s suggestion has the same purpose – to restore a structure. I now explore this notion of bifurcation in Grossetti’s work (2006).

Bifurcations and turning points: two intertwined concepts? The works of Michel Grossetti (2006) on bifurcation have recently provided a complementary approach to addressing the turning point concept. As we have seen, bifurcation is a sequence of partially predictable actions, which produces effects over the long term. Based on this notion, Grossetti suggests a typology of unpredictable situations with regards to whether an event is more or less predictable depending on when it occurs, and whether an outcome will more or less predictably lead to an exit situation. Four types were outlined: (1) the first is characterised by a foreseeable event and a previous outcome. It could be compared to the model of crossroads, for example, in academic counselling; (2) the outcome is predictable, it is the model of the programmatic change of status, as a transition in the life cycle (becoming an adult, getting married, retirement); (3) the moment is unpredictable and the outcome is sometimes predictable – in this case the risk can be anticipated, for example, an illness or unemployment; 48

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and (4) the outcome is unpredictable, and here Grossetti talks about the contamination of the sphere of activity. He adds that prediction is possible for players and researchers when each context is considered separately.When contexts are mixed, unpredictability increases; in this respect Abbott mentions regime change while Grossetti talks about the crisis model. Grossetti, in his definition of bifurcation, underlines the forms of predictability or unpredictability during the life course, for which he identifies two time periods: the earliest followed by the outcome. Abbott also mentioned two points that characterise the turning point. Nevertheless, the narrative figure does not appear in this definition of bifurcation as observed by Grossetti, and the notion highlights the unpredictability of the situation. Finally, for Grossetti, bifurcation and the turning point are closely related concepts. The concept of bifurcation is similar to the definition given by Abbott for a turning point, although it emphasises the unpredictability of different situations. It is less systematically associated with biographic approaches than a turning point and less imbued with history than revolutions or events as interpreted by Sewell (1996). But these notions are alike. Bifurcation, as demonstrated by Grossetti, is a crisis model that involves the unpredictability of the first instant and the unpredictability of the outcome. He also emphasises that irreversibility is related to unpredictability. Bifurcation is therefore marked by a major unpredictable occurrence followed by a strong irreversible event. Nevertheless, is it possible to move easily from the notion of bifurcation to a turning point? Grossetti insists on the fact that bifurcation is less associated with biographic approaches than turning points. In fact, Grossetti does not address the narrative face of a turning point; he simply acknowledges two bifurcation periods. (I will come back to the narrative element of the turning point.) As soon as we identify two moments in time, the second is obviously retrospective, it is a story ‘about’ something. Based on my work on professional bifurcation, I now to return to the turning point as a narrative concept.

Turning point in biographic bifurcation The section explores the turning point as a biographic bifurcation. I therefore explore turning points through my research on voluntary professional conversion. This research was based on a series of 55 life stories provided by people who had experienced professional conversion. Professional bifurcation was seen as a change of activity, sector or profession that occurred in a voluntary way. I chose to

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interview people at different stages of their professional conversion, and my goal was to identify a conversion process.

Turning points and biographic bifurcation in the context of voluntary professional conversion My theoretical standpoint centres on the meaning that actors give to their biography. In line with the analysis of Weber’s work (1965), this approach suggests a comprehensive sociology that accounts for and clarifies human behaviour, revealing each of the patterns they follow or the subjective meanings they incorporate. I have previously put forward a subjective perspective on this issue, which is broadly in line with Daniel Bertaux’s comment that, ‘In social sciences, we are looking for objectivity, but we know that the path to objectivity leads through our subjectivity and its confrontation with other subjectivities’ (Bertaux, 2000, p 78). In voluntary professional conversion, players are particularly invested in essential subjective work. Through this subjective work, individuals desire to reach something that could be identified as a vocation (Négroni, 2005a). I interpret this aspiration as a process with a beginning, duration and an end.The bifurcation appears as a narrative sequential process in five stages (Négroni, 2007), which we find in all of the interviewees’ stories, whatever their professional status, sector or class position. The different stages that are evoked in the narratives provided by these individuals succeed one another, to a greater or lesser extent, in a linear way.They overlap and join different temporalities.The passing from one stage to another is not systematic. So from the beginning of the process of changing jobs, the initiative can be interrupted at each sequence. These different sequences are (1) the countered vocation; (2) disengagement; (3) ‘latency’; (4) bifurcation; and (5) the new commitment.The countered vocation is a way of justifying the trajectory of the individual. The function of this stage is to draw a link between the past and the present. Disengagement from one’s role provides the context for the current working situation. Latency and bifurcation are both stages at which the crisis is narrated: latency plunges the individual into torments of doubt, and the decision provides an exit from the situation. The bifurcation constitutes the active stage ensuing from the decision. Reengagement is the institution of a new context of action. The individual who passes through these different stages achieves his or her professional change. However, they could pass by the process several times during the life course. I focus on the latency stage described in these life stories as the moment when the disjunction is extremely intense – the individual wanders around in 50

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what she or he describes as a no-man’s-land of the senses, where there is a total lack of an anchor.

Relevance of latency in the decision-making process This stage forms part of the individual’s decision to bring about a professional change. Looking at this decision-making process in greater detail, it is interesting to explore the notion of ‘anticipating consciousness’, as described by E. Bloch. Bloch defines this as encompassing three time periods: tension through which awareness transforms a situation, streben; the pursuit itself, directed toward an aim, sehen; and looking for a purpose, suchen (Bloch, 1976, p 52). I suggest applying these three time periods to the latency stage. By doing so, I try to identify individual negotiations (Strauss, 1992) with their initial doubts – the incentive and inhibitive conditions of the step toward change – but also the negotiations engaged with significant others (Mead, 1963). Latency, ‘the vacuum’ for Fuchs-Ebaugh (1988), refers to being in a personal state of doubt and uncertainty. Latency explores the issue of doubt in relation to self-professional commitment. It is the stage at which individuals reflect on their own professional life; more precisely, they reflect on their own working conditions and status. In short, they question their professional commitment. It is a time for redefining the working situation which was initially satisfactory or at least taken for granted. It is a time that introduces a new interpretation of reality. Doubts appear when feelings of dissatisfaction are identified. Latency: disengagement from a previous job The temporal distribution of voluntary occupational retraining is not linear and the latency stage does not necessarily follow on from degraded working conditions; what is evoked very often is the idea of being ‘fed up’ with work, the feeling of ‘having experienced everything about the work’, the impression that you ‘can’t learn anything else’. The latency stage works as a disengagement from the workplace. For Florent, an engineer, this disengagement began after his first year in the job because of a restricted workload: ‘The work did not really interest me because I didn’t have enough to do.When I was an engineer my work was badly organised, because it turned out that I made absolutely nothing.There was about one hour of actual work a day.The rest of the day, I took advantage of it to either play billiards 51

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or read books, or to write a novel and read the newspaper; and naturally to chat with my friends. Over the course of a year, I made almost nothing out of my time.’ (Florent, 31, engineer, future actor) He could not invest himself in his work; the quantity of work was too small or dull to arouse his interest and commitment. Florent had a lot of spare time. This free time was filled with chatting, and occasional activities that he liked to do, such as playing billiards or writing. Practising such activities provided him with the dynamism he needed to write a novel. There was a gap between the expected role and the status of the individual. At the same time, these breaks provided him with an opportunity to question his professional commitment (Hughes, 1971). Activities such as billiards or writing were going to become more important than his work. The lack of work made him feel frustrated, which put a degree of distance between him and his work. At certain moments of the day, appealing activities, which were not completely new to the trajectory, were going to reappear, to establish an accumulation, and would take place in a continuum, which made sense given his major frustration and his overwhelming desire to end his working situation. A period of gestation The latency period refers to a period of gestation,‘an incubation time’, precisely because it is a moment during which immediate decision making is blocked. The individual seems to be in a latent state, ‘in expectation’; it is not an active time. Over the course of two years, Marc lived in his mother’s house; he lived off the money he had inherited from his father and the RMI.9 His contact with people was limited; his only exchanges were emails to people he did not know. He created situations without any other precise purpose than ‘to provoke things’, “they were like bottles thrown into the sea”. The exchange resulted in more finalised acts; a more evident strategy was then organised. But this included two different steps that took place at two different times: a second period of muddled searching and a third period of active searching: ‘Yes it was an incubation period; I trained myself, making fanzines and establishing contacts almost everywhere in France. I was most successful in a rock and roll environment,

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small concert rooms and small groups.’ (Marc, 31, pastry chef, future decorator) Marc’s life account was enlightening and with the benefit of hindsight, he described this time as a period of incubation. It is significant to note that he envisaged himself in another universe. It is notable that the repeated or long periods of unemployment introduced a certain distance from the world of work and, at the same time, built up the bases of a new form of commitment to his work. The RMI allowed Marc to get insurance, it gave him the possibility to be free from pressure. For him, latency corresponded to a moment of isolation, which was convenient for the creation of something new. In every case, a period of unemployment, between the last job and the new one, was useful to produce distance.The latency stage is also a moment when individuals seem to lose touch with both the world of work and their families. Without any constraints, they try to release themselves; they return to failed projects. It is a time for introspection.This is when the individual assesses his or her career. Interviewer: ‘How would you describe your approach?’ ‘I think that it really was to produce the current situation, it was an evaluation of my professional position, as if I had woken up and said to myself, “you’ve got a high school degree”; it was a step forward, but the fact was that I couldn’t carry on in the same way, it was a real waste.’ (Alice, 33, remote sales person, future medical secretary) It could be understood as a time of returning to oneself. This was expressed very clearly by the interviewees. Individuals envisaged themselves in various positions; they returned to their old dreams: “I wondered what I wanted to be”.The trajectory was revisited.This was a process of reflecting on the past and considering the various options open to oneself to escape a particular situation. The active stage The last stage, as identified by Bloch, is the search for a purpose, suchen. Although these three periods are different, it is not possible to justify the last two; the time of muddled searching and of formal searching occur almost simultaneously,‘daydreams’ are rejected as useless and the real professional possibilities are then considered. It is as if the individual 53

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embarks on a process of elimination – moving from what is impossible to what is possible.The suchen is a time of preliminary formalisation.The individual considers all the modalities for change, which seem possible to him or her: an internal promotion or an internal transfer is considered but rarely selected because it is often impossible. The person reviews all of their aims. For certain interviewees, the latency stage is rapidly transformed into an active search. The latency stage becomes active when the individual becomes aware of the impossibility of changing their current work or the difficulty of getting a promotion. It resolves an internal conflict, which is formed between the aspiration and the possibilities for making a move. The situation frees the individual up only when she or he takes the measure of the situation and accepts it. They can then start thinking about an exit strategy: ‘So I thought a lot and I looked at both sides and I read articles everywhere, and I went to the Chamber of Industry. I took some small notebooks with me and I realised that there was a Fongecif10 there which meant it was possible to find something.’ (Marie-Anne, 40, lab assistant, future medical sales assistance) It appears, moreover, that this active stage arises more quickly, meaning the individual doesn’t suffer in their everyday work. The three anticipation time periods explored here can be reduced to ‘breakthrough’ moments in which they identified thoughts that led to a disassociation of the individual from their expected role.

The turning point: a narrative concept in biographic bifurcation I would like to explain my approach to turning points in greater depth; it is similar to that of Abbott in that my work attempts to show that a turning point is a purely narrative concept.A turning point implies two points in time and appears in the disjunction between the interruptions of linear sequences. I suggest that the discontinuity between stable stages introduces openings. At some point, a distortion introduces a stage of instability and a breakthrough. This breakthrough in understanding establishes point A of the turning point, point B being situated after the action stage.This disjunction stage consists in ‘muddled’ sequences and has a duration period, the duration of the turning point. It ends with point B, which involves action and which constitutes the end of the previous sequence. Often, point A of the turning point is poorly identified by the individual, it is not named, but at any rate, this point 54

Turning points in the life course

Figure 2.1: From disruption to the stable stage Past

Present

Disruption

Future

Latency

Bifurcation

A

B Beginning of action

Stabilisation

activates an intense amount of work by the individual. The individual better identifies point B; it is sometimes produced and expected by individuals. Point B marks the outcome of the latency stage; it results in decision making and introduces the passage to action or, in other words, it restores it.

Typology of turning points A typological reading of turning points helps us identify narrative configurations, the narrative choices selected and the way they explain the action. The inaugural point A is, however, always the same even when it is not identified; it is indicated as the basis of a justification, the leitmotiv of which is, the search for oneself or the questioning of oneself, expressed as a sort of disjunction. This is the point of fracture. The motives, inevitably narrative and elective, have consequences on the outcome of the crisis which give the turning point various different hues. I use the term ‘narrative configurations’11 (Ricœur, 1983) to characterise these narrative choices, which I now look at in more detail. However, the choice is correlated with a form of speech and then by the a posteriori sense given by the player. The player interprets the meaning in his or her biography; it is the contre-effectuation of the meaning (Zarifian, 2001).

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Annie, a disabling disease Annie has a disease. She has had serious health problems since she was young. She has undergone extended stays in hospital and her illness constantly forces her to make life choices.When she was of school age, she could not attend an arts school as her teachers suggested and as she herself wished to. The distance between the school and her home was crucial; she would have been obliged to stay at a boarding school. Soon her health required constant care. She abandoned her plans and graduated from her high school in section G.12 Some years later, after a first job as a secretary, she began making lace and joined a group of artists. It was a very happy period for her; her husband supported her and helped her in his company; “we earned almost nothing, we went to fairs, but we enjoyed ourselves!” She began making lace because she met some people; she had not planned this choice (Murtagh et al, 2011).13 Then, she divorced her husband and with her new husband she moved to another region. Then she had a child. The happy time of lace producing was over; her new husband did not like the artists’ world. She got various jobs. Later, she learned to type. Offered a position as an executive secretary, she refused the job because she wanted to stay with her daughter. Nevertheless, this offer gave her hope and she developed a business as an independent typist. She types all kinds of documents for private individuals and works at home so that she can look after her daughter: ‘When I was young, I had big health problems, and I spent three years in hospital as a teenager. Everything went wrong at once. Basically, I didn’t really want to do this type of thing. When I was young, I wanted to study the fine arts, but I was hospitalised for a large part of my teenage years and when I left my schooling was over. My biggest regret is my professional career.There was a drawing element in lace making, but I lacked the basics, of course, and I couldn’t take it any further. This is my biggest regret. My career would have been totally different without these problems, I would have been able to make a choice and, in the end, I did not choose to do what I did; I’m trying to make a good job out of it now and to find an interest in computers, and that pleases me, but it will never please me as much as what I would have liked to have done. I’ve heard that you can do drawings on computers.’ (Annie, school-leaving certificate in visual arts, various jobs, lace maker, future typist) 56

Turning points in the life course

Annie’s narrative includes several turning points. The first one, the discovery of her disease, constitutes point A.The second turning point is the lace work, which appears as point B. Her trajectory balances itself again in a relatively stable sequence. The tragic dimension of the disease is ‘put aside’. She then finds a satisfactory professional alternative that allows her to practise art through lace. Through this job she rediscovered her self-confidence. For a time, she could be a player in her own life. The second turning point is the divorce that opens onto another period of time, another sequence A (or a sequence C), which is going to reactivate the first moment of the first turning point.Another relatively stable sequence follows, that of her life with her second husband and with her daughter. But the disease or initial outstanding event re-establishes its role through the negative view she has of her life at this moment in time. Annie’s trajectory and its narrative reveal the irreversibility of the event. In her trajectory, she has to cope with eventful moments.The turning point would temporarily allow her to turn the page. Nevertheless, this interpretation could vary in multiple ways (Becker, 1986), and the final scenario belongs to the individual.

Pablo, a ‘significant meeting’ The second type of turning point which I highlight here could be described in the following way: the professional bifurcation is coupled with an event in an individual’s personal life, such as, for example, a divorce, or a loving encounter. In this case, the dominant motive for the bifurcation is the ‘contamination of spheres’ (Grossetti, 2006). We could therefore say that a professional bifurcation is always a biographic bifurcation (Négroni, 2005b) because, as we see in this example, all the spheres are involved in the change. The narrative is told as a major change, which is going to lead to new developments. Pablo’s discourse represents a model for this type of account of a turning point. Here, the meeting is described as a condition for the change in trajectory.There is no mediation; the meeting becomes the direct vector. ‘One day, when Mitterrand became president for the second time, I borrowed a camera from friends and took pictures in the street. I met a boy who opened up a new world to me.The day after, I didn’t go to work, and when I returned to work, in a shop run by my very unpleasant brother, I said to him:“that’s enough, I quit!”’ (Pablo, 29, various jobs, future actor)

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The situation described by Pablo is typical of a ‘significant meeting’ where a meeting that seems banal is going to take its place in the biography.The conjunction between taking photographs and meeting the boy is going to be meaningful. The individual feels able to be a player in their trajectory because he or she seizes an opportunity,14 which converts the temporal dimension of chronos into kaïros15 (Bessin, 1998). He introduces a new element; he does not go to work, when the situation is already very tense with his brother. It is as if the break was anticipated, as if a small disjunction appears in the present and breaks the linear course of life.

Florent, the story of a symptom The third type of turning point is characterised by the fact that, to support their plans for change, the individual creates a situation of extreme tension that he or she cannot bear any more. It could be an illness or an uncomfortable feeling, generally translated by a physical symptom, which arises in a chronic way, or a violent conflict with somebody at work. The impossibility of continuing to tolerate the situation and the element is a sign. Physical suffering can intervene as a signal. This was the case with Florent: ‘I was away from my office in Norway, I came back to France and I cracked. My knee swelled up, I had synovial effusions, and then I travelled to Mexico for my holidays and two days after my arrival, my knee deflated and I was able to walk.’ (Florent, 31, engineer, future actor) For Yohan, a different element activated the transformation of his trajectory. More and more painful working conditions push him to negotiate a dismissal with his boss, in order to keep his rights and to receive ASSEDIC.16 He applied for a CIF17 to learn about video making even though his employer was ready to offer him another job in the company. In this type of turning point, the narrative comes closer to the findings of Lofland and Stark on the presence of tension as useful for conversion and which it is necessary to end via the conversion decision. Tension is also mentioned as a possible component of the conversion, although it is not necessary. This kind of narrative is close to the notion of symptom (Leclerc-Olive, 1997) that may attach itself to the justification of the conversion.

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Turning points in the life course

Conclusion To conclude, I would like to link up the ideas examined here with the aim of developing a fresh outlook on the subject. I first looked at the turning point concept in greater depth by questioning the different contexts for action within which individuals confront a change in their life course. My purpose was partly to show how different authors, including my own work, use the turning point as a narrative concept. However, our main finding consists in empirically illustrating the narrative figure of a turning point in the life stories of people who experience professional bifurcation. Indeed, we have seen that ex-post facto, an event does not square with what has happened exactly; as shown by Koselleck (1990), factual events have a fictional nature: they are influenced by simplification and the composition of a story. The account therefore does not restore the past but provides a fiction of past fact. That said, Louis Quéré (1991) sees a weakness in the historical reading of Koselleck. According to Quéré, Koselleck overvalues the temporal experience, which has, as its consequence, to stay outside the dimension of praxis. However, Quéré emphasises this idea himself and therefore its effects:‘there is every reason to think with Mead (1934) but also with Ricœur (1988) that it is in the on-going organisation of the practical field that this temporal activity is rooted’ (Quéré, 1991, p 280). I have put forward an analysis that places professional bifurcation life stories in their context, with a focus on the praxis dimension. The turning point implies one or more actions on the part of the individual to pass through another universe of meaning. This change of meaning is related through an unchanged framework that we call ‘latency’ – this is the moment when the decision is taken and the start of the action. This interpretation, with a narrative dimension, reveals the value of analysing what is said in life stories about a turning point. Life stories reveal the necessary negotiations performed with others and with oneself. They highlight the work performed by individuals on themselves in the bifurcation and give a new dimension to the concept of the turning point as a figure of bifurcated understanding, beside action and in the theory of action.The typology presented here develops the turning point concept in two ways: on the one hand, it reveals typical narrative configurations, which are particular motives in life stories relating to voluntary professional changes; on the other hand, these motives refer directly to the theoretical pattern of bifurcation. Finally, I believe in the importance of the narrative dimension as an imaginative and relevant source of understanding in the life course. 59

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

In this regard, I clearly agree with Abbott. He recommends that we treat turning points as an heuristic way of thinking about the theory of action, where the framework of ‘narrative positivism’ is very useful for the narrative of life stories.18 Notes The ‘Bifurcation and Events’ conference was held in Paris in the Reid Hall on 8 and 9 June 2003. 1

Kuhn’s approach to the history and philosophy of science has been described as focusing on conceptual issues: what sorts of ideas were thinkable at a particular time? What sorts of intellectual options and strategies were available to people during a given period? Kuhn argues that the evolution of scientific theory does not emerge from the straightforward accumulation of facts, but rather from a set of changing intellectual circumstances and possibilities. Such an approach is largely commensurate with the general historical school of non-linear history. 2

Voluntary professional conversions qualified the professional changes when they were decided by individuals. The empirical data and material were collected in 1998, 2000 and 2002. 3

Irreversibility: according to Grossetti, the question of predictability is connected to irreversibility, a bifurcation combines a strong unpredictability and an important irreversibility (Grossetti, 2006). 4

Bifurcation could be defined as a stage of action that does not take place previously in its entirety but could generate durable consequences. This definition was accepted by the working group on bifurcation in which I participated with Michel Grossetti from 2001 to 2003. 5

Snow and Phillips study individuals who convert to the ‘Nichiren Shoshu Buddhist’ confession in the US. 6

7

Michel Grossetti (2006) proposed this definition.

Abbott intended to explain the notion of structure in different fields. Some structures are resistant, they are long-enduring patterns in Braudel’s (1966) language; in terms of macropolitics, such enduring structures might be the mode of production of nationhood; in the life course they could be personal character, as something that could not be disassociated. 8

9

Revenu minimum d’insertion, a minimum guaranteed income.

Fongecif, a body that provides money for an employee wishing to undertake training. 10

60

Turning points in the life course Ricœur explains the term ‘narrative configurations’ based on the notion of narrative mimesis which, according to him, consists of three parts: prefiguration of action, narrative configuration and refiguration.The narrative configuration is the arrangement of occurrences in the story, which he prefers to call ‘mise en intrigue’ (Ricœur, 1986, p 176), which can be translated as ‘creating a plot’.

11

12

A special management baccalaureate.

The authors present a qualitative study of voluntary career change, which highlighted the importance of positive emotions, unplanned action and building certainty and perceiving continuity in the realisation of change.

13

In some interviews the opportunity is seen as chance events. A recent research shows that chance events are significantly influent in career decision making (Bright et al, 2005).

14

Kairos is an ancient Greek word meaning the ‘right or opportune moment’. The ancient Greeks had two words for time, chronos and kairos. While the former refers to chronological or sequential time, the latter signifies ‘a time in between’, a moment of undetermined period of time in which ‘something’ special happens. What the special something is depends on who is using the word. While chronos is quantitative, kairos has a qualitative nature.

15

16

Organisations managing unemployment insurance payments.

17

Congé individuel de formation, personal leave for training.

Narrative positivism: as Abbott said: ‘it will facilitate direct communication between history and the social sciences, because it thinks about social reality the way historians have traditionally done. It will provide us with a method for directly addressing questions of typical sequences that are central to a number of contemporary empirical literatures: life course, organizations, labour markets, and revolutions.’ (Abbott, 2001, p 182).

18

References Abbott, A. (2001) Time matters: On theory and method, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Balandier, G. (1988) Le désordre, Paris: Fayard. Bertaux, D. (1997) Les récits de vie, Collection 128, Paris: Nathan. Bertaux, D. (2000) ‘Récits de vie et analyse de l’agir en situation’, in V. de Gaulejac and A. Levy, Récits de vie et histoire sociale, Paris: Editions Eska, pp 73-86. Bessin, M. (1998) ‘Le kaïros dans l’analyse temporelle’, Cahier lillois, d’économie et de sociologie, no 32, Temps et contretemps. Approches sociologiques, 2nd semester, pp 55-73. 61

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Becker, H. (1986) ‘Biographie et mosaïque scientifique’, Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales, no 62-63, juin, pp 105-10. Bloch, E. (1976) Le principe d’espérance (3rd edn), Paris: Gallimard (originally published in 1959). Braudel F. (1966) La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II, Paris, A. Colin. Bright, J.E.H., Pryor, R.G.L and Hapham, L. (2005) ‘The role of chance events in career decision making’, Journal of Vocational Behavior, vol 66, no 3, pp 561-76. Fuchs-Ebaugh, H.R. (1988) Becoming an ex: The process of role exit, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Grossetti, M. (2006) ‘L’imprévisibilité dans les parcours sociaux’, Cahiers internationaux de sociologie,Trajectoires sociales et bifurcations, no 120, pp 5-28. Hareven, K.T. and Masaoka, K. (1988) ‘Turning points and transitions: perceptions of the life course’, Journal of Family History, vol 13, no 3, pp 271-89. Hughes, E. (1958) Men and their work, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Hughes, E. (1971) The sociological eye, Selected Papers, Chicago, IL: Aldine-Atherton. Kaufmann, J.-C. (2008) Quand je est un autre – Pourquoi et comment ça change en nous, Paris: Armand Colin. Koselleck, R. (1990) Le futur passé. Contribution à la sémantique des temps historiques, Paris: Editions de l’EHESS. Kuhn, T.S. (1962) The structure of scientific revolutions, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Leclerc-Olive, M. (1997) Le dire de l’événement, Lille: Presses universitaires du Septentrion. Lofland, J. and Stark, R. (1965) ‘Becoming a world-saver: a theory of conversion to a deviant perspective’, American Sociological Review, vol 30, pp 862-74. Mead, G.H. (1932) The philosophy of the present, LaSalle, IL: Open Court Publishing Company. Mead, G.H. (1934) Mind, self and society (edited by C. Morris), Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Mead, G.H. (1938) The philosophy of the act (edited by C. Morris), Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Murtagh, N., Lopes Paulo, N. and Lyons, E. (2011) ‘Decision making in voluntary career change: an other-than rational perspective’, Career Development Quarterly, 1 March, vol 59, no 3, pp 249-63. Négroni, C. (2005a) ‘La reconversion professionnelle volontaire: une expérience de conversion de soi’, Carriérologie, vol 10, no 2, pp 331-48. 62

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Négroni, C. (2005b) ‘La reconversion professionnelle volontaire: d’une bifurcation professionnelle à une bifurcation biographique’, Cahiers Internationaux de Sociologie, vol CXIX, pp 311-31. Négroni, C. (2007) Reconversion professionnelle volontaire. Changer d’emploi, changer de vie: Un regard sociologique sur les bifurcations, Paris: Armand Colin. Négroni, C. (2009) ‘Ingrédients des bifurcations professionnelles: la latence et les événements déclencheurs’, in M. Bessin, C. Bidart and M. Grossetti (eds) L’enquête sur les bifurcations. Les sciences sociales face aux ruptures et à l’événement, Paris: La Découverte. Quéré, L. (1991) ‘Evénement et temps de l’historien’, in J.-L. Petit (ed) L’événement en perspective, Raisons pratiques, no 2, Paris : Editions de l’EHESS. Ricœur, P. (1983) Temps et récit 1, Paris: Seuil Ricœur, P. (1986) Du texte à l’action, Paris: Seuil.. Ricœur, P. (1988) ‘L’identité narrative’, Esprit, no 140-1, pp 295-315. Sewell,W., Jr (1996) ‘Three temporalities: towards an eventful sociology’, in T.J. McDonald (ed) The historic turn in human sciences, Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, pp 245-80. Snow, D. and Phillips, C.L. (1980) ‘The Lofland-Stark conversion model’, Social Problems, vol 27, pp 430-7. Strauss, A. (1992) La trame de la négociation. Sociologie qualitative et interactionnisme, Paris: L’Harmattan. Weber M. (1949) The methodology of social sciences, Glencoe, IL: Free Press (translated from German). Weber, M. (1965) Essai sur la théorie de la science, Paris: Plon. Zarifian, P. (2001) ‘Le travail et l’événement’, in G. Jeannot and P.Veltz (eds) Le travail entre l’entreprise et la cité, Colloque de Cerisy, Paris: Edit L’Aube, pp 109-25.

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three

Conjugal separation and immigration in the life course of immigrant single mothers in Québec Ana Gherghel and Marie-Christine Saint-Jacques

Single parenthood over the past few decades has been a focus of family scholar research that has shown its characteristics as a family form, its risks and opportunities, as well as its coping mechanisms. Within this body of research, the situation of immigrant single parents is less documented, although specific conditions particularise this experience, as it will be demonstrated in this chapter.We intend to discuss whether or not immigration can initiate a turning point in the lives of parents experiencing a conjugal separation after settling in the receiving society. Examples are drawn from a research1 based on biographic interviews with immigrant single mothers of different ethnic origins established in Québec City. First, we briefly present the current situation in this field. Second, the theoretical approach is introduced, discussing the definition of turning points as well as the main life course principles that underlie our research.Third, several details about our study’s context and methodology are presented. Finally, we analyse those family trajectories and dynamics where a conjugal separation occurs, and then conclude with a discussion about the significance of single parenthood and the impact of immigration and conjugal separation on individuals’ lives.

Experiencing a conjugal separation in an immigration context Since the 1970s,2 in all Western societies, the number and proportion of single parents among households with children has constantly increased. In the province of Québec, in 2006 single parents represented 29 per cent of all families and 23.0 per cent of children lived in a single-parent household (MFA, 2011). This phenomenon also presents two other important characteristics: its feminisation (80 per cent of single parents 65

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

are women) and relative rejuvenation – single parents are younger than other categories of parents3 (Cloutier et al, 2004). Entry into single parenthood can entail positive consequences, such as the improvement of family climate and stability where the parent or child has experienced domestic conflict or abuse (Amato, 2000; Parent et al, in press). However, as many studies point out, single parenthood also brings about many risks and difficulties of a social, economic and psychological nature (Dandurand and Ouellette, 1992; Lefaucheur, 1993; Lefaucheur and Martin, 1993; Le Gall and Martin, 1996; Duncan and Edwards, 1997; Martin, 1997; Cloutier et al, 2004). Overburdened with parental charges and domestic responsibilities, single parents frequently experience increased social isolation, economic impoverishment and psychological stress that sometimes express themselves in the parental relation through more coercive discipline, more conflict with the children, less availability and less supervision. For these reasons, this family form has been an object of scholarly research and a target category for family and social policies over the past decades. The most frequent origin of single parenthood is conjugal separation. Since the end of 1980s, the divorce rate is around 50 per cent in Québec (ISQ, 2009), and divorces involve couples with children one time out of two (Duchesne, 2006). Conjugal instability is up to two times higher for unmarried than for married couples (Le Bourdais and LapierreAdamcyk, 2008). Conjugal separation can be defined as a transition that ‘orientates the family trajectory and causes certain effects on relations’ (Cloutier et al, 2004, p 38). In a global understanding, a transition is ‘a process of change in a period of time characterised by the research of a new functional organization’ (Beaudoin et al, 1997, p 65). In addition to other difficulties related to single parenthood situations, a couple breakup also signifies an important demand for adaptation of both parent and child, where roles, relations and functioning must be redefined (Saint-Jacques et al, 2004). Among others, it generates a redefinition of parental relation as well as a reorganisation of relations with the non-residential parent and each parent’s charges and responsibilities (Parent et al, in press). Experiencing a conjugal separation in an immigration context can cause a very precarious situation. From individual and family viewpoints, immigration represents a multidimensional transition that involves many adaptations to a new environment, at different levels: residential, geographic, professional, educational, social and cultural. In addition, immigrant parents also face, in various degrees, a demand for adjustment of familial and parental roles according to formal and informal practices, norms and regulations regarding family, child or 66

Conjugal separation and immigration in the life course ...

state–family relations in the receiving society (Bérubé, 2004). It is therefore legitimate to consider that immigration entails a series of transitions in various life domains – profession, occupation, education and family. When a conjugal separation occurs a short time after immigration or simultaneously, this situation brings about an important instability resulting from the juxtaposition of these transitions that require coping with changes and important adaptations in the same life spheres: parental and familial roles and relations as well as family functioning. At the same time, an immigrant single parent can face other necessary adjustments related to the professional or educational career. This view is based on a family migration perspective that, instead of considering immigration as an individual phenomenon, emphasises the importance of family ties and dynamics in the migration process and considers the family as a unit of analysis (Le Gall, 1996, 2005;Vatz Laaroussi, 2001; Kofman, 2004; Lazure and Benazera, 2006; Baldassar et al, 2007). This approach has developed since the late 1980s, especially in North American and Asian Pacific contexts, and has been driven by the observation that in societies receiving migrants, as in Canada, the US or Australia, family migration represents a significant part of the immigrant population4 and the majority of immigrants live in familial households. As many researchers highlight (Le Gall, 1996; Vatz Laaroussi, 2001; Baldassar et al, 2007), immigration constitutes a familial project, voluntarily planned (economic immigration) or not (refugees), aimed at improving the social and economic standard of living for the family – assuring a better future for their children, achieving better education or employment and protection of their lives.Therefore, family dynamics – including motivations, expectations and projects – are central in immigration (Vatz Laaroussi, 2001, p 7). In this perspective, conjugal separation could represent a disturbance. In order to investigate the significance of these two transitions, immigration and conjugal separation, and their impact on individual lives, we have analysed family dynamics and life trajectories of some immigrant mothers experiencing a single-parent episode generated by a conjugal separation. With a retrospective perspective, we examine their life spans before and after immigration to explore this transition as a potential turning point.

Theoretical considerations: conceptualising turning points The life course approach allows situating an experience, like single parenthood, in social time (generation, social roles), historical time 67

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(contexts of origin and destination countries) and individual time (biography).This perspective is based on the assumption that life courses are paths (Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997, p 1) resulting from the interplay of trajectories and transitions experienced in various life domains (Elder et al, 2004). Generally, trajectories have a direction toward a life destination that is consistent and predictable according to regularities observed and social and historical norms. However, human development is not linear; it involves continuities and discontinuities, growth and loss (Clausen, 1995; Rutter, 1996; McAdams et al, 1993; McAdams, 2001, 2004). Any life course can include forks or bifurcations when alternative paths are possible.They can be temporary disturbances – not affecting continuity in the same direction – or perturbations creating a long-lasting discontinuity with regard to a formerly observed path – a durable change of orientation in life path (Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997, p 2; Levy and team Pavie, 2005, p 16). This latter determines a turning point. In other words, a transition, event or circumstance can be qualified as a turning point when it has ‘lasting effects, producing changes in one or more life trajectories’ (Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997, p 3) that refer to living conditions, lifestyles and/or self-perceptions. In one’s life course, multiple turning points are therefore possible. To identify a turning point requires a long-term perspective, to situate it within the life span in order to understand the significance one associates with that experience, transition or circumstance (Laub and Sampson, 1993; Clausen, 1995; Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997; Drapeau et al, 2007). For instance, research in criminology demonstrated that marriage and full-time employment represent opportunities for change of direction in the life courses of men with anti-social behaviour, and have the potential to initiate change in crime trajectories. However, not all individuals experiencing these transitions define them as turning points (Elder, 1991; Clausen, 1995; Sampson and Laub, 2004). As Clausen points out, ‘reported turning points tell us not so much how lives have been shaped, but how they have been experienced’ (Clausen, 1995, p 387). We therefore retain the definition of the turning point as ‘a change in direction in the life course, with respect to a previously established trajectory, that has the long-term impact of altering the probability of life destinations’ (Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997, p 5). Several researchers have tackled with questions related to the nature of turning points. For Clausen (1995), this concept globally includes all transitions and circumstances bringing a change of the (life) trajectory. They can be transitions of an occupational role (professional change involving a re-evaluation of personal goals or changes of professional 68

Conjugal separation and immigration in the life course ...

environment, for instance), marital role (divorce, marriage), or parental role (becoming a parent). Other turning points arise from transforming incidents bringing a new request for the roles performed by an individual (such as an illness or death of one member of the family or conjugal separation), or from chance encounters (Bandura, 1982) that lead to developing an important relationship with a significant person and to a redefinition of goals, of environment, of career or influence other aspects of the individual development. In criminology, conducting the study of change and resilience with a developmental life course perspective (Yoshioka and Noguchi, 2009) revealed that the transition to motherhood can be a turning point in the trajectories of disadvantaged groups such as persistent adolescent delinquents (Laub and Sampson, 1993), mothers with delinquent and drug-using trajectories (Kreager et al, 2010), street-involved young mothers (King et al, 2009) or women in rural trailer parks (Notter et al, 2008). However, systematic investigation of adults’ lives showed that turning points should not be reduced to transitions as they ‘involve a substantial change in the direction of one’s life, whether subjective or objective’ (Elder et al, 2004, p 8). Research elaborated in psychopathology (Rutter, 1996) highlights that experiences of a subjective nature, such as unanticipated life crises, changes related to self-conception, life satisfaction, sentiment of being fulfilled or self-awareness, can equally be origins of turning points. Based on a narrative approach, psychologists (McAdams and Bowman, 2001; McAdams et al, 1993; McAdams, 2001, 2004; Arnol et al, 2004; Pratt and Fiese, 2004; Bauer et al, 2005) demonstrate that examining turning points reveals patterns of change specific for the individual development through their expression in narratives constructed around positive or negative outcomes of life events. In qualitative research about the resilience of adolescents in foster care followed through the youth protection services in Québec, Drapeau and her colleagues (2007) identified three types of turning points: action (an achievement that gives a sense of accomplishment), relation (meeting a new person or creating a significant positive relationship based on trust with a significant adult) and reflection (shift associated with the development of an awareness regarding the child’s own situation).This study proves the importance of processes undertaken when a bifurcation occurs in a life path. Studies on cumulative continuity or cumulative consequences of disadvantage emphasise that turning points involve particular qualities of experiences rather than universal life transitions or stressful life events that mostly accentuate than alter individual characteristics 69

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(Laub and Sampson, 1993; Clausen, 1995; Rutter, 1996). Three broad categories that carry the ‘potential for persistence’ can demarcate them: experiences that shut down or open up opportunities; experiences that involve lasting changes in the environment; and those having lasting effects on a person’s self-concept or views and expectations of other people (Rutter, 1996, pp 613-14). To sum up, positive or negative life events or transitions occurring in isolation or in a succession of changes, subjective experiences and sudden or gradual realisations have been identified as potential turning points in life paths (Clausen, 1995; Moen and Erickson, 1995; Rutter, 1996; Drapeau et al, 2007). Their characteristics are heterogeneous: turning points can occur at any moment of the life course, be anticipated or not, be voluntarily decided or beyond individual control. Most importantly, a turning point is distinguished by the interpretation one associates with a specific experience in regard to a long-term perspective: to substantially change the direction of the life path. In the light of these contributions, immigration and conjugal separation represent disturbances of the life trajectory because they require important adaptations regarding roles, relations and functioning of the family. They could also be seen as turning points when their occurrence entails a significant change of one’s life path, affecting living conditions, lifestyles and/or self-perceptions.Therefore it is important to analyse this life experience – single parenthood in an immigration context – within the long duration of the life course and to examine the mechanisms that mediate its impact on patterns of family relations, lifestyle and life satisfaction.

Life course approach in the study of immigrant families’ trajectories Based on a global understanding of the life course, analysis was conducted on the whole life span including four main trajectories corresponding to major domains: family, profession, education and migration.To examine the life paths of immigrant families, five guiding life course principles shaped our approach. According to the life span development principle, time is one of the main dimensions in life course study – ‘human development and ageing are lifelong processes’ (Elder et al, 2004, p 11). The development is multidimensional (biological, psychological, social), multidirectional (involves growth, but also decline, loss) and multidomain because it occurs in regard to various life spheres – family, profession, education, social, migration (Settersten, 2003). Consequently, migration experience 70

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is examined within the broader context of individual life course, and single parenthood is considered as an episode. The principle of human agency introduces a view of the individual as actor in his life course, having the capacity to construct his own trajectory within the opportunities and constraints of social circumstances (Elder et al, 2004, p 12). Accordingly, individuals’ motivations, perceptions, decisions, projects and plans about migration inform this experience. Following the principle of historical time and place – ‘the life course of individuals is embedded in and shaped by the historical times and places they experience over their lifetime’ (Elder et al, 2004, p 12) – analysis focuses on both the pre-migratory period and post-migration. Social and historical conditions in the origin country shape the perceptions, expectations and motivations related to the immigration project (Le Gall, 1996; Vatz Laaroussi, 2001). Meanwhile, social and historical conditions in the receiving country also influence the migration experience through the existing immigration policies (that define the administrative and juridical procedures related to eligible immigration paths, as well as political and social statuses attributed to the migrant people or groups and, consequently, their rights and obligations), the resources and services available to facilitate social and professional integration and the economic situation. In the light of the principle of timing in lives – ‘the developmental antecedents and consequences of life transitions, events, and behavioural patterns vary according to their timing in a person’s life’ (Elder et al, 2004, p 12) – the transitions analysed in this research, conjugal separation and immigration, can have different significations and impacts on lives depending on the moment when they occur, their sequencing, duration and synchronisation with other transitions. Finally, the principle of linked lives states that ‘lives are lived interdependently, and social and historical influences are expressed through this network of shared relationships’ (Elder et al, 2004, p 13). The support networks of parents – the part of the social network that can offer different forms of help – have been closely examined. Our investigation thus examines migration processes within a long duration because investigating the interplay of migration and life course help us understand ‘the ways international migration may disrupt family processes’ (Clark et al, 2009, p 853).

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Context of the research: immigrant families in Québec To situate the context of our research, a brief description of immigrant families in the province of Québec is presented here based on demographic data.5 In 2006, 19.9 per cent of all family households in Québec were composed of immigrants, mixed couples and nonpermanent residents, including married and unmarried couples with children and single parents. From the total of single parents in Québec, immigrants represented 16.6 per cent in 2006 (MFA, 2011). Comparing the family structure of immigrant and native populations, some distinctions are observed. The majority of immigrants live in a familial household in a larger proportion than the native population. The proportion of households with children – married or unmarried couples with children and single parents – is more important for the non-native population than for the natives. From the total, 23.2 per cent of immigrant families are single parents, most of them (83.8 per cent) being single mothers.This proportion is lower than that registered for the Canadian-born population (29 per cent), and it has been rising since 1991, when it was 19 per cent (Le Gall, 1996). Within the immigrant population, the single parenthood rate varies from one ethnic group to another, being higher for Caribbeans and very low for Asians (Le Gall, 1996; Lamotte and Desrosiers, 1997). Compared to the natives, immigrant children live longer with their parents: the percentage of immigrant single mothers with children aged over 18 years is proportionally higher (45.8 per cent) than that of native single mothers in this situation (38.3 per cent). The same trend is registered for single fathers (52.4 per cent for immigrants and 39.9 per cent for natives) and for two-parent families (26.5 and 25.3 per cent respectively) (MFA, 2011). These observations influenced us to focus our research on the situation of single mothers who represent the majority of immigrant single parents.

Methodology For research conducted between 2006 and 2008 (Gherghel, 2009), 10 biographic interviews (Charbonneau, 2003; Bertaux and de Singly, 2005) were collected.The respondents were immigrant single mothers, living in Québec City for more than three years. Six of them were separated and four had been divorced for more than one year. They were aged between 30 and 54, had children aged between 3 and 22 72

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and came from: Europe (5), Latin America (3), Eastern or Southern Africa (2).The majority of respondents had a university degree (7), two attained college education and one mother had only primary education. For the majority, the economic situation was precarious. According to the main income source, only three mothers had remunerated parttime or full-time jobs, three had academic loans and scholarships as they were students, two were beneficiaries of social security and one didn’t have any personal income. Three respondents also benefited from family allowances. According to immigration status at entry to Canada, various categories were represented in our sample: economic immigrants, family-sponsored immigrants, visitor, temporary worker and/or foreign student.6 The interviews were based on a research instrument that consisted of three tools: • The social timetables7 recorded the age/year of important life transitions in the four trajectories at study – familial, occupational, educational and migratory. • The semi-directive interview guide investigated in-depth the themes at study and was structured in six parts: project of migration, adaptation after immigration, separation, parental roles, qualifications and perceptions related to the support network and use of social services. • The portrait of the support network8 recorded basic data about the significant actors and supportive relations. The interviews, realised in French and English, were transcribed and then submitted to a thematic content analysis (Bardin, 1986; L’Écuyer, 1988). The categories of analysis were gradually elaborated on the basis of the themes discussed in the interview guide, after successive readings of the material. In the following sections, we present the most important results of our analysis. First, we examine the mothers’ life trajectories and their main characteristics. Second, we describe family dynamics, factors explaining family instability and related processes. Third, we discuss how these various elements interact to initiate or not initiate turning points.

Family trajectories where conjugal separation occurs: three types One of the main assumptions of the life course theory is that the succession, synchronisation and timing of transitions have an impact on 73

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individual development (principle of timing in lives). In our research, this aspect was analysed through an examination of the familial transitions recorded in the social timetables, considering their timing, sequencing, spacing, density and duration of episodes (Settersten, 2003, p 25).This analysis revealed three main types of family trajectories where conjugal separation occurred.They also differed according to the family situation at the moment of immigration: mothers of the first trajectory formed a family, those of the second trajectory, a married or unmarried couple without children, and those of the third one, a stepfamily. Immigrant families. The first trajectory regroups six respondents aged between 30-40 (mean = 35) and having one union lasting on average seven years (durations vary between 3-15 years), started before immigration.Within this conjugal relationship (married or unmarried couple), one or two children were born. Motherhood was experienced before immigration and during the mid or late twenties. Separation occurred two to three years after immigration.The duration of singleparent episode was about two years and the duration of the whole post-migratory episode, at the time of interview, was around four years. In this trajectory, the spacing between transitions was rather balanced (two to three years). Immigrant couples. For the two mothers experiencing this type of trajectory, the conjugal union started a short time before immigration and most of the conjugal history as well as motherhood were experienced after immigration and later in life (early thirties). The duration of the union (15 years on average) and the duration of the post-migratory period (18 years on average) were longer than for the first trajectory. Immigration occurred at a younger age, but mothers of this trajectory were older (aged between 40 and 53) than those in the first one. Consequently, the separation could be experienced later in life, during the forties, while in the first trajectory it occurred during the thirties.The duration of the single-parent episode was also longer, about four to five years, at the time of interview. In this trajectory, the spacing between transitions was irregular, being short before immigration (less than a year between formation of union and immigration) and longer for the post-migratory transitions/period (four to nine years between family transitions). Serial single parenthood. The third trajectory was composed of successive episodes of single parenthood. The two mothers who experienced this type of trajectory had been involved in at least two 74

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cohabiting or non-cohabiting unions, where children were born, at least one before and one after the immigration. At the time of immigration, these two mothers formed a stepfamily and the post-migratory union also ended with a conjugal separation. By the time of the interview, the mothers were living a long single parenthood episode (duration of eight to nine years). Like the mothers of the second trajectory, these mothers were older, aged between 40 and 53.Another characteristic of this trajectory was the unequal spacing between main transitions and a high concentration of transitions at various moments.9

Family dynamics of the conjugal separation: two logics If we examine the three trajectories identified in the light of principles of the life course approach (Elder et al, 2004), several observations emerge with regard to sequences before and after the separation. The analysis of the in-depth interviews offers more information about the context where the marital separation occurred. In this regard, we can distinguish two different dynamics of separation, a series of factors explaining the separation (analysis of sequences before separation), several difficulties and mechanisms mediating their impact (analysis of sequences after separation). The first dynamics is the conflicted model and was experienced by the majority of respondents (eight out of ten): conflicts preceded the immigration or appeared a short time after the immigration. Six mothers were also victims of domestic abuse (psychological, economic or physical), like the following quotation illustrates: ‘He was a controlling man, I had to do what he wanted, and didn’t have to talk freely, to say anything.… I stayed home for one year because he forbade me going to school or doing any activity outside the household, until we get separated. Then [after the separation] I started to go to school for the French classes. It was more difficult for me before the separation, I felt like in prison.’ (M7) All the mothers facing this type of abuse had used social services and community-based services in order to initiate the separation and to be able to cope with the difficulties of single motherhood. They especially needed help to find lodging, information about their rights and divorce procedures, legal advice, accompanying services, translation and psychotherapy. In addition, four mothers had been living in a shelter 75

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for victims of domestic abuse during various periods.These conflicted separations, as well as the custody arrangements, were settled with difficulty through juridical procedures. As a consequence, five mothers were the main or sole guardian parent, while three had joint custody. A second model is observed for two mothers who experienced negotiated dynamics: the separation decided after more or less one year in Québec occurred without conflict. The spouses were gradually disengaged, as the following quotation shows: ‘At that time, me and [ex-spouse], we were really distant. The couple was very fragile. We had really difficulties of couple, but not related to our daughter. I think it was all the charges, the pressures we had here. We did only to live, to work, to study, but the couple was really secondary. Then, I felt uncomfortable with our relationship because we had always been very close, very much in love with each other, but [ex-spouse] felt responsible that I am here, that his daughter is here. He felt an enormous pressure on him so that everything went well, and we all succeed.’ (M4) After the break-up, an arrangement of co-parental, sharing responsibilities was set in place, in both cases. Before separation. Respondents’ discourses referring to the conjugal episode revealed several factors leading to separation. A few elements were mentioned in most of the cases, but their relative importance was different within the two dynamics. For the families living with conflicted dynamics, the difficulties related to the adaptation after immigration, namely, economic impoverishment, professional disqualification and loss of social status were important sources of tensions that gradually altered the family climate.They entailed an important pressure on the family to redefine and adjust their professional and educational projects and brought frustration, expressed sometimes in domestic violence. The discourse of one mother particularly illustrates this process, as an ‘accumulation of disadvantaged conditions’: ‘When we have the means, [the couple] cannot break up like that. If my husband would have a job, he would be at work, we would not be at home all the time together and he would not ask that I always accompany him because he is alone.... This is a succession of things and circumstances. If we had enough money, we could do things like going to 76

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the restaurant, going to cinema, instead of always confining us at home and imposing limits on each other ... until the own self become an obsession, a problem.... The stress also leads to violence and so on, it is like a chain of reaction.... When I met him, he was funny, he made me laugh, he was different.... He changed here. This entire precarious socioeconomic situation we had was a burden that exploded at some point, it was too much ... and this affects the family, the woman, the children, the loved ones.… My husband was desperately looking for a job, but he never found one. The stress generated by the unemployment brings this precarious situation when you don’t have the means of achievement, and this brings the violence.The stress that you cannot afford a small distraction and even to eat or to pay for the basic needs, like lodging or food … it was depressing.That’s why I say that divorces are the result of the precarious economic situation and instability.’ (M10) Respondents also mentioned as factors leading to separation spouses’ personal characteristics that didn’t favour adjustment to the cultural, social and professional environment, and differences between spouses in regard to the cultural models of family roles and relations (for the two mixed couples). At the same time, isolation was frequently evoked as a factor unfavourable to the decision to separate and to adaptation after separation. For the second dynamics (negotiated), the factors originating the separation were mostly related to decision making in regard to the migration project, to family functioning and organisation. These mothers didn’t adhere to the migration project itself in the beginning and had to adjust in a significant way to post-migration changes. The decision to immigrate to Canada was motivated by familial reasons – they followed their spouses even if they didn’t want migration themselves: ‘During the period when [ex-spouse] began to identify potential opportunities abroad, we were in an unstable period for the couple because I did not want to go abroad, in fact.... I thought we didn’t need to go to another country to find more opportunities than in the [country of origin] because we had a good position: we were working in a highly regarded research group, at the best university of our country. So to me, it was not necessary to go abroad to do 77

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a PhD or to achieve more experience…. For me, thinking about my origins, my family, I was very happy with the position we had and where we lived at that time.... I did not lack of opportunities.... I really did not want to go abroad, to abandon what we had.’ (M4) In the negotiated dynamics, economic difficulties were present, but at a lesser extent than in the conflicted ones. The disagreements related to professional and familial projects and roles were considered the most important elements that impeded a couple’s adaptation to the new environment and then altered interpersonal communication. Similar factors that explain family instability in an immigration context – economic impoverishment, socioeconomic conditions in the receiving country, personal characteristics of parents and adjustments of family roles, relations and projects – have been also noted in other studies elaborated in various contexts (Le Gall, 1996), but our research highlights their different impacts depending on family dynamics and characteristics of life paths. In all circumstances, there is no unique factor that explains family instability, but a conjunction of various elements. The majority of mothers described separation as a gradual process, a succession of events and conditions that contributed to the degradation of conjugal climate and relationships. Disagreements over the conciliation of familial and professional roles and projects, family functioning and responsibilities of each spouse cumulated in time. Conflicts leading to separation were sometimes triggered by specific events, such as the birth of a child or a spouse’s infidelity. Economic difficulties also added an important pressure that brought dissatisfaction. Economic impoverishment and professional disqualification after immigration seemed to affect in particular highly qualified individuals having a university diploma that was not equivalent or recognised in Québec.They had difficulties joining the job market on an equivalent level as in their origin country and therefore had to accept jobs below their qualification level or return to school in order to obtain a diploma from a Canadian institution. Sometimes this created important frustrations and disagreements about the efforts and strategies necessary to undertake: ‘My husband was used to being a boss, to giving orders. He would not do anything less, a lower job. He wanted only something on a high level.... It was I who finally managed to install here and my husband stayed at home, in front of the computer doing…. I don’t know what.... He did not 78

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find a job and it was not possible for him to find a job, because his demands were very high. He wanted to have a good salary immediately. He did not want to study. He wanted exactly the same level that he had in [country of origin]. This was problematic for me….’ (M2) On the contrary, professionals who had a secondary, post-secondary or technical diploma achieved professional insertion at a level equivalent to that in their origin country more rapidly. The equivalence and recognition of their qualifications required less investment in time and financial resources – completing short training and administrative procedures – but a few months after immigration, they were able to find employment in their field. All our respondents had to reintegrate in the education system in order to complete a degree similar or superior to the one they had in their origin country and/or to attend French classes. This also meant interrupting their professional career, which contradicted their expectations. During this period, mothers were economically dependent on their husbands. Consequently, for two respondents, being mothers at home represented an intended situation, but the other six faced this condition by constraint and a lack of opportunities.While spouses experienced the same kind of situation, the impoverishment of the family was important and unfavourable to post-migratory adaptation. This kind of downward mobility that some immigrants and refugees suffer either in the long term or on a temporary basis has also been noted in other studies (see, for example, Le Gall, 1996; Gans, 2009). After separation. The discourse related to the post-separation episode highlighted difficulties undergone especially at entry into single motherhood. Their occurrence and extent depended on the situation prior to separation. All the mothers experienced economic impoverishment and vulnerability, at least temporarily, at the beginning of the single motherhood episode. Many were dependent on their spouses, being housewives with young children. Even for mothers who had a personal income as they worked or studied, the economic standard of living always diminished when they remained the unique provider for the household.The moment when this transition occurred explains the economic vulnerability: mothers were in a process of adaptation to the socioeconomic context of Québec, and their professional and economic situation was not stable:

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‘When [ex-spouse] was gone, it was really very difficult in financial terms.The jobs I could find did not overcome the financial gap that his departure left behind him.The first few months, it was really very, very, very hard. I remember one Christmas time, almost a year since [ex-spouse] was gone; I had not enough money to buy a Christmas tree. Because I had resumed my studies, so I had to pay the fees at school, to pay the rent for the apartment, to pay this and that. Really ... at the financial level, the departure of a spouse when you are not independent financially is absolutely very hard.’ (M5) All the mothers also reported a high level of psychological distress during the separation and half of them needed psychotherapy in order to cope with anxiety, depression and/or psychological or previous physical domestic violence.The relationship between parent and child was also redefined and many mothers mentioned the difficulties they had with their children in coping with the post-separation situation. These perturbations of the parental relation seemed to be more present when the separation was not amicable and the two parents disagreed on the arrangement of the child’s custody. For the majority of interviewed mothers, the absence of a social network in Québec represented one of the main obstacles to their integration after immigration. At the moment of separation, at least four mothers who were housewives and thus significantly isolated, reported their social relations being extremely limited, especially for those not speaking French. As single mothers, the organisation of a support network appeared to be an important issue for all of them. As they had lost part of their social network, mostly the relations that they and their spouses had in common, all mothers mentioned that they felt more inclined to establish new contacts and supportive ties. In the long term, the capacity to overcome these difficulties and to establish a new functional organisation as a single-parent family depends on individual resources (education, employment, economic autonomy, linguistic competences), capacity to create supportive relations and to access adequate social support, as well as on past experiences and the moment in life when the separation occurs – age, number and age of children, timing with other transitions, previous experiences of single parenthood, family dynamics. Immigration status can also influence the situation of the single mother. This was noticeable in the case of two mothers who arrived in Canada with a temporary status as a worker or visitor and who faced long-term economic vulnerability 80

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and important obstacles in getting social resources. Receiving social support from informal or community sources represented the main survival strategy for them. Strategies of coping with economic impoverishment were different for two other mothers who delayed their separation for several years to achieve professional and economic autonomy, even if they were victims of psychological and economic violence in their conjugal family. For these mothers, it was important not to impose a precarious situation on their children at a young age and therefore they waited for the moment when their professional status had improved and they could offer stability as a single-parent family. Their coping strategies were based on reinforcing autonomy. Finally, for the other six respondents, separation occurred at a time when they were barely able to achieve the economic stability of their single-parent household. Receiving social support from both formal and informal sources represented the main coping mechanism in these cases. Therefore, access to various forms of support is essential in order to cope with economic impoverishment and to reach psychological, emotional and economic stability. At the moment of separation, the majority of the respondents (eight mothers out of ten) used different forms of support from formal sources, either community-based services or governmental social services and programmes offered through the public system of health and social services: psychotherapy; shelter for victims of domestic violence; instrumental/material support; support for accessing the job market (training, follow-up and so on); and juridical assistance for low-income families during divorce procedures and family mediation.At the time of the interview, more than one year after separation, six mothers continued to use different forms of social support offered through these organisations. Many also turned to their informal social network – friends, the origin family, neighbours and colleagues provided material, financial, emotional and informational help. Moreover the significance of single motherhood seemed to be different depending on the family dynamics. For most of the mothers experiencing conflicted dynamics, separation brought an improvement in the family climate and in their emotional stability. Their discourse was organised in positive terms because the present situation was analysed in regard to past experience characterised by conjugal conflicts. Compared with the conjugal episode that preceded the separation, single parenthood brought serenity and a family environment more favourable to personal development. Nevertheless, persistent economic difficulties during single parenthood could compromise their well81

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being and satisfaction with their living conditions. On the contrary, for the mothers who experienced negotiated dynamics, the separation departed importantly from their family life pattern based on family cohesion and unity. In their discourses, the presence of conflicts related to family values and norms took a dominant place compared to other difficulties of an economic nature. For them, separation meant an important perturbation of lifestyle, reorganising their projects and redefining their beliefs: ‘To separate, for me, means also to change my lifestyle. I married forever and to break the couple it means breaking my relationship with my religion where divorce is not accepted at all.This calls in question my beliefs, the doctrine that I have always followed and the belief that doing things in a certain way would be the best way.... So, I lost in this process many of my references.... When I told my family about the separation, the first thing I said was to ask forgiveness for the shame I caused to the family. It was my feeling and I was really ashamed for my family.... In the milieu where I come from, divorce was really something shameful.’ (M4) The interpretation of single parenthood also varies according to characteristics of life trajectories, such as past life experience, life period when the immigration and separation occur and their timing with other life transitions. As Young and her colleagues (2001) demonstrate, the life period when separation occurs can influence the understanding women have about this transition.Women divorced during their thirties reported more conflicts and discussed separation in terms of difficulties with the marital relationship, while women divorced in their forties experienced less conflicts and discussed separation in terms of unmet goals in their personal development (Young et al, 2001). For our sample, the disturbance created by the separation was substantial, perceived as an important failure of life projects (including migration and family), when it was experienced during the early thirties. Later in life, during the forties, separation entailed less psychological disturbance because it had often been long anticipated, it involved fewer changes of occupational and professional roles and didn’t alter their economic situation. Examining the post-separation sequence proves that there are, in general, many difficulties of economic, psychological and social natures, similar to those observed, for many single parents, as a vast literature shows (see, for example, Lefaucheur, 1993; Duncan and 82

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Edwards, 1997; Martin, 1997; Cloutier et al, 2004; Parent et al, in press). However, immigrant single parents face increased vulnerability, specific to situations, when multiple transitions are experienced and require an ability to cope simultaneously with adaptations for several roles – occupational, familial, educational and professional.

Discussion Single parenthood is differently conceived within the three trajectories identified and according to family dynamics. Turning points involve a perturbation of the life trajectory that has lasting effects, resulting in a durable change of direction of the life path (Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997). If the perturbations created by immigration and separation are important and can have an impact on different life domains, they can lead to the continuation or discontinuity of previous life paths and receive various interpretations. For the first trajectory identified, separation and single parenthood represent an important change of life path; these mothers conceived their conjugal family as a lifelong project. Conjugal separation alters the family organisation and relations, and also brings a new lifestyle, as a single parent. However, it has different significance depending on the family dynamics. For the two mothers experiencing negotiated dynamics, separation and single parenthood could be considered as turning points because they brought an important discontinuity of life path, a change of direction (from a conjugal model) and required important adjustments in terms of family organisation and functioning, lifestyle, self-perception, economic situation and essential norms and values. For the four mothers of the first trajectory who experienced conflicted dynamics, separation and single parenthood could also be seen as a turning point because it entailed a visible change of direction of life path – from a conjugal model to single parenthood – but it received more positive connotations than in the case of negotiated dynamics, opposing a conflicted climate as conjugal family to a calmer one as a single parent. It also brought improvement in the mothers’ self-esteem.Therefore single parenthood is estimated in terms of gains as a situation that opens up opportunities (Rutter, 1996) at social and psychological level, although an important economic impoverishment is noted before and after separation. The two mothers in the second type of trajectory experienced similar situations as they also lived conflicted dynamics.As the conjugal episode started at the moment of immigration, migration was also a familial 83

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project and single motherhood was therefore conceived as its failure. In these cases, although separation also created an important perturbation, occurring later in life and being voluntarily decided and anticipated, its impact was believed to be of a smaller extent. In contrast, for the two mothers who experienced the third type of trajectory (serial single parenthood), immigration and separation represented bifurcations, as for the others, but did not introduce a change of life path. Post-migratory single motherhood rather fitted into the life trajectory previously observed. However, an important difference was related to the social context where these transitions were experienced.The social programmes in Québec offer opportunities that favour negotiation of a conjugal separation in amicable terms, respect for the rights of each parent and post-separation adaptation by access to various community and governmental resources available through social services.10 As a consequence, for these mothers, single parenthood brought about improvement in their self-esteem and in the parental relationship, but not a significant change in their socioeconomic situation. Therefore single parenthood in the immigration context represented for them a continuation of the previous life path, but in conditions more favourable to their personal development than those experienced during the precedent single-parent episodes, in their origin country. These cases highlight how family experiences, such as separation and immigration, are informed not only by their timing in the life course, but also by socioeconomic conditions in the origin and receiving countries of immigrants, an observation consistent with previous studies (Jasso, 2003). Regarding the initial question, whether or not immigration can represent a turning point in the lives of immigrant women experiencing a conjugal separation after settling in the receiving society, our data show that immigration can be seen as a bifurcation because it entails a series of important changes in many life domains. However, it cannot be considered as a turning point in itself, because it can lead to continuity of the previous life trajectory, such as in the case of serial single parenthood when it reinforces an already established life path. On the other hand, the juxtaposition of immigration and conjugal separation when they are experienced in a short lap of time or when their signification involves a change of life path, lifestyle or self-perceptions can represent a turning point. In the case of families experiencing the first and second type of trajectory, where immigration is conceived as a family project and especially for families living with negotiated dynamics, single parenthood represents this kind of important change in the direction of the life path. 84

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Life transitions can become turning points depending on their interpretation within the life span, having lasting effects, as a difference from a temporary disturbance that does not affect the lifestyle or sense of self (Clausen, 1995; Rutter, 1996). Improvement of self-image and self-esteem appeared in the discourse of several respondents who were victims of severe domestic abuse. We can conclude that in most of the situations analysed, the juxtaposition of transitions entails many important changes and therefore we can consider them as a turning point. Finally, we can note some limits to our study, mostly related to the size and composition of the sample. The most important thing is that the respondents who were highly educated were slightly overrepresented, even if the education level of the immigrant population in Québec is higher than for the native population.11 In our sample, seven out of ten participants had a university degree. At the same time, considering the economic vulnerability they experienced, our data allow us to better understand the difficulties that highly qualified immigrant parents have to deal with. Moreover, the size of the sample was smaller than necessary in order to attain the saturation of data in this kind of qualitative study (Bertaux, 1997); the analysis of contrasting cases for the various trajectories observed could not be realised. In addition, the question of turning points was not directly addressed in our interviews and the considerations presented in this chapter are based on a secondary interpretation of the data collected, especially the answers related to factors explaining the separation, difficulties related to single parenthood, forms of support used by the respondents and the significance they associated with the support received.

Conclusion The concept of turning point refers to the mechanisms and logics explaining discontinuity and change in human lives and the conditions that underlie personal development (Clausen, 1995; Rutter, 1996; Gotlib and Wheaton, 1997). In regard to the research on turning points, our study addresses a general question: could (and under what circumstances) turning points result from cumulating multiple changes in various life domains and trajectories? The juxtaposition and synchronisation (Settersten, 2003) of transitions like immigration and separation and then living in a singleparent family can generate a precarious situation for many mothers. Living through many transitions in a short period of time increases the risk of developmental difficulties, as studies about the impact of 85

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serial transitions show (Rutter, 1979; Elder et al, 2004; Saint-Jacques et al, 2006). Our analysis demonstrates that single parenthood in an immigration context can become a turning point depending on family dynamics and the life trajectories of individuals who experience these transitions. Conducting this reflection based on the concept of ‘turning point’ highlights several difficulties that arise from the conjunction of factors related to life paths, individual resources, opportunities and constraints of the socioeconomic context. Understanding these factors and their mechanisms is essential for developing settings favourable to the personal development of parents experiencing serial transitions. At the same time, our research points out that the impact of migration on families can be of a different nature, thus emphasising the importance of investigating family processes and practices with a life course perspective in order to better size their transformation over time, from the origin country to the receiving one (Clark et al, 2009). Notes This research, Monoparentalité et réseaux de soutien. Les femmes immigrées à Québec, was realised within the partnership between the research centre JEFAR, University Laval, and the Centre Jeunesse de Québec, Institut universitaire, and also received financial support from the Fonds Québécois de Recherche sur la Société et la Culture programme of postdoctoral fellowships (2006-08). 1

A single-parent family is a household composed of a person living without spouse and with one or more unmarried children (Statistics Canada). 2

The proportion of parents aged less than 24 years is higher for single parents than for those in two-parent families (Cloutier et al, 2004, p 35). 3

The proportion of family-related immigration (family class) in 2006 was 28 per cent of all immigration categories for Canada and 20.6 per cent in Québec (CIC, 2010, p 33). 4

5

Data compiled from Census 2006, Statistics Canada, in MFACF (2011).

The three last categories entered Canada with a temporary visa and afterwards engaged in immigration procedures to obtain the status of permanent resident. 6

7

Adapted from Charbonneau (2003).

This instrument was adapted from various sources (Barrera, 1981; Wellman and Hall, 1984; Beauregard and Dumont, 1996; Charbonneau, 2003) to analyse the support network, according to: factual indicators defining the enacted support and supportive relationships, including different types of support and 8

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Conjugal separation and immigration in the life course ... subjective indicators defining the perception of support and satisfaction with the perceived support. This manifests during the pre-migratory period (superposition of transitions like separation and birth of a child), but mostly at the moment of immigration that occurs simultaneously with the formation of a new conjugal union and other transitions.

9

This kind of observation was mentioned by the majority of the mothers when they were questioned about their views in regard to separation and single parenthood. Comparing the similarities and differences with their origin countries, they pointed to the fact that in Québec various resources helped them to cope with their difficulties, and overall the social environment in the receiving society was appreciated as more diversified.

10

From the total of immigrant women, 19 per cent have a university diploma and 30 per cent attended university education, compared with 13 per cent of the native population (CSF, 2005).

11

References Amato, P.R. (2000) ‘Diversity within single-parent families’, in D.H. Demo, K.R. Allen and M.A. Fine (eds) Handbook of family diversity, New York: Oxford University Press, pp 149-72. Arnol, M.L., Pratt, M.W. and Hicks, C. (2004) ‘Adolescents’ representations of parents’ voices in family stories: value lessons, personal adjustment and identity development’, in M.W. Pratt and B.H. Fiese (eds) Family stories and the life course: Across time and generations, Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, pp 163-86. Baldassar, L., Baldock, C.V. and Wilding, R. (2007) Families caring across borders: Migration, ageing and transnational caregiving, NewYork: Palgrave Macmillan. Bandura, A. (1982) ‘The psychology of chance encounters and life paths’, American Psychologist, vol 37, pp 747-55. Bardin, L. (1986) L’analyse de contenu, le psychologue (4th edn), Paris: Presses universitaires de France. Barrera, M. (1981) ‘Social support in the adjustment of pregnant adolescents. Assessment issues’, in B.H. Gottlieb (ed) Social networks and social support, Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications, pp 89-93. Bauer, J.J., McAdams, D.P. and Sakaeda, A.R. (2005) ‘Interpreting the good life: growth memories in the lives of mature, happy people’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, vol 88, no 1, pp 203-17.

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Beaudoin, S., Beaudry, M., Carrier, G., Cloutier, R., Drapeau, S., Duquette, M.-T., Saint-Jacques, M.-C., Simard, M. and Vachon, J (1997) ‘Réflexions critiques autour du concept de transition familiale’, Les Cahiers internationaux de psychologie sociale, vol 35, pp 49-67. Beauregard, L. and Dumont, S. (1996) ‘La mesure du soutien social’, Service social, vol 45, no 3, pp 55-76. Bertaux, D. (1997) Les récits de vie: Perspective ethnosociologique, Collection 128. Sociologie, Paris: Nathan. Bertaux, D. and de Singly, F. (2005) Le récit de vie:‘L’enquête et ses méthodes’ (2nd edn), Paris: Armand Colin. Bérubé, L. (2004) Parents d’ailleurs, enfants d’ici. La dynamique d’adaptation du rôle parental chez les immigrants, Sainte-Foy, Québec: Presses de l’Université du Québec. Charbonneau, J. (2003) Adolescentes et mères: Histoires de maternité précoce et soutien du réseau social, Collection Sociétés, cultures et santé, Québec: Presses de l’Université de Laval. CIC (Citizenship and Immigration Canada) (2010) Facts and figures 2009: Immigration overview – Permanent and temporary residents, Ottawa: Canadian Government. Clark, R.L., Glick, J.E. and Bures, R.M. (2009) ‘Immigrant families over the life course: research directions’, Journal of Family Issues, vol 30, no 6, pp 852-72. Clausen, J.A. (1995) ‘Gender, contexts and turning points in adults’ lives’, in P. Moen, G.H. Elder and K. Luscher (eds) Examining lives in context: Perspectives on the ecology of human development, Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, pp 365-89. Cloutier, R., Bissonnette, C., Ouellette-Laberge, J. and Plourde, M. (2004) ‘Monoparentalité et développement de l’enfant’, in M.-C. Saint-Jacques, D.Turcotte, S. Drapeau and R. Cloutier (eds) Séparation, monoparentalité et recomposition familiale, Québec: PUL, pp 33-63. CSF (Conseil du statut de la femme) (2005) Des nouvelles d’elles. Les femmes immigrées du Québec, Québec: CSF. Dandurand, R.B. and Ouellette, F.-R. (1992) Entre autonomie et solidarité: Parenté et soutien dans la vie de jeunes familles montréalaises, Québec: Institut québécois de recherche sur la culture. Drapeau, S., Saint-Jacques, M.-C., Lepine, R. and Begin, G. (2007) ‘Processes that contribute to resilience among youth in foster care’, Journal of Adolescence, vol 30, pp 977-99. Duchesne, L. (2006) La situation démographique au Québec. Bilan 2006, Québec: Institut de la statistique du Québec.

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Duncan, S. and Edwards, R. (1997) Single mothers in an international context: Mothers or workers? Gender and society, London and Bristol, PA: UCL Press. Elder, G.H. (1991) ‘The life course’, in E.F. Borgatta and M.L. Borgatta (eds) The encyclopedia of sociology, Vol 3, New York: Macmillan, pp 1220-30. Elder, G.H., Johnson, M.K. and Crosnoe, R. (2004) ‘The emergence and development of life course theory’, in J.T. Mortimer and M.J. Shanahan (eds) Handbook of the life course, NewYork: Kluwer Academic Publishers, Springer, pp 3-22. Gans, H.J. (2009) ‘First generation decline: downward mobility among refugees and immigrants’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, vol 32, no 9, pp 1658-70. Gherghel, A. (2009) Monoparentalité et réseaux de soutien. Les femmes immigrées à Québec, Québec: Centre Jeunesse de Quebec, Institut universitaire, et centre de recherche JEFAR, Université Laval. Gotlib, I.H. and Wheaton, B. (1997) Stress and adversity over the life course: Trajectories and turning points, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ISQ (Institut de la statistique du Québec) (2009) Données sociales du Québec, Édition 2009, Québec: Gouvernement du Québec. Jasso, G. (2004) ‘Migration, human development and the life course’, in J.T. Mortimer and M.J. Shanahan (eds) Handbook of the life course, New York: Kluwer Academic Publishers, Springer, pp 331-68. King, K.E., Ross, L.E., Bruno, T.L. and Erickson, P.G. (2009) ‘Identity work among street-involved young mothers’, Journal of Youth Studies, vol 12, no 2, pp 139-49. Kofman, E. (2004) ‘Family-related migration: a critical review of European studies’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, vol 30, no 2, pp 243-62. Kreager, D.A., Matsueda, R.L., Erosheva, E.A. (2010) ‘Motherhood and criminal desistance in disadvantaged neighborhoods’, Criminology, vol 48, no 1, pp 221-58. L’Écuyer, R. (1988) ‘L’analyse de contenu: notion et étape’, in J.-P. Deslauriers (ed) Les méthodes de la recherche qualitative, Québec: Presses de l’Université du Québec, pp 49-66. Lamotte,A. and Desrosiers, D. (1997) Parents et conjoints d’ici et d’ailleurs: Une étude comparée des familles québécoises natives, immigrées et mixtes, Collection Études et recherches, Montréal: Ministère des relations avec les citoyens et de l’immigration. Laub, J.H. and Sampson, R.J. (1993) ‘Turning points in the life course. Why change matters to the study of crime’, Criminology, vol 1, no 3, pp 301-25. 89

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Lazure, G. and Benazera, C. (2006) Devenir parent au Québec: Le parcours des familles immigrantes dans la région de Québec, Québec: Centre de santé et de services sociaux de la Vieille Capitale. Le Bourdais, C. and Lapierre-Adamcyk, É. (2008) ‘Portrait des familles québécoises à l’horizon 2020. Esquisse des grandes tendances démographiques’, in G. Pronovost, C. Dumont and I. Bitaudeau (eds) La famille à l’horizon de 2020, Québec, Presses de l’Université du Québec, pp 71-99. Le Gall, D. and Martin, C. (1996) Familles et politiques sociales. Dix questions sur le lien familial contemporain, Paris: L’Harmattan. Le Gall, J. (1996) ‘Et dans les familles immigrées au Québec?’, in Conseil de la famille (ed) Recueil de réflexions sur la stabilité des couples-parents, Québec: Conseil de la famille, pp 25-39. Le Gall, J. (2005) ‘Familles transnationales: Bilan des recherches et nouvelles perspectives’, Cahiers du GRES. Diversité Urbaine, vol 5, no 1, pp 29-42. Lefaucheur, N. (1993) ‘Les familles dites monoparentales’, in D. Favre and A. Savet (eds) Parents au singulier. Monoparentalité: échec ou défi?, Paris: Autrement, pp 31-40. Lefaucheur, N. and Martin, C. (1993) ‘Lone parent families in France: situation and research’, in J. Hudson and B. Galaway (eds) Single parent families. Perspectives on research and policy, Toronto: Thompson Educational Publishing, pp 31-52. Levy, R. and team Pavie (2005) ‘Why look at life courses in an interdisciplinary perspective’, in R. Levy, P. Ghisletta, J.-M. Le Goff, D. Spini and E. Widmer (eds) Towards an interdisciplinary perspective on the life course, Oxford: Elsevier, pp 3-33. McAdams, D.P. (2001) ‘The psychology of life stories’, Review of General Psychology, vol 5, no 2, pp 100-22. McAdams, D.P. (2004) ‘Generativity and the narrative ecology of family life’, in M.W. Pratt and B.H. Fiese (eds) Family stories and the life course: Across time and generations, Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, pp 235-58. McAdams, D.P. and Bowman, P.J. (2001) ‘Narrating life’s turning points: redemption and contamination’, in D.P. McAdams, R. Josselson and A. Lieblich (eds) Turns in the road: Narrative studies of lives in transition, Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, pp 3-34. McAdams, D.P., de St Aubin, E. and Logan, R.L. (1993) ‘Generativity among young, midlife, and older adults’, Psychology and Aging, vol 8, no 2, pp 221-30. Martin, C. (1997) L’après-divorce: Lien familial et vulnérabilité, Sens social, Québec: Institut québécois de recherche sur la culture. 90

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MFA (Ministère de la Famille et des Aînés) (2011) Un portrait statistique des familles au Québec, Québec: Gouvernement du Québec. Moen, P. and Erickson, M.A. (1995) ‘Linked lives: a transgenerational approach to resilience’, in P. Moen, G.H. Elder and K. Luscher (eds) Examining lives in context: Perspectives on the ecology of human development, Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, pp 169-210. Notter, M.L., MacTavish, K.A. and Shamah, D. (2008) ‘Pathways toward resilience among women in rural trailer parks’, Family Relations, vol 57, pp 613-24. Parent, C., Saint-Jacques, M.-C., Drapeau, S., Fortin, M.-C. and Beaudry, M. (in press) ‘La vie conjugale et les réorganisations familiales’, in Y. Tessier and S. Sabourin (eds) Les fondements psychologiques du couple. Pratt, M.W. and Fiese, B.H. (2004) ‘Families, stories, and the life course: an ecological context’, in M.W. Pratt and B.H. Fiese (eds) Family stories and the life course: Across time and generations, Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, pp 1-26. Rutter, M. (1979) ‘Protective factors in children’s responses to stress and disadvantage’, in M.W. Kent and J.E. Rolf (eds) Social competence in children, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, pp 49-74. Rutter, M. (1996) ‘Transitions and turning points in developmental psychopathology: as applied to the age span between childhood and mid-adulthood’, International Journal of Behavioral Development, vol 19, no 3, pp 603-26. Saint-Jacques, M.-C.,Turcotte, D., Drapeau, S. and Cloutier, R.E. (2004) Séparation, monoparentalité et recomposition familiale, Québec: PUL. Saint-Jacques, M.-C., Cloutier, R., Pauze, R., Simard, M., Gagne, M.H. and Poulin, A. (2006) ‘The impact of serial transitions on behavioral and psychological problems among children in child protection services’, Child Welfare League of America, vol 6, pp 941-64. Sampson, R.J. and Laub, J.H. (2004) ‘Desistance from crime over the life course’, in J.T. Mortimer and M.J. Shanahan (eds) Handbook of the life course, NewYork: Kluwer Academic Publishers, Springer, pp 295-310. Settersten, R.A. (2003) Invitation to the life course: Toward new understandings of later life, Society and Aging Series, Amityville, NY: Baywood Publishing Co. Vatz Laaroussi, M. (2001) Le familial au coeur de l’immigration: Les stratégies de citoyenneté des familles immigrantes au Québec et en France, Collection Espaces interculturels, Paris, Montréal: L’Harmattan. Wellman, B. and Hall, A. (1984) Social networks and social support: Implications for later life, Research Paper, Toronto: Programme in Gerontology, University of Toronto.

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Yoshioka, M.R. and Noguchi, E. (2009) ‘The developmental life course perspective: a conceptual and organizing framework for human behavior and the social environment’, Journal of Human Behavior in the Social Environment, vol 19, no 7, pp 873-84. Young, A.M., Stewart, A.J. and Minier-Rubino, K. (2001) ‘Women’s understandings of their own divorces: a developmental perspective’, in D. McAdams, R. Josselson and A. Lieblich (eds) Turns in the road: Narrative studies of lives in transition, Washington, DC: American Psychological Association Press, pp 203-26.

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four

Migration biography and ethnic identity: on the discontinuity of biographical experience and how turning points affect the ethnicisation of identity Thea D. Boldt

Introduction Allons! whoever you are come travel with me! Traveling with me you find what never tires. I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell ... (Whitman, 1965, p 154) There is no single way of understanding migration, but the one I know of is to think of it as a journey with a certain goal. In times of global migration, there are countless people on the move every day. They intentionally set forth to make new achievements and take new chances in life. Thus, it often surprises me that there is hardly any empirical research that emphasises the empowering aspects of migration experience, and only a few researchers who conceptualise migration as an exciting, hopeful, future-oriented biographical project (see Morokvasic, 1991, 1993; Apitzsch, 2000, 2003; Lutz, 2000). Instead, migration is understood mostly as a biographical crisis defined through a trajectory of suffering: concepts that stress the disturbing and uncomfortable nature of the migration experience. In this context the emphasis is on the hardship of change, displacement and disappearance of well-known everyday life’s patterns. Hence, the concept of turning point comes to the fore. Interestingly enough, Anselm Strauss, who first came up with the concept of the turning point, was interested mainly in research on chronic illness and the suffering of patients affected by it. Similarly, the 93

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way in which some scholars in migration studies refer to this concept seems to be biased on a notion of suffering caused by sudden life changes, of which migration leaves the greatest imprint. According to this conceptualisation, migrants are viewed as individuals who have lost control of their Schicksal (destiny) and who are hardly able to exert an influence on their own lives. This seems problematic insofar as migration is only very rarely an unintentional act, and can therefore hardly be compared with a deadly illness or any other sudden, unexpected life change that we experience and over which we have no control. Since migration is usually a meaningful and future-oriented activity, migrants are entrepreneurs willing to take a risk to change their current biographical situation in the first place. In this way, the change is an intrinsic and intended element of migration and not its spin-off product. On the other hand, not every migration goes according to plan, and not every aspect of migration experience can be predicted. As argued by Anthony Giddens (1991), intentional conduct also has unintended consequences (see Chapter Seven, this volume). However, this is not particularly characteristic of migration per se, at least from the perspective of biographical research. Not every biographical expectation can be fulfilled: we don’t have to be migrants to understand this basic condition of human existence.Therefore, suffering in migration doesn’t seem to depend on the act of migration itself, but is rooted rather in the undesired and sometimes unavoidable circumstances that migrants have to deal with in their host countries.These circumstances predominantly concern social exclusion, and are very likely to be framed by ethnic and racial discrimination. As will be shown in the case study later in this chapter, the migrants I interviewed during my research refer to processes of social exclusion as the fundamental cause of their suffering during and after migration. Another concern of this chapter is how theoretically to conceptualise the notion of change due to migration.To what degree can experiences of biographies be described as discontinuous, and is it perhaps possible to find elements of continuities in such biographies as well? If migration can be treated as an example of (biographical) discontinuity par excellence, approaching this problem requires us to draw attention to the temporal organisation of human experience. The question here is how the experience of discontinuity can be theorised from the standpoint of biographical research and how the notion of biographical time can be used as a way to embrace the experience of change within migration. Taking this into account, I want to briefly approach in this chapter the most basic experiences of human existence connected 94

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to the problems of discontinuity through a change and continuity of changes. To introduce the projected themes of this chapter, I begin by briefly explaining the term ‘turning point’ and other related concepts. This is followed by the empirical example of Janek, a Polish emigrant in Germany who I interviewed a few years ago. While discussing his case, I show how biographical turning points can be comprehended in terms of discontinuity and continuity of experiences. I also show how the experience of discrimination in the country of arrival causes the ethnisation of biographical identification. Finally, I provide some conclusions regarding biographical continuity and discontinuity in relation to the temporal organisation of biographical experiences. Here, I mainly refer to the work of George Herbert Mead, Alfred Schutz and Edmund Husserl.

Theoretical references I’m not the same as I was, as I used to be. (Strauss, 1959, p 95) The problem of discontinuity and biographical change seems to have been central to migration research from its outset. In their very first and for many years most influential study on Polish migrants in Europe and the US, William Isaak Thomas and Florian Znaniecki conceptualised the process of migration as discontinuity par excellence (Thomas and Znaniecki, 1918-1920/1923). It is during migration that social actors who are disconnected from their home country experience the disorganisation of their everyday life and its system of references. This disorganisation is, however, not just caused by the physical disconnection from the social environment of the country of origin, but is grounded rather in very basic biographical experience: the experience of change. It goes without saying that any migrating individual is confronted with a new social order in the country of arrival, and is therefore required to change or renegotiate his or her own system of social behaviour based on his original socialisation in their home country. But the problem of change is much more complex. As society in the country of origin is itself undergoing constant transformation, there is no place that remains unchanged with the passage of time to return to. At the same time, the social transformation occurring in the host country continuously forces the migrant (as any other member of the society) to renegotiate his or her everyday system of references accordingly. Therefore, the negotiation and renegotiation that seems to be a continuous and open-ended biographical process based on the 95

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urge to deal with changing social orders is, so to speak, multiplied in the case of migrants, as their life circumstances are doubly altered: once in their country of arrival, and once again in their country of origin. Hence, Thomas and Znaniecki’s work provides useful indications by emphasising that the problem of change and discontinuity has both an individual and a collective dimension. It is not only individual identity that changes through migration process, but simultaneously also collective identities continuously change on many levels in both native and receiving countries. Other Chicago School representatives also conceptualise the problem of migration from the perspective of two cultures, but they emphasise the notion of cultural and ethnic conflict. Robert Ezra Park and Everett V. Stonequist place their migrant figure of the ‘marginal man’ between two conflicting cultures and describe the migration experience of inner conflict and ethnic turmoil between the old and new belonging (Park, 1950). In this context the authors speak about the migrants’ ‘ethnically divided self ’ and search for the dynamic, which structures the experiences of marginal man as a typical migrant figure. Stonequist arrives at the following conclusion: The experience of a conflict between cultures constitutes a turning point in the career of an individual. This is a period in which characteristic personality traits appear.The experience itself is a shock. The individual finds his social world disorganised. Personal relations and cultural forms, which had previously been taken for granted, suddenly become problematic, and he does not quite know how to act. There is a feeling of confusion, of loss of direction and of being overwhelmed. (Stonequist, 1961, pp 140-1) The author seems to use the term ‘turning point’ similarly to how Anselm Strauss later makes use of it (Strauss, 1959). Stonequist mentions the experience of sudden change in migration on the one hand, but on the other hand, in addition to Strauss, he focuses on the experience of ethnic discrimination rooted in ethnic conflict between cultures and inherent to migration experience.1 The disconnection caused by migration is accompanied by the ethnic conflict between the culture of origin and arrival, and is followed by the sensitisation of migrants in relation to ethnic identification. This leads to destabilisation, renegotiation and finally to an alteration of migrants’ identity. The conflicting process of identity renegotiation is tantamount to a crisis

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and resembles the disorganisation of identity and the redefinition of the meaning of ethnic belonging. Crisis is not merely a simple experience of discrimination. [...] In the experience of marginal man it is crucial, for it involves his whole life-organization and future career. It defines his place in the world in a way, which he had not anticipated. It delimits his present and future in terms of his career, his ideals and aspirations, and his inmost conception of himself. And it is a shock because his previous contacts have led him to identify himself with the cultural world which now refuses to accept him. (Stonequist, 1961, p 144) The crisis is therefore defined ethnically and rooted in the ethnic conflict between cultures, but it pervades all other possible fields of social interaction, for it transforms the whole life-organisation system of the person in question. Stonequist further conceptualises the crisis as a series of steps that develop between the phases of recognising the distance from the original culture, being emotionally involved with the culture of arrival and, most importantly, sensitisation to social interactions having ethnic and racial implications. These phases ultimately lead to a new self-definition in terms of ethnic identity. We can find a similar notion of crisis in the work of Alfred Schutz, who identifies the typical situation of the migrant in the figure of ‘stranger’.The validity of Schutz’ analysis is not restricted to the case of the migrant, but he takes this as an outstanding example of the social phenomenon of ‘strangeness’ or ‘otherness’. The term ‘stranger’ shall mean an adult individual of our times and civilization who tries to be permanently accepted or at least tolerated by the group which he approaches.The outstanding example for the social situation under scrutiny is that of the immigrant. (Schutz, 1964, p 91) Schutz conceptualises the stranger’s perspective as that of somebody willing to reorient himself and integrate into the new group. In the example of a typical stranger, the author defines migration experience as a crisis, following W.I. Thomas. The crisis is characterised therefore as a process in which ‘thinking-as-usual’ becomes unworkable, making ‘acting-as-usual’ impossible.

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Crisis interrupts the flow of habit and gives rise to changed conditions of consciousness and practice, or precipitously overthrows the actual system of relevance, so to speak.The cultural pattern no longer functions as a system of tested recipes at hand; it reveals that its applicability is restricted to a specific historical situation. (Schutz, 1964, p 96) In his analysis, however, the author is not interested in the process of social assimilation and adjustment that develops through the experience of crisis, but rather in ‘the situation of approaching which precedes every possible social adjustment and which includes its prerequisites’ (Schutz, 1964, p 92).To understand this process of alternating demands, Schutz adopts the standpoint of the social individual as an actor of and in the social world who lives and thinks within the social reality that he creates.The social actor can only act within the social world by making it meaningful, by organising it around and through the accumulation of knowledge.The organisation of knowledge is the field in which specific elements are ordered according to their relevance and connected with each other through applicability, which means that they are perceived and understood by the social actors as belonging together (James, 1890; Dewey, 1938). In this way, not all elements of the social world as experienced by the actors during their everyday life interactions will be included in a system of knowledge to create a meaningful field of references, but only some significant ones.2 However, still ‘the knowledge of the man who acts and thinks within the world of his daily life is not homogeneous; it is (1) incoherent, (2) only partially clear, and (3) not at all free from contradictions’ (Schutz, 1964, p 93).3 From this standpoint Schutz refers to the incoherence and disorganisation of knowledge as crucial to the experience of the stranger, allowing us to understand crisis as a process of reorientation of meaning and reorganisation in the field of knowledge. From the beginning of the experience of crisis, the stranger is not taking for granted the rules and cultural patterns of knowledge organisation in the new society (or social group) that he is willing to join. He questions the new system of meanings, contests its organisational principles and cultural patterns.When approaching the group, his status changes from a stranger to a ‘want-to-be member’ who tries to understand the rules of the new group using his original meaning-organisation system. In doing so he discovers the fundamental discrepancies in seeing things and handling situations (Schutz, 1964, p 100). At the same time as he approaches the new group, he opens up for changes in his own meaning system. While the stranger’s system of relevance changes during this 98

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process, the group’s system simultaneously changes by being contested by the stranger. By becoming a member, the stranger transforms the horizons of his field of knowledge to organise new experiences with and in the new group in a meaningful way, and to establish a new system of ‘thinking-as-usual’. In this way, the original disruption of his everyday life routine (caused by the migration process) dissolves into the new routine, the new system of ‘thinking-as-usual’. The re-establishment of the everyday life routine is central to the social assimilation process, according to Schutz, and if this process of inquiry succeeds, then ‘the stranger is no stranger any more’ (Schutz, 1964, p 105). Alfred Schutz’ concept of crisis is analogous in certain ways to Anselm Strauss’ basic approach to the turning point (Strauss, 1959). However, Strauss’s considerations are based mainly on his observations of chronically ill patients, which lead him towards the analysis of the identity transformation processes. On this basis he outlines the general phenomenon of personal development and change.The author assumes that: People are more or less developed along certain lines or in regard to certain tasks.[...] The metaphor assumes fixed goals or norms against which the aspirants’ movements can be chartered. The movement may be conceived as a series of stages or as steps along a continuum.[...] Development (or the relations between “performance and change”, between “before and after”) may be conceptualised as a series of related transformations [...] [in which] person becomes something other than he once was. (Strauss, 1959, pp 92ff) Within the transformation process, the person experiences an alteration in the sphere of knowledge, primarily due to the changing definition of the self and others. Following Strauss, this alteration of perception is irreversible, for ‘one can look back, but one can evaluate only from within a new situation’ (Strauss, 1959, p 94). This process of change is always provoked by a single incident, which Strauss calls a turning point.This turning point is initially identified by a critical incident that provokes a person to recognise that ‘I’m not the same as I was, as I used to be’, and is accompanied by experiences of ‘misalignment surprise, shock, chagrin, anxiety, tension, bafflement, and self-questioning’ (Strauss, 1959, p 95). Accordingly, the person seeks out a new self in order to render the new experiences meaningful and to coherently overcome the disconnection caused by the turning point, which leads to the transformation of identity. 99

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Following Erikson’s work on identity (Erikson, 1956), Strauss confronts the notion of a stable identity with the concept of identity as a process of transformation.To exemplify this transformation process, he emphasises the temporality of experience and the structure of experience formed by the passages of time (Strauss, 1959, p 126). From this perspective, it is the temporal order that structures identity transformation.Thus, the notion of time must be viewed as central to this concept of identity. In his research on dying patients, Strauss and his colleagues placed great emphasis on the gradual development of changes constituted by the experience of a turning point, which they called trajectory (Glaser and Strauss, 1968; Strauss et al, 1985; Corbin and Strauss, 1988). The concept of trajectory focuses on the series of changes experienced by the suffering patient with a distinction between the cause of illness and the trajectory of that illness, the latter including ‘not only the physiological unfolding of a patient’s disease, but the total organisation of work done over that course, plus the impact on those involved with that work and its organisation’ (Strauss et al, 1985, p 8). Hence, this perspective includes the interplay between the micro (individual) and macro (collective) dimension of the transformation process.The authors concentrated on the experience of suffering caused by the patient’s lack of control over the developing changes affecting his life-organisation system on multiple levels. Strauss argued on trajectories furthermore, that while these changes penetrated, deteriorated and disorganised one’s everyday activities and system of references, the person’s experience of the loss of capacity to act autonomously was caused by external circumstances. The most controversial part of Strauss’ thesis seems to be in the suggestion that the main actors of trajectory had no other choice but to become passive observers of the progressing changes.4 Strauss’ approach to turning point was further developed within the German biographical research tradition by Fritz Schütze, who applied trajectories to the more universal phenomena of identity transformation (Schütze, 1979, 1980a, 1980b, 1995; Riemann and Schütze, 1991). Primarily interested in the processes of biographical narration, Schütze defined the trajectory as a cognitive process of understanding and organising the biographical experience of change, which is mirrored in narration. ‘Case trajectories’ are therefore very dense narration sequences, which are structured contingently in the form of the related, meaningful passages of events. Trajectories describe the processes leading to the transformation of one’s own self-definition, social group or organisation that they refer to (Schütze, 1979, pp 3f). Schütze’s concept, based on conversation analysis, is deeply embedded in so-called narration schemes. In this respect the author distinguished between 100

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positive and negative trajectories. Negative trajectories are accumulated by heteronymous chains of conditions progressing towards crisis, which limit the biographical horizon of possibilities in which the attempt to avoid the course of trajectory can be undertaken. In comparison, the positive trajectories or ‘rising trajectories’ open up new possibilities for further development through heteronymously accumulated conditions and chains of events (Schütze, 1979, p 4). Analysing the progression of trajectory, the author distinguished between its socio-structural dimension, its sequential order and its distinctive features framing its development. Finally, Schütze proposed a typology of different variations of trajectories. However, Schütze’s main contribution to the development of the concept of trajectory lies in his description of its structural order, which can be used to interpret different forms of narration. The sequential, systematic order of trajectory, based on biographical narration analysis, is central to Schütze’s work. In German biographical research involved in qualitative studies with a special focus on biographical interviews (Schütze, 1979, 1983) we can find multiple discussions concerning the concepts of crisis, turning point and trajectory.The central questions here relate to the ways in which the turning point has been experienced by the biographer him or herself, the biographical strategies of overcoming it, and finally, the degree to which this phenomenon is relevant to biographical construction as a whole.The problem of being confronted with changing circumstances, also in migration, inevitably involves the question of identity. However, classic identity concepts view migration as a torn or ruptured existence, conceiving of migrants as disconnected or even uprooted individuals.5 These arguments are based mainly on a misleading notion of solid identity.The static concept of identity presupposes two things: it requires solidity of social structures (also in terms of structures of belonging to symbolic groups, like nation, family, friends, etc) and suggests that they could be threatened by rapidly changing circumstances, causing a discontinuity of belonging that would therefore destroy their previous stability.6 In this respect, the basic biographical perspective is dedicated to the recognition that biographies undergo constant changes. In their biographically constructed formations, identities are continuously being constructed and reconstructed, because the biographical points of reference on which their meanings are based are not static. The meaning of biographical experiences and its points of reference are constructed by concrete social actors under concrete social and historical circumstances, and are therefore subject to constant change. Given that the production of meaning is central to the biographical concept of identity, and because meaning is produced in interactive 101

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processes of defining and redefining (that undergo constant change on the micro and macro level in the form of individual and collective transformation processes), it is only logical that some scientists use the term ‘biography’ to avoid the inflationary character of the broadly criticised term ‘identity’. In this way, biography is conceptualised as an open-ended process structuring the orientation in the social world and directing the activities of social actors in their everyday life.7 The concept of biography is by no means based only on the surface of social reality, but is rather a powerful tool for understanding the complexity of social phenomena through the fundamental unification of the level of experiences of social actors, which are being created with and within the world of social action (Alheit, 2002; Fischer and Kohli, 1987, p 27). The concept of biography claims to be a broadly structured construct that comprehends the complete Gestalt (Gesamtgestalt) of the social actors’ lives, from their beginning to their end. Furthermore, biographical research is not only concerned with an interpretation of the system of rules produced by social actors in everyday life and constituted by the interactions between individuals and institutions. Biographical research is also the search for the genesis of social phenomena: it seeks out the dynamic rules structuring the development and transformation of social phenomena within time. In this way, biographical research puts special emphasis on the problem of experience and its changing reference points. Because every action within social reality is based on the experiences that social actors have and are having alongside each other in the social world (the social world being a field of experiences and references), the only possible way to understand the social world is through an analysis of the meanings that social actors give their actions in the concrete contexts of space and time. The social world is therefore a world of meaningful experiences framed by space and formed in time. In addition to this,Alheit suggests the term ‘biographicity’ to emphasise the fact that ‘living our lives in contexts in which we (have to) live it, we interpret our life over and over again, in the same way as we interpret these contexts in their “pictoriality” and Gestalt over and over again’ (Alheit, 1992, p 77).The only way we live our contextualised lives is through experience, and that implies constant interpretation. The biographical construction of experience refers to structures of experience that were constructed long before we were born and which have been passed on to us through the process of socialising interactions (Alheit and Hoerning, 1989, p 9). This is the manner in which the production of knowledge takes place. Therefore, the experience of any given individual will mirror collective experience, which in turn includes historical and social 102

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processes.8 In this way, biographical experience is understood as the interplay between the individual and the collective. Examining this problem further in terms of temporal structure of experience, we must recognise the double folded perspective of biographical experience. Every biographical experience can only be made in the present because the present is the only place in which we can live and make our experiences, but it also concerns past and future. Because the only possible place in which we can do biographical constructions is the present, it is the only standpoint on which it is possible to formulate future plans as well as to understand the past and attribute the meaning. In this regard I follow Fischer and Kohli, who claim: The past is reinterpretable within living experience; current orientation and biographical past are connected in reciprocity. Furthermore we can envision and expect our future only because we are oriented towards it through our experiences. The reinterpretation of the past and reconcretisation of the future are therefore essential elements that constitute our biographical patterns. (Fischer and Kohli, 1987, p 33; see also Fischer, 1982) Taking into account the notion of experience whose meaning is constantly reinterpreted in the collective frame of reference, I depart from the assumed reversibility of biography. Social rules and patterns will not only be adopted by individuals, but will also be recurrently confronted with new experiences and redefined or reinterpreted within new contexts. Biography is a place where social actors constantly interpret and reinterpret the social world to make it meaningful. The core of my study is therefore constituted by the search for past transformations and reconstructions of biographical identity formed on an individual and collective level, as well as the rules that structure these processes.These problems are discussed here in a special relation to migration.The argument I advocate understands biographical changes as processes of transition and pays attention to its flowing structure and fluid character. So I argue that migration should neither be seen as discontinuity per excellence nor as problematic per se, for it is not a single process but rather one of many biographical processes that cause disruption and disorganisation (or reorganisation) of identity and are marked by a discontinuity. Some researchers are currently attempting to balance the negative connotation of the concepts of crisis and trajectory, which are broadly applied in the analysis and 103

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theoretical conceptualisation of migration. In this context, I also argue that migration should not be treated as a primal experience of discontinuity, because it is in fact one of many experiences within the praxis of everyday life that recurrently provokes the reinterpretation and revaluation of biographical constructions and thus a transformation of identity construction. As I show later in this chapter, even in migrant biographies we can reconstruct other processes of identity transformation that are central to the development of identity, and which are not necessarily caused by migration. Accordingly, migration will be conceptualised as a normal case of biographical discontinuity, one of many processes in which the patterns of living-as-usual must confront rapidly changing circumstances due to unpredictable and perhaps even unplanned or unwanted chains of events.

What is it about? The intentional objectivity is constituted in the unity of synthesis. (Schutz, 1996, p 159) The central question of my empirical work is how people relate to the experience of migration in their biographical accounts, and how meaning produced by the experience of migration changes during the course of one’s life. In this regard it is important to ascertain which experiences structure biography as a whole, which of these structuring experiences lead to migration and which experiences (migration potentially being one of these) brings about the transformation of biographical identification. As it is a primary goal of this work to understand the experiences of migrating individuals in their biographical significance, as well as to comprehend the process of meaning transformation that migration provokes within the biographical project over the course of one’s life, the methodological background of this work must conceive of migrants as (relatively) autonomous social actors who shape their lives and construct their biographies actively. To fulfil these research objectives, the biographical interview (Schütze, 1977, 1983) has been chosen as the instrument of inquiry. The interpretation of the biographical material attempts to comprehend social phenomena as fields of experience, receptivity and action, and to reconstruct their biographical meaning (Rosenthal, 1995; Fischer-Rosenthal, 1996; Fischer-Rosenthal and Rosenthal, 1997).Accordingly, my research design is based on grounded theory (Glaser and Strauss, 1967) and my methodological reasoning refers to objective hermeneutics, phenomenology and Gestalt theory 104

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(Koffka, 1935; Gurwitsch, 1957; Mead, 1967, 2002; Oevermann, 1979, 1988, 2000; Husserl, 1980; Peirce, 1980; Alheit, 1990, 2002; Strauss, 1991; Wernet, 2000). The empirical outcomes I present later in this chapter formed part of my PhD project, entitled ‘Ethnic identities and biographical reinterpretation processes’. In this project I analysed the biographical experiences of Polish migrants in Germany, emphasising their selfperception within German society (Boldt, 2011). I argue that the identification processes of ‘self ’ and ‘other’ (Mead, 1967) are the sources of biographical constructions and products of social interaction in everyday life.9 They are co-produced by all social actors in the form of both individuals and institutions involved in their formation. These processes also lead to the development of biographical ethnic identification, which structures meaning production in relation to social experience reciprocally and on many different levels with all possible members of society. As the notion of meaning is central to the conceptualisation of (biographical) experience, the basic goal of these analyses is to understand biographical constructions as processes of interpretation and reinterpretation.

What is the case? As long as the world turns around the Germans and the Poles will stay apart. (Interview with Janek) The following section presents the case of Janek, a 50-year-old Polish migrant in Germany. It shows how the structure of this particular case, with reference to the definition of case structure articulated by Ulrich Oevermann in the tradition of objective hermeneutics (Oevermann, 1983), is connected to Anselm Strauss’s concept of the turning point (Strauss, 1959). The analysis of Janek’s case exemplifies certain biographical strategies often visible in those dealing with unexpected and sometimes dramatic biographical turning points, especially in relation to the experience of social exclusion. On the basis of this case, a certain dynamic of turning points relating to the phenomenon of reinterpretation of belonging and ethnisation of biographical experience is also discussed. Finally, this analysis shows on a theoretical level how the development of case structures is connected to turning points and that in terms of migration biographies, we can usually recognise not only one but many biographical turning points. Also, even though every turning point raises the possibility of transformation, case structures are more likely to reproduce themselves than transform. 105

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Hence, biographical strategies used to cope with the experience of the turning point will very likely be reproduced in future turning points. It is also possible that the characteristic features of future turning points development will be similar. I therefore attempt to show how social structures are established on the experience of turning points. My analysis shows that these strategies are constituted by reinterpretation of the biographical self according to a sense of belonging disrupted by turning points. I use the term ‘reinterpretation phases’ to signify those life phases that are constitutive of the case structure: phases in which the sense of self-belonging is re-established and reinterpreted following certain turning points. In this way it can be shown that the biographical reinterpretation processes that follow turning points are not random and do not occur throughout the entire course of one’s life, but rather hinge on the initial turning point and are structured accordingly. Janek’s entire life story is not recounted here, but depicted in the form of specific biographical phases that are crucial to the development of his case structure. This case structure develops around three particular turning points in his life, and is therefore constituted in three biographical reinterpretation phases that follow these turning points. According to Strauss’s use of the concept, the turning point is supposed to be a moment in time when a life routine has been jarringly disrupted. However, I argue that when analysing biographies we must not view the moment of disruption itself as central to the development of the case structure. Of greater importance is the manner in which changes resulting from this disruption are dealt with later on in life.The biographical strategies used to cope with turning points are therefore of interest here, as are the social structures of biographically developed cases in which the sense of self (which has been unsettled through the experience of turning point) is reinterpreted and re-established.

First reinterpretation phase Most crucial in Janek’s life was an event that took place directly after his birth in 1955, when he was abandoned by both his parents and was left in a small Polish village with his grandmother. His parents moved to a town 200km away, where his father got a job in the army. During the first seven years of his life his father never visited him, and his mother only visited him very sporadically. Tragically, his wish to have a strong and close relationship to his grandmother was not fulfilled either, as his grandmother was a hard-working woman and could not give Janek the attention he yearned for.The analysis of his biographical interview 106

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shows that through these experiences Janek developed a powerful need for belonging to a social group other than family. He found fulfilment of this wish in the villagers’ community. Quoting Janek: ‘I remember a time when the whole village came together and thrashed the grain, and then you went to work with somebody, and everybody helped each other during these times of harvest, of reaping and sheaving grain, what I also have done of course, I was too small to mow and cut, but I was helping in the harvest and I was strong enough to do the job (4), so this was joy, wasn’t it? For me it was joyful and I naturally felt I belong there (6).’10 Janek still cultivates beautiful memories from that phase of his life, such as being together with the villagers and having a particular role within the group, and recounts these as the most important for his identity.

Second reinterpretation phase At the age of seven, Janek’s parents moved to another city and decided that Janek should come to live with them. Janek, who was not involved in this hugely important biographical decision, was picked up one day by the mother he barely knew and forced to abandon his home village, his grandmother and, most importantly, the group of villagers to whom he felt such a strong sense of belonging. After moving in with his parents, Janek made a lot of effort to establish a relationship with them. However, his father’s behaviour towards him and his mother made this process very painful. Establishing a sense of belonging to his mother was not possible either, as she stood up for her violent husband and protected him. These circumstances led to confusion in relation to self-belonging that remains manifest on the textual level of Janek’s biographical self-representation even today: ‘Actually this was at a time when I was already going to school, and then one day I was transferred to town A because I’m from town A, well actually we are not from town A but my father was dropped there by the army, and the so-called family settled there, so to speak (5).’ In this short passage it is evident that Janek has trouble defining any concrete people actively involved in the decisions leading to his next biographical turning point, as well as settling on a sense of ‘I’ and ‘we’ 107

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in terms of belonging. Additionally, while describing this important change in his life, he uses the word transfer, which, appropriately for the anonymity of the transfer’s decision maker, emphasises further the confused nature of Janek’s self-belonging and his dependence on his father’s work-related mobility. Following the strategy used to deal with turning points that we are already aware of, Janek, who didn’t manage to process his belonging to his parents after moving in with them, established a strong connection to another group. He joined a local sports team and spent most of his time with a group of sporting peers. His stories about his experiences with this group constitute the main body of his biographical encounters. Janek’s identification with that group finally leads to the development of his self-identification as a sportsman (a term he attributes to himself), which slowly began to replace his previous sense belonging to the villagers’ community. Janek continually reflects on the negotiation process of this new selfidentification during this phase of his life. Here, the dynamic process of dealing with the turning point developed in earlier phases is reproduced in later phases.The re-establishment of the self during the phase following the second turning point is therefore neither chaotic nor accidental, and does not include all other possibilities of belonging present within the new surroundings. In a new environment, the person searches for something known within his own case structure, using the experiences and strategies developed in the first turning point as capital to re-establish the self in terms of belonging. In Janek’s case the specific feature of the repeated turning points is the experience of abandonment.The main strategy of dealing with turning points is the development of belonging to a group other than the family. In that way, the structure is recurrently reproduced under new circumstances, as we will see in the following biographical phases.

Third reinterpretation phase The third turning point in Janek’s biography is connected to his experience of migration to Germany. Janek has become a man of over 30 in the intervening period. He is married and has two children. He pays more and more attention to his sports club activities with his sports friends (even though he is not a professional sportsman), and spends most of his time away from his wife and children. Eventually, his wife decides to take the eldest child and to migrate to Germany in 1988. To avoid the pain of being abandoned yet again, Janek follows his wife into migration, together with their younger child. At the same time, to escape the painful experience of being abandoned, he has to leave 108

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his most important field of belonging at the sports group in Poland. Janek speaks about it as follows: ‘I had a terrible longing and wanted to go back, I couldn’t find myself again over here in Germany, over there in Poland I had fellow acquaintances and so on, I was an active sportsman, so there was the whole sporting environment that made me knew who I am and where I had my contacts (4), and so it took me very long time to find myself again and forget about my desire to go back to Poland (3).’ Even though Janek obtained a German passport and found a job in a sports shop shortly after his emigration, he found it extremely difficult to find himself again in Germany. According to his internalised biographical structure, he made a great effort to connect with a group of his new colleagues and to identify with them. Here, he seems to have experienced social exclusion based on stereotypes rooted in his ethnic origin. Quoting Janek: ‘At work they constantly annoyed me with jokes about Poles, the stealing thing and whatever, but, you know, when they started to annoy me about Poles being car thieves I started to think, how is that possible? They murdered so many Poles and robbed half of Europe during the war and now they say we Poles are the thieves?’ Only through his experience of exclusion from the group of German colleagues does Janek start to think about himself as Polish, making him search for a Polish group to belong to. He speaks about it as follows: ‘So I actually began to look for contacts and so on and in fact it just so happened that I got to know quite a lot of people through the Polish church and the Polish club, so, how should I say it, I found myself again (3).’ After his migration Janek took part in many activities offered by a Polish organisation in Germany and started to identify himself as Polish. Regular meetings with his new Polish friends gave him a sense of acceptance, and in this way he developed Polish self-identification. Interestingly, he would never have thought or talked about himself in ethnic terms if he had stayed in Poland. Only after migration did he start to identify himself as Polish and conceptualise his problematic 109

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integration into German society as being based on his Polish origin, which he contextualised by Polish-German collective history. This constellation led him to conclude his biographical interview with an old Polish saying ‘Jak swiat swiatem nie bedzie Niemiec Polakowi bratem’, which means:‘As long as the world turns around the Germans and the Poles will stay apart’.

Ethnic belonging as a side effect of social exclusion Ethnicity is not an a priori fact; it is not substantially or essentially present, but develops as a process alongside the development of consciousness. (Kößler and Schiel, 1995, p 2)11 When contrasting the interpretation of Janek’s case with the cases of some other Polish migrants in Germany, it became evident that all of my interviewees shaped their biographical narration with reference to German-Polish collective history. This is interesting insofar as the Polish migrants in the UK, who I interviewed in the context of another project, do not do so. It is here that the migrants’ dependency on the construction of ethnic identity comes empirically to the fore, as migrants of the same origin seem to construct their ethnic belonging differently in the different national settings of their host societies. Furthermore, the collective knowledge systems of both original and host societies, as well as the collective historical experiences, provide a background for social interactions between the migrants and citizens in the host country, thereby influencing the ethnic identification process. The role of collectively shared stereotypes cannot be ignored when analysing these interactions. Following this observation, I argue that German-Polish collective history should be treated as a field of experience, receptivity and action in which the construction of migration is developed.The ethnic identification of self as Polish goes along with the identification of others as Germans and is pushed to the fore within the migration Gestalt. Within this figuration, Poles and Germans do not belong together, as per the definition. Janek is not the only Polish migrant I interviewed who recollects situations of social exclusion and everyday stigmatisation that lead to this figuration. Such events are usually invested with particular significance within the collective German-Polish figuration. In her interview, 35-year-old Isabella, who migrated to Germany in order to actively change her life for better, refers to her family history since the 110

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time of the war while recollecting her experiences as a Polish person in Germany. At one point she says: ‘When I go to the immigration office and see how they treat me, the Germans, I have to think about my grandmother and how they treated her during the war.’ (Interview with Isabella) Fifty-five-year-old Monika also tells her entire life story from the viewpoint of a traditional Polish person, coming from a family in which every generation actively fought to oppose German occupation. Isabella, Janek, Monica and many other Polish emigrants in Germany self-identify as Polish in Germany in order to meaningfully organise their experiences with Germans. They all related their experiences to stories of the Second World War and before, recollected from friends and family. Although the labelling process is quite similar in all of these cases, the individual meaning of the German-Polish figuration differs for particular biographers. Although the figure of the ethnic Pole is always constructed around personal experiences in Germany, it possesses a family level as well as a collective level and is always used to cope with experiences after migration. For instance, Isabella’s case is structured around her problems legalising her status in Germany and living in daily threat of deportation. She had to overcome many bureaucratic hurdles and take on an under-qualified job in order to stabilise her life after migration. When she argues during her interview that “even criminals with German blood have more rights to German residency than the Poles”, she is referring to German-Polish collective history in order to make sense of her own experiences.12 In the cases of Isabella and of Monica, the construction of ‘being Polish’ is contextualised by Polish-German collective history with a special focus on the experiences of their family members under the Nazi occupation of Poland in 1939-45 and the prior partitions of Poland in 1772-1918. As in Janek’s biography, the link to family history is missing because of his family exclusion, so he cannot recall situations or experiences of family members during this collective history. Janek’s construction of being Polish is based on the one hand on his experiences of exclusion in Germany and confrontation with Polish stereotypes, and on the other hand on his urge to belong to a group other than the family, which, following his migration, is fulfilled in the context of a Polish organisation and the Polish church. It is possible that if Janek had been accepted by his German colleagues, he could easily have re-established himself in Germany by belonging to that group, according to his own 111

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structure. He might have maintained his previous self-identification as a sportsman, or he might have developed self-identification as a German. Yet his experience of everyday exclusion precipitated the ethnisation of his identity, making him into the ethnic Pole he never was before migration. Ironically, this never would have happened if he had he stayed in Poland. Generally, even though historical facts embedded within the construction of the Polish-German figuration, and used by the construction of the ethnic identification, differ from case to case, the figuration itself has a similar function in all cases. It facilitates the process of dealing with experiences of discrimination and social exclusion as a Pole in Germany. In this way, experiences of discrimination and social exclusion in Germany are identified as ethnically meaningful, leading to the negotiation of biographical constructions prior to migration. Also, the contextualisation of biographical experiences in Germany by the collective German-Polish functions by rendering meaningful the discrimination in post-migration experiences, and semantically connects them with the suffering of family members under German racism during the Second World War and before. Here, experiences of social exclusion after migration are written in the long history of German racism against the Poles. Last but not least, my empirical analysis displays that in the case of Polish migrants in Germany, ethnic identification after migration continually reactivates previous historical conflicts.

Discontinuity through a change or continuity of changes The passing days and nights are eternal travellers in time. The years that come and go are travellers too. Life itself is a journey; and as for those who spend their days upon the waters in ships and those who grow old leading horses, their very home is the open road. And some poets of old died while travelling. (Basho, 1974, p 29) Biographical researchers agree that biography undergoes constant changes. Although this is acceptable as a theoretical tool that pinpoints the fluid character of biography as an identity concept, it is difficult to support empirically with all of its consequences. Since biography is a structured and structuring process, it is guided by the rules of its development (Oevermann, 1988). Therefore, biography is organised according to and alongside the rules of its transformation and 112

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reproduction. During the reproduction phases, the construction of identification (which underlies everyday interactions) is developed without any particular change in its structure. Only when the system of thinking-as-usual is threatened, and the person is confronted with experiences that lead to a shift in the organisation of the system of knowledge, may the transformation of biographical structure follow. The turning points give an opportunity for the case structure to transform itself. Looking at biography in its totality as a temporally structured phenomenon, we can track its phases of reproduction and transformation.Therefore, as a continuation of the theoretical discussion concerning the terms turning point, crisis and trajectory, I propose the term reinterpretation phases to pinpoint the temporally structured transformation of the biographical Gestalt in phases, and to characterise the dynamic of these processes, which is rooted in the progressive reinterpretation of the previous interpretation of our biographical belonging on an individual, family and collective level. Furthermore, the dynamic of reinterpretation phases is twofold. It includes past experiences as well as future plans and the horizons of biographical development. At the same time, the only place on which reinterpretation can be constructed is the present, for ‘reality exists in the present’ (Mead, 2002, p 35), so there is no other place in which to exist and to narrate from. For that which marks the present is its becoming and its disappearing.[...] The present of course implies a past and a future, and to these both we deny existence. (Mead, 2002, p 35) From an experiential perspective, it is impossible to defend the notion of a past having ever really been there as a matter of fact.This is because all experiences which have become past with the passing of time were also interpretations in the first place (when they were still present), so the ‘factual or real past’ can’t be traced but only hypothetically presumed as a previous construction, sometimes explicitly thematised in current narrations. As George Herbert Mead put it: There is, that is, the past which is expressed in irrevocability, though there has never been present in experience a past which has not changed with the passing generations. (Mead, 2002, p 36)

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The flowing character of time, the impermanence of the phenomenal world, and the constitution of this world as a place of intentionally constructed meanings that flow with the passing of time imply that biographical constitution can’t find any stable or static ‘real’ past. It is idle, at least for the purposes of experience, to have recourse to a ‘real’ past within which we are constantly making discoveries; for that past must be set against a presence within which the emergent appears, and the past, which must be looked at from the standpoint of the emergent, becomes a different past. (Mead, 2002, p 36) In terms of analysing narrations as processes of intentional reflexivity towards the past and the future, we are not referring to the world of things but to worlds of meanings, and these are always intentional and always flowing. As Edmund Husserl put it: It is impossible to conceptualise memory as such without taking the intentionality of recollection into account. Memory and intentionality are inseparable. (Husserl, 1980, p 456) When speaking about biographical narration, it is obvious that not every experience of the past will be recollected, for recollection develops along the spheres of the temporal reference points of the present. Biographical narrations always depend on the life phase in which they are produced. Different biographical interviews will for this reason be constructed in different reinterpretation or reproduction phases. This is due mainly to the fact that we organise our experiences according to spheres of relevance in the form of a meaningful Gestalt (Gurwitsch, 1957). However,‘meaningful’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘homogeneous’. As noted earlier in this chapter, knowledge is incoherent, only partially clear and not free from contradictions. These characteristics of the knowledge system are due to the ‘individual interests which determine the relevance of objects selected for further inquiry [which are] themselves not integrated into a coherent system’ (Schutz, 1964, p 93). Therefore, the processes of reinterpretation can be tracked as arguments in interviews, because the reinterpreted past (and future) needs to be evaluated and cannot simply be narrated. What does this mean in relation to the discontinuity of biographical experience? According to the definition of crisis:

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If there occurs in individual or social life an event or situation which cannot be comprehended by applying traditional and habitual patterns of behaviour or interpretation, we call such a situation a crisis – a partial one if it makes only some elements of the world taken for granted questionable, a total one if it invalidates the whole system of reference, the scheme of interpretation itself. (Schutz, 1976, p 231) It is therefore difficult to conceptualise this experience in terms of biographical discontinuity. As long as our biographical experience is unfolded in time, it is marked with irrevocability, and change becomes the only stable point of reference. On this basis, Mead states that: It is the change which is part of an ongoing living process that tends to maintain itself. (Mead, 2002, p 37) Therefore, the discontinuity of experience can only be brought to our attention as a theoretical concept on the surface of the phenomenon of biographical construction, but cannot be applied to life, as life can only be constant through the changes resulting from its temporal unfolding (Mead, 1967; Husserl, 1980).The conclusion of this chapter is based for this reason on the presupposition that a continuity of changes, and not a discontinuity of experience, is central to the biographical construction of identity, for ‘the total life of consciousness is synthetically unified, which occurs in an all-encompassing inner consciousness of time’ (Schutz, 1996, p 159).13 Notes However, Stonequist states in his later work that the problem of racial discrimination can be similarly observed between human beings and social groups that share the same territory, who are therefore not migrants at all. 1

We find a similar idea in relation to the field of perception in the Gestalt theory by Gurwitsch (1957) and Koffka (1950), to name just a few. 2

3

I return to this point in the concluding part of this chapter.

It might be argued, however, that even passivity is in fact an active autonomous expression of personal involvement and includes a great deal of biographical work on a given situation.

4

Following Robert Ezra Park, see Morton (1988); critically discussed in Germany by Nunnen-Winkler (1983); Lutz (1995); Dausien et al (2000); Breckner (2002); Hettlage-Varjas (2002); and Apitzsch (2003).

5

115

Biography and turning points in Europe and America The term ‘identity’ has been criticised broadly across disciplinary boundaries within the empirical science framework (see Brubaker 1956/2006; Welz, 1994; Hall, 1996). 6

See Alheit (1990, 1992, 2002); Alheit and Hoering (1989); Apitzsch (1999, 2000, 2003); Breckner (2002, 2005); Dausien (1996); Fischer and Kohli (1987); Fischer-Rosenthal (1991, 1995); Inowlocki (2001); Inowlocki and Apitzsch (2000); Riemann and Schütze (1991); Rosenthal (1995); Schütze (1980a, 1980b, 1980c, 1992 1995) and others. 7

This is the point at which the role of biographical, social and cultural memory will be taken into account. See Alheit and Hoerning (1989, pp 123-47); Assmann (1999a, 1999b); Halbwachs (1925, 1950). 8

I use the concepts of self and other or generalised other, referring to George Herbert Mead’s definition (Mead, 1967, p 135): ‘The self has a character different from the physiological organism proper.The self is something which has a development; it is not initially there at birth, but arises in the process of social experience and activity, that is, it develops in a given individual as the result of his relation to that process as a whole and to other individuals within that process’. In the process of social interaction, the self-reflecting ‘self ’ takes the role of the (imaginary) other to create meaning during interaction. The generalised other is constructed when ‘one puts himself in the place of generalised other, which represents the organised responses of all members of the group’ (Mead, 1967, p 162). 9

10

The transcription notation is as follows:



(4) = break in seconds



, = short break.

Kößler and Schiel conceptualise ethnicity by referring to Max Weber (1972, p 237) and Frederick Barth (1969). 11

German emigration law is based on ‘ius sanguinis’, or biological continuity (Hoffmann, 1994, pp 33-48; Gosewinkel, 2003, 2007). Thus many thousands of Germans born in Poland who resettled in Germany after the Second World War (the last big wave of resettlers ended in the middle of the 1990s) were automatically given a German passport.According to German emigration law, every resettler had to prove their German origin to get German citizenship. Pictures of family members in Wehrmacht uniforms, or documents proving membership in Hitler Youth organisations etc, were commonly used as a proof of German origin. Isabella complains about this state of affairs, and speaks about it as an injustice contextualised by German-Polish collective history

12

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Migration biography and ethnic identity and the story of her grandmother, who was forced to work in industry by Nazi Germans. Schutz is referring here to Edmund Husserl’s Cartesian meditations (Husserl, 1950).

13

References Alheit, P. (1990) Alltag und Biographie. Studien zur gesellschaftlichen Konstruktion biographischer Perspektiven [Everyday life and biography. Studies in the social construction of biographical perspectives],Werkstattberichte des Forschungsschwerpunkts Arbeit und Bildung 4, Bremen: Universität Bremen. Alheit, P. (1992) Leben lernen [Learning to live], Bremen: Universität Bremen. Alheit, P. (2002) ‘Identität oder “Biographizität”? Beiträge der neune sozial- und erziehungswissenschaftlichen Biographieforschung zu einem Konzept der Identitätsentwicklung’ [‘Identity or biography. The contribution of new social and educational biography research to a concept of identity development’], Integrative Therapie. Junfermann Verlag, no 3-4, vol 28, pp 190-1. Alheit, P. and Hoerning, E.M. (eds) (1989) Biographisches Wissen. Beiträge zu einer Theorie lebensgeschichtlicher Erfahrung [Biographical knowledge. Contributions to a theory of the experience of life history], Frankfurt/New York: Campus. Apitzsch, U. (ed) (1999) Migration und Traditionsbildung [Migration and the formation of tradition], Opladen/Wiesbaden: Westdeutsche Verlag. A p i t z s c h , U. ( 2 0 0 0 ) ‘ M i g r a t i o n a l s Ve r l a u f s k u r ve u n d Transfor mationsprozeß. Zur Frage geschlechterspezifischer Dispositionen in der Migrationsbiographie’ [‘Migration as trajectory and process of transformation. On the problem of gender-specific dispositions in migration biography’] in B. Dausien, M. Calloni and M. Friese (eds) Migrationsgeschichten von Frauen. Beiträge und Perspektiven aus der Biographieforschung [Migration of women: Contributions and perspectives in biography research], Werkstattberichte des Instituts für angewandte Biographie- und Lebenswertforschung, Band 7, Bremen: Universität Bremen, pp 62-78. Apitzsch, U. (2003) ‘Migrationsbiographien als Orte Transnationaler Räume’, ‘Migration biographies as places of transnational spaces’ in U. Apitzsch, M. Mechtild and M.M. Jansen (eds) Migration, Biographie und Geschlechterverhältnisse, Münster:Verlag Westfälisches Dampfboot, pp 65-80.

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Assmann, A. (1999a) Erinnerungsräume. Zur Konstruktion kultureller Zeit [Spaces of memory. Towards a construction of cultural time], München: Verlag C.H. Beck. Assmann, J. (1999b) Das kulturelle Gedächtnis [Cultural memory], München:Verlag C.H. Beck. Barth, F. (1969) Ethnic groups and ethnic boundaries:The social organization of cultural difference, Oslo: Bergen. Basho, M. (1974) A haiku journey: Basho’s narrow road to a far province, Tokyo: Kodnsha International. Boldt, T.D. (2011) Die stille Integration: Identitätskonstruktionen von polnischen Migranten in Deutschland [The quiet integration: Identity constructions of polish migrants in Germany], Frankfurt/New York: Campus. Breckner, R. (2002) ‘Leben in polarisierten Welten: ZumVerhältnis von Migration und Biographie im Ost-West-Europäischen Migrationsfeld’ [‘Life in polarised worlds: The relation between migration and biography in the East-West European field of migration’], Unveröffentliche Dissertation, Berlin. Breckner, R. (2005) Migrationserfahrung – Fremdheit – Biographie [The experience of migration – estrangement – biography],Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Brubaker, R. (1956) Ethnicity without groups, Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Corbin, J. and Strauss, A.L. (1988) Unending work and care: Managing chronic illness at home, San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass. Dausien, B. (1996) Biographie und Geschlecht: Zur biographischen Konstruktionen sozialer Wirklichkeit In Frauengeschichten [Biography and gender: The biographical reconstruction of social reality in women´s life histories], Bremen: Donat Verlag. Dausien, B., Calloni, M. and Friese, M. (eds) (2000) Migrationsgeschichten von Frauen. Beiträge und Perspektiven aus der Biographieforschung [Women´s migration histories: Contributions and perspectives in biography research], Werkstattberichte des Instituts für angewandte Biographie- und Lebenswertforschung, Band 7, Bremen: Universität Bremen. Dewey, J. (1938) Logis: The theory of inquiry, New York: Henry Holt and Company Inc. Erikson, E.H. (1956) ‘The problem of identity’, American Journal of Psychoanalysis, vol IV, pp 56–121. Fischer, W. (1982) ‘Time and chronic illness: A study on the social constitution of temporality’, unpublished doctoral thesis (habilitation thesis), University of Bielefeld, Berkeley, CA.

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Fischer, W. and Kohli, M. (1987) ‘Biographieforschung’ [‘Biography research’, in W. Voges (ed) Methoden der Biographie- und Lebenslaufforschung [Methods in biography and life trajectory research], Opladen: Leske & Budrich, pp 25-49. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. (1991) ‘William I. Thomas and Florian Znaniecki:“The Polish peasant in Europe and America”’, in U. Flick, E. von Kardoff, H. Rosenstiel, L. Wolff (eds) Handbuch qualitative Sozialforschung [Handbook in qualitative social research], München, pp 115-18. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. (1995) ‘The problem with identity: biography as solution to some (post)modernist dilemmas’, Comenius, vol 3, pp 250-65. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. (1996) ‘Strukturale Analyse biographischer Texte’ [‘Structural analysis of biographical texts’], in E. Brähler and C. Adler (eds) Quantitative Einzelfallanalysen und qualitative Verfahren [Quantitative analysis of single cases and qualitative procedures], Gießen: Psychosozial-Verlag, pp 99-161. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. and Rosenthal, G. (1997) ‘Narrationsanalyse biographischer Selbstpräsentationen’ [‘Narrative analysis of biographical self-representations’], in R. Hitzler and A. Honer (eds) Sozialwissenschaftliche Hermeneutik [Social science hermeneutics], Opladen: Leske & Budrich, pp 133-64. Giddens, A (1991) Modernity and self-identity, Cambridge: Polity Press. Glaser, B.G and Strauss, A.L. (1967) The discovery of grounded theory: Strategies for qualitative research, Chicago, IL: Aldine Publishing Company. Glaser, B.G. and Strauss, A.L. (1968) Time for dying, Chicago, IL: Aldine Publishing Company. Glaser, B.G. and Strauss, A.L. (1980) Awareness of dying, New York: Aldine Publishing Company. Gosewinkel, D. (2003) Einbürgern und Ausschließen. Die Nationalisierung der deutschen Staatsangehörigkeit vom Deutschen Bund bis zur Bundesrepublik Deutschland [Inclusion and exclusion. The nationalization of German citizenship from the German Union to the Federal Republic of Germany], Göttingen:Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Gosewinkel, D. (2007) ‘Wie wird man Deutscher?’ [‘How does one become German?’], in R. von Thadden, S. Kaudelka, T. Serrier and A. Gurwitsch (eds) Europa der Zugehörigkeiten. Integrationswege zwischen Ein- und Auswanderung [The Europe of belongings: Roads of integration between immigration and emigration], Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag. Gurwitsch,A. (1957/1975) Das Bewußtseinsfeld [The field of consciousness], Berlin: de Gruyter. 119

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Halbwachs, M. (1925/1985) Das Gedächtnis und seine sozialen Bedingungen [Memory and its social conditions], Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Halbwachs, M. (1950/1985) Das kollektive Gedächtnis [Collective memory], Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Hall, S. (1996) ‘Who needs identity?’, in S. Hall and P. Du Gay, Questions of cultural identity, London: Sage Publications, pp 1-17. Hettlage-Varjas, A. (2002) ‘Frauen unterwegs: Identitätsverlust und Identitätssuche zwischen den Kulturen’ [‘Women in transition: Loss of identity and the search for identity between cultures’], in E. Rohr and M.M. Jansen (eds) Grenzgängerinnen: Frauen auf der Flucht, im Exil und in der Migration [Crossing borders: Women as refugees, in exile and in migration], Giessen: Psychosozial-Verlag, pp 163-94. Hoffmann, L. (1994) ‘Staatsangehörigkeit und Volksbewusstsein’ [‘Citizenship and popular consciousness’], in B.-O. Bryde (ed) Das Recht und die Fremden [Jurisprudence and the Stranger], Baden-Baden: Nomos, pp 33-49. Husserl, E. (1980) Vorlesungen zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewusstseins (1893–1917) [Lectures on the phenomenology of internal time consciousness (1893–1917)], Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag (originally published in 1928). Husserl, E. (1950) Cartesianische Meditationen und Pariser Vorträge [Cartesion meditations and Paris lectures] (edited by D. Strasser), Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff. Inowlocki, L. (2001) Traditionalität als reflexiver Prozeß: Großmütter, Mütter und Töchter in jüdischen Displaced-Persons-Familien. Eine biographieanalytische und wissenssoziologische Untersuchung. Habilitationsschrift, Otto-von-Guericke-Universität Magdeburg [Traditions as reflexive process: Grandmothers, mothers and daughters in Jewish DisplacedPersons – Families: A biography analytical and sociology of knowledge research], Doctoral thesis, Berlin: Philo-Verlag. Inowlocki, L. and Apitzsch, U. (2000) ‘Biographical analysis: a “German” school?’, in P. Chamberlayne, J. Bornat und T. Wengraf (eds) The biographical turn in social science: Comparative issues and examples, London and New York: Routledge, pp 53-70. James, W. (1890) Principles of psychology, vol 1, New York: Dover Publications. Kazmierska, K. (1999) Doswiadczenia wojenne Polakow a ksztaltowanie tozsamosci etnicznej [The war experiences of the Poles and the development of ethnic consciousness], Warsaw: IfiS PAN. Koffka, K. (1950) Principles of Gestalt psychology, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul (originally published in 1935).

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Kößler, R. and Schiel, T. (1995) ‘Nationalstaaten und Grundlagen ethnischer Identität’ [‘National states and the foundations of ethnic identity’], in R. Kößler and T. Schiel, Nationalstaat und Ethnizität [National states and ethnicity], Frankfurt am Main: IKO, pp 1-22. Lutz, H. (1995) ‘The legacy of migration: immigrant mothers and daughters and the process of intergenerational transmission’, Comenius, vol 15, pp 304-17. Lutz, H. (2002) ‘At your service, Madam! The globalisation of domestic service’, Feminist Review, vol 70, pp 89-104. Mead, G.H. (1967) Mind, self and society from the standpoint of a social behaviorist, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press (originally published in 1934). Mead, G.H. (2002) The philosophy of the present, New York: Prometheus Books (originally published in 1932). Morton, A. (ed) (1988) Vom heimatlosen Seelenleben. Entwurzelung, Entfremdung und Identität – Der Psychische Seilakt in der Fremde [The homeless soul: The loss or roots, estrangement and identity – the psychological rope act of the stranger], Bonn: Psychiatrie Verlag. Morokvasic, M. (1991) ‘Fortress Europe and migrant women’, Feminist Review, vol 39, no 4, pp 69-84. Morokvasic, M. (1993) ‘“In and out” of the labour market: immigrant and minority women in Europe’, New Community, vol 19, no 3, pp 459-84. Nunnen-Winkler, G. (1983) ‘Das Identitätskonzept. Eine Analyse impliziter begrifflicher und empirischer Annahmen in der Konstruktbildung’ [‘The concept of identity. An analysis of implicit conceptual and empirical assumptions in the formation of concepts’], in Institut für Arbeitsmarkt und Berufsforschung (ed) Hochschulexpansion und Arbeitsmarkt. Beiträge zur Arbeitsmarkt- und Berufsforschung, Nürnberg, pp 151-78. Oevermann, U. (1983) ‘Zur Sache’ [‘Coming to the point’], in L. von Friedenburg and J. Habermas, Adorno Konferenz, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, pp 234-69. Oevermann, U. (1988) ‘Eine exemplarische Fallrekonstruktion zum Typus versozialwissenschaftlicher Identitätsformation’ [‘An examplary case reconstruction on types of social science identity formations’], in H.G. Brose and B. Hildebrand (eds) Vom Ende des Individuums zur Individualität ohne Ende, [From the end of the individual to individualism without ending], Opladen: Leske & Budrich, pp 243-86.

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Oevermann, U. (2000) ‘Die Methode der Fallrekonstruktion in der Grundlagenforschung sowie der klinischen und pädagogischen Praxis’ [‘The method of case reconstruction in basic research as well as in clinical and pedagogical practice’], in K. Kraimer (ed) Die Fallrekonstruktion [Case reconstruction], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, pp 58-153. Oevermann, U. et al (1979) ‘Die Methodologie einer objektiven Hermeneutik und ihre allgemeine forschungslogische Bedeutung in den Sozialwissenschaften’ [‘The methodology of an objective hermeneutics and ist general research logical meaning in the social sciences’], in G.G. Soeffner (ed), Interpretative Verfahren in den Sozialund Textwissenschaften [Interpretative procedures in the social and textual sciences], Stuttgart, pp 352-434. Park, R.E. (1950) ‘The marginal man’, in Race and culture, London: Macmillan, pp 345-92 (originally published in 1928). Peirce, C.S. (1980) Collected papers of Charles Sanders Peirce (edited by Charles Hartsphorne and Paula Weiss), Cambridge: Belknap (originally published in 1933). Riemann, G. and Schütze, F. (1991) ‘“Trajectory” as a basic concept for analyzing suffering and disorderly social processes’, in D.R. Maines, Social organization and social structure: Essays in honour of Anselm Strauss, New York: Aldine de Gruyter, pp 333-57. Rosenthal, G. (1995) Erlebte und erzählte Lebensgeschichte. Gestalt und Struktur biographischer Selbstdarstellungen, Frankfurt am Main: Campus. Schutz,A. (1964) ‘The stranger. Essay in social psychology’, in A. Schutz, Collected papers. Bd 2: Studies in social theory (edited by A. Brodersen), Den Haag: Niejhoff, pp 91-105. Schutz, A. (1976) Collected papers. Bd 2: Studies in social theory (edited by A. Brodersen), Den Haag: Niejhoff. Schutz, A. (1996) Collected papers,Vol 4 (edited by H.Wagner, G. Psathas and F. Kersten), Dordrecht/Boston, MA/London: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Schütze, F. (1977) Die Technik des nar rativen Inter views in Interaktionsfeldstudien – dargestellt an einem Projekt zur Erforschung von kommunalen Machtstrukturen. Arbeitsberichte und Forschungsmaterialien [The technique of narrative interviews in studies of interactional fields – produced in a research project on municipal power structures], Bielefeld, unpublished manuscript. Schütze, F. (1979) Zwischenbericht an die Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft über meine Habilitationsforschung ‘Das narrative Interview’, [Midterm report to the German Research Society on my dissertation research],unpublished manuscript. 122

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Schütze, F. (1980a) Prozessstrukturen des Lebensablaufs. Materialien zur Biographietagung Nürnberg [Process structures of the life trajectory. Material tot the biography workshop in Nürnberg], unpublished manuscript. Schütze, F. (1980b) Empirische Illustrationen zur Arbeit „Prozessstrukturen des Lebensablaufs“. Materialien zur Biographietagung Nürnberg [Empirical illustrations to the work ‘Process structures of the life trajectory’ : Material for the biography workshop in Nürnberg], unpublished manuscript. Schütze, F. (1980c) Narrative Repräsentation kollektiver Schicksalsbetroffenheit. DFG-Colloqium zur Erzählforschung, Kassel, unpublished manuscript Schütze, F. (1983) ‘Biographieforschung und narratives Interview’ [‘Biographical research and the narrative interview’], Neue Praxis, vol 3, pp 283-93. Schütze, F. (1992) ‘Pressure and guilt: War experiences of a young german soldier and their biographical implications’ (Part 1 and 2), in International Sociology, Jg 7, Heft 2/3, pp 187-208; pp 347-367. Schütze, F. (1995) ‘Verlaufskurven des Erleidens als Forschungsgegenstand der interpretativen Soziologie’, in H.-H. Krüger and W. Marotzki (eds) Erziehungswissenschaftliche Biographieforschung, Opladen: Leske & Budrich, pp 116-57. Stonequist, E. (1961) The marginal man: A study in personality and culture conflict, New York: Russell & Russell (originally published in 1937). Strauss, A.L. (1959) Mirrors and masks: The search for identity, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Strauss, A.L. (1991) Grundlagen qualitativer Sozialforschung. Datenanalyse und Theoriebildung in der empirischen soziologischen Forschung, München: Psychologie Verlagsunion. Strauss, A.L., Fagerhaugh, S., Suczek, B. and Wiener, C. (1985) Social organization of medical work, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Thomas, W.I. and Znaniecki, F. (1918-1920/1923) The polish peasant in Europe and America, Urbana and Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press. Weber, M. (1972) ‘Ethnische Gemeinschaftsbeziehungen’ [‘Social relations in ethnic communities’], in M. Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft. Grundriß der verstehenden Soziologie [Economy and society. Outline to an interpretative sociology], Tübingen: Mohr, pp 234-44 (originally published in 1922).

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Welz, G. (1994) ‘Die soziale Organisation kultureller Differenz. Zur Kritik des Ethnobegriffs in der anglo-amerikanischen Kulturanthropologie’ [‘The social organization of cultural difference. Towards a critique oft he ethnic concept in anglo-american cultural anthropology’], in H. Berding (ed) Nationales Bewusstsein und kollektive Identität [National consciousness and cultural identity], Suhrkamp: Frankfurt am Main, pp 66-81. Wernet,A. (2000) Einführung in die Interpretationstechniken der Objektiven Hermeneutik, Opladen: Leske & Budrich, Whitman,W. (1965) Leaves of Grass, Comprehensive Reader’s edition. New York: New York University Press.

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Biographical structuring through a critical life event: parental loss during childhood Gerhard Jost

Introduction Critical life events such as the loss of a job, the end of a relationship or a divorce or, as discussed in this chapter, the passing of a parent, are often accompanied by depression, melancholy, disorientation and loss of perspective on life. It is the concept of critical life events in particular that is a predictor of psychological anomalies.As a general rule, a critical life event condenses the experience and takes the affected person into a stadium of ‘relative imbalance’ (Filipp, 1981, p 24; Inglehart, 1991), therefore requiring the person to reorganise his or her behaviour and experience making as a consequence of the painful event. However, coping with such a critical life situation not only depends on a person’s psychological disposition, but also on the event’s biographical and social circumstances.This aspect is emphasised in sociological concepts dedicated to ‘turning points’ (Strauss, 1997), which stress the coping process. The notion of ‘turning points’ includes the idea that major changes to one’s life situation also have a subjective effect on one’s biographical construction methods. Accounts are clearly divided into ‘then’ and ‘now’, thereby having a decisive influence on the organisation of memories and on the structure of the presented life story. In his book Mirrors and masks, Strauss (1997, 2nd edn) points out different turning points that can lead to a new way of taking stock of reality, assessing it and understanding it anew. However, Strauss primarily focuses on turning point experiences made during adulthood. He discusses events such as migration, regulated status passages in organisations or religious conversions, which people need to assess and, in turn, may lead to new patterns of orientation and understanding. Now, studying life events experienced during childhood can contribute to a better understanding of these ‘turning points’, since children usually 125

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have a different range of action and a protracted sense of time compared to adults. Also, a child’s (core) identity is still in the developmental stage, making conditions for transformation different.The focus of this chapter lies in the process of coping with such a major event such as the loss of a parent during childhood and the consequences this has on a person’s life thereafter. First, theoretical assumptions about the transformation of biographical structures are addressed, followed by the specific case of ‘early parental loss’. On the basis of three single case studies, structural characteristics of three biographies are presented in order to gain general knowledge through comparing these cases.

Biographical structures and their transformation: some preliminary theoretical and methodical considerations Critical life events trigger biographical work, that is, they not only change the course of life (as a unit of action), but also the way of reflecting on experiences (as a structure of knowledge). Biographical work strives for the creation of a biographical structure people need in modern society to maintain consistency and responsibility for specific changes over time and across different societal subsystems (Dausien, 1996, p 573). A biographical structure is built by bringing parts of one’s life story into a relationship of meaning (see McAdams, 1993; Bruner, 2000), that is, by establishing a more or less coherent interrelation between these parts. To achieve this, the principles of causality and continuity are used (see Linde, 1993, pp 127ff).This serves as justification for the sequence of events or to explain biographical discontinuities. Thanks to this approach, events may be introduced as sudden occurrences. Developments can also be portrayed as being limited in time or as being continuous in time. Coherence is a prerequisite for biographies to function as patterns of orientation. Although biographical research distances itself from rigid, fixed notions of identity concepts and therefore does not use terms such as ‘identity fracture’ (compare, among others, with Fischer-Rosenthal, 1995), the concept of ‘turning points’ needs the notion of coherent biographical structures and is therefore in line with a dynamic concept of identity. Changes to the overall life story result in a change to the relevance of past events. In biographical accounts, people do not limit themselves to talking about the facts. They are addressed within a framework of life history that did not exist at the time the experience was lived. As a consequence, biographical accounts unite two perspectives: past and present. In biographical accounts, the perspective of the event happening 126

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and the perspective of telling about it overlap. In this field of tension created by going back to past events by way of scenic remembering, present needs and forward-looking expectations,1 events and actions are interconnected, assessed and shaped to form an overall structure. Therefore, biographies cannot only be classified as accounts about people’s past lives. They are rather (re)constructions of the past.2 It is only through a structuralising interpretation by the person in question, that is, by biographical work, that life stories are created.Acquiring new realities presupposes that they are superimposed on existing ‘subjective’ realities. Biographies, therefore, always depend on the previous life story available in the form of biographical construction, which is also a resource for future action. To put it differently, one’s own life story also emerges during all processes of socialisation, in addition to agents of socialisation and new surroundings. The relevance of biographical work has evolved against the background of an increasing number of options for action and has become necessary due to partial and temporary inclusion in subsystems (for example, family, work, public authorities, leisure time). Even though institutionalisations offering a certain degree of orientation to concerned people exist, the creation of biographical phases by institutions over time (for example, schools) is regulated by society and predetermined norms for the creation of biographies are more difficult. This reduces the contingency of having numerous options for decision making. In such a case, it is apparent which options are acceptable at a determined time in a person’s life. Despite these foreseeable developments in the biographical course, which may be experienced as a constraint, individuals must create transitional modes and ways of fitting events into their life story, which are expressed in different patterns. The assumption of (reflexive) work on life stories is embedded in the context of societal diagnoses made by sociologists. While in the ‘modern age’ a stronger institutionalisation of life courses and a relatively stable degree of determining one’s biographical interpretation patterns through ‘external’ factors is assumed, life stories in the reflexive modern age (Giddens, 1991; see Keupp et al, 1999) are much more embedded in notions of a (self-reflective) ‘self-direction’, even though these notions continue to correlate with unevenly distributed resources. Postmodern authors, on the other hand, have declared the necessity for dynamic coherence building outdated. They stress that industrial societies show a high degree of mobility and discontinuity, thereby establishing the principle of keeping one’s options open and avoiding fixed identities (see Jost, 2008).Therefore, the notion of changeable, yet 127

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still relatively stable biographical structuring fades into the background, while the predominant notion revolves around unstable, ambivalent and indifferent orientations as new cultural arrangements,3 so that coherent constructions of identity could be unmasked by deconstructions. The phenomenon that new technologies make it impossible to distinguish between experiences made and their representation also plays a role. Reality and its (media-conveyed) images overlap and make it impossible to make clear-cut distinctions between them. Histrionic presentations of one’s self also turn into reality and can be made to become socially acceptable. Postmodern premises are, among others, expressed in the concept of the ‘flexible self ’ (Sennett, 1998). In his book, The corrosion of character, the author focuses on mobility and on the predominance of short-lived relationships. He argues that flexible working structures have undermined traditional forms of organisation, steady working relationships and career paths. Based on these changes in society, the author discusses changes to one’s ‘personal character’. In such a setting, autonomy and independence are important character traits. Yet, under the premises of these new social contexts, the self starts to ‘drift’. ‘Drifting’ is observed in life stories whose protagonists have the subjective impression of no longer controlling their own life, but experience that the feeling of ‘drifting’ predominates. According to Sennett, feelings of uprooting and biographical insecurities occur in spite of professional success.This phenomenon is enhanced by the fact that today, while one can refer to the present and also, to a lesser extent, to the past, the future cannot be taken into consideration because of its unpredictability and its fast-paced change. Biography research scholars have reservations regarding postmodernist perspectives because these perspectives question the necessity of (coherent) biographical relationships of meaning. Biography research in this vein builds on negative consequences for one’s personal development while not taking into account the meaningful and coherent delineation of people’s life course. ‘Turning points’ lead to a transformation of structures. These transformations may be conservative or evolutionary (Bude, 1996). In the case of conservative transformations, the structural pattern remains similar, while a new biographical pattern is created during the evolutionary transformation process. Both types may be triggered by death, love, marriage or disease or, in a community, by natural disasters, political change or economic crises. Rosenthal (1995) distinguishes between turning points that are relevant from a psychoanalytic and

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from a developmental psychological perspective,4 status passages5 and interpretation points.6 In the biographical study on which this chapter is based, narrative and biographical interviews were conducted. In narrative psychology and therapy, it is an obvious matter that narrations are an ideal way of expressing one’s biography. It seems that people have a predisposition to narration when they arrange their experiences. Such considerations find their practical application in narrative interviews, which have become one important procedure in the field of biographical research (Schütze, 1983; see, among others, Küsters, 2006). Narrative interviews are anchored in social structures, people, historic events and expectations and allow reflections on past experiences. Thereby, nobody starts and continues their life story accidentally. In narratives many life segments are related with the goal of disclosing one’s entire life story. Just like other qualitative and open interviews, narrative interviews give participants a high degree of autonomy when selecting the topics in order to present their self. In many studies it is apparent that narrative interviews are suitable to focus on critical life events and on coping strategies in everyday life. But the question of using this form of interview is not only to be judged within the scientific context. A further important question is if narrative interviews can contribute to healing processes, or at least do not disturb them. Basically, the act of narration produces meaning and identity work. By reflecting problematic experiences from today’s perspective, where one is not acute in a crisis, narrating can support coping processes. Consequently, not only narrative therapists refer to the coping character of narrations. On the other hand social research (as well as a counselling process) has to consider problematic consequences of updating traumatic experiences and decide between restrained and proactive questions in the conversation. So, to a certain degree, epistemological insights addressing the concept of narrative can be compared with professional knowledge of coping strategies (LuciusHöhne, 2002; Rosenthal, 2002). When analysing the interviews, it is assumed that the transcription provides a specific view of the ‘actual’ biography. The biographical outline delivered ‘today’ is the basis for reconstructing biographical structures. Or to say it another way, on the one hand the interview gives manifest information, an ‘inside point of view’ of a complex biography. On the other hand latent structures need to be taken into account as well.Analysing the interviews invites an orientation to hermeneutically located interpretation techniques.

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Parental loss study: main questions Losing a parent early in life is one of the most crucial life experiences. It may lead to actual diseases, limit the person’s personal development or have other undesirable effects. Other than psychological studies (see Huber, 2002), there are hardly any studies that rely on a sociobiographical perspective. From a biographical perspective, coping processes involving early parental loss are not only studied in relation to the concerned person’s personality, because ‘turning points’ and ‘biographical work’ are not understood as psychological categories. Coping processes embody society and subjectivity at the same time because social structures and an individual’s dispositions for action converge in these processes. From that point of view, biographical structures in a person are ascribed to society (see also Fischer-Rosenthal, 2000a, 2000b). If social structural logic dominated, an individual’s potential for interpretation and control would be strongly limited and (personal) life planning would hardly be possible. On the other hand, biographies are not only made atomistically or by individual action on the part of people. They are created from a history of social relationships, in which meaning and experiences are structured. Even if they follow inherently logical structures, they are exposed to social influences and are based on experiences made in actual interactions: the way we experience ourselves and the way we communicate about ourselves depends on the fact that we communicate at all and with whom. With his or her life story, an individual not only describes him or herself, but also describes, to the same extent, his or her relationship with the world. This relationship identifies a person as belonging to a specific culture and sharing a certain view of reality (see Appelsmeyer, 1996, p 70). Biographical experiences and accounts are therefore always embedded in specific societal processes. They point to a person’s social background, social class and societal change. This opens up the opportunity of gaining knowledge about social structures, social classes or institutions through biographical communication. Biographical research in its narrow definition also addresses the constitution of biographies as a ‘social reality sui generis’ (see Rosenthal, 1995, p 12), which is at the intersection with society. In biographies, society becomes tangible as a set of opportunities, differences and objects, which are expressed in perspectives of action and meaning and, ultimately, in biographical work (Denzin, 1989, p 46). In empirical analyses, it can be studied to what degree certain experiences are necessary and if social areas are accessible to these experiences at all. When taking these thoughts further, the question

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arises of how different social environments and preliminary conditions affect the process of coping with early parental loss. The second essential question is to what extent early parental loss, which is, objectively speaking, always a ‘turning point’, leads not only to a major objective change in a subject’s life, but also to change in the subject’s self-image and world view. Applied to the phenomenon of early parental loss, this means how the event of early parental loss influences biographical coping and construction processes, how it is perceived by (young) children and how it can be integrated into later phases of life, even though children, depending on their age, have only formed a rudimentary self-image, world view and biographical pattern. It also needs to be taken into account that such a critical life event might be addressed more closely as a turning point only at a later point in life. At the same time, analyses of biographical accounts may be used to refer to findings of socioscientific research about early parental loss. Studies have shown that the smaller the child, the bigger the problems. According to statistical analyses, the age bracket between 0.8 and 1.6 years is the most susceptible to problems because children of that age lack representations of their self and of objects (Huber, 2002, pp 33ff). Circumstances accompanying the disease and the passing as well as the other parent’s reaction to it also have an influence on how subjects cope with such an experience of loss. A sudden passing can also result in a state of shock for adults and lead them to neglect their care-taking duties. If, in the opposite case, the parent’s passing is foreseeable, the child may partially lose his or her care-giving people because both the sick and the healthy parent may reject the child as a result of the situation. Coping with the loss of one’s spouse is easier if the relationships in the family are conflict-free – conflicts make the situation worse. Another question that arises is to what extent the living situation had to be changed. Generally, familiar surroundings make dealing with the loss easier because they provide a link to the past. An uncertain financial future, moving to another home, the second parent’s sudden need to work (full-time) can all put additional strain on the coping process. In this context, hypotheses about people’s attachment-building ability can be proposed (see Huber, 2002). All interviewees were, at the time of the interview, between 35 and 48 years old and lost their father or mother between the age of 07 and 14.8 Interviewees talked about their entire life story and, of course, about the critical life event and how they coped with it at different stages of their lives. In addition to these interviews, two qualitative interviews were held with experts in the field: a therapist and a social 131

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worker. They both work for organisations that take care of children and both have lost one or both of their parents. In this chapter, three specific cases are discussed in detail. Their personal living circumstances following the parental loss differed: one of the interviewees was taken care of in a children’s home, another one went to live with her grandparents and a third stayed with her father who remarried.After a detailed discussion of these cases, general conclusions drawn from their comparison are presented.

Life stories: three individual cases Ms C’s biographical account The structure of Ms C’s life story shows that her mother’s passing was a turning point in many ways: on the manifest level of the interview, it points to a change in C’s personality structure; on the latent level it also shows that her mother’s death had different effects on the development of her life course. First and foremost, Ms C’s life story points to the fact that her family’s life had always been dominated by her mother’s pulmonary disease. However, the ‘childlike’ life did not seem to be jeopardised. Even major surgery performed on her mother two years prior to her passing did nothing to change this. The interviewee described herself as a cheerful and lively girl until her mother’s death. Her mother passed away when the interviewee was eight years old, and this event changed her completely. She lost her sense of assurance and spent, as she manifestly said, three or four years leading a very secluded life and was very sensitive and lacked initiative; she was sick more often than she had previously been and, during the time following her mother’s passing, believed that her mother had not passed but had gone to live abroad. This made it easier for her to accept this terrible experience. She didn’t actually process and partially reconstruct these events until she was an adult, when her own daughter suddenly suffered from similar diseases and showed symptoms that she had herself had as a child. The interviewee resented the fact that she had received little (honest) information about the progress of her mother’s disease and her physical condition. It looks like she was deliberately shielded from her mother’s suffering and disease, which allowed her to have, at least for a while, a (relatively) carefree childhood. Maybe her mother, herself, did not or could not accept how serious the disease actually was. On the other hand, the interviewee said that her mother’s death was caused by a medical mistake triggered by insufficient communication between 132

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doctors. If we follow that line of thought, the passing was not only due to the seriousness of her mother’s disease, but also came as a surprise. In any case, despite her mother’s previous hospitalisations and treatments, her passing must have been unexpected for Ms C and she was unprepared for such an event. She did not receive psychological support (neither did her sister). At first, her mother’s death resulted in Ms C and her sister having to leave their parents’ home, changing schools and going to live with her grandparents on their father’s side. This happened the very day after their mother’s passing. Having lost her mother, she also partially lost her father, because he only visited on weekends. She does not strongly reflect on the effects of her early parental loss. She later learned that her father had unsuccessfully requested a leave of absence from work and that her mother probably had previously made arrangements regarding her move to their grandparents’. The predominant feeling in this new living situation was her emotional closeness to her grandfather, but she received little affection from her grandmother. Rather the opposite was true: the interviewee described her relationship with her grandmother as tense and strained. However, this new living situation allowed her to continue down her successful educational path (high school and university) as well as to enjoy a thorough musical education and athletic success.At a functional level, Ms C’s grandmother probably played an important role when it came to the development of her artistic talent, which ultimately influenced the major she chose at university. While she spent little time with her father, her relationship with him was always characterised by great emotional closeness. Ms C looks a lot like her mother, and her father seemed to prefer her to her sister. When she was a teenager, she tried living with her father for a while. They also took a trip to Africa together. Her positive relationship with her father remained unaffected by the fact that he was largely focused on his own problems. She did not have the opportunity to share her aggrievement and her suffering with her father. Ms C’s physical resemblance to her mother and her frequent bronchitis prompted the grandmother to say that she might follow her mother’s path. This triggered her fear of dying at the same age as her mother. Against this background, starting in her early (student) years, she developed a life strategy that consisted in satisfying her needs to the greatest possible degree and refusing to compromise. As a first step, she quickly moved out of her grandmother’s home. Her life strategy was also reflected in the major she chose, her travels as well as her extended stays in other countries, during which she trained as a therapist, among 133

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other things. Also, she did not shy away from participating in a boating race on the open ocean as a member of a team. Except for a few school years following the event, her early maternal loss did not lead her to become cautious, avoid risks or uncertain situations. She looked for new things in life and for new challenges and did not follow a traditional life course. Since her early travelling experiences, she felt strongly attracted to Asian philosophies (of life). One of the reasons was that it made her feel (even) closer to her mother. From her point of view, she has always maintained the bond to her mother. This tendency is in line with the especially sensitive and ‘sharp’ perception skills she claims to have. Apparently, in this case such ‘Asian philosophies of life’ offer better opportunities of integrating death into life and therefore provide positive continuity after an early parental loss.Therefore, such a perspective and the approaches that build on it not only open up a field of professional activity, but also allow people to develop a personal way of reflexively processing the (almost traumatising) event and a life strategy that enables them to integrate such an event into their life story.

Ms S’s biographical account Ms S learned about her mother’s passing and processed it differently than Ms C. She started the interview by saying that her mother’s passing brought about no ‘substantial change’ and that it wasn’t until later that she realised what had happened. She was five years old when her mother died at home, following several hospitalisations and medical treatments. As a toddler (aged five), she probably was unable to grasp her mother’s death or unable to express her distress; the latter is still the case today. As a consequence of her mother’s type of disease (cancer), her mother’s passing was not completely unthinkable and Ms S was aware of this development even as a child. Doctors frequently came to her home to treat her mother. When her mother died, the child was offered the (euphemistic) interpretation that her mother had gone ‘to the angels’, which she accepted at that point without questioning it. According to the interviewee, there were also very few changes in her daily routine. Ever since her mother fell ill, the interviewee spent her days at her grandparents’ and was only home in the mornings and at night.This daily routine remained intact after her mother’s passing for approximately three years, during which problems arose only rarely. The interviewee recalls that she was allowed to sleep in her father’s bed and that she often travelled with him. After three years, her father

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remarried. Her stepmother assumed the role of principal care-giver. Some time later, her (half-)sister was born. The interviewee has very few memories of her mother. One of the few situations involving her mother that she remembers is that she once cuddled up to her mother’s legs.There are certain mental pictures about her mother where she is unsure if they are based on situations she actually experienced or if they are based on photos and film made by her father. She also did not have the opportunity to develop an image of the person who was her mother. A contributing factor was that her family rarely spoke about her mother and that they barely provided information to the daughter. The fact that her family did not observe the anniversaries of her mother’s death, which is regularly expected in German culture, and that for a while the interviewee believed that her mother had died when she herself was three years old, proves that the memory of her mother was not actually carefully upheld by the family. Consequently memories wither and the interviewee is not able to refer to them. This lack of attachment to her mother resulted in occasional crises, for example, during her first pregnancy. At that point, she started to ask herself questions about her roots, about pregnancy and about childbearing. There were other situations where she regretted not having an image of her mother, because this kept her from establishing a link to her roots. A new phase in her life started when her father remarried. However, she was initially not particularly happy about this development. In her previous situation with her grandparents and her father, she had been the main focus of attention, whereas she was now no longer getting all the attention. Her stepmother assumed the role of principal caregiver in a very responsible manner and contributed to the interviewee’s positive development in terms of her education. She probably played an important role in her stepdaughter’s ability to have a successful, yet normal course of life (university studies, job, marriage and three children). Her father didn’t really get involved in these issues. Initially, things weren’t easy for her stepmother, and not only when it came to her stepdaughter. Since she was a ‘foreigner’ in a small community, she apparently had difficulties getting accepted by other members of the community. The stepmother’s relationship with Ms S’s grandmother was also very strained.After her half-sister was born, Ms S coped better with her new mother and her new living situation. As a consequence of her early maternal loss, blood relationship was not a priority for Ms S. She pointed out that many aunts and her biological mother’s family members were barely important to 135

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her, while her stepmother and her stepmother’s mother significantly shaped her values and became essential people in her life. While the stepmother’s coming into the (rest of) the family was certainly seen as a turning point in her life, she does not describe her sister’s birth and the change this caused in the relationship with the stepmother as an equally important event.

Ms E’s biographical account When comparing the life stories presented above with the one of a woman now past the age of 40, who suffered from a (social) parental loss and was sent to live in a children’s home, we find that such a situation had much more tragic effects on the development of the life course. Ms E was four years old when she went to live in a children’s home because her biological parents did not meet or were unable to meet their care-giving duties and because an elderly woman’s physical condition prevented her from taking care of a child. Ms E’s mother herself did not grow up with her parents, but had lived in periodically changing settings. As an adult, the mother never developed a stable relationship with a partner and had children with different men. Ms E’s parents never visited her in the children’s home. Since Ms E has no memories of her father during her early childhood, she consciously saw him for the first and only time during her teens, after having looked for him and having gone to see him. She did not see her biological mother (again) until she was an adult. Ms E is in touch with her biological mother and to this day, calls her on a regular basis and visits her on occasion. Ms E has observed a character trait in herself that she has a hard time letting go. The problems started when her care-giver went on holiday in her childhood. An important point must be made here: she had to leave the children’s home after coming of age, which is quite an extraordinary transition. Her old (institutional) ‘home’ was then no longer available to her. It was at this point that the interviewee faced the problem – just like in other cases with an institutional home – of reorienting herself outside the institutional framework. This part of her account, among other aspects, shows that large parts of her insight had been gained during therapy and that she included these perspectives in her account. She went through several therapies, during which she reconstructed and processed her experiences. Therefore, she did not shy away from talking about very distressing and extremely unpleasant experiences. Without naming them all, one of these events was a meeting with her father when she was an 136

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adolescent, that led, according to her insight gained in therapy, to her having frequent ‘breakdowns’. Another one of these experiences was meeting her mother and working on the relationship with her. She did an apprenticeship in a medical profession and subsequently also received further specialised training. Since she was already of age, her employer offered her lodging. She became a person of trust to the employer’s family and, to a certain degree, became part of the family. However, certain kinds of social control (for example, getting visits from her friend) continued, just like at her former home. This distinctive pattern of being integrated while also feeling controlled would continue to appear throughout her life. After having met her future husband and having a son, the couple moved to a home in close proximity to her in-laws, who judged her behaviour. There was a conflict between her search for warmth and closeness (to a family) and the price she had to pay for it, which was being limited in her independent, autonomous and self-responsible acting. She takes into consideration many expectations, some of which are impossible to fulfil. At the same time, friends and family approach her with their problems, including her younger sister, her co-workers and her mother. Among other aspects, her life is determined by her social background.Through her biological parents, her sister and her peer group from when she lived at the children’s home, she is attached to a social class of low economic and social resources. Some of these acquaintances cause significant strain because she does not have anyone she can rely on to enter into arguments about cultural (and social) distinctions. Another problem is that, having grown up in a children’s home, she assumes this institution’s low status when interacting with others.Whenever unusual or criminal actions occur, this institution is always under scrutiny. Earlier in her life, the interviewee did not disclose that she had grown up in a children’s home in order to avoid negative assessment by others. In spite of her actually being in a respectable position and having processing strategies, the interviewee gave the impression of being rather insecure during the interview. Her precarious experiences and (psychosomatic) illnesses also often led to distressing situations and problems. One example was that her son was sick very often in the first year of his life and needed special food because of his allergies. He was also diagnosed with a severe disability, which turned out to be an incorrect diagnosis. She dealt with these distressing situations with therapy, but nevertheless became very thin during this period of time. At the time of the interview, the interviewee was experiencing a distressing situation: she had just finished rehabilitation following complicated surgery on her shoulder and was taking numerous drugs. 137

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In addition, she mentioned suffering from burnout syndrome that had started to affect her starting the previous year and which affected her health. As a consequence, severe problems at work arose and she was in the process of getting laid off. If one were to look exclusively at external structural data such as her and her husband’s educational background and position, her son’s educational path (secondary school) and her close and responsible relationship with her son, these could not be the cause of insecurity and distressful experiences, except for her professional challenges at the time of her interview. It appears that she needs to work hard to obtain stability, which is probably due to her immediate surroundings, where scarce resources and reasons for concern are not unusual and people need support themselves.Another possible explanation is that she goes to great lengths to find stability and to make herself fit in, because she does not stand up for her own needs in a self-assured manner.

Comparing these individual cases: some generalised hypotheses Based on these analyses of individual cases, a generalised answer can be proposed to the question of how early parental loss manifests itself as a turning point. Different patterns were found. In the first case analysed, early maternal loss was experienced as a turning point and the interviewee grieved for a long time, even as a child. Her life story seems to be strongly influenced by this loss even in her adult life, which becomes evident when looking at her strong attachment to alternative medicine and philosophies of life, clearly intended to maintain a sense of closeness to her mother. She even links her (grand)children’s diseases to (unprocessed) experiences of loss, thereby assuming an intergenerational effect. At the same time, the interviewee (nevertheless) developed numerous talents and a high level of expertise in other areas. In the second case, both the effect and the processing of the early parental loss seem to have been relatively trouble-free. The sense of continuity in terms of living conditions and care-taking and the fact that her stepmother became part of her life probably played a significant role. Even though some problems arose during the process of finding common ground with her stepmother, the latter was a stable parental figure who gave her assurance and also helped her get on the track of a ‘normal life course’ (also professionally). Of course the interviewee’s life was changed by the early loss of her mother, but her subjective account did not show signs of a turning point with personality change.

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In the third case, the starting point was neglect, making it very different from the first two cases. An institutionalised framework can compensate to a certain degree for a lack of ‘normal development’. However, compared to remaining in a family, numerous situations of distress and problems arise. The peer group becomes very important in this socialisation context. Life at a children’s home can only partially level out insufficient social and economic resources. In particular the transition into adulthood and being forced to leave what she called ‘home’ without receiving much support for getting started on her own appears to be a manifest trigger of troublesome developments. Having to cope with a ‘social’ loss of parents leads to a state of mind, which results in an additional loss of previously built self-assurance. The data obtained does not corroborate the hypothesis that the cognitive development state (the age) leads to a better/worse strategy of coping with the loss of the parent. They rather show that social factors such as continuity regarding the parental and other relationships, relying on grandparents as well as other resources, seem to be of great importance. Of course, children and adults who had to experience early parental loss have to overcome many ugly experiences. But the lack of a complete home must not lead in any case to significant problems in life courses, as many social and symbolic resources must be considered. The data show that different processes of coping as well as different developmental processes of life stories exist, which predominantly depend on the life circumstances following early parental loss. In some cases the critical life event offers extensive, but not exclusive, potential for structuring the concerned person’s life story. In other words, in some life stories, such an event is an essential turning point, while in other life stories, other events that are also (equally) important play a role as well. However, the individual cases have also shown that turning points not only have immediate effects, but that important occasions (for example, weddings, birthdays) or pregnancies can be sensitive times during which the effects of previous events can even (re)appear and (once again) may cause a deeper crisis. On the other side, subsequent life events have positive effects on the processes of overcoming early parental loss, for instance when grandparents, new life partners or psychotherapists take up an important role. However, single turning points and other life events cannot fully be classified in terms of their effect without examining their biographical context. In the case of Ms E, for instance, changes are rather balked at, whereas in the case of Ms C, they are virtually sought out during a longer biographical phase. Consequently coping and life strategies after early parental loss seem

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to be embedded in achieving a stable (‘normal’) or – as an alternate version – a more reflexive, individualised biography. Notes The anticipation of the future is always present as a biographical perspective, but is often not explicitly mentioned. 1

For basic stances in biographical research, see Roberts (2002) and Chamberlayne et al (2000).

2

However, compare this to the relatively conventional understanding of the postmodern self and of narrative identity as described by Holstein and Gubrium (2000), which shows very few differences from reflexive modernism.

3

The following events are, among others, relevant in terms of developmental psychology: the Oedipal crisis, the development of operational thinking and late adolescence. 4

Transitions are necessary when starting school, when starting work, when getting married or when having a child, for example. 5

Events that are experienced as decisive and that lead to a reinterpretation of the past (for example, divorce, passing of a parent) are interpretation points. 6

7

The father passed away when the mother was pregnant.

8

None of the people were persecuted or experienced a war.

References Appelsmeyer, H. (1996) Stil und Typisierung in weiblichen Lebensentwürfen. Eine vergleichende Analyse biografischer und literarischer Konstruktionen älterer Frauen [Style and typifications in female lifestyles. A comparative analysis of biographical and literary constructions of older women],Weinheim: Deutscher Studienverlag. Bruner, J.S. (2000) Acts of meaning, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bude, H. (1996) ‘Lebenskonstruktionen als Gegenstand der Biografieforschung’ [‘Constructions of life as a subject of biographical research’], in G. Jüttemann and H.Thomae (eds) Biografische Methoden in den Humanwissenschaften [Biographical methods in the human sciences], Weinheim: Psychologie Verlags Union, pp 247-58. Chamberlayne, P., Bornat, J. and Wengraf, T. (eds) (2000) The turn to biographical methods in social science: Comparative issues and examples, London, New York: Routledge.

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Dausien, B. (1996) Biografie und Geschlecht. Zur biografischen Konstruktion sozialer Wirklichkeit [Biography and gender. To biographical construction of social reality in women´s life stories], Bremen: Donat. Denzin, N.K. (1989) Interpretive biography, Newbury Park, CA, London and New Delhi: Sage. Filipp, S.-H. (ed) (1990) Kritische Lebensereignisse [Critical life events], München, Weinheim: Psychologie Verlags Union. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. (1995) ‘The problem with identity: biography as solution to some (post)modernist dilemmas’, Comenius, vol 15, no 3, pp 250-65. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. (2000a) ‘Address lost – how to fix lives. Biographical structuring in European modern age’, in R. Breckner, D. Kalekin-Fishman and I. Miethe (eds) Biographies and the division of Europe, Opladen: Leske & Budrich, pp 55-75. Fischer-Rosenthal, W. (2000b) ‘Biographical work and biographical structuring in present-day societies’, in J. Bornat, P. Chamberlayne and T. Wengraf (eds) The turn to biographical methods in social science, London: Routledge, pp 109-25. Giddens, A. (1991) Modernity and self-identity. Self and society in the late modern age, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Holstein, J.A. and Gubrium, J.F. (2000) The self we live by: Narrative identity in a postmodern world, NewYork and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Huber, S. (2002) ‘Früher Elternverlust. Bewältigung und Auswirkungen auf partnerschaftliche Beziehungen’ [‘Early parental loss. Coping and impact on partnership relations’], Thesis, Universität Innsbruck. Inglehart, M.R. (1991) Reactions to critical life events:A social psychological analysis, New York: Praeger Publishers. Jost, G. (2008) ‘Flexibilisierung von Identitäten? Biografien unter globalisierten Verhältnissen’ [‘Flexibility of identities? Biographies under globalized conditions’], Die Maske (Zeitschrift für Kultur- und Sozialanthropologie), no 2, pp 16-18. Keupp, H., Ahbe, T., Gmür, W., Höfer, R., Mitzscherlich, B., Kraus, W. and Straus, F. (1999) Identitätskonstruktionen. Das Patchwork der Identitäten in der Spätmoderne [Identity constructions. The patchwork of identities in late modernity], Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt. Küsters, I. (2006) Narrative interviews: Basics and applications,Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. Linde, C. (1993) The creation of coherence, NewYork and Oxford. Oxford University Press.

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Lucius-Hoene, G. (2002) ‘Narrative Bewältigung von Krankheit und Coping-Forschung’ [‘Narrative coping with illness and coping research’], Psychotherapie und Sozialwissenschaft [Psychotherapy und Social Sciences], vol 4, no 3, pp 166-203. McAdams, D.P. (1993) The stories we live by: Personal myths and the making of self, New York: Morrow. Roberts, B. (2002) Biographical research, Buckingham: Open University Press. Rosenthal, G. (1995) Erlebte und erzählte Lebensgeschichte. Gestalt und Struktur biografischer Selbstbeschreibungen [Experienced and narrated life story: Shape and structure of biographical self-descriptions], Frankfurt am Main: Campus. Rosenthal, G. (2002) ‘Biographisch-narrative Gesprächsführung: Zu den Bedingungen heilsamen Erzählens im Forschungs- und Beratungskontext’ [‘Biographical-narrative interviewing: about the conditions of healing storytelling in research and consulting context’], Psychotherapie und Sozialwissenschaft [Psychotherapy und Social Sciences], vol 4, no 3, pp 204-27. Schütze, F. (1983) ‘Biografieforschung und narratives Interview’ [‘Biographical research and narrative interview’], Neue Praxis, vol 13, no 3, pp 283-93. Sennett, R. (1998) The corrosion of character, New York: W.W. Norton. Strauss, A.L. (1997) Mirrors and masks:The search for identity (2nd revised edn), Piscataway, NJ: Transaction Publishers (originally published in 1959).

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Decisive turning points in life trajectories of violence among young men in the barrios of Caracas: the initiation and biographical reconversion to non-violent lifestyles Verónica Zubillaga

Introduction This chapter discusses the usefulness of the concept of ‘turning points’ in the effort to understand, first, the biographical narratives of young men who initiated and sustained a trajectory of violence, and second, the narratives of biographical reconversion related by young men who developed a trajectory of violence, and who managed to redefine and transform their lifestyles as well as their identities and life projects. In the first part of this chapter I discuss, departing from the narratives of the youths I have interviewed, that the initiation in violent life trajectories can be described as a clamour for respect that emerged vis-à-vis repeatedly unbearable humiliations coming from armed gang members in their neighbourhood, where neither public security nor protection are guaranteed.These cumulative humiliations, and especially the finding of a firearm, are the fundamental processes to produce a decisive turning point in their trajectories that expresses itself in new definitions of the self, a substantial modification of the routines of daily life linked to the use of firearms, and new relationships with their neighbours and other youngsters from the neighbourhood, particularly comrades in their gang and other youth perceived as enemies. Referring to this transformation, the youths speak about the “entry into another world”, or describe it in terms of having a “healthy mind” to having a “sick mind”.

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In the second part of this chapter, based on subsequent research developed in Caracas among another group of young adults, I focus on the biographical reconversion of the life trajectories of young men who previously led violent lives but who managed to forge new, nonviolent lifestyles. Again, the concept of ‘turning point’ was a salient analytical tool in the interpretation of these life stories. I identify the decisive importance of a critical incident in the biographical reconversion of these young men that can be described as the awareness of the destruction of the self. First, I present the context where these youths have grown and lived, briefly exposing how the methodological itinerary developed in the research on which this chapter is based.

The most obvious violence: the increase of violent deaths The violence that concerns us, which begins to become evident starting from the 1990s in cities such as Cali, Medellín, Río de Janeiro and especially, Caracas, is surprising for many people because of its excess (Zaluar, 1997). It is a violence that is inserted in a network of relationships tinted by lack of restraint and privatisation of revenge. It involves a violence linked to expanding criminal organisations, a violence intimately linked to the abuse of force by police agents and that of young men who live in barrios1 involved in daily confrontations with their peers and with the police. Such violence is a social, urban, armed and infrapolitical violence, as Wieviorka (2004) points out to emphasise the economic and instrumental dimension of this new violence, whose political nature is frankly diluted before the tendency of organised actors to control the resources or clandestine economic activities (Wieviorka, 2004, p 58).A violence before which governments are powerless and weakened, and that invites us, when looking at its forms and meanings, as well as its actors, to try to understand that, beyond its instrumental orientation, there lies an impossible and denied subjectivity (Wieviorka, 2004). Hence, this violence must be seen as anchored in the heart of a historical mutation process or global transformations intersected with traditional structural tensions and novel transformations at local levels that the Latin American countries, and in particular Venezuela, have experienced in the last 30 years (see Briceño-León and Zubillaga, 2002). The former (at a global level) are linked to the hegemony of a free market economy, the weakening of national states, the imposition of consumption as a form of social participation and the expansion of 144

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illegal traffic in products such as the economy of drugs and firearms. The latter (at a local level) are related to the increasingly precarious nature of the state in Latin America, the devaluation of historically lacerated social rights among the most vulnerable populations (housing, education, employment, health, personal security) and the economic regression of the 1980s. Starting in the 1990s, novel transformations became evident in some countries of the region: the decay of the justice system institutions and security forces of the state, the penetration of drug trafficking and of organised crime and the expansion in the use of firearms (see also Dowdney, 2005).These last tendencies have become evident in our country as of the 1990s, and increase with the onset of the new century, in the middle of the configuration of a new scenario of intense political conflict. One of the most outstanding indicators of the rise of this violence in Venezuela is the remarkable and sustained increase in violent deaths recorded by official agencies.Thus, the homicide rate in the country rose from 13 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants in 1990 to 52 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants in 2007 (PROVEA, 2009). In Caracas, traditionally, homicide rates have been two or three times greater: in 1990 while the national rate was 13 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants, in this city it rose to 44. Also, homicide rates tripled in the 1990s, rising from 44 (1990) to 127 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants (2008). Therefore, considering only homicide, in 2009, 13,985 individuals died in lethal confrontations in Venezuela, equalling deaths in regions where armed conflicts take place (PROVEA, 2010). Those who die are precisely the young men from the barrios. Thus, the Encuesta Nacional deVictimización (2009) showed that 81 per cent of the homocide victims were men, and the vast majority inhabited poor neighbourhoods (83 per cent).2 Homicide has become the first cause of death in the country for men between the ages of 15 and 34 (Ministerio para el Poder Popular de la Salud, 2008).

The research concern and its methodological itinerary The concern that has guided the two research projects on which this chapter is based is focused on the exploration of the construction of male identity in young men with life trajectories of violence. I refer to youths who are involved in armed confrontations with peers due to personal conflicts as a routine practice and who also participate in illegal trafficking networks and/or organised crime.When speaking of life trajectories of violence I refer to a lifestyle that is related to doing and 145

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being in a specific period of their biographies. In this regard, I do not speak of violent youngsters; I want to emphasise the possibility of transformation of lifestyles from violent to non-violent ones. In the first research project, my aim was to understand the extreme quality of violence in which youths are involved, that is, the ever-present risk of imposing or receiving death. My attention was focused on the meaning of violent action suffered and displayed by these young men and not specifically on crimes. I explored the meaning of violent action in the construction of the personal and social identity of young men. Here, I sought to reveal the meaning of their actions, in the context of their conditions of existence and of the network of social relationships in which they were involved. Then, in a second research project, after several years of confronting the increase of violent deaths among young men, and vis-à-vis the absence of significant (public) actions to reverse this situation, I wanted to capture alternative horizons to the lives of violence that ‘swallow’ the youth. I wanted to focus on the experience of biographical reconversion of young men who had been involved in violence in the recent past but who had succeeded in forging new, non-violent lifestyles. My attention was placed on the different social conditions, personal options and life projects that the youths adopted in their subjective work of resistance to the voracious dynamics of violence. This chapter is based on a series of life stories (Bertaux, 1997) collected between 2000 and 2006 with a range of young people: with nine 17to 27-year-olds in the Caracas barrios and with ten 22- to 30-yearolds who had extricated themselves from violent lives. All the youth I interviewed were living in their neighbourhoods (this means they were not in prison). I contacted them through different ‘intermediaries’ (a priest, a teacher from a barrio school, a protestant pastor, some friends, university students).These intermediaries were very important, on the one hand, to guarantee the youths that I was not from the police or that my presence was not going to put them at risk of being caught; and on the other hand, they were very important to me, again, to warrant my safety during fieldwork.3

Identity in adversity: life trajectories of violence The concepts of identity, trajectory and turning points were central in my interpretative task, so I return to these notions addressed by key figures of the Chicago School of Sociology (Becker, 1963; Goffman, 1968; Strauss, 1997), and rethink them in light of the life conditions where these young men lived, as well as more recent theories focused on identity (Dubar, 1991; Bajoit, 1997). Underlying my discussion is 146

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the problematic relationship between masculine identities, power and crime (Connell, 1987; Messerschmidt, 1993; Barker, 2005). In the life trajectories of violence and in the subsequent biographical reconversion of young men I propose to read a permanent, subjective and social process of identity work in which ‘fateful appraisals made of one self – by oneself and others’ (Strauss, 1997, p 11) are key issues at stake. I also highlight the temporal dimension of these trajectories that can be expressed in crucial phases.Also, in the initiation and subsequent biographical reconversion of young men, I discuss the ‘critical incidents’ that produce definitive changes in their identities, interactions and routines of everyday life. In the youth narratives they define themselves primarily as men for whom respect, a value inextricably linked to their masculine identity, is a crucial element (see also Ramírez, 1993; Bourgois, 1995). Respect represents a basic element both in the relations with ‘friends and enemies’ and on the personal level, since it orients their actions, it permits them to build a sense of self-esteem and it gives meaning to their very life. In light of this central meaning, the life trajectory of violence of these youths can be seen as one devoted to gaining respect in the barrio. It is a trajectory closely related to the events, lack of opportunities, decisions and above all, limitations associated with growing up as a man in an environment such as a barrio in a Latin American city.

Life trajectories of violence: gaining respect in the barrio Understanding life trajectories as a temporal process developed through stages which people pass when undergoing a fundamental transformation of identity (Strauss, 1997, p 124) that traduces itself in the routines of daily life can be described as a moral career for respect.4 The notion of moral career proposed by E. Goffman in his classic Asylums shares Strauss’s (1997) as well as Becker’s (1963) concerns with understanding the temporal process of identity work and change from a double perspective: comprehending intimate meanings, self-image and self-identity as well as the individual’s situation in the framework of social relations. ‘The concept of career then authorizes a back and forth movement between the personal and the public, between the self and the social milieu’ (Goffman, 1968, p 179). As is well known, this back-and-forth movement between the self and the social milieu, as well as the notion of modification from one position to another, are included in the notion of career, from which Becker (1963) builds his 147

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classic sequential model of deviation. In the light of this research I am interested in incorporating an element introduced by Becker (1963, p 30): the relation to and the change in the conception of an object, of its uses and possible pleasures on the part of a person, in the framework of social interactions. In Becker’s case it is marijuana and a consumption career; in our case, it is a firearm in the career of establishing oneself as a man of respect in the barrio. Also, emphasising this back-and-forth movement between the self and the social milieu in the framework of the youths’ biographies allows us to establish a link with more recent theories, which are identitybased – precisely those theories that see personal and social identity as a process of permanent construction of the self in relation to others (Dubar, 1991; Dubet, 1994; Bajoit, 1997). The theoretical proposal of moral career of a man of respect seemed to be a pertinent starting point to comprehend and establish an analytic link among the youths’ trajectories of violence and the critical incidents in their initiation,5 for three reasons. The first is the fact that the youths mentioned their intimately experienced process of transformation as well as the turning points that have marked such transformations.The second reason is that respect, the ideal value that orients these youths’ actions, is an individual achievement and must evolve progressively through public demonstrations. Finally, the third reason is that gaining respect entails a series of actions on the part of the youths that imply both the successive (and permanent) modification of self-image and a (continued) change in their lifestyle and social relationships with others. I have distinguished five basic stages in this moral career: (1) awakening of the conscience of a masculinity of due respect; (2) need to make oneself respected; (3) demonstrating temerity, finding a firearm and gaining respect; (4) construction of a material basis of respect; and (5) consolidation of respect in the barrio. I must add that in each of these stages, more than determining factors, I find a blend of contingencies, which produce modifications in the youths’ careers.

Awakening of the conscience of a masculinity of due respect This stage is characterised by the acquisition of awareness of one’s own masculinity, that is, learning from relatives that one shall not be subdued by other males. Since childhood, the youths began to understand that they embody masculinity, a source of self-esteem that they must make respected. Boys learn to defend themselves and to face the street in which “there is no father or mother to protect them”, as they said. Another experience that marks these biographies is early contact with 148

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firearms (between eight and thirteen years of age); firearms have a powerful attraction and become part of their daily life since other male relatives have them and the youths are able to touch them, ‘play’ with them, as is evident in their narratives.

Need to make oneself respected Given the state of neglect of public urban security in which they live, the need to make oneself respected is intimately related to the time when the youths begin to concern themselves with their personal appearance, the latter being linked to consumption and display of fashionable or designer brands. At this stage, boys are harassed by older, armed peers. This is a crucial milestone in this trajectory. The particular trait of what I have named harassment, to distinguish it from the dynamics of challenges and responses, is power asymmetry. In these dynamics, I am referring to young children or youths – with the additional pressure to not let themselves be subdued – suffering systematic harassment from their armed and generally older peers who steal from them and humiliate them.Thus, a common element in the different narrations is the itinerary of repeated aggression by armed peers.When humiliation reaches a certain limit, and faced with the obligation to respond, the youths decide to act, to invert their sustained position of disadvantage, to stop being victims.6 They look for firearms and decide to respond.

Demonstrating temerity, finding a firearm and gaining respect The definitions the youths give of ‘making oneself respected’ coincide and relate to avoiding humiliation and aggression by others, which implies deterring instances of disrespect. Gaining respect is associated with taking revenge publicly. Establishing an identity of devastating responses is linked not only to achieving an acknowledged masculine identity, but also to the need to guarantee personal safety (see also Sanchez-Jankowsky, 1991; Bourgois, 1995). And in a context marked by the generalised use of firearms, to make oneself respected, a firearm has to be obtained and used without ceremony. Obtaining the firearm is again a critical incident, a decisive turning point in their biographies, since it opens up the new lifestyle: the firearm allows them to face everyday confrontations which give evidence of their respect-based reputation. Firearms become an important element in the group’s social life.Young boys learn to use them in groups, and “going shooting” is a routine pastime, which solidifies friendship and confidence among peers. 149

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In this stage and from this moment the youth begin to promote their public image, in their own words as muchachos alumbrados (illuminated guys), as a temerarious elite.They begin to subdue others, to build their own reputation, which they refer to as having fame (tener fama). Boys progressively learn to perceive themselves as both prey and predator, for whom there is no possible ceasefire or compassion, and they start a regular demonstration of temerity. This is the period during which deadly confrontations typified as la culebra7 become routine. It is the time during which the youths report experiencing changes in their self-image and in their lifestyles, as they said, of “entering another world”, of “sickening your mind”.

Construction of a material basis of respect Parallel to the need to defend themselves and to pick fights to project the image of men who make themselves respected, during adolescence the youths become concerned with constructing an image equipped with consumer signs. In some cases, if they are the main male figure at home, they have the additional and fundamental concern of becoming economic providers for their mothers or spouses/partners. Entry into illegal economic activities and networks is the material substratum that allows them to generate resources to sustain their lifestyles of conspicuous consumption. This ‘entry’ deals with a blend of contingencies. The loss of faith in education is an important milestone in this career. It is at this time when the youths lose interest in education and become aware of the miserable salaries of the jobs available to males in their condition.Thus, be it due to increasing non-attendance and consequent academic failure, to continued conflict and violence outside or inside the school, or, in the case of the poorest families, to having to drop out in order to work, youths definitively interrupt their education in their teen years. Distrust of formal jobs is another landmark in this trajectory. Before getting involved in illegal activities, most youths had a legal work life or worked in the informal economy. Regarding the work experience, the youth emphasised their resistance to accepting the very low salaries to which they had access, the exploitation they suffered, the incapacity to tolerate the orders of their superiors and the lack of opportunities (see also Bourgois, 1995). The available jobs do not allow them to become independent men, nor to provide for their families and even less to afford their consumption ambitions.

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Thus, one common experience in these youths’ testimonies, as opposed to the hardships they report in their work experiences, is the permeability of the drug economy and of the networks involved in organised crime (a shared experience with youths in cities such as Rio de Janeiro and Bogotá; see Zaluar, 1997; Salazar, 1998). Faced with the state’s absence, lack of opportunities and urban segregation, this is one of the few and ample networks that allow their inclusion (see also Collison, 1996).The networks of illegal economies are widespread among relatives and friends, and the youths easily begin to demand their affiliation or are even invited to join.This permeability represents another milestone in this trajectory. Obtaining resources through illegal economies allows them to have economic independence to construct and consolidate the image of respect (from here on equipped with the signs that characterise social existence) and to provide for their families if they are the main providers. The reputation of respect obtained in confrontations facilitates making contacts that allow them access to these economies. Possession of a firearm marks the flexibility of going from defense to production of economic resources. Entry to these networks implies learning: the youths mentioned their preparation in stages, guided by older peers. A substantial modification in their lives is produced by incorporating new habits: having good reflexes, managing emotions, covering each other from enemy fire, as well as becoming histrionic and faking skills to deal with the police force. The youths conceptualise their trajectory as an accumulation of experiences that allow them not only to acquire techniques and know-how but also to disseminate a reputation that lets them expand their opportunities. Respect thus becomes a sort of credibility capital that ensures important earnings and greater responsibilities.

Consolidation of respect in the barrio Respect as a form of recognition is always dependent on the look of others, and must be constantly validated. ‘Making oneself respected’ is a permanent dramaturgic task, a moral career under constant construction. At the same time, respect is an identity-linked value that is made public and accumulates. And it accumulates among those who give it credit, that is, among acquaintances or spectators who are aware of such an itinerary or to whom rumours of this reputation reach. Thus, after a trajectory of evidencing skills in armed combat, after a personal performance that shows the capacity to ‘command’ and to act, the youths brag about their gained respect. They report being more selective and discreet in their aggressions. 151

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The younger ones, who reported having succeeded in making themselves respected and who (at the time of the interview) were still involved in armed confrontations, state that public fights to promote one’s reputation (to have fame) are a thing of the past. In contrast, they talked about their present actions as violent actions displayed with greater selectivity and discretion (to be serious). I can then infer that after completing the initial cycle of gaining respect and after having established a reputation, the youths change their public actions so as to manage the tension between temerarious action before their enemies and discretion at home and in their barrio. The older ones narrated that permanent confrontations were outmoded. This tranquility, it must be stressed, is of a fragile nature. A man of respect must always be willing to use violence for several reasons. The first reason is linked to the nature and logic of the confrontation involved in la culebra. Since the latter is permanent, even years later, the youths must remain cautious. A second reason relates to the state of abandonment prevailing in the barrios. Defence is a personal matter, so young men assume family and community defence.Their capacity for violent action constitutes the most evident resource in the exchange of services. Defence in their neighbourhoods becomes necessary to face the respect cycles of the younger boys (boys looking for fame) or to face incursions of youth from neighbouring sectors. Finally, a third reason concerns young adults who remain active in illegal businesses.The fact of remaining in the illegal networks keeps deadly confrontations from ending. While confrontations may be less frequent, they will always have to be prepared to respond. It is also the older ones who mentioned seriousness in business.Thus, amidst the distrust prevailing among the boys and with the expansion of the reputation of respect linked to this business ethics code, the social capital of the youths increases.There is an increase in opportunities and in the information capacity about ‘good jobs’, so the boys limit their violent action.These older boys may have children, which is why they leave the riskiest activities to the younger ones and are more selective about the ‘jobs’ and the risks they run. Finally, a man of respect is a well-known figure in the barrio. He is an inevitable reference model about a possible destiny (Pedrazzini and Sánchez, 1991). He is a model of social success (even with death being a possible outcome) in what concerns consumer indicators and ability to provide help and gifts to those he happens to like, although we cannot forget the ever-present tension in the barrio between these young men and their neighbours. Ostentation and consumerism, with their capacity to attract women and male peers and to allow for being a main family 152

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provider, make the youths respected people, that is, people who are wanted, sought after and recognised for their influence.The older boys stated that the younger ones sought them out (despite their mothers’ resistance). These youths narrate how they represent an opportunity for the growing younger boys. The older boys are then seen as loan and opportunity providers, thus ensuring fidelities and young boys subject to the favours owed. They also narrated very explicitly how now that it is their turn, they socialise and train the younger boys in their businesses.

Biographies of reconversion to non-violent lifestyles To regard the life trajectories of violence of these youths as a permanent process of identity building, a continuous and never-ending process of gaining respect, in other words, a work of management of the self, understood as process of permanent socialisation through the life course, in intimate relation with the conditions of the environment and the context of social interactions, also allows us to view it as a possibility of change (Dubar, 1991). It permits viewing perspectives of conversion of social interactions marked by negation and death, to interactions marked by the reciprocal recognition and perspectives of future. In this part of the chapter I focus on the biographical reconversion of male youth of violent trajectories defined as the experience of redefinition of personal and social identity and of substantial modification of the routines of daily life. I now speak of reconversion, because I understand that it involves a second process of transformation of the identity and lifestyle that youths live. It involves an accumulation of experiences that mark again a decisive turning point, a fundamental experience of rupture in the biography of the subject (Berger and Luckmann, 1979, p 200; Dubar, 1991, p 117), this time, between a before marked by evaluations of the self based on virility and fearlessness as well as on the implication in routines of armed confrontations, and an after given by the definition of oneself recognised by one’s commitment with alternative life projects with projection into the future. Let us emphasise that this experience of reconversion must be seen as a process of resistance, since, as I have discussed previously, sufficient incentives to abandon violent lifestyles do not exist.To the contrary, violence becomes a necessary tool in a world perceived as one of a struggle of all against all and illegal trafficking as the only thing capable of absorbing them. Thus, if in the first part of this chapter we focused our attention on the contingent progressive stages of a trajectory of violence, with the forging of a respected identity where one has a continuous stake 153

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in a context of very harsh conditions, in this part we focus on the subjective and social processes as well as the crucial incidents that have been salient in the biographical reconversion. The string keeping our discussion together is in regard to seeing personal and social identity as a process of a permanent and ongoing construction of the self in relation to others. Departing from the youth discourses, I have identified a subjective process that may be analysed at two levels: (1) the subjective plane with the self; and (2) the subjective plane with others or of social relationships. Both planes are intimately linked and I distinguish them for the purposes of the analysis. Let us detail these processes.

The subjective plane with the self The subjective plane with the self includes the subjective processes that are narrated as intimately experienced by the self of the youths. Here I identify different experiences that are involved in the history of reconversion experienced and narrated by the youths; they mark the different milestones in their biography. Protective elements In the young men’s narratives, before the reconversion process I identified the existence of protective elements that allow limiting the implications of activities linked to violent lifestyles.They constitute the ‘personal passions’, the crafts or the skills learned that may potentially allow the personal inclinations for the construction of a valued identity, different from that of the armed young man.They are another ‘world’ of activities and interests; they represent the resources and opportunities in which youths could be incorporated during difficult times or in the process of abandonment of the life of violence. Here, we find the passion for music and the crafts learned in the past. From the perspective of public policies, it is the guarantee of basic rights of childhood and youth, such as education (of good quality), as a form of active social control vis-à-vis criminality (Buaiz, 2000, p 324). This research confirms the definitive effectiveness of this strategy not only as a preventive measure, but also as a means to establish a bridge with youths involved in violent lifestyles. In this direction, becoming familiar with alternative models of masculinity (from that of the man of violent lifestyle) is another powerful element to show males alternative manners of being recognised and esteemed men (Barker, 2005). Some young men talked 154

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about the definitive impact that, for example, meeting with evangelical pastors meant for them. Awareness of the destruction of the self One experience related by the young men that I have distinguished as decisive in the process of biographical reconversion is given by lived situations that confront the youths with the possibility of the destruction of the self. One of the most significant experiences of this genre is the confrontation of the death of other friends and relatives.This experience is a fundamental turning point, and it represents the critical incident favouring the reconversion because it confronts the youth with the fact that “I could be in my friend’s place” because he shares the routines, has the same enemies. It implies for these young men the awareness of the high cost of continuing along this route, the capacity to question themselves, to think about these losses (Barker, 2005, p 146) and to draw a balance of the future prospects of the self. So at this point, the youths say that they have experienced a sort of existential crossroads.This is, as I said before, a decisive moment, a critical knot in the career because, the youths say, they become aware that they have two options with definitive consequences for their identity: the possibility of redemption or the possibility of perdition. It implies the progressive incorporation of a new fear of dying, the awakening of the awareness of the fragility of life. The existential crossroads may be the result of a reflexive personal process, or it may be also the fruit of a configuration of events in which they are implicated, such as, for example, the fact of being detained by the police.The youths know well that their life can be ephemeral, but here, it means to get to a moment when they find enough good reasons to stop and think of the possibility of choosing an alternative path.These good reasons are materialised into new life projects, which is the next aspect to be considered. Let me say to end this point that from here onwards any prevention process or juvenile reinsertion programme favouring the reflexive capacity of the youths concerning their own experience is essential. This reflexive capacity implies the possibility of seeing the self as a project, and in this sense, being able to intervene in one’s own history. It thus involves revealing for the young man the capacity to become a subject of his life, identifying necessary allies.

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Emerging projects with an existential sense Emerging projects with an existential sense allow the goal to enable and incorporate the redefinition of the meaning of respect or self-esteem; it involves, as one youth said, a “life goal”. The existential project is intimately linked to the respected identity sought for, that is, the sense of personal accomplishment and social recognition to which one aspires (Bajoit, 2003). For some young men, this goal has been expressed in their dedication to music. For other youths the life goal is related to targets of the mainstream culture in Venezuela, that is, having children, adequately maintaining one’s mother, being a provider for the family; different studies point out the importance given in Venezuela to the figure of the mother and the family group experienced as a support network and source for the construction of identity (Moreno, 1995; Smilde, 2005). And along this line, several of the youths coincide in defining work as a means to attain this respected identity. But, of course, the lack of opportunities for worthy jobs with a perspective of upward mobility is a recurring complaint of male youths with whom I have talked throughout these years, and of other youths of violent life in Latin America (Cruz and Portillo, 1998). Evidently, the idea they have does not involve self-generated jobs of low productivity and of deficient conditions that only grant images of oneself as humiliated and in subordination, which in fact the youths vehemently reject. It is about those jobs that allow creating a recognised identity, those that allow investing their own creativity; it involves activities with meaning for the self that even imply opportunities for recognition (Llorens, 2005, p 181). Creating a project with existential meaning that allows generating economic resources to assure its sustainability is one of the main traditional ways to counteract several of the events that mark the initiation of youths into a life of violence. And obviously, this is one of the greatest challenges in contexts where job trends have historically been towards reduction and more precarious conditions, in the midst of a massive process of social exclusion. The capacity to distance oneself from one’s own past history and the sustainability over time of the existential project as well as the new lifestyle depends on different allies on whom the youths can rely. In their stories, the young men expressed, together with the narration of the awareness of personal transformation, the recognition of the importance of their social bonds and the identification of some allies.

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The subjective plane with others or of social relationships The subjective plane with others or of social relationships covers subjective processes in which the youth explain the key figures in identity modification and in existential projects materialisation. Likewise, it involves recognition of the importance assumed by the network of alternative social relationships (vis-à-vis those of the life trajectory of violence) in the definition and confirmation of self-identity and the routines of daily life. In this plane of relationships, we can identify family allies and social allies. Family allies Family allies are generally the mother, and the female partner or girlfriend. The mother, for many males implicated in violent lifestyles, represents the primary attachment, a central referent in their lives, and this is a repeated finding in ethnographic research carried out in Venezuela, Colombia and Brazil (Salazar, 1998; de Assis, 1999; Márquez, 1999). A powerful reason to abandon the life of violence was to avoid suffering for their mothers, as several youths explained. Moreover, they are a source of refuge: they contact family networks in other localities for their sons to be able to get away when they are chased by their enemies (and can be saved from a certain death). And they are a strong emotional support and companionship in the processes of redefinition of the young men’s routines. The female partner, like the new existential projects, in phenomenological terms, opens up other worlds, other possibilities of personal achievement (although life in a couple has its important tensions for them: the habit of living with one another, of being monogamous, of renouncing the all-consuming circle of friends).Thus, while groups of women can be a good reason for becoming attached to a masculinity identified with domination and with a style of ostentatious consumerism typical of youths involved in illegal trafficking, they may also be key factors to originate and reinforce the change, as Barker affirms when he speaks of youth in Rio de Janeiro (Barker, 2005, p 150). In the case of some young men it was their partner who initiated them into the evangelical church, got them an alternative job, and who also confronted and pressured them to extricate themselves (progressively) from the routines associated with a violent life. In general, the family of these boys, especially where large families are concerned, constitutes an important way out because families represent, in fact, networks of aid, a source of assistance to confront the problems 157

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of life, especially where public solidarity or state institutions do not prevail (Adler-Lomnitz, 1975; Smilde, 2005, p 23). Now then, the permanence of new lifestyles depends on the presence of another type of ally. Social allies Social allies are the people external to the family as well as the institutions that open new horizons of meanings; they emerge with opportunities and aids (resources) for change and guarantee its plausibility over time. Social allies are intimately linked to the existential project and, taking into account the situation of difficulty in which the youths find themselves, this (the existential project) initially depends on social allies for its materialisation. Precisely, this link of social allies with the existential project, the real aid that they are able to provide and their affective commitment with the youths, as we will see below, are the fundamentals that make possible the reconversion process or biographical rupture (following Berger and Luckmann, 1979, pp 197-202). In the experience of the boys interviewed, personal and institutional social allies are noted. Personal social allies are represented by the music producers who encouraged the labour and musical projects of the young men. The efficacy of the social ally in the reconversion process depends on his capacity to offer possibilities to materialise life projects but also a strong affective connection with the youths; they are the fundamental companions or guides of the biographic reconversion. In this sense, the ally also represents an affective figure with whom the young men chat and discuss, with whom a reflexive dialogue can be maintained (Llorens, 2005, p 178). The importance of the reflexive dialogue is that it makes possible distancing one from oneself and questioning the attributes of identity of masculinity associated with power, virility and fearlessness that have been culturally incorporated and automatically accepted (Barker, 2005, p 148). Social allies are also seen as interlocutors in a permanent dialogue that confirms (verbalises, exteriorises) and commits the youth to his new identity; they contribute to ‘extricating’ the youth from the world of violence. And no less important, they constitute for youths alternative models of conflict resolution (through dialogue, forgiveness or the capacity to verbalise conflicts) as well as esteemed identities in which they may project their aspirations of personal achievement and social recognition (also see Dowdney, 2005).

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But the biographical reconversion depends fundamentally on the material and concrete opportunities and resources facilitated by social allies, essential to carry out the existential project. With respect to continuity, the institutional social allies, such as the evangelical churches, are the most integral route of identity modification because they, in fact, include activities, metaphors and narratives of massive transformation of the identity and the routines of life, as well as the networks of aid and resources to achieve it. In this sense, the religious communities have offered to youths programmes of total transformation of selfdefinitions and daily routines, a social base on which to carry them out, new existential projects and aids to materialise them, and finally, guides clearly committed to the process of transformation (Berger and Luckmann, 1979). The particularity of the institutional ally is given by the existence of programmes of conversion. I speak of programmes because a plan in stages or planned activities is foreseen to grant a new assemblage of knowledge to youth and systematic reflexive spaces to question and diminish the previous identity, relationships and lifestyle. Stories and metaphors of transformation are given to young men with which they can identify and feel members of a community, of an us with whom past experiences and common goals are shared. And it is after experiencing the existential crossroads – the result of an internal reflexive process or events that catch the person – that the passing through a religious community takes on its meaning as a new horizon to reconstruct one’s identity and the routines of life. Therefore, the experience of events or acts of great mysticism, during which youths renounce the previous life, emerge. The religious community ‘colonises’ the routines of the youths with new activities (seminars, prayer groups). The youths experience a companionship in the different spheres of their daily life that also implies an informal control of their actions through an intense social contact.Thus, these communities, although they monopolise the daily reality of the youths, do not constitute total institutions of degradation of the person, as Goffman described in Asylums (1968). It is the experience of opening up possible worlds through a systematic dialogue and the social bases to achieve it. In this sense, the youths are inserted in these new networks voluntarily and thereafter are provided with new aids that permit sustaining over time the new identity and associated routines: opportunities for studies, jobs or assisting the pastors of the church. This platform of aid is shown to be very beneficial for youths who do not have family networks (Smilde, 2005). And of course, the

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efficacy of the conversion programmes of the religious community is also related to the affective identification that youth establish with the guides. Two clarifications should be added at this point. First, by highlighting the action of the evangelical churches I am not saying that to confront youth violence it is necessary to specially support these groups or other religious communities. As is known, some religious communities have shown intolerance to difference, sexism, arbitrariness or dogmatism (Smilde, 2007). But as I said before, in light of the scarce opportunities and social networks for these young men, during our fieldwork, I found evangelical churches to be the most extended networks where youths from a violent life could seek refuge to practise a substantive modification of their rhythms of life. So, indeed we have some key clues to learn from the reconversion processes that take place in the body of these communities to translate them into secular programmes that aim not only to extricate youths from the cycle of violence but also seek to forge autonomous subjects capable of building a sense of respect based on intersubjective recognition. Second, by speaking of processes of reconversion I am not alluding to the normalisation of young people as if here we were only dealing with deviants on the one hand, and on the other hand, as if there were only one way to be normal for youth.All these youths are responding to the extreme harsh conditions of their lives (Wacquant, 1992, p 47). But at the same time that I want to highlight the severe social discriminations these youths are suffering, I also want to stress the necessity of establishing life (its preservation), social recognition of everyone’s own vulnerability and the necessity of intersubjective respect as core principles to open up alternatives for these youths. Finally, a fundamental narrative the young men tell as testimony of their reconversion is that of the awareness of a change of image of oneself before one’s own eyes and others’ eyes. The youths said: “Before I was” … “I was changing” … “I was learning”.The redefinition of the meaning of respect is notable: “Now it’s different, they respect us because they know that we have changed, and we now want improvements; they respect us for what we do, for what you are doing and not because you have a gun and you’re going to threaten them or you’re going to kill them there”, said one youth with respect to his neighbours. This subjective reconversion process of personal and social identity is translated into a change of routines that consolidates and exteriorises for the social world the redefinition of identity. In turn, the modification of relationships with relatives, friends and acquaintances contributes to confirming the new identity of the youths. Also, a modification of the appreciation of the sense of time becomes evident. The young men speak 160

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of a lost time connected with their activities in the past and they express the emerging of a perspective of the future related to the new projects. In phenomenological terms, it implies the opening of possible worlds and times that make it possible to conceive the self as different and in the long term.

Conclusion In their life trajectory of violence the young men interviewed have reported experiencing a transformation of their self-definition, as well as that of their public persona. In this sense, this trajectory implies the construction of a narration of the subjective transformation of a sense of respect experienced permanently in their short lives. Thus, in this cycle of modifications I have discussed how the youths have defined themselves as males subject to harassment on the part of older peers in an asymmetrical situation. This experience of unbearable humiliation and abandonment and the later obtaining of a firearm constitute a decisive turning point in the initiation of a life trajectory of violence. Later on, on the basis of their actions and options, they have presented themselves as consumers of goods, temerarious elites, defenders of their communities and providers for their families. They have also defined themselves on the basis of the attributes others perceive in them, such as scoundrels, vigilantes; in addition, they have defined themselves by their belongings: as members of a community, as sons of their mothers, as members of a gang and, above all, as men demanding respect. In the second part of this chapter I emphasised several factors that come together and accumulate to configure an experience of rupture vis-à-vis their life trajectory of violence. A turning point of decisive importance in the biographical reconversion of these young men can be described as the awareness of the destruction of the self. I have highlighted that at this point the young men relate that they have experienced a sort of existential crossroads. This is a fundamental moment, a ‘critical incident’ in their career because, the youths say, that they become aware that they have two options with definitive consequences for the identity: the possibility of redemption or of perdition. It implies the progressive incorporation of a new fear of dying, an awakening of the awareness about the fragility of life.This existential crossroads may be the result of a reflexive personal process, or it may also be the fruit of a configuration of events in which they are implicated, such as, for example, the fact of being detained by the police. Finally, tensions and threatening conditions are noticeable in abandoning the life trajectory of violence and consolidating an 161

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alternative identity. In the males’ narratives, the following were identified: • The situation of defencelessness in the barrio linked to urban segregation and exclusion from public security. Some youths say that they cannot give guns up entirely because they need them for personal and family defence where they live. • The persistence of death conflicts known as la culebra. One of the basic laws of la culebra is that it involves a conflict that is only settled with death.The presence of these conflicts from the past threatens to arise at any moment and hamper the definitive tranquility of the youths. • The nostalgia for emotion.The violent lifestyles, in effect, ‘seduce’ the youths because of the strong emotions that they experience. Some express a certain longing for their past lives full of excitement. • The commitments acquired with the gangs, in some cases, make it difficult to abandon the violent life. This difficulty becomes even more intense when the youths fear retaliation or revenge with the closest family members. • Economic urgency, experienced by youths who no longer rely on social and institutional allies, and who do not yet have regular and sufficient income. The males feel strongly divided between maintaining themselves in activities in the legal world and “being tempted”, as they said, to make use of their past expertise in the world of illegal activities. These factors are there, challenging the biographical reconversion achieved by the youths. These threatening situations confirm, again, that to become sustained achievements over time, broader structural and institutional changes must be achieved to confront massive social discrimination, and social exclusion as well as exclusion from public urban security, all of which underlie their initiation in a life trajectory of violence. Notes The barrios (slums) constitute the visible geography of inequality between the urban populations in Caracas. It should be highlighted that their inhabitants are not ‘marginal’: the people work in the city, they are teachers, public officials, and also participate in the networks of the informal economy of the city.The logic of violence produces and involves a particular network of relationships and actions, in the middle of the multiplicity of alternative networks and actions that take place in these neighbourhoods.

1

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Also, elsewhere I have shared and provided guidelines about the experience of recording the life stories of young males with violent lifestyles in a Latin American city such as Caracas. I also commented and discussed the interview method as a form of action that produces knowledge in the frame of an interaction process, which in this case was specifically affected by the difference in gender and social origins and situation (see Zubillaga, 2008). 3

I have presented elsewhere a complete version of this proposal including youths’ testimonies in Spanish (see Zubillaga, 2005). I have also presented a significantly reduced version of the second part of this chapter (see Zubillaga, 2009). I have discussed the different senses of this demand of respect (see Zubillaga, 2009), arguing that young men combine different types of demands for respect at different moments and vis-à-vis others, and concomitantly, were involved in changing forms of violence.This multiplicity and this evolution is precisely the key to understanding the different senses underlying the youths’ violence, and distinguishing the mode of action of each different young man. 4

Strauss also speaks about careers when referring to his notion of ‘turning points’: ‘These critical incidents constitute turning points in the onward movement of personal careers’ (1997, p 95).

5

It is very significant that in a completely different context, Sutterly (2007) finds a ‘trajectory of family abuse and disrespect’ (p 269). 6

La culebra (snake): current manner in which the enemy and the situation of conflict that is settled with death is named, and that is prolonged in a chain of revenge and of more deaths. 7

References Adler-Lomnitz, L. (1975) Cómo sobreviven los marginados, México: Siglo XXI Editores. Bajoit, G. (1997) ‘Qu’est-ce que le sujet’, in G. Bajoit and E. Belin (ed) Contributions à une sociologie du sujet, Paris: Editions L’Harmattan, pp 113-30. Bajoit, G. (2003) Todo cambia, análisis sociológico del cambio social y cultural en las sociedades contemporáneas, Santiago de Chile: Ediciones LOM. Barker, G. (2005) Dying to be men:Youth masculinity and social exclusion, London: Routledge. Becker, H. (1963) Outsiders: Studies in the sociology of deviance, London: The Free Press of Glencoe and Collier-Macmillan Ltd.

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Berger, M. and Luckmann, T. (1979) La construcción social de la realidad, Buenos Aires: Amorrortu Ediciones (originally published in 1967). Bertaux, D. (1997) Les récits de vie, Paris: Editions Nathan. Bourgois, P. (1995) In search of respect: Selling crack in El Barrio, New York: Cambridge University Press. Briceño-Leon, R. and Zubillaga,V. (2002) ‘Violence and globalisation in Latin America’, Current Sociology, vol 50, no 1, pp 19-37. Buaiz,Y.E. (2000) ‘Política social, política criminal y la convención sobre los derechos del niño’, in M.G. Morais de Guerrero (ed) Introducción a la ley orgánica para la protección del niño y del adolescente, Caracas: Universidad Católica Andrés Bello. Cruz, J.M. and Portillo, N. (1998) Solidaridad y violencia en las pandillas del gran San Salvador, San Salvador: UCA Editores. Collison, M. (1996) ‘In search of the high life: drugs, crime, masculinities and consumption’, The British Journal of Criminology, vol 36, no 3, Special Issue, pp 428-44. Connell, R. (1987) Gender and power, Cambridge: Polity Press. de Assis, S.G. (1999) Traçando caminhos em uma sociedade violenta: A vida de jovens infratores e de sus irmaos nao infratores, Río de Janeiro: Editora FIOCRUZ. Dowdney, L. (2005) Ni guerra ni paz. Comparaciones internacionales de niños y jóvenes en la violencia armada organizada, Rio de Janeiro: COAV (www.coav.org.br/). Dubar, C. (1991) La socialisation, Paris: Armand Colin. Dubet, F. (1994) Sociologie de l’expérience, Paris: Du Seuil. Goffman, E. (1963) Stigma: Notes on the management of spoiled identity, Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Goffman, E. (1968) Asiles, étude sur la condition sociale des malades mentaux, Paris: Les Editions de Minuit (originally published in 1961). Llorens, M. (2005) Niños con experiencia de vida en la calle, Buenos Aires: Editorial Paidós. Márquez, P. (1999) The street is my home, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Messerschmidt, J. (1993) Masculinities and crime, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Ministerio para el Poder Popular de la Salud (2008) Anuario de mortalidad 2007, Caracas: Ministerio para el Poder Popular de la Salud. Moreno, A. (1995) La familia popular Venezolana, Cursos de Formación Sociopolítica No 15, Caracas: Fundación Centro Gumilla y Centro de Investigaciones Populares. Pedrazzini, Y. and Sánchez, M. (1992) Malandros, bandas y niños de la calle, Caracas:Vadell Hermanos Editores. 164

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PROVEA (2009) Situación de los derechos humanos, Informe Anual, Caracas: PROVEA. PROVEA (2010) Situación de los derechos humanos, Informe Anual, Caracas: PROVEA. Ramírez, R. (1993) What it means to be a man, Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Salazar, A. (1998) ‘Violencias juveniles: ¿contraculturas o hegemonía de la cultura emergente?’, in H.J. Cubides et al (eds) Viviendo a toda, Bogotá: Siglo del Hombre Editores, pp 110-28. Sanchez-Jankowsky, M. (1991) Islands in the street: Gangs and American urban society, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Smilde, D. (2005) ‘A qualitative comparative analysis of conversion to Venezuelan evangelicalism: how networks matter’, American Journal of Sociology, vol 111, no 3, pp 757-96. Smilde, D. (2007) Personal communication, Caracas. Strauss, A.L. (1997) Mirrors and masks:The search for identity (2nd revised edn), Piscataway, NJ: Transaction Publishers (originally published in 1959). Sutterly, F. (2007) ‘The genesis of violent careers’, Ethnography, vol 8, p 267. Wacquant, L. (1992) ‘The zone’, Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales, vol 93, pp 39-59. Wieviorka, M. (2004) La violence, Paris: Editions Balland. Zaluar, A. (1997) Violence related to illegal drugs, ‘easy money’ and justice in Brazil: 1980-1995, Discussion Paper No 35, Management of Social Transformations (MOST), UNESCO, www.unesco.org/most/zaluar. htm. Zubillaga,V. (2005) ‘La carrera moral del hombre de respeto y armas. Historias de vida de jóvenes y violencia en Caracas’, Revista Venezolana de Psicología Clínica Comunitaria, no 5, pp 13-55. Zubillaga, V. (2008) ‘En búsqueda de salidas a la violencia. Análisis de experiencias de reconversión de hombres jóvenes de vida violenta en Caracas’, Revista Mexicana de Sociología, vol 4, pp 759-89. Zubillaga V. (2009) ‘“Gaining respect” and the logics of violence among young men in the “barrios” of Caracas’, in G.A. Jones and D. Rodgers (eds) Youth violence in Latin America: Gangs and juvenile justice in perspective, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, pp 83-103.

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The turning points of the single life course in Budapest, Hungary Ágnes Sántha

Introduction This chapter examines the specific phases and turning points of the life course that can influence the decision of young people to choose singleness as a way of life or become single by virtue of structural conditions. The research focused on a group of young, urban singles from Budapest. Singles are understood as those young adults at an age (25–40) typically devoted to family, living alone in their own household and having neither a durable partnership nor children.The population I studied was that of urban singles in their thirties from the upper social strata, having (at least) a university degree and being active in the labour market. Turning points, these life course crucial events, have a narrative status.The ontological status of narrated life events is unclear, as events themselves might be ‘constructed’ through narration. It is by no means an aim of this study and of sociological analysis in general to reveal and to denounce such constructionism. Given the centrality of narrativity in the reflection on and/or construction of crucial life course events, this study takes up the narrative analysis tradition of sociological research, this being used as an heuristic tool to better understand the individual history of singleness. The methodology used for this empirical research was conducting life course interviews, and based on this, working with the discourse analysis as a tool for analysing narration. I conducted interviews with a population of 15 Hungarian singles, eight women and seven men. Among Hungarians, young urban professionals are those who are most ‘individualised’ and open to the alternative ways of life, such as cohabitation and singleness. In this chapter, I argue that even though conventional turning points are less structurally facilitated in Hungary, and establishing a family is often hindered by poor housing and financial conditions (Spéder, 2005), culturally the support for conventional turning points remains, 167

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even for those who are single. Singles themselves have a high regard for family life. Experiencing a turning point is often perceived as an individual issue. However, there are some common features and types to be identified. I did not employ an individual perspective, but rather constructed typologies and inquired about the common aspects of some important life occurrences, which to some extent explained the decision for singleness. What were the relevant turning points in the life course of young singles? How did singles interpret these decisive landmarks in their lives and what importance did they ascribe to them with regard to their way of life? Could singleness be regarded as a turning point or perhaps, the result of some major events in the life course? Anticipating the major finding of this chapter, it should be noted that in Hungary, being single when one’s age cohort is building a family is not seen as a landmark or milestone, even less an achievement. Rather, in spite of its demographic growth, singleness is best understood as a hiatus or a period between turning points. My interviewees are engaged in a constant biographical work through their retrospective, reassessing and future planning narratives. The turning points of the single’s life course studied in this chapter should be regarded as analytical tools for the narrative analysis. Such turning points are: events in family life in childhood, primarily divorce of the parents; degree of detachment from the parents; labour market entry and work arrangements; and the experience of past partnership(s). Some of these occurrences are relevant for the way young people interpret personal autonomy and independence. Other factors, especially labour market uncertainties, represent a structural reason eventually accounting for the status of being single.

Structure versus agency: the institutionalised life course After we briefly address the tension between structure and agency, we address the turning points relevant to a life course characterised by singlehood. Despite their ‘fight for primacy’, action and structure presuppose one another (Giddens, 2002, p 232). So argues Anthony Giddens when connecting the notion of human action with structural explanation. Structure is not only looked at as rules to obey but also as resources (Giddens, 2002, p 236), which suggests that the agent is allowed a certain scope within the given parameters of structural circumstances.

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The concept of situated practices expresses a major mode of connection between action and structure. Competent social agents rationalise their actions in their daily conduct.The reflexive monitoring of conduct refers to the intentional or purposive character of human behaviour, emphasising intentionality as process (Giddens, 2002, p 233). A crucial notion to be mentioned here is the unintended consequences of intentional conduct (Giddens, 2002, p 234), the human agency, which in turn, is responsible for the reproduction of institutions. Agency here has a constructive role in building what will soon become structure. These current notions of social theory can be relied on when explaining the phenomenon of singleness in young adult age. Singleness is rarely a conscious, long-term choice, but is rather the result of a postponing attitude, of a constant postponement, which is at first planned for a limited period of time only (Nave-Herz, 1992, p 63). This means that long-term singleness is the unintended consequence of short-term human agency: “It simply happened like that!” This is the reason for singleness given by most of the Hungarian singles who were interviewed, which also entails some allusion to transcendent forces, be it God or fate. In a recent report on the different types of transitions into adulthood, Joachim Vogel looked at some turning points of the life course (leaving the parental home, partnering and fertility) as the result of a coping behaviour with the so-called welfare mix, that is, with the institutional configuration of labour market, welfare state and family, whereby the major role is designated to the labour market (Vogel, 2001, p 125). In his approach, actors were coordinating their private and professional life courses. Private life arrangements were seen as the individual’s specific adaptation to his/her work orientation (Birkelbach, 1998, p 139), which once again stresses agency within the given structural circumstances. To some extent, gender also influences the way turning points are experienced.There is a gender-specific orientation of men and women in biographical planning despite the acceptance of gender equality as a principle, which has been accounted for by several authors (see, for example, Kühn, 2004). In the following sections of this chapter the question is also addressed, whether and how women’s experiences of decisive turning points are different from men’s experiences. On the whole, there is no sharp line to be drawn between male and female singleness in Hungary.Although singleness as an experience is certainly different for the genders, singles’ family-friendly attitudes, their desire for a family of their own and their way of life regarded as a transitional stage between turning points are typical for both men and women, which makes the two groups more similar than different. 169

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Parental divorce and its impact on their children’s partnering Families transmit different models to their children, due to their composition, history and dynamics, so children may have different attitudes toward partnership and family life. Is there a causal relationship between the divorce of the parents and the way of life of their children? Divorce today has become institutionalised: agency has established structure, and this has created a new turning point in many childhoods, with direct relevance to the timing and occurrence of conventional turning points in their adult age, primarily marriage.The lasting effects of divorce on children have been shown to follow some children into their adulthood (Amato et al, 1995). Two aspects of the adult problems in children of divorce should be summarised in this respect. First, the psychological effects, the poor sense of self and instability in relationships can lead to relationship troubles and instability in their own lives, increasing the divorce risk (Hullen, 1998). Second, a general sense of distrust and scepticism about marriage may lead them to reject this conventional way of life and to choose a more flexible living arrangement instead (Bukodi, 2004; Szalma and Róbert, 2007). The relationship between the marital/divorced status of the parents and the cohabitation of the child is stronger for women than for men (Bukodi, 2004, p 154).1 However, daughters of divorced parents tend not to think of cohabitation as a weigh station leading to marriage, as most women do; thus, their cohabitation rarely turns into marriage at a later stage in the life course. Moreover, if the parents themselves had not been married, their children, especially daughters, generally choose cohabitation instead of marriage (Szalma and Róbert, 2007). However, partnership in general is wished for by children who have come from intact as well as from separated families – that is, family models influence the choice of the partnership type, but do not predict singleness. Further, the single interviewees in my study did not account for their singleness as resulting from the absence of a model of a working partnership. Furthermore, in a few accounts of singleness, the argumentation turns around: the more a partnership is wished for, the more a person has not grown up in a ‘real’ family. Beyond the influence of parental divorce, other markers that deal with the passage into adulthood can also affect singleness.The transition events or turning points to be studied include detachment from the parents (establishing a household of one’s own), labour market entry and partnership formation.

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Detachment from the parents In this section, detachment from the parents is discussed as one turning point of the adult life course. Detachment models vary across Europe. Most importantly, Western and Northern European youth generally detach from the parents at a younger age than do Eastern and Mediterranean youth (Billari et al, 2001).The detachment models, which differ among the developed countries, have, on the one hand, cultural reasons, on the other hand, structural ones, from which the structure of the housing market will be shortly mentioned.2 As in the other former socialist countries, following the political and economic changes of 1989, most living facilities became private property. Under such circumstances, the economic resources of the families play a crucial role in the detachment of their children. It is no surprise that the main reason for postponing family formation is inadequate housing opportunities (Spéder, 2005).3 Being single as a way of life implies by definition having one’s own household. Due to structural reasons, and first of all the structure of the housing market, only a minority of Hungarian youth are able to establish their own household before getting married. Most come from the upper middle strata. In Hungary, just like in the whole Eastern European region and to some extent in the Mediterranean countries, never-married people between the ages of 25 and 40, having no partnership, are rarely ‘true’ singles, at least as far as their living arrangements are concerned.4 Nevertheless, the desired, normative life course presents a rather standard form. As far as the norms of becoming adult are concerned, entering the labour market is considered the most important event in the transition process (Domokos and Kulcsár, 2005). Detachment from the parental household would also be at the top of the turning points’ ranking, were it not for poor housing conditions. Knowing the ‘cruel reality’ constraining them makes Hungarians have more ‘realistic’ attitudes about this transition event.Thus, having a household of one’s own is ranked much lower among turning points than it would be desired in the normative life course in other Western countries. The latest data reveal that, as far as the transition norms into adulthood are concerned, having a full-time job is the landmark in growing up (77.4 per cent), followed by financial independence from parents (72.6 per cent). Lower ranked turning points are partnership formation (47.9 per cent), having the first child (35.9 per cent), establishing a household of one’s own (28.4 per cent) and getting married (27.6 per cent).5

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Educational level influences the success of transition into adulthood: the ‘transition index’ of educated urban youth is higher than the average, which means that they are more likely to experience transition in all its dimensions and to do this, generally, at a younger age (Domokos and Kulcsár, 2005). My interviewees had successfully detached from the parental home precisely because of their parents’ financial support. This means that ‘individualisation’ relies on external, parental support (Hillmert, 2005, p 21). Singles are highly appreciative of their relationship to their parents as ‘intimacy at a distance’.6 The key to their personal freedom and a good relationship with their parents is having their own household: from here, family ties are experienced positively.The interviewees provided accounts of regular contacts with their parents, of good relations and mutual trust. Parents were long-term friends with whom one could discuss even very intimate issues.

Labour market entry The phenomenon of degree inflation has become common talk. So has the increasing flexibility of employment and recent changes in the labour market. On the whole, investments in college education are still returned, especially in Budapest, where there is demand in the service sector (Altorjai and Róbert, 2006, p 328). Despite a successful labour market entry, however, young people have a series of uncertainties regarding their professional life course (Blossfeld et al, 2005). In modern societies, the relative lack of direct deterministic norms increases the importance of institutions in shaping life course patterns (Hillmert, 2005, p 22). Obviously, labour market circumstances have an impact on the timing of major life events and their interconnections. Burkart argues that the larger proportion of young people’s decisions regarding family life are made ad hoc, and in most cases they are not anticipated by rational deliberation; instead, these events are interpreted as ‘natural’ by the parties (Burkart, 1994).Therefore, Burkart asserts that postponement of decisions regarding family planning is the result of excessive structural demands on young people. Thus, resulting from the unpredictability of their professional life course or at least of some of its sequences, there is never a ‘suitable time’ for having a family (Burkart, 1994, p 135). In contrast to this structural exactitude, we find rationally planning and acting individuals who have an infinite space for deliberation that emphasises agency – certainly within the limits of institutionalised individualisation (Beck, 1992). 172

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The impact of labour market uncertainties on the private life course is certainly not immediate, nor should we speak of a one-time, decisive effect. Harmonising plans for a family life with professional experiences and career plans should rather be seen as a process (Kühn, 1999, p 7). Kühn stresses the permanent readaptation of the ‘biographic action’ to the changed external circumstances of this action (to the structure), as well as the active dispute with social contexts through self-reflection and balancing processes (Kühn, 2004).

Impact of qualification and labour market status on partnership formation We now take a look at how employment qualification and labour market factors are influencing private life. What factors may help influence whether a young person of marrying age lives as single or in a relationship? Hungarian researchers of social stratification and mobility have recently studied the chances of partnership formation along different structural dimensions (Szalma and Róbert, 2007). Regarding the impact of education, studies affirm that professionals tend to delay marriage. However, marital delay is likely only for highly educated women but not for such men, compared to other educational levels (Szalma and Róbert, 2007). Labour relations have a definite influence on the partnership type. Those who work within a flexible frame – those on contract work, on projects, researchers on grants or even part-time workers or home workers – are more likely to be single than those young people who earn their living in a standard, long-term, ‘safe’ job. In this regard, labour relations and family arrangements are homologous: flexibility in the labour market often comes with the choice of a less conventional family form, mostly with being single.The direction of the connection is not definite, however. Atypical work is not necessarily the reason and an unconventional family arrangement is not necessarily the result. A single employee can also ‘afford’ to earn her or his living atypically because s/he doesn’t need to provide for others, and her or his way of life does not require efforts to attain labour market safety and to have long-term plans.

Work or family? Work and family! Work–life balance, the possibility of reconciling work and family life, is discussed mostly with regard to women’s decision for childbearing. Before the change of 1989, only some Hungarian women admitted to 173

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the hardships of reconciling family life with work. Now, their number has radically increased (Pongrácz, 2005). Today, just like in all developed societies, there is a group of qualified Hungarians – free professionals, self-employed or leaders – whose high human capital investments are accompanied by high self-esteem and work-committed attitudes (Altorjai and Róbert, 2006, p 329). The services sector should be considered in this respect (Goldthorpe, 1982), and is increasing in number in Hungary (Lengyel and Róbert, 2000). Most Hungarian singles that come from the upper middle strata are pursuing successful professional career as members of the service class. Does singleness play a role in their individual professional success? The financially well-off young singles are aware of the benefits of their high living standards; professional success and a good financial situation provide them with a feeling of existential security. ‘There are no limits, there are no deadlines and thanks to God, I have everything. Financial security, there is a background, I am not fighting to have a flat but to make it better, this is a huge difference.’ (Woman, 30) Satisfaction with living standards is mostly accompanied by work satisfaction deriving from the feeling of doing meaningful work. The attributes of work influencing satisfaction are the inner qualities of the job: creativity, diversity, personal development potential and an experience of success (Varga, 2007, p 89).Young professional singles are richly rewarded by these qualities in their work. Further, autonomy in work as well as in its organisation is another source of satisfaction. Free professionals and self-employed professionals, that is, those working flexible hours, consider themselves luckier than most people, who live monotonous, routine-like everyday lives.Young singles are highly committed to their work. None of my interviewees showed only instrumental attitudes towards paid work, nor did they think of their career as being the most important thing in life.7 As shown above, work arrangements influence work satisfaction. Hungarians on average, even the youngest generation, prefer a ‘secure job’, that is, standard work, to contract work (Kalleberg, 2000). Unlike the stable long-term contract, limited contracts seem to carry a high risk and are a sign of uncertainty (de Grip et al, 1997). However, professionals on contract work do not share this negative attitude; furthermore, they welcome the flexibility and diversity in their profession. At this young age, in spite of having a college degree or

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even a doctoral title, contract work seems to be an advantage rather than a disadvantage. Just like employed professionals with much scope in their work being assured ‘some legitimate area of autonomy and discretion’ (Golthorpe, 1982, p 168), free professionals and self-employed singles are also happy with their work which is characterised by diversity and constant challenge. As one respondent explained: ‘It might sound cynical, but if I have any right to live in this world it is that, for one, I am good in my profession, for the other, that I gain money for myself, relatively well … this is how I justify that I live, if I have no partner. Of course, any life really has a meaning only if one has a partner and children.’ (Man, 33) An enduring cultural value can be heard in some accounts of singleness. Many Hungarian singles believe a conventional family life is necessary to justify one’s life. This is not surprising, given the family-oriented attitudes of Hungarians on the whole, including the educated urban youth (Tóth, 1997). Although the recent demographic trends (postponement of family formation, declining birth rates, decreasing marriage and remarriage rates, increasing divorce rates) reckon Hungary to be among the developed countries with similar demographic features (Kamarás, 2005), family life is elevated by the overwhelming majority of Hungarians, and regarded as the primary source of happiness and subjective well-being (Tóth, 1997; Pongrácz, 2005). Most Hungarian singles share the strong pro-family attitudes of their fellow countrymen and women. For singles, work is highly important, and their invested human capital returns multiple benefits during their professional career. All this does not compensate for a durable lack of private life, but makes it more liveable. Singleness as a rational choice due to the desire of pursuing a career, and understood as a long-term way of life, was not the aim of any of the interviewees. Long-term voluntary singleness, the conscious and explicit denial of bonding, is a rare exception, even in countries with higher rates of singles (Bachmann, 1992, p 139).The dilemma of private life versus a career does not seem to be an issue for Hungarian singles, either. The duality of rational deliberation and emotions, of personal independence and commitment, is the reason why singles strive for success in both their career and in their private lives (Bachmann, 1992, p 190). In spite of the prejudices spread in the publicity, ‘career instead 175

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of love’ is only a true alternative for a few people. Studies establish the importance of private life, even for workaholic singles (Bachmann, 1992). It is not about a choice, of an either/or: rather, it is the need for both. One woman I interviewed noted: ‘I do not agree that one should only live for a career, because that is really only half a life, it can never be full without a family…. I think it is wrong to live half a life, it is not healthy. In no way.’ (Woman, 35) Another male interviewee implied that the trade-off in time would not ultimately compensate for a life that was partnered: ‘I had this emotional harmony for eight years, I am not having it for two years now…. My work is going worse now, but I have much more time for it.’ (Man, 34) As this man suggests, singles wishing for a relationship share the insight that a harmonious partnership would influence their working activity in a positive way, as happiness motivates people. Singles claim that there must be a healthy balance between work and private life. The more the work carries responsibility, the more this balance is needed. Singles emphasise the importance of private harmony in order to have pleasure in work and to find it useful. Like Hungarians in general, single women themselves are adherents of the traditional gender roles and they stress the priority of private life rather than work, if it is to be decided between the two: ‘Success is needed in this sphere, too [that is, in private life], and this is the more important one.’ (Woman, 38) Work is currently very important for single women, as it is a sphere of selffulfilment. Nevertheless, as stated by my female interviewees,depending on what the future brings, motherhood could be even more fulfilling and could overtake work as a priority. Childless women constantly have a career break as an option in the back of their mind – their biographical planning is strongly influenced by the traditional gender role orientation (Kühn, 2004, p 297). However, one could also argue that persisting gender-specific education (Somlai, 2007) and traditional attitudes towards the gender issue (Pongrácz, 2005) basically channel women into these so-called choices.

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Family formation was of high relevance and actuality for the interview participants.They were in their thirties, in the family phase.As family is a high priority for Hungarian women, most of them consider that when having children, one must totally give up a professional career for some time. They also emphasised that they would gladly do so. At the same time, motherhood may only temporarily overtake their professional career. Here again, one can see the interrelation of structure and agency: the rational decision (agency) of these women is facilitated by structural factors such as a relatively prosperous economy and belonging to the upper middle class. The counter-motivation to bearing children for women rises with educational level and labour market integration (Becker, 1975; Spéder, 2001). This in turn is the result of the rational agent’s deliberation, considering as costs such factors as her income loss and the devaluation of her skills, knowledge and human capital (Spéder, 2001, p 48). Further, mothers are interested in choosing some kind of family-friendly work arrangement for the future. Flexible working hours and part-time work are wished for, which also means changing the clockwork of the maledefined career and of standard employment.8 In their profession, the upper middle class often experiences the requirement for flexibility in space and skills at work. However, the respondents’ lack of partners or spouses is due neither to the instability and unpredictability of the professional career, nor to a lack in social ties.The top two reasons for being single as stated by singles themselves are: first, long working hours, this being a function of the structure of careers in a male-oriented but also capitalist society; and second, the lack of opportunities to meet new people. Here again, the structural explanation prevails in the self-presentation of young singles: at this age, above 30, there is hardly any ‘civilised’ way of getting to know new people.

Experiences of past partnership(s) Singles are considered as true adults by only half of the Hungarian population. For the other half, reaching full adult status also requires entering a partnership.Whereas having a household of one’s own is only considered a condition for adult status by a minority of Hungarians (28.4 per cent), entering a partnership is seen as a landmark in the transition into adulthood by twice as many (47.9 per cent).9 The majority of the participants had experienced long-term relationships. The shortest among these relationships had lasted for two-and-a-half years, the longest for nine years. With almost no 177

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exception these relationships meant cohabitation, that is, partnership or marriage. This means that becoming single is itself often a turning point in the adult age: one becomes single after the break-up of a longterm partnership. Out of the 15 interview partners, only three men had had no life partner so far. In a preliminary analysis, this indicates that singleness in urban Hungary is a transitional phase in life, a period between turning points. Suppose I had conducted my interviews five years ago: only five of the interview partners would have been single at that time; if I had asked them three years ago, I would have found as single only those three men who had never had a long-term relationship. Thus, there is no stable group of singles; the fluctuation in this group is quite high. The differences in self-interpretation encountered within the population of singles can be derived first of all from whether the individual considers himself/herself as the rejected party in the former relationship or not. The narratives of those who had were left by the partner or cheated on and of those leaving the relationship themselves are built around the former partnership(s). Being alone is, nevertheless, experienced in different ways depending on these two situations. The disillusioned party, who leaves the disintegrating partnership, experiences the initial stages of singleness as a relief and does not immediately wish for another one. ‘This [that is, being alone] is very good for me right now, because I must get over what happened to me, I need quietness, peace. Loneliness and singleness are not the same. One can be lonely in a partnership, but I am not lonely.’ (Woman, 39) Beside beneficial singleness, there is singleness as a ‘relief ’. Those whose previous relationship had become emotionally empty or a burden for the parties live the new freedom as a kind of revival. From this viewpoint, singleness is not only wished for but also enjoyed, the ground for tasting freedom: ‘I was flourishing at that time. Anyone who saw me would know that it had to be really bad if I was this relieved.’ (Woman, 35) These are some examples of consciously chosen singleness.Those who had experienced a long-term partnership and felt comfortable with short-term singleness may choose it for various reasons, for example, 178

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because of being overburdened in their job or in their postgraduate studies. ‘Maybe I don’t need it right now because a relationship needs all the best from both parts, and I know that I would not be able to give it all, I have all these problems with my work and the school, so it can’t be right now. I really think I have no free capacity for it.’ (Woman, 35) Those singles who currently do not wish to have a new relationship or do not assume it, refer to their present difficulties. This fact influences the way singleness is experienced.Those who have not yet got over their previous relationship, and who share private or work-related problems, explicitly need temporary singleness until this difficult period of life is over. However, it is crucial to clarify that they, too, interpret their way of life as something transitory, temporary. ‘Many women can’t live alone. I am lucky that I don’t have this problem…. So I don’t need it by all means to be with someone just not to be alone, if that is not good enough for me. Maybe later, if this school thing is over....’ (Woman, 35) Partnership is wished for – a stable relationship offers the feeling of ‘belonging somewhere’ and provides harmonious emotional background for both sexes. Nothing can compensate for the lack of this – this is the argument of the interviewees. It is precisely for this reason that we did not find anyone in this group who – no matter how s/he was worn out by her/his previous relationship – was so disillusioned as to cut herself/himself off from future relationships and consider singleness as definitive. After recuperating emotional balance, the ‘temporary single’ feels ready for new emotional involvement: ‘I hate to be alone. I am suffering. It is not my habitus to be alone.’ (Man, 33) ‘One has no emotional background like this…. Even [someone] who has never had any long relationship can feel this. One cannot … I think I don’t know because if I knew I would not think about it every day that there is something missing. But I think about this every day, not just once.’ (Man, 34)

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‘I would not say I was afraid of being single, it is useless to be afraid, because it must be handled. But I still feel bad to be alone.’ (Woman, 35) Just like my single respondents, Hungarians in general have negative attitudes about singleness: only 4 per cent of the entire population consider this way of life desirable. Most of them think married people are happier than non-married and life can only be ‘round’ or fulfilled with family and children (Tóth, 1997). Even the educated urban youth believe so, although they are the most sceptical about the institution of marriage and most open to the alternative family forms.

The never-coupled experience In the previous section I reviewed the reasons behind transitory singleness and the ways singles relate to their previous partnership experience(s).What about those singles who have never had a durable partnership? For them, too, partnership seems to have no true alternative. There is the ‘late type’, the man who postpones marriage/partnership. These men refer to their personality and the need to ‘get ready’ for a partnership: ‘I am somehow not family-compatible. Not yet. I am somehow developing nowadays, I think, but it does not attract me to do the same thing every day. I am a late type, I went away from home too late, I did not do it in time. Everything is eight years later for me.’ (Man, 38) The concept of ‘development’ (“I am somehow developing nowadays, I think”) assumes right from the beginning that even those who have not yet had a long-term partner do not question the dominant social model, of marriage/durable relationship. The normative model of marriage/long-term partnership has a well-established position and conserves its dominance even in the upper-middle class. Another type could be the idealist. His way of life is purposive: since he has not yet found a partner who would suit his needs in all respects, the well-to-do young intellectual does not make a compromise. Behind this purposiveness, however, there is no definitive decision; partnership is not excluded here, either (for a longer and more detailed analysis, see Chapter One, this volume):

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‘I am selfish, withdrawing, and I feel good now, and I haven’t found the girl beside whom I could settle down.[…] But maybe, if I find the woman about whom I could say, this woman will be the mother of my children, and my partner, then of course. If she could make my heart beat….’ (Man, 36) This leads us again to recall the tension between structure and agency. One feature of Hungarian singles’ identity is that they consider themselves competent social agents who have the freedom of choice. They think of their own singleness as a transitional phase and are generally wishing for a partnership, as their social environment imposes this on them. However, they do not make an easy compromise just for the sake of not being alone or adjusting to the perceived social norm of having a family of their own (structural constraint). Rather, they are striving for ‘something better’, sticking to the idea of the pure relationship based on equality and self-fulfilment, going well beyond financial considerations. This agenic aspect is certainly facilitated by their high social status and good financial situation.Although singleness is not their idea of a good life, they can at least ‘afford’ to be single and do not necessarily need to share living and household expenses with a partner.This perceived lack of structural constraint and the freedom for agency is a common feature of the narratives on singleness.

Conclusion In this study I have presented some transition events into adulthood that are supposed to be relevant for singleness and its interpretation. The results of my empirical analysis can be summed up as follows: except for one, the experience of past partnership(s), no turning point seems to directly affect the life trajectory of singles, at least not on the narrative level. Hungarian singles experience singleness as a transitory stage in life, whether they have purposively chosen it or whether they live alone independently of their will.The examples of the long-term single adults reveal that there is an established place for partnership and family in their life plan. We certainly cannot claim that there is no single in Hungary who would give up long-term relationships on purpose and for the rest of her/his life. But the fact that in my small, non-representative sample I did not find any such person (either among those who had already had a relationship, or among those permanently single) indicates that longterm purposive singleness does not belong to the typical motivations

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of singles – at least for the time being – and it is by no means the dominant belief or practice. Singles’ arguments about their way of life and about the turning points of their life course reveal that the identity of Hungarian singles is not built around singleness, and singleness is often experienced negatively, especially by women, who view being single as an obstacle to the ‘complete’ and the ‘worthy’ life. Despite its demographic increase, singleness is still considered as a space between turning points: between leaving home and partnering, between a job and a relationship, but mostly between two relationships. While one can see some specific gender distinctions in experiencing the turning points discussed in this chapter, both women and men share this perspective on the temporary quality of singleness. Notes Bukodi concludes this causal relationship with regard to cohabitation as first partnership (Bukodi, 2004). 1

Among the cultural factors there is first of all the tradition of the extended household to be mentioned.The attitudes of the parents and the wish of youth for personal autonomy also account for the differences in the detachment models. Structural factors are the type of the welfare system (state financial support given to young people), the structure of the housing and the labour market. 2

This is followed by the inadequate financial situation of young adults (Spéder, 2005, p 17).

3

Many never-married young people stay in the parental household (Utasi, 2005). 4

My own calculations based on the Hungarian data from the European Social Survey Round 4 (2008).

5

6 The term was first used by Rosenmayr and Röckeis (1965). Work orientation is influenced by the age structure of the labour market. Middle-aged people on top of their career are probably more workaholic than younger workers (Varga, 2007, p 89). 7

Standard employment means that work is done in full time, continues indefinitely, is performed at the employer’s place under the employer’s direction (Kalleberg, 2000, p 341).

8

My own calculations based on the Hungarian data from the European Social Survey Round 4 (2008).

9

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Hillmert, S. (2005) ‘From old to new structures: a long-term comparison of the transition to adulthood in West and East Germany,’ in R. Macmillan (ed) The structure of the life course: Standardized? Individualized? Differentiated?, Oxford: Elsevier, pp 151-73. Hullen, G. (1998) ‘Scheidungskinder – oder: Die Transmission des Scheidungsrisikos’, Zeitschrift für Bevölkerungswissenschaft, vol 23, no 1, pp 19-38. Kalleberg, A.L. (2000) ‘Nonstandard employment relations: part-time, temporary and contract work’, Annual Review of Sociology, vol 26, pp 341-65. Kamarás, F. (2005) ‘Családalapítás és gyermekvállalás Európában’ [‘Family formation and childbearing in Europe’), in I. Nagy, T. Pongrácz and I.G. Tóth (eds) Szerepváltozások: jelentés a n ők és férfiak helyzetéről [Changing roles: On the situation of women and men], Budapest: TÁRKI, Ifjúsági, Családügyi, Szociális és Esélyegyenlőségi Minisztérium, pp 87-101. Kühn, T. (1999) Berufsverläufe und Pläne zur Familiengründung – eine biographiesoziologische Typologie, Sonderforschungsbereich der Universität Bremen Statuspassagen und Risikolagen im Lebensverlauf, Arbeitspapier Nr 64. Kühn,T. (2004) Berufsbiographie und Familiengründung. Biographiegestaltung Erwachsener nach Abschluss der Berufsausbildung, Wiesbaden: Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Lengyel, G. and Róbert, P. (2003) ‘Middle classes in the making in Central and Eastern Europe’, in V. Mikhalev (ed) Inequality and social structure during the transition, United Nations University – WIDER: Studies in Development, Economics and Policy Series, New York: Palgrave Macmillan Ltd, pp 99-132. Nave-Herz, R. (1992) Frauen zwischen Tradition und Moderne, Bielefeld: Kleine Verlag. Pongrácz, T. (2005) ‘Nemi szerepek társadalmi megítélése. Egy nemzetközi összehasonlító vizsgálat tapasztalatai’ [‘Attitudes towards gender roles. Conclusions from an international comparative study’], in I. Nagy,T. Pongrácz and I.G.Tóth (eds) Szerepváltozások: jelentés a nők és férfiak helyzetéről [Changing roles: On the situation of women and men], Budapest: TÁRKI, Ifjúsági, Családügyi, Szociális és Esélyegyenlőségi Minisztérium, pp 73-86. Rosenmayr, L. and Röckies E. (1965) Umwelt und Familie alter Menschen, Berlin: Luchterhand. Somlai, P. (2007) ‘A poszt-adoleszcensek kora’ in P. Somlai Péter (ed) Új ifjúság: szociológiai tanulmányok a posztadoleszcensekröl, Budapest: Napvilág, pp 9-43. 184

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Spéder, Z. (2001) ‘Gyermekvállalás megváltozott munkaer ő-piaci körülmények között’ [‘Childbearing within new labour market conditions’], in I. Nagy,T. Pongrácz and I.G.Tóth (eds) Szerepváltozások – Jelentés a nők és férfiak helyzetéről 2001 [Changing roles – On the situation of women and men 2001], Budapest: TÁRKI – Szociális és Családügyi Minisztérium Nőképviseleti Titkársága, pp 46-64. Spéder, Z. (2005) ‘Az európai családformák változatossága’, Századvég, vol 37, no 3, pp 3-47. Szalma, I. and Róbert, P. (2007) ‘The effect of education and labor market uncertainties on partnership formation in Hungary’, Conference material from the ‘Second Demographic Transition’ Conference, Budapest, 6 September (with kind permission of the authors). Tóth, O. (1997) A házassággal, a válással és a gyermekneveléssel kapcsolatos attitűdök Magyarországon – nemzetközi összehasonlításban [Attitudes towards marriage, divorce and children in Hungary – An international comparison], Budapest: MTA Szociológiai Intézet. Utasi, Á. (2005) Feláldozott kapcsolatok. A magyar szingli [Sacrificed relationships.The Hungarian single], Budapest: MTA PTI. Varga, A. (2007) ‘Munkaközpontúság és a társas kapcsolatok eltérő szerveződése’ [‘Work centrality and social relations’], in Á. Utasi (ed) Az életminőség feltételei [Conditions of the quality of life], Budapest: MTA PTI, pp 84-93. Vogel, J. (2001) ‘European welfare regimes and the transition to adulthood: a comparative and longitudinal perspective’, in L. Chisholm, A. de Lillo, C. Leccardi and R. Richter (eds) Family forms and the young generation in Europe. Report of the annual seminar,Vienna: Austrian Institute for Family Studies, Materialiensammlung Heft 16, pp 125-42.

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Complicating actions and complicated lives: raising questions about narrative theory through an exploration of lesbian lives Nicki Ward

Introduction As all storytellers do, investigators face audiences when they present analytic stories. (Riessman, 2008, p 184) In this chapter I present my own investigator’s story, my version of the stories gifted to me as part of a research study into lesbian experiences of social exclusion and mental well-being, and my interpretation of narrative analysis and the use of turning points in narrative. It is a story that, through the process of development, has been presented to different audiences in different formats, received and interpreted differently by each new audience and consequently reinterpreted.The aim here is two-fold: to demonstrate how turning points provide a useful focus of analysis in research that seeks to explore the interaction between public and private discourses and identity, and to raise questions about narrative theory more broadly and the use of turning points in particular. This chapter is essentially a discussion of the process of narrative analysis set within a framework of one example of narrative research. The research focused on exploring the lives of lesbians with three main aims: to question whether or not social exclusion was a concept that had relevance to the lives of lesbians, to explore how social exclusion had an impact on the experience of lesbians, with particular emphasis on mental health and well-being, and finally, to consider what types of discrimination contributed to these exclusionary processes. In so doing 187

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the research was concerned with the intersections between notions of gender, sexuality and mental well-being.

Research methodology Riessman suggests that narrative is varied because of the range of narrative investigators who ‘rely on diverse theories and epistemologies’ (2008, p 17).The ontological and epistemological drivers of this research were essentially two-fold: adopting a material discursive theoretical framework (Ussher, 1997) and approaching the research from a feminist epistemological standpoint. A material discursive framework is one that seeks to combine what are sometimes seen as competing theoretical perspectives: social constructionism and realism. Both gender and sexuality have been discussed with regard to essentialist and social constructionist theories; however, adopting a purely constructivist or a purely essentialist approach may be problematic as both have resonance to a study of lesbian experiences. Similarly, in relation to mental health, both social constructionist and social causation theories have value. These issues are linked to the overarching debate between social constructionism on the one hand and realism on the other – discussions that are often presented as polar opposites in debates around materialism and discourse (Ussher, 1997) or social causation and social construction (Stoppard, 1997; Prior, 1999). In the context of this research the social constructionist framework was valuable for recognising the ways in which some sexualities are discursively constructed as positive and others as negative, and for identifying how women’s behaviour is constructed as either normal or abnormal. However, it was also important to combine materialism and social constructionism, as this is the point at which negative and normative constructions of sexuality and gender converge, thus positioning lesbian lives as marginal to the rest of society and therefore raising the possibility of exclusion. While it is useful to recognise that different identities may be constructed as either valued or devalued, ultimately lives are lived, experienced and enacted. People feel and respond to social constructions, whether negative or positive. These constructions have an impact on their sense of self, and their mental wellbeing. A material discursive approach, which combines the discursive, by recognising that beliefs and attitudes are socially constructed, with an analysis of material realities, offers a way of exploring the lived realities of socially constructed identities (Ward, 2009).

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The design and application of the research was also influenced by a feminist ontology.While feminist approaches are not monolithic, what feminist approaches have in common is an exploration of concepts of injustice, the adoption of ethical practices that actively avoid the ‘unjust exercise of power’ and the use of theory which privileges gender within its framework. These aspects are located within a politics for women (Ramazanoglu and Holland, 2002, p 147). Here these principles were incorporated in a number of ways. First, the focus of the research was on injustice, specifically the social exclusion and marginalisation of lesbians. This was combined with an understanding of the world as gendered and this influenced the decision to conduct the research with lesbians, rather than lesbians and gay men.This was done both in order to explore their gendered experiences, and as a way of acknowledging that lesbians may also be marginalised within the structure of the gay community. Finally, the research methods were developed with the direct intention of making the process participative and collaborative and with the aim of bringing the women into the research process. In this context narratives were deemed to be ideal for the task as they provide the researcher with ‘a window into … human agency in the face of life events’ (Riessman, 1997, p 157).

Research methods I call the method developed for this research a biographic narrative participative method. It is a biographic narrative because it used narrative in both data collection and analysis and because life stories were the unit of data. It is described as participative because the process was staged to facilitate the development of the research relationship and was designed to bring participants into the process in ways that will be identified below. The narrative approach I adopted involved a two-stage interview process: stage one was a life story interview and stage two an analytic interview. Charmaz suggests that one aim of constructionist study is to explore how participants construct meanings and actions from ‘as close to the inside of the experience as they can get’ (2003, p 313). The adoption of a life story interview approach which is then developed dialogically, through a participatory discussion based on a shared understanding as women and as lesbians, was as close to ‘inside the experience’ as possible in this context, and the method was developed with the aim of enhancing these aspects.

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Life story interview In this research the concept of social exclusion was approached from the perspective that it is a relational process.The relational aspects of social exclusion may be macro, that is, concerned with relationships between individuals and the state, citizenship rights, institutional and religious organisations, or micro, found in the relationships of everyday life with friends, family and work colleagues. Life stories are a useful strategy for examining these interactions at both the macro and micro level, especially for non-dominant social groups where personal narratives are ‘effective sources of counterhegemonic insight because they expose the viewpoint embedded in dominant ideology’ (Personal Narratives Group, 1989, p 7). The design of the life story interview drew on the work of proponents of biographic narrative methods (Chamberlayne and King, 2000; Chamberlayne et al, 2000; Wengraf, 2001). The interview was divided into two subsections. During the first subsection the participant was asked to tell their life story and in the second, following a short break, the researcher selected certain aspects of the story and asked the participant to expand and develop these aspects.The opening question always followed that same general wording for each participant and was designed to encourage the telling of the life story without setting boundaries to the responses participants might give. This proved to be a useful strategy for beginning the interview and transferring the power away from the researcher to the participant, at least to some extent. Although the focus was clearly set by the researcher, both in terms of the chosen topic and the design of the opening question, within these parameters participants were free to set the agenda and designate their own comfort levels, in terms of what information they chose to share. While participants were sharing these initial narratives, notes were made of key topics and the main points mentioned within them.When the participants had said all they wished to in terms of ‘telling’ their life stories, we moved on to sub-session two of the life story interview. Sub-session two involved the elaboration of topics raised during the life story narrative using open-ended questions.

Preliminary analysis Initially, the life story interviews were transcribed verbatim and were then analysed thematically. Each script was explored for key themes relating to social exclusion, mental well-being, heterosexism and 190

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homophobia. These themes were identified in the text by statements where participants talked about feeling left out or marginalised, or where they made reference to being upset, stressed or angry, for example. For each passage that was deemed representative of one of these issues a note was made of the page and line numbers, the passage was summarised and links made to existing theory or research. For example, in the extract below (see Figure 8.1), comments about knowing that it was “not an option to be a lesbian” were connected with theories about the construction of sexual others as abnormal. These comments were highlighted within ‘Roberta’s’ story as being representative of marginalisation and heterosexism. Once completed, the interview and analysis summary sheet and interview transcript were sent to each participant, along with a covering letter or email. Sharing the transcript and initial analysis in this way promoted a more in-depth and reflexive development of the material. In this way the participant was brought ‘into the research analysis’(Miller, 2000, p 103), a strategy which can work to empower the participants in the research relationship (Lather, 1991). Figure 8.1: Extract from an analysis and interview summary sheet Page(s)

Line(s) Summary of passage and links to theory

Questions/issues for exploration

1

12-14

I’m interested in how you knew this was unacceptable and when. Were there any particular incidents that brought this home to you?

Here you talk about feeling different at an early age but knowing it was ‘not an option’. This has links with theories about the invisibility of lesbian sexuality and the portrayal of it as abnormal.

Analytic interview The format for the analytic interview was to go through the interview summary sheet, item by item, discussing each extract. The analytic interview developed the participative process, allowing research participants into the parts of the process from which they were normally excluded, developing a dialogue between the researcher and the 191

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researched.While it is common in social research for participants to be shown copies of interview transcripts, it is more unusual for them to be asked what they think of the analysis, essentially the analytic interview involved the researcher saying to participants “This is what I think this means, what do you think?”. It is also interesting to note that the dialogue focused not only on the direct experience of the researched, but also on the relationship between the personal experiences of the researcher and the researched, social structure and social theory.

Participants For this research the population was defined as women who identified themselves as lesbians. As the aim of this study was to explore the relationship between lesbian identity, mental well-being and social exclusion, the important factor was that the respondents identified themselves as lesbians. The researcher wanted to know how they felt about identifying as lesbian and what this meant to them, how structural inequalities and discrimination had an impact on this self-identity. One of the difficulties of researching among hidden or closed communities is that you only reach those who are active within those communities. In order to maximise the possibility of including women from diverse backgrounds as well as those who were not necessarily part of the ‘gay community’ a variety of purposive sampling techniques were used. Following Heaphy et al, a ‘mixed recruitment’ method was used in order to ‘at least touch a diversity of experience in terms of different social and cultural positioning and geographical location’ (1998, p 455). A combination of snowball, purposive and theoretical sampling was used to maximise the diversity of participants; lesbians were contacted through numerous organisations, including those specifically aimed at lesbians as well as more general women’s groups and trades unions. People were also asked to pass on details to anyone else they thought might be interested in participating. Just using snowball sampling through the gay scene may have generated enough participants, but there was a danger of overlooking those acknowledged as being marginalised within this ‘community’: older women, black and minority ethnic populations, people with disabilities or those with mental health difficulties, for example (King and McKeown, 2003). Nine women, aged between 26 and 49, participated in the research. Before discussing the analysis methods used in this research this chapter considers the principles of narrative research and approaches to narrative analysis.

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Principles of narrative analysis It has been suggested that the construction of a narrative is closely allied to the construction of an identity (Denzin, 1989; Riessman, 1993; Mishler, 2000; Lawler, 2002).When people construct narratives they are involved in a process of reflecting on their lives and their experiences, assessing themselves and their beliefs in relation to the rest of the world and re-storying themselves in the light of those understandings. In this sense narratives are essentially a process of interpretation. Approaches to narrative analysis are not monolithic; Riessman (2008) suggests that narrative analysis takes one of two basic forms, thematic or structural. Both of these approaches are concerned with the content of the narrative but structural approaches are also concerned with the telling, which ‘adds insights beyond what can be learned from referential meaning alone’ (2008, p 77). I have made further distinctions around the structural approaches to narrative analysis, distinguishing between those that focus on the style of the telling (see, for example, Miller, 2000; Wengraf, 2001) and those that look at the characteristics of different elements of the narrative – or narrative clauses and plots, which are now discussed in more detail. The model presented originally by Labov and Waletzky in 1967 (1997) and later expounded by Labov (1972, 1981, 1997), has become a ‘touchstone’ in narrative analysis (Riessman, 2008). Here narrative is defined as something temporal in which people ‘recapitulate experience in the same order as the original events’ (Labov, 1997, p 13). A narrative is deemed to be something that is structured by a number of characteristic clauses: the abstract, orientation, complication, evaluation, resolution and coda (see Chapter Three, this volume). The abstract provides the listener with an overview to the story, which is supported and supplemented by the orientation that ‘serves to orient the listener in respect to person, place, time, and behavioural situation’ (Labov, 1997, p 14).The complication is a sequential clause that reports a next event in response to a potential question: ‘And what happened [then]?’ (Labov, 1997, p 402). An evaluation clause is a clause that ‘reveals the attitude of the narrator towards the narrative’ (Labov and Waletzky, 1997, p 32); in a research context this means that these clauses are the ones that provide the researcher with information about the participant’s point of view.The evaluation clause(s) are followed by the resolution; it is the outcome. Finally, the coda is the clause that returns the ‘verbal perspective to the present moment’ (Labov, 1997, p 356). Many of these clauses are seen as necessarily sequential and this links

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to the use of narrative plots or storylines that are used to explore the sequence of events in a person’s life and the way these are negotiated. Another key point of reference for many interested in narrative is the work of Anselm Strauss; within this work a turning point is seen as a critical incident which triggers a period of reflection in a person’s life during which they are forced to reconsider their identity (Strauss, 2007, p 95). Strauss (2007) suggests that these moments frequently involve ‘misalignment’ which may be characterised by surprise, shock, anxiety and tension at the realisation that their lives are not what they (or others) imagined them to be.This is particularly pertinent in a context in which the aim is to explore the intersections between identity and public and private discourses. Strauss goes on to suggest that as part of the process of realignment, one of the ways in which people can respond is through the need to ‘try out the new self ’ (1959, p 93). This notion of exploring new identities was something that some women talked graphically about. One woman, for example, when talking about her early visits to gay clubs, used the analogy of being at a big dinner party: ‘I felt very much like an observer, I had to watch what the formalities were. It’s like going to a big dinner and you’ve never been to a big dinner before and there’s mountains of cutlery and you’re watching everybody else to see which piece they pick up first.’ Denzin suggests that biographical texts are structured by significant ‘turning point moments’ or epiphanies (1989, p 22) in a person’s life. These turning points give an indication of shifting identities; they refer to events that change the meaning of past events and of the individual’s identity. Riessman illustrates how life stories can be viewed by comparing plot lines, examining causal sequences and turning points that ‘signal a break between ideal and real’ (1993, p 30). Plot lines emerge from those twists in the narrative that draw attention to differences between the narrator’s life and conventional stories.This strategy is particularly valuable in providing an analysis of the tensions between lesbian lives and the dominant discourse of heterosexuality. As such the process of analysis enables an exploration of ‘life in culture’, which seeks to explore how people’s lives are negotiated within and influenced by sociocultural structures rather than considering the individual life alone as the unit of analysis (Freeman, 1997, p 172).

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Analysis The aim of conducting a two-stage narrative study was to understand participants’ experiences ‘through the lenses of my own experiences and perspectives’ (Knowles, 2001, p 4). Roberts (2002) suggests it is necessary to understand lives not just in terms of individuality or uniqueness but also within the context of broader social structures. Alternatively, Denzin (1989) suggests that a biographical project aims to uncover those social, economic, cultural, structural and historic forces that shape and influence lived experience while focusing on individual lives. In this research a two-part analysis, using both narrative and thematic analysis through coding of transcripts, was developed in order to explore both the individual and the structural elements. Discussion here draws on the narrative analysis. Narrative research is used to identify ‘the variability of individual agency within a discursively constituted social policy’ (Williams et al, 1999, p 2). Such research attempts to acknowledge the diversity of individual history, needs and behaviour located within the context of patterns of social differentiation. Because narrative analysis is about the form of the story as well as the content it enables the researcher to examine the interplay between biography, history and society (Riessman, 2003).This was apparent in the way that women told their stories as well as in what they said. For example, when one participant, ‘Amy’, talks about the student grants system, it is not just her words that tell me of her frustration with the situation in which she finds herself, but also the pauses, the sighs and her tone of voice. In this way, lesbians’ narratives about their lives as sexual others provide a lens through which to view social and historical processes as they relate to gender and sexuality.This process was further aided by the development of the lived life chronology (Wengraf, 2001), a list of events in people’s lives, their birth, the birth of their siblings, house moves, educational achievements and so on, which places their lives within the context of wider historical and societal developments accentuating the interplay between biography and history. The construction of narratives is itself an interpretive process, which takes place in a number of ways (Lawler, 2002): • the narrator is involved in interpreting public narratives and constructing private ones; • the narrator interprets past events and their own identities; • the researcher and the narrator construct a narrative based on interpretation and shared recognition; 195

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• the researcher is involved in interpreting public and private narratives within the context of their own meaning system and their own agenda. In this study the narrative analysis combined these principles of narrativity with an analysis of turning points influenced by the work of Czarniawska (2004). Czarniawska (2004) analyses narrative plots and examines the connections of these plots in terms of equilibrium, action and complications. Complications are the point at which the equilibrium is upset and action is taken to restore the equilibrium; in many ways this combines the notion of complicating actions, evaluation and resolution identified as key narrative clauses by Labov and Waletzky (1997), with the analysis of ‘turning points’ identified by Strauss (1959) and Denzin (1989). Czarniawska (2004) suggests it is necessary to examine what is behind these complications. This is particularly useful in providing a strategy that informs the exploration of the relationship between lesbian identity, the process of social exclusion and the impact on mental well-being. By exploring key turning points in the women’s lives it is possible to see what informed their choices, how decisions and understandings were developed and what responses and choices they made in order to adjust their lives in response to the complicating action. Drawing on the life story interview of each of the participants, three categories were used to identify various sections of the narrative unit: life course, representing the events before the complicating action occurred; contradiction, representing the complicating action; and agentic response, representing the action taken by the women in response to the complicating action. The life course element of the narrative may include actual or imagined life trajectories and the way that participants story these.This notion of imagined life trajectories and people’s understanding of how these imagined life trajectories intersect with the identity are important. For example, Debbie, one of the participants in this study, had, from the age of 11 an ambition to be a lawyer, which had influenced the way she worked in school and the decisions she made about university. Despite having had a couple of relationships with women, Debbie had not thought of herself as a lesbian until she was confronted one day by a friend of the woman with whom she was having a relationship who told her that the woman “was not really a lesbian and never would be”. It was at this point that Debbie first began to consider that she may be a lesbian:

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‘… [my reaction] was not, oh – she said that she isn’t, it was does that mean that I am. That was the first time I’d actually thought about it, so that’s when things became conscious for me.’ The impact of this for Debbie was that it began to call into question her imagined life trajectory as a lawyer because in her head…. ‘I went into denial a little bit, that’s when it really hit me about my career … [lesbians can’t be lawyers] … because they can’t be because the world won’t let them be … I don’t think that was a knowledge it was an intuition, a feeling.’ The contradiction, then, examines what disrupted the life course, and what players, structures and discourses are behind the contradiction. The agentic responses are acknowledged in terms of how the women negotiated the contradiction, what were their actions and the actions of those around them and how they were supported to continue on their life course. Examining contradictions gives an insight into what experiences ‘complicate’ lesbian lives while agentic responses and the continuing life course indicate what structures and resources support lesbians in developing valued lives despite the discrimination they experience. As Mishler notes, the experience of unexpected events can cause people to ‘re-shape and reconfigure their identities … either through efforts to maintain a sense of continuity … or by changing direction’ (2000, p 60).This was what Debbie had to do in order to adapt her imagined life trajectory: ‘… ever since I was 11 I’d decided I was going to be a lawyer, so it was like I can’t change my mind now it’s been seven whole years.… So I was quite fixed in my views … and I have had to re-educate myself and experience things for myself in order to lose those kind of fixed images that were in my mind….’ For the purposes of this research I was interested in the interaction between public and private and so the narratives were explored to see how normative structures and discourses had an impact on lesbian lives. In order to do this it was necessary to examine not just the content of the individual stories but also what informed their construction. Lawler (2002) notes the interplay between personal narratives and public 197

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narratives, which are themselves related to cultural and institutional discourses.These discourses are not necessarily ‘true’ in a factual sense but rather become truths through their frequent use. In this analysis it is particularly important to recognise the influence of these public narratives, and the interaction between these and the personal stories of the participants. One of the things that was apparent from the women’s stories was the extent to which they drew on public discourses, such as debates about the age of consent or popular culture to define their difference and inform them about what it meant. Chas, for example, talked about experiences of playing ‘Star Wars’ when she was at primary school, saying she wanted to be Luke Skywalker so that she could kiss Princess Leah, and she acknowledged that this gave her some sense of her difference although at that time she would not have called herself a lesbian. Later, when she went to senior school, she noted that…. ‘… it was really hard to think that that’s what it was, that I was gay. Especially at that time you know, you couldn’t really talk about it in school and the age of consent was still 21 and the vote against it had just, well around that time, had happened so it was still quite a taboo subject … I remember it being really difficult to think that that’s what it was.’ Lesbian lives are often at odds with hegemonic heteronormative discourse, which suggests that heterosexuality is the norm and that families consist of an opposite sex couple and a number of children. At the same time it was also important to note the interplay between individual agency and personal choice and public discourses. Again this was apparent within the women’s stories. Roberta, for example, talked about her separation from her husband as a turning point: “at that point that I realised that I wasn’t going to lead the lifestyle that I’d led previously and that I was actually going to start living a lesbian lifestyle”.As Roberta had previously worked in her husband’s business, she also needed to find a new career at this time, and public narratives of sexuality and work with children influenced her choice here: ‘I thought about doing teacher training but I decided against [it] because I thought that nurses would be a more tolerant group of people … I know abroad that gay teachers are quite the norm but here, from what I’ve seen it’s much more difficult to be open if you are a teacher, so that was probably one of the reasons I decided to go into nursing.’

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While the women indicated an understanding that they had been influenced by hegemonic discourse, they also acknowledged that these were their choices, and that these choices had potentially altered the direction of their lives. This is most appropriately summed up by Tina who, in discussing whether or not she felt social exclusion was a relevant term, notes: ‘… the fear of stigma, the fear of suffering, the fear of homophobia … means that quite often I’ve excluded myself. And I don’t know how it would have been if I had chosen differently, if I had chosen to go and engage with things.’

Questioning narrative theory A narrative unit is not the same as the individual life story.Within each life story there may be several narrative units, stories about particular experiences in the person’s life. Labov’s categorisation suggests a linear and ordered presentation of each unit, easily identifiable within a particular section of the text. While this may be a useful typology for some literary sources or particular genres, it is not necessarily a useful way to conceptualise biographic narratives (Bruner, 1997), or narratives told in the context of a research relationship (Mishler, 1997, p 72). The narrative units produced in this research were sometimes begun in one section of the life story interview and then returned to and developed later in the process, either during the life story or analytic interviews. This echoes the experience of Mishler, who notes that ‘finding a temporally ordered sequence of events was a task of analytic reconstruction’ (1997, p 72). Labov and Waletzky have been critiqued for their overemphasis on the structural elements of narrative. Shiro (1997) suggests that there are two drawbacks to the theory: first, it does not provide a space in which to analyse and discuss narratives, which have more than one ‘episode’, and second, there is no strategy for defining the boundaries of narrative within ongoing discourse. This is particularly pertinent when narratives have been gathered by biographic narrative methods where different episodes in the person’s life may well be linked one to another without resolution or coda, with one complicating action leading to another (see Chapter Three, this volume); for some women, neither the narrative unit nor their lives contained resolutions and codas. This is representative of the process of social exclusion, where one marginalising experience can trigger and contribute to further experiences of exclusion. 199

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The second concern raised by Shiro is that the definition of narrative employed by Labov and Waletzky (1997, p 313) ‘excludes accounts in which events are not reported in the sequence they occurred’. This is reinforced in a later paper by Labov, in which he suggests that the ‘no flashback condition is binding on oral narratives of personal experience’ (1997, p 412). Life stories, however, are often told in a disordered fashion, with memories triggering memories and narratives about particular episodes being built and developed across the space of the telling.This was apparent in the stories collected for this research, with participants making statements during the telling such as: ‘… oh yes. I remember, what happened was….’ ‘I must remember to tell you about….’ ‘… that reminds me….’ Tappan (1997) suggests that a strictly structured approach such as that provided by Labov and Waletzky (1997) leaves no room for the self:‘an entity that thinks and feels, acts and interacts, reflects on and evaluates its actions and interactions’ (1997, p 381). In the context of narrative analysis where the exploration of turning points, and what they represent in terms of people’s understanding of the intersection between public and private discourses and the negotiation and renegotiation of identity, this fixed structural approach can serve to obscure important aspects of people’s life stories. The process of emplotment suggested by Labov and Waletzky draws on a narrow definition of temporality. However as Neale and Flowerdew suggest: Once time and texture are brought into a common frame, time can be seen in much more complex and varied ways. The life course for example, need not be plotted in terms of a linear grid or seen in terms of fixed stages but can be conceptualised in terms of the more fluid and individualised notions of turning points and defining moments. (2003, p 193) This acknowledges not only that people construct their stories in more flexible ways but also that it is the individual’s understanding of a turning point that is important, a point considered below.

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Turning points in narrative analysis This chapter, like others in this volume, developed from a conference presentation on turning points. What became apparent for me at this conference was that the way I had defined and identified turning points in my research data was quite distinct from the way they had been defined by other presenters in their research. In particular, while some of the events might be deemed to constitute major life events – divorce in Roberta’s story, or homelessness in Amy’s story – for many women the moments in their lives highlighted as turning points related to less significant events. In Debbie’s story illustrated above, it was an offhand comment by an acquaintance that triggered the consideration of identity. My reflections on the turning points defined by other researchers, and their questions to me, led me to further explore the notion of what constitutes a turning point and who has the right to define it. Mishler (2000) notes the significance of ‘disjunctions, discontinuities and transitions’ in people’s lives for influencing development of identity. In analysing his respondents’ stories Mishler notes the importance of events such as divorce, depression and relocation – all major life events.Within my research the negotiation and renegotiation of lesbian identity in light of these disjunctions and discontinuities was important, but they were identified in the participants’ narratives from their own words rather than being predefined by the researcher. Mishler notes that people realise identities ‘through the varied ways in which they appropriate, adapt and resist culturally defined definitions of selfhood’ (2000, p 51).This perhaps indicates why for the women in this study it was often minor events that triggered such re-negotiations of identity – where people were confronted by what may be considered minor events that were representative of heteronormative cultural frameworks. Studies of sexuality and queer theoretical perspectives have highlighted the way that sexuality is discursively expressed and normative notions of sexuality are reinforced through binary divides (Stein and Plummer, 1996). What was apparent in the stories of the women in this study was that these binary distinctions were often played out in day-to-day lives and what might be considered ordinary, rather than significant, life events. This demonstrates the importance of the cultural locus of stories (Denzin, 1989, p 73) and the way that individuals attach personal meanings to these cultural narratives. Bruner (2001), in discussing autobiography, notes that the narrator highlights or marks their turning points. So it would seem to be here in the context of biographic research where the participant marks or 201

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announces the key turning point moments. Similarly Labov (2006, p 38) notes that narrators identify which stories are reportable or tellable and ‘signal’ this to the listener. In so doing it can be argued that it acknowledged that it is the participant or narrator who needs to identify the turning point, the complicating action. Analysis of the life story interviews gathered for this research suggests that narrative units are introduced or announced in reference to these turning points, as these extracts from the life story and analytic interviews illustrate: Roberta: ‘… that was the final straw …’ Diana: ‘I supposed it all started then because …’ Ruth: ‘The next thing that happened …’ Tina: ‘… so then when I was 16, just after that …. Amy: ‘… just when you think things couldn’t get any worse.’ Jacobs (2000) suggests that in the context of narrative analysis focusing on the events selected by the narrator and which of these produce emphasis provides important ‘clues’ about how that person understands their life. It makes sense therefore that the focus should be on what participants identify as turning points. One of the key arguments for narrative inquiry is that it moves us ‘considerably closer to the subjective point of view of the person who actually has lived his/her life’ (Bamberg, 2006, p 3).This being so it makes sense that the turning points of people’s lives, the moments in their subjective experience which influence their life trajectories and identity development, are most appropriately defined by them. This may be viewed as a more psychosocial approach to turning points in the context that such approaches place more emphasis on the experiences, relevancies and emotional significance of the interviewee (Hollway and Jefferson, 2000). Focusing on turning points as defined and announced by participants as they reconstruct their life stories, rather than as defined by the researcher, can give rise to questions about whether the turning points are ‘real’ and whether this is important. Reissman (1993, p 64), in discussing the construction of narrative, suggests that historical truth is not necessarily the primary issue.This is a theme echoed by Mishler (2000), who suggests that re-tellings are subjectively situated within the frame of reference within which they are produced. Most of us story and re-story events in our lives and remember events differently with 202

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each remembrance. In the context of narrative research the issue is not so much whether these events are factually correct, but rather the impact that they had on the individual and the way they influence the telling of the story and the negotiation and renegotiation of identities. Constructions, including narrative constructions, relate to patterns of representation ‘through which realities are constituted’ (Andrews et al, 2000, p 6). In this sense, then, it is possible that the turning points are themselves constructions, representations of the past real or imagined (or perhaps a little of both) but which nonetheless trigger the renegotiation of identity. If we consider the story of Debbie presented above, we note that it includes an imagined life trajectory. Debbie notes that she had planned to be a lawyer since she was a child, but it is still imagined, not yet achieved. Nevertheless, the discontinuity caused between this imagined life trajectory and the short statement about being a lesbian was a turning point for her because it presented a disjunction in her imagined future. A significant amount of the work on narrative, and the critique of it, raises questions about the relationship between narrative and the real and it has been noted that there is no consensus about the truth claims that can be made (Bradbury and Day Sclater, 2000). My argument here, in relation to turning points, is that it doesn’t matter whether the events presented are factual, what is important is the way the participant interprets those events, and the significance in the lives of participants, irrespective of whether true or not. Even if they are ‘untrue’ or only partially ‘true’ they are still significant in the process of re-storying and understanding the development and renegotiation of identity in people’s lives. References Andrews, M., Day Sclater, S., Rustin, M., Squire, C. and Treacher, A. (2000) ‘Introduction’, in M. Andrews, S. Day Sclater, M. Rustin, C. Squire and A. Treacher, Lines of narrative: Psychosocial perspectives, London: Routledge, pp 1-10. Bamberg, M. (2006) ‘Stories: big or small? Why do we care?’, Narrative Inquiry, vol 16, pp 139-147. Bradbury, P. and Day Sclater, S. (2000) ‘Conclusion’, in M. Andrews, S. Day Sclater, M. Rustin, C. Squire and A. Treacher, Lines of narrative: Psychosocial perspectives, London: Routledge, pp 193-8. Bruner, J.S. (1997) ‘Labov and Waletzky, thirty years on’, in M. Bamber (ed) Oral versions of personal experience:Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. 203

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Bruner, J.S. (2001) ‘Self- making and world-making’, in J. Brockmeier and D. Carbaugh (eds) Studies in autobiography, self and culture, Philadelphia, PA: John Benjamin’s Publishing Company. Charmaz, K. (2003) ‘Qualitative analysis and grounded theory analysis’, in J.A. Holstein and J.F. Gubrium, Inside interviewing: New lenses, new concerns, London: Sage Publications, pp 311-30. Chamberlayne, P. and King,A. (2000) Cultures of care: Biographies of carers in Britain and the two Germanies, Bristol: The Policy Press. Chamberlayne, P., Bornat, J. and Wengraf, T. (eds) (2000) The turn to biographical methods in social science, London: Routledge. Czarniawska, B. (2004) Narratives in social science research, London: Sage Publications. Denzin, N.K. (1989) Interpretive biography, Qualitative Research Methods Series 17, London: Sage Publications. Freeman, M. (1997) ‘Why narrative? Hermeneutics, historical understanding, and the significance of stories’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience: Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Heaphy, B., Weeks, J. and Donavan, C. (1998) ‘That’s like my life: researching stories of non-heterosexual relationships’, Sexualities, vol 1, no 4, pp 453-70. Hollway, W. and Jefferson, T. (2000) ‘Narrative, discourse and the unconscious: the case of Tommy’, in M. Andrews, S. Day Sclater, M. Rustin, C. Squire and A. Treacher, Lines of narrative: Psychosocial perspectives, London: Routledge, pp 136-39 Jacobs, R.N. (2000) ‘Narrative, civil society and public culture’, in M. Andrews, S. Day Sclater, M. Rustin, C. Squire and A. Treacher, Lines of narrative: Psychosocial perspectives, London: Routledge, pp 18-35. King, M. and McKeown, E. (2003) Mental health and wellbeing in gay men, lesbians and bisexuals in England and Wales, London: Mind. Knowles, J.G. (2001) ‘Beginnings: researching the professor: Thomas’, in A.L. Cole and J.G. Knowles, Lives in context: The art of life history research, Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press, pp 1-8. Labov,W. (1972) Language in the inner city, Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Labov,W. (1981) ‘Speech actions and reactions in personal narrative’, in D.Tannen (ed) Analyzing discourse:Text and talk. Georgetown University Round Table,Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, pp 21947.

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Labov, W. (1997) ‘Some further steps in narrative analysis’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience:Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Labov, W. (2006) ‘Narrative pre-construction’, Narrative Inquiry, vol 16, no 1, pp 37-45. Labov, W. and Waletzky, J. (1997) ‘Narrative analysis: oral versions of personal experience’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience: Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates (originally published in J. Helm [1967] [ed] Essays on the verbal and visual arts: Proceedings of the 1966 Annual Spring Meeting of the American Ethnological Society, Seattle: University of Washington Press). Lather, P. (1991) Getting smart: Feminist research and pedagogy within the postmodern, New York: Routledge. Lawler, S. (2002) ‘Narratives in social research’, in T. May (ed) Qualitative research in action, London: Sage Publications, pp 242-58. Miller, R. (2000) Researching life stories and family histories, London: Sage Publications. Mishler, E.G. (1997) ‘A matter of time: when, since, after Labov and Waletzky’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience: Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Mishler, E.G. (2000) Storylines: Craftartists’ narratives of identity, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Neale, B. and Flowerdew, J. (2003) ‘Time, texture and childhood: the contours of longitudinal qualitative research’, International Journal of Social Research Methodology, vol 6, no 3, pp 189-99. Personal Narratives Group (eds) (1989) Interpreting women’s lives: Feminist theory and personal narratives, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Prior, P.M. (1999) Gender and mental health, London: Macmillan. Ramazanoglu, C. and Holland, J. (2002) Feminist methodology, challenges and choices, London: Sage Publications. Riessman, C.K. (1993) Narrative analysis, Qualitative Research Methods Series 30, London: Sage Publications. Riessman, C.K. (1997) ‘A short story about long stories’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience:Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.

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Riessman, C.K. (2003) ‘Analysis of personal narratives’, in J.A. Holstein and J.F. Gubrium, Inside interviewing: New lenses, new concerns, London: Sage Publications. Riessman, C.K. (2008) Narrative methods for the human sciences, London: Sage Publications. Roberts, B. (2002) Biographical research, Buckingham: Open University Press. Shiro, M. (1997) ‘Labov’s model of narrative analysis as an emerging study in discourse’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience: Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Stein, A. and Plummer, K. (1996) ‘I can’t even think straight: queer theory and the missing sexual revolution in sociology’, in S. Seidman (ed) Queer theory/sociology, Cambridge: Blackwell Publishers, pp 12944. Stoppard, J.M. (1997) ‘Women’s bodies, women’s lives and depression: towards a reconciliation of material and discursive accounts’, in J. Ussher (ed) Body talk: The material and discursive regulation of sexuality, madness and reproduction, London: Routledge, pp 10-32. Strauss, A.L. (1959) Mirrors and masks: The search for identity, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Tappan, M.B. (1997) ‘Analyzing stories of moral experience: narrative, voice and the dialogical self ’, in M. Bamberg (ed) Oral versions of personal experience:Three decades of narrative analysis, Special Issue Journal of Narrative and Life History, vol 7, no 1-4, London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Ussher, J. (ed) (1997) Body talk: The material and discursive regulation of sexuality, madness and reproduction, London: Routledge. Ward, N. (2009) ‘Social exclusion, social identity and social work: analysing social exclusion from a material discursive perspective’, Social Work Education, vol 28, no 3, pp 237-52. Wengraf, T. (2001) Qualitative research interviewing: Biographic narrative and semi-structured methods, London: Sage Publications. Williams, F., Popay, J. and Oakley, A. (1999) Welfare research: A critical review, London: UCL Press.

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Religious conversion as a biographical turn/ing: the case of Orthodox believers in contemporary Russia Liana Ipatova

Introduction This chapter explores the acceptability of the idea of a biographical turn in order to explain women’s conversion to Orthodoxy in contemporary Russia, which has taken place in a situation of widespread mass conversion and religious renaissance in the post-Soviet period. In order to trace representations of religious conversion as a biographical turning point (or process) I analysed Orthodox biographical narratives and religious scriptures. This chapter aims to identify typical representational schemes or ways of speaking about religious conversion as biographical experiences that exist at both individual and institutional levels, that is, at the level of biographical narrative and church discourse, and to compare them. The following argument with regard to narratives of conversion is rooted in the assumption that a ‘real’ process of conversion and the narration about it are not the same thing. It is not important what a ‘real’ conversion is; rather, the main interest lies in the discursive principles and forms of construction and its representation. Therefore, on the one hand, a conversion story is part of the biography as a whole (as a turning point or as something else). On the other hand, it could play the role of a dominant story, and thus highlights and transforms the whole biography. In that perspective a conversion story reflects and constructs the new, that is, Orthodox, version of the life story, using for that purpose formal rhetorical devices and biographical patterns that exist in public Orthodox discourse.

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Biographical studies of biographical turns Within the biographical approach, ‘turning points of biography’ were at first conceptualised by Anselm Strauss (1959), and since then this notion has become central to studying biography. This approach pays attentions to various ways of representing turning points in the course of biography, where the main goal is often to reconstruct an ‘objective’ reality and its causation and procedure which lay behind the ‘subjective’ narrativ. Furthermore, in biographical research it is common to explore in the situation of biographical turning whether some alternative choices existed, and then to compare the realised life trajectory with an unrealised one that had a chance to be implemented (Schuetze, 1983; Bertaux and Bertaux-Wiame, 1997; and others). This chapter focuses on discursive principles and constructs representations about reality in a markedly different way from the above-mentioned. Janet Holland and Rachel Thomson (2009) explored the functioning of formal rhetorical devices such as ‘critical moments’ and ‘turning points’ in the biographical narratives of British youth over the course of 10 years in the process of their transition to adulthood, and built a unique database.They argue that only ‘the accumulation of narratives of self may provide a route to move beyond the life as told to gain insight into the life as lived as well as other possible unlived lives that fall away’ (Holland and Thomson, 2009, p 453). In my research presented here I try to follow a similar theoretical approach, but by only analysing ‘life as told’ in the search for an actual identity claim and leaving out the question about ‘life as lived’, which can only be approached by a longitudinal study.

Conversion studies of biographical turns Conversion studies, by definition, are always studies about biographical turning. But various researchers have paid attention to different aspects of this phenomenon. There are studies on preconditions and conscious (see Pickett, 1933; Lofland and Skonovd, 1981; Ipatova, 2006; and others) or unconscious (see Freud, 1913, 1930; Fromm, 1949; Kirkpatrick, 1988; Oksanen, 1994; Pirutinsky, 2009) motives of conversion. Other researchers have focused on the passive versus active character of a convert in this process (see James, 1902; Richardson, 1985; Kilbourne and Richardson, 1989; and others). Changes taking place in a convert and their life are examined in the light of two bodies of literature: one focused on the integration of converts into certain social groups, the other concerned with issues of the convert’s 208

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personality.The first line of works is divided into three perspectives.The (social) ‘drift model’ considers conversion as a process of acceptance of religious identity and joining the group, which has its own stages and sequence (Lofland and Stark, 1965; Gerlach and Hine, 1970; Tippett, 1976; Downton, 1980; Rambo, 1993). Another perspective detects variations in the conversion process according to the characteristics of religious groups (Kanter, 1968; Gerlach and Hine, 1968; Hine, 1970; Harrison, 1974; Richardson, 1978; Snow and Phillips, 1980; Greil and Rudy, 1984). Furthermore, the ‘brainwashing’ approach (Schein et al, 1961; Enroth, 1977; Conway and Siegelman, 1978; Robbins and Anthony, 1978; Clark, 1979; Singer, 1979; Richardson, 1982; and others) investigates methods of fast recruiting, strong retention and mind control over new devotees and stresses the negative effects of conversion for social relationships, behaviour and psychological states. As a result, the devotees become will-less and dependent on religious leaders.The second body of literature is more concerned with questions of the psychology of conversion. In that perspective, issues like the forms of psychological changes and their mechanisms, which are induced within one’s personality, are of interest (Straus, 1976, 1979;Taylor, 1976; Bromley and Shupe, 1979; Paloutzian et al, 1999). In the following I refrain from a comprehensive literature review of religious conversion studies and instead direct interested readers to the existing critical review on this theme (see, for example, Snow and Machalek, 1984; Rambo, 1999; Gooren, 2007, 2010). The methodology which is proposed in this chapter cannot answer any of the questions of the above-mentioned approaches with regard to their modality of focusing on a certain objective ‘reality’. In contrast, it provides an opportunity to analyse some of these issues from a discursive position of the narrator, which is only partly subjective/ individual, but in many ways reflects the discursive patterns of Orthodox discourse that are meaningful to the respondent. In this chapter I therefore do not focus on the actual stages of conversion, but on the subjective perception of its duration and quality (sudden/gradual, dis-/continuous), as well as on a subjective assessment of changes in personality, values and attitudes. Although researchers of religious conversion do not often openly use a discursive approach, they nonetheless acknowledge the significance of a discursive reality. For example, pioneers in modern literature (after a long gap following William James, 1902, who considered conversion as a process), John Lofland and Rodney Stark (1965, p 871) hypothesised that ‘final conversion [is] coming to accept the opinions of one’s friends’.

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Their followers strengthened that thought using a process-related approach (see Stark and Bainbridge, 1980; Greil and Rudy, 1984): …the crucial dynamic in the conversion process is the process of coming to see oneself as one’s reference group sees one, of coming to see that reality is what one’s friends say it is. (Greil and Rudy, 1984, p 318) This means that conversion could be considered as a matter of the person’s loyalty to his/her significant others. And we could probably generalise that the social nature of human beings presupposes a desire or need to share world views with people we care about. In the 1980s there were several serious attempts (see Snow and Phillips, 1980; Snow and Machalek, 1984) to critique the ‘positivistic’ approach that had taken for granted the facts of stories of religious conversion from a phenomenological perspective to elaborate a more critical view on a conversion narrative. As Snow and Phillips explain: In particular, two aspects of this work inform our approach to conversion.... The first suggests that social conditions and the various elements of one’s life situation, including the self, constitute social objects whose meanings are not intrinsic to them but flow from one’s “universe of discourse” (Mead, 1934, p 89) or “informing point of view” (Burke, 1965, p 99) or “meaning system” (Berger, 1963, p 61). The second and corollary principle emphasizes that meaning itself is constantly in the process of emergence or evolution; that personal biographies as well as history in general are continuously redefined in the light of new experiences. (Snow and Phillips, 1980, p 430) While fully sharing these provisions of the phenomenological perspective, in a framework of narrative psychotherapy I shift the focus from a general reconstruction of the Orthodox ‘meaning system’ and ‘universe of discourse’ to the using of them by an individual, who has a double purpose: (1) elaboration of a new religious identity, and (2) keeping some core, profound particularities of personality and social role. Lofland and Stark (1965) created the first and still most popular process model of conversion. It consists of seven sequential steps, which are at the same time necessary conditions for conversion. This model involves a ‘turning point’ as the fourth and crucial step of the 210

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whole process, which draws a border between preconditions and consequences, and is described as follows: … all pre-converts had reached or were about to reach what they perceived as a “turning point” in their lives. That is, each had come to a moment when old lines of action were complete, had failed or been disrupted, or were about to be so, and when they faced the opportunity (or necessity), and possibly the burden, of doing something different with their lives.…1 Turning points in general derived from recent migration; loss of employment; and completion, failure or withdrawal from school. (Lofland and Stark, 1965, p 870) Snow and Phillips (1980) and Greil and Rudy (1984, p 317) are just some of the many scholars who have critically examined the LoflandStark model and its applicability to different kinds of field materials, and assert the conceptual weaknesses of Lofland and Stark’s ‘turning point’: Their original conceptualization of the connection between the turning point and conversion is at best problematic. Because the identification of something as a turning point is largely a function of the interpretive schema in use, the turning point really cannot be known a priori or without familiarity with the world view in question. Therefore, instead of conceptualizing the turning point as a precipitant of conversion, it might best be thought of as a consequence that can function to symbolize conversion itself. (Snow and Phillips, 1980, p 443) It is interesting to note here, that in Russian the word обращение (religious conversion) is cognate with вращение (turning, rotation) and literally means ‘turnaround’. So both the English words ‘conversion’ and ‘turning’ could be translated into Russian as обращение. Thus, perhaps, the supposition of Snow and Phillips about the symbolic function of ‘turning point’ is common sense, and the use of this understanding for marking an experience of conversion in the Russian case is even more apparent.

Methods The empirical part of my study was conducted according to the principles of qualitative sociological inquiry, using biographical research 211

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methods as the primary research tools. In this chapter I use parts of the field material that I conducted for my PhD research (see Ipatova, 2006). In addition, I analysed some recent autobiographical issues from Orthodox web forums. My results were based on the following: • 20 biographical interviews with Orthodox women aged between 22 and 55 who were Orthodox Church members at least one year prior to the interviews.The interviews were conducted between 2001 and 2003: 14 in Moscow, 4 in Saint Petersburg and 2 in small Russian towns in the north-west of the country, in Priozersk and Vyborg; • self-narratives from internet forums about the conversion to Orthodoxy. I searched for respondents in two ways: (1) through people I knew, using the snowball method; and (2) via Orthodox priests who performed the role of gatekeepers. The priests’ blessing to conduct interviews with women from their churches had, in most cases, virtually guaranteed the consent of the respondents to take part in an interview.

Typology On the basis of the biographical narratives that I collected, I determined four types of constructing and representing an experience of religious conversion: radical turn from sin to virtue, radical turn from this world to beyond, gradual turning that happens in stages, gradual reciprocating turning. They are not exactly the ways of living conversion, but they are the ways people structure their life experience in a story. They more likely represent the main metaphors in the stories, but not the plot or content of them.

Radical turn from sin to virtue Help me, Blessed Virgin, for I will be allowed to enter the church.... I promise you that from this time I will no longer defile myself more by sins of the flesh.... (The Life of St Mary of Egypt) The most well-known type of religious conversion is possibly being born again, that is, a radical biographical turn. The converted person points that s/he experienced one crucial event in his/her life, and this was the turning point of their biography. In Christian discourse this model is first associated with the sudden conversion of St Paul. Nevertheless, 212

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the life of Mary of Egypt and the unofficial version of the life of Mary Magdalene were more suitable for comparisons with my biographical interviews. In contrast to Paul’s model, they were not cases of changes in ideology or of experience of revelation, but examples of a radical turn, from sin to virtue. Officially the Orthodox Church denies the sinful past of Mary Magdalene and worships her solely as the closest disciple of Christ, healed by Him from seven demons. However, according to a more widespread perception, primarily caused by the influence of Western European art, Mary Magdalene is seen as an adulterous and repentant prostitute. Mary of Egypt (ca 344–ca 421) is seen as another repentant adulteress. Her conversion happened at a time when she wanted to enter the temple in Jerusalem, but she was unable to do so as an invisible force would not let her in. After that she repented and went into the wilderness, where she lived alone for 47 years. The first 17 years in the desert, equal to the duration of 17 years of her dissolute life, were a hard time of spiritual struggle with her carnal passions. Then came peace of mind and enlightenment. The story of Mary of Egypt, in comparison with Mary Magdalene, focuses not only on the grace of forgiveness, but also on the ‘economic’ principle that the size of the human spiritual self-purification should be equal to the size of the sins committed. The life of Mary of Egypt is well known in the Orthodox Church as it is mentioned many times in worship and preaching during Lent. Thus the Russian Orthodox Church officially offers it as a biographical pattern to all believers.The lives of both saints embody the model of spiritual biography spoken by Christ: ‘So the last will be first ...’ (Matthew, 20:16). However, the fact that these saints have the same name as the Virgin Mary may also not be entirely accidental. Theologians sometimes call the Mother Mary the ‘new Eve’, who saved mankind from the crime of first Eve, and did not give life to death but presented everlasting life (for example, St Irenaeus,Augustine and others).Thus, for world history, the Virgin Mary is an expression of the highest stage of womanhood and humanity as a whole, which overcomes all sins of previous history. Correlating this scheme of world history with individual biographies, we can see that the woman’s life before religious conversion is related to Eve, the culprit of the fall, but her life after conversion should correspond with the image of the Mother of God.Therefore this may be a reason why the repentant adulteresses are named Mary. And this scheme corresponds with an example that I choose to illustrate this type of conversion.This respondent totally denies womanhood (female 213

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sexuality) in Orthodoxy as something unseemly. (It should be noted that all names in this chapter have been changed to protect anonymity.) Vera, 37 years old, housewife with higher education, second marriage, two children, church member for five years: ‘Each of us [women] should strive to ... at least for a small drop to be similar to the image of the Blessed Virgin.... I mean, a woman can behave in different ways…. So, a woman in Orthodoxy cannot be. There is a mother.… But a mother is everything.’ As I conclude from my materials on Orthodox narrations about radical conversion, the turning point rather is often the moment of the first confession. And just like in the story of Mary of Egypt, the life and personality of a converted person are explained as being totally changed after confession, and new values lead the convert to concentrate on spiritual work. Now, past life could be assessed as full of sin and contemporary life as tended towards virtue: ‘And after this confession I changed my life completely, I mean absolutely, fundamentally.There is an expression that someone died for the world. I have also died, I became absolutely another person.... I have understood why I did come to this place. I came there to confess my old life and to begin the new one.’ From adolescence Vera had done everything opposite to her parents’ opinion and to ‘tradition’. For six months before her conversion she had suffered from a feeling that she “was doing something wrong”. As she describes, “something shouted inside of me”. But she could not decide by herself what to do with and how she should change her live. She didn’t explain what it was that she felt that had done wrong, but just said that in her life she “had violated all ten commandments”. And if she didn’t turn to God, “some disaster should have happened ”, because “God had tolerated me for too long”. At the end she confessed and it was absolutely spontaneous. Such an increase of internal tension with subsequent release from it through repentance is also typical for this conversion model: ‘Nowadays I like my behaviour more, because before I was simply horrified by it.... I am trying to understand why that minus, which was before baptism ... I just understand that 214

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it was given [by the Lord] for comparison between what I had and what I have. I appreciate what I have [these days]. And I need to clean what I have done. It is dragging behind me, like a huge parachute of a paratrooper, which prevents him to go. This is all from there [from the past].’ Monosemantic division of life between the ‘minus’ before the conversion and the ‘plus’ after it, the description of the past life by the metaphor of the paratrooper’s parachute, which she wanted to get rid of, are comparable with the construction of the life of Mary of Egypt.

Radical turn from this world to beyond Rejoice, exalting to heaven those who have love and faith to you….Thou through whom those who are on the earth join those who are in heaven, together singing to God: Alleluia! (Akathist hymn for the Dormition of the Theotokos) Another variation of radical conversion is related to an experience of mourning due to the loss of a loved person. This is sufficiently developed in Orthodox discourse. For example, the path to holiness of the St Blessed Xenia of St Petersburg and St Martyr Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna (Romanova), both widely revered in Russia, began with the tragic deaths of their husbands. In my collection of interviews there was the case of radical conversion of a young 22-year-old woman (Marina), who had suffered from the sudden death of her husband (Dmitry) as a result of cardiac arrest during his sleep, and with whom she had lived for about two “absolutely happy” years. Immediately after his death she began intensive communication with familiar people of faith, and her baptism followed a month later. She then began to practise religion to a full extent and on a regular basis In the course of a year her lifestyle had changed from secular to religious, so at the time of the interview, Marina perceived herself as a totally changed person. Due to her religious conversion she was able to support her unconscious fantasy of unity with the deceased,2 her husband, by Christian ideas about the possibility of reuniting souls in the kingdom of Heaven: ‘A lot of people told me that if you are not baptised, you won’t be able to meet with him in the kingdom of Heaven. And in order to meet with him, I was ready, I do not know, 215

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for everything, and to be baptised, so much less.... 28 August, Dormition [of Theotokos] I was baptised.... His mother became my godmother ... and since then, I think this is a miracle, grace of the Holy Spirit had changed me....’ If we analyse Christian meanings and symbols used for constructing this biography, above all it is notable that Marina’s baptism was held on the Orthodox Feast of the Dormition of the Mother of God. On the one hand, this could be viewed as simple coincidence with the moment when the woman decided to be baptised (a month after her husband’s death). On the other hand, we can assume that the coincidence of these events was not random. After all, the semantic content of this Feast also corresponds with the biographical situation of the woman. She could have used it to resolve a psychological crisis after the loss of her partner. According to church tradition, it was directly at the moment of the Virgin Mary’s death that the apostles had a vision of Christ that came down from heaven and took the soul of his mother in his hands and carried it to the kingdom of Heaven (see Figure 9.1). It seems that this story played a role as model and metaphor for Marina with which she designed and realised her own spiritual life after the death of her husband. She describes him almost as a saint: “clear, bright”, “there is no more like him”. She and her friends took it for granted that after death he was in Paradise. Baptism, then, became for her the mystery of the connection not only with God but also, perhaps first and foremost, with Dmitry, who, as imaginary in this sacrament, encouraged her soul from earthly life to heaven where he now resided. Figure 9.1:Theophan the Greek (1392), Dormition of Theotokos

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A year after her husband’s death Marina experienced a state of divine grace, which at the same time was for her similar to the happiness that she had only previously experienced with Dmitry. Thus, without waiting for her own death, in her fantasy she felt reunited with her beloved: ‘... on the anniversary of Dmitry’s death I went to Diveevo [monastery] [again].... I really felt the grace, as it was when we were riding horses [with him], and I was absolutely happy. I think when the Holy Spirit visits a person, he feels just like this. Even, perhaps, no external event happens with him, but one is just happy because of nothing. It was with me, too, I’m happy, and I do not know why. I feel love to everyone and that is all.’ It doesn’t seem a random coincidence that Marina’s experience of grace came exactly a year after her loss. It also shows how she had created her spiritual life in accordance with the scenario of living in mourning in Orthodoxy. It is traditionally recommended for people close to the deceased to pray for the blessed repose of the deceased’s soul, particularly during the first year after death. So Marina repeated the trip to Diveevo on the anniversary of Dmitry’s death, and she felt divine grace, which proved for her the victory of her faith over death. It was as if she was celebrating a reunion with her husband in another world.This imagined unity was so strong that she did not think about finding a new partner: “I do not want to marry”. She felt that her love for her deceased husband would warm her whole life. A separate issue for further study of this type of religious conversion is the question of its sustainability. However, even if after a period of mourning the woman finds another partner and her religious life changes by degree and form, it will not reduce the significance of her tragic experience, which she has lived through and has structured within the framework of Orthodox discourse.

Gradual turning that happens in stages Know that at the highest stages of the spiritual ladder terrible falls happen, and on the first stages the divine grace visits by mercy of God. Therefore, never be proud to have achieved a lot.... But work quietly, relentlessly and patiently

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... until the end of your days, always, until the Lord will call you. (Archpriest Valentin Sventsitsky, 1881–1931) This type of narration about religious conversion could be attributed to the archetype of the stairway3 as gradual path of man to God, which has its own stages. The symbolic meaning of a stairway appeared in the famous creation of St John Climacus’ ‘Ladder of divine ascent’, which became widespread in ancient Russia from the 14th century and remains popular to this day. The book consists of 30 chapters, describing 30 degrees of increasing ‘from the earth to the holy’ to reach and ‘measure the age of Christ’, which corresponds to the number of years Jesus lived before his baptism. After passing those degrees, people will find the highest spiritual gift – Christian love to everyone – and be ‘righteous and saved from falling’. In biographical narratives a model of gradual religious conversion can be seen when life is presented as a sequence of events and experiences that seem to be planned by God and which have gradually led a person to his/her actual religious identity:

Figure 9.2:Vision of St John Climacus, XVI century

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Olga, 27 years old, church member for eight years, chorister, not married: ‘My grandmother was a believer. She came to us very often, and always brought unleavened bread at Easter, and we went with her to the cemetery, and she prayed for all of us.… ‘Well, then ... I moved to St Petersburg. Actually my way to church started here. I studied in college; we had the subject “Fundamentals of Orthodoxy”. And the lecturer was an interesting man, profound.... ‘Yes, and then I also met a girl.... The Lord led me to church through her also. She ... was preparing for first confession, and took me with her. ‘So I came to the temple N.... The first abbot over there was monk B.... Of course, he was a very educated man, excellent confessor, such an extraordinary man.... Actually, I met many friends over there which are still with me.... Thus it began ... there I began to attend [church services]…. ‘Also I studied [in a conservatory] – all people were Orthodox in our group.... ‘And my second year I began to go to convent K.... Then to temple M.... Then I went to visit the relics [of St Panteleimon the Healer] in Moscow, and then started to go to the monastery V where I met ... my confessor. Very strong priest. So in general, the Lord led me.... There were many events. I just know that ... [pause] that the Lord at all times was leading me, by unknown fate, but was leading.’ The stages of biography that lead to God may not only be the exclusive experiences of Orthodoxy, but also any other event that has contributed to conversion. Each plays an important role in personal spiritual development. Further life experience is therefore understood as the never-ending ascension from one level to another on the path to God. It is typical that only after conversion are life events often seen as consistent and ‘not random’. This allows the possibility of presenting God instead of oneself as author of one’s biography. Therefore, there is a great deal of recognition of God’s will in one’s own life even prior to conversion. This could mean: God thinks about me, He loves me. Due to the gradual process of getting into a religious way of life it is difficult to allocate a specific moment of conversion for these people. Describing this type of conversion I do not suppose that each of them uses in his/her biographical narration the metaphor of a ladder, but 219

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they present their conversion as a natural lifetime process, with many consequent and more or less equally important stories, that is, ‘stages’ or ‘steps’.

Gradual reciprocating turning A brother said to Father Sisoy: “Father! What should I do? I fell.” The elder answered: “Arise.” A brother said: “I stood up and fell again.” The elder answered: “Rise again.” Brother: “How long will I stand up and fall?” Elder: “Until your death.” (Christian parable) This model about conversion has something in common with the first (radical turn from sin to virtue) and third (gradual turning in stages) types, because life events are arranged in temporal and logical sequences like gradual conversion in stages. However, there are periodic retreats from that straight path. Therefore, the overall trajectory of conversion emerges as a series of repeating cycles of turning to God and falling away from Him. As an example of this type there was the young woman, Rita, aged 21, who had been a church member since the age of 11.The beginning of her sexual life led her into a deep inner conflict because she was not married to her partner, which, according to church tradition, was a great sin. She went to confession, but after a while she began a sexual relationship with her partner and then needed another confession.This was repeated several times. Her partner was also an Orthodox believer, who faced the same internal conflict and even participated in special church education courses, but this made the situation worse: Rita: ‘Misha went to the church courses. He was often there.… There we have a lot of problems, too. There was penance,4 too. At the end I had become pregnant.We were not married yet. [pause] Well, it was penance further. I had a miscarriage. Then I got pregnant again. It was a hard period for us. I had such a feeling that he moves himself into the right direction, to the faith, and I pull him back, or the other way around, if I begin – he pulls me down. As if we are sitting in a deep hole and we pull each other to the bottom.’ During the gradual reciprocating conversion, the change of lifestyle from secular to religious continued over a long period of time. It looks 220

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like Rita was living in two different worlds that were opposed to each other. In such a situation confession could have turned the person back to church after secular periods. In cases like this it is not possible to define one definitive turning point in the biography, because the relation to church and some other biographical decisions stay unstable for quite a long time.The conversion process actually consists of many turning points. In this example, the stabilisation of Rita’s relation to the church and to her sexual partner was reached only after the birth of children and after re-entry into the church community, with its intensive interpersonal communication and social control. MV (M.B., 1995):‘I would call my path to God and Church “a step forward, two steps back”.... Up to the age of eight I wore a cross, but in second grade during a medical examination at school they found it. That was in the early 1960s. So the cross had to be removed.... I reminded of God when I was passing exams to go to college.... I went to college.... But I did nothing as a sign of gratitude....After committing a grave sin ... I first felt the urgent need for repentance.... Tried to go to church regularly.... I suddenly felt very strong that God ... is somewhere near me.... But this gradually faded out and I continued to live my old life, more embittering and relaxing. I again found myself against a wall, having again suffered a collapse in my life. And then I finally realised that I have been walking in circles, not making nearly any conclusions from what is happening to me, not making any effort to change something.’ For this model of conversion narratives such rhetorical forms as a ‘step forward, two steps back’, ‘throwing from side to side’, ‘to walk in circles’ are typical.

Conclusion Although four types of conversion have been described here as a biographical turning, this does not constitute a finished typology. Rather the aim has been to show the congruence of the respondents’ life stories with samples of Orthodox discourse. In general, the idea of an applied approach is that the discourse frame and its existing rhetorical forms, methods and biographical patterns play the role of an instrument that a person uses for constructing his/ her own life narrative. And a person does it unconsciously rather than 221

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consciously. The research carried out allows for an assertion of the existence of the described models of religious conversion and biography, first, as models of self-presentation on a subjective level and, second, as an institutional discursive model of Orthodoxy. However, the question of why a person chooses between these and other models is still open.As with any biographical narrative, a narrative about conversion reflects the actual identity and self-concept of an individual.And this is a most complex psychosocial phenomenon with multiple determinations, both social and psychological.Therefore, the influence of discourse inevitably involves many other factors. It is also important to note that despite the new religious self-concept, the old ones do not disappear without any trace, but continue to exist in a new Orthodox edition, retaining its main features. Perhaps the similarity between institutional and individual levels of Orthodox biographical discourse can be explained not only by a continuity of the Orthodox tradition over centuries, but also by the existence of some universal personality types, according to which people build their relationship with God at all times.Taking the given research into account, we can assume both one and the other. Notes Lofland and Stark (1965) gave this explanation with reference to Hughes (1958) and Strauss (1962). 1

Such a fantasy is inherent to all people at some stage of their life through bereavement (see Freud, 1917). 2

In general, the most famous story using the image of the ladder in Christian culture is the Biblical dream of the patriarch Jacob (see Genesis, 28:12-16). It is also interpreted as a symbol of God the Son’s birth from the Virgin Mary, who called for this ‘heavenly ladder’. 3

4

Penance here means punishment given by the church for sins committed .

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Bromley, D.G. and Shupe Jr, A.D. (1979) ‘Just a few years seems like a lifetime: a role theory approach to participation in religious movements’, in L. Kriesberg (ed) Research in social movements, conflict, and change, Greenwich, CT: JAI Press, pp 159-85. Burke, K. (1965) Permanence and change: An anatomy of purpose, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Clark, J. (1979) ‘Cults’, Journal of the American Medical Association, vol 242, pp 279-81. Conway, F. and Siegelman, J. (1978) Snapping:America’s epidemic of sodden personality change, New York: Lippincott. Downton Jr, J.V. (1980) ‘An evolutionary theory of spiritual conversion and commitment: the case of the Divine Light Mission’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, vol 19, no 4, pp 381-96. Enroth, R. (1977) Youth, brainwashing and the extremist cults, Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan. Freud, S. (1913) Totem und Tabu: Einige Übereinstimmungen im Seelenleben der Wilden und der Neurotiker [Totem and taboo: Resemblances between the psychic lives of savages and neurotics], Leipzig und Wien: H. Heller & Cie. Freud, S. (1917)‘Trauer und Melancholie’ [‘Mourning and melancholia’], Internationale Zeitschrift für Ärztliche Psychoanalyse, Bd. 4 (6), S. 288-301; Gesammelte Werke, Bd. 10, S. 428-46. Freud, S. (1930) Das Unbehagen in der Kultur [Civilization and its discontents], Wien: Internationaler Psychoanalytischer Verlag. Fromm, E. (1949) Psychoanalysis and Religion, Yale University Press. Gerlach, L.P. and Hine,V. (1968) ‘Five factors crucial to the growth and spread of modern religious movement’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, vol 7, pp 23-40. Gerlach, L. and Hine, V. (1970) People, power and change, Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs-Merrill. Gooren, H. (2007) ‘Reassessing conventional approaches to conversion: toward a new synthesis’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, vol 46, no 3, pp 337-53. Gooren, H. (2010) Religious conversion and disaffiliation. Tracing patterns of change in faith practices, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Greil, A. and Rudy, D.R. (1984) ‘What have we learned from process models of conversion? An examination of ten case studies’, Sociological Focus, vol 17, pp 305-23. Harrison, M.I. (1974) ‘Preparation for a life in the spirit: the process of initial commitment to a religious movement’, Urban Life and Culture, vol 2, pp 387-414. Hine, V. (1970) ‘Bridge burners: commitment and participants in a religious movement’, Sociological Analysis, vol 31, pp 61-6. 223

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Holland, J. and Thomson, R. (2009) ‘Gaining perspective on choice and fate’, European Societies, vol 11, no 3, pp 451-69. Hughes, E.C. (1958) Men and their work, Glencoe, IL: Free Press, Chapter 1. Ipatova, L.P. (2006) ‘Types of religious conversion to Orthodoxy within contemporary Russian women’, PhD thesis defended at the Institute of Sociology of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow (in Russian, unpublished). James, W. (1902) The varieties of religious experience: A study of human nature (reprinted in 1963), New Hyde Park, NY: University Books. Kanter, H.M. (1968) ‘Commitment and social organization. A study of commitment mechanisms in utopian communities’, American Sociological Review, vol 33, pp 499-517. Kilbourne, B. and Richardson, J.T. (1989) ‘Paradigm conflict, types of conversion, and conversion theories’, Sociological Analysis, vol 50, no 1, pp 1-21. Kirkpatrick, L.A. (1988) ‘An attachment-theoretical approach to the psychology of religion’, International Journal for the Psychology of Religion, vol 2, pp 3-28. [Reprinted (1997) in B. Spilka and D. McIntosh (eds), Psychology of religion: Theoretical approaches, New York: Westview, pp 114-33]. Lofland, J. and Stark, R. (1965) ‘Becoming a world-saver: a theory of conversion to a deviant perspective’, American Sociological Review, vol 30, no 6, pp 862-75. Lofland, J. and Skonovd, N. (1981) ‘Conversion motifs’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, vol 20, no 4, pp 373-85. M.B. (1995) в:‘Свидетельства:Мойпутьк БогуивЦерковь,Журнал«Православная община» [M.V. (1995) in ‘Evidences: My way to God and the Church’, The Orthodox community, no 27, pp 14-28]. Mead, G.H. (1934) Mind, self, and society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Oksanen, A. (1994) Religious conversion. A meta-analytical study, Lund: Lund University Press. Paloutzian, R.F., Richardson, J.T. and Rambo, L.R. (1999) ‘Religious conversion and personality change’, Journal of Personality, vol 67, no 6, pp 1047-79. Pickett, J.W. (1933) Christian mass movements in India, New York: Abingdon. Pirutinsky, S. (2009) ‘Conversion and attachment insecurity among Orthodox Jews’, International Journal for the Psychology of Religion, vol 19, pp 200-6. 224

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Rambo, L.R. (1993) Understanding religious conversion, New Haven, CT and London:Yale University Press. Rambo, L.R. (1999) ‘Theories of conversion: understanding and interpreting religious change’, Social Compass, vol 46, no 3, pp 259-71. Richardson, J.T. (ed) (1978) Conversion careers: In and out of the new religions, Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications. Richardson, J.T. (1982) ‘Conversion, brainwashing and deprogramming’, The Center Magazine, vol 15, no 2, pp 18-24. Richardson, J.T. (1985) ‘The active vs passive convert: paradigm conflict in conversion/recruitment research’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, vol 24, no 2, pp 163-79. Robbins, T. and Anthony, D. (1978) ‘New religions, families and brainwashing’, Society, vol 15, no 4, pp 77-81. Schein, E., Schneier, I. and Barker, C.H. (1961) Coercive persuasion, New York: Norton, Ronald. Schuetze, F. (1983) ‘Biographieforschung und narratives Interview’, [‘Biographical research and narrative interview’], Neue Praxis, vol 13, no 3, pp 283-93. Singer, M. (1979) ‘Coming out of the cults’, Psychology Today, vol 12, no 8, pp 72-82. Snow, D.A. and Phillips, C.L. (1980) ‘The Lofland–Stark conversion model: a critical reassessment’, Social Problems, vol 27, no 4, pp 430-47. Snow, D.A. and Machalek, R. (1984) ‘The sociology of conversion’, Annual Review of Sociology, vol 10, pp 167-90. Stark, R. and Bainbridge,W.S. (1980) ‘Networks of faith: interpersonal bonds and recruitment to cults and sects’, American Journal of Sociology, vol 85, pp 1376-95. Straus, R.A. (1976) ‘Changing oneself: seekers and the creative transformation of life experience’, in J. Lofland (ed) Doing social life: The qualitative study of human interaction, New York:Wiley, pp 252-72. Straus, R.A. (1979) ‘Religious conversion as a personal and collective accomplishment’, Sociological Analysis, vol 40, no 2, pp 158-65. Strauss, A.L. (1959) Mirrors and masks: The search for identity, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Strauss, A.L. (1962) ‘Transformations of identity’, in A. Rose (ed) Human behavior and social processes, Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, pp 67-71. Taylor, B. (1976) ‘Conversion and cognition: an area for empirical study in the microsociology of religious knowledge’, Social Compass, vol 22, pp 5-22. Tippett, A.R. (1976) ‘Conversion as a dynamic process in Christian mission’, Missiology, vol 5, pp 203-21. 225

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Primary sources АкафистУспениюПресвятойБогородицы, сайт:Успение [Akathist hymn for the Dormition of the Theotokos, web source: The Dormition]: http://uspenie.paskha.ru/ slujbi/Service/Akafist/ ЖитиепреподобнойМарииЕгипетской, cайт:Православноечтение:cборник душеполезныхтекстов [The Life of St Mary of Egypt, web source: Orthodox reading: compilation edifying texts]: www.zavet.ru/maregip.htm Лествицаилискрижалидуховные преподобногоотцанашего Иоанна, игуменаСинайскойгоры, сайт:Благовещение:библиотека православногохристианина [Ladder or spiritual testament of our St father John, Abbot of Mount Sinai, web source: The Annunciation: the library of the Orthodox Christian]: www.wco. ru/biblio/books/ioannl1/Main.htm ‘Великнетот,ктоникогданепадал,акто частовставал’.ПисьмаотцаАлексия Мечева,сайт:Причал[‘Great is not the one who never fell, and who often get up’, Letters from Father Alexei Mechev, web source: Berth]: www.priestt.com/article/rel/religion_762.html Свенцицкий, прот. Валентин. Диалог десятый. Одуховнойжизни. Сайт: Православная беседа [Sventsitskiy, archpriest Valentin. Dialogue Ten: On the spiritual life, web source: Orthodox conversation]: http://pravbeseda.ru/library/index. php?page=book&id=158 Доколежемневставатьипадать?Сайт: Притчиимудрыевысказыванияо смыслежизничеловека.Православные христианскиепритчи [How long will I stand up and fall? Web source: Parables and wise sayings about the meaning of human life. The Orthodox Christian parables]: www.smisl-zhizni. ru/istorii-iz-zhizni/51-realnie-pritchi/291-opyat-upal

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Conclusion: theorising turning points and decoding narratives Feiwel Kupferberg What are turning points, and how are they to be described and analysed? How might a stronger focus on turning points help us to advance sociological biography research? This is what this book is about. It combines theoretical work with a number of concrete, empirical analyses of turning points, starting from different theoretical and methodological traditions within the contemporary academic landscape, but nevertheless with the overall conviction that the concept of turning points is a good start, both to make a theoretical contribution and to provide methodological advice (heuristics) on how to go about interpreting biographical narratives.

Sociology and biography research Traditionally, sociologists who have been interested in biographical narratives have found the concept of ‘turning points’ a good conceptual tool to start with.Whatever turning points mean (a crucial career step, a life crisis, an epiphany, a milestone, the last straw, role exit etc), it points at the crucial nexus between social structure and personal agency that has been at the centre of the sociological knowledge interest. Indeed, a number of central concepts in sociology derive from the use of biographical material. The ‘Thomas theorem’, or the idea that subjective beliefs are objective in the sense of having real social consequences, was a result of Thomas and Znaniecki’s (1918–1920/1923) study of personal letters by Polish immigrants in Chicago sent to the families back home. The idea of the ‘sociological imagination’, coined by C. Wright Mills (1959), argued that biographies make it possible to combine history, society and individual processes of meaning. Berger and Luckmann’s (1966) concept,‘the social construction of reality’, can be seen as a theoretical generalisation of Alfred Schutz’s (1973–75) biographically attuned concepts for studying the life world, among them the idea of ‘recipes’ and ‘biographical stocks of knowledge’. 227

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More recently Anthony Giddens’ (1991) concepts of ‘late modernity’ and ‘self-identity’ (which are very close to Ulrich Beck’s 1992 concepts of ‘reflexivity’ and ‘risk society’) have been widely used by biography researchers. But where do these concepts come from? It is important to understand our own intellectual history in order to be more critically aware of what concepts mean or bring with them. Giddens and Beck’s concepts are not identical; they have different intellectual sources. Whereas Beck’s concepts derive from Everett Hughes occupational sociology (see below), Giddens’ concept of self-identity has its intellectual origins in Goffman’s (1959) dramaturgical analysis of face-to-face interaction (the ‘monitoring’ or ‘reflexive’ aspect of the ‘presentation of self ’). This is the reason why self-identity for Giddens is basically a form of self-presentation. But whereas Goffman focuses on how physical space (place) influences the presentation of self, Giddens argues that selfidentities are structured by time as well as space (Adam, 1995).The latter function as structurating contexts that endow the self-presentations with a narrative quality missing in Goffman’s dramaturgical ‘here and now’ model. Self-presentations for Giddens become ongoing, constantly revised biographical accounts of one’s self-identity. These accounts are not mere reflections on past events, however. They, in a sense, constitute the present identity of the narrator and, moreover, include the future as well. Sociologists are of course not the only ones who have been interested in narratives.There is a long tradition of ‘oral history’ going back to the 1940s (Charlton et al, 2007; Perks and Thomson, 2009) that more or less seems to live a life of its own, having few contacts with biography research. Nevertheless there are clear parallels between the concerns raised by oral historians and sociological biography researchers. Portelli’s (1981) emphasis on the role of subjectivity as a core concern, his view of oral history as a common product of interviewer and interviewee, the foregrounding of cultural scripts as well as literary theory for interpreting biographical material (change of tempo, the position of the narrator, style or genre) are issues that are discussed within the sociological and psychological literature as well (Squire, 2008). In fact a ‘blurring’ of different disciplines seems to take place here. Thus during the 1980s, Jerome Bruner, one of the leading cognitive psychologists, discovered the importance of narratives as an alternative to the traditional ‘paradigmatic’ or scientific text when individuals seek to obtain meaning in the world (Bruner, 1986). For Bruner, the narrative is ‘one of the most ubiquitous and powerful discourse forms in human communication … it requires, first a means for emphasizing 228

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human action or “agentivity” – action towards goals controlled by agents … secondly, that a sequential order be established and maintained … thirdly… a sensitivity to what is canonical and what violates canonicality in human interaction. Finally, narrative requires something approximating a narrator’s perspective, it cannot, in the jargon of narratology, be “voiceless”’ (Bruner, 1990, p 77). Moreover narratives ‘achieve the power to structure perceptual experiences ... organize memory … segment and purpose-build the “events” of life …we become the autobiographical narratives by which we “tell about” our lives’ (Bruner, 1987, p 15). The attempt to create meaning in life starts very early, according to Bruner (1990), but is at the beginning expressed mostly through gesture and sounds. As the child acquires language, these prelinguistic attempts to communicate and make sense of the world develop into full-scale narratives. For Bruner, emphasising meaning and narratives represent a viable alternative to Chomsky’s de-semanticised, mainly ‘paradigmatic’ view of human language (Pinker, 1995). The urge to create meaning is hence both natural and culturally shaped at the same time. Any kind of deeply felt experience lends itself to autobiographical narratives. I have supervised sociology students and/ or analysed biographical interviews with childless couples talking about the experience of adopting a child, single people who for some reason had ended up singles, refugees and their attempts to acculturate to a new world, male and female immigrants who had tried to set up their own businesses, academic entrepreneurs, young nurses, East German teachers and other members of the intelligentsia experiencing the minor trauma of reunification. Perhaps the most difficult study I have been involved in concerned supervising a student making biographical interviews with patients who had gone through the harrowing experience of heart transplants. The unnerving question of how to cope with the emotional impact of storytelling (Oatley, 2002) is a constant risk that biography researchers have to face. As suggested by Roseman (1999), who has interviewed survivors of the Holocaust, uncontrolled emotions may end up overwhelming the interviewer as well. The latter might even have to stop the interview or move ahead to another topic to escape the danger zone into which they have suddenly been trapped. This suggests that some type of interviews should only be made by sociologists who have received training in psychology, psychotherapy or other types of crisis management in which members of the caring professions are trained. On the other hand, it is precisely these professions that might look on biographical interviews as a helpful tool in their own work with clients 229

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(Chamberlayne et al, 2004). Biographical interviews hence mobilise not only the role of the distant researcher to which sociologists have traditionally been trained – it is rather a crowded terrain with many stakeholders in fact. What is particular for the sociological approach to biographical narratives is a kind of childlike curiosity of a mainly theoretical kind. Practical and theoretical concerns do not have to exclude each other – practical concerns are what makes sociological problems interesting (Popper, 1957) – nevertheless, scholars have their own agenda that is of a more conceptual, theoretical kind. Sociology as a theoretical discipline is primarily interested in the impact of modernity or processes of modernity (however we call them – late modernity, postmodernity or just modernity) on social agents. Studying subjectivity, the creation of meaning or how individuals constitute self-identities through both stable and changing biographical narratives becomes interesting for sociologists mainly because this particular method makes the relative abstract theories of modernity more visible and concrete. But how do biographical narratives, often called ‘memory work’ (Bornat, 2001, uses the interesting concept ‘life review’) function in practice? And what do biographical researchers actually do when they use biographical methods in order to unpack or decode such narratives? What type of constraints, but also new possibilities, emerge when our primary data are stories told by individuals about their own lives? And how does the concept of ‘turning point’ come in here? If we look at how sociologists have traditionally approached these issues, we find a number of different positions.

Objectivist and subjectivist accounts These can, as a start, be divided into an ‘objectivist’ and a ‘subjectivist’ approach.According to the objectivist approach, biographical narratives can be seen as coping strategies that are pre-structured. A ‘turning-point’ from such a structural or objectivistic point of view can be seen as a kind of destabilisation of a socially structured ‘life trajectory’. Such a life trajectory might be structured in different ways, however, as well as in different degrees. According to Bourdieu (2000), life trajectories are strongly structured, in particular by family background. Turning points in such familystructured life trajectories somehow confirm the importance of social inequalities and adaptive cultural traditions (habitus). We are not as modern as we tend to believe. Life trajectories are, according to this theoretical perspective, not characterised by autonomy – this is a 230

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romantic (individualistic) illusion. On the contrary, they tend to be heteronymous. Family background (inherited economic, social, cultural and symbolic capital) is stronger than individual intentions and turning points are here to prove it. Abbott (2001) also has a basically objectivistic view of life trajectories, but for him these are determined less by family background than by institutionalised occupational systems (jobs or positions to be filled). This is evident in vacancy chains that are opened as the encumbant leaves for a new job. The act of opening presents one kind of turning point for the person who gets the job. For the person or applicant who misses the chance, we are clearly dealing with a quite different experience. The point is that the individual has little control over his or her life trajectory in both these theories. A third theory, which also emphasises structures but leaves more control to the individual, is represented by the work of Everett Hughes. In Men and their work, Hughes (1964) argues that even after an individual has entered a given career, say the highly structured pattern of medicine, there are important career decisions to be made, which in effect might influence the future (personal destiny) of that individual (say the options of becoming either a general practitioner or a specialist). Such career choices are always made under conditions of uncertainty, however, mainly because the information to make a fully rational choice is usually lacking at the time of the decision. It is only later in his or her career that the individual finds out the consequences of a previous choice or commitment and at this time it is usually too late (or to costly) to reverse the decision. A similar argument was made by Hughes’ student Howard Becker.The latter introduced the important (but rarely used) concept ‘commitment’ (Becker, 1960). A commitment is defined as ‘side-bets’ or unintended consequences of a given career choice of which the individual only comes aware gradually a long time after the commitment has been made (for empirical verification, see Becker’s doctoral study on Chicago school teachers – Becker, 1951 – and my own studies on East German high school graduates and young Danish nurses in Northern Jutland – Kupferberg, 1998a, 1999). Hughes and Becker’s early work clearly influenced Beck’s (1992) concept of ‘risk society’ which also foregrounds the importance of structure. But here structure is conceptualised as increased uncertainty of choice that forces individuals to be ‘reflexive’ when they make important career decisions in life (for an illustration of how all these three structural theories of life trajectories and turning points

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complement each other in practice, see Chapter One on artistic careers in Northern Jutland). In contrast to these ‘objectivist’,‘structural’ or ‘life trajectory’ theories of what turning points are and how they work, there is also a huge literature foregrounding the ‘subjective’, ‘experienced’ or ‘narrated’ aspects of personal lives (Labov and Waletzky, 1967; Kohler Riessman, 2008). Apart from Norman Denzin’s work, where the literary concept of ‘epiphany’ introduced by James Joyce in the book of short stories published under the title Dubliners (Joyce, 1993) has been seen as a ‘model’ for understanding the deeply subjective aspects of turning points (see, in particular, Denzin, 1989), perhaps the most well-known and influential ‘subjective’ description of turning points can be found in Anselm Strauss’s (1959) book Mirrors and masks. Strauss’s concept of turning points is itself presented in a narrative rather than analytical (paradigmatic) form which makes it less transparent than most of his other texts, leaving much of the role of interpretation to the ‘reader’ rather than the ‘writer’. In my own reading I originally felt the core of Strauss’s narrative best captured by the metaphor of a train coming to a sudden stop. Having reread his Mirrors and masks while writing this chapter, I discovered there was another, more traditional (Weberian-type) typology hidden inside the text. The latter can be seen as a kind of classification system or ‘taxonomy’ (Kuhn, 2000), that is, a way to define the world into a number of given categories, in this case three major types of subjectively felt turning points: the ‘milestone’, ‘meeting a challenge’ and ‘the last straw’. What is interesting and new here is that ‘rational’ considerations – which are usually in the forefront of a strictly Weberian interpretation (Freund, 1969) – are seen as less important than the emotional impact of the subjective feelings of the actor. Here there is a clear parallel with Portelli’s work and with Norman Denzin, who both found the literary approach helpful precisely because most literature is about felt or lived experience rather than rationally argued choices. The best illustration I can think of is Marcel Proust’s novel on the topic of remembrance, which introduces a number of literary techniques used in memory work (resurrection of time; see Ricœur, 1984) such as iterative narratives, scenic descriptions, ironic distancing and so on (Genette, 1980). The focus on subjectively felt experiences is precisely the logic of the three concepts introduced by Strauss. A milestone communicates the idea of how we feel when confronted with the need to make an assessment of our life so far.What have we actually accomplished in life, what can we proudly present in the company of others and what should we better keep for ourselves? This is a situation described in Verónica 232

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Zubillaga’s interviews with reformed youth criminals when they renarrate their motives to enter the criminal world (see Chapter Six) but also in Ágnes Sántha’s chapter on singles in Hungary (Chapter Seven). The latter do not want to remain singles but at the same time do not seem to be in any hurry to get out of their present non-married status. Meeting a challenge conveys a somewhat different type of feeling. Here we can no longer rely on past accomplishments. The latter are more or less worthless in the situation we find ourselves in at this moment, that is, we need to improvise, which does not always turn out for our advantage. Gerhard Jost’s narratives on loss of a parent at a young age (Chapter Five) as well as Thea Boldt’s description of Polish migrants trying to adjust to a culturally strange and socially isolated life in Germany (Chapter Four) hints at the role such challenges play as defining moments of life which need to be remembered in a story form. Finally, the last straw conveys the feeling of an urgent life choice that has been postponed for a long time (such as considerations of quitting a job, applying for a divorce, ‘coming out of the closet’, etc), but where unplanned events forces us to make a choice. The choice of migrant women to divorce their husbands described in Ana Gherghel and Marie-Christine Saint-Jacques’ chapter on immigrant single mothers in Québec (Chapter Three) falls into this category as does Nicki Ward’s chapter about women living in lesbian relationships although not necessarily considering or categorising themselves as lesbians (Chapter Eight). The last straw might also feel like liberation, allowing us to do what we have always wanted to do but did not dare to, exemplified in Catherine Négroni’s chapter on the latency period preceding conversion experiences among French professionals (Chapter Two) and Liana Ipatova’s chapter on religious conversion in Russia (Chapter Nine). The concept of ‘last straw’ informs Fuchs-Ebaugh’s (1988) naturalistic or evolutionary model of turning points in Becoming an ex. FuchsEbaugh’s own personal background (she was a nun living in a cloister before she radically changed her life, left the cloister and ended up as a professor of sociology) might have influenced her model which, in spite of its naturalistic framework, is very much preoccupied with the subjective meaning-construction of individuals throughout their life trajectories. Her work illustrates that objectivist and subjectivist perspectives do not have to exclude each other, but might, on the contrary, complement each other, in order better to take account of the complexity of life. In this sense too, biography research moves closer to literature, which seeks to overcome the fragmentation of life imposed

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by the scientific method, where even Weberian Verstehen tends to get lost in competing perspectives (Aron, 1967/1980). As suggested by Nicki Ward, a combination of a realistic and a constructivist approach might be what the biography researcher should be aiming at. We need the realistic (objectivistic) approach in order to emphasise that we are dealing with factual narratives or ‘lived experience’, but we also need the constructivist (subjectivistic) approach in order to study more in detail how such lived experience is narrated. Gabriele Rosenthal (1993, 1995) has emphasised this ‘dual’ approach. She has developed a highly sophisticated method in order to combine the two levels. According to Rosenthal, a biographical analysis must constantly alternate between the two levels, the realistic level (erlebte Lebensgeschichte) and the constructed level (erzählte Lebensgeschichte). Combining the two levels of analysis, the objective and subjective, has the further advantage of overcoming the most common critiques of biography research – asking informants to retell their lives cannot produce valid empirical material. How can we trust such material, how do we know that what we are served are not fictional stories rather than facts? What we tend to forget is that fiction is also a kind of reality in the sense that it provides the overall structures through which individuals establish meaning in life, and become who they are. It is precisely for this reason we need to look closer at how stories are actually told and what structures such storytelling.

Core questions One reason for emphasising ‘turning points’ as a crucial concept in biography research would be to resist the fragmentation within sociological biography research and to try to assemble these different research areas into a more theoretically and methodologically integrated subdiscipline. For this purpose, however, we need to look at how objectivist (structural) and subjectivist (narrative) approaches might be interwoven in the interpretative work. But to see how this can be done, we need to know more about how structures and narratives interact in empirical cases. Here the concept of ‘turning point’ seems to be an excellent starting point, precisely because it unites what is fragmented in sociological research practice. Our contributors move freely between different methodological traditions, but nevertheless are able to agree on the critical role of turning points in biographical analysis. This commonality, established by the concept of ‘turning point’, is the basic rationale of this book and what it seeks to accomplish. Its core question is to explore the ‘complementarity’ of perspectives (a concept 234

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introduced by Niels Bohr; see Holton, 1988). Five core questions seem to be important here: • What is the status of the concept ‘turning point’ and is it a descriptive or analytical (theoretical) concept? • Turning points are usually categorised as events, but for an event to become an event it has to be narrated. This raises the ontological question of how something becomes an event and the role narratives play for the constitution of this particular type of reality. • Traditional sociology has been mainly interested in the study of social order. Biography research centred round ‘turning points’ makes visible another type of order, personal order. How is this personal order to be conceptualised and how is it related to social order? • Sociology tends to have a naive view of texts and most of all it lacks a theory of reading. If we want to establish a methodology of interpretation, we need to start with rethinking what interpretation of texts mean and place it firmly within a reader–theory context. What does reading of biographical texts mean, what is a reader doing? • Biographical narratives are interesting for sociologists not only because they tell what happened (facts) but also how the agents made sense of what happened. Such sense-making represents not only personal constructions – they are always filtered and communicated through cultural scripts or narratives. Understanding how such narratives function constitutes the second part of a much needed interpretative methodology. Answering these five questions can help us better to define what a ‘turning point’ is and what makes it different from other types of life transitions.

Turning point as an heuristic tool As suggested by Andrew Abbott (2001), scholars often tend to look down on ‘mere’ descriptions, believing them to be less worthy of attention. But accurate descriptions also make us aware of something we might not have seen or noticed – they make us curious about the world, they help us identify good problems and make visible hidden connections. Sociology as a discipline is primarily curious about the interconnectedness of life and descriptions emphasising turning points; if these are made carefully and somehow touch a raw nerve of social

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life, they can hence be useful as ‘heuristic’ tools for discovery for this particular type of interconnectedness (Abbott, 2004). From a descriptive point of view, what is striking in the chapters presented in this book is the richness of the concept when it comes to establishing or defining interconnections. What has, say, religious conversion in post-revolutionary Russia to do with the life trajectories of violent youth criminals in Caracas and the narratives of lesbians in the UK? Well, there is an interconnection, they are all somehow events related to lifestyle.As such they are different from narratives that emphasise the loss of a parent, divorce or the (transitional) decision to stay single, which are mainly related to family. These in turn are different from narratives about becoming an artist or narratives about career changes that are mainly about professional careers.Those in turn are something different from migration, which is a more complex type of turning point as it can involve all the three dimensions (lifestyle, family life and professional career). Turning points are thus excellent tools to open up the diversity of life in contemporary modernity and at the same time indicate that social order has not disappeared (for a discussion of these issues, see in particular Chapters Seven and Eight). If we use the distinction made by Barney Glaser and Anselm Strauss in their book Status passages (1971), we have now reached what they call the ‘substantive’ level of analysis, that is, the descriptive concept of turning points has helped us to nail down some important chunks of substantial areas of life which are somehow interconnected on a level behind its manifest level (level of abstraction 1). Glaser and Strauss argue, however, that sociological concepts are also able to reach a deeper analytical level, which they call ‘formal’ concepts (level of abstraction 2).The case for using turning points as an heuristic tool of discovery could be made stronger if we could argue that it can also help us reach this deeper level of analysis. Anselm Strauss’s own account, the chapter in Mirrors and masks from 1959, seems to belong in this genre of ‘formal’ analysis. To move from a ‘substantive’ concept to a ‘formal’ analysis we need to do what Wittgenstein suggested when discussing the problems of language. For Wittgenstein, one should look for what he called ‘family resemblance’ rather than Platonic essences. We have already used this device when grouping our different turning points in the substantial categories. What happens if we try to conceptualise turning points from a more formal, that is, more abstract, point of view? Were we to reshuffle our case studies, which the first time fell out into four categories (family, profession, lifestyle and migration), we 236

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might try to identify more abstract family resemblances beneath and across these descriptive and substantial areas. As suggested by Glaser and Strauss in their book Status passages (1971), life transitions are experienced differently because these transitions could be structured in different ways. One dimension is the centrality that a given transition has for the person, another is the degree of control one has on what happens and a third dimension is to what degree a transition is planned or improvised. From this point of view most of the many turning points described in this book have a high degree of centrality, but not all of them are characterised by control, and few have been planned.When an event has a high degree of centrality, but the person feels that he or she has little control and moreover has to improvise along the road, such events can be felt as ‘overpowering’ life events which might have strong emotional repercussions. A case in point is Gerhardt Jost’s chapter (Chapter Five) about losing or being abandoned by one’s parents at an early age. But the feeling of loss of control can also come about relatively late in life.This type of turning point is illustrated by Thea Boldt’s chapter on the ethnicisation of biography (Chapter Four). Here turning points are the results of a milestone or ‘reassessment’ of one’s life that sets in at certain conjunctures of life where there are no or few choices left to be made that could change things in any dramatic manner.The subjective turning point, the feeling of ‘loss of control’, here sets in long after the objective turning point (previous life choices) was made. Religious conversion (see Chapter Nine) and entrance/departure from a violent lifestyle (see Chapter Six) also have a high degree of centrality, but here the subjective feeling of control is much stronger. What is characteristic for these cases is that the agents can rely on highly institutionalised forms of life passages or transitions.These transitions are well prepared by society – there are professionals waiting to couch the agent in making transitions.This might also explain why the transitions themselves are relatively unproblematic. For another group of narrators, turning points are characterised by a long period of vacillation, hesitation, search and so on, until a final decision is made. Catherine Négroni’s chapter on professionals in France (Chapter Two), contemplating a change of career over a number of years, clearly falls in this category. The degree of centrality is high and so is the degree of control; the problem is the lack of planning. Such events have to be improvised along the road. For this reason the ‘biographical work’ sets in long before the turning point. The focus is not on some critical life event but rather the ‘period of vacillation’ or ‘latency’, as Négroni calls it. 237

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Most of the conjugal separations studied in Ana Gherghel and Marie-Christine Saint Jacques’ chapter (Chapter Three) seem to fall into this category as well, as do the decisions for singleness among young Hungarian singles studied by Ágnes Sántha (Chapter Seven). Interestingly, although there has been a long period of vacillation, the decision as such is seen as transitory, that is, these are not permanent choices. The people engaged in such biographical work do not want to feel captured in their new role or lifestyle; they preserve the right to make a new decision anytime they like (an ideology of ‘freedom of choice’ seem to be inherent in such narratives). A fourth type of turning point is illustrated by Nicki Ward’s chapter (Chapter Eight) that analyses the narratives of lesbians. Once again the degree of centrality is high. Society usually does not provide institutionalised events to provide for same-sex couples, which means the way these couples make their commitments tends to be improvised rather than planned. What is specific about them, however, is that the biographical work seems to focus less on problems of latency or vacillation related to the problem of improvisation than on the problem of a normalising ‘discourse’ or categorisation.The narrators are highly sensitive to such categorisations (called ‘labelling’ in Howard Becker’s classical work Outsiders, 1966).The reason for this seems to be that for these lesbians the prime issue is not who is to be in control concerning choice of lifestyle (this is taken for granted, it is a right) but rather how to talk of or categorise the choice of this particular lifestyle. As suggested by Foucault (1971), discourses are ultimately normative, they include some lifestyles within the category of the ‘normal’ and exclude others, suggesting that certain lifestyles are not normal (Hacking, 2000). Discourse analysis has often been watered down into a mere analytical or technical concept for analysing ‘texts’ in general (see Fairclough, 1992). For both Foucault and Becker, what is at stake here goes much deeper and concerns who has the right to define what is normal and supposedly not normal. The difference between the two is that whereas Becker thought that he could identify the ‘bad’ guys, the ‘moral entrepreneurs’, Foucault suggests that the tendency to categorise human behaviour into normal and non-normal is rooted in language itself. It has no subject; on the contrary we become subjects or are subjectified by language. What is interesting in all these cases is that the subjective interpretations of the actor somehow interacted with objective structures in an intricate manner, and it is precisely this interaction or interdependency that the concept of ‘turning point’ is able to pin down in great detail. Life in modernity is highly complex and takes many forms – the battle of how 238

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to describe contemporary modernity is not decided on the abstract level, but needs to be tested and informed by concrete biographical analyses. This is also the reason why we should seek to preserve all the levels of analysis and move gradually from the descriptive to the analytical level.As suggested by C.Wright Mills (1959), the sociological imagination works best by combining the abstract and the concrete. For this purpose we need other concepts than just turning points. One such concept could be memory work, which is what is at stake in biographical narratives. Memory work is usually structured around some central ‘episodes’ in life which have both an objective and subjective importance for the informant. In turn it uses cultural scripts or narratives, which exist on a structural level and guide us into how we tell our lives and at the same time become our narratives, as suggested by Bruner. A narrative is hence a culturally structured form for remembering one’s life in some kind of sequence divided by ‘past’, ‘present’ and ‘future’.This suggests that we need to be more aware of the sociological impact of language on how we think (Dewey, 1910). Human thinking always takes place through some kind of language in the broad sense (and not through an imagined ‘mentaleese’, as suggested by Pinker, 1995). Not only does language structure how we think (Whorf, 1956), without different degrees of linguistic specification we also loose conceptual clarity, and our knowledge itself becomes muddled (Vygotsky, 1988).

Narrated events We have so far suggested that the concept of turning point might be a useful tool for sociologists and social scientists in general, as it helps us: (1) connect an objective and subjective account; (2) move from a more descriptive to an increasingly deeper level of social life; and (3) identify and preserve the interconnectedness of social life.The concept of turning point does more, however. One of the things that makes the study of turning points so fascinating is that it introduces a fourth category in the sociological vocabulary or semantics. If the three main categories used by sociologists are agency (action), structure (system) and interaction (communication), studying turning points makes us aware of the need to take into account a fourth major decoding category for analysing social life which is the category of events (Abbott, 2001). Introducing the concept of events makes us more aware of the ‘process’ quality of social life. Things do not simply repeat themselves as the concept of ‘structure’ (and partly ‘interaction’) suggests; nor do 239

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we have a completely free choice, as the agency concept suggests. Some more significant choices function as ‘commitments’ (Becker, 1960), which means that they are binding (constraining as well as empowering) on later choices (Becker, 1951; Luhmann, 1994). Moreover they tend to start us on certain life trajectories (Abbott, 2001). Emphasising the ‘process’ point of view also means that we foreground the risks of such life choices (Beck, 1992). Choices are made in the present but have consequences for the future, but we have never full information about what these consequences might be. According to Everett Hughes, this explains the ‘anxiety’ we sometimes feel when we make certain choices that we know will have repercussions for the future, but do not know exactly what these repercussions might be. Hence such choices represent risks – we are all, in a sense, entrepreneurs in our own life projects (Hughes, 1964; Kupferberg, 1998a, 1998b; this is also emphasised in Chapters One and Two). Such significant choices are indeed major events in our lives; they starts us on some life trajectory. Since such choices are risky, these life trajectories might at one time be ‘broken’, the line suddenly changes and shifts direction (Abbott, 2001). This means that earlier events/turning points inevitably structure later events/turning points (Luhmann, 1994). Thus the youth described in Verónica Zubillaga’s chapter (Chapter Six) entered a violent lifestyle (turning point 1).This earlier life choice constrained but also empowered later life choices, either to continue a violent lifestyle or to get out of it (turning point 2). In Chapter One, there are no less than four turning points in the narrative of the main informant. A working-class son with no experience of art meets the art world at the age of 15 (turning point 1). Having turned 20, the same person takes the good advice of an older artist and decides to get an education outside art and live ‘for’ rather than ‘off ’ art (turning point 2). Because he mostly worked in graphics, which is relatively profitable, he could have changed that trajectory later and opted to be a full-time artist. Instead he became fascinated in doing massive installations with iron, which is much less commercial (turning point 3). This change of artistic material later made it much more difficult to accomplish what he increasingly wanted to become, a full-time artist, which he only realised later when it was already too late, that is, in the form of reassessment (turning point 4). So far we have described events/turning points as mainly ‘realistic’ phenomenon in social life. They are real in the sense that they have real consequences, but are they only real? Can we talk of ‘events’ unless we assume that such events are somehow narrated? For Abbott (2001) this is not really an issue, since for him the ‘narrative’ aspect of 240

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social life is equivalent to acknowledging that such life has a ‘process’ quality.This might be fine if one assumes that ‘processes’ are themselves ultimately defined by social ‘structures’, but if we take into account the considerations of Niklas Luhmann and Everett Hughes – that individuals to a certain degree produce their own structures that will later determine what they can and cannot do – it seems that the relation between narration, structure and events becomes more complex. Thus a reassessment is a narrative that seeks to investigate how our life has been structured, but since this structure partly came about by previous events, the relation between ‘structure’, ‘narratives’ and ‘events’ becomes somewhat more complicated and not the least intertwined (Grele, 2007). Narratives and events are somehow interrelated in a complex manner, which have to be investigated more closely. What ‘sparks’ a narrative and is that spark the same as what causes an ‘event’? In Gerhard Jost’s chapter (Chapter Five) it seems that the narration was sometimes repressed at the time of the event only to pop up later; in other cases the event was not experienced as an event at the time and hence did not spark narratives, neither then nor later. In Thea Boldt’s chapter (Chapter Four) it seems that later events sparked narratives that in turn reassessed previous events in a new way and so on. If we look at how historians have defined events and narratives, these two aspects are intimately related. According to Hayden White (1981), there are indeed events that seem to be non-narrative representations of historical reality (‘annals’) whereas the other two categories,‘chronicle’ and ‘history proper’, are not. The ‘annals’ merely seem to ‘register’ events in chronological order; they list events. But on what criteria are some events listed and some not? A more detailed analysis of ‘annals’ demonstrates that what initially looks like mere registration contains the embryo of a number of narratives.These narratives in turn tend to form a common pattern or reveal a hidden principle of what counts as an event and what does not. In the example referred to by White, for the annalist of Saint Gall in the 11th century the unstated principle happens to be royal succession. White arrives at the conclusion that the annalist refuses to narrate although the material at hand already contains the embryo of a narrative. This suggests that at the moment we enter the terrain of events, we also enter the terrain of the narrative. Hayden White’s main argument is that narratives are immanent to events, although this immanence only becomes fully visible in historical discourse, where the refusal to narrate is no longer contained but liberated:‘What I am trying to establish is the nature of this immanence in any narrative account of real events, the kind of events that are offered 241

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as the proper content of historical discourse.The reality of these events does not consist in the fact that they occurred but that, first of all, they were remembered and second, that they are able to find a place in a chronologically ordered sequence’ (White, 1981, p 19). According to White, the type of order suggested by chronological sequence is a moral one, in the sense that such sequences become meaningful only if they are situated in a social order of some sort: ‘narrativity, certainly in factual story-telling and probably in fictional story-telling as well, is intimately related to, if not a function of, the impulse to moralize reality, that is to identify it with the social system that is the source of any morality that we can imagine’ (White, 1981, p 14). White’s point is well taken. Given that all storytelling aims at some more or less hidden moral, an important aspect of interpretative work must be to decode that moral but also how the moral that the story aims at influences what events are selected by the narrator, in what order these events are told (sequenced) but also how the narrator tells the story (mode, tempo and so on; see Portelli, 1981). White’s suggestion, that storytelling has a strongly moral component, has informed Gabriele Rosenthal’s (1995) research. She interviewed older Germans who had taken part in the Second World War. As we know, the collective interpretation of what it meant to be a German before, during and after the war has changed dramatically. What looked perfectly ‘moral’ in one historical context might not look ‘moral’ in a different context. This might have an impact on how such narrators select or define ‘events’.Whereas an event might have been present in a narrative told in, say, 1943, it might have disappeared completely in a narrative told in, say, 1983. Hence we must be aware of the possible impact of historical circumstances on how we define or select events. Narratives are not told the same way, historical interpretations change and what might have been selected as an ‘event’ in one historical moment might not be counted as an event in a different historical moment. But not only do we need to be aware of how changing historical reality changes the construction of previous realities and makes us ‘forget’ to include certain events that were indeed important at the time, we also need to know more about how narrative techniques themselves work as rhetorical devices in order to critically analyse how the moral dimension might influence memory work. But for this purpose we must introduce yet another concept in order better to situate the type of stories most sociologists, in contrast to historians, are interested in.

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Personal and social order Although biography research resembles oral history from a methodological point of view, the theoretical interest is not in events as such; events are only interesting for a sociologist if it helps the sociologist to better understand the ordered aspect of life.Traditionally sociologists have mostly been interested in social order, but studying turning points also makes the sociologist aware of a different type of order, the personal order (Abbott, 2001) or life trajectory of any given individual. The question of how and to what degree this personal order should be foregrounded has been a hot topic among sociologists interested in biographical narratives. Some sociologists have seen the investigation of personal order merely as a more sophisticated way of investigating the objective social order (this has been the position of Daniel Bertaux, 1982). Such analyses rarely use the individual narratives to investigate how personal order is shaped by the social order itself. This has been a main critique and knowledge interest in Norman Denzin’s work: sociologists need to be much more attentive to personal order and treat personal order as interesting in its own right. This is also the position of the ‘German School’ founded by Fritz Schütze (for an excellent overview and application of Schütze’s methods, see von Wensierski, 1994). Having studied medical sociology with Anselm Strauss, Schütze became interested in the particular type of life trajectories where ‘suffering’ plays an important role and where individuals gradually seem to lose control over their lives.This suggested to him that some life trajectories might be interesting to study for their own sake, regardless of the societal context.Thus although a researcher studying, say, violent life trajectories in Venezuela, or decisions to remain single in Hungary, needs to be acquainted with respective societies in order to interpret the empirical material (narratives), the goal should be to produce ‘substantial’ knowledge about violent life trajectories or singleness as such in contemporary (‘modern’ or ‘Western-type’) societies. Such substantial knowledge can in turn be generalised into or compared with the concept of personal order as a formal category.The latter has been studied by psychologists interested in developmental psychology and by sociologists who see themselves mainly as social psychologists. The main inspiration of this type of research has been Mead’s (1934) work on the self and how the development of self depends on the significant other. The latter can be defined as that ‘vital’ aspect of social order through which the concrete shaping of 243

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personal order takes place (mum and dad, siblings, friends and enemies, neighbours, school teachers and principals, colleagues and bosses etc). Gerhard Jost’s chapter (Chapter Five) is clearly influenced by this socio-psychological way of investigating personal order, narratives and turning points. The foremost significant others are the parents lost for various reasons (death, abandonment) early in life, and how this fundamental turning point has influenced the life of the individuals (a life which, to a large degree, has been dedicated to finding alternative significant others). Thea Boldt’s Chapter Four has a similar sociopsychological approach. Here the main focus is on the loss of personal ties even before migration, and the attempt to rebuild these ties later on in life. But personal order, although it constitutes a knowledge object and social reality of itself, cannot be understood merely as something existing in its own right.Thus the career concept introduced by Everett Hughes (1964) is somehow related to the general problem of uncertainty in all modern societies and how such uncertainties are coped with. These uncertainties also take different forms in different parts of society. Professional careers (see Chapter Two) are not structured in the same way as artistic careers (see Chapter One). In a similar way life choices concerning lifestyle, family and migration represent other types of uncertainty. The question of how individuals cope with the uncertainties of modern life is a relatively recent discovery of sociology. What is interesting is that literature (poetry, drama, novels) has been investigating precisely this question for more than 2,000 years. It has developed highly sophisticated tools, both of a practical and theoretical kind, which biography researchers can learn a lot from. Indeed any skilled interpretive work must rely on this tradition in order to reach a more sophisticated and precise level of empirical and theoretical analysis.

Interpretative methodology I: reader theory In contrast to the social sciences where narratives have traditionally only attracted a marginal interest, focusing on social structures such as class, gender, ethnicity and so on, literary theory is not interested in such empirical structures. The type of structures being looked for originate from or are layered as hidden structures or codes within the textual or linguistic narratives themselves (Culler, 1975). The purpose of narratology hence is to unbury or decode these linguistic rules that determine or regulate what a narrative is and how it is told (Bal, 1988; Abbott, 2002; Rimmon-Kenan, 2002). 244

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From a sociological point of view, narratology can first of all be seen as a way to increase the degree of reflexivity about the act of interpretation itself.What is it? For structuralists, conceptual accounts of how stories or narratives are constructed are crucial.According to Russian theorists, stories can be analysed through the distinction between ‘fabula’ and ‘sujzet’ (Bal, 1988; Bruner, 2006). ‘Fabula’ is a condensed, abstract or thematic type of story similar to Jung’s ‘archetypes’ whereas the ‘sujzet’ is how the abstract story unfolds or comes to life by filling in the details (how characters look, sequence of events, intentions and causal connections, etc). It also includes more hidden aspects provided for by the fictional narrator or ‘implied writer’ (Booth, 1961) of the story, such as composition, tone, style, visual images, metaphorical use of language, and so on. Because of this distinction between ‘sujzet’ (plot) and ‘fabula’ (theme) the hidden meaning of any latter has to be reconstructed by the reader from the act of reading the ‘sujzet’/plot.The ‘fabula’ or abstract theme/ moral lesson is never directly or openly visible in the narrative. Indeed the tacit rule is that meaning has to be discovered or constructed in the act of reading. It must not be transparent from the start as in the paradigmatic or argumentative mode (Bazerman, 1988). Hence the ‘fabula’, the meaning of the story, has to be creatively reconstructed during the reading or ploughing through the chaotically presented details of the ongoing narrative (‘sujzet’). This makes the reading of narratives (or watching a drama unfold on stage) into an active, creative act (Carter, 2004). In contemporary reader theory, the active and creative role of the reader is strongly foregrounded. Reader theory argues that narratives have ‘gaps’ of meaning, which have to be filled in by the reader (Iser, 1974; Eco, 1984). These gaps must be constructed or produced by the writer, for instance, by the trick of withholding relevant information from the reader at the start, only portioning it out in small doses. Stories often start ‘in media res’ (Hall, 1988), that is, in some previous ‘present’ selected from the ‘past’, and it is only gradually that the information necessary to understand this selected past present (King, 2000) is assembled. Often there are also unexplained breaks in the chronology and place (Bal, 1988; Herman and Vaerdaeck, 2004) when, say, the narrator suddenly ‘shifts scene’ or jumps forwards or backwards in time (prolelepsis/analepsis). This is precisely the position of the sociologist trying to interpret the raw material of a biographical interview. Hence it is not only the narrator who has to be imaginative (Sarbin, 2004), imagination is also required from the reader, who, in the act of reading, has to fill in the ‘gaps’ of meaning in the text. In this sense the reader, in the act of 245

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reading or interpretation, produces his or her own story and becomes the ‘real’ author of the story (Barthes, 2000). Interpretation from this point of view is hence an act of creative reading, and since all texts have gaps, there is always more than one way to read a text.There is not one ‘true’ interpretation, only many ‘possible’ interpretations (Bruner, 1996). This does not mean that anything is possible – even a fictive narrative such as Superman establishes some ‘facts’ that the reader has to accept (Eco, 2002). Nevertheless the freedom or autonomy of interpretation is relatively large. This autonomy increases with the ambiguity built into the literary text, contradictory accounts and so on that are not only allowed but also encouraged in literary texts. This is important when one engages in biographical interpretations.These always represent only one of many possible readings. Indeed the same reader can find different layers of meaning when rereading the same text several times (this is illustrated in Chapter One on artistic narrated careers). But what is the point of such interpretative reconstructions? Here different traditions within biography research disagree. For some biography researchers, there is no reality outside the biographical narratives, the rhetorical strategy used by the informant telling the story is interesting in itself and does not need any further explication (for a further discussion and illustration of such theories, see Chapter Eight). For another tradition, represented by the German School that developed out of Fritz Schütze’s work and which also has followers in the UK (Wengraf, 2001), the narrative constructions (stories or ‘told lives’) are seen as subjective attempts to make sense of actual, lived experiences (‘lived lives’). An important argument for making this distinction is that there is a time gap between the lived life or ‘life history’ on the one hand, and this lived life as it is retold in the present (and often from the point of view of the present), the ‘life story’.There might be many reasons why these two are not identical.There is the problem of memory lapse, the problem of lack of professional skills, contradictions in the narrative, its fragmentary nature and so on. The argument for making the distinction between ‘life history’ and ‘life story’ is partly related to the knowledge interest of the researcher in factual rather than fictive narratives (Goodman, 1955), partly to the universal rules of narratives that seem to function regardless of whether these are fictive or factual (Schütze, 1984).These latter rules are partly related to: (1) the cultural script providing drama and moral to the narrative (see below); (2) particular rules of telling stories necessary in order to draw attention to oneself and make events memorable as 246

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in Labov’s scheme (see Chapter One); (3) the need to provide visual details in order to make the story believable (Culler’s 1975 concept of ‘vraissemblement’); and (4) the special need of the scholar to make sense of ‘factual’ rather then ‘fictive’ stories (hence the need to reflect on the interconnection between told lives and lived lives).

Interpretative methodology II: cultural scripts and memory work Although narratology has a major weakness – as pointed out mainly by feminist literary theory – it says nothing about why narratives are told (Herman and Vaervaeck, 2005), only how they are told (the focus is on narrative techniques); using such a unfamiliar and unrealistic approach still might have some heuristic value (Abbott, 2004) as it can function as a methodological tool in order to open up the hidden cultural scripts (Daiute, 2004; Lee et al, 2004) that tend to structure biographical narratives. According to the Russian theorist, Propp, most folk stories are structured around the idea of a protagonist, seeking a goal. For this he or she is assisted by a helper and resisted by an antagonist (Propp, 1968). Burke (1945) has suggested a similar generative structure of drama, consisting of five aspects: an Agent, a Goal, a Setting, an Instrument and Trouble (Wertsch, 1998). As suggested by Bruner, ‘trouble is what drives the drama, and it is generated by a mismatch between two or more of the five constituents of Burke’s pentad: for example, Nora’s Goals do not match either the Setting in which she lives nor the Instruments available to her in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House ...Victor Turner … locates this “trouble” to the breaching of cultural legitimacy: an initial canonical state is breached, redress is attempted which, if it fails, leads to crises; crisis, if unresolved, leads ultimately to a new legitimate order’ (Bruner, 2006, pp 132-3). Such cultural scripts provide easy models or ‘exemplars’ (Kuhn, 1962) for the autobiographical narrator, helping the narrator to make sense of events that otherwise might be totally chaotic. Although there is no mechanical relation between such models for telling a story and how stories are actually told, it makes the very act of telling a story natural; it is something with which the informant is acquainted. From the point of view of biographical research, cultural scripts first of all provide structure that helps the narrator to recall or engage in the both cognitive and emotionally difficult task of memory work (Lundh et al, 1992; Schachter, 1997). Broadly, narratives use three different devices for

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the purpose of memory work: (1) the narrator/character dichotomy; (2) time as a structurating factor; and (3) myths and modes of narration.

Narrator/character divide It was Wayne Booth who, in his classical book The rhetoric of fiction, argued that it is impossible to describe the world merely from the point of view of a character for the simple reason that a character has no memory, a character lives in the present or the past present. Booth’s point is that in order to give character memory, the voice of the character is not enough; a narrator has to be introduced. The narrator is first of all necessary to place the character within the framework of time (Herman and Vaervaerk, 2005). The narrator has the advantage of knowing what will happen to the character – the narrator can jump ahead in the story (prolepsis) but also make flashbacks when necessary (analepsis) and can hence give a background and meaning for what happens to the character. This is important for interpreting biographical interviews, because they make it easier to separate the voice of the past present (the protagonist as the latter experienced a conflict, drama or turning point in the past) and present present (the narrator who, in contrast to the protagonist, has more than an episodic memory and is able to comment, select and order the narrative). Booth (1961) summarises the functions of the narrator as: (1) providing the facts, picture or summary; (2) moulding beliefs (that is, making ethical statements); (3) relating particulars to the established norms; (4) heightening the significance of events; (5) generalising the significance of the whole work; (6) manipulating mood; and (7) commenting directly on the work itself. Thus Liana Ipatova’s narrators make a clear distinction between their previous selves (protagonists) and their present selves (narrator) – the difference is the conversion experience. In a similar manner we find such divisions of the narrator and protagonist in Zubillaga’s stories of violent youth, who went through two types of conversion experiences. Boldt’s narrator, on the other hand, is both a more distanced protagonist (growing up in Poland) but because the story is not yet completed, the narrator is still a protagonist in his new cultural environment (trying to negotiate different identities, no longer a Pole but not yet a German and the realisation that the latter might never happen). Gerhard Jost suggests that the narrator/character split might also have a therapeutic function – it helps cool down suppressed emotions that risk exploding when remembering/reviving the past. As suggested by Jost, retelling the story here almost exactly repeats the way storytelling 248

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has shaped the lives of the individuals’ interviews, who truly have become their own stories, as Bruner suggests.

Time as a structurating factor The difficulty of engaging in memory work is not only of emotional or moral nature; it also has to do with the cognitive difficulty of remembering what happened a long time ago. As suggested above, only the narrator has a long-term memory. The narrator has a time perspective (Ricoeur, 1981) missing from the point of view of the character, enabling the narrator to establish a time structure.A suggested by Genette (1980), there are three ways a time structure helps a narrator to remember what he or she experienced: order, duration and frequency. First of all a narrative helps the narrator to establish a chronological structure. We often mix up different events over time (this is clearly evident in the interviews with the Danish artist – see Chapter One). Hence we need to sequence the events in order to remember what happened at what time (order). We also need to delve into the event, trying to recall many details during this particularly important event, foregrounding the ‘scenic’ quality. This is done by slowing down or stopping the narrative, that is, transforming it into something that is more then a mere ‘summary’ and closer to a scenic description (duration). Finally remembrance can also be increased if we narrate events that occurred frequently (iterative narratives). Ana Gherghel and Marie Christine Saint-Jacques illustrate how these three different structural functions (order, duration, frequency) work for the act of remembrance in the following citation: ‘He was a controlling man, you had to do what he wanted you to do, you didn’t have to talk, to say anything…. So I stay home for one year without going to school or doing anything, until we get separated and I started to go to school. It was more difficult for me before, I felt like in prison.’ The excerpt starts with an iterative narrative – the narrator describes what happened frequently. Every time she had her own will or wanted to talk, he stopped her (repetition, iterative narrative). After that she describes a chronological order – she stayed home for a year and did nothing, and after that the couple separated and then a new life began and she started going to school. The third narrative stops the time, so to speak: she describes her feeling during the year she stayed at home, which felt like being in prison (duration). 249

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Myth and mode as ordering devices In Ágnes Sántha’s chapter we find the following argument for why a person prefers to live life as single: ‘I am selfish, withdrawing, and I feel good now, and I haven’t found the girl beside whom I could settle down…. Scientifically I have been prepared for having children for some years. I mean I read many books and listened to lectures in this topic. But it is not as yet sure that I am ready for it. But maybe, if I find the woman about whom I could say, this women will be the mother of my children, and my partner, then of course. If she would make my heart beat.’ Using the conceptual framework suggested by Northrop Frye (1971), a narrative is structured by myth and mode. Both myths and modes can be tragic, romantic, comic or ironic. Myth is the primary structure, mode the secondary. If we look at the primary structure (myth), the narrative of the male Hungarian single is clearly not a tragic myth. In tragedies, the focus is on reversal of destiny and revenge/retribution. Nor is this narrative by the male Hungarian single a romantic myth. In pure romantic narratives (romance as a myth rather then a mere mode), the focus is on adventure, test and quest.The hero (traditionally a male) is out to conquer something (kill a dragon) and at the same time prove himself and as a result gets a reward (the princess and later on the kingdom). But the Hungarian narrator is not out there to capture a woman to marry; on the contrary, he seems to be engaged in a narrative which has the overall purpose of legitimating his refusal to act according to the romantic myth. This is also the reason why the narrative is clearly a comedy in the mythical sense. For Frye what characterises a comedy is mainly its focus on integration of the character into society, often illustrated by marriage. The comedy hence strives for the happy end. But this is precisely rejected by the narrator; he does not want to be integrated into society, or at least he wants to postpone it. This is the reason why merely categorising the narrative on the level of myth is not enough. We also need to know what type of comedy it is, and for this purpose we need to delve into the next level, mode. So what kind of type of comedy is it (mode)? It seems that we are dealing with a romantic comedy. In a sense what the male suggests is for a female to show up and take the initiative. In a romantic comedy, romance functions as a mode, which modifies the comedy, creates a 250

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certain tension in it. But this woman who should save the man is not present or visible; she is a mirage. So maybe it is not a romantic comedy after all. If we use Booth’s categories, we see that narrative is split, the narrator and the character are not the same.This allows the narrator to establish a distance to the character, which gives the comedy an ironic twist. So the myth is comedy, the mode is irony. Another noteworthy aspect is that the very construction of the narrative by the narrator serves as an argument. If we go through the narratives in this book one by one, we will most probably see arguments everywhere. It is in the argument provided by the narrator in contrast to the character and mostly with the help of a constructed, appropriate myth/mode that the overall meaning or order of the narrative is to be found. Rosenthal (1995), in her structural analysis, is very reluctant to accept arguments; these are not reliable, according to her. The researcher should instead try to produce narrative passages where the narration stays close to the character and looks at the world from the point of view of the character and not the narrator. But according to Booth (1961), this is impossible, since characters have no memory and no future, and they cannot produce a narrative, only the narrator can. Given the type of material Rosenthal has worked with (potential war crimes), the refusal to let the autobiographical narrator delve into arguments is understandable; the question, however, is if this particular rule can be generalised into all kind of biographical narratives.This again raises the more general question of what moral stance the researcher should take. Should the researcher let the informants (characters) make their own narratives and abstain from any kind of moral judgement? This would mean that the researcher must abstain from any right to make the final narrative. Or are there situations where the researcher (say, for moral reasons) must personally take on this moral task as well? Nicki Ward’s discussion about these ethical issues and how they might be transformed into a different type of research practice where the researcher regards her interpretations as a preliminary hypotheses and engages in dialogues with the narrators opens up new ways of dealing with this important methodological as well as ethical dilemma.

Subjectively unprepared life transitions We have so far avoided the most difficult conceptual problem, namely, how to define turning points as a more general phenomenon. Is it possible to define concepts at all? Do we not end up in an ‘essentialist’ position? Not necessarily. If by an ‘essentialist’ position we mean the use of static and inflexible concepts, then turning points as used by 251

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the authors in this book represent quite the opposite. The question is also what we mean with an ‘essentialist’ position as the very word has been loaded with derogatory associations. Scientific concepts are never innocent; even ‘descriptive’ statements have, as, Austin realised, ‘performative’ effects – we always ‘do things with words’ whether we intend to or not (Austin, 1975; Elam, 2002, pp 142-4). Nevertheless scientific concepts need to have a certain rigour (Searle, 1996), or the hypotheses derived from them would be impossible to check empirically (as suggested by Culler, 1975, even narratology must check its statements by comparing them with actual, written texts). If we return to how we analysed the concept of turning point at the start, we used the definition preferred by Wittgenstein (family resemblance). There is also another way to avoid essentialistic definitions, namely, to use the Aristotelian type of definition (genus proxium, differentia specifica). Genus proximum in this case could be life transitions of which turning points is a particular variety (differentia specifica). Turning points are not the only life transitions, however. Another important type is those life transitions that occur regularly and predictably all over the world such as being born, starting school, moving out of one’s parents’ home, getting a job, moving in together with a life partner, going into retirement and dying.We could call the latter life cycle events. Although not completely biological, they are nevertheless, to a large degree, related to the process of ageing. What is characteristic for life cycle events is that they are, to a high degree, predictable. This is why single people in Hungary are perhaps not cases of turning points at all, but rather life cycle events. Moreover all the single people are somehow prepared for the prospect of getting married at some time. What is typical for turning points is precisely the opposite; it is something for which we are not prepared (this is also why I liked the metaphor used by Anselm Strauss in Mirrors and masks of a train suddenly coming to a stop). Precisely because being single is a life cycle event and not a turning point in the strict sense (a simulated turning point, we could say), the ‘argument’ cited above acquires such a strong comic overtone. The narrator said that from a ‘scientific’ point of view he is well prepared, he has gone to lectures, he has read books, he knows everything that is worth knowing about the topic. So what is he waiting for? Society demands an answer: it wants the narrator to legitimise his hesitation. As we see, his linguistic creativity (Carter, 2004) is astounding. First he derogates himself, ‘I am selfish’, then he pities himself ‘I am withdrawing’, then he praises himself ‘I feel good now’, then he excuses 252

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himself ‘I haven’t found the girl’ and then he acknowledges that he should do something about it, because society expects this of him, he should ‘settle down’. No less than five different arguments within one single sentence – not a bad achievement! Clearly there is pressure on the narrator, he must legitimate himself. What the Hungarian single person does is actually to borrow or steal from those kind of life transitions, where neither society nor the individual are ‘prepared’. Because society is all prepared, there is a whole science about what it means to be married, he has to be all the more creative to find subjective reasons why exactly he should hesitate to move into this presumably happy or at least ‘responsible’ status that we expect from adults. In this case the lack of preparation is more or less imaginary, it has to be invented, hence the explosion of linguistic creativity under social pressure. In most of the other cases neither society nor the individual has done anything in particular to prepare the person. When it comes to professional choice, society should not interfere: this would be against the ideology of the individual (the worship of the individual, as Durkheim called it). When it comes to religious conversion there are indeed well-prepared rituals waiting here, but because religious conversion in modern societies is seen as a purely private choice, religious converts do not have to legitimise themselves as single people do. When they are prepared they are welcome, when not, it is up to the individual to decide. When it comes to death in the family, modern (Western) societies are conspicuously passive. It is usually defined as such a difficult moment that we either let the person grieve alone or we provide alternatives (for the abandoned child) that are no alternatives. In both cases we simply give up. In terms of young criminals, we condemn them and punish the culprits, but how much are we, as societies, willing to invest in providing more attractive opportunities than choosing such life trajectories that are admittedly dangerous in a physical sense but perhaps highly rewarding in a psychological sense (self-esteem, attention, adventure, intensity, etc)? When it comes to the effects of migration or separation between spouses, these things happen, but again it is mostly up to the individuals to take care of: after all, it was their choice and if they are unprepared to face the consequences, well, that is too bad, but nothing society can interfere with. According to Fuchs (1984), the social need as well as ability to narrate mainly derives from the institutionalised practice to be able to produce CVs, present ourselves when we seek employment and so on. Hence narration would fall under the category that Goffman (1959) calls 253

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‘impression management’ or presentation of self (Giddens’ intuition does indeed make sense). An alternative hypothesis would be that the need and ability to narrate is a quest for self-knowledge that precisely derives from the inner tensions of Western-type societies, which can be defined in terms of what Durkheim called ‘organic solidarity’. Here the individual is endowed with a high value and major decisions in life are entrusted precisely to individuals. This inevitably produces life transitions for which we are often subjectively unprepared.Actually society has invented institutions to investigate these particular issues such as drama, the novel, poetry etc. There is not yet any science, however, which deals with these issues in a rigorous, systematic and empirically open manner. Biography research, informed by narratology, might very well become such a science and for this purpose the theoretical concept of ‘turning point’ might turn out to be both an heuristic and theoretical tool, helping us to unpack and decode biographical narratives. References Abbott, A. (2001) Time matters, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Abbott, A. (2004) Methods of discovery: Heuristics for the social sciences, New York: W.W. Norton & Co. Abbott, H.P. (2002) The Cambridge introduction to narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Adam, B. (1995) Timewatch:The social analysis of time, Cambridge: Polity Press. Aron, R. (1967/1980) Main currents in sociological thought,Vols 1 and 2, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Austin, J.L. (1975) How to do things with words, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bal, M. (1988) Introduction to the theory of narrative, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Barthes, R. (2000) A Roland Barthes reader (edited and with an introduction by Susan Sontag), New York:Vintage. Bazerman, C. (1988) Shaping written knowledge, Madison,WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Beck, U. (1992) Risk society, London: Sage Publications. Becker, H.S. (1951) Role and career problems of the Chicago public school teacher, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Becker, H.S. (1960) ‘Notes on the concept of commitment’, American Journal of Sociology, vol 66, no 1, pp 32-40.

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Becker, H.S. (1966) Outsiders: Studies in the sociology of deviance, New York: The Free Press. Berger, P. and Luckmann,T. (1966) The social construction of reality, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Anchor. Bertaux, D. (1982) ‘The life course approach as a challenge to the social sciences’, in T.K. Hareven and K.J. Adams (eds) Ageing and life course transitions: An interdisciplinary perspective, London:Tavistock, pp 27-50. Booth, W.C. (1961) The rhetoric of fiction, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Bornat, J. (2001) ‘Reminiscence and oral history: parallel universes or shared endeavours’, Ageing & Society, vol 21, pp 219-24. Bourdieu, P. (2000) ‘Die biographische Illusion’, in E.M. Hoerning (ed) Biographische Sozialisation, Stuttgart: Lucius & Lucius. Bruner, J.S. (1986) Actual minds, possible worlds, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bruner, J.S. (1987) ‘Life as narrative’, Social Research, vol 54, no 1, pp 11-32. Bruner, J.S. (1990) Acts of meaning, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bruner, J.S. (2006) In search of pedagogy. Volume II, The selected works of Jerome S. Bruner, London and New York: Routledge. Burke, K. (1945) The grammar of motives, New York: Prentice-Hall. Carter, R. (2004) Language and creativity:The art of common talk, London and New York: Routledge. Chamberlayne, P., Bornat, J. and Apitzsch, U. (eds) (2004) Biographical methods and professional practice, Bristol: The Policy Press. Charlton,T.L., Myers, L.E. and Sharpless, R. (2007) History of oral history: Foundations and methodology, Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Culler, J. (1975) Structuralist poetics, London and New York: Routledge. Daiute, C. (2004) ‘Creative uses of cultural genres’, in C. Daiute and C. Lightfoot (eds) Narrative analysis: Studies of the development of individuals in society, London: Sage Publications, pp 111-34. Denzin, N.K. (1989) Interpretive biography, London: Sage Publications. Dewey, J. (1910) How we think, Mineola, NY: Dover Publications. Eco, U. (1984) The role of the reader: Explorations in the semiotics of texts, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Eco, U. (2002) Tankar om litteratur, Stockholm: Brombergs. Elam, K. (2002) The semiotics of theatre and drama, London and New York: Routledge. Fairclough, N. (1992) Discourse and social change, Cambridge: Polity Press.

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Foucault, M. (1971) ‘The discourse on language’, in The archaeology of knowledge (translated by Alan Sheridan Smith), London: Routledge, pp 215-37. Freund, J. (1969) The sociology of Max Weber, New York:Vintage Books. Frye, N. (1971) Anatomy of criticism, Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Fuchs, W. (1984) Biographischer Forschung, Opaden: Leske & Budrich. Fuchs-Ebaugh, H.R. (1988) Becoming an ex: The process of role exit, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Genette, G. (1980) Narrative discourse, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Giddens,A. (1991) Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the modern world, Cambridge: Polity Press. Glaser, B.G. and Strauss, A. (1971) Status passages, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Goffman, E. (1959) The presentation of self in everyday life, New York: Doubleday Anchor Books. Goodman, T. (1955) The writing of fiction, Oxford: Plantin Publishers. Grele, R.J. (2007) ‘Oral history as evidence’, in T.L. Charlton, L.E. Myers and R. Harpless (eds) History of oral history: Foundations and methodology, Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press, pp 33-91. Hacking, I. (2000) Social konstruktion av vad? [The social construction of what?], Stockholm: Thales. Hall, O. (1988) The art and craft of novel writing, Cincinnati, OH: Story Press. Herman, L. and Vaervaeck, B. (2005) Handbook of narrative analysis, Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Holton, G. (1988) Thematic origins in scientific thought, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hughes, E.C. (1964) Men and their work, Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Iser,W. (1974) The implied reader: Patterns of communication in prose fiction from Bunyan to Becket, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Joyce, J. (1993) Dubliners,Ware, Herfordshire:Wordsworth Editions Ltd. King, P. (2000) Thinking past a problem, London: Frank Cass. Kohler Riessman, C. (2008) Narrative methods for the social sciences, London: Sage Publications. Kuhn, T. (1962) The structure of scientific revolutions, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Kuhn, T. (2000) The road since structure, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press.

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Kupferberg, F. (1998a) ‘Transformation as biographical experience: personal destinies of East Berlin graduates before and after unification’, Acta Sociologica, vol 41, no 3, pp 243-67. Kupferberg, F. (1998b) ‘Humanistic entrepreneurship and entrepreneurial commitment’, Entrepreneurship and Regional Development, vol 10, pp 171-87. Kupferberg, F. (1999) Kald eller profession.At indtræde i sygeplejeprofessionen [Calling or profession: The role of nurse], Copenhagen: Nyt Nordisk Forlag Arnold Busck. Labov, W. and Waletzky, J. (1967) ‘Narrative analysis: oral versions of personal experience’, in J. Helm (ed) Essays on the verbal and visual arts, Seattle:American Ethnological Society/University of Washington Press, pp 699-701. Lee, C.D., Rosenfeld, E., Mendenhall, R., Rivers,A. and Tynes, B. (2004) ‘Cultural modeling as a frame for narrative analysis’, in C. Daiute and C. Lightfoot (eds) Narrative analysis: Studying the development of individuals in society, London: Sage Publications, pp 39-62. Luhmann, N. (1994) ‘Copierte Existenz und Karriere. Zur Herstellung von Individualität’ [‘Copied Existence and Career.The Construction of Individuality’], in U. Beck and E. Beck-Gernstein (eds) Risikante Freiheiten [Risky liberty], Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, pp 191-200. Lundh, H.-G., Montgomery, H. and Waern,Y. (1992) Kognitiv psykologi, [Cognitive psychology], Lund: Studentlitteratur. Mead, G.H. (1934) Mind, self and society, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Mills, C. Wright (1959) The sociological imagination, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Oatley, K. (2002) ‘Emotions and the story world of fiction’, in M.C. Green, J.J. Strange and T.C. Brock (eds) Narrative impact: Social and cognitive functions, Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, pp 39-70. Perks, R. and Thomson, A. (2009) The oral history reader (2nd edn), London and New York: Routledge. Pinker, S. (1995) The language instinct, London: Penguin Books. Popper, K. (1957) The poverty of historicism, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Portelli,A. (1981) ‘On the peculiarities of oral history’, History Workshop Journal, no 12, pp 96-107. Propp, V. (1968) The morphology of the folktale, Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Ricoeur, P. (1981) ‘Narrative time’, in W.J.T. Mitchell (ed) On narrative, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press, pp 165-86. 257

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Ricoeur, P. (1984) Time and narrative,Volume 2, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Rimmon-Kenan, S. (2002) Narrative fiction: Contemporary poetics, London and New York: Routledge. Roseman, M. (1999) ‘Surviving memory: truth and inaccuracy in Holocaust testimony’, The Journal of Holocaust Education, vol 1, no 1, pp 1-20. Rosenthal, G. (1993) ‘Reconstruction of life stories: principles of selection in generating stories for narrative biographical interviews’, in R. Josselson and A. Lieblich (eds) The narrative study of lives, London: Sage Publications, pp 59-90. Rosenthal, G. (1995) Erlebte und erzählte Lebensgeschichte. Gestalt und Struktur biographischer Selbsbeschreibungen, Frankfurt am Main: Campus. Sarbin, T.R. (2004) ‘Role of imagination in narrative construction’, in C. Daiute and C. Lightfoot (eds) Narrative analysis: Studying the development of individuals in society, London: Sage Publications, pp 5-20. Schachter, D.L. (1997) Sökandet efter minnet [Searching for memory], Jönköping: Brain Books. Schutz,A. (1973–75) Collected papers I–III,The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, Chapter 1. Schütze. F. (1984) ‘Kognitive Figuren der autobiogaphischeen Stegreifeerzählung’ [‘Cognitive figures in autobiographical narration from memory’] in M. Kohli and R. Günther (eds) Biographie und soziale Wirklichkeit. Neue Beiträge und Forschungsperspektiven [Biography and social reality: New contributions and research perspectives], Stuttgart: Metzler, pp 78–117. Searle, J. (1996) The construction of social reality, London: Penguin. Squire, C. (2008) ‘Experience-centered and culturally-oriented approaches to narrative’, in M. Andrews, C. Squire and M. Tambou (eds) Doing narrative research, London: Sage Publications, pp 41-63. Strauss, A. (1959) Mirrors and masks. The search for identity, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Thomas,W.I. and Znaniecki, F. (1918–1920/1923) The Polish peasant in Europe and America, Urbana/Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press. von Wensierski, H.-J. (1994) Mit uns ziet die alte Zeit. Biographie und Lebenswelt junger DDR-bürger im gesellschaftlichen Umbruch, Opladen: Leske & Budrich. Vygotsky, L.S. (1988) ‘Thinking and speech’, in R.W. Rieber and A.S. Cartob (eds) The collected works of L.S. Vygotsky, New York and London: Premium Press. Wengraf,T. (2001) Qualitative research interviewing: Biographical narratives and semi-structured methods, London: Sage Publications. 258

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Wertsch, J.V. (1998) Mind as action, New York: Oxford University Press. White, H. (1981) ‘The value of narrativity in the representation of reality’, in W.J.T. Mitchell (ed) On narrative, Chicago, IL and London: The University of Chicago Press, pp 1-24. Whorf, B.L. (1956) Language, thought and reality (edited and with an introduction by John B. Carroll), Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

259

Index

Index Note:The following abbreviations have been used: f = figure; n = note A

Abbott, A. 21, 47–8, 49, 60, 61, 231, 235–6, 240–1 ‘abstract’ 14, 15, 16–17, 24, 25, 193 adolescents 69 agency 44, 71, 168–9, 170, 172, 181, 189, 195, 198–9, 239–40 agentic response 196, 197 Alexander,V. 12 Alheit, P. 102 analytic interview 189, 191f, 192, 202 annals 241 ‘antagonist’ 23 argument 251, 252–3 artists’ careers 4, 11–12, 35–6, 240 biographical interviews 13–16 biographical narratives 1, 4, 6, 9–11, 35–6 complication and moral 22–3 dramaturgical structure of biographical narratives 23–5 mimesis and language 29 pragmatic motives and compromises 25–8 rational choice/contradictory feelings 19–21 silence and sovereign power 33–5 social games 30 social recognition 30–1 sociological narratology and 16–19 subtexts as disturbances 31–3 Asylums (Goffman) 147, 159 Auerbach, E. 29 Austin, J.L. 252 authentic/non-authentic artist 24–5 autobiographical narratives 201–2, 229

B

Balandier, G. 48 Barker, G. 157 barrios (slums) 144, 145, 146, 147–53, 162n Basho, M. 112 Beck, U. 228, 231 Becker, H. 12, 147–8, 231, 238 Berger, P. 227 Berlin, I. 17 Bertaux, D. 50, 146, 243 bifurcation 1, 3, 5, 41–2, 59, 60n, 84 overview of the turning point concept 42–9 turning point in biographic bifurcation 49–54, 55f typology of turning points 55–8

biographic narrative participative method 7, 189, 190, 191–2 biographical interviews 9, 10, 35, 101, 104–5, 114, 129, 229–30 artists’ careers 13–16 biographical narratives 1, 4, 6, 9–11, 35–6 artistic careers 11–12 biographical interviews 13–16 biographical structures and their transformation 126–9 complication and moral 22–3 core questions about turning points 234–5 dramaturgical structure 23–5 historical interpretations and 195 interpretative methodology 244–51 mimesis and language 29 narrated events 239–42 objectivist and subjectivist accounts 230–4 personal and social order 234–4 pragmatic motives and compromises 25–8 rational choice/contradictory feelings 19–21 (re)constructions of the past 127 research methodology 12–13 silence and sovereign power 33–5 social games 30 social recognition 30–1 sociological narratology 16–19 sociology and biography research 227–30 structured and structuring process 112–13 subjectively unprepared life transitions 251–4 subtexts as disturbances 31–3 turning point as an heuristic tool 235–9 biographical reconversion 6, 143, 144, 146, 148, 153–61 biographicity 102 Bloch, E. 51, 53 ‘blocked decision’ 21, 52–3 Boldt, T.D. 105 Booth, W. 248, 251 Bourdieu, P. 11, 17, 21, 24, 25, 30, 33, 34, 230–1 ‘brainwashing’ approach to religious conversion 209 Bruner, J.S. 201–2, 228–9, 239, 247, 249 Bukodi, E. 182 Burkart, G. 172 Burke, K. 247

261

Biography and turning points in Europe and America C

Canada 5 Canvases and careers (White and White) 30 case studies 3 migration 95, 105–110 parental loss 132–40 causality 126 centrality 237–8 chance encounters 69 Charmaz, K. 189 Chicago School of Sociology 146 childhood experiences 3, 6, 126–6 biographical research and 130–2 biographical structures and their transformation 126–9 case studies 132–40 children: identity 126 chronological sequence 242, 249 Clausen, J.A. 68 ‘coda’ 14, 15, 16, 22, 193, 199 collation 29, 33 commitment 231, 240 ‘complementarity’ of perspectives 234–5 complication 14, 18, 22–3, 193, 196, 197, 199, 202 compromises 25–8 conjugal separation 5, 84–5, 238, 253 conflicted model 75–6 family dynamics 75–83 family trajectories 73–5 ‘consecration’ 12, 22–3, 24, 27, 31–2, 33, 34 continuity 126 contradiction 19–21, 196, 197 conversion see reconversion; religious conversion; voluntary professional conversion coping processes: parental loss 130–2, 138–40 corrosion of character,The (Sennett) 128 crime trajectories 68, 69 critical life events 125, 126–7, 129, 130, 144, 161, 194, 201, 208 ‘cultural capital’ 17, 31 cultural scripts 14, 228, 247–8 cultural/ethnic conflict 96–7 Czarniawska, B. 196

D

Danto 11 ‘deceived by events in general’ 2 Denmark 4 Denzin, N.K. 194, 195, 196, 232, 243 Die neuen Regeln der Kunst. Andy Warhol und der Umbau der Kunstbetriebs im 20. Jahrhundert (Zahner) 12, 32, 33 discontinuity 94–5, 103–4, 112–15, 201, 203 discourse theory (Foucault) 34, 35, 238 discursive approach to religious conversion 209, 222 disengagement from the workplace 51–2 disturbances 31–3

262

divorce 66, 168, 170, 201 Donald, M. 29 dramatic ‘scheme’ 15 dramaturgical structure 23–5, 35, 228 Drapeau, S. 69 ‘drift (social) model’ of religious conversion 209 drifting 128 Dubliners (Joyce) 232 Durkheim 254

E

economic capital 24 economic impoverishment 78–9, 81–2 education 150, 173 emotional impact of storytelling 229 Encuesta Nacional de Victimización 145, 163n epiphany 227, 232 ‘episodic memory’ 15 Erikson, E.H. 100 ‘essentialist’ position 251–2 ‘Ethnic identities and biographical reinterpretation processes’ (Boldt) 105 ethnic identity 93, 96–7, 99–100, 101–2, 103–4, 105, 109–10 as a side effect of social exclusion 110–12 ethnography 3 evaluation clause 193, 196 evangelical churches 159, 160 ‘events’ 8, 9, 15, 43, 140n, 167, 219, 237 ‘critical’ 125, 126–7, 129, 130, 144, 161, 194, 201, 208 narrated 239–42 evolutionary model of turning points 233 existential crossroads/projects 155, 156, 157, 158–61 exit models 44, 48, 50, 54, 227

F

fabula (theme) 245 family allies 157–8 family migration perspective 67 family-structured life trajectories 5, 7, 17, 21, 73–4 ‘father–son’ conflict 23 female partners 157 feminist approach 189 firearms: gaining respect 143, 145, 149–50, 151 Fischer, W. 103 flexible self 128 Flowerdew, J. 200 Foucault 34, 35, 238 France 5, 30 Frye, N. 250 Fuchs, W. 254 Fuchs-Ebaugh, R.M. 23, 44, 51, 233

G

gaps of meaning 16, 33–5, 36, 245, 246 gender and sexuality 188, 189, 201, 213–14

Index Genette, G. 249 German-Polish collective history 110–12, 116–17n Germany 5, 6 Gestalt theory 102, 104, 110, 113, 114, 115n Giddens, A. 21, 94, 168–9, 228 Glaser, B. 236, 237 Goffman, E. 29, 33, 147, 159, 228, 254 grace: experience of 217 gradual biographical turn 217, 218f, 219–21 Greil, A. 210, 211 Grossetti, M. 47, 48–9, 60n

H

Hareven, K.T. 42–4 health: trajectories 56–7, 132–6 Heaphy, B. 192 ‘helpers’ 23, 26 heterosexuality 190, 191, 194, 198 heuristic technique 13–14, 235–9 historical interpretations 195, 241–2 historical time and place principle 71 Holland, J. 208 housing markets: Hungary 171 Hughes, E.C. 19, 46, 228, 231, 240, 241, 244 husbands: death of 215, 216f, 217, 222n Husserl, E. 114, 117n

I

idealists 180–1 identity 7, 14, 22, 31, 99, 116n, 194, 200 children and 126 lesbian 196, 201, 203 masculine 145–53, 154–5 migration and 100–4 self-identification 107, 108, 109–10, 111, 160–1 temporal process of 147 illegal networks 151, 152 ‘illocutionary’ statements 15 immigrants and immigration 3, 5–6, 233 conceptualising turning points 67–70 conjugal separation 65–7 discussion points on trajectories 83–5 families in Québec 65, 72 family dynamics of conjugal separation 75–84 family trajectories and conjugal separation 73–5 life course approach and family trajectories 70–1 research methodology 72–3 ‘improvised’ (impromptu) narrative 18 incommensurability 4–5, 10–11, 18–19, 21, 24, 30, 35–6 incomplete trajectories 28 individualisation 7 institutional social allies 159–61 intentionally constructed meanings 114 interconnectedness of life 235–6, 239

International Sociological Association 1–2 interpretative methodology 244–51 interviews see biographical interviews ‘intimacy at a distance’ 172, 182n irreversibility 43, 49, 60n iterative narratives 249

J

Jacobs, R.N. 202 James, W. 209 Japan 42–4 Joyce, James 232

K

kaïros 58, 61n Kohli, M. 103 Koselleck, R. 59 Kress, G. 14–15 Kuhn, T. 9–10, 21, 35, 60n, 173

L

la culebra 162, 163n labour markets: singlehood 168, 169, 171, 172–7, 182n Labov, W. 14, 16, 18, 25, 193, 196, 199, 200, 201, 247 ladder: symbolic meaning 218, 219–20, 222n Lakatos, I. 36 language 10, 11, 29, 239 ‘last straw’ concept 232, 233 ‘late type’ 180 latency 42, 50, 51–4, 59, 237 Latin America 144–5 Lawler, S. 197–8 lesbians 3, 7, 187–8, 238 analytic interview 189, 191f, 192, 202 life story interview 189, 190, 191f, 202 principles of narrative analysis 193–4 questioning narrative theory 199–200 research analysis 195–9 research methodology 188–9 research participants 192 turning points in narrative analysis 201–3 life course transitions 2–3, 5, 42–4, 46, 47, 67–8, 167, 168–9, 196 life in culture 194 life cycle events 252 life span development principle 70–1 life stories (Bertaux) 146 life story interview 3, 189, 190, 191f, 202 ‘life as told’ 208 linguistic creativity 252, 253 linked lives principle 71 lived life chronology 19, 195, 246, 247 living ‘off ’ art 26, 27, 240 Lofland, J. 44, 45–6, 58, 209, 210, 222n Luckmann, T. 227 Luhmann, N. 241

263

Biography and turning points in Europe and America M

Mary of Egypt 213, 214, 215 Mary Magdalene 213 Masaoka, K. 42–4 masculinity: identity 145–53, 154–5 material discursive framework 188 materialism 188 Mead, G.H. 2, 59, 113–14, 115, 116n, 243 meaning in life 14, 229, 234 ‘meeting a challenge’ 2, 232, 233 memorable events 15, 125, 135, 136, 200, 247–8, 239, 249 Men and their work (Hughes) 231 Menger, P.-M. 12 mental health: lesbians 187, 190, 192, 196, 201 migration biography 5–6, 93–5, 244, 253 case studies 95, 105–110 discontinuity 94–5, 112–15 ethnic belonging and social exclusion 94, 110–12 experiences of migration 93, 104–5 theoretical background 95–104 ‘milestones’ 2, 19, 20, 21, 22, 232 Mills, C. Wright 2, 227, 239 mimesis 29 Mirrors and masks:The search for identity (Strauss) 1, 125–6, 232, 236, 252 misalignment 194 Mishler, E.G. 197, 199, 201, 202 mixed recruitment method 192 modernity 230 moral career for respect 147–53, 163n morality 22–3, 242 motherhood 157, 176–7 Moulin, R. 12, 30 myth and mode 250–1

N

narrated events 239–42 Narrating our pasts (Tonkin) 14 narrative theory 1, 47–8, 193 analysis 187, 193–4, 199–200, 201–3 autobiographies 201–2, 229 complication and moral 22–3 devices 8, 14–15 positivism 60, 61n public/private narratives 197–8 narratology see sociological narratology narrator/character divide 248–9 naturalistic model of turning points 233 Neale, B. 200 ‘negative’ definition of freedom 17 negotiated dynamics model of conjugal separation 76, 77–8 never-coupled experience 180–1, 182n non-authentic artists 24–5 non-violent lifestyles: reconversion to 6, 143, 144, 146, 153–61 normative transitions 43 nurses 19–20

264

O

objective hermeneutics 105 objectivistic (rational) concept of the entrepreneurial risk 19, 20 objectivistic (structuralist) accounts 3, 4, 19, 208, 230–4 occupations change 4, 5, 21, 42, 44–5, 49–54, 55f, 60n, 61n, 237 choice of 231 disengagement from 51–2 distrust of formal jobs 150, 156 single parenthood 67 Oevermann, U. 105 oral history 3, 9, 14, 35, 228, 243 organic solidarity 254 orientation 193 Orthodox believers 8, 207, 221–2 biographical studies of biographical turns 208 conversion studies of biographical turns 208–11 research methodology 211–12 typology of constructing and representing experience of 212–15, 216f, 217, 218f, 219–21 ‘otherness’ 97–9 Outsiders (Becker) 12

P

‘paradigmatic’ storytelling 15, 16, 229 parental loss 3, 6, 125–6, 233, 244, 253 biographical research and 130–2 biographical structures and their transformation 126–9 case studies 132–40 coping processes 130–2, 138–40 Park, R.E. 96 personal order 243–4 personal social allies 158–9 Phillips, C.L. 45–6, 210, 211 Plato 29 plot lines 194 Polkinghorne, D.E. 14 Portelli, A. 9, 228, 232 ‘positivistic’ approach to religious conversion 3, 210 potential for persistence 70 pragmatic motives and compromises 25–8 prediction 48–9 presentation of self in everyday life,The (Goffman) 29 presentations of self 28, 177, 222, 228 private narratives 7, 197–8, 200 ‘problem situation’ 21 process model of religious conversion 210–11 ‘process’ perspective 239–40, 241 professional bifurcation 57, 59 professional disqualification 78–9 Propp,V. 247 ‘protagonist’ 23, 248

Index protective belt 36 Proust, Marcel 232 psychology of religious conversion 209 psychosocial approach 202 public narratives 7, 197–8, 200 purposive sampling 192

Q

Quéré, L. 59

R

radical biographical turn 212–15, 216f, 217 rational choice 19–21, 22, 23 reader theory 244–7 realignment 194 realism 188, 234, 240 reconversion non-violent lifestyles 143, 144, 146, 148, 153–62 reflexive dialogue 158 reinterpretation phases 106–110, 113 religious conversion 3, 7–8, 44–5, 46, 159–61, 207, 221–2, 237, 248, 253 biographical studies of biographical turns 208 conversion studies of biographical turns 208–11 research methodology 211–12 typology of constructing and representing experience of 212–15, 216f, 217, 218f, 219–21 relocation 201 resolution 193, 196, 199 revenu minimum d’insertion (RMI) 52, 53, 60n rhetoric of fiction,The (Booth) 248 Ricœur, P. 55, 59, 61n Riessman, C.K. 187, 188, 193, 194, 202 risk society 231 Roberts, B. 195 romantic narratives 250–1 Roseman, M. 229 Rosenthal, G. 128–9, 234, 242, 251 Rudy, D.R. 210, 211 Russia 7–8

S

Schicksal (destiny) 94 Schutz, A. 97–9, 115, 116n, 227, 243, 246 Schütze, F. 100–1 Searle, J. 30 sehen 51 self: awareness of the destruction of 155, 161 self-direction 127–8 self-identification 107, 108, 109–10, 111, 112, 116n, 128, 160–1, 228 parental loss and 131 singlehood 178–9 self-presentation 28, 29, 177, 222, 228 semantic networks 10 Sennett, R. 128 serial single parenthood 74–5, 87n

Sewell, W., Jr 49 sexuality and gender 188, 189, 201, 213–14 Shiro, M. 199–200 significant meeting 57–8 silence 33–5 single parenthood 85–7 conceptualising turning points 67–70 conjugal separation in an immigration context 65–7 discussion points on trajectories 83–5 family dynamics of conjugal separation 75–83 family trajectories and conjugal separation 73–5 immigrant families in Québec 72 life course approach and immigrant families’ trajectories 70–1 research methodology 72–3, 86–7 singlehood 6–7, 67, 167–8, 181–2, 232, 238, 243, 250, 252–3 detachment from parents 168, 171–2, 182n experiences of past partnership(s) 168, 177–80 impact of parental divorce on partnering 168, 170 impact of qualification/labour market status on partnership formation 173 institutionalised life course 168–9 labour market entry 168, 169, 171, 172–3, 182n never-coupled experience 180–1, 182n work–life balance 173–7 Snow, D.A. 45–6, 210, 211 snowball sampling 192, 212 social actors 19, 23 migration 95, 98, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105 social allies 158–61 social capital 31 social constructionism 188, 189, 203, 227, 234 social exclusion ethnic identity 94, 105, 109, 110–12 lesbians 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 196, 199 social games 30 social and historical processes 195 social object 45–6 social order 243–4 social recognition 30–1, 34 social structures 47–8, 105, 106, 130, 168–9, 170, 181, 195, 245 sociological imagination 227, 239 sociological narratology 16–19, 35 Sociology of the arts (Alexander) 12 sovereign power 33–5, 36 spiritual biography model of religious conversion 213 stairway: symbolic meaning 218, 219–20, 222n Stark, R. 44, 45–6, 58, 209, 210, 222n

265

Biography and turning points in Europe and America Status passages (Glaser and Strauss) 236, 237 Stonequist, E.V. 96–7, 115n storytelling: ‘paradigmatic’ 15, 16, 229 ‘strangeness’ 97–9 Strauss, A. 1, 2, 19, 20, 21, 22, 94, 99, 100, 105, 252 narrative analysis 194, 196 parental loss 125–6 religious conversion 208 subjectivist approach 232–3, 236, 237 violent trajectories 163n streben 51 structural approach to narrative analysis 112–13, 192 subjective plane with others/social relationships 157–61 with the self 154–6 subjectivistic (agent-oriented) accounts 3, 4, 19, 208, 209, 230–4 subjectivistic (emotional) concept of ‘milestone’ 19, 20, 21 substantive level of analysis 236 subtexts 31–3 suchen 51, 53–4 ‘suffering’: in life trajectories 93, 94, 243 sujzet (plot) 245 ‘symbolic power’ 12, 22, 24, 27, 31

T

Tappan, M.B. 200 temporal dimensions 3, 4, 14, 147, 193 temporal distribution 51, 58 temporal processes 59, 94, 95, 100, 103, 114, 115, 220 tension: as turning point 58, 214 textual authority 7 Theophan the Greek 216f theoretical sampling 192 ‘thinking-as-usual’ 97, 99, 113 Thomas, W.I. 95, 96, 97, 227 Thomson, R. 208 time: structurating factor 249 timing in lives principle 71, 74 Tonkin, E. 14 trajectories case trajectories 100–1 family-structured 5, 7, 17, 21, 70–5 health 56–7, 132–6 immigrants 83–5 incomplete 28 lesbian 196–7 life trajectories 48, 68, 230–1 as ‘suffering’ 93, 94, 243 transforming incidents 69, 159 transitions 66, 68, 69, 85, 86, 103, 140n, 237, 245, 252 translation 10, 11, 35–6 truths 198, 202, 203 turning points core questions 234–5 definitions 68 heuristic tools 235–9

266

interpretative methodology 244–51 life course 2–3, 5, 42–4, 46, 47, 67–8, 167, 168–9, 196 narrated events and 239–42 objectivist/subjectivist accounts 230–4 overview of concept 42–9 personal and social order 243–4 sociology and biography research 227–30 subjectively unprepared 251–4 subjectively unprepared life transitions 251–4 theoretical, methodological and international contexts 1–4 typology of 55–8

U

uncertainty 20–1, 33, 51, 244 United States 42–4 ‘universal value’ 15

V

van Leuwen, T. 14–15 Venezuela 6 violent trajectories 3, 6, 143–4, 161–3, 232–3, 237, 240, 243, 248 gaining respect in the barrio 143, 147–53 identity and 146–7 increase of violent deaths in Latin America 144–5 reconversion to non-violent lifestyles 6, 143, 144, 146, 148, 153–61 research and methodology 145–6 threats to reconversion 161–2 Virgin Mary 213–14 ‘voluntaristic’ theory of choice 21 voluntary professional conversion 4, 42, 44-5, 49-54, 60n, 61n

W

Waletzky, J. 14, 193, 196, 199, 200 Ward, N. 234, 251 Warhol, Andy 32 Weber, M. 50, 232, 233 White, C.A. 30 White, H.C. 24, 30, 241–2 Wieviorka, M. 144 Wittgenstein 236, 252 work change of occupation 4, 5, 21, 42, 44–5, 49–54, 55f, 60n, 61n, 237 choice of 231 disengagement from 51–2 distrust of formal jobs 150, 156 single parenthood 67 working-class families 17–18, 21, 23, 28 work–life balance 173–7

Y

Young, A.M. 82

Z

Zahner, N.T. 12, 32, 33 Znaniecki, F. 95, 96, 227

This sociological collection advances the argument that the concept of a ‘turning point’ expands our understanding of life experiences from a descriptive to a deeper and more abstract level of analysis. It addresses the conceptual issue of what distinguishes turning points from life transitions in general and raises crucial questions about the application of turning points as a biographical research method. Biography and turning points in Europe and America is all the more distinctive and significant due to its broad empirical database. The anthology includes authors from ten different countries, providing a number of contexts for thinking about how turning points relate to constructions of meaning shaped by globalisation and by cultural and structural meanings unique to each country. The book will be useful across a wide range of social sciences and particularly valuable for researchers needing a stronger theoretical base for biographical work. Karla B. Hackstaff is Professor of Sociology and Director of Women’s and Gender Studies at Northern Arizona University, USA. Feiwel Kupferberg is Professor of Education at Malmö University, Sweden. Catherine Négroni is Associate Professor in Sociology at Charles de Gaulle University-Lille 3 CLERSE/MESHS, France.

RESEARCH METHODS / SOCIAL STUDIES

ISBN 978-1-84742-860-8

9 781847 428608

www.policypress.co.uk

Biography and turning points in Europe and America • Edited by Hackstaff, Kupferberg and Négroni

“This is a timely and highly original collection of work which pushes boundaries methodologically and theoretically, engaging directly with debates amongst practitioners and policy makers.” Joanna Bornat, Emeritus Professor, The Open University, UK

Biography and turning points in Europe and America

Edited by Karla B. Hackstaff, Feiwel Kupferberg and Catherine Négroni