As I stated previously, I will periodically post about my research methodology and practice to make my research transparent for all interested in my developing project. In class on Tuesday, March 3, we ventured to the student center to practice taking ethnographic field notes.
My class’s second task for making use of our field notes was to take our jottings/translations and develop two scenes. I wasn’t sure what the difference between translated notes and scenes were, but thankfully, Dr. Wolff reminded me of the following:
I selected two excerpts from my field notes that I did not write about in my original translations post because I focused more on surroundings. These two “characters” stood out to me, though, so I decided to use the observations about them to craft details, “lushly” described scenes.
He entered the ground floor of the student center through the middle doors, swinging them with such vigor that they swung back, stopped for a moment, and then began to close quickly once he had crossed the threshold. He was tall–taller than an average man–perhaps about six foot four. He had his shoulders rolled back, and, consequently, the upper part of his chest puffed out about. For this reason, he seemed to be enveloped in importance and dignity. His stature was perfectly matched with his attire. He wore pressed black pants with a nice crease down the center, a starched black button down shirt tucked tightly into those pants, and a belt to hold the pieces together. The buttons of the pulled a little over his round belly but not so much so that one might say his shirt was too small. He wore a long black pea coat over these layers which extended below his knees to just above mid-thigh. His bald head shined enough to reflect the glow of one of the fluorescent lights overhead.
I thought for sure he must be someone of significance, a boss perhaps. I thought this particularly because he walked slowly with long strides over to the glass case of the quick service stand across from the alcove of tables and chairs. He leaned in, bending from the hips not the shoulders, to peer into the bulbous glass case.
“Do you got sushi?” he asked. His improper grammar suggested maybe he wasn’t a boss but a student who had just come from some kind of important business.
The service worker behind the glass,only visible from the top half of her torso up but also in all black attire, replied without blinking. “No.” She did not make alternative suggestions or share when there might be sushi for purchase, if it ever was a delicacy available in such a casual location.
The man sighed deeply enough that his chest puffed out further and his shoulders rose before he turned on his left heel and strode back toward the door. His arms swung a little more limply than they did during his grand entrance. Perhaps his confidence had plummeted in the absence of his desired sushi.
Chris snuck through the right door behind a pair of riding-boot-wearing, black-coat-clad, messy-bun-having women in their late teens or early twenties. He was shorter than both of them, no taller than five foot five when standing straight. The flat brim of his red baseball cap was pulled low, and, because he tilted his head down to look at the glow of the small, bright screen in his left hand, his eyes were impossible to see.
He approached the alcove of tables and vending machines at which I was seated, but he continued to look back over his shoulder to the doors. He developed a pattern: take three steps, stop, and turn. Go back to walking. He repeated this pattern until he reached the muddied gold wall and rested his back against the two white spots revealed by peeling paint. He sunk his head again, turning his gaze back to the phone screen. In his right hand, he squeezed and released, squeezed and released a worn copy of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. No bookmark stuck out from the pages. Had he been the one to wear in the small paperback? Did he inherit from someone else? For me to know, he’d have to look up from his phone, and it didn’t seem as though that would be happening any time soon.
After about a minute of text message or maybe playing a cell phone game, as there was rapid thumb movement, he looked up and stepped away from the wall enough to reach the chair at the table to my right. He dropped the book on the round top and reached to pull out a chair, but he did not follow through.He picked up the book again and paced back and forth between the wall and the chair, shooting glances to the door.
This continued for a minute or so.
Then, this time, he followed through. He pulled out the chair and took a seat. He changed up his routine even more when he put the phone down and picked up Of Mice and Men. He turned to the first page and began reading. If he had been the one who broke in the spine of the book, it must have been a favorite for him to be reading it again. He eyes didn’t glance up from the page for a few minutes.
He looked up, to his left, and then to his right. His head tilted slightly when his eyes focused on tall young man wearing blue sweats and a backpack.
“It’s Chris, right?” the backpacked boy asked slowly with the sounds of confusion raising his pitch.
Chris nodded, adjusting his hat just enough to show small furrow lines in his brow.
“You just looked at me like I was…” but Chris interrupts him, the first words he’s uttered using his mouth not his thumbs since he entered the building.
“Nah, man, I was just looking up…”
The greeter nods and waves goodbye with a hand gripping a white bag of food from Prof’s Place.
Chris looks from side to side again, about three times. He checks his phone, puts it down, picks it up, and checks it again. Finally, he returns to page 3 of Of Mice and Men.