By Ruth M. Underhill, Chip Colwell, Stephen E. Nash
In brutally sincere phrases, Underhill describes her asymmetric passage via lifestyles, starting with a searing portrait of the Victorian restraints on girls and her fight to wreck loose from her Quaker family’s privileged yet tightly laced keep an eye on. Tenderly and with humor she describes her transformation from a suffering “sweet woman” to spouse after which divorcée. Professionally she turned a welfare employee, a novelist, a pissed off bureaucrat on the Bureau of Indian Affairs, a professor on the college of Denver, and at last an anthropologist of distinction.
Her witty memoir finds the creativity and tenacity that driven the limits of ethnography, really via her specialize in the lives of ladies, for whom she served as a job version, getting into a operating retirement that lasted till she was once approximately one hundred and one years old.
No citation serves to precise Ruth Underhill’s adventurous view higher than a line from her personal poetry: “Life isn't paid for. lifestyles is lived. Now come.”
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Additional resources for An Anthropologist’s Arrival: A Memoir
American Indian Quarterly 21(3):385–407. Pg. 398; Sands, Kathleen Mullen. 1997. Collaboration or Colonialism: Text and Process in Native American Women’s Autobiographies. MELUS 22(4):39–59. Pg. 40; Clifford, James, and George E. Marcus. Editors. 1986. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Berkeley: University of California Press; Hegeman, Susan. 1989. Native American “Texts” and the Problem of Authenticity. American Quarterly 41(2):265–283. Part one • Becoming Ruth Underhill A Zigzag Life We wer e eating roasted cater pillar, the succulent, furry kind.
Now, when I am retiring, they are at their peak and I note, with a twinge like the nastiest indigestion, that I must accept this. Oh Time, unlock the vault that contains my dormant years! You can’t? Then at least tell me why they were dormant. Why did I not give up the attempt at sweet girlishness and get out? Comforters tell me I was born in an age when that was not done, but wasn’t I born with a brain? Couldn’t I have seen? Time won’t even answer that question without some work on my part. On the following pages, I plunge into that work.
I was being invaded by a misery and shame so deep that I thought I might never run down that hill again. “I don’t want to play anymore,” I told Elsie abruptly. She began to propose other games, but I turned my back on her. When Mama began to pull down my pink dress, I jerked away. I never did run down that hill again. Papa was not really terrible. ” He was a tall, slender man. When Mama told me that he weighed 150 pounds, I thought how tremendous that was. In those days, I seem not to have noticed the piercing gray-blue eyes that impressed his clients and, later, impressed me too.