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The Headman and ΙAmbigllity and Ambivalenceίη the Fieldworking Experience

ΒΥ[οεα-Ρευ! Dllmont

νVniversity of Texas PressA"stin and L011don

ι. Introduction

This book is about the Panare Indians of νenezuelan Guiana and me,the investigating anthropologist. Ι have already written a book aboutthe Panare (Dumont Ι976). True, it was more about Panare objectsthan about Panare subjects, more about "Ηιείτ thing" than about them.Now, as Ι am about to take a second look at the Panare, Ι wish to shifttl1e focus of my analysis, reorienting it toward the goal of an anthro-pology of the subject. Not only will Ι continue to direct my gaze atthem; ίη addition, Ι want to consider how they gaze at me. Myeffortwill be directed toward perceiving, apprehending, and interpreting the"and" of the relationship which my fieldwork built between an "Ι"and a "they."

Ι emphatically do not intend to dwell myopically οα either of twoextremes: neither the self-indulgent emotions of a fieldworker vainlyattempting, by confessional narratives, to create an introspective trav-elogue, nor the simpleminded obsession for the hard, computerizable,and computerized data which, with their positivistic aura, pass for theultimate ία scientific sopl1istication ίη some anthropological circles. Be-tween these two different forms of the same monologue tl1ere must beroom for something else.

This something else may be difficult to pinpoint, yet it is nothingother than the result of οαε'ε complete immersion ίη a foreign culture.What is at issue here is the recognition of a dialogιle established, de-spite all odds, between an "Ι" and a "they"; ίη fact, it is the wholeprocess of anthropologizing whic11 takes place there, t11roughout theentire time "Ι" and "they" are associated. Although every single field-worker must eventually face such a process, it comes as a surprise tome that few of my colleagues haνe paid more than Ιίρ serνice to it. Yetan ethnographer obserνes what he/she is prepared to observe, ηο moreand αο less; ίη other words, my preparation, my goal as a knowledge-absorber acts upon my material as a filter, that is, as a contrivance forfreeing data acquisition from the suspended impurities of experience.Ια addition, my own cultural and psychic makeup is such tl1at Ι do not

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, observe passively: Ι act and react, toward .and Ιο something. This some-1 thing happens to be a someone who is also acting toward and reacting\to me. This particular kind of interaction, implied and brought about"by immersion and insertion ίη a concrete fieldwork situation, deter-mines both the locus of my discourse and its focal ροίοι. Ια this ven-

'. ture, Ι hope to gain some insight about "ωε" and "them"; otherwise Ι- do not see the point of having gone "Ηιετο." Thus, it might even be

said that anthropology as such interests me minimally and that myattention at this point is turned rather toward anthropologizing. Thisis not Ιο say that Ι do not recognize a great heuristic value ίη anthro-pological models; ίη fact, the reverse is true, since Ι freely use one oranother depending upon my specific conceptual needs. The issue here,however, involves dialogue and interaction rather than one-sided dis-plays of data and conclusions. Ιο this attempt at interpreting my field-work experience, Ι am actually trying to answer only one question,narnely: "Who (or what) was Ifor the Panare?"

Even though Ι am not a strict hermeneutician, Ι have not used theverb "interpret" haphazardly, and Ι can see a congruence between myuse of this term and its definition by Palmer: "Interpretation ... canrefer to three rather different matters: an oral recitation, a reasonableexplanation, and a translation from another language .... Ια all threecases, something foreign, strange, separated ίη time, space or experi-ence is made familiar, present, comprehensible: something requiringrepresentation, explanation or translation is somehow 'brought to un-derstanding' -is interpreted" (ι 969: 14),

The interpretation of the relationship that existed between thePanare Indians and myself requires what Ι would like Ιο call a returnto the text, if Ι may use the word "text" ίη a metaphorical sense, re-ferring to the development ίη time, the interweaving ίη the process ofcertain types of interactions. ~y interaction with the Panare is boundedίη space and timeJ It began οη a Saturday afternoon, September 2,

1967, when Ι first met Juanchito, the Panare headman of Pavichimaοη my first arrival at Caicara, and it ended οη a cloudy morning ίη late

~.Rebruary 1970, when Ι left the settlement of Turiba Viejo for good.Ut began and it ended. It is made up of a rnultiplicity of actions and .manipulations, of performances which acquire t11eir full meaning οηlΥa posteriori ίη reference to the context ίη which the interactive textdeveloped.

The text is ηοΙ only supposed Ιο be rneaningful-in fact loadedwith meaning-but also amenable Ιο description, even a "thick de-scription" to use the e,xpression which Geertz (1973: 7) borrowedfrom ~e (1949 yet such a thick description of the text, if ίι is to

Introdz/ction

be an interpretation, also requires ιηe interpretation of the contextwith which it interacts ία a dialectical relationsh@ It should be clearthat the context always, and by definition, precedes the text. Thus itfollows t11at, ία order to comprehend the relationship which Ι estab-lished with the Panare, ίι is necessary, although certainly not suffi.cient,first to acquire some familiarity with the way the Panare interactamong themselves and with others, whoever these others may be.

Thus "context" ίη this case refers to the system of communicationexisting among the Panare, one that is both st~ctural and eventual,possessing both form and content. "Τωα" here refers to somethingmore fluid, rnore concrete, more diffi.cult to apprel1end, and can besaid to require the use of "ετι actor-oriented method" which "attemptsto understand the actor's view of his own social world. Ιτ involvesanalysis of the SΥφbοls which give meaning and through which under-standing is possible, as well as the social and econoιnic conditionswithin which these symbols operate; ίη other words, how experience isorganized" (Rabinow 1975: 3).

Ια both the context and the text, one can recognize an ideal, αοτ-mative aspect as well as an actual, behavioral one. It is the ροίηι ofarticulation of th.ese two aspects which interests me. And it can be seennow that my original question, "Who was Ι for the Panare?" was buta pretext, ίη the ordinary sense of the term as well as ίη its etymologi-cal sense. For such a question-rather than the spontaneous and im-mediate answer given to it-continually informed my anthropologiz-ing throughout the duration of my fieldwork. Ιη many different ways,and imperceptibly for me at the time ίι was happening, the answerto this question was provided daily ίη the field. But ίη addition, theanswer wl1ich now can be provided ίη a meditated, reflective, and ίη-terpretative way calls forth a whole set of other questions promptedby the first question.

Α relationship between 'Τ' and "they" is necessarily dialecticaland eventuates ίη three logical, yet overlapping and, as it were, pro-gressivo-regressive stages: a confrontation, a search for meaning, and,optimally, a recognition. These t11ree stages correspond roughly to t11ethree dialectical steps: thesis, antithesis, and synt11esis. The confronta~~ corresponds to the initial situation ίη which Ι am Ι and they arethey, eac11οη his own terms. The search for meaning corresponds tothe~in whic11 an exchange takes place, one ίη whichthey figure me out and Ι figure them out, so to speak. Finally and ορ-timally (which rneans t11atit does not necessarily happen), recognitiontakes place, at wl1ich point the οtΙ-~ris recognized ίη his,Lb.eLQtherness.

Therefore, by taking the pretext of my initial question beyond an

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investigation of text and context, Ι seek to detail the texture of mysocial insertion among the Panare, the texture of anthropologizing. Ιεthis a texture of compatibility or of domination? Ultimately, does an-thropology fall below its aim, thus remaining pure confr9ntation, evenan endorsement of ethnocide? Does it reach it~ aim, Jtt&ICΊlngto theother's meaning? Is it capable of going beyond its aim, toward tllerecognition of someone else' s otherness? Such is the series of questionswhich will mark the path of the present work, so tllat, starting from aprecise and definite anthropological praxis, Ι may ίη this way add mymodest contribution to tlle elaboration of a critique of anthropologicalreason.

It goes without saying that this type of reflection does not occurίη a historical vacuum. Quite to the contrary, Ι am only pursuing aneffort which, one way or the otller, has already been undertaken. Νοmatter how critical and even polemical, tlle following pages still con-stitute a tribute of sorts to my predecessors, since it is ίη reading themthat Ι acquired a taste for anthropological reflection.

Jim Watson reports that one day the late Ralph Linton .asked agraduate student, already back from the field for soιne time, how the

<, writing of his dissertation was coming. " 'Oh, it shόuΙd move along. quite well,' replies the student, ''once Ι get through beating the life out-·of my material' " (Watson 1972: 299). Authenticated or apocryphal,

this anecdote rings true to most anthropologists, Ι am sure. And yet,- Ι sometimes wonder whether most of anthropology has not embarked- οα the same ill-fated course as this mercifully anonymous student.

Even practically speaking, there are good reasons for maintaining theliveliness of the experience. Put facetiously, a little life ίη our workwill not kill us. But more seriously, there are imperative theoreticalreasons for doing so. '>',," ;'2._

Few sociocultural anthropologists have cohfined themselves to theΡaJ:tLς:iΡi!I!:!:.ο!:J§.~r.':'!:tίο~method ίη their fieldwork. But practically allanthropologists have used this method, through which they maintainthe required "balance between empathic involvement and disciplineddetachment" (Mead 1973: 248) with the huma1). group they study. Ιηher perceptive narration of her four fieldworking experiences, Pow-dermaker expresses herself ίη almost identical terms: "The self con-cept of many anthropologists seems to have one characteristic ίη com-

Jmon: the image of stepping ίη and out of society, of being involvedand detached" (1966: 289-290). Yet, the publications of anthropol-ogists have long consisted of ''objective'' monographs ίη which theirpresence ίη the field has been bracketed out, as if the "empathic ίη-

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volvement" had been repressed for the sake of a hoped-for "detach- Jment."

Ια this sense, the founders of modern anthropology such as Boas, 1ι- .Kroeber, Radcliffe-Brown, and Evans-Pritchard, to mention only a few,J """:j.are all detached, and this is purposely so. Indeed it was the status of ψ), ~.ι

. anthropology as a science which was at stake with them. Το eliminatethe perceiving subject, i.e., themselves as participant-observers, fromtheir reports was an attempt at both a more factual objectivity than ~that of their predecessors and a stronger grasp of social and culturalrealities. Ια fact, they were reacting strongly against two kinds of peo-ple.

Freilich i:ientifies this reaction ίη reporting

the following statements of Lowie and Evans-Pritchard: 'ΆbΙetravellers mingled fancy with observation, indulged in the StIper-ficial psychologizing that dllped Klemm and otherwise twistedthe facts from initial bias" (Lowie 1937: 70). The missionariesand administrators, althOlIgh frequently "men of greater o.ιltlJrethan the gentlemen of fortune of earlier times" (Evans-Pritchard1964: 67) were thelnJ'elves often far from objective ίη describ-ing primitive society and cultzιre. Their data was therefore also α"twisting of the facts." ΒΥ the time the synthesizers (of the 19thcentztry) had added their own interpretations and had completedtheir attempts Ιο [ί! the data ίηΙο preconceived theories of evolzι-Ιίοη and progress, descriptions of primitive society were far re-moved from the reality being depicted (Freilich 1970: 7, foot-note ).

TlliS effort toward more objectivity had paradoxical consequences.More thorough fieldwork was undertaken, and more "empathic ίη-volvement" was achieved ίη the field experience from which theirpredecessors had been detached, either because they were superficialand prejudiced observers or because they were armchair anthropolo-gists who synthesized from afar. At the same time, the more that "ίη-volved sympathy" emerged during the fieldwork experience, the more"disciplined detachment" was found ίη the published reports underthe pretext of objectivity. As late as 1960, Casagrande could write thefollowing: "Field research is a challenging scientific undertaking, anadventure of botll the mind and the spirit. It is also a memorable hzt-man experience, yet most anthropological writings tend to obscure thefact" (1960: χίί, his emphasis). But twelve years later, Kimball andWatson could still write: ''It is ηο small irony that ίη a field where

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personal involvement is both deep and inevitable the literature islargely committed to the third person. This must be τιο small part ofthe reason that the experiential field has remained indeterminate"(1972: 7) .

Anthropologists' reluctance to speak of their field experience isreported by Freilich ίτι the following terms: "The sparsity of writingsοα anthropological field methods and field experiences is explained by,first, a fieldwork culture that nnderemphasizes methodology and sup-ports private rather than public comInunications of field experiences,and, second, the 'rewards' field workers receive for keeping their errorsand their personalities 11idden and for maintainin~,a romantic attach-ment to the fieldwork mystique" (1970: 36). /

Because anthropology is "the most scieιfu.nc of humanities, themost humanistic of sciences" as Wolf (ι 964: 88) succinctly puts it, itwould be inconceivable that an "involved" fieldworker could success-fully repress his/her own perceiving self without ''leaks.'' One of theearliest of t11esecame from Malinowski himself, who did so much ίηtl1e way of elevating antl1ropology to its present statns, ίη writingabout t11eTrobrianders ίη the introduction to his magistral Argonalltsoj the Westel'n Pacific: "1 began to feel that 1 was indeed ίη touchwith t11enatives, and this is certainly the preliminary condition of be-ing able to carry ου successful field work" ([ 192 2] ι 96 Ι: 8). Despitehis minute descriptions of 110whe worked ίη the field, infinitely morelight is shed οα his field experience by his now famous Diary, whichwas certainly not meant to be published and which, significantly, wasnot released before 1967.

Since Malίnowski's lengthy introduction, the literature οη field-work 11asexploded. But as late as the fifties, such a distinguished an-thropologist as Laura Bohannan used a double protection to relate herfieldwork experience ίη West Africa: she fictionalized it and also useda pseudonym (Bowen 1954). The fact that the next most successfulfieldwork account was also written by a woman (Powdermaker 1966)cannot be taken lig11tly. Since Margaret Mead had already become alsothe most formidable public relations agent for American anthropol-ogy, it suggests that women, all of whom had already established theirreputations οη the straight course of traditional anthropology, wereleft Wit!1the task of conjuring t11eimpurities of experience. They hadto cope with the blood, sweat, and tears aspect of fieldwork-feelingsand sentiments included-while the men were exclusively doing "thereal thing."

With an outpouring of sex, grass, rock, and dollars came thevibrant sixties, and a deluge of fieldwork literature. It 11adbecome not

οηlΥ permissible bnt hip, then cool, for people who were neither tospeak of the fieldwork experience ία anthropology. It is ία this climateοΕ ορίαίοα that Malinowski's Diarywas released to an avid pnblic andw1101ebooks were devoted to fieldwork, from Bdl..ind Many Masks(Berreman 1962) tOcMa..!.J{!.!!qlΊJ.ali.1l.ifS(I;r.ei1ich 1970), not to men~tion the immensely successful introductory chapters to monographssuch as '(/]ΙΙQJ.71a11:ιJi.:..Τhe.Eie.u.e-Ί!.f.IJ.1!.kJ. Chagnon 1968) and the hon-est efforts of ουτ female colleagues ίη W omen in the Fie/d (Golde1970). ._._.._.-"~.•,,"~,-,,._•.._-

With few exceptions-among which Ih,!' •.!!.ig~}:::!!.yey (Read1965) and N,~7::!!..i1:J~4u.g.~riggs 1970) Clefinitely stan'dOιrt-mostοΕ this literature is confessional, undoubtedly informative about itsauthors and the' sixties. At the same time, and not unexpectedly, it isvery repetitive. The human group that the anthropologist studied be-came the pretext for his/her lyricism, and by the same token almostdisappeared. The "balance between empathic involvement and dis-ciplined detachment" does not exist here any more than before. More-over, tl1e snbject of t11eanthropological experience was condemned toan introspective monologue and remained unable to introduce an au-thentic dialogue with t11epeople under scrutiny. Α mere juxtaposition Ι ()of self-consciousness and objective data does not reflect t11erole of the \anthropologist ίη the field at all but rather obscures ίι

Accurately, Rabinow notes tl1at t110seworks which have dealtwith t11equestion of participant observation "have varied a great dealίη keenness of perception and grace of style, but they all cling to t11ekey assumption that the field experience itself is basically separablefrom the mainstream of theory ίη anthropology-that the enterpriseof inquiring is essentially discontinuous from its results" (1977: 5)·And yet, 1 would like to take a stance less severe than Rabinow's as ajudge of this literature. lndeed, 1 perceive its self-indulgence. Bnt 1also prefer to see ίη it the begun, yet unfinished, movement of a pro-gramInatic dialectic, the antithesis foretelling tl1e synthesis to come.

As, Freilicb Ρ~.!.s.it2.'.:t.h~".q~~j,ςi!:.Ι~Q.Qli.!Ι!!ΡΙhr9Ρ'()lQg~ς~ΙΕ~.s~~!chis t11eresearc11er h.irps.~lf:':"( 1970: 33). This tool is self-conscious, aspointed out by Powdermaker: 'Ά peculiar character of field work ίηanthropology and ίη other social sciences is that the scientist has tocommunicate with the objects studied aad they with him, and that heis part of the situation studied" (1966: 286-287). Turning awayfrom the American tradition w11ich leaves me hopeful but unsatisfied,Ιperceive a greater, albeit still flawed, awareness ίη the French tradi-tion.

This is mainly dne to Levi-Strauss' momentous Tristes Tropiqttes

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([ 1955J 1974), which renewed a pl1ilosophical and literary genreinitiated ίη the sixteenth century by Montaigne ([ ι 77 4J 1955) andcontinued by innumerable Philosophical Voyages and other Senti-mentalf ourneys. Of course, British writers sucl1 as γ oung ( [1792 J1969) and Sterne ([ 1768J 1967) come to mind, but Levi-Strauss'style is decidedly more reminiscent of Chateaubriand' s Voyage enAmeriqtte ([ Ι 827 J 1964). Someday, if this has not already beendope, someone will profitably compare the former's description ofSantos with the latter' s of Philadelphia.

Ι read TI'istes ΤrΟΡίψιes avidly as a teenager, as did a whole gen-eration of French anthropologists who had suddenly discovered theirvocation. Ι read it with blind passion, over and over again, and Ι nowfeel awkward ίη noticing some imperfections ίη it, as if some ungrace-ful wart had just appeared οτι the otherwise perfect smile of this ία-tellectual Giaconda. Levi-Strauss had done some fieldwork, but noth-ing comparable to tllat of 11isAnglo-Saxon colleagues. Anthropologistsl1ave remained reticent with this book, whicl1 is "treated ... either asa fine piece of French literature or, snidely and true to form, as anovercompensation for tlle author's shortcomings ίη the bush" (Rabi-now 1977: 4). ΟΕ course, the crux of the problem was radically dif-ferent, for the criticism Ια turn reveals the reluctance, if not the sheerinability, of anthropologists to cope wϊth Levi-Strauss' lucid effort atintegrating anthropological theory and anthropological praxis. Thedifficulty lies elsewhere, ίη the timid and unsystematic aspect of theattempt.

Masterflll as it remains, Tristes ΤωΡίψιes carries tl1e mark of theanalytical thought which begot ίι Despite Levi-Strauss' perceptiveness,the tragedy of the events he had to struggle with, and tl1e psychologi-cal stress to which he was submitted, ίη his book, at least, he remainsoutside. The events are described, discussed, digested, integrated, andultimately structured by a subject whose awareness remains exterior tothenI. Consciousness does not seem to reslllt from the experience ofotherness. It rather seems the intellectual apprehension of an alienatedelsewhere by an abstracted and withdrawn subject. Ιη other words,even iη the deep of the bush, rain or shine, his mastermind is at work

_or at play. There is ηο back and forth movement between experience-and consciousness. TllingS and beings, incllIding Levi-Strallss him-self, are objectified for the benefit of an oml1ipotent consciousness.Even ίη the field, he is still superbly, if uncomfortably, ensconced ίηtlle Louis ΧV armchair of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. This problem ispointed out by Uvi-Strauss himself, who recalls the year 1928, whenhe dropped Ollt of law school to become a full-time philosophy stu-

dent. He contrasts the attitudes of law and medicine students withtheir arts and sciences counterparts and speaks of the latter ίη a reveal-ing way, for it qualifies him too:

Λι for the ftttJlre scholar ΟΥI'esearcher, his aim ίι commensltI'ableonly with the time-span of the ltniverse. Nothing cottld be moremistaken, then, than Ιο lead him to believe that their choice ίι αform of commitment,- even when they think ί! is, the commit-ment does not consist in their accepting α ραΥΙίΙIlΙaΥ datlIm andidentifying themselves with one ΟΙ'other of its ft-tnctions and inaccepting the personal opportt-tnities and risks ί! involves, bttt injt-tdging ί! from the olltside, as ίΙ they themselves 1(Jerenot ραΥ!of ίι,- their commitment ίι jlnt their own special way of remain-ing lIncommitted. /n this respect, teaching and research are notΙο be conftlsed 1(Jithtraining for α profession. Their greatness andtheir mi.rfortt-tne ίι that they are α reflIge ΟΥα mission ([ 1955]1974: 54-55).

What ultimately leaves me dissatisfied Witll Tristes Tropiqttes isnot the absence of dialectics, but that dialectics are not pushed farenollgh. When Ι turn to the last page, Ι have witnessed the dialoguebetween abstract objects-the Caduveo, Bororo, Nambikwara, andTupi-Kawahib among others-and an abstract subject-not Ηνί-Strauss himself but as I'es cogitans. At the most, Ι find there an inter-objectivity where Ι had hoped for an intersubjectivity. Myexperience,as well as my consciousness, of anthropology is different. Ια the tradi-tion of his book, Ι recognize that the theory and the praxis of anthro-pology are inseparably united. But Ι wish to go one step further ίη theexamination of their relationship. As pointed Ollt by Rabinow, "allcultural activity is experiential, ... fieldwork is a distinctive type ofcultural activity, and ... it is this activity which defines the discipline.But what should be the very strength of anthropology-its experien-tial, reflective, and critical activity-has been eliminated as a validarea of inquiry by an attachment to a positivistic view of science,which Ι find radically inappropriate ίη a field which claims to studyhumanity" (1977: 5).

ΜΥ mail1 concern 11erewill be tl1e reintroduction of the concretesubject as the necessary condition of any anthropological understand-ing. Clearly, my feelings as a fieldworker are per se of ηο interestwhatsoever to the profession. Similarly, the people Ι stιidied are per sean illusion, for there is ηο essence of a tribal group. What exists, how-ever, is a concrete situation ίη which "Ι," the anthropologist, and

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Ι"they," tlle studied people, caIne togetller Ια a series of interactionswhicl1 deeply affected our mutual perception. ΒΥ definition, tlle situa-tion is dialectic, so that ''1'' and "they" transformed each other.

Furthermore, and taking tllis dialectic seriously, it becomes pos-sible to perceive that the anthropologizing subject is the occasion, thepretext, and the locus of a drama that he/she is to ref!ect υροη. As aconsequence, ία fieldworking Ι indeed become a tool, but a ref!ectiveone, that is, a heuristic device. Ιbecome less instrumental than opera-tional. Hence the necessity of using myself as a discovery procedure,for the chain reaction tllat our meeting induced will allow me to per-ceive the studied culture and society ίη action. The studied people arenot tllere, passively waiting for me to take their picture. Nothingseems more fictitious to me now tllan the classic monograph ίn whicha human group is drawn and quartered along the traditional categoriesof social, economic, religious, and other so-called organizations andeverything holds together. Moreover, the more modern attempts atstudying culture change hardly fare any better, for although they arenot trapped out of time, tlleir time is mechanistic, at any rate unreal,and cut off from any historical dialectic.

Ια my ορίιιίοα, the point is to reintro~u~~. the process of anthro-p()logizing into th.~_r~?~11t~_~f~~~l1!_ΟΡ212gΥ.:..Ω?~~Ψ).':!§.Q~S.s.i.~O.9.Ι~.given, f!oating out of iJ:_C01!c::re~e..sitμatίΟΩ;.θllt-a-Ρf(χ€-ss.οΙ.acquisίtίοη.Ι;thjii process, theincidental and the anecdotal become of paramountimportance. For this is how the anthropologist is encultured and ac-culturated 1by the people 11e/she lives with. The changes one is sub-jected to, as well as the changes one introduces, are not impure epiphe-nomena. Quite to the contrary, as every fieldworker has experienced,they are discovery procedures through which the very articulations ofthe studied cultur~nd society manifest themselves. instead of focus-ing either οη obje~f study or οη the perceiving subjects, and ίη sodoing blurring botll, it seems to me that we sl10uld Eocus οη the 11ap-pening οΕ anthropology itselE, that is, οη these impurities throughwhicll an authentic understanding can be constituted "between theWest and the rest" (Sahlins 1976: 54).

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lEnculturation refers to the process through which an individual, ίη gen·eral a child, is taught the proper ways of behaving, thinking, and expressingfeelings ίη 11is/her own culture. Acculturation, οη the otller 11and, refers Ιο theprocess of culture cllange Wllicll occurs within one culture under the externalpressure of anotller, Ιη otller words, enculturation is tlle process of socializa·ιίση of an incIivitIual witllin Ilis/ller Qwn culture, wllile acculturation is tllemore or less forced social cllange which results from interethnic contact.

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Ια this resρect, my work emphasizes not an objective viewpointbut a multiplicity οΕ viewpoints, all οΕ Wllich passed tllroUgh the warp'ing prism of my consciousness. Ι have not attempted to test anything,οηlΥ to understand the relationship that fieldwork created. Ι thus findmyself ία complete agreement with Mead when she writes: "There is /αο such thing as an unbiased report υροη any social situation. Λα ιια-biased report is, froιn tl1e standpoint of its relevance to the ethos, ηο ireport at all; it is comparable to a colorblind man reporting οα a sun- Ιset" (1949: 299),

The present work is ultimately a modest effort ία the direction ofself.ref!ectivity, even a tiInid one, as Ι realize. More programmatic thanactualized, less achieved than to be achieved, the statement οΕ Redfieldwhich resounds ίο my memory is still ίη order: "Ια me, man and ετι-thropologist do not separate themselves sharply; Ιused to think Ιcould bring about that separation ίη scientific work about humanity.Now Ι Ιιενε coιne to confess that Ιhave not effected it, and indeedthink it is not possible to do εο" (ι 953: 165), And yet, as Ιunder-stand it, this is the path toward listening to what "the rest" are tellingus with voices that are αο longer faint, despite their progressive de·pletion.

It is botl1 appropriate and urgent for "the West" to answer tl1elegitimate anger of an Oglala Sioux (Deloria 1969, 1970), andthroUg!1 him to answer the Old Indians as well as the New Indians:Custer died for our sins indeed, but from now οα, you talk, we listen.