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Hell and heaven in the Land of Fire and Ice: An autoethnographic exploration of one
professor’s experience as Fulbright Scholar
Robin S. Grenier, Ph.D.
University of Connecticut
Associate Professor
Neag School of Education
Department of Educational Leadership, Adult Learning Program
249 Glenbrook Rd. Unit 2093
Storrs, CT 06269
860-486-9201
[email protected]
Working paper
Keywords: Autoethnography, Workplace Learning, Expat
Copyright © 2014 Robin S. Grenier
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Hell and heaven in the Land of Fire and Ice: An autoethnographic exploration of one
professor’s experience as Fulbright Fellow
It’s two days before the start of a new semester, and I am at the window of our
fourth floor apartment looking over the lake, and the lights, and up the hill to the
church. The Christmas trees are still up and the ice is thick on the small pond in
front of our building. For many professors, it’s the calm before the storm. The time
when you are energized for the new semester (or maybe fretting it), but you’re
ready -- the start of classes, the welcome from colleagues and students, and the
sense that you’re rolling downhill to the end of the school year in May. My husband
joined me at the window and together we looked out at the landscape. Without
turning to him I say it softly, “It’s not too late to go home.” He takes my hand,
squeezes it, and says with a small chuckle, “Yes, it is.”
Of course he was right. There was no turning back. I wanted to flee from the challenges that
awaited me on Monday morning, but not because I was enjoying my winter break. I had to
move forward because this was not my usual semester. Three weeks prior to that night we
had moved to Iceland, and I was about to begin teaching in a new university, in a new
program, with new content, and with new students in a new culture- I was a Fulbright
Scholar.
The sociologist, Charles Horton Cooley once said, “To get away from one’s working
environment is, in a sense, to get away from one’s self; and this is often the chief advantage
of travel and change.” My chance to get away from my work environment and away from
the “self” I had created as a professor at the University of Connecticut for the last eight
years came in the form of a Fulbright Award to Iceland in the winter of 2014. From the
moment I got the acceptance letter in March 2013, I began to think, and plan, and dream,
and fear the experiences that awaited me in the Land of Fire and Ice.
That night at the window was months ago, and as scared as I was at that moment, I am still
here. This time I’m sitting in Stofan (Icelandic for living room), a wonderful café with large
windows that look out onto the oldest street in Reykjavik. The conversation of others in
dizzying and melodic Icelandic fills my ears, while the warmth of a strong coffee and a
kleina fill my belly. I am trying to analyze what has essentially been my life for nearly three
month and is suppose to be the basis for this autoethnography. Ellis, Bochner, and Adams
(2011) explain that autoethnographies work best when there is separation between the
event and the analysis; that, at this time, is a luxury I do not have given that I proposed this
for the June UFHRD conference. So as the snow flurries fly outside I will attempt to share
with you this autoethnography and try to use the methodology to make some sense of
some of the change I have undergone as an individual, as well as a scholar and professor
since arriving on a very early, and very dark December morning.
(The fine print)
Just as a car dealer who shouts from your car stereo wants you to focus on the pitch, and
not on the legal details that come as a rush of sentences at the end of the ad, I too want you
to focus on the best part, and avoid what should come next in the traditional conference
Copyright © 2014 Robin S. Grenier
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paper. Not that there is anything wrong with traditional, it just that standard format,
headers, and sections goes against autoethnography - a methodology that is “designed to be
unruly, dangerous, vulnerable, rebellious, and creative” (Ellis and Bochner, 2006: 433).
That said, I believe that for many of you, autoethnography is new, or worse you see it as
“not scholarly”, and thus, in the spirit of adult learning, I want to share with you where I am
coming from methodologically, and how that shapes what I have chosen to create,
represent, and make available for critique. So, here is the fine print- read it if you choose, or
*skip ahead to what a colleague of mine calls the “tasty tidbits that make you hungry for
more”.
Autoethnography is not simply an autobiography or memoir; instead it is a methodology
stressing self-interrogation by the narrator of the sociocultural processes of identity
construction at a certain point in her identity formation (Austin and Hickey, 2007). Sparkes
(2002) furthers this idea by emphasizing that the highly personalized account draws from
the author’s/researcher’s experiences in order to extend sociological understanding while
at the same time critiquing “the situatedness of self with others in social contexts” (Spry,
2001: 710). For this process to be successful it requires the “study of the space between
self and culture that engages the individual in experiences that cultivate an authentic cycle
of action” (Starr, 2010: 1). In this case, the experiences come from my time in Iceland, in
particular teaching in the Museum Studies Program at the University of Iceland beginning
in January 2014. Additionally, I was able to draw from a service-learning course requiring
me to travel to rural towns in southeast Iceland, as well as my own research exploring
conceptualizations of adult learning in Iceland’s cultural institutions. It is also important for
me to note that I do not identify solely as a professor or researcher, I bring to this
examination my experiences as woman, mother, wife, American, and traveler.
Using my journal, a public blog I maintain with my family
(http://experiencingiceland.wordpress.com/), photos and video, and my class notes and
recordings I have just begun to make sense of the back and forth of meaning making from
my travels, teaching, research, successes, and failures. These data sources have allowed me
to become immersed in the events and the emotions these moments create, and relive the
details, which according to Ellis, Adams, and Bocher (2010) are foundational to
autoethnography. Moreover, I couple this approach with my identity as a constructivist,
believing that learning is more likely to occur through real life experience. As such, my
experiences, combined with this self-reflective process, allow me to construct and
contextualize my new learning and knowledge.
A review of HRDQ, HRDI, HRDR, and Advances in Developing Human Resources yielded
only one autoethnography (see Petitt, 2009), so many of you might be asking why is this
research? It may be helpful for me to address traditional issues of validity, reliability, and
transferability. Ellis, Bochner and Adams (2011) acknowledge that through the exploration
of events, and within the narrative process, stories will change based on when the stories
are told, by whom, and under what the context. Thus, they describe validity for
autoethnography arising because the “…work seeks verisimilitude; it evokes in readers a
feeling that the experience described is lifelike, believable, and possible, a feeling that what
has been represented could be true. The story is coherent. It connects readers to writers
Copyright © 2014 Robin S. Grenier
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and provides continuity in their lives” (10). With respect to reliability, autoethnography
differs somewhat from other forms of qualitative inquiry because of its dependence on
narrative layering, rich and thick description, and continuous reflexivity. As such, reliability
in autoethnography is derived from assessment of the narrator as a primary and reliable
source who offers continuity, as well as, a factual experience. Last, I turn to transferability.
A work of autoethnography, much like all qualitative research, should speak to how
accessible the material is to its readers. This occurs as a reader makes comparisons of
narrator experience with their own and acknowledges similarity and difference (Ellis et al.,
2011) and the transformation of the ‘I’ to ‘we’ occurs through reader accessibility, and
sense of transferability of the work (Spry, 2001).
* With the fine print out of the way
As I sorted through the notes, entries, photos, and audio I jotted down the themes that
seemed to reoccur over and over. In some cases, I found single instances of my great
ignorance and ineptitude. This included the personal, like not knowing how to operate my
oven, and the professional, like putting all my PDFs in the wrong on-line file. I also captured
my sense of profound awe and happiness like the video of my daughter skating across
Tjörnin (the lake) in Reykjavik as the sun set at 4:30 in the afternoon or professionally
when I received 12 e-mails following a student service-learning trip asking for my input
and guidance. Each of these experiences, and hundreds more shape my sense of time here
in Iceland, as well as my feelings of success and failure. Although each has the possibility to
influence your own interpretation of my work and this autoethnography, I have chosen to
use the space allotted me to address one aspect that has had a significant influence on my
sense of self – language and communication. Specifically I have chosen to share my
challenges with Icelandic names, my pedagogical practices, and my sense of cognitive
overload. And while I attempted to provide both the heaven and the hell I allude to in my
title, it does seem to me that I gravitate toward hell. I apologize in advance for this, but am
comforted by Chang (2007), who states in her study of cultural competence, that, there is a
need for research that examines the negative feelings and experiences of people working
abroad. As she points out, “Stepping into the core of cultural conflicts and touching the face
of these difficulties can help cultural researchers and practitioners to further understand
how these individuals, little by little, become culturally competent. In a cross-cultural
context, the problems themselves can provide clues for solutions, and negative experiences
may also include positive insights” (230).
What’s in a name?
At the start of each semester I make it my goal to learn my students’ names. I agree with
Rogers and Smith (2011), who note that accessibility is enhanced, along with students’
sense of value when an instructor knows students’ names. I have always operated under
the belief that I can create a bond and stronger sense of commitment from students if I
know their names and use those in class. I began with the same thinking here in Iceland.
I stood in front of the class—roster in hand, ready to call out each name, make eye
contact and welcome them to the course. The names mocked me from the page “Go
ahead, I dare you!” Heidrun, Geirþrúður, Tryggvi, Hrafnhildur, Elisa, Ingibjörg,
Ásdís, Edda, Arndís, Kolbrún, and Sigríður. I went for it. I figured if I mispronounced
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it, the student would correct me, I’d repeat, make a note on my list, and all would
be fine. This is what happened with Geirþrúður. Me: Gear-thur-uthur? Her:
Geirþrúður. Me: Gearth-uruthur? Her (slowly and smiling): Geirþrúður. Maybe you
can call me Geir. FAIL….Have you heard someone speak Icelandic? The pauses,
breath, slight intonation, and threat of one wrongly-placed sound (that can turn
the masculine name to the feminine) make even the most confident language
learners wary.
So I butchered just about everyone’s name that day- and for days to come, and I admit there
are students that I still avoid calling by name because I don’t have the confidence in my
pronunciation. The names have come to signify all that I needed to learn on my sojourn.
The informal learning of failed pronunciation of names, as well as my occasional triumphs
that I gained through each experience was a process of ‘becoming’. I was now seeing what
Bryans and Marvin (2003) describe as the fluidity and complexity of these everyday
relational experiences that were framing my understandings of who I am, what I know to
be true and what is still left to learn. I don’t think I fully realized until this experience how
important those names are to the relationships I build in my classes. The names are the
building blocks to the work that occurs in the classroom. Without names securely in my
brain, I struggle to put e-mails to faces, to specifically commend a student’s response in
class, and to greet them in the halls in a way I am accustomed to doing.
This was not part of the plan
The names are indicative of the challenges of communication and understanding that
affected the quality of the content in my classes and my pedagogical choices. Although the
students understood the courses were to be taught in English, their confidence in using
English varied greatly. Just as I was hesitant to try out my Icelandic pronunciation, they too
were cautious about using their English. In the US I avoid lectures. Instead, I like to create
facilitated conversations based on the assigned readings. I usually bring to class talking
points and questions for students to consider. In preparing for the two classes in Iceland I
was told to use Power Points because the slides, along with my audio, was uploaded for
distance learning students who were registered from all over Iceland. As such, I tried to
balance my “lecture” with questions or ideas I would pose to the students throughout the
1.5-hour class. For example, in the first week I focused on defining the term community
participation, and at one point asked students to generate examples of how museums ask
communities to “participate”.
As soon as I asked the question someone cued the cricket noises. Nothing, no
sound, no sign of someone who was on the verge of answering…zilch. OK, no biggy,
maybe it’s just the first week jitters.
In thinking about this moment I am struck by how similar this experience was to my study
of expertise redevelopment (see Grenier 2013; Grenier and Kehrhahn, 2008). The model I
had created addressed experts going through a re-development of expertise when there
was a significant change to the content, context, or audience. I had seen countless examples
of such a need for redevelopment of expertise, but it didn’t immediately occur to me that I
too was having such an experience. My entry from the next class shows my desperation.
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Another class, and again with the sound of silence. CRAP!!! This is not part of the plan. I
can’t have this for 14 weeks. MUST FIND A SOLUTION…
I knew how to teach, and have the glowing reviews from students to back me up, but quite
suddenly I went from feeling confident in the classroom, to feeling a shift in my sense of
what works and doesn't with university students. My content was rather novel to me, but I
had done extensive prep and had confirmed my work with others at the university, so I was
sure that was not the issue. Although the Power Points were not my preferred method of
teaching, that did not shake me either. That left my audience - the students. I wondered if
the students needed to process their readings and my talks. I was not accustomed to this
new audience need, and therefor I had to find new ways (other than what had worked in
the past) to reach students and engage them in their own learning. The next class I went in
prepared with a new tactic.
Today I proceeded as usual, but when it got to the first group question I asked
students to find a partner and discuss the question (in Icelandic). I stopped the
audio recording and let them have time to talk. IT WAS GREAT!! It is the most I
heard out of the class since I started. The pairs talked, took down notes, and even
referred to their reading as they discussed the question with each other. After
about ten minutes I reconvened the class and the pairs reported out. In some cases
both individuals shared, [in] others one took the lead. Students also interjected and
commented on each other’s statements. Yay!
What I concluded after confirming with students was that, despite “checking in”, they were
not always fully processing what I was saying. Instead they had used what Ferreira,
Ferraro, and Bailey (2012) call “good enough”, an approach where non-native speakers
language processing is sometimes only partial and often incomplete (Lev-Ari and Keysar,
2012). By offering the chance to think and process in Icelandic, students became more
involved in their classroom activity and felt more confident in reflecting and sharing their
thoughts. I have continued to successfully use this approach throughout the rest of the
semester, in both classes. I must add though that although this is quite effective, I am still
missing the informal interactions I would have with pairs or small groups as I circulate
through the classroom. I try to make myself “available” during their discussions, but unlike
in the US, where I can interject or probe, or integrate what I overhear from pairs when we
bring it back to a whole-class conversation, here I am an outsider. I have no idea what is
being said, how my statements or the readings are first interpreted, or even when the pairs
are finished or have moved off-task.
When words fail me
The most noteworthy realization that I have come to during this adventure is how
absolutely central language is to my work and my sense of identity. As a former high school
English teacher I am fond of words, appreciate the power of language, and believe
communication is central to building relationships. Living, and more importantly, working
in a place where English comes second has been humbling and a constant challenge. It is as
simple as trying to use the ATM when English is not an option, or logging in my use of the
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shared copier/scanner with drop-downs in Icelandic, or the e-mails received from the
University to my faculty account, like this one:
Turn-it-in-ritstuldarforrit og kennslukaffi
Við minnum á kynningu á Turnitin-ritstuldarforritinu þri. 11. febr. og
kennslukaffi, mán. 10. febr. Skráning á viðburðina er á
heimasíðu Kennslumiðstöðvar.
Sjá nánar.
Although seemingly minor inconveniences, my lack of language soon compounded and
became the constant force that added an extra layer of stress and expended energy that at
times was overwhelming. One afternoon at the start of January I made mention of this to
my husband Paul.
“This is exhausting.”
“What?” he asked.
“Everything. If I want to read what is posted on the program Facebook page I
have to copy and paste it into Google Translate and then try to make sense of
what Google translates. Like this - The post reads: ‘Hey! Nafn nemendafélag
safnafræðinema er nú orðið að safni!!! Er þetta ekki ávísun á vísindaferð?!’.
Google Translate says: ‘Hey! Name of Student museology study is now a museum!!!
Is not this a recipe for science?!’. I have a “translation”, but I still have no idea
what that means! It's like that with every post. Plus, it takes 20 minutes to pick
out a sandwich in the cafeteria because I have to look at each one to see what the
ingredients might be because I can’t read the labels. And the same is true when I
get home. I want to make dinner, but I can’t make the sauce because I can’t read
the directions, or I have to convert from grams to ounces, or Celsius to Fahrenheit.
The free “quiet” space I usually have in my head is now occupied by all this
constant chatter, self-doubt, and second guessing.”
Now, I must pause to tell you that Paul has been my partner for over 20 years,
through 9 moves, a child, and graduate school. I often joke that he too should
have been awarded a PhD in Adult Education because he was always by my side.
After my momentary pity-party, in great Paul fashion he smiled, gave me a hug,
and told me it sounded as though I had more load than power. What he was
referring to was McClusky’s (1963) Theory of Margin that I have invoked in
conversation a number of times over the years. Paul was right (again). The
amount of internal and external factors of load was, at that moment,
outweighing my power – thus inhibiting my ability to learn and be successful in
managing additional stressors. He heard me out, we talked about strategies for
lessening my load, and then he gently reminded me that our daughter Catherine
was managing to have an amazing, happy, and successful experience at
Vesturbæjarskóli, her new, Icelandic elementary school, where she knew no one,
didn’t speak or read the language, and was facing the usual socio-cultural
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struggles of a fifth grade girl. I got the hint, tugged at my big-girl panties and
proceeded on. But that didn’t mean it was easy. Another day not long after, I
recorded this:
Today I ate silently and alone at a table in the lunchroom, while those around me
were filled with noise, and friendship, and communion. I am feeling like the new kid
at school, like I did growing up in a military family, always arriving knowing no
one and expected to make my way. I can do it, but I don’t particularly like it- I have
forgotten this feeling of isolation and uncertainty, which is amplified by not
knowing what is being said around me.
Since arriving at the University of Iceland I have had a number of days like the one I
described in my journal. Although Zig, the head of the department, warmly welcomed me, it
continues to be a challenge to create peer relationships with Icelanders. Zig gave me the
tour, made sure I had access to resources and buildings, and speaks to me on a regular
basis, we even on occasion share family meals (his daughter and mine are now the best of
friends), but other than that I have felt very isolated.
I do not know another sole at the university except for the students and the man
whose office I occupy (apparently he is on sabbatical, but you’d never guess it by
the number of times I arrive and he’s sitting at his desk). My office is in a hallway
with about 12 others, and we share a copier and a bathroom, but no one has stuck
their head in to introduce themselves, or even ask who I am or why I am using the
faculty ladies room. I arrive to my office, sit at my desk, work, grab lunch (by
myself), then I work some more before teaching class. Most days I don’t speak to
anyone before three. I’m struggling to decide if this is my fault- am I not trying?
Should I just stick my head into an office, introduce myself and see if I can get a
lunch invitation? Or maybe they know who I am and choose not to “bother me”? I
miss the camaraderie of my department at home.
The feelings I had do not seem misguided. My students, in their discussions of community
development in museums describe the complete lack of volunteers in Iceland’s cultural
institutions. They describe Icelanders as missing the mind-set to volunteer or give freely of
themselves. As one student put it, “If you want something, it’s not that they are not willing;
it’s just that you have to ask.” Likewise, they seem to be less likely to strike up a
conversation with someone they don’t know. I noticed this sitting in the cafes on the main
street in town. I marveled as the tourists mingled with each other, comparing travel plans
with the Japanese couple at the next table, asking for recommendations from Americans
waiting for the tour bus, and sharing stories with the Swedes at the bar. I asked an Icelandic
friend about this. I figured it was because we were not Icelandic speaking. He assured me
that no, language (at least in Reykjavik) is not the issue. His answer?
We aren’t likely to talk to you in the café, but go down to the hotpots at the pool
and we’ll be happy to chat.
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With that response I realized that the cultural expectations I had set are my own- I was not
in the US, and should not expect the same sort reception as I would at home. What I first
saw as rude has quickly faded with the slow development of friends and colleagues.
Icelanders like AlmaDis my GA, Marta a PhD student in the program, Zig and his wife Tinna,
and Margret, a qualitative researcher in the business school that I e-mailed and asked to
coffee, have helped me wedge my way into the small, tight-knit community of Iceland.
This signals to me the beginning of a shift in my cultural identity. Cultural identity is
derived from one’s experiences in a culture, and according to Wan and Chew (2013) is a
part of an individual's self-definition and an indication of an individual's psychological
connection with a culture. These complex experiences are layered. First, I began by gaining
cultural competence through knowledge of Icelandic values, beliefs, and norms. This allows
me to act appropriately in various situations according to the cultural demands, like acting
nonchalant while naked and talking with some of my female students in the pool changing
room. More importantly the cultural competence provides me with the cultural content
necessary for the construction of cultural identity. Additionally, my cultural competence
has allowed me to develop new social relationships. The collection of social ties with
Icelandic neighbors, students, colleagues, friends are forming the network of social
connections that in turn is rooted in what Wan and Chew (2013) call “a larger cultural
milieu”. It is in this network of social connections where I begin to associate myself with the
Icelandic culture.
Pinkie-promise
I have attempted to begin critically and reflectively examining my data, to understand and
present my experiences of engaging in my Fulbright award in Iceland, and exploring how
those experiences have changed my view of what it means to be a US professor and
educator. As a U.S. born scholar, employed in a public U.S. university, I have been insulated
from the cultural, social, and overall psychological uncertainty (Black, et al., 1991) that I
have experienced here in Iceland. My mental models of collegiality, research, and teaching
are formed by my education and work experiences, yet I’m finding that these models are
not sufficient.
Although my separation from these experiences is still new, I can say that I have begun a
profound shift in the way I interacted with students and faculty, and residents of Reykjavik.
I am finding what Kristjánsdóttir (2009) calls sojourner adaptation. That feeling of
satisfaction and well-being in an unfamiliar environment. New mental models have
emerged that are altering my existing heuristics and ways of knowing, and what it means to
be both a facilitator of adult learning and a researcher. Similar to the sojourners’
experiences explored by Kim (2005), I felt stress when I was first faced with a problem, but
then I worked through it and thus I feel as though I gained the increased capacity to face
future challenges.
So, I have refilled my cup at Stofan three times, and all the while I am writing, or thinking,
day dreaming or remembering. I glance up from my text as the kids walk home from school.
There’s my daughter Catherine and her new best friends making faces at me through the
window. They wave goodbye and rush off to drop their bags and head for the corner store.
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Although it's June and you’re reading this as part of the UFHRD proceedings, in the spacetime vortex of academic writing, it is still February, and I am just now about to reach the
half-way point in my stay. Is this the paper I would share if it were June on my end of the
timeline? I would likely say no, but I am making due in this moment.
In the meantime, I am inspired by my daughter and her new friends and that age of 10 or
11 when girls make so many promises and pinkie-swears: to stay friends for ever, to not
share a secret, to go through it together. So Reader, let’s make a promise to each other. I
promise to continue with these thoughts, share my learning, and reflect on my travels and
work here in Iceland. In doing so I hope to write an autoethnography that can contribute to
our understanding of sojourner or expat experiences, and specifically on the formation of
new cultural identities in Fulbright Scholars teaching abroad and its implications for adult
learning and development.
You need to promise me that you will read more autoethnographies and maybe even write
one. If you need a little encouragement, consider this - Boyle and Parry (2007) contend that
“autoethnography has the potential to make full bodied theoretical contributions to the
study of organization and culture” (185), and may also, according to Ellis and Brocher
(2006), “open up conversations about how people live” (435), and creates a conversation
that opens hearts and increases understanding of difference. Either notion is motivation
enough, and while the statement by Boyle and Parry is a good reason to keep your promise,
if you ask me, Ellis and Brocher’s is even better.
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Copyright © 2014 Robin S. Grenier
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