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 ladies and her fight to wreck loose from her Quaker family’s privileged yet tightly laced regulate. 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 collage of Denver, and at last an anthropologist of distinction.
Her witty memoir finds the creativity and tenacity that driven the boundaries of ethnography, fairly via her concentrate on the lives of ladies, for whom she served as a task version, getting into a operating retirement that lasted till she was once approximately one zero one years old.
No citation serves to precise Ruth Underhill’s adventurous view larger than a line from her personal poetry: “Life isn't really paid for. lifestyles is lived. Now come.”
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Extra info for An Anthropologist’s Arrival: A Memoir
Underhill concedes she was never considered one of anthropology’s superstars, although her name has had impressive endurance through the years. In some ways, Underhill is a sort of one-hit wonder. Her first major anthropological book—The Autobiography of a Papago Woman—was also her most significant and not fully matched again by later efforts. Indeed, The Autobiography is a staple of introductory courses today, the first ethnography many students read, even as they are unlikely to study her other work.
Asked Elsie. No one had ever asked me before. The few girls my age at Miss Cornelia’s all lived too far away. I tried to remember whether Mother was at home, whether I could invite . . ” “I . . I . ” I had never been in the backyard of that house. The unknown was enticing me. ” Mother was away, I now remembered. At a church committee meeting. Anna, our Swedish “girl,” was taking care of Robert. If I came in, he might call for me to tell him stories, but if I went with Elsie right now . . “Mother’s out,” I said, in a social lady tone.
At a church committee meeting. Anna, our Swedish “girl,” was taking care of Robert. If I came in, he might call for me to tell him stories, but if I went with Elsie right now . . “Mother’s out,” I said, in a social lady tone. Elsie winked. “Then that’s all right. ” She raced for her back door and I after her. It was glorious. We played jacks. We ate ice cream. Then we sat with our arms around each other and talked. That was the turning of a life page for me. Elsie was better than I at jacks, rolling hoops, and croquet, but she was no good at stories, and she would listen when I told them.