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13. FAQs

Frequently (Un)Asked Questions about Being a Scholar Activist

Laura Pulido

Dear Potential Scholar Activist, I am taking this opportunity to write an open letter to all those contem- plating or in the early stages of an academic career and wondering if and how they can negotiate the seemingly disparate demands of political en- gagement and academic performance. I decided to do so because I am rou- tinely asked—generally by activist graduate students whom I don’t know—about how I reconcile the two. To be perfectly frank, I rarely know how to respond. I often answer in generalities, such as “You need to follow your heart,” which, while certainly true, does not begin to address the complexities involved. Accordingly, I thought I would use this chapter to answer some of the most frequently asked questions that I receive, as well as some questions that I am not asked but that any person consider- ing becoming a scholar activist would do well to consider.

Before I get into the substance of the letter, I will share a bit about my- self, since most of you have never met me and some background will hopefully provide a context for my comments. I am a professor at an as- piring research university in Los Angeles, the University of Southern California (USC). I have a joint appointment in geography and American studies and ethnicity, and most of my research centers on questions of race, political activism, social movements, Chicano/Latino studies, and en- vironmental justice. I identify as a Chicana and native Angeleno—facts that shape a good deal of who I am as a scholar, activist, and human being. While I have always had strong political views, it was not until I entered graduate school in the 1980s that I became politically active. The impetus to get involved stemmed from several sources, including my eagerness to

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understand how people transform the world, as well as my own commit- ment to antiracism, workers’ rights, and anticapitalist politics. I do not re- call when I realized that I needed to both study political activism and be politically active myself, but that notion has been a central part of who I have been since graduate school.

Needless to say, there are many different ways to pursue oppositional scholarship and politics. The form of my own practice and the focus of this letter is what Ruth Wilson Gilmore (1993, 73) calls “organic praxis.” Gilmore has identified several tendencies among oppositional scholars, in- cluding individual careerism, romantic particularism, luxury production, and organic praxis. Both individual careerism and luxury production em- phasize theory production at the cost of disconnection from larger movements for social change. There is nothing wrong with such work, and its practitioners have made many contributions to our understanding of how the world works. Indeed, universities are all too happy to promote this type of scholarship, especially among scholars of color. Romantic par- ticularism, another tendency within oppositional work, is distinctly coun- terhegemonic but hesitates to portray the marginalized in all their com- plexity, a serious omission. Both rigorous scholarship and committed ac- tion demand that we identify and analyze the contradictions that are present in all social formations. The final tendency, which I will be refer- ring to throughout this letter, is organic praxis. Gilmore defines opposi- tional work as “talk-plus-walk: it is [the] organization and promotion of ideas and bargaining in the political arena” (71). What distinguishes or- ganic praxis is “the walk,” or more specifically, political bargaining. Whether the bargaining takes place on campus or in the larger commu- nity is irrelevant; the point is that the scholar is somehow connected to oppositional action beyond that of writing for academic audiences.

Over the course of my career, I have been involved in several different movements and organizations primarily in Southern California. These include labor, environmental justice, and social justice groups. I have never been the leader of a major organization, nor am I an academic star: I am an average-performing academic who has tried to keep one foot firmly in academia, the other grounded in community struggles and in- stitutions—in addition to trying to maintain some semblance of a per- sonal life (the latter being a more recent development).

Certainly there is nothing exceptional in what I do, but for several rea- sons students have identified me as a scholar activist and frequently ask for my advice. One reason I am queried about such matters is that I come from a relatively small discipline, geography, where activists readily stand

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out. Likewise, I come from an exceedingly white discipline, where vocal people of color attract attention. Also, some young scholars are genuinely curious as to how I negotiate the challenges posed by conducting ethno- graphic work with people I am politically involved with. While there are many other academics operating within such a framework, I realize that the potentially dehumanizing process of graduate education results in many students eager for role models and alternative ways of being.1 Con- sequently, I hope that this chapter will be a small contribution toward helping scholars and activists think through some of the implications of being a scholar activist.

I have structured the letter around six major questions and themes. Topics range from the very practical, such as how to balance the compet- ing demands of academia, to the more abstract, including negotiating the ethical minefields of ethnography, to the personal, such as the need to be honest with yourself. While such an approach is less than ideal in that it may appear scattered and incoherent, I trust my instincts and experience that these are some of the key things that graduate students and newly minted PhDs need to be aware of as they go about the business of build- ing their academic and political lives.

Question 1: How does your department/university respond to your political work?

ANSWER: This is easily the most frequently asked question that I receive. Clearly, people assume that institutions oppose counterhegemonic activist and scholarly work. Indeed, many are genuinely surprised when I explain that for the most part I have not faced any real problems from my ad- ministration. It is not that I happen to teach at some enlightened institu- tion; rather, a variety of circumstances, both fortuitous and deliberately chosen, have provided me with the space necessary to be a scholar activist. I will discuss three of the factors that have contributed to this situation: colleagues, a solid publication record, and my sense of self.

For the most part I have been blessed with colleagues who, though they may not always agree with what I do and how I do it, respect the no- tion of academic freedom (if not the actual work that I do). The scope of appropriate academic activity has been defined broadly in my fields of ge- ography (partly because of its connection to planning) and American studies and ethnicity (because of the activist roots of ethnic studies; Oma- tsu 1994), providing me with ample room to be a scholar activist. While I am certain that some colleagues disagree with my politics, they have for the most part been professional and respectful. Moreover, I have several

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senior colleagues who are also scholar activists in their own right, and I suspect that they have been instrumental in paving the way for more junior colleagues to pursue such a path. They have set a high standard of both scholarship and social commitment, showing that the two are not mutually exclusive, and this, in turn, has made my life much easier. While there is an element of luck to my situation regarding my colleagues—I know many who are not so fortunate—the truth is that I carefully con- sidered it when I first began searching for a new job. I was not interested in the most prestigious university or the best geography program; rather, I was looking for a place that was in Los Angeles and that would allow me to flourish as a scholar activist. Because of the reputation of some of my senior colleagues, I thought that USC would be a potential fit, and I was right: not only was I fortunate, but I chose well.

A second reason that I have not encountered serious problems from my institution is that I have maintained a steady publication record, which, regardless of what anyone says, is the primary thing that academ- ics get evaluated on at research universities (Goldsmith, Komlos, and Schine Gold 2001, ch. 7). Mine is not a great record⎯certainly I publish far less than some of my more “productive” colleagues⎯but it is solid and entirely acceptable. I strongly suspect that had I not published on terms satisfactory to the institution, I might well have encountered far greater problems. Thus, to a certain extent, the publication record has served as a shield of sorts. Though a strong publication record will not protect you if the institution is intent on getting rid of you, it is the first line of defense. If the publication record is “weak,” however that is defined by the powers that be, that will be the first and potentially easiest way for the institution to eliminate you (Winkler 2000, 744). This applies to all scholar activists, but particularly to scholars of color, who often pub- lish in journals deemed “marginal to the discipline” by hostile forces. Knowing this, I consciously built a solid publication record so that the university would have a relatively hard time dismissing me.2

A final factor contributing to my limited experience of institutional conflict stems from my own perception of the situation. A strong sense of self, clarity of purpose, and knowledge of my priorities have helped buffer me against institutional pressures. I realize that this factor is much more subjective than the first two mentioned and that it edges toward relativ- ism. But upon surveying my own experience as well as that of others, I am convinced that my sense of purpose and identity⎯my knowledge of who I was, who I wanted to be, and how that translated into particular behaviors⎯has helped minimize my experience of institutional conflict.

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This does not imply that conflict doesn’t exist, only that I do not experi- ence it as an acute problem.

A telling moment came when I was up for tenure. At that time the janitorial and food-service workers on my campus had become deeply embroiled in a contract stalemate with the administration. The main issue was subcontracting, and the unions, both of which were composed of low- wage workers of color, initiated community-based campaigns to pressure the administration into accepting a more favorable contract. I, along with several other faculty, became deeply involved in the campaign. I routinely brought the workers and union organizers to my classes; I organized class research projects around the issues; I encouraged students to organize and get involved; I was part of a small group that tried to get other faculty to pressure the administration; I participated in marches, rallies, and civil disobedience actions and eventually helped organize and participated in a campus-wide fast in support of the workers. These activities began ap- proximately two years before I was up for tenure and continued until the year after I received it. Because of the timing, the university had the per- fect opportunity to get rid of me. I knew that I was in a vulnerable posi- tion, but I also knew that I could not refrain from involvement—What kind of person would I be? I would not be the person that I wanted to be or saw myself as. Could I live with myself? I reached two important con- clusions that helped me chart a course of action: I decided, first, that I had to be involved, and second, that I deserved tenure. For me, convincing myself that I deserved tenure was a bigger hurdle than actually getting it. Once I was clear on those matters, I could readily identify my fears, assess their significance and meaning for me, and, eventually, move beyond them. In this instance, the worst-case scenario was my not getting tenure, but what it meant for me had changed—I no longer interpreted tenure denial as a negative judgment of me or my performance. I knew that such an act would be politically motivated and not a true reflection of my re- cord and abilities. I could live with that. I decided that if I was denied ten- ure I would fight it in court. Once I understood the objective forces ar- rayed against me, my various options, and the emotions driving those choices, my course of action became not only apparent but comfortable.

I do not wish to imply that all or even most problems scholar activists face are due to their own perceptions of the problem. I have seen and heard all too many instances when administrators go after faculty in the most brutal fashion. So let’s be clear—witch hunts and retaliation do ex- ist. But there is a sizable gray area between such hostile actions and how individuals choose to experience the situation. This gray area is shaped

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not only by circumstances over which we have no control but also by our identity, sense of purpose, and ability to be honest with ourselves. Rest assured, as a scholar activist you will be tried, but if you are clear in your convictions, then the crisis will not be quite so traumatic; it becomes just an episode, though a potentially difficult one. If, on the other hand, deep down inside you are less than sure of what you are about, then that event may indeed become a crisis forcing you to acknowledge the truth of who you really are.

Question 2: How does one combine scholarship and activism?

ANSWER: Although such a question may appear to be relatively straight- forward, in reality it is anything but. This is because how you combine scholarship and activism is linked to how you construct your life. In my case, building an integrated life has been a key part of being a scholar ac- tivist.

Allow me to begin with an often overlooked issue that has emerged as crucial to me: place. Perhaps because I am a geographer I have realized the need to deal with the reality and limitations imposed by space. Place figures two ways in my life. First, I do not traverse space particularly well, and, second, I am passionate about the place where I live, Los Angeles. Such a confluence of circumstances, while seemingly mundane, has made it relatively easy for me to build an integrated set of research, teaching, and political activities centered in one geographical location. This, in turn, has provided a convenient framework for my life as a scholar activist.

I did not initially consider space to be a relevant issue in shaping my political and academic work, but over time I discovered its importance. My dissertation research, which explored environmental activism among working-class Chicanas/os, focused on two specific places, northern New Mexico and central California. I realized quickly the conflict between my life as a researcher and my life as a political activist: if I wished to work with and become a committed member of those communities, this would entail a particular type of energy expenditure that was especially difficult for me—traveling. As much as I like seeing new places and meeting new people, travel is stressful on my body and usually results in some illness afterwards. For a long time I denied this fact and pushed myself, insisting that this was simply what politically committed academics did. Indeed, travel has essentially become a job requirement for all scholars. Eventu- ally I acknowledged that traveling was not sustainable for me, and I began to locate most of my activities at home. Of course, there are many ways I could have been a scholar activist from a distance, including doing applied

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research, advocacy work, and fund-raising, for example. While I was not averse to doing such things, such an arrangement would have precluded me from being part of the everyday life of an organization or movement, which has been paramount to me (more on that later).

Thankfully, not everyone feels this way. I have known many scholars who are intimately involved with communities beyond their backyard as well as halfway across the globe (Sangtin Writers and Nagar 2006; Routledge 2003; Gilmore and Gilmore 2003). Such individuals negotiate the physical and social distances between the various parts of their lives, facilitated increasingly by rapidly evolving technology. Indeed, if it were not for such people, the geographic distribution of scholar activists would be more skewed than it is, leaving large swaths of the globe without the benefits and resources, however meager, that committed academics can bring to marginalized communities.

The question of geography may appear to be mundane or irrelevant to your particular situation. That’s okay. The point is to encourage you to think about your basic character, your likes and dislikes, and how you want to live your life. As this example illustrates, seemingly irrelevant is- sues can play a major role in how you develop as a scholar activist. Obvi- ously, there is no right way to decide which communities you will work with and what kind of relationship(s) you will construct. The goal is to find a situation that works for you in which you are able to grow, con- tribute, and find meaning.

Just as space is important to the development of scholar activists, so too is time. Do you prefer long-term, short-term, or sporadic relation- ships with activist communities? I have a strong preference for long-term relationships, but there are merits to each, provided the proper context. One of the reasons I tend toward long-term commitments with activist groups is that I have seen numerous academics rush into a community ready to contribute, do their thing, and leave. This is not necessarily bad, as sometimes organizations and movements are in dire need of some quick assistance and such a strategy serves a need,3 but it is not a model I am comfortable with because it pays scant attention to the ongoing needs of the community and issues of reciprocity. In my case, partly because I lack the kind of skills typically associated with critical short-term assis- tance (see Question 5), and also because of my scholarly interest in social movement activism, I have sought to build long-term relationships with activists who share my political interests and commitments.

You may consider issues of space and time to be fairly abstract, but in reality they provide the foundation for more concrete matters. Identify-

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ing such key issues has facilitated my ability to integrate my research, teaching, university service, and political activism. The first three, re- search, teaching, and service, constitute the pillars of any academic career. Although universities usually view these domains separately, many scholar activists, myself included, manage to weave them together so that they perform “double duty” in terms of university requirements. For ex- ample, much of my research and many of my publications have been based on my community “service.” More recently, I have tried to create the same kind of symbiosis pedagogically. Over the last seven years or so, I have designed most of my undergraduate courses so that they are cen- tered on a community-based research project. My motivation was largely pedagogic, as I had come to realize that students are far more apt to re- member and be transformed by what they do than by what they hear and read. At the same time, I realized that this was a way to contribute to and strengthen my relationship with local community groups. Fortunately, the university has either supported such activities or, more often, simply not blocked them, even when they were critical of the institution (see, e.g., Houston and Pulido 2002). While this has been my experience, I know that faculty have been disciplined both formally and informally for engaging students in research critical of their employers. In such cases, scholar activists would do well to study their institution in advance in or- der to assess how it might respond to critical projects. At the very least you can hopefully make an informed decision about how you want to proceed.

In short, by integrating my research, teaching, and political activities as much as possible and keeping them in all one place, I feel that I have been able to sustain myself as a scholar activist and contribute in various ways to causes I am committed to. The specifics of how you choose to be a scholar activist will differ for everyone, but what is important is that you are clear on your particular needs and how that will inform your political and academic life.

Question 3: What kind of scholar activist should I be?

ANSWER: There are many different ways of being a scholar activist, each of which has its own merits and makes a particular contribution. For ex- ample, there are public intellectuals along the lines of Howard Zinn (1999), those who see their theoretical work as directly contributing to activism (Riedner and Tritelli 1999), those who engage in advocacy re- search (Hondagneu-Sotelo 1993), and those who practice “militant eth- nography” (Juris 2005). In addition to the type of activism one might

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choose, there is also the question of site. Will you direct your energies toward transforming the campus, the local community, the country, or the world? To further complicate matters, within each of these categories there is considerable variation. In terms of community activism, for ex- ample, some scholar activists may assume positions of leadership (Koba- yashi 1994; Meagher 1999), while others may contribute as rank-and-file members. Indeed, an individual may move through these various catego- ries over time, as Alan Wald has shown (Tritelli and Hanscom 1999). What is important is that you are aware of how you wish to be a scholar activist, the reasons for such a decision, and how that choice may change over time. Whether one is drawn to a specific form of activism or simply thrust into a particular role (a surprising number of people “stumble” into activism; Pulido 2006, ch. 3), it seems to me that one of the key is- sues is negotiating change. Not only is change often difficult for people, but we need to consciously decide what direction we wish to move rather than just letting life happen to us. In short, how does one evolve as a scholar activist, and how can one facilitate that process? The business of becoming an activist and an individual’s trajectory of activism are the products of both larger political events, what might be called external fac- tors, and one’s personal dynamics, what I refer to as internal factors (Pulido 2003). By understanding both the external and the internal, we can appreciate how individual changes occur at the nexus of both.

External events are larger shifts in the political climate, organizing op- portunities/obstacles, and other situational changes that usually are be- yond your control. These are developments that you must respond to. I’ll provide an example of one such instance. I recently completed a project on the Third World Left in Los Angeles. This was a comparative study of African American, Asian American, and Chicana/o activists in which I ex- amined the extent to which differential racialization led to distinct forms of radical politics. As part of the investigation, I explored the early politi- cization of activists, particularly the circumstances that had led to their politicization. Although there were some interesting variations among members of the various racial/ethnic groups, across the board all activists traced their early political involvement to two key events: the antiwar movement and the Black civil rights struggle. These events were so pro- found and pervasive that they forced individuals to respond to them and take a position. Both are examples of external events—they provide the larger historical backdrop that shapes our lives.

The internal, in contrast, is a vast terrain that includes such things as one’s personality, temperament, moral compass, and stage in the life cycle.

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These are factors that will greatly influence what activities we decide to pursue at a given time. At one point, for instance, I was deeply involved with a local organization, the Labor/Community Strategy Center. Until then I had largely eschewed campus activism for community engagement (I will admit to not only preferring community activism but also seeing it as more “authentic” than campus work, an admittedly problematic dis- tinction). However, when the worker conflicts on my campus arose, I was soon called upon to get involved, and I felt, given my position as a faculty member, that my participation was essential. I quickly learned, however, that I could not maintain two spheres of political work very well. I felt very scattered and did not feel that I was able to give my best to either struggle. Moreover, it was at a time when I began experiencing some health problems and wanted to simplify and streamline my life some- what. For these reasons, I decided to focus on the campus labor strug- gles—a decision very much driven by internal factors. Upon the conclu- sion of the labor campaigns, the campus itself had changed considerably, and I became increasingly immersed in campus activism. Not only had the campus changed, but I had changed, and I began to see and enjoy the possibilities of campus activism in a new light.

I realize that I have articulated a somewhat artificial distinction be- tween the external and the internal, but I have found this to be a useful device insofar as it illuminates distinct spheres of influence. Of course, the reality is that internal and external are always in dynamic conversation and shape the overall tapestry of one’s life, as can be seen in my decision to concentrate on campus activism. The point, as always, is to pay atten- tion to what is going on both outside and inside as you negotiate changes in your trajectory as a scholar activist.

Question 4: As a scholar activist, how should I approach community work?

ANSWER: Two fundamental issues should guide how scholar activists ap- proach community work: accountability and reciprocity. Both are short- hand for a series of important relations, including how individual scholars view themselves as activists, how they see themselves in relation to other activists, and the kinds of relationships they build. When all is said and done, what kind of scholar activist you are and the amount and type of work that you produce are secondary to the issues of accountability and reciprocity. In my experience, these are the criteria by which you will be judged and remembered.

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Accountability refers to the fact that scholar activists are not lone mavericks. Indeed, the idea of a scholar activist operating alone is some- thing of an oxymoron. The whole point of being a scholar activist is that you are embedded in a web of relationships, some of which demand a high level of accountability to a community or other group of individuals. It is accountability that will hopefully ensure the relevancy of your work in the effort to create social change. Accountability requires seeing your- self as part of a community of struggle, rather than as the academic who occasionally drops in. As longtime activist Lisa Duran, the executive di- rector of Rights for All People (RAP), recently explained, “One of the problems with scholar activists is that they’re just not useful because they are not sufficiently rooted in the community so that they don’t have a sense of where their time should be spent. Being clear on how the effort being put forward is short term, long term, or medium term and its con- nection to the larger goal is not just an idea—it’s rooted in struggle” (in- terview, July 2, 2004, Los Angeles).

It has become commonplace to hear activists and community residents complain about academics who act as if they are not accountable to any- one but rather privilege their own work and agenda. This is understand- able, as academia is all about the individual: one’s research, teaching, ser- vice, promotion, and evaluation all focus on the individual abstracted from a larger social context. In contrast, activism is very much a collective process (or at least effective activism usually is). Thus, if you are serious about becoming a scholar activist, at some point you need to decide how you will reconcile your own personal desires with that of a larger com- munity. And while I see many students and faculty who genuinely want to work with others, being held accountable is another story. I know this to be true because I have been one of those persons (see below).

Closely related to but distinct from accountability is reciprocity. Recip- rocity denotes a mutual give and take and is something that scholar activ- ists must always be attentive to. Just as activists and community residents resent academics who are not accountable, so too do they resent those who swoop in, collect what they need from a community, and then move on, having enriched themselves but not necessarily provided anything of substance to the community in question. Academics often rationalize that they are providing an important service simply by telling the story of a subordinated or otherwise marginalized group. While some may buy this (certainly, conventional academic norms encourage such thinking), do not be fooled. Writing about a community’s plight or struggle should not be confused with reciprocity. Consider for a moment what the scholar is get-

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ting out of the arrangement. If a student, the scholar is most likely earn- ing a graduate degree. If the scholar has already graduated, then the data collection and analysis will lead to either tenure or a promotion, an en- hanced reputation, further academic opportunities, and perhaps some modest level of fame, if not fortune. How does the community benefit? Their story gets told to a particular audience. Though it is certainly true that a subordinated group’s story must be told if the situation is to im- prove, there is ample evidence that simply telling that story will not lead to any substantive change. In fact, university libraries are filled with ac- counts of how aggrieved communities, nations, and workers struggled and resisted, but in no way did these stories contribute to a shift in power relations. Activists and residents of well-studied communities, such as northern New Mexico, the Mississippi Delta, Appalachia, and South Cen- tral Los Angeles, are quite aware of the unequal power dynamics embed- ded in research initiatives and of who bears the actual costs. For this rea- son, many communities are wary of sharing their experiences with new scholars, as experience has taught them to be cautious.

The need for reciprocity does not imply that every scholar activist should engage in participatory or advocacy research. Rather, it means looking for ways to reciprocate. Below I offer some examples of how this may or may not work. In the first case, I draw upon my own experience to illustrate a failure of accountability and reciprocity, and in the second, I share the success of my friend and colleague Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo, who has reciprocated in some innovative ways.

My own story of failing to reciprocate stems from my dissertation fieldwork in northern New Mexico. As stated earlier, the project centered on how working-class Chicano/a communities in California and New Mexico mobilized around environmental issues (Pulido 1996b). The New Mexico case study centered on Ganados del Valle, a community-based or- ganization dedicated to sustainable development. I was deeply sympa- thetic to and fascinated with the local community and its struggle, but I was also on a mission—to complete my dissertation. Besides thinking that I could not afford to be “sidetracked” by giving of myself in a sub- stantive way, I lacked confidence in my research skills and did not see how they might be helpful. As a result, although I did make some offers of as- sistance, they were vague and not particularly fruitful. In addition, the fact that I was not rooted in the community and was unwilling to make a long-term commitment to the region (as this would have required travel- ing) all worked against my forging a respectful and viable relationship

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with the group. In short, I was simply not willing to make the necessary investment of time and energy, despite my good intentions.

The situation was complicated by identity politics. Although other scholars were also studying Ganados del Valle, I was one of the few Chi- canas/os. Our shared heritage added a layer of ethnic confusion to the picture: not only did I sense (correctly) that the white researchers thought I had a different relationship to the community, but also I was uncertain about the meaning of my identity in the research process. Did I have a greater connection because of our ethnicity, despite the significant differences between an urban Chicana and rural New Mexicans? If so, did I also have a greater responsibility? Finally, because I was already a politi- cal activist of sorts, I assumed that I would produce politically relevant and useful work. However, I was still under the illusion that simply tell- ing a story was a politically useful act. In short, although I was a political activist in Los Angeles, and although I identified as a scholar activist, the reality was that I was not yet one, as I did not understand fully what be- ing one meant.

Being accountable would have required me to perhaps stay longer and/or make numerous repeat trips to the region; it would have necessi- tated shifting from my narrow dissertation focus to develop related pro- jects and activities that were of more direct use to the community. In- stead, regardless of the reasons, I operated as a scholar—certainly a very sympathetic one—but not a scholar activist. As can be seen, accountabil- ity requires flexibility, the ability to give of yourself, and willingness to step outside yourself, regardless of how “oppositional” your research might be. While I am not exactly proud of how I handled myself in this situation, the episode was important insofar as it made me realize that I needed to figure out how to be a scholar activist.

Fortunately, I did figure it out over time. However, for an entirely dif- ferent reason, I now once again find myself in a situation of not being able to reciprocate and be held accountable. Three years ago I became a mother, and while this has brought me great joy, I have had to scale back my political work. Given the centrality of reciprocity to me, however, this has meant a change in research focus, as I would not feel comfortable writing on community organizing and activism without everyday partici- pation. Not only would this limitation result in inferior scholarship, but such a practice would violate my code of reciprocity, as I lack the time and energy to give back to any communities. Consequently, I am currently pursuing archival and popular education projects (see “A People’s Guide to Los Angeles,” www.pgtla.org). Hopefully, when my children are older, I

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can return to a life of intense political engagement and writing about my passion, social movements.

In contrast, my friend and colleague Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo un- derstood early on what being a scholar activist entailed and how reciproc- ity worked. For her dissertation, Hondagneu-Sotelo conducted extensive fieldwork among Mexican immigrants in Northern California, exploring how gender relations were transformed through the migration process. On the basis of the data she gathered, she wrote her dissertation, received a PhD, and eventually turned it into an award-winning book (Hondag- neu-Sotelo 1994). Although Hondagneu-Sotelo benefited immeasurably by tapping into the lives, stories, and experiences of these Mexican immi- grants, she also understood the power dynamics at play and was not con- tent to simply take from her subjects. Upon completing her fieldwork she moved to Southern California, where she became involved with a group called Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights, Los Angeles (CHIRLA). Initially, she simply asked CHIRLA how she might be of service—always a good first move. Eventually it was decided that the group would create a series of fotonovelas to be used for popular education purposes among Latino immigrants. Hondagneu-Sotelo’s research led specifically to the development of a fotonovela focused on the rights of domestic workers (Hondagneu-Sotelo 1993), which has been widely used. In this case the researcher reciprocated, not directly with the individuals she had investi- gated, but rather with the same class or group of people. The fact that she had moved to another part of the state did not hinder her commitment and sense of responsibility to the community in question; instead, she found innovative ways to maintain accountability and to reciprocate.

Question 5: I want to be useful to the “community.” What kind of work should I do?

ANSWER: This is a very common question, as it gets to the heart of what most scholar activists desire: to be of service and to change the world. While there are many ways to alter the existing social formation, many hope that their research will be of direct use to those actually engaged in counterhegemonic struggle. In reality, however, the production of such research raises a host of issues concerning how activists operate as re- searchers. I will begin by discussing the kind of research that social change organizations often need and will then present alternatives one might consider if one lacks the requisite skills outlined.

There is, admittedly, something very compelling about conducting re- search of direct use to activists. Outside the classroom, there are few ven-

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ues where academics can really feel that they make a difference and see concrete change result from their work. Seeing one’s research put to such productive ends creates a deep sense of satisfaction. Although scholars of all disciplines engage in such research, it is performed most by social sci- entists—given that field’s supposed goals of addressing societal problems. If you harbor such aspirations, I would recommend honing your quanti- tative, technical, grant-writing, and policy skills. In my experience, this is what many social change organizations need when it comes to research: people who can conduct sophisticated quantitative and/or technical analy- ses; people who can challenge both policy makers and right-wing think tanks on their own turf; and people who can help organizations grow and/or fund new projects. Quantitative skills are always in demand, as are people who know how to make maps using GIS, digest an Environmental Impact Report (EIR), or decipher a state budget. Such research skills, though often devalued in theoretically driven fields, can make a tremen- dous difference to a community struggle. For example, several years ago Los Angeles−area researchers employed by Justice for Janitors (Service Employees International Union [SEIU] 399, now 1877) produced a study entitled “A Penny for Justice” (SEIU 1995), which documented the extent to which the public subsidized low-wage janitors via health care costs. Re- searchers argued that employers, by contributing an additional penny per hour, could provide janitors with health insurance and thus no longer burden the public with such costs. This was a terrific piece of activist scholarship that was debated in city council, resonated with the public, and ultimately helped the janitors secure a better contract (Merrifield 2000).

Unfortunately, I am not one of those scholars. I have a very limited set of quantitative skills, and my passion is really for history and talking to people about their experiences and stories. I have found, however, that such products are of far less use to those communities I am interested in working with. Accordingly, I have had to think through this skills mis- match problem. My research on environmental justice provides a clear example. Environmental justice refers to the disproportionate exposure of people of color and low-income communities to environmental degrada- tion (Bullard 1993). Environmental justice emerged as a topic while I was a graduate student; thus, not surprisingly, I became involved with the movement. Activists welcomed me as an academic, but it was quickly ap- parent that I did not have the skills that they really needed. Certainly they needed researchers who could tell the stories of struggling commu- nities to a larger audience and who could challenge the hegemonic nature

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of Western science, as well as attend rallies and lick envelopes—all of which I was happy to do. But what they really needed was someone who could identify various sources of pollution, map them, and conduct a rig- orous demographic analysis of the data. This I could not do. To be honest, I could have retooled and learned these skills, but ultimately I was not willing to do so. I was not willing to put the movement’s immediate needs ahead of my own because I knew I would have been miserable. I was much more interested in documenting the history of community struggle and exploring how the racial formation affected organizing efforts, as well as how discourses of race were operationalized within environmental jus- tice politics and research (Pulido 2000, 1998, 1996a). While these topics were certainly of interest to the larger movement, they were not consid- ered urgent or of immediate use.

I handled the problem in two ways. First, I did my best to connect the organizations in question with people who had the requisite skills. Al- though I lacked the specific research skills, I knew and had access to peo- ple who did. Sometimes this meant coaxing colleagues to help out, en- couraging graduate students to get involved, or, in some cases, conducting preliminary assessments myself. Though this was a relatively small effort on my part, it was deeply appreciated by community residents and activ- ists. As academics we often take for granted the resources available to us, resources that may be difficult for poor and working-class constituencies to access.

The second thing I did was to consciously contribute in other ways. While some scholar activists prefer to function primarily as researchers, I tried to be a reliable supporter/member who could provide whatever as- sistance was needed. Sometimes this required setting up tables and mak- ing phone calls, while at others it meant utilizing my legitimacy as a uni- versity professor to provide testimony, for example, at public hearings. Although I couldn’t conduct specific forms of analysis, I could produce and contribute to a number of other projects that were useful to the over- all struggle, including helping to write/edit newsletters, giving lectures on relevant topics, organizing class research projects that generated basic data, and developing popular education materials.

Despite being generally happy to contribute either as a researcher or as a general member, I am somewhat critical of the way that I have han- dled the situation. While I reject the model of the academic “expert,” in retrospect I could have leveraged more of my “social capital” to greater effect. One reason I hesitated to do so was my discomfort with the dis- tance between myself and the community in question. Feminist scholars

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have problematized the space between researchers and subjects (Behar 1993; Gilbert 1994; England 1994), arguing that this distance, regardless of how uncomfortable, must be acknowledged, as it is the result of un- even power relations. While I know this intellectually, I have had a harder time incorporating the knowledge into my attitudes and behavior. This is partly because I come from a working-class family: My parents are “those people” who don’t understand EIRs and budgets and policy analyses. As a result, for a long time I did not wish to set myself apart from them and was uncomfortable with the status conferred by the PhD and my profes- sorial position. This, coupled with my disdain for those who related to working-class communities only as the academic expert, led me to bend over backwards not to be like them, but at a price. Had I been more com- fortable with my “in-betweenness,” I might have been able to do a better job of contributing more fully to the communities and struggles that I was committed to (see also Question 3).

Question 6: What kinds of ethical problems might I confront as a scholar activist?

ANSWER: Scholar activists will inevitably encounter a range of ethical di- lemmas. This can catch them by surprise, as they sometimes have roman- tic visions of the “beloved community.” Among progressives there is a deeply entrenched narrative that confers a nebulous moral authority upon nonelites (Joseph 2002). While such beliefs are entirely understand- able given hegemonic values, subordinated communities can also be sites of unethical conduct and/or political disagreement (Nagar 2000). Contra- dictions may become more apparent and potentially problematic the closer one is to a community. Scholar activists often seek closeness, as it facilitates access to events, materials, and members of the community (which may contribute to scholarship) and produces a sense of political efficacy (which feeds the activist). As you become more integrated into a group, however, the boundaries between the scholar and activist may be- come muddied, and responding to conflicting demands increasingly difficult. Such conflicts may be fraught with ethical challenges, including conflicts of interest, questions of representation, and questions of one’s commitment to the community (versus the university, discipline, etc.). While at first glance these may appear to be political issues, I frame them as ethical ones. I do so because progressive scholars and activists routinely overlook the ethical dimensions of political activism. If we define ethics as the exploration of how we should best live our lives, it will become appar- ent that ethical commitments underlie most political positions. If we wish

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to fully understand the dynamics informing our political work—which I believe is essential—then we must consider the role of ethics. The world of the scholar activist is filled with ethical dilemmas, and although I only discuss two examples, I hope that this brief discussion will encourage you to be cognizant of the many ethical issues in your life.

My first example centers on a political disagreement I had with a labor union in which my actions did not reflect my beliefs. In short, I was not truthful to myself. It is important to understand that ethics does not refer solely to how we treat others; it also encompasses how we act in relation to ourselves. As previously mentioned, I developed relationships with un- ion locals who were considered quite progressive and at the forefront of “social movement unionism.” Social movement unionism is a form of unionism in which labor unions are politically relevant to working-class people and address a range of important issues, not just narrow bread- and-butter concerns (Scipes 1992). The goal of social movement unionism is for labor to actually become a vibrant social movement, rather than merely being defined as a “special interest” group (Milkman 2000; Bern- stein 2004; Merrifield 2000). The political goals and energy of the locals led me to participate in numerous campaigns, not just ones related to USC. Workers and organizers alike could count on me to attend events, provide needed contacts, participate in mass civil disobedience, or what- ever was required. For the most part, I felt good about my participation: I learned a great deal and felt confident that I was assisting workers who were struggling not only for a decent livelihood but also for a better un- ion movement.

While there were certainly small things that I disagreed with, there was significant political agreement between me and one local until the is- sue of Indian gaming arose. Over the past decade, California, like many other states, has allowed Indian tribes to operate gambling operations on sovereign land (Morain 2004). This has become a highly profitable enter- prise. Given the money involved, as well as the fact that a protected mi- nority is at the center of the debate, there has been an explosion of legis- lation surrounding the issue. When the matter first came before the Cali- fornia electorate in 1998, the union actively opposed Proposition 5. It argued, along with environmentalists and others, that the proposed law would authorize unregulated gambling in the state, something that or- ganized labor, understandably, challenged on a number of grounds.

In California, Latinas/os constitute a significant portion of the Indian gaming workforce, and serious questions have been raised regarding wages, working conditions, and unionization. By opposing Proposition 5,

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which legalized the expansion of Indian gaming, a progressive labor un- ion, was, in effect, pitted against Indian tribes. Regardless of the pros and cons of Indian gaming, I disagreed with how the union advocated its posi- tion. Although Indian gaming is not without its problems, I felt that na- tive peoples should be allowed sovereignty to the extent possible. More- over, given the genocide, displacement, and poverty they have suffered and continue to endure, I hesitate to categorize indigenous people as just another special-interest group, as I believed the union was doing. I agreed that questions of workers’ rights and wages needed to be addressed, but through political negotiation. Given that two marginalized groups were at the heart of the conflict, I hoped that both parties would be committed to working out an acceptable solution.

Instead, the union waged an all-out war against Proposition 5, assum- ing that once I was “educated” on the matter I would get on board, as I had with other issues. The local invited me to speak at events, distribute pamphlets, and get other people involved in the cause. I could not do so, however, because my heart was not in it. Perhaps I was somewhat naive in my hope that the matter could be resolved outside the legislative arena, but what is important is that I disagreed with the union’s approach and lacked the courage to say so. I did occasionally try to complicate the situa- tion, question the union’s strategy, and point out various contradictions, but I did not systematically explain my position and why I could not ac- tively participate in this campaign. This was a low point for me in my ex- perience as a scholar activist: I felt great pressure from the union but could not speak my truth. In retrospect, I believe that most union mem- bers would have accepted my decision and respected it as simply a politi- cal disagreement, but I was too afraid to test the waters, too afraid of somehow having my commitment questioned. Given where I am at today, I am confident that I would handle the situation differently, as I have a greater ability to stand by my convictions. But I also understand that this particular event helped me reach that point. Ethical dilemmas and politi- cal disagreements, however difficult, are valuable opportunities that allow us to clarify our beliefs and how we wish to act upon them, which is all part of the process of political development.

The second ethical conflict I wish to address involves representations of scholarly work, particularly differing interpretations and narrations of activism and activists and how they are represented in texts. Although volumes have been written on the question of representation from vari- ous perspectives, my intent is to discuss how I have experienced this problem as a scholar activist. Although I present one instance, I have en-

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countered this problem in every major research project in which I have used a large interview set. Moreover, numerous other scholar activists have discussed this problem with me, suggesting that it is a common problem for those engaged in ethnographic and qualitative fieldwork.

As previously mentioned, I recently completed Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left: Radical Activism in Los Angeles (Pulido 2006). The project was essentially based on archival sources as well as many interviews with Af- rican American, Asian American, and Chicana/o activists. Since I sought to interview people outside my own racial/ethnic group and with whom I did not necessarily have a history, my reputation, or the willingness of others to vouch for me as a reliable academic, was key in getting those I did not know to talk with me. Many former activists were hesitant to dis- cuss this part of their lives. Not only did they feel betrayed by previous academics whom they felt had misrepresented them, but they also had fears of state surveillance. Because of these concerns, my activist “creden- tials” were crucial in enabling me to secure interviews and also offered some hope to activists that their stories would be appropriately told. Needless to say, I took this confidence seriously and did my utmost to convey the stories I gathered with respect and accuracy, not only because they are the memories and experiences of real people, but also because I cared deeply about these movements and struggles and wished to portray them in all their richness and complexity.

To do so, I needed to develop a process for working with my interview- ees. This was relatively easy, since feminist scholars have pioneered vari- ous collaborative research models, which, in turn, have been embraced by an array of critical scholars. For example, researchers such as Diane Fujino (2005), Mario García (1994), Maurice Isserman (see Healey and Isserman 1993), and Richa Nagar (see Sangtin Writers and Nagar 2006) have pur- sued relatively collaborative, nonhierarchical models of knowledge pro- duction in which the subject and researcher work together on the project at every step. Most scholars, however, employ a modified approach in which the subjects are consulted, invited to review drafts, and asked to comment but are not necessarily engaged in every decision.

In my case, I conducted the interviews, transcribed them, and sent them to the interviewees for comments. Although few actually com- mented, this strategy generated some valuable feedback and, perhaps more importantly, provided interview subjects with a transcript, which many found useful. Upon completing a draft of the manuscript, I sent copies to most of the interviewees for comments and incorporated a number of their suggestions. Certainly these exchanges lengthened the

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process, but these are common practices among those seeking to address the power imbalance inherent in contemporary social science research.

During the course of Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left, I did a series of interviews with Asian American activists and wrote an account of one Japanese American organization. This was a difficult history to recon- struct, as there were few written records; I had to piece together a narra- tive based largely on individuals’ memories. Not only are memories noto- riously faulty, but more importantly, they reflect distinct experiences— which differed radically in this case. As usual, I sent the manuscript to all the interviewees; this led to a collective conversation among them and prompted another former activist to ask to be interviewed late in the process. I happily obliged, thinking the new material might add greater accuracy to the text. And in fact the informant was extremely helpful in identifying shortcomings and helping to clarify the organizational ac- count. However, she differed radically from the other members in her analysis of the group’s gender relations. While most interviewees de- scribed the organization as patriarchal and sexist, she insisted that it was not. When confronted with the evidence that other interviewees had pre- sented, she often dismissed the other female informants as being “weak” on gender issues or simply not recalling things accurately. She continued to communicate with me over several months through e-mails explaining her perspective on the organization. Typically, these e-mails were also sent to the other interviewees, a correspondence that allowed me to glimpse not only the differing interpretations of gender relations but also how members interacted with each other. The reality was that the activ- ists were continuing to play out the dynamics of an earlier period, includ- ing issues that had not yet been resolved. Unfortunately, being part of this process was extremely time consuming and emotionally draining, as I was under intense pressure from the various parties to portray their ex- perience and interpretations as the organizational experience. I felt as if I had walked into a quagmire of difficult personalities and unresolved is- sues to which there was no easy answer or exit. After several months of intense interactions, and after I had taken firm positions with the various parties, I invoked the press deadline as one way of concluding the dia- logue. Ultimately, I decided to depict the organization as patriarchal (though far less so than its Chicana/o and African American counter- parts), but with clear acknowledgment that not all parties agreed on this interpretation. Although this experience is hardly uncommon, it was nev- ertheless difficult and raised several ethical concerns: To what extent should one accommodate the needs and desires of one’s research subjects?

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What are the political and ethical implications of privileging particular narratives? Where does my responsibility to the informant end and my role as researcher take precedence? Certainly the answers to these ques- tions will depend on both the individual and the circumstance. Indeed, it is not my intent to offer any ready solutions. Rather, I wish to illustrate the kinds of ethical challenges I face in the course of my research—issues that you might very well confront yourself.

Upon the conclusion of such research I am usually so drained that I of- ten follow a major ethnographic project with an archival or theoretical study requiring minimal emotional energy. Such work, I find, restores me, and inevitably whets my appetite to go back into the field again. I have tried to address the most frequently asked questions, as well as those that seem pertinent for anyone considering becoming a scholar ac- tivist. Although I have tried to cover a sizable terrain in this letter, I would like to highlight some key themes and lessons. The first is simply recognizing that being a scholar activist is not always easy but is im- mensely rewarding. You will inevitably find yourself having to make difficult professional, ethical, and political choices and having to live with the consequences. This is never easy, but it is part and parcel of a rich life. Second, it is of the utmost importance that scholar activists pay attention to the rules and requirements of academia. It is imperative that you be fully aware of what is expected of you and that you make fully informed choices. You may decide that some institutional requirements are worth challenging, or you may decide to comply and direct your energies to- ward other goals. What is important is that you make the decision and that it is not made for you, or worse, that you were unaware of the expec- tations. There is certainly nothing wrong with deciding to leave academia (as a number of brave souls have done), but it is far preferable to leave on your terms.

A third lesson, which applies to all spheres of life, is the importance of living a life of reflection. Because becoming a scholar activist entails mak- ing difficult choices and acts of courage—particularly the determination to live your truth—it is essential that you be attentive to your emotions and thoughts and consider how they affect your attitudes, values, and be- havior. Clarity in your actions will spare you a great deal of grief and al- low you to be more open and direct with colleagues and comrades. Finally, as suggested above, the life of the scholar activist is not for the faint- hearted, weak, or nominally committed. The truth is that it takes forti- tude and wisdom to live such a life. Fortitude is required to make unpopu-

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lar decisions, to challenge both the powerful and the disenfranchised; and wisdom is necessary to ensure that you have weighed your options, un- derstand the consequences, and are creating a life that you can be proud of. Living the life of the scholar activist not only helps to change the world but also provides an avenue to change yourself. In Solidarity, Laura Pulido

NOTES

Many thanks to Charlie Hale for his helpful comments. I remain responsible for all shortcomings.

1. For instance, the recently published Chicago Guide to Your Academic Ca- reer does not even mention political activism and in fact advises junior faculty to refrain from engaging in institutional politics (Goldsmith, Komlos, and Schine Gold 2001, 146–49).

2. I do not mean to suggest that the current “standards” of evaluation are fair, reasonable, or appropriate. In fact, they are extremely problematic and contradic- tory (Domosh 2000), and, thankfully, other scholar activists are challenging them. I have chosen not to take on this particular battle—perhaps if I had my story would be quite different.

3. One could argue, however, whether this is in fact scholar activism, as there is an absence of commitment, reciprocity, and accountability.

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