Honoring
Love in Academia
She
primps in front of the bathroom mirror, for longer than usual, imagining how
they will see her. Pretending she
doesn’t know herself, she observes the middle-aged woman smiling back. Oh, yes, definitely middle-aged now. Not pretty, as in “young girl
pretty,” though pleasant looking, especially when her dimples show and
her eyes sparkle. She smiles for
the mirror. Taking off her small,
rimless glasses that expand the blue in her eyes, she leans closer to inspect
the newly-formed wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. “They add character,” she says to the
mirror. “And years,”
she adds laughing. She likes her eyes; they open wide into an oval shape now.
She puts on her glasses, then lightly teases her hair, as she used to do in the
seventies, to make the fine, light brown, droopy wisps appear thicker and
fuller. “Enough,” she
says out loud, dropping the comb on the sink, disturbed by her vanity. A woman
of her age, well there’s more to life than appearance.
She
turns her attention to the four outfits hanging in the closet. The dressy jeans and blue velour
shirt--no, too casual and a little drab.
Dark sweater with contrasting patches and matching pants--no, she wears
this outfit all the time. Blue and
pink, long, checkered skirt and matching shirt. Maybe.
It’s colorful. They
will expect color. She must give
them color. Then her eyes fall on
the long, black, slinky dress. She
seldom wears black and the dress is more formal and sexy than she usually wears
at conferences. Then she takes out
the hot pink, knee-length jacket trimmed on the shoulders in red, purple and
aqua splashes. She hangs the
jacket over the dress. Ah yes,
this is it. The jacket turns the
outfit into the style she likes--slightly outrageous yet respectable, calling
attention to the whole image rather than to the shape of her body. From her
jewelry box, she selects dangling metal earrings with abstract patterns of
purple, aqua, blue and gold. She
holds them up to the jacket and smiles.
After she dresses, she looks into the full-length mirror on the closet
door.
“Not
bad,” she says out loud, her voice shaking slightly. Why am I nervous? she wonders. I don’t have to say anything. All I have to do is perform myself
being honored. But she is not sure
how to do this. If she looks too
appreciative of what they say, won’t she seem self-absorbed, like she agrees with their sentiments and
thinks she deserves the honor? If
she tries to be modest, looks removed, or takes the stance, “Ah, you shouldn’t
have...” Or, “Oh, no,
you flatter me. I’m not that good....,” then she fears she will
appear unappreciative, even that she doubts what they say.
How
does one take in love, praise, and honor?
There are few models in academia.
I
should thank them for taking my work seriously and for their time and
insights, she thinks, as she
retrieves from her back pack the page of thank you’s she has written for
the occasion. Now this response
seems shallow, so common and uncreative, after what the presenters will
say. What will they
say? she wonders. She doesn’t let herself
speculate; she wants to be surprised.
From
a folder, she removes the story she wrote recently about the terrorist attacks
that occurred on September 11th. Perhaps she will read this story as her response. Quickly she rejects the idea. No, she should not present her own work
at this session, especially not new work.
She should listen and receive.
But
shouldn’t she say something?
She considers writing notes from which she’d speak. She walks around the room, lost in
thought, retrieving paper and pen, mumbling to herself. How does she write a response when she hasn’t seen the texts of
what the presenters will say?
She
sits at the desk, pen in hand, and begins with the date, Saturday November 3rd,
2001. She tries to convey modestly
in words how honored she feels about this session. Though the task is difficult and her words not quite right;
she is calmed by the writing process.
She puts down the pen and smiles knowingly. These are friends, former students, and colleagues, so she
does have an idea of how they’ll speak: they’ll speak from
their hearts.
She wants to speak from her heart as
well. Perhaps she should take
notes as they perform and respond extemporaneously. No, she can’t possibly spend the time they are
speaking to her--and she believes they will be talking to her--thinking
about how she will respond afterwards.
Academics do that too often as it is. She wants to listen, take in every word and nuance of what
they say, be fully present in the moment.
She wants to hear and feel; not prepare and rehearse.
Since
there are six speakers in a seventy-five minute time slot, most likely there
won’t be time for her to say anything, she thinks, as she checks her hair
one more time. Wouldn’t it
be too bad if she spent the session concentrating on how to respond and then
there was no time to give her
response? Think of all she would
miss, and for what?
She
laughs at her angst as she locates her conference badge and places it around
her neck. I’m just like all the rest, she thinks. What academics fear most is
rejection, but then they can’t even relax when they’re being
honored.
What
is she worried about anyway? Jan
Yerby, the chair of the session, already has agreed that she doesn’t have
to respond. But will the audience
expect her to speak, seeing that her name is listed as respondent? She’s felt disappointed before in
other sessions when honorees chose not to speak. But people are coming to hear
others respond to her work, not hear her, she rationalizes. Will the presenters be disappointed
that she does not speak back? How
will they know how she feels about what they have to say? They’ll know by the attention I
pay, the expressions I give off, she argues with herself.
Why
is she so concerned about responding?
She speaks extemporaneously in classes and workshops all the time and
loves it. Well, even when she
lectures, she quickly moves into a conversational style, preferring to interact
with students rather than talking at them. That’s what she’d really like: a one-on-one
conversation with each of the presenters.
Too bad she didn’t think to suggest that earlier.
What
would people think if they knew she had spent this much time thinking of what
to say? Usually she presents herself--and feels--calm, collected, and
confident. With the exception of
the little voice nagging her to be prepared, that is generally how she feels even now. I’ll just let it all unfold
and go with my feelings at the moment,
she decides, finally feeling settled.
She
checks her watch--it’s half-past ten, thirty minutes before the session.
She hurriedly gathers her papers and tape player, thinking she will test the
machine in the session room. She
wonders if it is appropriate to tape the session, but she wants to be able to
replay their presenters’ words later and re-experience her feelings as
she listens. Maybe she’ll
want to write about the session.
She laughs. Of course an
autoethnographer would tape a session on herself. Quickly turning serious, she thinks that she must be
careful not to let taping interfere with the presentations.
As
she walks to the elevator, she realizes how much this event means to her; it
gives her life and work meaning.
She thinks how delighted (and probably surprised) Gene, her first mentor
and partner, would have been by this session. She wonders if she can explain this event to her mother and
other family members so they are able to understand its significance. She thinks of her brother Rex, who
would have understood. She thinks of her husband Art and how proud he is of
her. She thinks of her students
and how attached she is to them.
She feels happy and satisfied with her life for the first time since
September 11th.
As
she approaches, she hears sounds of people already buzzing around inside the
Trinidad Room, where the session will take place. She is comforted when she sees Jan Yerby, who in her special
motherly, caring way, greets and hugs her. “Sit anywhere you like,” Jan instructs. Where
she sits suddenly takes on tremendous importance. The audience should be able
to see her face and body and experience her nonverbal responses. They should see her take in what the
presenters say. She will want to
see the audience, to acknowledge the importance of their being there and her
relationship to them. (And, of
course, to see who came.)
She wants to be able to make eye contact with each presenter as she or
he speaks.
She
takes a chair from the front row and turns it sideways toward the podium where
the speaker will stand, perpendicular to the audience. The speaker can see her, she can see
the speaker, the audience can see her, she can see them with just a slight turn
of her head. They will all see her
smile, be sad, maybe cry. She will
see them react. Everyone in the
room will be connected.
That’s what she wants: for people in the room to be connected
through feeling. No distanced
academic stance in this session, especially not after the events of September
11th.
She
frames everything now in terms of September 11th (Ellis, 2001b;
2002).
After
she connects the tape player to the wall outlet, she makes sure the mike and
headphones are plugged in, and then hits pause. It’s risky not to test the mike. But it always has worked before, and
she put in fresh batteries today.
Besides she’s already caught up in the event and doesn’t
want to call attention to the tape player. She scans the audience quickly and discreetly, trying not to
be obvious when she turns to see who else has arrived. The room is filling up. Good, it would have been embarrassing
if only a few people had come.
She
hears the animated voice of her husband Art before she sees him sitting near
the front. She smiles at him. He smiles back. His presence calms her. She sees people she loves, people she
admires, young faces of people she barely knows who want to know more about
autoethnography. She’s glad
they’re here. She considers
getting up and greeting people, but how would she decide who and how many? Some
might feel excluded since she can’t possibly greet everyone. Besides “working the room”
might look inauthentic or even inappropriate. And it’s almost time for the session to begin. She wants to start on time and not
waste a moment. She sits still and waits, takes a deep breath, excited, but
feeling for just a moment that she is alone.
Jan
Yerby moves to the podium.
Together she and Carolyn take another deep breath. Carolyn releases the pause button on
the tape recorder and the session begins.
From that moment on, Carolyn moves away from thinking about her own
performance and into experiencing what people are creating together in this
room
“Welcome,
everyone, to this panel honoring the work of Carolyn Ellis,” Jan says,
smiling as she speaks. “I
feel privileged to be here today...” and her voice, soft and sincere,
makes everyone feel that indeed she is.
Turning
toward Carolyn, Jan speaks directly to her. She doesn’t take her eyes off Jan, appreciating the
simplicity of the stories Jan tells about their academic and personal
connection. Love flows from her
voice, her face, and the way she looks at Carolyn and the rest of her
audience. Carolyn thinks that Jan’s
description of her is also a description of Jan herself, a flattering
projection: supportive of colleagues, nonpretentious as a person and scholar,
nonflamboyant, confident, courageous, able to laugh at herself, caring of
students, a great teacher, a good human being. Jan would never claim those characteristics for herself; she
would rather speak those things about others.
Jan
describes being an audience member for Carolyn’s work. Her emphasis is on what the work made
her feel: “I also felt an incredible sense of community with every person
in that audience. A deep sense of
satisfaction came over me--there was a wholeness about the experience for me;
my academia life and personal and emotional lives came together.” Carolyn
thinks that there is no better audience member than Jan. With her grunts and sighs at just the
right places, her tears and laugher shared without embarrassment, always
leaning forward in her chair to let the presenter know she is there, she is
able to make everyone feel that their presentation is noteworthy. Carolyn wants to be the same kind of
audience member for Jan that Jan is for others. She leans forward in her chair.
She
is not surprised that Jan chooses to speak about articles Carolyn has written
on family relationships and caring---the story about losing her brother (Ellis,
1993), the illness and care giving of her mother (Ellis, 1996; 2001a), and the
loss of her first husband. Family
is a major area of academic and personal interest for Jan (Yerby,
Buerkel-Rothfuss, and Bochner, 1995); care giving is her modus operandi in the
world. Then Jan gives her the best
gift of all. She tells of sharing
with her own mother the story Carolyn wrote about the death of her
brother. Reading and discussing it
together enhanced the relationship between mother and daughter. When Jan says she regrets she
can’t give the story on Carolyn’s mother (Ellis, 2001a) to her
mother as well, who now has died, tears form and threaten to fall from
Carolyn’s eyes. With this,
Carolyn realizes how raw her feelings are about her own mother’s
deteriorating health (Ellis, 2001b).
The
stories Jan tells that day make Carolyn feel that she is worthy of being
honored. Jan does that for others.
Next
is Tom Frentz. Tom is a wonderful,
to the point, storyteller, whose stories provide insight into social life and
identity. In the span of a few minutes, he tells a story from her (Ellis, 1995a) article, “Ethical
and Emotional Quagmires in Returning to the Field,” playing the parts and
taking on the dialect of Carolyn and her fisher folk.
She
is not surprised that Tom selects to read a passage about a life-altering
event, since she has just finished reading a manuscript he wrote about how
illness changed his life. In it,
he portrays his own “trickster,” transgressive self who makes
people laugh but also can cause people pain (Frentz, 2001).
In
his presentation, Tom pinpoints the moment at which he thinks Carolyn made the
ethnographic turn--the moment that she realizes she has caused an informant
pain. She is returned to the scene
as she listens to her written words being spoken. Though slightly uncomfortable with the scene he describes,
she also is forgiving toward the naive young fieldworker who thought that
understanding and penetration went only in one direction.
Upon
hearing Tom’s interpretation, she has an “ah, ha”
experience. Surprisingly she has
not thought about this turning point before--the moment she moved from seeing
“them” to seeing her relationship with them and seeing herself
through their eyes. She
believes Tom’s insight is a key to understanding who she has become.
She
thinks Tom is right--that moment in the passage he reads shows “a fragile
awareness that perhaps the best ethnographic insights emerge out of the most
authentic personal relationships.”
Case in point is the moment she hears Tom say those words. She feels then the authenticity of her
relationship with him. She is
amazed at how well they have come to know each other, primarily through the
written word. She is glad that Tom has made the audience feel and think; though
if he had chosen to make them laugh, that would have been fine too.
Janice
Rushing stands behind the podium and speaks to Carolyn and the audience. Although Carolyn doesn’t know her
well, she feels they are on their way to becoming good friends. She respects and admires Janice’s
work and the person behind the work.
Janice’s papers are always insightful and make intriguing
connections. It often takes more
than one reading to get to the deeper levels, but Carolyn has discovered that
doing so is well worth the effort, especially now that Janice includes her own
story in her work.
She
is not surprised when Janice begins with her work about women in academia
(Rushing, 2002). Janice focuses on
the connection between how we treat women in this society and how cultural
critics talk about what they do to their texts: from knowing to gazing to
penetrating to violating. What does surprise Carolyn is the funniest (and
perhaps the most powerful) line of the session. Janice quotes one of her respondents as explaining why she
hates academia. “Writing an
academic article is so penetrative!
You have to find a hole and fuck it!” The audience cracks up. Janice, not her “trickster”
husband Tom, has made everyone laugh. Carolyn thinks that a little transgression fits nicely
with how Janice presents herself.
She
also is not surprised that Janice chooses to comment on a passage from Final
Negotiations (Ellis, 1995b) about
Carolyn’s partner and mentor, Gene, playing Pygmalion to her as Galatea,
since this is the topic of a book Janice is working on (Rushing, 2001). When Carolyn listens to Janice read,
she has difficulty relating to the young woman in the story who is so dependent
on what somebody else says. How
will these words lead people to see me now? she wonders,
again concerned briefly for her own presentation of self. Then she
thinks: Who cares? We all have our
insecurities. That was me
then. It contributed to who I am
today. With that, she turns her
focus on what she can learn about and from Janice in the passages she selects.
Showing
her ability to make interesting connections, Janice examines how
Carolyn’s dependence on Gene relates to stories about Carolyn’s
mother’s dependence on her. Two sides of the same process; two sides that
Carolyn has never thought about being so much a part of her work. Upon hearing the
passage about caring for her mother (Ellis, 1996), Carolyn’s eyes again
fill with tears as she thinks of how much her mother has deteriorated since the
events in this story. She wonders if her tears also stem from being reminded about
her ambivalence regarding having a child, now an opportunity lost. She and Janice have never talked about
their child-free similarities. She
hopes they will have that conversation some day.
Janice
says she is serious about knowing and caring about a subject at the same
time. “After reading
passages in Carolyn’s work,” she says, “people like Gene and Carolyn’s mother can never
be ‘subjects’ to be penetrated. She has made me care too deeply
about the persons behind these words.” Janice’s words make Carolyn feel known and cared
for.
Ron
Pelias. Ah, Ron Pelias. He writes like an angel. His words exemplify the sparseness of
poetry, yet the fullness of meaning.
She loves the images---of the refrain “helplessly attached to
being human,” “trapped in her body,” poet of the
everyday,” “empathy’s emissary,” and “she cannot
let herself be otherwise.” Ron knows her; he knows her because they are
both the same. Both “resist the critical eye for the
open heart,” (Pelias, 2000) and “reject the antiseptic for the
messiness of human lives”
(Pelias, 2002). They lay
bare their vulnerabilities on the page for all to experience. Carolyn sees Ron
the way Ron sees her. In all their interactions, especially this one, he makes
her feel that he “care[s] about what she has to say, that [she]
matters.” They are
emotions junkies. Neither can let themselves be otherwise.
She
listens to Ron’s words, which flow with poetic cadence. She wants the poem not to end, feeling
that it offers insights into who she is.
She feels surprisingly naked in front of Ron’s words. He has
unwrapped her for all to see. But in the process he has unwrapped himself as
well. She has company. He makes
her feel beautiful--young girl pretty, older woman wise. She considers removing
her colorful jacket and strutting in her tight fitting, sleek black dress. She considers letting the tears fall
freely. But her smile gets in the
way and his words keep her seated, mesmerized.
Suddenly
aware that she has been smiling for a long time, Carolyn wets her lips and
thinks about how her mouth muscles hurt.
She glances out into the audience, an audience that seems to be
completely with her and the speakers.
Do they feel the connection?
Do they feel unwrapped too?
She hopes so.
Into
the feeling, Christine stands, pauses, looks and speaks directly to
Carolyn.
“I
don’t recall the place, or who made the introduction.
I
only recall the moment.
She
extended her hand,
long,
elegant, slender.”
Suddenly
Carolyn’s tape player clicks off.
She ignores the impulse to turn it back on. She cannot miss a single word or break the connection. Her eyes are locked with
Christine’s. Love--maternal
love, pride--in a child who has come into her own, respect--for a talented
friend. The feelings flow between them. Carolyn wants to cry. This is her daughter, her academic
daughter, the one she shares with her husband, Art, Christine’s mentor. Christine is one of the best
introspective writers she knows (Kiesinger, 2002). Christine is one of the best teachers and speakers she
knows. Christine is one of the
most decent human beings she knows.
If Christine got any of this from her, as she acknowledges, then Carolyn
thinks: My career and my life have
been worthwhile. This is all I
need to know. She chokes back her
tears but lets her love flow.
Does
the audience feel the love? They
must.
Finally,
Lisa positions herself at the podium.
She looks at Carolyn, her eyes saying, “This is for you, mother
mentor.” Carolyn readies herself, but nothing she can contemplate
prepares her for what follows.
Lisa performs, as only Lisa can--from her body, heart, and soul--a poem
that encompasses the life of Carolyn as a teacher, writer, scholar, mother
mentor. The audience, including
Art and Carolyn, laugh at the portrayal of Art as testy B. C. (before Carolyn), Carolyn’s portrayal of affliction as
poetic and humorous, and her introduction of students as ‘heart attack,
Hodgkin’s, and bulimia squared.” They smile at the image of Carolyn
in native print, vivid colors, with gemstone and silver (exemplified by the
outfit she wears today), and respond more seriously to Lisa’s recap of
the courses she had with her and what she learned.
Carolyn
thinks about how much she’s shared with Lisa. Together, they learned to wear and examine deeply the
identities they most feared. Lisa
always went further and then
pulled her along (Tillmann-Healy, 2001). Wide-eyed and eager, Carolyn accompanied her. So much of
what she had accomplished was due to Lisa and students like her.
As
Carolyn listens, she thinks of the time she was giving a keynote address at a
conference when Lisa stood up and said, “We will. Christine and I will.” Carolyn
looked at her questioningly and then Lisa said, “Take care of you and
Art, in your old age.” Lisa was responding to a passage in the story
Carolyn read about not having children and wondering who would take care of her
and Art in their old age. Outrageously public, this event would
stay in Carolyn’s mind and heart forever.
Feeling
her heart fill with love, she sneaks a glance at Art. They connect and share a moment of mutual love for their
academic children.
If
she could write poetry well, she would write a poem for Lisa (and Christine and Ron; indeed,
for all the people she loves). She
hopes personal narrative will suffice.
When
Lisa sits down, everyone claps.
Carolyn feels so many emotions, she is unable, nor does she want, to
label them. Glancing at her watch,
she sees it is only eleven-fifty.
Six academics presented in fifty minutes!!! Unbelievable. There is at least twenty-five minutes
left, time enough for her to speak.
She wants to speak, though she is not sure what she will say. As soon as
the clapping begins to wane, Jan announces that there is time for the audience
to respond. Carolyn sits back, again to listen and take in.
Joy Pierce, a graduate student she met
several years ago at a Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction meeting in Illinois, stands and says, “I met
Carolyn at a conference. I was new
and didn’t know anybody there.
She spent time with me and made me feel welcome. That meant a lot to me.”
Such
a simple act, Carolyn thinks, to be nice to someone who feels ill at ease, but
it can make such a difference. She
appreciates Joy saying this and makes a note to pay more attention to
newcomers.
Larry
Russell, a professor at Hofstra University, says, “I got to know Carolyn
last year when I spent a year as a visiting professor at South Florida. And like Art, I’m smitten with
her. We’re all smitten with
her. I read Final Negotiations and it touched me deeply. Your willingness to take
risks,” he says, turning to her, “and deal in the vulnerability of
emotions is a gift for those of us who are trying to follow the way that you
are clearing.” What a special gift, these words from Larry.
Jan asks for other speakers. When no one volunteers immediately,
Lisa, from the front of the room, says, “I’d like to mention
someone who is here in spirit.
Jennifer Pickman.”
She turns to Carolyn, who now is crying. “You meant the world to
her,” Lisa says, and now Lisa also is crying. Everyone is crying.
All the tears they’ve been holding back stream forth. Lisa would say later that this was the
first time she had been able to cry since before September 11th. It was an emotional breakthrough for
her, penetrating the numbness that had engulfed her since the terrorist
attacks. Perhaps it did the same
for others in the audience.
Jan explains to the audience:
“Jennifer was Carolyn’s first Ph.D. student. She died a few years ago at the age of
29 from Hodgkin’s disease.
She wrote wonderful autoethnographic pieces addressing her own cancer
experience. I remember hearing a
presentation she gave about water skiing in a wig.”
Carolyn
and many in the audience laugh at the same time they cry. Jennifer always made you feel that
way.
“Let’s take time to talk to
each other now,” Jan says wisely.
Though
Carolyn would have liked the comments to go on and on, she realizes that no
one, certainly not she, could have said anything after the emotional catharsis
they had experienced. She is glad
to have time to talk and relate directly one-on-one, her favorite way of
communicating. She hugs and converses with all the presenters, telling them how
much their presentations mean to her.
She embraces and talks to as many people in the audience as she possibly
can. Audience members embrace each
other. Tears continue to fall;
tears of joy with tears of sadness.
Art
would say later, “Can you imagine having to go to another session right
then? It was good to have the time
to cry together and to talk. The session was perfect. ” Carolyn would
agree with him, no longer concerned about what she should have said.
As
she gathers up her tape player and heads off with Art to their hotel room,
Carolyn thinks about how stimulating this session was and how much can be
learned from emotional catharsis.
She wonders: Why don’t academics tell each other how much we love
each other more often? Why
don’t we announce how much the other’s work means to us and how it
has impacted our lives? Why
don’t we cry together? Why
don’t we know how to respond to love and honor?
A
month later, Buddy Goodall asks Carolyn to respond to this forum in writing. So
she doesn’t get out of responding after all. She is glad she taped the session. Listening to the voices will help her to remember and
re-experience what she felt during the presentations. When she sits down to write this piece and cues up the tape,
she is stunned to hear only a loud buzz.
With that, she laughs out loud and begins to write.
Bibliography
Ellis, C. (1993). "'There Are Survivors': Telling a Story of Sudden Death," The Sociological
Quarterly, 34, 711-730.
Ellis, C.
(1995a). Emotional and ethical quagmires in returning to the field. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography,
24, 68-98.
Ellis, C.
(1995b). Final negotiations: A story of love, loss, and
chronic illness. Philadelphia,
Pa.: Temple University Press.
Ellis, C. (1996). "Maternal Connections,"
In C. Ellis, and A. Bochner, (Eds.), Composing Ethnography, (pp. 240-243). Walnut Creek, Calif.: AltaMira Press.
Ellis, C.
(2001a). With mother/with child: A true story.” Qualitative
Inquiry, 7, 598-616.
Ellis, C.
(2001b). Shattered lives:
Making sense of September 11th and its Aftermath. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography,
31, 375-410..
Ellis, C. (2002). “Take No Chances,” Qualitative Inquiry, 8, 42-47.
Frentz, T.
(2001). Stayin’ alive: A trickster at work. Unpublished manuscript.
Kiesinger, C.
(2002). My father’s
shoes: The therapeutic value of narrative reframing. In A.
Bochner and C. Ellis
(Eds.), Ethnographically speaking: Autoethnography, literature, and
aesthetics (pp. 95-114). Walnut Creek, Calif.: AltaMira Press.
Pelias, R.
(2000). The critical life. Communication
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Pelias, R.
(2002). For father and son: An ethnodrama with no catharsis. In A. Bochner and C.
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and aesthetics (pp.
35-43). Walnut Creek:
AltaMira Press.
Tillmann-Healy, L. (2001).
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Rushing, J.
H. (2002). “Erotic
mentoring: Pygmalion and Galatea at the university. In A. Bochner
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speaking: Autoethnography, literature, and aesthetics (pp. 122-149). Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press.
Rushing, J.
H. (2001). The dark marriage: Women, sex, and soul
at the university. Unpublished manuscript
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N. Buerkel-Rothfuss, and
A. Bochner (1995). Understanding
family communication (2nd edition). Scottsdale, Arizona: Gorsuch Scarisbrick.
HONORING LOVE
IN
ACADEMIA
by
Carolyn Ellis
Professor of Communication and Sociology
Department of Communication
University of South Florida
4202 E. Fowler Avenue, CIS1040
Tampa, Fl. 33620-7800
Phone: 813-974-3626; 813-989-0544
Fax: 813-974-6817
e-mail: cellis@chuma1.cas.usf.edu
