Journal articles on the topic 'Brothers and sisters – Death – Case studies'

Elders are more likely to confront the death of a sibling than any other kinship bereavement. Yet we know almost nothing about the impact of sibling deaths on older adults. We used attachment theory to generate hypotheses about the impact of this life event on physical health, mood, social support, and economic outcomes in late life. At the Duke University site of a large multi-center epidemiologic study (EPESE), 3173 elderly community-dwellers provided data on bereavements experienced in the past year as well as on demographic, health-related, and socioeconomic characteristics. Bereaved siblings were more functionally and cognitively impaired than bereaved friends and rated their overall health as worse than bereaved spouses or bereaved friends who were similarly impaired. Brothers and sisters bereaved of a brother reported excess financial hardship and mood impairment, respectively. Terminal care programs should screen for excess risk among surviving siblings and plan for assisting these survivors in adaptation to this loss.

Abstract The deaths of family members constitute one of the most serious negative life events experienced in adulthood. The impact of these losses on psychological well-being may differ considerably by the structural relationship between the deceased and the survivors, and by the genders of both family members; however, few studies have been able to explore these variations by generation, gender, and time since death. In this paper, we use mixed-methods data to explore how depressive symptoms are affected differentially in adulthood by the deaths of mothers, fathers, and siblings, as well as by the gender of survivors. We address these questions using data collected from approximately 600 adult children nested within 250 later-life families, in which approximately 55% experienced the death of at least one parent and 15% experienced the death of a sibling in the previous decade. Preliminary multilevel regression analyses showed that deaths of siblings predicted sisters’ but not brothers’ depressive symptoms. In the case of parents, only mothers’ deaths were found to predict daughters’ depressive symptoms, whereas neither parents’ deaths predicted sons’ well-being. Further, these patterns differed little by time since death. Qualitative data revealed that women were more likely to report that both their mothers’ and siblings’ deaths had led to higher conflict within the sibling network, which previous research has shown predicts psychological well-being. Taken together, these findings demonstrate the salient role of gender in shaping well-being in the face of events of deaths of parents and siblings in adulthood.

IntroductionDissociative identity disorder (DID) is a debilitating and controversial psychiatric disorder with a lifetime prevalence estimated around 1,5%. It remains underdiagnosed despite recognition in international classification of mental disorders. In fact, based on the DSM-5 criteria, DID is characterised by two or more distinct personality states that coincide, with fluctuating consciousness and changing access to autobiographical memory. The aetiology of DID has long been debated with recent neuroimaging evidence supporting the trauma model of this condition.ObjectivesThe aim of this presentation is to describe the case of a young female diagnosed with DID related to childhood trauma.MethodsWe also conducted a literature review in order to discuss the aetiology of the disorder. The following keywords were searched through the pubmed website: dissociative identity disorder, trauma, aetiology.ResultsWe report the case of a 20 years old female with no past medical, nor psychiatric history. However, she had a family history of an uncle and an aunt with chronic psychosis. Her father died when she was 8, thus she lived with her mother and her brother and two sisters. She was a brilliant student and started engineering studies. She has no particular personality trait. She was raised within a strict religious family with little time dedicated to leisure activities. Importantly, since the age of 10, she was exposed to her mother’s religious extremist and threatening discourses, related to death and “grave’s torture” and comprising many cultural beliefs. She seeks for psychiatric care complaining of “soliloquy” that became remarkable by her relatives. On psychiatric evaluation she presented daily fluctuating consciousness during at least one hour, in which she switches identity toward the daughter of a famous singer. This alter was having pleasant activity with her mother and was singing and hanging out most of the time. No particular triggers were identified. The trouble started by the age of 14 then worsened gradually and became an unvoluntary phenomenon with significant distress. She had no depressive nor psychotic nor anxiety or obsessive symptoms. Her sleep and appetite were not disturbed. She met DSM-5 diagnostic criteria for DID and was referred to a trained psychiatrist for adequate psychotherapy management.ConclusionsWe exposed a rare case of a young student complaining of soliloquy since the age of 14 that was diagnosed with DID subsequent to a particular childhood trauma which consisted in exposure to threatening religious and cultural beliefs about life after death told by her mother. This unique case emphasises the trauma model of DID, where the nature of the trauma influences the clinical expression of DID. Given the recent neuroimaging evidence, DID can be framed as a chronic psychiatric disorder based on neurobiological, cognitive, and interpersonal non-integration as a response to unbearable stress.Disclosure of InterestNone Declared

Using a combination of brief case studies and statistical analysis of probate disputes in eighteenth-century England, this article argues for an expanded interpretation of Georgian family life—an interpretation that understands the tugs and pulls of siblinghood. In the eighteenth century, emerging ideas about social equality based on idealized siblinghood tangled with engrained family hierarchies to produce messy, constantly shifting, sibling politics. Confronting competing social expectations that classified them as equals yet ranked them hierarchically by gender, birth order, and marital status, Georgian sisters and brothers fiercely wrestled over material and emotional investments from their parents and from one another. Sibling conflict was most common when reality sharply diverged from expectations of equality, such as between older sisters and younger brothers or between men and their brothers' widows.

Introduction Although visual impairment appears to be a risk factor for schizophrenia, early blindness may be protective , It’s a phenomenon that has puzzled even the smartest scientific brains for decades. It might surprise you: no person born blind has ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Objectives The objective of this research is to discover the relationship between schizophrenia and congenital blindness is there a protective gene ! is that visual perception constitutes an essential stage in the onset of the disease itself ! Methods Case study of a family consisting of thirteen brothers and sisters, three of whom were blind at birth, three with schizophrenia. the study of the files of schizophrenic patients hospitalized in our structure since it opened in the 1970s Results Case study of a family consisting of thirteen brothers and sisters, three of whom were blind at birth, three with schizophrenia, but there is none with blindness at birth and schizophrenia. PLus on the basis of medicals files there is no case of schizophrenia with blindness at birth. Preliminary observational analysis of this clinical case suggests the following hypothesis: the presumed protective role of congenital blindness against schizophrenia. The bibliographic research has objectified three recent studies in this direction in Australia, Denmark, and the USA. Conclusions The relationship between schizophrenia and congenital blindness is still unrecognized and controversial Several studies are done in this direction, but so far there is no assertion or confirmation of the hypothesis Disclosure No significant relationships.

The article discusses the laws of inheritance in the state of Texas USA, describes in detail the issues of inheritance and the inheritance of ownership in case of death of one spouse in the presence of a will or in the absence thereof. The government of Texas divides the property held by a married couple into common and separate property, which determines some features in its inheritance, which are described in the article. It is worth noting that the laws governing the order of inheritance in Texas are quite detailed and include a detailed procedure for implementing the procedure in question. The state does not collect taxes on inheritance. However, if the deceased did not leave a will, then there may be difficulties with entering into the inheritance. In this regard, the article pays special attention to the hereditary rights of children, brothers, sisters, parents and other family members in the event of the death of one of the spouses

The article presents the results of archival research devoted to the study of the Moscow branch of the family tree of Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. The object of consideration was the generation of the grandchildren of the grandfather of the writer Fyodor Timofeevich Nechaev: the Dostoevskys (the children of Maria, his daughter from his first marriage), the Shers and the Stavrovskys (the children of the daughters of F. T. Nechaev from his second marriage — Olga and Ekaterina). Biographical data about the relatives and cousins of F. M. Dostoevsky were extracted from parish and consistory metric books stored in the Central State Archive of the City of Moscow. With a few exceptions (Mikhail, Andrey), metric records of the birth of the writer's siblings are being introduced into scientific circulation for the first time; in some cases, archival documents allowed correcting inaccuracies that were present in the biographical literature about Dostoevsky. Of the thirteen Sher brothers and sisters, male and female cousins of the writer, the names of seven were not previously mentioned even in the fundamental “Chronicle of the Generations of Dostoevskys” (2012). Of the seven Stavrovsky brothers and sisters, two were also named for the first time. Metric birth records are provided for all twenty of these relatives of Dostoevsky; for those who died in infancy, there are also death records. In four cases, the article published metric records of the wedding of the writer’s male and female cousins. In conclusion, the importance of biographical information about the Shers and the Stavrovskys is emphasized for the study of such an important event in the life of F. M. Dostoevsky in the 1870s, as was the litigation over the inheritance of A. F. Kumanina, the writer's mother's sister and half-sister of Olga Sher and Ekaterina Stavrovskaya (the so-called “the Kumanin heritage case”).

Abstract Previous studies showed an increased prevalence of testicular cancer among fathers and brothers of testicular cancer patients. We examined whether testicular, other genital, and breast cancers aggregate in parents and siblings of testicular cancer patients in a population-based case-control study, including males, ages 15 to 69 years at diagnosis, with primary malignant tumors of the testes or extragonadal germ cell tumors. Controls were ascertained through the mandatory registries of residents and frequency matched to the cases by age and region of residence. In a face-to-face interview, 269 cases and 797 controls provided health-related information on parents and siblings. We calculated odds ratios (OR) and corresponding 95% confidence intervals (95% CI) based on the generalized estimating equations technique, adjusting for the matching variables and relatives' age. Three (1.1%) fathers and eight (3.2%) brothers of cases were affected with testicular cancer compared with four (0.5%) fathers and two (0.2%) brothers of controls. The OR (95% CI) of familial testicular cancer was 6.6 (2.35-18.77). Only nonseminoma patients had fathers with testicular cancer, whereas the affected brothers were all related to seminoma patients. Overall, we found an increased risk for genital other than testicular cancers (OR 2.5, 95% CI 1.43-4.43). For breast cancer, we detected an increased risk in sisters (OR 9.5, 95% CI 2.01-45.16, adjusted for age of study participant and age of sister) but not in mothers. Our findings support the hypothesis that testicular and other genital cancers have a common familial component that may be due to genetic and shared exogenous factors such as estrogen exposure during fetal development.

Document on Human Fraternity for World Peace and Living Together is a document of joint common ground between Muslims and Christians. It reinforces the initiative to work together for world peace. It has inspired the spirit of fraternity based on the teaching inherent in Muslim and Christian Revelations. This paper presents a portion of a study’s result on how the fraternity spirit penetrates the religious communities in Sabah to live together in accommodative relationships and open-minded attitudes. The paper employed a qualitative approach to designing a case study in Keningau district in the interior division of Sabah. The data collection involves ethnographic fieldwork by conducting interviews with religious leaders and selected local people with mixed-faith families and participant observation in several villages related to this study. The findings indicate that the Muslims and Christians in Sabah can be characterized as brothers and sisters and inspired to be an example of fraternal friendship. These attitudes have been attributed to them: displaying respect for different religions, being committed to fostering peace, being open to differences, and being willing to coexist in proximity. Hence, the spirit of human fraternity pervades Sabah’s inter-religious landscape, which has preserved unity in diversity.

The present study intends to look at the ways in which humour enacts modes of knowledge and self-expression in Katherine Mansfield’s short story “The Daughters of the Late Colonel” (1921). The story revolves around two spinsterly sisters who have spent most of their lives tending to their tyrannical father and now find themselves at a loss when they are finally free of him. The narrative is both sympathetic and merciless towards the sisters’ fumbling attempts at independence, but the women are often in on the joke; humour is both a “black dressing-gown” which envelops the sisters and renders them objects of ridicule, but it is also a way out, offering a subversive counterpoint to the voice of the Father, as the sisters imagine the patriarch in very comical and undignified positions, while perceiving themselves as outsiders, “creeping off…like black cats”. Though the short story has often been read in terms of hopelessness and despair by Rhoda B. Nathan and Gerri Kimber, this paper wishes to show how humour modulates and moderates this hopelessness, allowing for the two single women to assert their personality within the stifling society of their time. The ridiculous, in this case, does not need to be a death sentence, but rather a form of knowledge and resistance: the spinsters are aware of the absurdity of their condition and the futility of their place in the modern world and choose comedy over tragedy.

This article, a qualitative exploration of the experiences of subsequent children, endeavors to clarify common issues and experiences of this population. Subsequent children, also known as subsequent siblings, are children born after the death of a brother or sister. For this study, 25 adult subsequent siblings participated in semi-structured interviews. Few researchers have written about this population, and much of what has been documented was researched from single case studies, or from very small samples. This study aims to explore the commonalities of the unique experience of being a subsequent child. Themes which emerged include various replacement child dynamics, impaired bonding with parents or altered parenting as a result of the loss, family grief and its repercussions, meaning making and spiritual questioning, fantasies about the lost sibling, disenfranchised and unresolved grief, taking on a caregiver role, and survivor guilt. The implications for clinical practice are presented.

We report the case of an Italian family in which three sisters experienced transient global amnesia (TGA). Since its early description, this transitory pure memory deficit has attracted increasing interest, especially within the neurological community. In 1964 the term “TGA” was coined to identify the abrupt onset of anterograde amnesia, accompanied by repetitive queries lasting for hours and then gradually recovering, leaving an amnesic gap for the duration of the attack. Afterwards, many studies focused on TGA, and in 1990 clinical criteria were defined by Hodges and Warlow (1990). Further studies showed that meeting diagnostic criteria was a significant predictor for a better outcome than in other forms of transient amnesia, while amnesic patients who did not fulfil the TGA criteria had different outcomes. Precipitating and trigger events for TGA were identified and divided into physical and psychological factors (Inzitari et al., 1997; Quinette et al., 2006). Physical precipitants were found to be gardening, housework and sawing wood, contact with water and changes in body temperature occurring during hot baths or showers, or a cold swim at the swimming pool. Emotional trigger events included a major life or death event, emotional stress triggered by a gastric endoscopy, an exhausting work session, and anxiety resulting from conflicts at home or at work, health problems and money worries. Several hypotheses have been proposed for its pathogenesis such as psychogenic, venous dysfunction due to jugular venous valve incompetence, or ischemic aetiology, but the enigma of TGA still needs to be unravelled (Lewis, 1998; Akkawi et al., 2001).

Introduction Although visual impairment appears to be a risk factor for schizophrenia, early blindness may be protective. It’s a phenomenon that has puzzled even the smartest scientific brains for decades. It might surprise you: no person born blind has ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Objectives The aim of this research is to discover the relationship between schizophrenia and congenital blindness and whether there is a protective gene and whether visual perception is an essential stage in the onset of diseases itself. Methods It’s a case study of a family consisting of 13 brothers and sisters, three of whom were blind at birth, three with schizophrenia. We proceeded with a study of the medical files of all the schizophrenic patients and also ophthalmological exams for all the family members. Results Preliminary observational analysis of this clinical case suggests the following hypothesis: the presumed protective role of congenital blindness against schizophrenia. Moreover, the ophthalmological exams showed no visual impairment in schizophrenic patients. The bibliographic research has objectified more than three recent studies in this direction. Conclusions The relationship between schizophrenia and congenital blindness is still unrecognized and controversial. Several studies are done in this neurodevelopmental field but so far there has been no assertion nor confirmation of the suggested hypothesis. More research is needed. Disclosure No significant relationships.

In his book The sacred canopy, Peter Berger wrote, that in the last analysis, “society” is people banded together in the face of death (1967:51). Adelman and Frey have written a small but fascinating study about this very topic. Theirs is an ethnographic study on a residential facility called Bonaventure House (BH), run by a Catholic order, the Alexian Brothers of America. The residents suffer from AIDS; and during the time of the study, BH was for most of them their last home before death. Using participant observation, interviews and questionnaires, Adelman & Frey set out to study how community is built and sustained in these circumstances: People afflicted by a dreaded illness share their everyday lives; death occurs regularly; and the departed are replaced by new people, who become part of the community.

The article seeks to explore the common ground between biopolitics, fashion, patriotism and nostalgia. Taking off from the Foucauldian notion of biopolitics as a control apparatus exerted over a population, I provide an insight into the modern construction of the Russian nation, where personal and collective sacrifice, traditional femininity and masculinity, orthodox religion, and the Great Patriotic War become the basis for patriotism. On carefully chosen case studies, I will show how the state directly and indirectly regulates people's lives by producing narratives, which are translated (in some cases designers act as mouthpieces for the state demographic or military politics) into fashionable discourses and, with a core of time, create specific gender norms – women are seen as fertile mothers giving birth to new soldiers, while men are shown as fighters and defenders of their nation. In the constructed discourses, conservative ideals become a ground for the creation of an idea of a nation as one biological body, where brothers and sisters are united together. In these fashionable narratives, people's bodies become a battlefield of domestic politics. Fashion produces a narrative of a healthy nation to ensure the healthy work- and military force.

Introduction: Aicardi-Gouteres syndrome (AGS) is a monogenic interferonopathy characterized by early onset, dysregulation of skin (chilblain lesions), brain, and immune systems (fever, hepatomegaly, glaucoma, arthritis, myositis, and autoimmune activity). The disease looks like TORCH (Toxoplasmosis, Others, Rubella, Cytomegalovirus, Herpes) infection with early-onset encephalopathy resulting in severe neuropsychological disability. Case description: A six-year-old girl has been suffering from generalized seizures, fever episodes, severe psychomotor development delay, and spastic tetraparesis since the first year of her life. Her two elder brothers died at a young age from suspected infantile cerebral palsy (ICP). Other siblings (younger brother and two elder sisters) are as healthy as their parents. The girl was diagnosed with juvenile dermatomyositis at 5.5 years. Basal ganglia, periventricular, and cerebellum calcifications; hypoplasia of the corpus callosum; and leukodystrophy were detected on CT. The IFN-I score was 12 times higher than normal. The previously not described nucleotide variant c.434G > C (chr 20:36935104C > G; NM_015474) was detected in exon 4 of the SAMHD1 gene in the homozygous state, leading to amino acid substitution p.R145P. Aicardi-Goutières syndrome 5 was diagnosed. Her treatment included corticosteroids, methotrexate, and tofacitinib 5 mg twice a day and it contributed to health improvements. The following brain CT depicted the previously discovered changes without the sign of calcification spreading. Conclusions: Early diagnosis of AGS is highly important as it allows starting treatment in a timely manner. Timely treatment, in return, can help avoid the development/progression of end-organ damage, including severe neurological complications and early death. It is necessary to spread information about AGS among neurologists, neonatologists, infectious disease specialists, and pediatricians. A multidisciplinary team approach is required.

Introduction. Brugada syndrome is characterized by a disruption of heart’s normal rhythm. It is an autosomal dominant disease due to a mutation of SNC5A gene. Its prevalence is low all over the world, but it is a lethal disease. Sudden cardiac death is the result of phenotypic manifestation of Brugada syndrome. Among asymptomatic Brugada patients, arrhythmia could be provoked by physical activity, fever, or pregnancy. About obstetrical management, very few data or reports have been published since this syndrome has been diagnosed in late 1992.Case Presentation. A 20-year-old pregnant woman at 13 weeks of gestation was referred to our department because of her familial history of sudden cardiac deaths. Brothers and sisters of her mother died of Brugada syndrome in childhood or older and live components of this family were carrier of mutation in Brugada gene. The pregnancy was uneventful. The patient gave birth vaginally without any arrhythmia. Strictly cardiological monitoring was performed during labour, delivery, and 12 hours of the postpartum.Conclusion. Even though patient at low risk may never have arrhythmia, some conditions could represent a Brugada trigger. The management could be very easy and uneventful. Otherwise it could be very difficult with need of ECMO or antiarrhythmics drugs or intracardiac device. Obstetrical management of Brugada pregnant women should be very strict and multidisciplinary in cooperation with cardiologist and anaesthesiologist and should provide an informed consent to the couple.

In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries captivity narratives written by Spanish and English captives abounded. There is a smaller corpus of such texts by Muslim captives in Spain and England, and by some travelers from the Ottoman Empire who observed their fellow Muslims in captivity. A comparative analysis illuminatingly reveals similar usage of narrative conventions, especially of hagiography and pious romances, as well as the theoretical stance of “resistance literature” taken on by many writers. I consider accounts written as truthful, historical texts alongside fictional ones, such as Miguel de Cervantes’ “The Captive’s Tale,” from Don Quixote, Part I. Writers both celebrated monolithic categories such as Protestant, Catholic, Spanish, English, and Muslim, and challenged them for differing ideological reasons. Writers constructed heroic narratives of their own travails and endurance. In the case of English narratives, didacticism plays an important role. In one case, that of John Rawlins, the account reads like Christian theology: to keep in mind, no matter how grim the situation of captivity may be, one’s identity as an Englishman. Raḍwān al-Janawī used his letters about Muslims in captivity in Portuguese-occupied Africa, in which he points out the vigorous efforts of Christian rulers to secure the liberty of their own people, to criticize Muslim rulers who, in his opinion, exerted far too little energy in rescuing their brothers and sisters from captivity. Ultimately, this essay explores the fictionality of truthful narratives and the truth in fictional ones, and the ways in which people from different cultures identified their own identities, especially against those of “the enemy.”

The literature on Jordan is awash in studies of the history, politics, and possible futures of the Hashemite family. In a polity so closely identified with its ruling dynasty, one would be surprised if this fixation did not prevail. More curious to the anthropologist is the extent to which the scholarly attention lavished on the Hashemites has centered on the rather obvious fact that they rule, but has given less concern to the fact that they rule as a family—that they express their dominance in a patriarchal rhetoric brimming with kinship metaphors, and that they preside over a body politic in which households and their influential heads are of far greater significance than electoral constituencies, public opinion, or (least of all) individual citizens and their rights. When King Hussein described his realm as “the big Jordanian family” (al-usra al-urduniyya al-kubra¯), he invoked an image of community (and authorized a style of political exchange) that made immediate sense to his subjects. In his final years of rule, Hussein artfully consolidated his role as national father figure. His heir, King Abdullah II, who was 37 years old when he inherited the throne in 1999, affects the “older brother” persona appropriate to his age. In announcing Hussein's death, Abdullah II relied heavily on the vocabulary of political kinship his father had standardized: “Hussein was a father, a brother, to each of you, the same as he was my father. . . . Today you are my brothers and sisters, and with you I find sympathy and condolences under God”1

Psychological autopsy is a clinical tool and a research tool likely to clarify the circumstances of a death in cases of suicide, of homicide or suspicious death (Fig. 1.1). In our analysis of the methodolog and its application, the purpose specifically focus on autopsies psychological in cases of suicide. Psychological autopsy focuses on the psychological aspects of occurrence of death. It incorporates the field of Suicidology. Its goal is to understand the circumstances as the state of mind of the victime of his act. This type of method includes a reconstruction lifestyle behaviors and events experienced by the individual. Thus, the psychological autopsy is a retrospective analysis The aim of the psychological autopsy is to collect as much information about the circumstances of the death and to update the reasons for suicide eventually help reveal risk factors (Hawton et al., 2003) This is an epidemiological study of suicides in Eastern Algeria (15 wilayas) through psychological autopsies (2003 to 2010) or more variables were studied to establish a typical profile of suicide in Algeria. The studied variables were: age, sex, occupation, place of residence, the existence of life events, psychiatric history and possibly TS history, source of information (to whom we have collected information: father, mother, brother, sister…) and the proceeds used for suicide. In total we identified 1263 cases of suicide with age 15 and over occurred in populations of the North-eastern Algeria during the period from 2003 to 2010. It concludes with the emergence of some variables that may be risk factors namely Age between 30 and 45 years, male gender, social and financial difficulties especially bad life, presence of a psychiatric diagnosis on axis 1 of DSM IV and finally the lack of access to primary care in urban areas. The evaluation of the feasibility and reliability of psychiatric autopsies in Algeria remains lapsed due to non-standardized measurement tools and the difficulty of their implementation on the ground. Finally, the authors highlight the prevalence per 100,000 population per city and the average prevalence for all of East of Algeria.

Anemic syndrome in a child in the practice of a primary care doctor is a frequent problem that requires a balanced differential diagnosis. Features of the course and difficulties in the diagnosis of hemolytic anemia require attention to key points. Hemolytic anemia is characterized by a reduction in the life span of erythrocytes, which is clinically manifested by jaundice due to indirect hyperbilirubinemia, splenomegaly, and skeletal deformities during a long course. Considering the seriousness of the prognosis for hemolytic anemia, it was considered appropriate to demonstrate specific practical nuances of managing such patients in specific clinical cases. Clinical cases clearly demonstrate the need for careful collection of family anamnesis and additional examination of brothers/sisters, parents when hereditary microspherocytosis is suspected. Diagnostic criteria of hereditary hemolytic anemia are: jaundice (due to indirect hyperbilirubinemia), splenomegaly, anemia, reticulocytosis, similar cases in the family. It is presented a case when hemolytic crises in a child were accompanied by a transient increase in liver transaminases, in the absence of changes in ultrasound examination and negative markers of viral hepatitis. Conclusions. An anemic syndrome established in a child in combination with reticulocytosis requires a targeted examination for hemolytic genesis of anemia. At the same time, it should be remembered that in the case of an atypical course of hereditary microspherocytosis, the patient needs a comprehensive examination and dynamic monitoring of the course of hemolytic anemia in order to prevent serious complications. The research was carried out in accordance with the principles of the Helsinki Declaration. The informed consent of the patient was obtained for conducting the studies. No conflict of interests was declared by the author.

By the mid-1930s, Olga Kameneva, a prominent figure in Soviet cultural construction, had lost most of her former posts. The sister of Leon Trotsky and the wife of Lev Kamenev, two of Joseph Stalin’s biggest opponents, she had practically no chance of avoiding repression, despite the public renunciation of her brother and divorce from her husband. Based on the materials of the investigative cases stored in the Central Archive of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation and introduced into academic circulation for the first time, the article reconstructs Kameneva's path through interrogations, prisons and exile. The repressions started in March 1935 with the arrest of Kameneva in the so-called “Kremlin case”. Kameneva tried to assure the investigator and the leadership of the NKVD of her innocence (she was accused of spreading rumors about the unnatural death of Stalin's wife Nadezhda Alliluyeva) – of course, unsuccessfully. Exiled to Alma-Ata, and then to Gorky (Nizhny Novgorod), two years later (in 1937) she was arrested for the second time. Despite the terrible conditions of interrogations during the “Great Terror” and hints on the part of the investigator about the ability to influence the fate of her youngest son Yuri (also arrested), Kameneva behaved with dignity, admitting neither her guilt, nor of any of those surrounding her, with the exception of her own husband Lev Kamenev, already executed by that time. Although the accusations against her (of anti-Soviet agitation and that she knew but had not reported Lev Kamenev’s “terrorist” activities) were insignificant by the standards of that time, on February 1, 1938, she was sentenced to 25 years in prison, and three years later, in 1941, she was shot extrajudicially.

The religious culture of educational institutions is an effort to realize the values ​​of religious teachings as a tradition in behavior and organizational culture which is followed by all citizens in the educational institution. The research approach is qualitative field with case studies. Types of data are qualitative and quantitative. Sources of data are primary data and secondary data. Data collection techniques use observation, interviews, and documents, while data analysis refers to Miles and Huberman's theory. The results of the study obtained 4 conclusions, namely: The first stage, planning a religious culture development program is the formulation of a vision, mission, and goals in State Junior High School 10 Palembang connected with religious culture clearly. The second stage is the implementation of programs that are obligatory for all school members. The final stage, evaluating the program of religious cultural values ​​in instilling character education is in the five character values ​​and 4S (smile, greeting, greeting, and courtesy). The five religious cultural values ​​are honest in words, clean in deeds, economical in use, sincere in giving to fellow brothers and sisters, in congregation (mutual cooperation or cooperation). The evaluation of the results of the development of religious culture is included in the chasing achievement book which contains the activity form or student attendance that will be assessed by each supervisor. Supporting factors for the development of religious culture, namely students, teachers, infrastructure, literacy activities. Meanwhile, the inhibiting factor is fanaticism, the lack of awareness of some teachers who consider it the only task of Islamic Education teachers.

A mere two years ago International Sports Studies was celebrating its fortieth anniversary. At that time, at the beginning of 2018, your editor was able to reflect on the journey of our professional association – the International Society for Comparative Physical Education and Sport (ISCPES). It started with a small, cohesive, and optimistic group of physical education scholars from Europe and North America interested in working across boundaries and exploring new international horizons. The group that met in Borovets in 2017 on the eve of the society’s fortieth anniversary, represented a wider range of origins. They were also more circumspect, tempered by their experience in what had become, four decades later, a very much more complex competitive and fragmented professional environment. Such a comparison seems almost to have reflected a common journey, from the hope and optimism of youth to entry into the challenges and responsibilities of mid adulthood. Yet from the perspective of contemporary history, these last four decades seem generally to be viewed as having been a time of unbroken human progress. Certainly, this is a defensible view when we use technological and economic progress as the criterion. The nation of Indonesia provides an excellent example of progress by these measures. The world’s 10th largest economy in terms of purchasing power parity, and a member of the G-20. Furthermore, Indonesia has made enormous gains in poverty reduction, cutting the poverty rate by more than half since 1999, to 9.78% in 2020. Prior to the COVID-19 crisis, Indonesia was able to maintain a consistent economic growth, recently qualifying the country to reach upper middle-income status. The World Bank (www.worldbank.org/en/country/indonesia/overview) Indeed, when we look at the economic growth charts of the world over the last century, without exception they resemble a J curve with growth over the last half century being particularly rapid. But, from time to time, we need to be reminded that human existence is rather like a coin. Looking at the top side provides one picture but then, when we turn the coin over, a totally different view presents itself. From time to time, pictures find their way to our television screens that remind us that real challenges of poverty are still faced by many today. Similarly, though we have talked about seventyfive years of peace, the other side of the coin reveals that around the globe armed conflict has continued remorselessly since the official ending of World War II in September 2nd 1945. A visit to Wikipedia and its list of ongoing conflicts in the world will inform the casual reader, that in the current or past calendar year there have been over 10,000 deaths related to four major wars – in Afghanistan, the Yemen, Syria and Mexico. In addition, eleven wars, eighteen ‘minor conflicts’ and fifteen ‘skirmishes’ have added to death and misery for many around the world. I make these points in case those of us who are fortunate enough to live in relatively stable, safe and prosperous environments, might be tempted to become complacent and forget how much always needs to be done to increase the welfare of our brothers and sisters throughout the world. Humankind’s end of decade report needs to remind us that, if our progress has generally been steady, there remains area where we still need to improve. Further we need to remember that wealth and material prosperity are not the sole criteria for human well-being and happiness. Quality of life needs to be measured by much more than Gross Domestic Product alone. Such thoughts now seem to be suddenly highlighted, as we move into another new decade. For virtually worldwide, it seems to as if the coin has suddenly been flipped. In 2018 we were looking forward with different expectations to those that we now have since the start of 2020. At a time when the world has never been more interconnected, we have been forcibly reminded that with that connectedness comes a level of risk. There is a belief by some, that interconnectedness provides some sort of protection against war and conflict and that trade relationships provide a rationale for peaceful cooperation between the peoples of the world. However, it is that very interconnectedness that today leaves us at greater risk to the ravages of the latest pandemic to strike the world. Countries that have managed the CoVid19 virus most successfully, have been those like New Zealand that have isolated themselves from others and restricted movements and interactions both across and within borders. Consequently, people in many different settings find themselves in lockdown and working from home. This sudden restriction on interactions and movement, has provided a unique opportunity for reflection by many. Stepping back from the frantic pace of twenty first century lifestyle, though it has inevitably caused much concern economically for many, has given others a chance to rediscover simpler pleasures of previous ages. Pleasures such as the unhurried company of family and friends and the chance to replace crowded commuting with leisurely walks around the local neighbourhood. So, it has been that a number of voices have been pointing to this as a unique opportunity to re-set our careers and our lifestyles. With this comes a chance to re-examine core values and in particular question some of the drivers behind the endlessly busy and often frentic approach to life that characterises our modern fast changing world, with its ceaseless demand for us all to ‘keep up’ and ‘get ahead’. It is then in a spirit of reset that I am pleased to introduce International Sports Studies’ first special supplement. We take very seriously our mission of connecting physical education and sport professionals around the world. It has made us very conscious of the dangers of adopting a view on the world that is centred in the familiar and our own back yards. Yet we all tend to slip into a view of life that seems to be driven and reinforced by the big media and the loudest voices in an interconnected world. Individuals chasing the dream of celebrity are easily recognisable from New Delhi to Anchorage or from Nairobi to Sapporo. We seem forced to listen to them and their ideas even when we wish to disassociate from them. In sport too it seems that in all corners of the world, the superstars of football Messi, Ronaldo, Pogba, Bale are known wherever the game is played. News and influence too often seem to flow from the places where these same celebrities of screen and sporting fields are based. It is the streets and recreation areas of Hollywood, Madrid and Turin, all comparatively restricted areas of the globe, which are continuously brought to us all by the ubiquitous screens. Some of the latest figures from the ITU, the Telecommunication Development Sector a specialised United Nations agency, have estimated that at the end of 2019, 53.6 per cent of the global population, or 4.1 billion people, were using the Internet (ITU, 2020). It is a figure that continues to increase steadily as does the stretch of its influence. The motivation behind this supplement focusing on studies in physical education and sport within Indonesia, can be found in the origins of comparative physical education and sport study. We can all learn by comparison with others and their approaches to both similar and unique problems and challenges. It does not however always make sense to limit ourselves to matching our situations with others for the sole purpose of making scholarly comparisons. Often it makes more sense simply to visit colleagues in another setting and examine in some depth their concerns and practices. Such studies are called area studies and they involve illuminating what is occurring in different settings in order to increase our own understanding and awareness. Indonesia provides a special and important starting point for just such a study. Located off the coast of mainland Southeast Asia in the Indian and Pacific oceans, it is an archipelago that lies across the Equator and spans a distance equivalent to one-eighth of the Earth’s circumference. It is the world’s fourth largest country in terms of population (Legge, 2020). It is a nation that appears modest in its demeanour and that of its people yet has much to offer the rest of us, especially in terms of our common professional interest. The purpose of volume 42e is to offer an opportunity for our colleagues in Indonesia to speak to the global community and for the global community to learn a little more about the work of their colleagues in Indonesia. It is the first of what is intended to be a series within the tradition of comparative studies. It has been a great pleasure and privilege to work with a special editorial team from Indonesia in this project. Their details are briefly provided below. I commend to you the work of this representative group of physical education and sports scholars. I invite you to join us in lifting our heads above our own parapets and resetting our own perspectives by reaching out and listening to a wider circle of colleagues from around the world. We may not be able to travel to meet each other at this time but we can still interact and share, as our responsibility as academics and professionals requires us to do. John Saunders Brisbane, November 2020 References ITU (2020) Statistics. Accessed from https://www.itu.int/en/ITU-D/Statistics? Legge, J. D. (2020) Indonesia. Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica. Accessed from https://www.britannica.com/place/Indonesia

The aim of the article is to comprehend the specifics of the infernal image of the litavets (perelesnyk) in Ukrainian romantic prose. In order to achieve this goal, the following systemic unity of research methods was used: typological, biographical, comparative, genetic, method of analysis and synthesis, mythopoetic approach to the interpretation oftexts. The article on the material of folk poetry and literary texts, as well as folklore studies of V. Hnatiuk, O. Kononenko, E. Onatsky and other scientists characterizes the infernal image of the litavets. It is determined that the litavets (perelesnyk, fire snake, nalitnyk, litun, obaiasnyk, perelet) is an anthropomorphic infernal character. Its main function is to enter into intimate relations with women, which subsequently mostly turn into death. The image of the perelesnyk is quite popular in folk tales and legends. Thus, in fairy tales he often appears as an antagonistic hero who kidnaps girls, which is mentioned in such works as «Ivan the King, his sister and the snake», «Kotygoroshko», «How snakes kidnapped three sisters», «Snake winner and the dragon», «The Tale of Ivan Golyk and his brother», etc. In these works, along with the motif of kidnapping women, there is also the motif of snake-fighting. Note that the motif of victory over the insidious serpent is leading in folk legends, in particular in stories about the serpent shaft, the terrible serpent defeated by Boris and Gleb, in the story of Kozhumyak (mentions of these legends are also found in the early edition of the first historical novel in Ukrainian literature «Five Chapters from P. Kulesh's New Novel ”Black Council”», 1845). Interpretation of the mythical nature of the fire snake has become widespread in fiction, especially in the prose of the Romantic period. A striking example of this is the work of P. Kulish (the stories «About what in the town of Voronezh dried up Peshevtsov Pond», 1840; «Fire Snake», 1841) and I. Barshchevsky (the story «Nobleman Zavalnya»), where the image of a perelesnyk is available in the chapter «On the Warlock and the Serpent Hatched from the Egg of a Rooster», 1844). P. Kulish instory «About what in the town of Voronezh dried up Peshevtsov Pond» the image of an incubus who came to his beloved every night, and in the story of the fire snake the writer presented the image of a perelesnyk-seducer, who did not suck, but gave a beauty his chosen woman. In I. Barshchevsky's story about the nobleman Zavalnya, the serpent turned into a young man, but he could not seduce the belle, as sincere prayer and a saving cross stood in the way.

This paper examines the literary representation of the beginnings of the Northern Irish Troubles with regard to a gender variable (women’s roles and functions ascribed to them, mostly punitively, by men ), in the selected poems by Heaney, Durcan, Boland, Meehan and Morrissey. The reading of Heaney’s “Punishment” will attempt to focus not solely on the poem’s repeatedly criticized misogyny but on analyzing it in a broader, historical context of the North’s conflict. In Durcan’s case, his prominent nationalist descent or his declared contempt for any form of paramilitary terrorism (including the IRA) do not seem to prevent him entirely from immortalizing female victims of the Troubles. Boland’s attitude seems the most unequivocal: the clear aversion to the language of death and rendering Irish women’s experiences (and children’s) in this discourse. The article concludes with analysis of Meehan’s “Southern” guilt for the situation of Catholics in the North with the simultaneous critique of perpetrated violence and Morrissey’s complicated standpoint: atheist/neutral/Protestant/communist and her striving for the impossible impartiality in a war-ridden and politically divided country. Trying to avoid systemic victimization of Irish women, the paper intends to analyze the historical and political circumstances which made them more susceptible to various forms of attacks at the beginnings of the Troubles, as reflected in the titular labels.

The cblC defect is the most common inborn error of cobalamin (Cbl) metabolism. Clinical severity and presentation of the cblC defect ranges from death to mild disability. Only 71 cases of late-onset cblC defect have been described in the literature. We provide the 41-year follow up of two siblings with a late-onset cblC defect, first described after initial diagnosis in 1996. While one of the siblings showed initial symptoms resembling multiple sclerosis with a good response to corticosteroids, the other sister showed only subclinical signs of the disease. The course of the first case was characterized by a severe deterioration and intensive-care therapy after respiratory failure. After diagnoses and Cbl treatment, the patient survived and showed a pronounced improvement of the symptoms. Both sisters have an active life and gave birth to healthy children. The reason for the initial improvement after corticosteroids could not be explained by the classical metabolic pathways of Cbl. Recent studies have suggested that Cbl plays an important role as a regulator of the balance between neurotrophic and neurotoxic factors in the central and peripheral nervous system (CNS and PNS). This first long-term follow up revealed that ultra-high-dose intramuscular Hydroxocobalamin (OH-Cbl) treatment can effectively protect patients from disease progression. It underlines the importance of diagnostic vigilance and laboratory work up even in cases without typical hematologic signs of Cbl deficiency. Cbl-related diseases are often a chameleon and must always be considered in the differential of demyelinating diseases of the PNS and CNS. The case supports the theory that it is not only the classical biochemical pathways that play a key role in Cbl deficiency, especially with regard to neurological symptoms.

Abstract Pheochromocytomas and paragangliomas (PPGL) are rare neuroendocrine tumors arising from adrenal and extra-adrenal paraganglia. Up to forty percent are due to an underlying germline mutation. Mutations in the subunit B gene of the SDH complex (SDHB) are associated with PGL syndrome four. A 34-yr-old African man from Southern Africa presented with a two-year history of sustained hypertension associated with the classic triad of sweating, headaches and palpitations. Family history was contributory towards early unexpected deaths of his father (age 42) and two younger brothers (ages 13 and 14 respectively). On examination his blood pressure was persistently elevated measuring 146/87mmHg. In view of the classic presenting symptoms and hypertension onset at a young age, a PPGL was suspected. Biochemical investigations were positive with an elevated 24-hour urine normetanephrine level of 35807 (480-2424nmol/24hours), normal metanephrine level of 689 (264-1729nmol/24hours), an elevated normetanephrine:creatinine ratio of 3270 (28-158nmol/mmol creatinine) and an elevated methoxytyramine level 4941.69nmol/24 hours (<800nmol/24 hours). Computed tomography of the abdomen and neck revealed a homogenous soft tissue mass measuring 5.9cm x 3.6cm x 6.6cm anterior to the right kidney and separate from the right adrenal gland and a carotid body tumor measuring 3.6cm x 2.9cm x 4.1cm. Both were radio-avid on a [68Gallium]-DOTATATE-Positron Emission Tomography (PET)-CT. There were no features to suggest metastatic disease. Genetic testing is not available in South Africa; therefore, testing was done at an international laboratory. This revealed a pathological SDHB mutation variant, c.724C>A p.(Arg242Ser) and hence PGL4 syndrome. The patient underwent staged surgery with successful removal of the intra-abdominal tumor. Unfortunately, due to peri-operative complications associated with the second surgery, the patient demised. Histopathological examination of both tumors was consistent with a paraganglioma. Genetic counselling and testing were offered to all living first-degree relatives. His sister tested positive for the same pathological variant. His 6-week-old son will be offered counselling and testing at a later stage. To the best of our knowledge, we are the first to describe the missense SDHB mutation (pathogenic variant c.724C>A p.[Arg242Ser]) and the occurrence of an SDHB associated PGL in a family of African ethnicity. This case highlights the importance of genetic counselling and testing in patients with a confirmed PPGL. Due to resource limitation the African population remains under represented in genetic studies which limits the utility of precision medicine in this group. As such, our case is an important addition to the body of knowledge in this growing field and highlights the need for cost effective genetic screening tools in low resourced settings.

Background and Aim. Down syndrome (DS) is the most common reason for disabilities caused by genetic disorders. Due to the special nature of this disease and the special needs of children with Down syndrome, they are required to receive their families’ support. Therefore, the recognition of their problems and needs and also the alternatives for resolving them and promoting their life quality are very useful. Also, since very limited qualitative studies have been conducted, it seems necessary to design a qualitative study. Method. This qualitative study was conducted by the content analysis method and through purposeful sampling method with the participation of 26 participants including 15 mothers, 6 fathers, 3 sisters, and 2 brothers of DS children in 2022-2023. The data were collected through semi-structured interviews. Findings. Using the content analysis method of Graneheim and Lundman (2004), the main theme was “Family self-supporting in protecting Down syndrome children.” The subthemes were seven including “trying to find information-support resources,” “Giving importance to child’s health,” “religious beliefs of the family,” “child moral education, helping to child’s relative self-support,” “developing familial support,” and “developing child’s social interactions.” Conclusion and Recommendations. The findings of this study showed that family is the main source of fulfilling the needs of children and their life challenges through using efficient self-support methods. This study introduced family self-support methods in terms of DS children in a way that other families can also manage the problems of their children more efficiently. The present study can be used by trustees of DS to support them and their families. Considering the existence of many problems in children with Down syndrome and the involvement of families, it is suggested that policymakers and community health managers provide the basis for receiving services and social support. For example, it is possible to strengthen the screening systems in the country to diagnose the disease on time and take quick action to solve this problem. Also, by increasing the health insurance coverage and fair distribution of the support resources needed by these people, it promoted the quality of life for them and their families. Also, health policymakers in Iran can take action to increase life expectancy and reduce deaths caused by DS by improving the equitable distribution of health resources and services. Also, public policies should enhance supportive intermediation for prevention and life quality promotion and also decrease health challenges. They are also supposed to lessen the costs of health care. Furthermore, to support social organizations, health service providers and researchers should consider the development of intermediations for the health enhancing and life quality promoting of DS children.

In its anonymous reviewof Christina Rossetti'sSpeaking Likenesses(1874), theAcademynotes rather hopelessly: “this will probably be one of the most popular children's books this winter. We wish we could understand it” (606). The reviewer – who later dwells on the “uncomfortable feeling” generated by this children's tale and its accompanying images – still counts as the most generous among the largely puzzled and horrified readership of Rossetti's story about three sets of girls experiencing violence and failure in their respective fantasy worlds (606). While clearly such dystopic plots are not out of place in Victorian literature about children, something about Rossetti's unusual narrative bothered her contemporaries. John Ruskin, for instance, bluntly wondered how Rossetti and Arthur Hughes, who illustrated the story, together could “sink so low” (qtd. in Auerbach and Knoepflmacher 318). In any case, the book still sold on the Christmas market, and a few months later, Rossetti would publishAnnus Domini, a benign pocketbook of daily prayers that stands in stark contrast to the grim prose ofSpeaking Likenesses.It is therefore tempting to cast this work of children's fiction as a strange anomaly in Rossetti's oeuvre, which from the 1870s, beginning withAnnus Domini, to her death in 1894, became almost exclusively dominated by devotional prose and poetry. In contrast, I argue in the following essay thatSpeaking Likenessespoints to a widespread interest throughout Rossetti's writing – but especially in her most well-known poems fromGoblin Market and Other Poems(1862) andA Prince's Progress(1866) – in alternative modes of sociality that refract a conceptual preoccupation with likeness, rather than difference. Following traditions of critical thought that have paid increasing attention to relations that resist oppositional logic – Stephanie Engelstein and Eve Kosovsky Sedgwick's late work comes to mind here – I establish the primacy of a horizontal axis of similarity in bothSpeaking Likenessesand Rossetti's most canonical poem, “Goblin Market.” For Rossetti, the lure of similarity, or minimal difference, manifests itself most often in siblinghood and more specifically, sisterhood, the dominant kinship relation throughout her lyrics fromGoblin Market and Other Poems. Sisterhood anchors the title poem I will examine in this essay, as well as shorter verses such as “Noble Sisters” and “Sister Maude.” At issue in such relations of likeness is the discreteness of a (typically) feminine self. For Rossetti, shunning oppositional structures of desire and difference that typically produce individuation (exemplified in the heterosexual couple form and the titles of her uneasy lyrics “He and She” and “Wife to Husband”) allows for a new (albeit perilous) space to carve out one's particularity as a gendered being.

CairnsIn Denmark, the term stenkast (a ‘stone throw’) is used for cairns – stone heaps that have accumulated in places where it was the tradition to throw a stone. A kast (a ‘throw’) would actually be a more correct term, as sometimes the heaps consist of sticks, branches, heather, or peat, rather than stones – in short, whichever was at hand at that particular place. A kast could also consist of both sticks and stones.The majority of the known Danish cairns were presented by August F. Schmidt in 1929. Since then, numerous new ones have been discovered, and we now know of around 80 cairns, cf. the list on page 264 and map Fig. 3. It appears from the descriptions that the majority – a total of 65 – are actual cairns, 14 are heaps of branches, whereas two are described as either peat or heather heaps.Geographically, the majority – a total of 53 – are found in Jutland, with most in North and Central Jutland (Fig. 3). Fifteen are known from Zealand, four from Lolland, four from Funen, and five from Bornholm.Topographically, they are found – naturally – where people would normally be passing: next to roads and in connection with sacred springs, chapels, and places of execution. However, they also occur in less busy places, in woods, along the coast, on moors, and on small islands.A few cairns have been preserved because they are still “active” as reminiscences of customs and habits of past times. This is the case of the cairn called Røsen (“røse” being another Danish term for a cairn) on Trøstrup Moor (no. 45, Fig. 1-2), of Heksens Grav (“The Witch’s Grave”) (no. 27, Fig. 4), and of the branch heap in the wood of Slotved Skov (no. 14, Fig. 5), which was recently revived after having been almost forgotten. Other cairns are maintained as prehistoric relics, as is the case of the branch heap by the name of Stikhoben (“The Stick Heap;” no. 10, Fig. 6) and Kjelds Grav (“Kjeld’s Grave,” no. 59, Fig. 7). Although heaps of stones and branches are included in the Danish Protection of Nature Act as relics of the past worthy of protection, so far merely the two latter have been listed.Whereas the remaining ’throws’ of organic material have probably disintegrated, it is still possible under favourable conditions to retrieve those made from more enduring materials – unless they have been demolished – even if they have practically sunk into oblivion (Figs. 8-10).The oldest known cairn is almost 500 years old. It was situated by the ford Præstbjerg Vad in Vinding parish near the Holstebro-Ribe highroad. Tradition says that the stone heap came into existence as a memorial of a priest in Hanbjerg, who died in the first half of the 16th century following a fall with his horse.Such legends of origin are connected with most of the Danish cairns. They usually tell of some unhappy or alarming happening supposed to have occurred at the place in question. However, they are often so vague and stereotype that they can only rarely be dated or put into a historical context. Indeed, on closer examination several of them turn out to be travelling legends. Apart from the legend of the murdered tradesman, they comprise the legend of the exorcised farmhand and that of the three sisters, who were murdered by three robbers, who turned out to be their own brothers. The latter legend, which is also known from a folksong, is connected to the so-called Varper on the high moor in Pedersker parish on Bornholm (no. 7). Until the early 20th century, it was the custom to maintain these cairns by putting back stones that had fallen down and adorn them with green sprigs. Early folklorists interpreted this as a tradition going back to an old sacrificial ritual, although the custom also seems to have had a pure practical purpose, as these stone heaps were originally cairns marking the road across inland Bornholm.A special group of the Danish cairns are connected with the tradition that someone is buried underneath them, such as a body washed ashore, a murdered child from a clandestine childbirth, a murdered person, several persons killed in a fight, an exorcised farmhand, a suicide, a murderer buried on his scene of crime, or witches and murderers buried at the place of execution. In all these cases, the throwing of a stone was supposed to protect the passers-by against the dead, who was buried in unconsecrated grounds and thus, according to public belief, haunted the spot. Another far less frequent explanation was that the stone was thrown in order to achieve a good journey or luck at the market. In some places, the traveller would throw the stone while shouting a naughty word or in other ways showing his disgust with the dead witch, criminal, or infanticide buried in that particular place. In rather a lot of the cases, as explained by the context, the cairn was merely a memorial to some unhappy occurrence, and the stone was thrown in memory of the deceased.In an article on Norwegian cairns written by the folklorist Svale Solheim, the author attached importance to achieving a clear picture of the position of the cairns (kastrøysarne) in the landscape. A closer examination showed that almost all were situated by the side of old roads – between farms and settlements, through forests, or across mountains – in short, where people would often walk. “The cairns follow the road as the shadow follows the man,” Solheim writes and gives an example of an old road, which had been relocated, and where the cairns had been moved to the new road. Furthermore, the position of the cairns along the roads turned out to not be accidental; they were always found at places that were in one way or other interesting to the travellers. This is why Solheim thought that the stone heaps mostly had the character of cairns or road stones thrown together at certain places for a pure practical purpose. “For instance,” he writes, “we find stone heaps at places along the roads where there is access to fine drinking water. These would also be natural places for a rest, and numerous stone heaps are situated by old resting places. And so it came natural to mark these places by piling up a stone heap, and of course it would be in every traveller’s interest to maintain the heaps.”The older folklore saw the tradition as a relic of pagan rituals and conceptions. As a reaction to this, Solheim and others took a tradition-functionalistic view, according to which most folklore, as seen in the light of the cultural conditions, was considered rational and the rest could be explained as pseudo beliefs, for instance educational fiction and tomfoolery.However, if we turn to our other neighbouring country, Sweden, it becomes more difficult to explain away that we are dealing with sacrificial rites, as here, the most used dialectal term for the stone and branch piles were offerhög, offervål, or offerbål (“offer” is the Swedish word for sacrifice), and when someone threw stones, sticks, or money on the pile, it was called “sacrificing.” An article from 1929 by the anthropologist Sigurd Erixon is especially interesting. Here, he documents how – apart from the cairns with a death motive (largely corresponding to the Danish cases mentioned above), Sweden had both good luck and misfortune averting sacrificial stone throwing (Fig. 13).Whereas the sacrificial cairns connected to deaths were evenly distributed across the whole country, Erixon found that the “good luck cairns” occurred mainly in environments associated with mountain pasture farming or fishing. Based on this observation and desultory comparative studies, Erixon formed the hypothesis that the “good luck cairns” represented an older and more primitive culture than the cairns associated with sacrifices to the dead. “The first,” he writes, “belong rather more to the work area of hunting, fishing, and animal husbandry, roads, and environments, whereas the death sacrificial cairns seem to be closer related to the culture of agriculture.”The problem with the folkloristic material is that most of it is based on reminiscences. In order to study the living tradition, one must turn elsewhere. However, as demonstrated by James Frazer in “The Golden Bough,” this is no problem, as the custom of throwing stones in a pile is known from all over the world, from Africa, Europe, and Asia to Australia and America (Fig. 14).Customs last, their meanings perish – the explanation why, for instance, one must throw a stone onto a stone pile, may be forgotten, or reinterpreted, or get a completely new explanation. The custom probably goes back further than any known religion. However, these have all tried to tally the stone throwing with their “theology.” In Ancient Greece, the stone piles by the roadsides were furnished with statues of Hermes (in the shape of a post with a head and sometimes a phallus). As an escort for the dead, Hermes became the god of the travellers, and just as the gods had thrown stones after Hermes when he was accused of murdering Argus, people could now do the same.With the introduction of Christianity, the throwing of stones was denounced as superstition, and a standard question for the penitents in the so-called books of penance was: “Have you carried stones to a heap?” All across Europe, crosses were planted in the stone heaps – which must have caused problems as it was considered a deadly sin to throw stones after a cross. In the culture connected with pilgrimage, the cairns got a new meaning as markers of important places. For instance, enormous stone piles outside Santiago de Compostela mark the location where pilgrims first spotted the towers of the city’s cathedral (Fig. 15). At many places, the cairns were consecrated to saints, so that now people would carry stones to them as a sacrifice or a penance. The jews also adopted the custom. The Old Testament mentions stone heaps gathered over murdered persons or placed around a larger stone, as the “witness dolmen” built by Jacob and his people to commemmorate his pact with Laban, his father-in-law. However, there is no mention of throwing new stones onto these heaps. However, the latter occurs in the still practiced Jewish custom of placing stones on the gravestones when Jews visit the graves of their dead (Fig. 16).Stone throwing in a Muslim context is illustrated by Edward Westermarck’s large investigation of rituals and popular belief with the Berbers and the Arabs in Marocco in the early 20th century. Unfortunately, it only comprises cairns connected to Muslim saints, but even with this limitation, the investigation gives an idea of the variety of applications. If the stone heap is situated near the grave of a saint, it may mark the demarcation of the sacred area, or it may have come into existence because the wayfaring have a habit of throwing a stone when they pass the grave of a saint, which they do not have time to visit. If the heap is situated on a ridge, it is usually an indication of the spot on a certain pilgrim route where the sacred places become visible for the first time. Other stone heaps mark the places where a holy man or woman is supposed to have been buried, or rested, or camped some time. By a large crossroads outside Andira, Westermark was shown a stone heap, which indicated that this place was the gathering place for saints, who met there at nighttime. The sacred cairns in Marocco are often easily recognized by the fact that they are chalked white at intervals. At some places, the cairns may also be marked with a pole with a white flag symbolising the sacred character of the place.Even Buddhism struggled against the stone heaps, especially in the form of the oboo cult, which was repeatedly reformered and reinterpreted by Buddhist missionaries. And in early 17th-century South America, the converted aristocratic Inca, Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, made sarcastic remarks about Indians, who “even now” had preserved the bad habit of [sacrificing to] stone heaps (apachitas).”Historically, the Danish cairns can be documented from the 16th century, but the tradition may well be older. Seen in a larger, comparative context, heaps of stones and branches represent an ancient tradition rooted in the deepest cultural layers of mankind. Thus, as cultural relics, they are certainly worthy of preservation, and we ought to put a lot of effort into preserving the few still existing.Whereas it will probably be difficult to establish possible prehistoric stone heaps using archaeology, the possibilities of documenting hitherto unknown stone piles from historical times is considerably higher, if special topographic conditions are taken into consideration. In connection with small mounds on tidal meadows or stone heaps along stretches of old roads and by fords, old places of execution, springs, and grave mounds used secondarily for gallows, one should pay attention to such structures, which may well prove to be covering a grave.In a folklore context, the Danish stone heaps must be characterized as mainly “death sacrifice throws,” whereas only few were “good luck throws.” Due to the limited size of the country, and early farming, cairns and other road marks have not played the same role as a help for travellers and traffic as it did in our neighbouring countries with their huge waste areas.If the stone piles are considered part of a thousands of years old chain of traditions, they belong to the oldest human “monuments.” The global distribution of the phenomenon endows it with a mystery, which, during a travel in Mongolia, Haslund-Christensen caught with a stroke of genius: “We stood before an oboo, one of the largest I have ever seen...one of those mysterious places of sacrifice which are still secretly preserved, built of stone cast upon stone through many generations; a home of mystery which has its roots in the origin of the people itself, and whose religious significance goes much further back in time than any of the religions in the modern world.”Gustav HenningsenDansk Folkemindesamling Jesper LaursenMoesgård Museum Translated by Annette Lerche Trolle

The subject of the article is the narrative of the partisan war maintained by family members of the partisans from the Vytis Partisan District Antanas Žilys and Zofija Žilienė. This case study aims at revealing the memory of struggle for freedom from the perspective of the families that had lived prior to the beginning of the anti-Soviet resistance. It includes circumstances under which the narrative was shaped, the peculiarities of its content and change, its influence on the personal attitudes of the family members and the fundamentals of its transferring from one generation to another. Stories recorded in 2019–2020 embrace three generations of the family: Algimantas the son of the partisans, Jurga and Gediminas their grandchildren, and Gaudutė their great-granddaughter. In order to perceive the background of the story, the author uses memoirs by the freedom fighters connected to the Žiliai Family, and by Zofija Žilienė, published at the onset of the Lithuanian independence. According to the author, a person telling his / her life story or relating its separate events presents an original interpretation of the past and shapes his / her identity; therefore, such narrative is of utmost importance in terms of understanding the partisans and their closest surroundings. The members of the partisan community exhibit a remarkably positive attitude towards the Žiliai Family, both because of their resistance activities and their personal traits. Published memoirs and artistic works by the partisans depict not only Antanas and Zofija but also their three children who had to grow up with a number of foster-parents. According to their former brothers in arms and family members, the family ties were damaged during the partisan war, albeit still partly maintained, since the parents used to visit their children, contributing to their upbringing. After Antanas was killed in May of 1949, and Zofija subsequently arrested, the family ties weakened even more; however, the narratives preserved in the memory of family members assume that the experiences of resistance and repressions as well as similar reaction towards them bounded them all together. The study revealed that the partisan war and Antanas’ death became subjects of a more open discussion in the family only in the eve of the Lithuanian independence in the 90s, although during the Soviet occupation the family members had already intuitively felt a complicated history lurking behind. It should be noted, however, that the memories of the partisan war are not merely directly transferred: the narrative is shaped considerably by certain omissions and by the family members’ behavior during the Soviet period, attempting by various means to shield their close ones from the attention of Soviet repressive structures. According to their narratives, every member of the Žiliai Family appreciates freedom as the main value of life, although painful experiences have forced Zofija and her son Algimantas to adapt to the Soviet regime. However, stories by Zofija’s grandchildren clearly exhibit their subconscious desire to oppose the system and longing for the independence. All narrators seem to be proud of their family members’ involvement in the struggle for freedom, despite their understanding of the cruel impact it had on the family life. Knowledge of the family history is valued as a responsibility to be passed on and appreciated. The younger the generation, the more remote its connections to the resistance; this enhances their impartiality and a lack of authentic experience. Grandchildren of the partisans already tend to speak more openly about the painful experiences of their family members, thus revealing the complicated reality of the struggle for freedom. Narratives by the partisans’ son display clear traces of immediate communication with the partisans, including details from their everyday life and connections with their families, as well as authentic memories of the family relationship. Algimantasʼ mind is more occupied by the image of his slain father. Subsequent generations have mostly preserved memories of interactions with Zofija, supplementing her stories with their own insights in the partisan struggle and attitude towards the Soviet regime. The chief storyteller in the family is still Algimantas, sharing his parents’ and his own experiences both with the family and with the general public. The study reveals that experiences of resistance and repression have influenced the self-perception of several generations. The narrative preserved by the partisan families expands the notion of their fight and supplements the history of struggle for freedom with new and significant details.

Abstract Introduction: Primary immunodeficiency diseases (PID) are caused by gene defects that impair function of the innate or adaptive immune systems. An increasing number of patients have been identified with a causative monogenic defect. More than 300 different genetic defects have been found [J Clin Immunol (2018) 38:96-128]. The NFKB1 gene is strongly associated with PID. Heterozygous variants of NFKB1 cause a progressive defect in formation of immunoglobulin-producing B cells [Cell (2017) 168:37-57]. Here, we introduce a new NFKB1 mutation. Methods: A patient with a 20-year history of diarrhea was recently hospitalized due to three months of interrupted fever. Chest computed tomography (CT) showed bilateral pneumonia, splenomegaly, and retro-peritoneal lymphadenopathy. We highly suspect that he has primary immunodeficiency and collected blood samples from all family members to identify the gene mutation. Family history. The patient's father (I.2) died early and his mother (I.1) died of cerebral infarction a few months ago. The patient has two brothers and two sisters. One brother (II.1) died of tuberculosis, the other (II.4) is healthy. One sister (II.3) died of stomach cancer, the other (II.2) has a history of left breast cancer and has received chemotherapy three times. His son (III.1) is clinically asymptomatic. His wife (II.6) is healthy (Figure 1). Blood samples. We evaluated complement components and quantified immunoglobulin levels of the family members, and determined the B cell ratio of the patient. Next, we performed whole exon sequencing by next-generation sequencing. We also predicted the protein structure of the mutant gene. Results: The patient has severely decreased levels of serum IgG, IgA, and IgM. Unexpectedly, his son has moderately reduced IgG levels, while others' immunoglobulin is normal. The patient's lymphocyte subgroups revealed a high ratio of CD3+, CD3+/CD8+ lymphocytes and low ratio of CD19+, CD56+CD16+ lymphocytes, which suggests a decreased proportion of B lymphocytes (Table 1). Next-generation sequencing revealed all known gene mutations of this family. Using Phenolyzer software (a tool that uses prior information to implicate genes involved in diseases), we selected three candidate genes: RAG1, C2, and NFKB1. The patient (II.5), his sister (II.2), and his son (III.1) all have a heterozygous mutation of RAG1. Thus, we ruled out RAG1, as it does not conform to Mendel's laws in this family. C2 was also excluded due to the low haploinsufficiency score (0.178). Interestingly, the patient (II.5) and his son (III.1) both have a heterozygous mutation of NFKB1, while others do not. NFKB1 shows a high haploinsufficiency score (0.945), suggesting that the single functional copy of the gene may not produce enough protein. Thus, we hypothesize that NFKB1 is the disease-causing gene in this family. Further investigation revealed a heterozygous NFKB1 frame shift mutation (c.2053delG: p.G685fs) in the patient and his son. Other family members possess wild-type NFKB1. The novel frameshift mutation influences three transcriptomes with a similar coding sequence to the NFKB1 gene. Sanger sequencing verified the results. The NFKB1 gene consists of four regions: Rel homology, glycine-rich, ankyrin repeats, and DEATH domain. Our prediction of the protein structure suggests that the frameshift mutation occurred in the ankyrin repeats region. Studies have shown that large deletions in the ankyrin repeats region may cause deficiency in class-switched memory B cell generation. This mutation results in a loss of 283 amino acids and addition of 40 new amino acids. Prediction of the tertiary structure illustrated that the coding protein is terminated early. The mutation results in loss of some helixes and formation of a new helix at the C-terminal. This is a novel mutation of NFKB1 that has not previously been reported in PID, and which forms a new protein structure (Figure 2). Conclusions: Our findings broaden the scope of phenotypes caused by mutations in NFKB1. We suspect that this heterozygous mutation of NFKB1 may lead to fewer immunoglobulins produced.Onset was delayed for this patient, at the age of 20. His son is 25 years old now, with moderately reduced levels of IgG but without symptoms. We suspect that he may be ill in the future and recommended that he seek genetic counseling when he is ready to have a child. Disclosures No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

AbstractThe portrait of Symon Marten Dircksz. (1504-1574) preserved in Athens (fig. I, notes 1, 2), was identified on the strength of his coat of arms. The sitter was a staunch Catholic and held high offices in the Amsterdam city government. His portrait, dated 1565, is the earliest specimen of a type that was produced during the last decades of the sixteenth century by the sons of Pieter Aertsen (1507/ 08-1574), Pieter (1540/41-1603) and Aert Pietersz. (1550-1612) (figs. 2, 3, 4, 8, 9). In view of the documented relations between Pieter Aertsen and various prominent Amsterdam citizens and also because of clearly Mannerist features, the portrait may be attributed to the father. It holds a place of its own among Amsterdam portraits of the period and does not relate to any traditional portrait type either in Amsterdam or in Antwerp, where Aertsen had worked until C. 1555. In spite of similarities in the sitters' postures and the ornate background, the portraits attributable to Pieter Pietersz. and Aert Pictersz. (figs. 2, 3, 4, 8, 9) show the style of a younger generation; pictorial space is rendered in a credible way and the figures also appear more three-dimensonal. A late example is the portrait of Hendrick Buyck, signed by Aert Pietersz. and dated 1605 (fig. 8, note 28). The sitter was a successful merchant and joined the Reformed Church, as did most of his brothers and sisters. His portrait contains a wealth of details which may in part point to the traditional idea of transience but also convey information of a more personal nature, as do the texts on the pages of a open cash-book. At his death in 1613 Hendrick Buyck's estate included a small number of paintings, mostly portraits, and one of The Four Evangelists by Pieter Aertsen ('Lange Pier'). This picture may be tentatively identified with one now at Aachen (fig. 10, note 46). A copy of it bears the date 1613 and was in all likelihood made for some member of the Buyck family when the original was inheritcd by the Protestant Hendrick's illegitimate son. The original bears the date 1559 and may well have already been in the possession of Hendrick's grandfather, Cornelis Buyck, who was Pieter Aertsen's neighbour until his death in 1562. POSTSCRIPT HUYBRECHT BEUCKELAER : AN ANTWERP SOLUTION FOR AN AMSTERDAM AND AN ENGLISH PROBLEM The long-standing debate as to whether or not the Monogrammist HB or Hb (figs. 11 and 12) could be identical with Joachim Bcuckclacr, was convincingly settled by Detlev Kreidl (note 27). This author not only analyzed the artist's distinct style but also showed that it was connected with that of Agnolo Bronzino, in whose studio the Monogrammist probably worked. Infrared reflectography subsequently revealed that the Kitchen-maid with a boy and a girl in Brussels (fig. 12), usually thought to be by Pieter Aertsen but attributed by Kreidl to the Monogrammist, bears the signature in full of one H[uybrecht] Beuckelaer, probably a brother of Joachim (note 27). Documents provide scant information on the artist's life. There is evidence of extensive travelling in 1567/68; a letter of 1574 was sent from Bordeaux. His earliest works date from 1563 but only in 1579 did he become a master in the Antwerp guild. This surprisingly late date may be accounted for by the assumption that until then the artist merely (or mainly) assisted other painters. Van Mander relates that Joachim Beuckelaer assisted Antonis Mor for davwages by painting the sitters' attire in their portraits. This piece of information would however seem rather to apply to Huybrecht, who (contrary to Joachim) paid much attention to the rendering of his figures' clothes. An example of his collaboration with Mor may well be the portrait of a nobleman, signed bv Mor and dated 1561, in the Mauritshuis, The Hague (fig. 15, note 64). A number of features in this picture recur in the Brussels Prodigal Son, which bears Huybrecht Beuckelaer's monogram (fig. 11). Huybrecht appears also to have been a portrait painter in his own right. The Style of his Prodigal Son may be recognized in a portrait of Thecla Occo, a member of the powerful Catholic family of that name in Amsterdam (fig. 13, notes 11 and 52). This picture suggests that Huybrecht was familiar with Mor's 1559 portrait of the wife of Jean le Cocq, now in Kassel, where a similar dog (a symbol of conjugal fidelity) lies in its mistress's arm. However, the main inspiration for the style of the Occo portrait comes from portraits Bronzino painted in the mid-1550s. This is borne out by the build of the tall figure with a slender hand dangling from an arm-rest as well as by the narrow shape of the head, enhanced by the strong shadow zone along the right side of the face (cf. fig. 14). From this (and from a similar case to be discussed below) it may be inferred that Huvbrecht visited Bronzino's workshop carly in his career, before working in Mor's studio around 1560. After 1584 there is no further mention of Huybrecht Beuckelaer in Antwerp documents. There is however evidence that he settled in England, probably after the taking of Antwerp by the Spaniards in 1585. A first clue to this effect is supplied by a portrait of Francis Cottington (1578/79-1652), later first Lord Cottington, that was sold at auction in 1922 (fig. 16, note 65). The picture is in many respects very similar to the Prodigal Son though it must, judging by the sitter's age and costume, be dated to the years around 1600, possibly to 1605 when Cottington was appointed secretary to the English ambassador in Spain. The artist's style had remained remarkably constant over the years, and so had his use of Bronzino prototypes. The latter's portrait of the youthful Lodovico Capponi (New York, Frick Collection) must have been in Huybrccht's mind when he designed young Cottington's portrait (fig. 17). There must have been quite a few portraits of distinguished English patrons by Huybrecht Beuckelaer besides the one of Cottington (which is not documented). This is supported by inventories from the years 1583-1590 which mention works by one Hubbert or Hubbard, long considered to have been a Netherlandish artist named Hubert (or Huybrecht - the artist actually used both forms of his name). The works described (notes 72, 73, 75 -77) were mostly portraits. But the earliest mention of his name occurs in connection with A Butcher and a Maid Buying Meat in the Earl of Leicester's collection in 1583. This was obviously a work in the Aertsen-Beuckelaer tradition, such as one might expect from Huybrecht Beuckelaer.

The archaeologist Erik WesterbyUp-front researcher on a spare-time basisThe centenary of the archaeologist and lawyer Erik Westerby, born in 1901, is the occation of this ac count of his career. It is a tale of a talented person’s magnificent achievements in his vainly fight for a seat on the scientific Parnassos.Erik Westerby had out standing intellectual talents within more of the areas important for car ying out a rchaeological research at a high level. Initially, however, a youthful and ill-concealed belief in his own talents gave him problems getting on with the conservative research environment of his contemporaries. In addition he had to struggle with a complicated mind of his own.From his youth, Westerby’s dedication to archaeology was directed to the exploration of the oldest times. He was the first to present a settlement from the late Ice Age: the Bromme site, and until today he has remained one of the famous names within the early Stone Age research in Denmark.His mind was set on archaeology, and yet he chose a more sec ure way of earning a living and became a lawyer. Parallel to the law studies, he worked so vigorously with archaeology that it is difficult to understand how he managed to graduate with good marks in an extraordinarily short time. In 1929, he settled as an independent lawyer in Copenhagen, in an office close to the High Court and the National Museum.The Stone Age settlement of Bloksbjerg in northern Copenhagen was the object of Westerby’s first large-scale field work (fig. 1). Nineteen years old, he published the preliminary results of the excavation.The following year he extended his knowledge of the Palaeolithic Period of France during a one-month study visit in Dordogne, an area rich of archaeologi cal finds.These studies were carried out with great thoroughness and included carefully documented test excavations at some of the classical sites.When he was 26, Westerby published a thesis on the early Stone Age in Denmark, taking his own settlement investigations as his point of departure. In this book, the term “the Mesolithic Age” was introduced in Danish terminology. Here, he also argued for the individual culture eras being named after important find localities. The early part of the Mesolithic Age in Denmark (which prior to this was often called “the Bone Age”) was hence to be called the Maglemose Era and the late part the Ertebø1le Era.The local academic dignit aries met this termino logy with severe criticism. Nevertheless, it was gradually accepted far beyond the Danish borders.From a modern point of view, the book was a very com etent archaeological presentation. It was submitted to the University of Copenhagen as a dissertation. However, the established scholars showed their disapproval by simply rejecting it.To add insult to injury, the promising youth was even humiliated in public by members of the National Museum’s staff. Among other things they pounced on the claim that a widely occurring, yet hitherto unnoticed type of flint tool, the burin, was to be found in the settlement inventories of the early Stone Age in Denmark. Today, we all know that Westerby was right, but in the 1920s, this claim was received differently by the few professional archaeologists in Denmark. Westerby was considered unsuited as a professional archaeologist, and so his profession was to stay the law.His next large project was the testing of the theory that coastal settlement had existed before the Ertebø1le Era Through reconnaissance expeditions to reclaimed fiords, he established co mpr ehensive traces of coastal settlement from a time berween the Ertebølle Culture and the Maglemose Culture. This era is now called the Kongemose Era, but it could just as well have been called the “Gislinge Era” due to his rich settlement find of this era in the Lamme fiord in North-West Zealand. However,Westerby decided to play down the sigruficance of his new find and refrain from such a pretentious terminology.In 1933, the results of Erik Westerby’s investigations of the reclai med fior ds were published. The energetic, Stone Age knowledgeable Therkel Mathiassen, who was employed by the National Museum that year, was interested in the Gislinge site, but he did not get an opportunity of excavating it until seven years later. And this was not to be the last place where Westerby’s and Mathiassen’s paths crossed.Erik Westerby’s next large project was to find signs of late Ice Age settlements in Den­mark – until then, this era was on ly represented by stray items. To do this, he carried out comprehensive field reconnaissance, which among other things led to his arrest by both the Danish police and the German occupying power due to his unu sual activities in the landscape.In 1938, he realised that the Amose bog in Western Zealand was a true treasure chest when it came to Mesolithic settlements. This realisation led to a short article in the reputable scholarly magazine , Acta Archaeologica. The article presents the results of a small trial excavation on the Øgårde locality. Having expressed reservations due to the limited and provisional character of the investigation, he concluded that there were pottery sherds in a closed context from the Maglemose Era, and that this was therefore the hitherto oldest pottery find in the world (fig. 2).Westerby called on the National Museum to undertake the responsibility of further investigation into the Åmose settlements, and Therkel Mathiassen immediately took it up on himself to take care of it. When a few years later he published the results of his very comprehensive investigations of for instance Øgårde, the sensational (and wrong) conclusion, that the Maglemose culture knew how to make pottery, was maintained.From Westerby’s diary we know that at the age of thirty, he regretted having been induced to deal with law. Archaeology fascinated him much more, and here he had exceptional talents. In private, he was a lonely person, and his legal work suffered from his great commitment to archaeology.The striking gesture of handing over further work concerning the Åmose settlements to the National Museum may therefore be understood as an attempt to get out of aneconomically, socially, and professional dead end. He probably hoped that the museum would encourage him to carry on the investigations and that he would be given the necessary means to do so – perhaps in the form of permanent employment.If indeed such hopes were behind Westerby’s gesture, then they were completely ignored. Therkel Mathiassen left him no further possibilities of carrying on the work in Åmosen. He even walked on Westerby’s pride by publicly mentioning him in line with local artefact collectors, who helped the museum with its work in the bog.However, Westerby continued his systematic field reconnaissance elsewhere on Zealand. In the spring of 1944, on the edge of a bog near Bromme, northwest of Sorø, he found flint tools of a kind that made him conclude he had come across settlement traces from a late Ice Age settlement (fig. 4, 6, and 7). The National Museum quickly offered to help with the investigation. However, the sensatio al find had disturbed Westerby’s state of mind, and he declined the proposal for fear of Mathiassen (fig. 5) taking over the management of the investigations.Physical and mental over-exertion caused Westerby to seek medical treatment in the autumn of 1944 . As he had no recovered by the spring of 1945, he informed the National Museum of the situation and turned over further investigation to the museum. His approach to the museum was an unspoken request that he was given the possibility of leading the investigation against proper payment. However, the signal was ignored, and Mathiassen immediately began the planning of a large-scale investigation. Westerby inspected the investigatio , and a written controversy followed, in which he expressed his reservations about Mathiassen’s methods, interpretations, and professional ethics, before having a mental relapse.Westerby’s miserable mental and economical situation now caused his sister, Hjørdis Westerby, to contact the National Museum , and without her brother’s knowledge, she expressed his wish of a museum employment, which for years he had been too proud to express. A marked change in the museum’s course followed. Therkel Mathiassen wrote and offered Erik Westerby a favourable arrangement. Westerby answered,“The letter will be opened, read, and if necessary answered when my health and my doctor permits it”. Whether Westerby ever opened the letter is unknown.The following spring Mathiassen wrote another couple of letters in his new, generous manner. The latter of these was found unopened among the papers left behind by Westerby. The good initiative had come too late.In the spring of 1946, Erik Westerby, helped by his sister Hjørdis, wrote a scholarly presentation of his investigations of the Bromme settlement.The manuscript included remarks that could be easily interpreted as a critical comment on the National Museum. As Westerby did not want to delete them, the result was that he never saw the presentation published in its entirety. Mathiassen published his results from the site in a large article in 1948. A later reinvestigation of the complete find material from the site has shown that Westerby’s critical remarks on Mathiassen’s methods and interpretations were justified.I t is worthy of note that not only did Westerby find the Bromrne settlement; he also recognized the finds on this site as being from the late Ice Age. Later it has become evident that Bromme was not the first late Palaeolithic settlement to be found or published withom the archaeologists realizing the correct age of the artefacts.In the last months of 1946, Erik Westerby left Copenhagen in order to become a member of the legal staff on the police station in Ringkøbing, West-Jutland. In his spare time, he continued to cultivate his interest in archaeology. He gave himself the extreme task of finding traces of human habitation in Denmark prior to the last Ice Age. A gravel pit near Seest in the western part of Kolding especially attracted his attention. Here, remains from for instance rhinoceros and forest elephant were found in the melt water gravel from the Ice Age. The gravel pit finds included some man- made flint items, which may be from the Ice Age layers.At that time,Westerby’s professional competence finally gained unreserved acclaim. The then recently appointed leader of the Prehistoric Museum in Århus, professor P.V. Glob, was behind this. Among other things, he arranged Westerby’s participation as a Danish represent ative in an international congress to mark the centenary of the find of the famous Neanderthal skull (fig. 8).In Ringkøbing, Westerby gradually became a known figure (fig. 9), and his extraordinary housing conditions added considerably to his reputation as an eccentric – a status he seemed to cultivate with pleasure (fig. 11-12).When he first arrived in the town, he was assigned one of the more modest rooms in the local hotel. Here he stayed for 33 years! Erik Westerby’s eccentric personality may lead to the convenient conclusion that he was unsuited for anemployment at the National Museum. It should therefore be stressed that he functioned as a highly respected police official in Ringkøbing (fig. l0) until according to the state rules he was forced to retire at the age of 70.The story of Erik Westerby’s professional career inevitably casts a shadow over those archaeologists at the National Museum who were actively opposing him. And it must be emphasized that the negative appraisal should not just apply to the rank-and- file scholars, but also the leading profession als, who failed to create the possibilities for Westerby’s obvious talents to be exploited to the full.Each scholarly environment should be conscious of the fact that success does not just depend on the available economic resources. The profession’s ability to provide a breeding ground for new ideas and gifted persons – even when this seems to be conflicting the individual convenience a nd prestige of established scholars – is no less important. If the management is weak and lacking in visions, then the environment tends to pursuit in dividu l goals. The result is often a bad atmosphere. It is a common idea that lack of funds causes lack of constructive athmosphere. However, it may just as well be the lack of constructive athmosphere, which causes lack of funds.Danish archaeology is indebted to Erik Westerby for handing over the key localities for investigating the Early Stone Age, and for his instructive examples in methods and systematism. We are also indebted to his sister, Hjørdis Westerby,for showing our profession a great gesture after the death of her brother: due to her economy and business sense, she was able to found the Erik Westerby Foundation in support of Danish archaeologists. The capital of the foundation comes from the estate left by her brother and from a large gift of money from her.Anders FischerKulturarvsstyrelsenTranslated by Annette Lerche Trolle

Asma Lamrabet’s Women in the Qur’an: An Emancipatory Reading sufficiently fulfills its promise to offer an emancipatory approach to the Qur’an. It argues for a re-reading of the entire Islamic tradition, not the Qur’an alone, in a way that embraces women’s full humanity. Despite some of its less convincing arguments, its overall thesis of women’s liberation through the Qur’an and its argument that the Qur’an is in fact anti-patriarchal are well-presented. The book contains an Introduction and two sections. The Introduction offers a vision standing between the conservative Islamic and the western Islamophobic approaches. Unlike these two approaches, which each deem the Muslim woman voiceless, Lamrabet’s method empowers Muslim women through a reclamation of their original, Qur’anic status. Part One, “When the Qur’an Speaks of Women,” offers alternative readings of Qur’anic narratives that involve women, such as Balqis, Zulaykha, Asiya the Pharaoh’s wife, Maryam, Sarah, and Hagar. It also includes those women whose stories the tradition neglects, such as Moses’ mother and Shu‘ayb’s daughter. This section illustrates the impact of a story about a woman that is actually centered on her, unlike in the traditional versions. A fascinating discussion here is about Balqis, whose honorific treatment in the Qur’an troubled male scholars. It was so unimaginable for them to view a woman as a revered queen that they questioned her human origin. Some concluded that she must have been of jinn ancestry; others derided the men of her kingdom for “allowing themselves to be governed” by an iljatu, a derogatory term meaning “donkey” or “disbeliever” (33). This attitude diminishes Balkis’s humanity; through it, the commentators could “rest assured” that they need not take her seriously since she is only half human. Part Two, “When the Qur’an Speaks to Women,” challenges the claim that the language of the Qur’an is masculine. Lamrabet discusses the women who complained that the Qur’an does not address them (e.g., Umm Salama, Asma bint Umays, and Umm ‘Umarah al-Ansariyyah). While she argues that the issue was resolved with the revelation of Q 33:35, even this verse does not directly speak to women, as the Qur’an often does with men (e.g., Q 2:221; 2:223; 4:34). Still, God’s response to women’s concerns and grievances, as in the examples of the above women and Khawla bint Tha‘laba (132), speaks to the Qur’an’s anti-patriarchal voice. By devoting verses to Khawla’s concern about her husband’s exploitation of her through ẓihār (Q 58:1-2), the Qur’an endorses women’s moral courage to protest oppression. Lamrabet continues her discussion by addressing four issues commonly invoked to prove Islam’s misogyny: polygyny, inheritance, testimony, and permission to men to hit their wives. On polygyny, Lamrabet emphasizes that the Qur’an discourages it by requiring equal treatment of all wives while simultaneously reminding men that they can never be just to multiple wives. Ineffectively, to show that the prophetic model discouraged polygamy, Lamrabet asks, “did the Prophet not express his strong disapproval of polygamy when he learned that ‘Ali, husband to his daughter Fatima Zahra, wished to marry a second wife?” (144). Since the Prophet himself had even more than the number of wives the Qur’an “limits” other Muslim men to, this is not a convincing argument. On female testimony, Lamrabet argues that the verse on testimony (Q 2:282) which seemingly treats women unequally is about attestation, not testimony, and that it carries no legislative remit. While a testimony occurs in front of a judge who decides upon the veracity of the claims, attestation refers to a case between two people (145). She argues that this verse in fact advocates women’s participation in spaces viewed strictly as men’s, such as the management of commercial affairs. She invokes Q 24:6-8, where “the testimony of a woman is absolutely equal to that of a man”—although in this verse, the wife’s testimony in fact overshadows the husband’s. Moreover, in the transmission of hadith, which is also a form of testimony, women’s and men’s testimony is treated equally. On inheritance, Lamrabet again calls for a context-based meaning of the verses—i.e., in seventh-century Arabia, women were not expected to inherit anything. She notes that the presumed unequal distribution refers only to the inheritance of sisters and brothers, not all women and men. In fact, there are cases where a man inherits and the woman does not, where the woman inherits and the man does not, or one inherits more than the other regardless of gender but due to their closeness of kinship to the deceased (150). Her justifications are not always convincing, however: explaining why husbands receive a higher portion because of their role as financial providers, she writes that it is “to give men a sense of responsibility because women might find themselves unable to manage the economic needs of the family due to pregnancy” (150). References to women’s pregnancy as explanatory of their roles and rights are always intriguing, given that pregnancy is not women’s default position. This rule appears to be justified with exceptions treated as the norm. However, unlike most other scholars speaking on inheritance, who seldom recognize lived realities that require women to work, Lamrabet does address reality and condemns the “blind application” of Islamic principles. The author’s approach to Q 4:34 (on wife-beating) is largely unpersuasive, except her claim that ḍaraba has been mistranslated. Her reading relies on the assumption that pre-Islamic Arab men mistreated their women to such an extent that Q 4:34’s permission to discipline their wives “through a gradual process” is in fact justice towards women. Lamrabet explains that the reason the Prophet was corrected when he instructed a woman to hit her husband in retaliation is that men complained to the Prophet that their wives would all rebel against them. That is, a woman’s self-defense would lead to a social revolt, and to prevent this, husbands’ right as disciplinarians was protected. Lamrabet claims that scholars have “unanimously” prohibited “all violence against women” (157); this is inaccurate, as a historical exegetical study of Q 4:34 shows (see Ayesha Chaudhry’s scholarship). Lamrabet argues that ḍaraba in this verse does not mean “to hit.” She notes that the term appears multiple times in the Qur’an, where its meanings include “to cover,” “to go away from,” “to strike,” and “to accompany.” She questions the scholars’ choice to interpret it as “to beat” when several other meanings would have worked both contextually and in light of the Qur’an’s message of compassion. In the Conclusion, Lamrabet discusses Muslim women’s interrupted revolution in the early days of Islam. While women were initially condemning the patriarchy of their time, their contributions and concerns were later subverted through various processes as was the spirit of liberation that Islam brought, normalizing misogynistic interpretations of the Qur’an. An addendum to the book, a “Publisher’s End Notes,” explains—or likely mansplains—some of Lamrabet’s ideas. It is unclear which points the publisher is responding to. E.g., Point F states, “No source is provided for this claim” without referencing said claim. Erroneous statements appear elsewhere, such as Point E: “In the Islamic tradition, women have never been regarded as inferior creatures.” Historical scholars did in fact view women as inferiors, and Lamrabet provides many such examples (e.g., 15, 25). The publisher’s notes intend to “correct” Lamrabet’s assertions through patronizing and dismissive comments such as “this may be based on her experience” and “the author’s discomfort appears to be based on a misunderstanding of the verses.” Since the publisher’s lack of research on the subject is clear, their claims that they could not find any support for Lamrabet’s statements are unreliable. Like any valuable scholarship, the book contains flaws, of which a significant one is the lack of citation of women’s scholarship. Ironically, while challenging the patriarchy of denying women’s contributions to Islam, Lamrabet herself hardly cites Muslim women, although she frequently cites past and contemporary men. She is clearly familiar with Muslim women’s scholarship, as she notes earlier in the book (5). Among the scholars whose works should have been engaged are Fatima Sadiqi, Olfa Youssef, and Fatima Mernissi, among others who have written extensively in Arabic and/ or French on issues that Lamrabet highlights. Also, the translator, Myriam Francois-Cerrah, uses the outdated term “mankind” for “humanity” and “man” for “humans” or “people” (e.g., 32). Finally, like apologist scholarshipon women and Islam, the book offers a reductive portrayal of pre-Islamic Arab women’s rights, which were purportedly non-existent and improved dramatically with the advent of Islam. Suitable for various audiences, particularly in Islamic Studies and Women’s Studies, the book is a conversation with practicing Muslims—who can appreciate its faith-based approach. The translator has done an immense service by expanding the book’s audience. Lamrabet’s book is also commendable for its accessibility to non-academic audiences. Moreover, mainstream Muslim scholars and preachers of Islam will benefit from the non-traditional, non-orthodox interpretations of women-centered verses of the Qur’an that have historically privileged male perspectives and interests. Shehnaz HaqqaniDiversity Scholar FellowWomen’s and Gender StudiesIthaca College

Asma Lamrabet’s Women in the Qur’an: An Emancipatory Reading sufficiently fulfills its promise to offer an emancipatory approach to the Qur’an. It argues for a re-reading of the entire Islamic tradition, not the Qur’an alone, in a way that embraces women’s full humanity. Despite some of its less convincing arguments, its overall thesis of women’s liberation through the Qur’an and its argument that the Qur’an is in fact anti-patriarchal are well-presented. The book contains an Introduction and two sections. The Introduction offers a vision standing between the conservative Islamic and the western Islamophobic approaches. Unlike these two approaches, which each deem the Muslim woman voiceless, Lamrabet’s method empowers Muslim women through a reclamation of their original, Qur’anic status. Part One, “When the Qur’an Speaks of Women,” offers alternative readings of Qur’anic narratives that involve women, such as Balqis, Zulaykha, Asiya the Pharaoh’s wife, Maryam, Sarah, and Hagar. It also includes those women whose stories the tradition neglects, such as Moses’ mother and Shu‘ayb’s daughter. This section illustrates the impact of a story about a woman that is actually centered on her, unlike in the traditional versions. A fascinating discussion here is about Balqis, whose honorific treatment in the Qur’an troubled male scholars. It was so unimaginable for them to view a woman as a revered queen that they questioned her human origin. Some concluded that she must have been of jinn ancestry; others derided the men of her kingdom for “allowing themselves to be governed” by an iljatu, a derogatory term meaning “donkey” or “disbeliever” (33). This attitude diminishes Balkis’s humanity; through it, the commentators could “rest assured” that they need not take her seriously since she is only half human. Part Two, “When the Qur’an Speaks to Women,” challenges the claim that the language of the Qur’an is masculine. Lamrabet discusses the women who complained that the Qur’an does not address them (e.g., Umm Salama, Asma bint Umays, and Umm ‘Umarah al-Ansariyyah). While she argues that the issue was resolved with the revelation of Q 33:35, even this verse does not directly speak to women, as the Qur’an often does with men (e.g., Q 2:221; 2:223; 4:34). Still, God’s response to women’s concerns and grievances, as in the examples of the above women and Khawla bint Tha‘laba (132), speaks to the Qur’an’s anti-patriarchal voice. By devoting verses to Khawla’s concern about her husband’s exploitation of her through ẓihār (Q 58:1-2), the Qur’an endorses women’s moral courage to protest oppression. Lamrabet continues her discussion by addressing four issues commonly invoked to prove Islam’s misogyny: polygyny, inheritance, testimony, and permission to men to hit their wives. On polygyny, Lamrabet emphasizes that the Qur’an discourages it by requiring equal treatment of all wives while simultaneously reminding men that they can never be just to multiple wives. Ineffectively, to show that the prophetic model discouraged polygamy, Lamrabet asks, “did the Prophet not express his strong disapproval of polygamy when he learned that ‘Ali, husband to his daughter Fatima Zahra, wished to marry a second wife?” (144). Since the Prophet himself had even more than the number of wives the Qur’an “limits” other Muslim men to, this is not a convincing argument. On female testimony, Lamrabet argues that the verse on testimony (Q 2:282) which seemingly treats women unequally is about attestation, not testimony, and that it carries no legislative remit. While a testimony occurs in front of a judge who decides upon the veracity of the claims, attestation refers to a case between two people (145). She argues that this verse in fact advocates women’s participation in spaces viewed strictly as men’s, such as the management of commercial affairs. She invokes Q 24:6-8, where “the testimony of a woman is absolutely equal to that of a man”—although in this verse, the wife’s testimony in fact overshadows the husband’s. Moreover, in the transmission of hadith, which is also a form of testimony, women’s and men’s testimony is treated equally. On inheritance, Lamrabet again calls for a context-based meaning of the verses—i.e., in seventh-century Arabia, women were not expected to inherit anything. She notes that the presumed unequal distribution refers only to the inheritance of sisters and brothers, not all women and men. In fact, there are cases where a man inherits and the woman does not, where the woman inherits and the man does not, or one inherits more than the other regardless of gender but due to their closeness of kinship to the deceased (150). Her justifications are not always convincing, however: explaining why husbands receive a higher portion because of their role as financial providers, she writes that it is “to give men a sense of responsibility because women might find themselves unable to manage the economic needs of the family due to pregnancy” (150). References to women’s pregnancy as explanatory of their roles and rights are always intriguing, given that pregnancy is not women’s default position. This rule appears to be justified with exceptions treated as the norm. However, unlike most other scholars speaking on inheritance, who seldom recognize lived realities that require women to work, Lamrabet does address reality and condemns the “blind application” of Islamic principles. The author’s approach to Q 4:34 (on wife-beating) is largely unpersuasive, except her claim that ḍaraba has been mistranslated. Her reading relies on the assumption that pre-Islamic Arab men mistreated their women to such an extent that Q 4:34’s permission to discipline their wives “through a gradual process” is in fact justice towards women. Lamrabet explains that the reason the Prophet was corrected when he instructed a woman to hit her husband in retaliation is that men complained to the Prophet that their wives would all rebel against them. That is, a woman’s self-defense would lead to a social revolt, and to prevent this, husbands’ right as disciplinarians was protected. Lamrabet claims that scholars have “unanimously” prohibited “all violence against women” (157); this is inaccurate, as a historical exegetical study of Q 4:34 shows (see Ayesha Chaudhry’s scholarship). Lamrabet argues that ḍaraba in this verse does not mean “to hit.” She notes that the term appears multiple times in the Qur’an, where its meanings include “to cover,” “to go away from,” “to strike,” and “to accompany.” She questions the scholars’ choice to interpret it as “to beat” when several other meanings would have worked both contextually and in light of the Qur’an’s message of compassion. In the Conclusion, Lamrabet discusses Muslim women’s interrupted revolution in the early days of Islam. While women were initially condemning the patriarchy of their time, their contributions and concerns were later subverted through various processes as was the spirit of liberation that Islam brought, normalizing misogynistic interpretations of the Qur’an. An addendum to the book, a “Publisher’s End Notes,” explains—or likely mansplains—some of Lamrabet’s ideas. It is unclear which points the publisher is responding to. E.g., Point F states, “No source is provided for this claim” without referencing said claim. Erroneous statements appear elsewhere, such as Point E: “In the Islamic tradition, women have never been regarded as inferior creatures.” Historical scholars did in fact view women as inferiors, and Lamrabet provides many such examples (e.g., 15, 25). The publisher’s notes intend to “correct” Lamrabet’s assertions through patronizing and dismissive comments such as “this may be based on her experience” and “the author’s discomfort appears to be based on a misunderstanding of the verses.” Since the publisher’s lack of research on the subject is clear, their claims that they could not find any support for Lamrabet’s statements are unreliable. Like any valuable scholarship, the book contains flaws, of which a significant one is the lack of citation of women’s scholarship. Ironically, while challenging the patriarchy of denying women’s contributions to Islam, Lamrabet herself hardly cites Muslim women, although she frequently cites past and contemporary men. She is clearly familiar with Muslim women’s scholarship, as she notes earlier in the book (5). Among the scholars whose works should have been engaged are Fatima Sadiqi, Olfa Youssef, and Fatima Mernissi, among others who have written extensively in Arabic and/ or French on issues that Lamrabet highlights. Also, the translator, Myriam Francois-Cerrah, uses the outdated term “mankind” for “humanity” and “man” for “humans” or “people” (e.g., 32). Finally, like apologist scholarshipon women and Islam, the book offers a reductive portrayal of pre-Islamic Arab women’s rights, which were purportedly non-existent and improved dramatically with the advent of Islam. Suitable for various audiences, particularly in Islamic Studies and Women’s Studies, the book is a conversation with practicing Muslims—who can appreciate its faith-based approach. The translator has done an immense service by expanding the book’s audience. Lamrabet’s book is also commendable for its accessibility to non-academic audiences. Moreover, mainstream Muslim scholars and preachers of Islam will benefit from the non-traditional, non-orthodox interpretations of women-centered verses of the Qur’an that have historically privileged male perspectives and interests. Shehnaz HaqqaniDiversity Scholar FellowWomen’s and Gender StudiesIthaca College

This paper draws a parallel of Maslow hierarchy of needs with organ donation and transplantation and illustrates how these needs i.e., physiological, security, love and belongingness, self-esteem and self-actualization are inter-dependent, interlinked and entrenched in both living as well as deceased organ donation and transplantation. The paper illustrates the nuances of inter-linkages of need satisfaction of people and professionals in organ donation and transplantation. With some case studies, it draws attention to the plight of impoverished people and insecure women who are exploited or intimidated into donating organs for meeting their physiological and security needs in class stratified and gender insensitive social milieu respectively. It however, reveres the acts of donation of organs by relatives of deceased donors who allow donation of organs from Brain Stem Dead donors in India and illustrates how security needs of these families are met through the most powerful and altruistic act of organ donation that gives life to a number of people fighting end stage organ failures. The paper traces new expectations of love and belongingness in the form of organ donation and discusses role reversal of females even on Rakshabandan, a Hindu festival that celebrates love and affection between a sister and a brother. The sisters risk their lives and gift their organs to give a fresh lease of life to their brothers. Drawing attention to the forth level of needs, the paper discusses the plight of some vulnerable people who end up donating organs for gratification of their self-esteem needs in contrast to transplantation community who seek gratification of the same need through transplantation and influencing law making process in context of both living and deceased donation. It admires the gratification of self-actualization needs of a number of people who pledge to donate tissues, organs as well as the bodies after death/Brain Stem Death. India being a progressive country in organ donation and transplantation, this paper reveals how some professionals having satisfied all other basic needs, spend their own money and work tirelessly for pushing ahead the National Organ and Tissue Transplant Organization (NOTTO) under the aegis of National Organ Transplant Programme(NOTP ) in the country.

AbstractObjectiveThis study investigates gender differences in the effect of parents' deaths on sibling tension among bereaved adult children.BackgroundPrevious scholarship on adult sibling relations following the deaths of parents presents inconsistent results. These disparate findings may stem from past studies not taking into consideration the gender of both the deceased parent and the bereaved child.MethodAnalyses are based on three harmonized waves of quantitative and qualitative data collected from 654 adult children nested within 303 families as part of the Within‐Family Differences Study.ResultsMultilevel models revealed that for daughters, but not sons, mothers' deaths in the past 5 years were associated with increases in sibling tension, whereas fathers' deaths did not predict changes in either sons' or daughters' sibling tension, regardless of timing. Qualitative analyses showed marked differences by child's gender in perceptions of patterns of shared work and support surrounding parents' deaths. Typically, sons expressed solidarity with siblings when mothers died and felt that the division of caregiving prior to mothers' deaths and arrangements following their deaths were fair. In contrast, daughters expressed increased solidarity with sisters surrounding mothers' deaths and disdain toward brothers who failed to contribute caregiving, support, or instrumental tasks.ConclusionThese findings underscore how gender of both parents and adult children differentially shape changes in adult children's relationships with their siblings in the face parental deaths, much as they do in other contexts across the life course.

The USA has always been a melting pot of different nationalities. Inevitably, this diversity has also been presented in its literature. Asian American literature, which is a fairly new subject of literary studies, presents one example of the States’ varied literary landscape. Some recurring themes studied in works written by authors from the Asian diaspora are hybridized identity, language, gender, trauma, and belonging. This paper also highlights the theme of identity and identity formation in connection with recent theories concerning transnational identities and second-generation immigrants, focusing on Catherine Chung’s Forgotten Country (2012). As searching for one’s own identity is a major part of the struggles of the adolescence stage, it is quite natural that questions of identity are emphasized in case of second-generation Asian Americans growing up in a culture distinctively different from that of their parents’. In the novel, the protagonist, Janie, clearly has bicultural identity, whereas her younger sister, Hannah, struggles with her Korean heritage, which she seems to reject. By the end, as a result of a homeland trip and their father’s death, both sisters comprehend more of their family’s past traumas and their homeland’s history, which enables them to acknowledge their Korean heritage and reclaim their lives.

IntroductionFilmed during a 1955 family trip from Perth to the Gulf of Carpentaria, Keith Adams’s Northern Safari showed to packed houses across Australia, and in some overseas locations, across three decades. Essentially a home movie, initially accompanied by live commentary and subsequently by a homemade sound track, it tapped into audiences’ sense of Australia’s north as a place of adventure. In the film Adams interacts with the animals of northern Australia (often by killing them), and while by 1971 the violence apparent in the film was attracting criticism in letters to newspapers, the film remained popular through to the mid-1980s, and was later shown on television in Australia and the United States (Cowan 2; Adams, Crocodile Safari Man 261). A DVD is at present available for purchase from the website of the same name (Northern Safari). Adams and his supporters credited the film’s success to the rugged and adventurous landscape of northern Australia (Northeast vii), characterised by dangerous animals, including venomous spiders, sharks and crocodiles (see Adams, “Aussie”; “Crocodile”). The notion of Australia’s north as a place of rugged adventure was not born with Adams’s film, and that film was certainly not the last production to exploit the region and its wildlife as a source of excitement. Rather, Northern Safari belongs to a long list of adventure narratives whose hunting exploits have helped define the north of Australian as a distinct region and contrast it with the temperate south where most Australians make their lives.This article explores the connection between adventure in Australia’s north and the large animals of the region. Adams’s film capitalised on popular interest in natural history, but his film is only one link in a chain of representations of the Australian north as a place of dangerous and charismatic megafauna. While over time interest shifted from being largely concentrated on the presence of buffalo in the Northern Territory to a fascination with the saltwater crocodiles found more widely in northern Australia that interest in dangerous prey animals is significant to Australia’s northern imaginary.The Northern Safari before AdamsNorthern Australia gained a reputation for rugged, masculine adventure long before the arrival there of Adams and his cameras. That reputation was closely associated with the animals of the north, and it is generally the dangerous species that have inspired popular accounts of the region. Linda Thompson has recognised that before the release of the film Crocodile Dundee in 1986 crocodiles “received significant and sensational (although sporadic) media attention across Australia—attention that created associations of danger, mystery, and abnormality” (118). While Thompson went on to argue that in the wake of Crocodile Dundee the saltwater crocodile became a widely recognised symbol of Australia (for both Australians and non-Australians) it is perhaps more pertinent to consider the place of animals in creating a notion of the Australian north.Adams’s extended and international success (he showed his film profitably in the United States, Canada, England, Germany, South Africa, Rhodesia, and New Zealand as well as throughout Australia) suggests that the landscape and wildlife of northern Australia holds a fascination for a wide audience (Adams, Crocodile Safari Man 169-261). Certainly northern Australia, and its wild beasts, had established a reputation for adventure earlier, particularly in the periods following the world wars. Perhaps crocodiles were not the most significant of the north’s charismatic megafauna in the first half of the twentieth century, but their presence was a source of excitement well before the 1980s, and they were not the only animals in the north to attract attention: the Northern Territory’s buffalo had long acted as a drawcard for adventure seekers.Carl Warburton’s popular book Buffaloes was typical in linking Australians’ experiences of war with the Australian north and the pursuit of adventure, generally in the form of dangerous big game. War and hunting have long been linked as both are expressions of masculine valour in physically dangerous circumstances (Brennan “Imperial” 44-46). That link is made very clear in Warbuton’s account when he begins it on the beach at Gallipoli as he and his comrades discuss their plans for the future. After Warburton announces his determination not to return from war to work in a bank, he and a friend determine that they will go to either Brazil or the Northern Territory to seek adventure (2). Back in Sydney, a coin flip determines their “compass was set for the unknown north” (5).As the title of his book suggests, the game pursued by Warburton and his mate were buffaloes, as buffalo hides were fetching high prices when he set out for the north. In his writing Warburton was keen to establish his reputation as an adventurer and his descriptions of the dangers of buffalo hunting used the animals to establish the adventurous credentials of northern Australia. Warburton noted of the buffalo that: “Alone of all wild animals he will attack unprovoked, and in single combat is more than a match for a tiger. It is the pleasant pastime of some Indian princes to stage such combats for the entertainment of their guests” (62-63). Thereby, he linked Arnhem Land to India, a place that had long held a reputation as a site of adventurous hunting for the rulers of the British Empire (Brennan “Africa” 399). Later Warburton reinforced those credentials by noting: “there is no more dangerous animal in the world than a wounded buffalo bull” (126). While buffalo might have provided the headline act, crocodiles also featured in the interwar northern imaginary. Warburton recorded: “I had always determined to have a crack at the crocodiles for the sport of it.” He duly set about sating this desire (222-3).Buffalo had been hunted commercially in the Northern Territory since 1886 and Warburton was not the first to publicise the adventurous hunting available in northern Australia (Clinch 21-23). He had been drawn north after reading “of the exploits of two crack buffalo shooters, Fred Smith and Paddy Cahill” (Warburton 6). Such accounts of buffalo, and also of crocodiles, were common newspaper fodder in the first half of the twentieth century. Even earlier, explorers’ accounts had drawn attention to the animal excitement of northern Australia. For example, John Lort Stokes had noted ‘alligators’ as one of the many interesting animals inhabiting the region (418). Thus, from the nineteenth century Australia’s north had popularly linked together remoteness, adventure, and large animals; it was unsurprising that Warburton in turn acted as inspiration to later adventure-hunters in northern Australia. In 1954 he was mentioned in a newspaper story about two English migrants who had come to Australia to shoot crocodiles on Cape York with “their ambitions fed by the books of men such as Ion Idriess, Carl Warburton, Frank Clune and others” (Gay 15).The Development of Northern ‘Adventure’ TourismNot all who sought adventure in northern Australia were as independent as Adams. Cynthia Nolan’s account of travel through outback Australia in the late 1940s noted the increasing tourist infrastructure available, particularly in her account of Alice Springs (27-28, 45). She also recorded the significance of big game in the lure of the north. At the start of her journey she met a man seeking his fortune crocodile shooting (16), later encountered buffalo shooters (82), and recorded the locals’ hilarity while recounting a visit by a city-based big game hunter who arrived with an elephant gun. According to her informants: “No, he didn’t shoot any buffaloes, but he had his picture taken posing behind every animal that dropped. He’d arrange himself in a crouch, gun at the ready, and take self-exposure shots of himself and trophy” (85-86). Earlier, organised tours of the Northern Territory included buffalo shooter camps in their itineraries (when access was available), making clear the continuing significance of dangerous game to the northern imaginary (Cole, Hell 207). Even as Adams was pursuing his independent path north, tourist infrastructure was bringing the northern Australian safari experience within reach for those with little experience but sufficient funds to secure the provision of equipment, vehicles and expert advice. The Australian Crocodile Shooters’ Club, founded in 1950, predated Northern Safari, but it tapped into the same interest in the potential of northern Australia to offer adventure. It clearly associated that adventure with big game hunting and the club’s success depended on its marketing of the adventurous north to Australia’s urban population (Brennan “Africa” 403-06). Similarly, the safari camps which developed in the Northern Territory, starting with Nourlangie in 1959, promoted the adventure available in Australia’s north to those who sought to visit without necessarily roughing it. The degree of luxury that was on offer initially is questionable, but the notion of Australia’s north as a big game hunting destination supported the development of an Australian safari industry (Berzins 177-80, Brennan “Africa” 407-09). Safari entrepreneur Allan Stewart has eagerly testified to the broad appeal of the safari experience in 1960s Australia, claiming his clientele included accountants, barristers, barmaids, brokers, bankers, salesmen, journalists, actors, students, nursing sisters, doctors, clergymen, soldiers, pilots, yachtsmen, racing drivers, company directors, housewives, precocious children, air hostesses, policemen and jockeys (18).Later Additions to the Imaginary of the Northern SafariAdams’s film was made in 1955, and its subject of adventurous travel and hunting in northern Australia was taken up by a number of books during the 1960s as publishers kept the link between large game and the adventurous north alive. New Zealand author Barry Crump contributed a fictionalised account of his time hunting crocodiles in northern Australia in Gulf, first published in 1964. Crump displayed his trademark humour throughout his book, and made a running joke of the ‘best professional crocodile-shooters’ that he encountered in pubs throughout northern Australia (28-29). Certainly, the possibility of adventure and the chance to make a living as a professional hunter lured men to the north. Among those who came was Australian journalist Keith Willey who in 1966 published an account of his time crocodile hunting. Willey promoted the north as a site of adventure and rugged masculinity. On the very first page of his book he established his credentials by advising that “Hunting crocodiles is a hard trade; hard, dirty and dangerous; but mostly hard” (1). Although Willey’s book reveals that he did not make his fortune crocodile hunting he evidently revelled in its adventurous mystique and his book was sufficiently successful to be republished by Rigby in 1977. The association between the Australian north, the hunting of large animals, and adventure continued to thrive.These 1960s crocodile publications represent a period when crocodile hunting replaced buffalo hunting as a commercial enterprise in northern Australia. In the immediate post-war period crocodile skins increased in value as traditional sources became unreliable, and interest in professional hunting increased. As had been the case with Warburton, the north promised adventure to men unwilling to return to domesticity after their experiences of war (Brennan, “Crocodile” 1). This part of the northern imaginary was directly discussed by another crocodile hunting author. Gunther Bahnemann spent some time crocodile hunting in Australia before moving his operation north to poach crocodiles in Dutch New Guinea. Bahnemann had participated in the Second World War and in his book he was clear about his unwillingness to settle for a humdrum life, instead choosing crocodile hunting for his profession. As he described it: “We risked our lives to make quick money, but not easy money; yet I believe that the allure of adventure was the main motive of our expedition. It seems so now, when I think back to it” (8).In the tradition of Adams, Malcolm Douglas released his documentary film Across the Top in 1968, which was subsequently serialised for television. From around this time, television was becoming an increasingly popular medium and means of reinforcing the connection between the Australian outback and adventure. The animals of northern Australia played a role in setting the region apart from the rest of the continent. The 1970s and 1980s saw a boom in programs that presented the outback, including the north, as a source of interest and national pride. In this period Harry Butler presented In the Wild, while the Leyland brothers (Mike and Mal) created their iconic and highly popular Ask the Leyland Brothers (and similar productions) which ran to over 150 episodes between 1976 and 1980. In the cinema, Alby Mangels’s series of World Safari movies included Australia in his wide-ranging adventures. While these documentaries of outback Australia traded on the same sense of adventure and fascination with Australia’s wildlife that had promoted Northern Safari, the element of big game hunting was muted.That link was reforged in the 1980s and 1990s. Crocodile Dundee was an extremely successful movie and it again placed interactions with charismatic megafauna at the heart of the northern Australian experience (Thompson 124). The success of the film reinvigorated depictions of northern Australia as a place to encounter dangerous beasts. Capitalising on the film’s success Crump’s book was republished as Crocodile Country in 1990, and Tom Cole’s memoirs of his time in northern Australia, including his work buffalo shooting and crocodile hunting, were first published in 1986, 1988, and 1992 (and reprinted multiple times). However, Steve Irwin is probably the best known of northern Australia’s ‘crocodile hunters’, despite his Australia Zoo lying outside the crocodile’s natural range, and despite being a conservationist opposed to killing crocodiles. Irwin’s chosen moniker is ironic, given his often-stated love for the species and his commitment to preserving crocodile lives through relocating (when necessary, to captivity) rather than killing problem animals. He first appeared on Australian television in 1996, and continued to appear regularly until his death in 2006.Tourism Australia used both Hogan and Irwin for promotional purposes. While Thompson argues that at this time the significance of the crocodile was broadened to encompass Australia more generally, the examples of crocodile marketing that she lists relate to the Northern Territory, with a brief mention of Far North Queensland and the crocodile remained a signifier of northern adventure (Thompson 125-27). The depiction of Irwin as a ‘crocodile hunter’ despite his commitment to saving crocodile lives marked a larger shift that had already begun within the safari. While the title ‘safari’ retained its popularity in the late twentieth century it had come to be applied generally to organised adventurous travel with a view to seeing and capturing images of animals, rather than exclusively identifying hunting expeditions.ConclusionThe extraordinary success of Adams’s film was based on a widespread understanding of northern Australia as a type of adventure playground, populated by fascinating dangerous beasts. That imaginary was exploited but not created by Adams. It had been in existence since the nineteenth century, was particularly evident during the buffalo and crocodile hunting bubbles after the world wars, and boomed again with the popularity of the fictional Mick Dundee and the real Steve Irwin, for both of whom interacting with the charismatic megafauna of the north was central to their characters. The excitement surrounding large game still influences visions of northern Australia. At present there is no particularly striking northern bushman media personage, but the large animals of the north still regularly provoke discussion. The north’s safari camps continue to do business, trading on the availability of large game (particularly buffalo, banteng, pigs, and samba) and northern Australia’s crocodiles have established themselves as a significant source of interest among international big game hunters. Australia’s politicians regularly debate the possibility of legalising a limited crocodile safari in Australia, based on the culling of problem animals, and that debate highlights a continuing sense of Australia’s north as a place apart from the more settled, civilised south of the continent.ReferencesAdams, Keith. ’Aussie Bites.’ Australian Screen 2017. <https://aso.gov.au/titles/documentaries/northern-safari/clip2/>.———. ‘Crocodile Hunting.’ Australian Screen 2017. <https://aso.gov.au/titles/documentaries/northern-safari/clip3/>.———. Crocodile Safari Man: My Tasmanian Childhood in the Great Depression & 50 Years of Desert Safari to the Gulf of Carpentaria 1949-1999. Rockhampton: Central Queensland University Press, 2000.Bahnemann, Gunther. New Guinea Crocodile Poacher. 2nd ed. London: The Adventurers Club, 1965.Berzins, Baiba. Australia’s Northern Secret: Tourism in the Northern Territory, 1920s to 1980s. Sydney: Baiba Berzins, 2007.Brennan, Claire. "’An Africa on Your Own Front Door Step’: The Development of an Australian Safari.” Journal of Australian Studies 39.3 (2015): 396-410.———. “Crocodile Hunting.” Queensland Historical Atlas (2013): 1-3.———. "Imperial Game: A History of Hunting, Society, Exotic Species and the Environment in New Zealand and Victoria 1840-1901." Dissertation. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 2005.Clinch, M.A. “Home on the Range: The Role of the Buffalo in the Northern Territory, 1824–1920.” Northern Perspective 11.2 (1988): 16-27.Cole, Tom. Crocodiles and Other Characters. Chippendale, NSW: Sun Australia, 1992.———. Hell West and Crooked. Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1990.———. Riding the Wildman Plains: The Letters and Diaries of Tom Cole 1923-1943. Sydney: Pan Macmillan, 1992.———. Spears & Smoke Signals: Exciting True Tales by a Buffalo & Croc Shooter. Casuarina, NT: Adventure Pub., 1986.Cowan, Adam. Letter. “A Feeling of Disgust.” Canberra Times 12 Mar. 1971: 2.Crocodile Dundee. Dir. Peter Faiman. Paramount Pictures, 1986.Crump, Barry. Gulf. Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1964.Gay, Edward. “Adventure. Tally-ho after Cape York Crocodiles.” The World’s News (Sydney), 27 Feb. 1954: 15.Nolan, Cynthia. Outback. London: Methuen & Co, 1962.Northeast, Brian. Preface. Crocodile Safari Man: My Tasmanian Childhood in the Great Depression & 50 Years of Desert Safari to the Gulf of Carpentaria 1949-1999. By Keith Adams. Rockhampton: Central Queensland University Press, 2000. vi-viii.Northern Safari. Dir. Keith Adams. Keith Adams, 1956.Northern Safari. n.d. <http://northernsafari.com/>.Stewart, Allan. The Green Eyes Are Buffaloes. Melbourne: Lansdown, 1969.Stokes, John Lort. Discoveries in Australia: With an Account of the Coasts and Rivers Explored and Surveyed during the Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle in the Years 1837-38-39-40-41-42-43. By Command of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, Also a Narrative of Captain Owen Stanley's Visits to the Islands in the Arafura Sea. London: T. and W. Boone, 1846.Thompson, Linda. “’You Call That a Knife?’ The Crocodile as a Symbol of Australia”. New Voices, New Visions: Challenging Australian Identities and Legacies. Eds. Catriona Elder and Keith Moore. Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars, 2012: 118-134.Warburton, Carl. Buffaloes: Adventure and Discovery in Arnhem Land. Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd, 1934.Willey, Keith. Crocodile Hunt. Brisbane: Jacaranda Press, 1966.

/82/ IN The Name of God Amen I John Rastrick of Kings Lynn in the County of Norfolk Clerk being mindfull of my mortality and the uncertainty of this present Life and being Sommon'd by age and infirmities to bethink my Self of my Departure out of this world and having thro’ Gods mercy the free use of my reason and understanding Do make this my last Will and Testament, written all with my own hand in manner and form following first I Comitt my Soul into the hands of Jesus Christ my Glorified Redeemer and Intercessor and by his mediation into the hands of God my reconciled father with trust and hope of the heavenly felicity and my Body to be decently Interr'd without Unnecessary Expences at the Discretion of my Executrix in hopes of a glorious Resurrection to eternall Life thro’ the merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour and as Concerning that Earthly Estate wherewith God hath blessed me which I Shall leave behind me I dispose thereof as followeth Imprimis I doe hereby ratifye and confirm the Joynture that I have given to my dear wife Elizabeth by Indent bearing date the 29th day of May Anno Domini 1696 of my Estate in Heckington and Asgaby in the County of Lincoln willing that it goe according to the Tenor of the said Joynture and Settlement as also that Estate in Sutton St Marys and in Holland in Lincolnshire which Jane the quondam wife of James Horn Enjoyed as her Joynture by her said Husband and unto which my Son William Rastrick is heir at Law this (with the forementioned Estate at Heckington and Asgarby) I do hereby as far as I have power ratifye and confirm to the said my Son William as his Inheritance to be Enjoyed by him after the decease of his mother my present <dear> wife Elizabeth above mentioned Item I give and bequeath my now Dwelling house with the Gardens and appurtenances Situate lying and being in Spinner Lane in Kings Lynn in Norfolk aforesaid which I purchased of my good friend Mr John Williamson Deceased as also that Close or pasture conteining by Estimation four acres more or less lying in Kirkton near Boston in Lincolnshire near the gate called Forefen Stow which I bought of Gregory Mapleson late in the tenure of widow Lee of Brother Toft as also that three acres of pasture lying in Sutton St Marys in Holland in Lincolnshire aforesaid Given to my wife Elizabeth by her great uncle Mr John Horne /83/ of Lynn Regis in Norfolk aforesaid Unto my five Daughters Sarah Martha Hannah Ann and Deborah Willing and appointing that the said lands be sold and the money be Divided amongst them for their portions at the Discretion of their Mother my present dear wife Elizabeth aforesaid She having hereby bequeathed to her a power to Live in the said my mansion house in Spinner Lane in Lyn as long as She pleases and to retein or hold the other Lands in this paragraph bequeathed for her and her familys maintenance till her said Daughters Shall marry or be Some other honest way Disposed of by or with her their said Mothers liking and Consent and if any of them Dye before they be soe disposed of I will that the monys raised upon the said Lands be divided amongst the Survivors at her/their mothers Discretion Item my Will is that if my Son William Should Depart this Life having no family or heir of his own that then (after my wife Elizabeth's Decease) all my Estate and lands before mentioned or value of them when Sold (Excepting my four acres in Kirkton) shall be equally Divided amongst my Daughters aforesaid Share and Share like and if any of them die while Single her portion Shall be equally divided amongst her Surviving Sisters and my Will is that in case my Son William Should die without heir of his own Body that then the before Excepted four acres in Kirkton Shall be accounted no part of my Estate so Divided but it Shall be given and I hereby bequeath it in that case only to the Church of Kirkton in Holland aforesaid where I was Sometime Minister as an augmentation to the vicaridge there for Ever according to and by virtue of an act of parliament not Long Since made in such cases provided that is impowering and to make and so Setling such augmentactions and this Conditional provision I make partly in Consideration of a legacy once left me and given to me as minister there and partly also because my Daughters will in the said Case of their Brothers Death have Competent portions without the said pasture Item I give all my Books manuscripts mathematical Instruments Tellescopes Double Barometer and all other things whatsoever of that kind found in my study and parler adjoining Shelves Drawers Cases &c as also my picture done by Deconing To my Son William Rastrick provided and upon condition that he continue a minister and preacher of the Gospell whether in a Conforming or nonConforming Capacity But if he should not be a minister or Continue a preacher So that he shall have little occasion for them or Should depart this life in a Single State and leave no Son a Scholler to Enjoy them or capable of using them that my will is that if any pious learned Studious minister Conformist or non conformist Shall marry any of my Daughters he Shall have all my Books manuscripts &c before mentioned over and above what her portion as before provided or bequeathed Shall be But if that Should not be then my will is that yet my said Library shall not be auctioned out or Sold to any Booksellers but be disposed of to raise a publick Library for the use of the Dissenting Ministers in the City of Norwich leaving it to their liberty what (by Collection made) to give my Surviving Children for them or my Son William if he live and yet desist from preaching or the Dissenting ministers there for the time being may treat /84/ with the City and upon agreement for their own free use of it add my library to theirs selling the lesser of the Duplicates and with that mony buying Such Books as Shall yet be leanting to the whole and all to be managed at the Discretion of the said Dissenting ministers in Conjunction with an Equall number of the City Clergy whom they the Dissenting ministers shall chuse Item I give to my Son John Rastrick now or late in Carolina if he be yet living the Sum of five pounds of lawfull mony of England to be pay'd him within three months next after his return into England if he so return and also to his Children (if any such be prov'd to be) the Sum of twenty Shillings each to be paid them within the like terme after their arrival in England and if he or they Shall Settle and be diligent he in his Calling (which is that of a Stocking weaver) or they in any honest calling and Shall be of Sober life and Conversation then I hereby recommend to my Executrix to give him or them Such further Encouragement as She according to her ability and at her Discretion Shall think fitt Item I give unto my Son Samuel Rastrick at London Silk dyer the Sum of ten Shillings also to my Daughter Elizabeth the wife of Edmund Burton of Wisbich the Sum of five Shillings to be paid them within Six months after my Decease they having had their portions before Item I give to our maid Servant Susannah Hating (to be paid her within three months after my decease) the Sum of forty Shillings over and above her due wages Item all the rest of my goods and Chattles undisposed of I give and bequeath unto my said dear wife Elizabeth whom I do hereby constitute and appoint Sole Executrix of this my last Will and Testament to see my debts discharged and my legacys or childrens portions paid and my Body decently Interr'd at the least Expence posable and I do desire my good friend Mr Nathaniel Kinderley of Sechy Bridg to be Supervisor of this my last Will and Testament In witness whereof I have hereunto Set my hand and Seal the Twenty Sixth day of July in the year of our Lord one Thousand Seven Hundred twenty five John Rastrick Published and declared to be the last Will and Testament of John Rastrick the Testator and Signed and Sealed in the presence of us James Hackgill John Money Thomas Wilson

There are certain discourses operating in contemporary western culture that are granted tremendous power and authority to speak about those issues that cut across the racial, class, and gender boundaries of a culture. Life, death and politics are all central and legitimate categories for the discourses generated by media institutions. As we slide from the 'factual' realm (which the news media is taken to represent) into the fictional, the authority to speak of these categories steadily declines. Certain films and television dramas have this legitimacy, provided that they retain a certain verisimilitude that is seen as factual. A bit further down this scale are sitcoms. Sitcoms are often criticised when they attempt to shift the comedic tone into a moralising one -- or as in the case of Ally McBeal, attempts at covering serious topics are trivialised by media hype about the lead character’s skirt length. At the very bottom of this discursive scale come adventure stories -- fantasy and action films and television shows, frequently targeted and marketed to teenagers and young adults. Regardless of content, these texts are the focus of continual derision and contempt for the representational strategies that they employ to address the issues named above. Despite this contempt, these subordinate texts and discourses are paradoxically also granted a good deal of causative power. Moral outrage invariably turns to violent and fantastic media as a cause whenever horrific violence is committed in real life. The most clear and shocking example of course have been the recent high school shootings in Littleton, Colorado, and what follows is a brief case study of the discursive hierarchy in operation in North American media cultures. The news media, in covering the shootings, had what appeared to be utterly free and unquestioned access to investigate, examine, and even influence the situation as it happened. Reporters were on the scene, as usual, asking painfully obvious questions of the traumatised teachers and students. It was not until some time later that slightly bemused mutterings were heard from the police forces that, for instance, a local television station had somewhat overstepped its poorly defined boundaries when it broadcast the frantic telephone calls of a student trapped in the school while the killers were still at large. Following the factual reports, the desperate search for causation began. And the usual suspects were rounded up with considerable haste. The killers played Doom and other video games to improve their sharp-shooting abilities. The Gothic-industrial music of Marilyn Manson and KMFDM filled them with hatred for all humanity. Surfing the 'net had sapped their social skills. Wearing black trench coats had overheated their brains and made them want to be more like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. Or perhaps not. Interviews with survivors and evidence gathered by police seemed to suggest that the motivational triggers were to be found in the two killers' social environment. The boys' diaries revealed their rage at the alienation and bullying they suffered at the hands of the school's elite jock culture. And yet such findings are almost completely ignored in the discourses of gossip and current affairs analysis. It's as if space to interpret and interrogate the evidence isn't available in the discourses used to represent this event. In a move clearly inspired by the cascading moral panic, the Warner Brothers network in the US removed several episodes of their hit show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer from the schedules. The network made the claim that the episodes, depicting armed teenagers fighting demons on a high school campus, were pulled because of sensitivity to the grief of the bereaved families. I find it suggestive that, while the Buffy episodes were pulled outright, a police drama on the same network is merely being placed under greater executive scrutiny. It's obviously inadequate from a cultural studies perspective to locate the reasons for these events purely in the discourse of moral panic in the USA. It’s time, then, to take a closer look at the processes and conditions that structure the media hierarchy. Network news programmes employ a range of signification systems designed to embody certain values; authority, credibility and responsibility. These systems are frequently expressed in the production values of the programmes, and the businesslike, middle class (and middle-aged), appearance of the presenters. Any correspondence of these values with the actual production practices employed by the programmes is increasingly accidental in a market driven and structured by insatiable demands for entertainment over knowledge. This of course was clearly seen in the thirst for spectacle that accompanied the initial reports from the Columbine massacre. Popular drama shows that are based on a science fictional or fantasy premise, and are geared towards teenagers and young adults, typically have no access to those signifiers of high status. The concerns that they deal with are marginalised and representations of them in the wider media focus on their violent content and supposed ludicrousness of the situations depicted. And so a TV show which shows violence but is always careful to also depict the emotional consequences of violence, is trivialised and scapegoated because it employs a different discourse of realism than a news broadcast operating almost purely in the register of spectacle (self-important moralising aside). Clearly the triggers for violence, especially of the kind that prompted this media panic, are many and interact in complex ways. What is not clear is that the popular culture texts discussed are in any way prominent as triggers. The fact that they are represented as such in the news media and the discourses of common-sense indicates a tremendous anxiety at work. This anxiety seems to frequently congeal around fantasy texts. Images of the fantastic disrupts the hierarchy of realist discourses that order and regulate the media and must be continually subjected to disavowal and dismissal. Perhaps, then, real violence can only be seen in these terms as a pretext for this process. References Katz, Jon. "Voices from the Hellmouth." Slashdot.org. 25 Apr. 1999. 13 June 1999 <http://slashdot.org/articles/99/04/25/1438249.shtml>. Fiske, John. Television Culture. London: Routledge, 1987. Martin, Adrian. "In the Name of Popular Culture." Australian Cultural Studies: a Reader. Ed. John Frow and Meaghan Morris. Urbana: Illinois UP, 1993. 117-32. Stevenson, Nick. Understanding Media Cultures: Social Theory and Mass Communication. London: Sage, 1995. Stolberg, Sheryl Gay. "By the Numbers: Science Looks at Littleton, and Shrugs." The New York Times on the Web. 9 May 1999. 13 June 1999 <http://www.nytimes.com/library/review/050999colo-shooting-odds-review.php>. Taylor, Charles. "The WB's Big Daddy Condescension." Salon Magazine. 26 May 1999. 13 June 1999 <http://www.salon.com/>. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Nick Caldwell. "Seen But Not Heard: Pop Culture Scapegoats and the Media Discourse Hierarchy." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.4 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9906/seen.php>. Chicago style: Nick Caldwell, "Seen But Not Heard: Pop Culture Scapegoats and the Media Discourse Hierarchy," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 4 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9906/seen.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Nick Caldwell. (1999) Seen but not heard: pop culture scapegoats and the media discourse hierarchy. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(4). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9906/seen.php> ([your date of access]).

This article is about refugees’ and migrants’ dreams of home and family and stems from an Australian Research Council Linkage Grant, “A Hand Up: Disrupting the Communication of Intergenerational Welfare Dependency” (LP140100935), with Partner Organisation St Vincent de Paul Society (WA) Inc. (Vinnies). A Vinnies-supported refugee and migrant support centre was chosen as one of the hubs for interviewee recruitment, given that many refugee families experience persistent and chronic economic disadvantage. The de-identified name for the drop-in language-teaching and learning social facility is the Migrant and Refugee Homebase (MARH). At the time of the research, in 2018, refugee and forced migrant families from Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan constituted MARH’s primary membership base. MARH provided English language classes alongside other educational and financial support. It could also organise provision of emergency food and was a conduit for furniture donated by Australian families. Crucially, MARH operated as a space in which members could come together to build shared community.As part of her role, the researcher was introduced to Sara (de-identified), a mother-tongue Arabic speaker and the centre’s coordinator. Sara had personal experience of being a refugee, as well as being MARH’s manager, and she became both a point of contact for the researcher team, an interpreter/translator, and an empathetic listener as refugees shared their stories. Dreams of home and family emerged throughout the interviews as a vital part of participants’ everyday lives. These dreams and hopes were developed in the face of what was, for some, a nightmare of adversity. Underpinning participants’ sense of agency, subjectivity and resilience, Badiou argues (93, as noted in Jackson, 241) that hope can appear as a basic form of patience or perseverance rather than a dream for justice. Instead of imagining an improvement in personal circumstances, the dream is one of simply moving forward rather than backward. While dreams of being reunited with family are rooted in the past and project a vision of a family which no longer exists, these dreams help fashion a future which once again contains a range of possibilities.Although Sara volunteered her time on the research project as part of her commitment to Vinnies, she was well-known to interviewees as a MARH staff member and, in many cases, a friend and confidante. While Sara’s manager role implies an imbalance of power, with Sara powerful and participants comparatively less so, the majority of the information explored in the interviews pertained to refugees’ experiences of life outside the sphere in which MARH is engaged, so there was limited risk of the data being sanitised to reflect positively upon MARH. The specialist information and understandings that the interviewees shared positions them as experts, and as co-creators of knowledge.Recruitment and Methodological ApproachThe project researcher (Jaunzems) met potential contributors at MARH when its members gathered for a coffee morning. With Sara’s assistance, the researcher invited MARH members to take part in the research project, giving those present the opportunity to ask and have answered any questions they deemed important. Coffee morning attendees were under no obligation to take part, and about half chose not to do so, while the remainder volunteered to participate. Sara scheduled the interviews at times to suit the families participating. A parent and child from each volunteer family was interviewed, separately. In all cases it was the mother who volunteered to take part, and all interviewees chose to be interviewed in their homes. Each set of interviews was digitally recorded and lasted no longer than 90 minutes. This article includes extracts from interviews with three mothers from refugee families who escaped war-torn homelands for a new life in Australia, sometimes via interim refugee camps.The project researcher conducted the in-depth interviews with Sara’s crucial interpreting/translating assistance. The interviews followed a traditional approach, except that the researcher deferred to Sara as being more important in the interview exchange than she was. This reflects the premise that meaning is socially constructed, and that what people do and say makes visible the meanings that underpin their actions and statements within a wider social context (Burr). Conceptualising knowledge as socially constructed privileges the role of the decoder in receiving, understanding and communicating such knowledge (Crotty). Respecting the role of the interpreter/translator signified to the participants that their views, opinions and their overall cultural context were valued.Once complete, the interviews were sent for translation and transcription by a trusted bi-lingual transcriber, where both the English and Arabic exchanges were transcribed. This was deemed essential by the researchers, to ensure both the authenticity of the data collected and to demonstrate “trust, understanding, respect, and a caring connection” (Valibhoy, Kaplan, and Szwarc, 23) with the participants. Upon completion of the interviews with volunteer members of the MARH community, and at the beginning of the analysis phase, researchers recognised the need for the adoption of an interpretive framework. The interpretive approach seeks to understand an individual’s view of the world through the contexts of time, place and culture. The knowledge produced is contextualised and differs from one person to another as a result of individual subjectivities such as age, race and ethnicity, even within a shared social context (Guba and Lincoln). Accordingly, a mother-tongue Arabic speaker, who identifies as a refugee (Al-Hameed), was added to the project. All authors were involved in writing up the article while authors two, three and four took responsibility for transcript coding and analysis. In the transcripts that follow, words originally spoken in Arabic are in intalics, with non-italcised words originally spoken in English.Discrimination and BelongingAya initially fled from her home in Syria into neighbouring Jordan. She didn’t feel welcomed or supported there.[00:55:06] Aya: …in Jordan, refugees didn’t have rights, and the Jordanian schools refused to teach them [the children…] We were put aside.[00:55:49] Interpreter, Sara (to Researcher): And then she said they push us aside like you’re a zero on the left, yeah this is unfortunately the reality of our countries, I want to cry now.[00:56:10] Aya: You’re not allowed to cry because we’ll all cry.Some refugees and migrant communities suffer discrimination based on their ethnicity and perceived legitimacy as members of the host society. Although Australian refugees may have had searing experiences prior to their acceptance by Australia, migrant community members in Australia can also feel themselves “constructed in the public and political spheres as less legitimately Australian than others” (Green and Aly). Jackson argues that both refugees and migrants experiencethe impossibility of ever bridging the gap between one’s natal ties to the place one left because life was insupportable there, and the demands of the nation to which one has travelled, legally or illegally, in search of a better life. And this tension between belonging and not belonging, between a place where one has rights and a place where one does not, implies an unresolved relationship between one’s natural identity as a human being and one’s social identity as ‘undocumented migrant,’ a ‘resident alien,’ an ‘ethnic minority,’ or ‘the wretched of the earth,’ whose plight remains a stigma of radical alterity even though it inspires our compassion and moves us to political action. (223)The tension Jackson refers to, where the migrant is haunted by belonging and not belonging, is an area of much research focus. Moreover, the label of “asylum seeker” can contribute to systemic “exclusion of a marginalised and abject group of people, precisely by employing a term that emphasises the suspended recognition of a community” (Nyers). Unsurprisingly, many refugees in Australia long for the connectedness of the lives they left behind relocated in the safe spaces where they live now.Eades focuses on an emic approach to understanding refugee/migrant distress, or trauma, which seeks to incorporate the worldview of the people in distress: essentially replicating the interpretive perspective taken in the research. This emic framing is adopted in place of the etic approach that seeks to understand the distress through a Western biomedical lens that is positioned outside the social/cultural system in which the distress is taking place. Eades argues: “developing an emic approach is to engage in intercultural dialogue, raise dilemmas, test assumptions, document hopes and beliefs and explore their implications”. Furthermore, Eades sees the challenge for service providers working with refugee/migrants in distress as being able to move beyond “harm minimisation” models of care “to recognition of a facilitative, productive community of people who are in a transitional phase between homelands”. This opens the door for studies concerning the notions of attachment to place and its links to resilience and a refugee’s ability to “settle in” (for example, Myers’s ground-breaking place-making work in Plymouth).Resilient PrecariousnessChaima: We feel […] good here, we’re safe, but when we sit together, we remember what we went through how my kids screamed when the bombs came, and we went out in the car. My son was 12 and I was pregnant, every time I remember it, I go back.Alongside the dreams that migrants have possible futures are the nightmares that threaten to destabilise their daily lives. As per the work of Xavier and Rosaldo, post-migration social life is recreated in two ways: the first through participation and presence in localised events; the second by developing relationships with absent others (family and friends) across the globe through media. These relationships, both distanced and at a distance, are dispersed through time and space. In light of this, Campays and Said suggest that places of past experiences and rituals for meaning are commonly recreated or reproduced as new places of attachment abroad; similarly, other recollections and experience can trigger a sense of fragility when “we remember what we went through”. Gupta and Ferguson suggest that resilience is defined by the migrant/refugee capacity to “reimagine and re-materialise” their lost heritage in their new home. This involves a sense of connection to the good things in the past, while leaving the bad things behind.Resilience has also been linked to the migrant’s/refugee’s capacity “to manage their responses to adverse circumstances in an interpersonal community through the networks of relationships” (Eades). Resilience in this case is seen through an intersubjective lens. Joseph reminds us that there is danger in romanticising community. Local communities may not only be hostile toward different national and ethnic groups, they may actively display a level of hostility toward them (Boswell). However, Gill maintains that “the reciprocal relations found in communities are crucially important to their [migrant/refugee] well-being”. This is because inclusion in a given community allows migrants/refugees to shrug off the outsider label, and the feeling of being at risk, and provides the opportunity for them to become known as families and friends. One of MAHR’s central aims was to help bridge the cultural divide between MARH users and the broader Australian community.Hope[01:06: 10] Sara (to interviewee, Aya): What’s the key to your success here in Australia?[01:06:12] Aya: The people, and how they treat us.[01:06:15] Sara (to Researcher): People and how they deal with us.[01:06:21] Aya: It’s the best thing when you look around, and see people who don’t understand your language but they help you.[01:06:28] Sara (to Researcher): She said – this is nice. I want to cry also. She said the best thing when I see people, they don’t understand your language, and I don’t understand theirs but they still smile in your face.[01:06:43] Aya: It’s the best.[01:06:45] Sara (to Aya): yes, yes, people here are angels. This is the best thing about Australia.Here, Sara is possibly shown to be taking liberties with the translation offered to the researcher, talking about how Australians “smile in your face”, when (according to the translator) Aya talked about how Australians “help”. Even so, the capacity for social connection and other aspects of sociality have been linked to a person’s ability to turn a negative experience into a positive cultural resource (Wilson). Resilience is understood in these cases as a strength-based practice where families, communities and individuals are viewed in terms of their capabilities and possibilities, instead of their deficiencies or disorders (Graybeal and Saleeby in Eades). According to Fozdar and Torezani, there is an “apparent paradox between high-levels of discrimination experienced by humanitarian migrants to Australia in the labour market and everyday life” (30) on the one hand, and their reporting of positive well-being on the other. That disparity includes accounts such as the one offered by Aya.As Wilson and Arvanitakis suggest,the interaction between negative experiences of discrimination and reports of wellbeing suggested a counter-intuitive propensity among refugees to adapt to and make sense of their migration experiences in unique, resourceful and life-affirming ways. Such response patterns among refugees and trauma survivors indicate a similar resilience-related capacity to positively interpret and derive meaning from negative migration experiences and associated emotions. … However, resilience is not expressed or employed uniformly among individuals or communities. Some respond in a resilient manner, while others collapse. On this point, an argument could be made that collapse and breakdown is a built-in aspect of resilience, and necessary for renewal and ongoing growth.Using this approach, Wilson and Arvanitakis have linked resilience to hope, as a “present- and future-oriented mode of situated defence against adversity”. They argue that the term “hope” is often utilised in a tokenistic way “as a strategic instrument in increasingly empty domestic and international political vocabularies”. Nonetheless, Wilson and Arvanitakis believe hope to be of vital academic interest due to the prevalence of war and suffering throughout the world. In the research reported here, the authors found that participants’ hopes were interwoven with dreams of being reunited with their families in a place of safety. This is a common longing. As Jackson states,so it is that migrants travel abroad in pursuit of utopia, but having found that place, which is also no-place (ou-topos), they are haunted by the thought that utopia actually lies in the past. It is the family they left behind. That is where they properly belong. Though the family broke up long ago and is now scattered to the four winds, they imagine a reunion in which they are together again. (223)There is a sense here that with their hopes and dreams lying in the past, refugees/migrants are living forward while looking backwards (a Kierkegaardian concept). If hope is thought to be key to resilience (Wilson and Arvanitakis), and key to an individual’s ability to live with a sense of well-being, then perhaps a refugee’s past relations (familial) impact both their present relations (social/community), and their ability to transform negative experiences into positive experiences. And yet, there is no readily accessible way in which migrants and refugees can recreate the connections that sustained them in the past. As Jackson suggests,the irreversibility of time is intimately connected with the irreversibility of one’s place of origin, and this entwined movement through time and across space proves perplexing to many migrants, who, in imagining themselves one day returning to the place from where they started out, forget that there is no transport which will convey them back into the past. … Often it is only by going home that is becomes starkly and disconcertingly clear that one’s natal village is no longer the same and that one has also changed. (221)The dream of home and family, therefore and the hope that this might somehow be recreated in the safety of the here and now, becomes a paradoxical loss and longing even as it is a constant companion for many on their refugee journey.Esma’s DreamAccording to author three, personal dreams are not generally discussed in Arab culture, even though dreams themselves may form part of the rich tradition of Arabic folklore and storytelling. Alongside issues of mental wellbeing, dreams are constructed as something private, and it generally breaks social taboos to describe them publicly. However, in personal discussions with other refugee women and men, and echoing Jackson’s finding, a recurring dream is “to meet my family in a safe place and not be worried about my safety or theirs”. As a refugee, the third author shares this dream. This is also the perspective articulated by Esma, who had recently had a fifth child and was very much missing her extended family who had died, been scattered as refugees, or were still living in a conflict zone. The researcher asked Sara to ask Esma about the best aspect of her current life:[01:17:03] Esma: The thing that comforts me here is nature, it’s beautiful.[01:17:15] Sara (to the Researcher): The nature.[01:17:16] Esma: And feeling safe.[01:17:19] Sara (to the Researcher): The safety. ...[01:17:45] Esma: Life’s beautiful here.[01:17:47] Sara (to the Researcher): Life is beautiful here.[01:17:49] Esma: But I want to know people, speak the language, have friends, life is beautiful here even if I don’t have my family here.[01:17:56] Sara (to the Researcher): Life is so pretty you only need to improve the language and have friends, she said I love my life here even though I don’t have any family or community here. (To Esma:) I am your family.[01:18:12] Esma: Bring me my siblings here.[01:18:14] Sara (to Esma): I just want my brothers here and my sisters.[01:18:17] Esma: It’s a dream.[01:18:18] Sara (to Esma): it’s a dream, one day it will become true.Here Esma uses the term dream metaphorically, to describe an imagined utopia: a dream world. In supporting Esma, who is mourning the absence of her family, Sara finds herself reacting and emoting around their shared experience of leaving siblings behind. In doing so, she affirms the younger woman, but also offers a hope for the future. Esma had previously made a suggestion, absorbed into her larger dream, but more achievable in the short term, “to know people, speak the language, have friends”. The implication here is that Esma is keen to find a way to connect with Australians. She sees this as a means of compensating for the loss of family, a realistic hope rather than an impossible dream.ConclusionInterviews with refugee families in a Perth-based migrant support centre reveals both the nightmare pasts and the dreamed-of futures of people whose lives have experienced a radical disruption due to war, conflict and other life-threatening events. Jackson’s work with migrants provides a context for understanding the power of the dream in helping to resolve issues around the irreversibility of time and circumstance, while Wilson and Arvanitakis point to the importance of hope and resilience in supporting the building of a positive future. Within this mix of the longed for and the impossible, both the refugee informants and the academic literature suggest that participation in local events, and authentic engagement with the broader community, help make a difference in supporting a migrant’s transition from dreaming to reality.AcknowledgmentsThis article arises from an ARC Linkage Project, ‘A Hand Up: Disrupting the Communication of Intergenerational Welfare Dependency’ (LP140100935), supported by the Australian Research Council, Partner Organisation St Vincent de Paul Society (WA) Inc., and Edith Cowan University. The authors are grateful to the anonymous staff and member of Vinnies’ Migrant and Refugee Homebase for their trust in and support of this project, and for their contributions to it.ReferencesBadiou, Alan. Saint Paul: The Foundation of Universalism. Trans. Ray Brassier. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 2003.Boswell, Christina. “Burden-Sharing in the European Union: Lessons from the German and UK Experience.” Journal of Refugee Studies 16.3 (2003): 316–35.Burr, Vivien. Social Constructionism. 2nd ed. Hove, UK & New York, NY: Routledge, 2003.Campays, Philippe, and Vioula Said. “Re-Imagine.” M/C Journal 20.4 (2017). Aug. 2017 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/1250>.Crotty, Michael. The Foundations of Social Research: Meaning and Perspective in the Research Process. St Leonards: Allen & Unwin, 1998.Eades, David. “Resilience and Refugees: From Individualised Trauma to Post Traumatic Growth.” M/C Journal 16.5 (2013). Aug. 2013 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/700>.Fozdar, Farida, and Silvia Torezani. “Discrimination and Well-Being: Perceptions of Refugees in Western Australia.” The International Migration Review 42.1 (2008): 1–34.Gill, Nicholas. “Longing for Stillness: The Forced Movement of Asylum Seekers.” M/C Journal 12.1 (2009). Mar. 2009 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/123>.Graybeal, Clay. “Strengths-Based Social Work Assessment: Transforming the Dominant Paradigm.” Families in Society 82.3 (2001): 233–42.Green, Lelia, and Anne Aly. “Bastard Immigrants: Asylum Seekers Who Arrive by Boat and the Illegitimate Fear of the Other.” M/C Journal 17.5 (2014). Oct. 2014 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/896>.Guba, Egon G., and Yvonna S. Lincoln. "Competing Paradigms in Qualitative Research." Handbook of Qualitative Research 2 (1994): 163-194.Gupta, Akhil, and James Ferguson. “Beyond ‘Culture’: Space, Identity, and the Politics of Difference.” Religion and Social Justice for Immigrants. Ed. Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo. New Jersey: Rutgers UP, 2006. 72-79.Jackson, Michael. The Wherewithal of Life: Ethics, Migration, and the Question of Well-Being. California: U of California P, 2013.Joseph, Miranda. Against the Romance of Community. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2002.Myers, Misha. “Situations for Living: Performing Emplacement." Research in Drama Education 13.2 (2008): 171-180. DOI: 10.1080/13569780802054828.Nyers, Peter. “Abject Cosmopolitanism: The Politics of Protection in the Anti-Deportation Movement.” Third World Quarterly 24.6 (2003): 1069–93.Saleeby, Dennis. “The Strengths Perspective in Social Work Practice: Extensions and Cautions.” Social Work 41.3 (1996): 296–305.Valibhoy, Madeleine C., Ida Kaplan, and Josef Szwarc. “‘It Comes Down to Just How Human Someone Can Be’: A Qualitative Study with Young People from Refugee Backgrounds about Their Experiences of Australian Mental Health Services.” Transcultural Psychiatry 54.1 (2017): 23-45.Wilson, Michael. Accumulating Resilience: An Investigation of the Migration and Resettlement Experiences of Young Sudanese People in the Western Sydney Area. Sydney: University of Western Sydney, 2012.Wilson, Michael John, and James Arvanitakis. “The Resilience Complex.” M/C Journal 16.5 (2013). <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/741>.Xavier, Johnathon, and Renato Rosaldo. “Thinking the Global.” The Anthropology of Globalisation. Eds. Johnathon Xavier and Renato Rosaldo. New Jersey: Wiley-Blackwell Publishers, 2002.

Literary critics have mainly read Herman Melville’s short story “I and My Chimney” (1856) as allegory. This article elaborates on the tradition of interpreting Melville’s text allegorically by relating it to Fredric Jameson’s post-structural reinterpretation of allegory. In doing so, it argues that the story is not a simple example of allegory but rather an auto-reflexive engagement with allegory that reflects the cultural and historical ambivalences of the time in which Melville was writing. The suggestion is that Melville deliberately used signifiers (or the lack thereof) of directionality and place to reframe the overt context of his allegory (Civil War divisions of North and South) through teasing reference to the contemporaneous emergence of Manifest Destiny as an East-West historical spatialization. To this extent, from a literary-historical perspective, Melville’s text presents as an enquiry into the relationship between the obvious allegorical elements of a text and the literal or material elements that may either support or, as in this case, problematize traditional allegorical modes. In some ways, Melville’s story faintly anticipates Jameson’s post-structural theory of allegory as produced over a century later. “I and My Chimney” may also be linked to later texts, such as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, which shift the directionality of American Literary History, in a definite way, from a North-South to an East-West axis. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books may also be mentioned here. While, in recent years, some literary critics have produced readings of Melville’s story that depart from the traditional emphasis on its allegorical nature, this article claims to be the first to engage with “I and My Chimney” from within an allegorical perspective also informed by post-structural thinking. To do this, it focuses on the setting or directionality of the story, and on the orientating details of the titular chimney.Written and published shortly before the outbreak of the American Civil War (1861-1865), which pitted North against South, Melville’s story is told in the first person by a narrator with overweening affection for the chimney he sees as an image of himself: “I and my chimney, two gray-headed old smokers, reside in the country. We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney, which settles more and more every day” (327). Within the merged identity of narrator and chimney, however, the latter takes precedence, almost completely, over the former: “though I always say, I and my chimney, as Cardinal Wolsey used to say, I and my King, yet this egotistic way of speaking, wherein I take precedence of my chimney, is hardly borne out by the facts; in everything, except the above phrase, my chimney taking precedence of me” (327). Immediately, this sentence underscores a disjunction between words (“the above phrase”) and material circumstances (“the facts”) that will become crucial in my later consideration of Melville’s story as post-structural allegory.Detailed architectural and architectonic descriptions manifesting the chimney as “the one great domineering object” of the narrator’s house characterize the opening pages of the story (328). Intermingled with these descriptions, the narrator recounts the various interpersonal and business-related stratagems he has been forced to adopt in order to protect his chimney from the “Northern influences” that would threaten it. Numbered in this company are his mortgagee, the narrator’s own wife and daughters, and Mr. Hiram Scribe—“a rough sort of architect” (341). The key subplot implicated with the narrator’s fears for his chimney concerns its provenance. The narrator’s “late kinsman, Captain Julian Dacres” built the house, along with its stupendous chimney, and upon his death a rumour developed concerning supposed “concealed treasure” in the chimney (346). Once the architect Scribe insinuates, in correspondence to the chimney’s alter ego (the narrator), “that there is architectural cause to conjecture that somewhere concealed in your chimney is a reserved space, hermetically closed, in short, a secret chamber, or rather closet” the narrator’s wife and daughter use Scribe’s suggestion of a possible connection to Dacres’s alleged hidden treasure to reiterate their calls for the chimney’s destruction (345):Although they had never before dreamed of such a revelation as Mr. Scribe’s, yet upon the first suggestion they instinctively saw the extreme likelihood of it. In corroboration, they cited first my kinsman, and second, my chimney; alleging that the profound mystery involving the former, and the equally profound masonry involving the latter, though both acknowledged facts, were alike preposterous on any other supposition than the secret closet. (347)To protect his chimney, the narrator bribes Mr. Scribe, inviting him to produce a “‘little certificate—something, say, like a steam-boat certificate, certifying that you, a competent surveyor, have surveyed my chimney, and found no reason to believe any unsoundness; in short, any—any secret closet in it’” (351). Having enticed Scribe to scribe words against himself, the narrator concludes his tale triumphantly: “I am simply standing guard over my mossy old chimney; for it is resolved between me and my chimney, that I and my chimney will never surrender” (354).Despite its inherent interest, literary critics have largely overlooked “I and My Chimney”. Katja Kanzler observes that “together with much of [Melville’s] other short fiction, and his uncollected magazine pieces in particular, it has never really come out of the shadow of the more epic texts long considered his masterpieces” (583). To the extent that critics have engaged the story, they have mainly read it as traditional allegory (Chatfield; Emery; Sealts; Sowder). Further, the allegorical trend in the reception of Melville’s text clusters within the period from the early 1940s to the early 1980s. More recently, other critics have explored new ways of reading Melville’s story, but none, to my knowledge, have re-investigated its dominant allegorical mode of reception in the light of the post-structural engagements with allegory captured succinctly in Fredric Jameson’s work (Allison; Kanzler; Wilson). This article acknowledges the perspicacity of the mid-twentieth-century tradition of the allegorical interpretation of Melville’s story, while nuancing its insights through greater attention to the spatialized materiality of the text, its “geomorphic” nature, and its broader historical contexts.E. Hale Chatfield argues that “I and My Chimney” evidences one broad allegorical polarity of “Aristocratic Tradition vs. Innovation and Destruction” (164). This umbrella category is parsed by Sealts as an individualized allegory of besieged patriarchal identity and by Sowder as a national-level allegory of anxieties linked to the antebellum North-South relationship. Chatfield’s opposition works equally well for an individual or for communities of individuals. Thus, in this view, even as it structures our reception of Melville’s story, allegory remains unproblematized in itself through its internal interlocking. In turn, “I and My Chimney” provides fertile soil for critics to harvest an allegorical crop. Its very title inveigles the reader towards an allegorical attitude: the upstanding “I” of the title is associated with the architecture of the chimney, itself also upstanding. What is of the chimney is also, allegorically, of the “I”, and the vertical chimney, like the letter “I”, argues, as it were, a north-south axis, being “swung vertical to hit the meridian moon,” as Melville writes on his story’s first page (327). The narrator, or “I”, is as north-south as is his narrated allegory.Herman Melville was a Northern resident with Southern predilections, at least to the extent that he co-opted “Southern-ness” to, in Katja Kanzler’s words, “articulate the anxiety of mid-nineteenth-century cultural elites about what they perceive as a cultural decline” (583). As Chatfield notes, the South stood for “Aristocratic Tradition”; the North, for “Innovation and Destruction” (164). Reflecting the conventional mid-twentieth-century view that “I and My Chimney” is a guileless allegory of North-South relations, William J. Sowder argues that itreveals allegorically an accurate history of Southern slavery from the latter part of the eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth—that critical period when the South spent most of its time and energy apologizing for the existence of slavery. It discloses the split which Northern liberals so ably effected between liberal and conservative forces in the South, and it lays bare the intransigence of the traditional South on the Negro question. Above everything, the story reveals that the South had little in common with the rest of the Union: the War between the States was inevitable. (129-30)Sowder goes into painstaking detail prosecuting his North-South allegorical reading of Melville’s text, to the extent of finding multiple correspondences between what is allegorizing and what is being allegorized within a single sentence. One example, with Sowder’s allegorical interpolations in square brackets, comes from a passage where Melville is writing about his narrator’s replaced “gable roof” (Melville 331): “‘it was replaced with a modern roof [the cotton gin], more fit for a railway woodhouse [an industrial society] than an old country gentleman’s abode’” (Sowder 137).Sowder’s argument is historically erudite, and utterly convincing overall, except in one crucial detail. That is, for a text supposedly so much about the South, and written so much from its perspective—Sowder labels the narrator a “bitter Old Southerner”—it is remarkable how the story is only very ambiguously set in the South (145). Sowder distances himself from an earlier generation of commentators who “generally assumed that the old man is Melville and that the country is the foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires, where Melville lived from 1850 to 1863,” concluding, “in fact, I find it hard to picture the narrator as a Northerner at all: the country which he describes sounds too much like the Land of Cotton” (130).Quite obviously, the narrator of any literary text does not necessarily represent its author, and in the case of “I and My Chimney”, if the narrator is not inevitably coincident with the author, then it follows that the setting of the story is not necessarily coincident with “the foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires.” That said, the position of critics prior to Sowder that the setting is Massachusetts, and by extension that the narrator is Melville (a Southern sympathizer displaced to the North), hints at an oversight in the traditional allegorical reading of Melville’s text—related to its spatializations—the implications of which Sowder misses.Think about it: “too much like the Land of Cotton” is an exceedingly odd phrase; “too much like” the South, but not conclusively like the South (Sowder 130)! A key characteristic of Melville’s story is the ambiguity of its setting and, by extension, of its directionality. For the text to operate (following Chatfield, Emery, Sealts and Sowder) as a straightforward allegory of the American North-South relationship, the terms “north” and “south” cannot afford to be problematized. Even so, whereas so much in the story reads as related to either the South or the North, as cultural locations, the notions of “south-ness” and “north-ness” themselves are made friable (in this article, the lower case broadly indicates the material domain, the upper case, the cultural). At its most fundamental allegorical level, the story undoes its own allegorical expressions; as I will be arguing, the materiality of its directionality deconstructs what everything else in the text strives (allegorically) to maintain.Remarkably, for a text purporting to allegorize the North as the South’s polar opposite, nowhere does the story definitively indicate where it is set. The absence of place names or other textual features which might place “I and My Chimney” in the South, is over-compensated for by an abundance of geographically distracting signifiers of “place-ness” that negatively emphasize the circumstance that the story is not set definitively where it is set suggestively. The narrator muses at one point that “in fact, I’ve often thought that the proper place for my old chimney is ivied old England” (332). Elsewhere, further destabilizing the geographical coordinates of the text, reference is made to “the garden of Versailles” (329). Again, the architect Hiram Scribe’s house is named New Petra. Rich as it is with cultural resonances, at base, Petra denominates a city in Jordan; New Petra, by contrast, is place-less.It would appear that something strange is going on with allegory in this deceptively straightforward allegory, and that this strangeness is linked to equally strange goings on with the geographical and directional relations of north and south, as sites of the historical and cultural American North and South that the story allegorizes so assiduously. As tensions between North and South would shortly lead to the Civil War, Melville writes an allegorical text clearly about these tensions, while simultaneously deconstructing the allegorical index of geographical north to cultural North and of geographical south to cultural South.Fredric Jameson’s work on allegory scaffolds the historically and materially nuanced reading I am proposing of “I and My Chimney”. Jameson writes:Our traditional conception of allegory—based, for instance, on stereotypes of Bunyan—is that of an elaborate set of figures and personifications to be read against some one-to-one table of equivalences: this is, so to speak, a one-dimensional view of this signifying process, which might only be set in motion and complexified were we willing to entertain the more alarming notion that such equivalences are themselves in constant change and transformation at each perpetual present of the text. (73)As American history undergoes transformation, Melville foreshadows Jameson’s transformation of allegory through his (Melville’s) own transformations of directionality and place. In a story about North and South, are we in the south or the north? Allegorical “equivalences are themselves in constant change and transformation at each perpetual present of the text” (Jameson 73). North-north equivalences falter; South-south equivalences falter.As noted above, the chimney of Melville’s story—“swung vertical to hit the meridian moon”—insists upon a north-south axis, much as, in an allegorical mode, the vertical “I” of the narrator structures a polarity of north and south (327). However, a closer reading shows that the chimney is no less complicit in the confusion of north and south than the environs of the house it occupies:In those houses which are strictly double houses—that is, where the hall is in the middle—the fire-places usually are on opposite sides; so that while one member of the household is warming himself at a fire built into a recess of the north wall, say another member, the former’s own brother, perhaps, may be holding his feet to the blaze before a hearth in the south wall—the two thus fairly sitting back to back. Is this well? (328)Here, Melville is directly allegorizing the “sulky” state of the American nation; the brothers are, as it were, North and South (328). However, just as the text’s signifiers of place problematize the notions of north and south (and thus the associated cultural resonances of capitalized North and South), this passage, in queering the axes of the chimneys, further upsets the primary allegory. The same chimney that structures Melville’s text along a north-south or up-down orientation, now defers to an east-west axis, for the back-to-back and (in cultural and allegorical terms) North-South brothers, sit at a 90-degree angle to their house’s chimneys, which thus logically manifest a cross-wise orientation of east-west (in cultural and allegorical terms, East-West). To this extent, there is something of an exquisite crossover and confusion of cultural North and South, as represented by the two brothers, and geographical/architectural/architectonic north and south (now vacillating between an east-west and a north-south orientation). The North-South cultural relationship of the brothers distorts the allegorical force of the narrator’s spine-like chimney (not to mention of the brother’s respective chimneys), thus enflaming Jameson’s allegorical equivalences. The promiscuous literality of the smokestack—Katja Kanzler notes the “astonishing materiality” of the chimney—subverts its main allegorical function; directionality both supports and disrupts allegory (591). Simply put, there is a disjunction between words and material circumstances; the “way of speaking… is hardly borne out by the facts” (Melville 327).The not unjustified critical focus on “I and My Chimney” as an allegory of North-South cultural (and shortly wartime) tensions, has not kept up with post-structural developments in allegorical theory as represented in Fredric Jameson’s work. In part, I suggest, this is because critics to date have missed the importance to Melville’s allegory of its extra-textual context. According to William J. Sowder, “Melville showed a lively interest in such contemporary social events as the gold rush, the French Revolution of 1848, and the activities of the English Chartists” (129). The pity is that readings of “I and My Chimney” have limited this “lively interest” to the Civil War. Melville’s attentiveness to “contemporary social events” should also encompass, I suggest, the East-West (east-west) dynamic of mid-nineteenth century American history, as much as the North-South (north-south) dynamic.The redialing of Melville’s allegory along another directional axis is thus accounted for. When “I and My Chimney” was published in 1856, there was, of course, at least one other major historical development in play besides the prospect of the Civil War, and the doctrine of Manifest Destiny ran, not to put it too finely, along an East-West (east-west) axis. Indeed, Manifest Destiny is at least as replete with a directional emphasis as the discourse of Civil War North-South opposition. As quoted in Frederick Merk’s Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History, Senator Daniel S. Dickinson states to the Senate, in 1848, “but the tide of emigration and the course of empire have since been westward” (Merk 29). Allied to this tradition, of course, is the well-known contemporaneous saying, “go West, young man, go West” (“Go West, Young Man”).To the extent that Melville’s text appears to anticipate Jameson’s post-structural theory of allegory, it may be linked, I suggest, to Melville’s sense of being at an intersection of American history. The meta-narrative of national history when “I and My Chimney” was produced had a spatial dimension to it: north-south directionality (culturally, North-South) was giving way to east-west directionality (culturally, East-West). Civil War would soon give way to Manifest Destiny; just as Melville’s texts themselves would, much later admittedly, give way to texts of Manifest Destiny in all its forms, including Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series. Equivalently, as much as the narrator’s wife represents Northern “progress” she might also be taken to signify Western “ambition”.However, it is not only that “I and My Chimney” is a switching-point text of geo-history (mediating relations, most obviously, between the tendencies of Southern Exceptionalism and of Western National Ambition) but that it operates as a potentially generalizable test case of the limits of allegory by setting up an all-too-simple allegory of North-South/north-south relations which is subsequently subtly problematized along the lines of East-West/east-west directionality. As I have argued, Melville’s “experimental allegory” continually diverts words (that is, the symbols allegory relies upon) through the turbulence of material circumstances.North, or north, is simultaneously a cultural and a geographical or directional coordinate of Melville’s text, and the chimney of “I and My Chimney” is both a signifier of the difference between N/north and S/south and also a portal to a 360-degrees all-encompassing engagement of (allegorical) writing with history in all its (spatialized) manifestations.ReferencesAllison, J. “Conservative Architecture: Hawthorne in Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” South Central Review 13.1 (1996): 17-25.Chatfield, E.H. “Levels of Meaning in Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Imago 19.2 (1962): 163-69.Emery, A.M. “The Political Significance of Melville’s Chimney.” The New England Quarterly 55.2 (1982): 201-28.“Go West, Young Man.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia 29 Sep. 2017. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_West,_young_man>.Jameson, F. “Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism.” Social Text 15 (1986): 65-88.Kanzler, K. “Architecture, Writing, and Vulnerable Signification in Herman Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Studies 54.4 (2009): 583-601.Kerouac, J. On the Road. London: Penguin Books, 1972.Melville, H. “I and My Chimney.” Great Short Works of Herman Melville. New York: Perennial-HarperCollins, 2004: 327-54.Merk, F. Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History: A Reinterpretation. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963.Sealts, M.M. “Herman Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Literature 13 (May 1941): 142-54.Sowder, W.J. “Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney:’ A Southern Exposure.” Mississippi Quarterly 16.3 (1963): 128-45.Wilder, L.I. Little House on the Prairie Series.Wilson, S. “Melville and the Architecture of Antebellum Masculinity.” American Literature 76.1 (2004): 59-87.

augmentvb [ɔːgˈmɛnt]1. to make or become greater in number, amount, strength, etc.; increase2. Music: to increase (a major or perfect interval) by a semitone (Collins English Dictionary 107) Almost everything associated with Robert Johnson has been subject to some form of augmentation. His talent as a musician and songwriter has been embroidered by myth-making. Johnson’s few remaining artefacts—his photographic images, his grave site, other physical records of his existence—have attained the status of reliquary. Even the integrity of his forty-two surviving recordings is now challenged by audiophiles who posit they were musically and sonically augmented by speeding up—increasing the tempo and pitch. This article documents the promulgation of myth in the life and music of Robert Johnson. His disputed photographic images are cited as archetypal contested artefacts, augmented both by false claims and genuine new discoveries—some of which suggest Johnson’s cultural magnetism is so compelling that even items only tenuously connected to his work draw significant attention. Current challenges to the musical integrity of Johnson’s original recordings, that they were “augmented” in order to raise the tempo, are presented as exemplars of our on-going fascination with his life and work. Part literature review, part investigative history, it uses the phenomenon of augmentation as a prism to shed new light on this enigmatic figure. Johnson’s obscurity during his lifetime, and for twenty-three years after his demise in 1938, offered little indication of his future status as a musical legend: “As far as the evolution of black music goes, Robert Johnson was an extremely minor figure, and very little that happened in the decades following his death would have been affected if he had never played a note” (Wald, Escaping xv). Such anonymity allowed those who first wrote about his music to embrace and propagate the myths that grew around this troubled character and his apparently “supernatural” genius. Johnson’s first press notice, from a pseudonymous John Hammond writing in The New Masses in 1937, spoke of a mysterious character from “deepest Mississippi” who “makes Leadbelly sound like an accomplished poseur” (Prial 111). The following year Hammond eulogised the singer in profoundly romantic terms: “It still knocks me over when I think of how lucky it is that a talent like his ever found its way to phonograph records […] Johnson died last week at precisely the moment when Vocalion scouts finally reached him and told him that he was booked to appear at Carnegie Hall” (19). The visceral awe experienced by subsequent generations of Johnson aficionados seems inspired by the remarkable capacity of his recordings to transcend space and time, reaching far beyond their immediate intended audience. “Johnson’s music changed the way the world looked to me,” wrote Greil Marcus, “I could listen to nothing else for months.” The music’s impact originates, at least in part, from the ambiguity of its origins: “I have the feeling, at times, that the reason Johnson has remained so elusive is that no one has been willing to take him at his word” (27-8). Three decades later Bob Dylan expressed similar sentiments over seven detailed pages of Chronicles: From the first note the vibrations from the loudspeaker made my hair stand up … it felt like a ghost had come into the room, a fearsome apparition …When he sings about icicles hanging on a tree it gives me the chills, or about milk turning blue … it made me nauseous and I wondered how he did that … It’s hard to imagine sharecroppers or plantation field hands at hop joints, relating to songs like these. You have to wonder if Johnson was playing for an audience that only he could see, one off in the future. (282-4) Such ready invocation of the supernatural bears witness to the profundity and resilience of the “lost bluesman” as a romantic trope. Barry Lee Pearson and Bill McCulloch have produced a painstaking genealogy of such a-historical misrepresentation. Early contributors include Rudi Blesch, Samuel B Charters, Frank Driggs’ liner notes for Johnson’s King of the Delta Blues Singers collection, and critic Pete Welding’s prolific 1960s output. Even comparatively recent researchers who ostensibly sought to demystify the legend couldn’t help but embellish the narrative. “It is undeniable that Johnson was fascinated with and probably obsessed by supernatural imagery,” asserted Robert Palmer (127). For Peter Guralnick his best songs articulate “the debt that must be paid for art and the Faustian bargain that Johnson sees at its core” (43). Contemporary scholarship from Pearson and McCulloch, James Banninghof, Charles Ford, and Elijah Wald has scrutinised Johnson’s life and work on a more evidential basis. This process has been likened to assembling a complicated jigsaw where half the pieces are missing: The Mississippi Delta has been practically turned upside down in the search for records of Robert Johnson. So far only marriage application signatures, two photos, a death certificate, a disputed death note, a few scattered school documents and conflicting oral histories of the man exist. Nothing more. (Graves 47) Such material is scrappy and unreliable. Johnson’s marriage licenses and his school records suggest contradictory dates of birth (Freeland 49). His death certificate mistakes his age—we now know that Johnson inadvertently founded another rock myth, the “27 Club” which includes fellow guitarists Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain (Wolkewitz et al., Segalstad and Hunter)—and incorrectly states he was single when he was twice widowed. A second contemporary research strand focuses on the mythmaking process itself. For Eric Rothenbuhler the appeal of Johnson’s recordings lies in his unique “for-the-record” aesthetic, that foreshadowed playing and song writing standards not widely realised until the 1960s. For Patricia Schroeder Johnson’s legend reveals far more about the story-tellers than it does the source—which over time has become “an empty center around which multiple interpretations, assorted viewpoints, and a variety of discourses swirl” (3). Some accounts of Johnson’s life seem entirely coloured by their authors’ cultural preconceptions. The most enduring myth, Johnson’s “crossroads” encounter with the Devil, is commonly redrawn according to the predilections of those telling the tale. That this story really belongs to bluesman Tommy Johnson has been known for over four decades (Evans 22), yet it was mistakenly attributed to Robert as recently as 1999 in French blues magazine Soul Bag (Pearson and McCulloch 92-3). Such errors are, thankfully, becoming less common. While the movie Crossroads (1986) brazenly appropriated Tommy’s story, the young walking bluesman in Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) faithfully proclaims his authentic identity: “Thanks for the lift, sir. My name's Tommy. Tommy Johnson […] I had to be at that crossroads last midnight. Sell my soul to the devil.” Nevertheless the “supernatural” constituent of Johnson’s legend remains an irresistible framing device. It inspired evocative footage in Peter Meyer’s Can’t You Hear the Wind Howl? The Life and Music of Robert Johnson (1998). Even the liner notes to the definitive Sony Music Robert Johnson: The Centennial Edition celebrate and reclaim his myth: nothing about this musician is more famous than the word-of-mouth accounts of him selling his soul to the devil at a midnight crossroads in exchange for his singular mastery of blues guitar. It has become fashionable to downplay or dismiss this account nowadays, but the most likely source of the tale is Johnson himself, and the best efforts of scholars to present this artist in ordinary, human terms have done little to cut through the mystique and mystery that surround him. Repackaged versions of Johnson’s recordings became available via Amazon.co.uk and Spotify when they fell out of copyright in the United Kingdom. Predictable titles such as Contracted to the Devil, Hellbound, Me and the Devil Blues, and Up Jumped the Devil along with their distinctive “crossroads” artwork continue to demonstrate the durability of this myth [1]. Ironically, Johnson’s recordings were made during an era when one-off exhibited artworks (such as his individual performances of music) first became reproducible products. Walter Benjamin famously described the impact of this development: that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art […] the technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition. By making many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence. (7) Marybeth Hamilton drew on Benjamin in her exploration of white folklorists’ efforts to document authentic pre-modern blues culture. Such individuals sought to preserve the intensity of the uncorrupted and untutored black voice before its authenticity and uniqueness could be tarnished by widespread mechanical reproduction. Two artefacts central to Johnson’s myth, his photographs and his recorded output, will now be considered in that context. In 1973 researcher Stephen LaVere located two pictures in the possession of his half–sister Carrie Thompson. The first, a cheap “dime store” self portrait taken in the equivalent of a modern photo booth, shows Johnson around a year into his life as a walking bluesman. The second, taken in the Hooks Bros. studio in Beale Street, Memphis, portrays a dapper and smiling musician on the eve of his short career as a Vocalion recording artist [2]. Neither was published for over a decade after their “discovery” due to fears of litigation from a competing researcher. A third photograph remains unpublished, still owned by Johnson’s family: The man has short nappy hair; he is slight, one foot is raised, and he is up on his toes as though stretching for height. There is a sharp crease in his pants, and a handkerchief protrudes from his breast pocket […] His eyes are deep-set, reserved, and his expression forms a half-smile, there seems to be a gentleness about him, his fingers are extraordinarily long and delicate, his head is tilted to one side. (Guralnick 67) Recently a fourth portrait appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in Vanity Fair. Vintage guitar seller Steven Schein discovered a sepia photograph labelled “Old Snapshot Blues Guitar B. B. King???” [sic] while browsing Ebay and purchased it for $2,200. Johnson’s son positively identified the image, and a Houston Police Department forensic artist employed face recognition technology to confirm that “all the features are consistent if not identical” (DiGiacomo 2008). The provenance of this photograph remains disputed, however. Johnson’s guitar appears overly distressed for what would at the time be a new model, while his clothes reflect an inappropriate style for the period (Graves). Another contested “Johnson” image found on four seconds of silent film showed a walking bluesman playing outside a small town cinema in Ruleville, Mississippi. It inspired Bob Dylan to wax lyrical in Chronicles: “You can see that really is Robert Johnson, has to be – couldn’t be anyone else. He’s playing with huge, spiderlike hands and they magically move over the strings of his guitar” (287). However it had already been proved that this figure couldn’t be Johnson, because the background movie poster shows a film released three years after the musician’s death. The temptation to wish such items genuine is clearly a difficult one to overcome: “even things that might have been Robert Johnson now leave an afterglow” (Schroeder 154, my italics). Johnson’s recordings, so carefully preserved by Hammond and other researchers, might offer tangible and inviolate primary source material. Yet these also now face a serious challenge: they run too rapidly by a factor of up to 15 per cent (Gibbens; Wilde). Speeding up music allowed early producers to increase a song’s vibrancy and fit longer takes on to their restricted media. By slowing the recording tempo, master discs provided a “mother” print that would cause all subsequent pressings to play unnaturally quickly when reproduced. Robert Johnson worked for half a decade as a walking blues musician without restrictions on the length of his songs before recording with producer Don Law and engineer Vincent Liebler in San Antonio (1936) and Dallas (1937). Longer compositions were reworked for these sessions, re-arranging and edited out verses (Wald, Escaping). It is also conceivable that they were purposefully, or even accidentally, sped up. (The tempo consistency of machines used in early field recordings across the South has often been questioned, as many played too fast or slow (Morris).) Slowed-down versions of Johnson’s songs from contributors such as Angus Blackthorne and Ron Talley now proliferate on YouTube. The debate has fuelled detailed discussion in online blogs, where some contributors to specialist audio technology forums have attempted to decode a faintly detectable background hum using spectrum analysers. If the frequency of the alternating current that powered Law and Liebler’s machine could be established at 50 or 60 Hz it might provide evidence of possible tempo variation. A peak at 51.4 Hz, one contributor argues, suggests “the recordings are 2.8 per cent fast, about half a semitone” (Blischke). Such “augmentation” has yet to be fully explored in academic literature. Graves describes the discussion as “compelling and intriguing” in his endnotes, concluding “there are many pros and cons to the argument and, indeed, many recordings over the years have been speeded up to make them seem livelier” (124). Wald ("Robert Johnson") provides a compelling and detailed counter-thesis on his website, although he does acknowledge inconsistencies in pitch among alternate master takes of some recordings. No-one who actually saw Robert Johnson perform ever called attention to potential discrepancies between the pitch of his natural and recorded voice. David “Honeyboy” Edwards, Robert Lockwood Jr. and Johnny Shines were all interviewed repeatedly by documentarians and researchers, but none ever raised the issue. Conversely Johnson’s former girlfriend Willie Mae Powell was visibly affected by the familiarity in his voice on hearing his recording of the tune Johnson wrote for her, “Love in Vain”, in Chris Hunt’s The Search for Robert Johnson (1991). Clues might also lie in the natural tonality of Johnson’s instrument. Delta bluesmen who shared Johnson’s repertoire and played slide guitar in his style commonly used a tuning of open G (D-G-D-G-B-G). Colloquially known as “Spanish” (Gordon 2002, 38-42) it offers a natural home key of G major for slide guitar. We might therefore expect Johnson’s recordings to revolve around the tonic (G) or its dominant (D) -however almost all of his songs are a full tone higher, in the key of A or its dominant E. (The only exceptions are “They’re Red Hot” and “From Four Till Late” in C, and “Love in Vain” in G.) A pitch increase such as this might be consistent with an increase in the speed of these recordings. Although an alternative explanation might be that Johnson tuned his strings particularly tightly, which would benefit his slide playing but also make fingering notes and chords less comfortable. Yet another is that he used a capo to raise the key of his instrument and was capable of performing difficult lead parts in relatively high fret positions on the neck of an acoustic guitar. This is accepted by Scott Ainslie and Dave Whitehill in their authoritative volume of transcriptions At the Crossroads (11). The photo booth self portrait of Johnson also clearly shows a capo at the second fret—which would indeed raise open G to open A (in concert pitch). The most persuasive reasoning against speed tampering runs parallel to the argument laid out earlier in this piece, previous iterations of the Johnson myth have superimposed their own circumstances and ignored the context and reality of the protagonist’s lived experience. As Wald argues, our assumptions of what we think Johnson ought to sound like have little bearing on what he actually sounded like. It is a compelling point. When Son House, Skip James, Bukka White, and other surviving bluesmen were “rediscovered” during the 1960s urban folk revival of North America and Europe they were old men with deep and resonant voices. Johnson’s falsetto vocalisations do not, therefore, accord with the commonly accepted sound of an authentic blues artist. Yet Johnson was in his mid-twenties in 1936 and 1937; a young man heavily influenced by the success of other high pitched male blues singers of his era. people argue that what is better about the sound is that the slower, lower Johnson sounds more like Son House. Now, House was a major influence on Johnson, but by the time Johnson recorded he was not trying to sound like House—an older player who had been unsuccessful on records—but rather like Leroy Carr, Casey Bill Weldon, Kokomo Arnold, Lonnie Johnson, and Peetie Wheatstraw, who were the big blues recording stars in the mid–1930s, and whose vocal styles he imitated on most of his records. (For example, the ooh-well-well falsetto yodel he often used was imitated from Wheatstraw and Weldon.) These singers tended to have higher, smoother voices than House—exactly the sound that Johnson seems to have been going for, and that the House fans dislike. So their whole argument is based on the fact that they prefer the older Delta sound to the mainstream popular blues sound of the 1930s—or, to put it differently, that their tastes are different from Johnson’s own tastes at the moment he was recording. (Wald, "Robert Johnson") Few media can capture an audible moment entirely accurately, and the idea of engineering a faithful reproduction of an original performance is also only one element of the rationale for any recording. Commercial engineers often aim to represent the emotion of a musical moment, rather than its totality. John and Alan Lomax may have worked as documentarians, preserving sound as faithfully as possible for the benefit of future generations on behalf of the Library of Congress. Law and Liebler, however, were producing exciting and profitable commercial products for a financial gain. Paradoxically, then, whatever the “real” Robert Johnson sounded like (deeper voice, no mesmeric falsetto, not such an extraordinarily adept guitar player, never met the Devil … and so on) the mythical figure who “sold his soul at the crossroads” and shipped millions of albums after his death may, on that basis, be equally as authentic as the original. Schroeder draws on Mikhail Bakhtin to comment on such vacant yet hotly contested spaces around the Johnson myth. For Bakhtin, literary texts are ascribed new meanings by consecutive generations as they absorb and respond to them. Every age re–accentuates in its own way the works of its most immediate past. The historical life of classic works is in fact the uninterrupted process of their social and ideological re–accentuation [of] ever newer aspects of meaning; their semantic content literally continues to grow, to further create out of itself. (421) In this respect Johnson’s legend is a “classic work”, entirely removed from its historical life, a free floating form re-contextualised and reinterpreted by successive generations in order to make sense of their own cultural predilections (Schroeder 57). As Graves observes, “since Robert Johnson’s death there has seemed to be a mathematical equation of sorts at play: the less truth we have, the more myth we get” (113). The threads connecting his real and mythical identity seem so comprehensively intertwined that only the most assiduous scholars are capable of disentanglement. Johnson’s life and work seem destined to remain augmented and contested for as long as people want to play guitar, and others want to listen to them. Notes[1] Actually the dominant theme of Johnson’s songs is not “the supernatural” it is his inveterate womanising. Almost all Johnson’s lyrics employ creative metaphors to depict troubled relationships. Some even include vivid images of domestic abuse. In “Stop Breakin’ Down Blues” a woman threatens him with a gun. In “32–20 Blues” he discusses the most effective calibre of weapon to shoot his partner and “cut her half in two.” In “Me and the Devil Blues” Johnson promises “to beat my woman until I get satisfied”. However in The Lady and Mrs Johnson five-time W. C. Handy award winner Rory Block re-wrote these words to befit her own cultural agenda, inverting the original sentiment as: “I got to love my baby ‘til I get satisfied”.[2] The Gibson L-1 guitar featured in Johnson’s Hooks Bros. portrait briefly became another contested artefact when it appeared in the catalogue of a New York State memorabilia dealership in 2006 with an asking price of $6,000,000. The Australian owner had apparently purchased the instrument forty years earlier under the impression it was bona fide, although photographic comparison technology showed that it couldn’t be genuine and the item was withdrawn. “Had it been real, I would have been able to sell it several times over,” Gary Zimet from MIT Memorabilia told me in an interview for Guitarist Magazine at the time, “a unique item like that will only ever increase in value” (Stewart 2010). References Ainslie, Scott, and Dave Whitehall. Robert Johnson: At the Crossroads – The Authoritative Guitar Transcriptions. Milwaukee: Hal Leonard Publishing, 1992. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. The Dialogic Imagination. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982. Banks, Russell. “The Devil and Robert Johnson – Robert Johnson: The Complete Recordings.” The New Republic 204.17 (1991): 27-30. Banninghof, James. “Some Ramblings on Robert Johnson’s Mind: Critical Analysis and Aesthetic in Delta Blues.” American Music 15/2 (1997): 137-158. Benjamin, Walter. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. London: Penguin, 2008. Blackthorne, Angus. “Robert Johnson Slowed Down.” YouTube.com 2011. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/user/ANGUSBLACKTHORN?feature=watch›. Blesh, Rudi. Shining Trumpets: A History of Jazz. New York: Knopf, 1946. Blischke, Michael. “Slowing Down Robert Johnson.” The Straight Dope 2008. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?t=461601›. Block, Rory. The Lady and Mrs Johnson. Rykodisc 10872, 2006. Charters, Samuel. The Country Blues. New York: De Capo Press, 1959. Collins UK. Collins English Dictionary. Glasgow: Harper Collins Publishers, 2010. DiGiacomo, Frank. “A Disputed Robert Johnson Photo Gets the C.S.I. Treatment.” Vanity Fair 2008. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.vanityfair.com/online/daily/2008/10/a-disputed-robert-johnson-photo-gets-the-csi-treatment›. DiGiacomo, Frank. “Portrait of a Phantom: Searching for Robert Johnson.” Vanity Fair 2008. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2008/11/johnson200811›. Dylan, Bob. Chronicles Vol 1. London: Simon & Schuster, 2005. Evans, David. Tommy Johnson. London: November Books, 1971. Ford, Charles. “Robert Johnson’s Rhythms.” Popular Music 17.1 (1998): 71-93. Freeland, Tom. “Robert Johnson: Some Witnesses to a Short Life.” Living Blues 150 (2000): 43-49. Gibbens, John. “Steady Rollin’ Man: A Revolutionary Critique of Robert Johnson.” Touched 2004. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.touched.co.uk/press/rjnote.html›. Gioia, Ted. Delta Blues: The Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters Who Revolutionised American Music. London: W. W. Norton & Co, 2008. Gioia, Ted. "Robert Johnson: A Century, and Beyond." Robert Johnson: The Centennial Collection. Sony Music 88697859072, 2011. Gordon, Robert. Can’t Be Satisfied: The Life and Times of Muddy Waters. London: Pimlico Books, 2002. Graves, Tom. Crossroads: The Life and Afterlife of Blues Legend Robert Johnson. Spokane: Demers Books, 2008. Guralnick, Peter. Searching for Robert Johnson: The Life and Legend of the "King of the Delta Blues Singers". London: Plume, 1998. Hamilton, Marybeth. In Search of the Blues: Black Voices, White Visions. London: Jonathan Cape, 2007. Hammond, John. From Spirituals to Swing (Dedicated to Bessie Smith). New York: The New Masses, 1938. Johnson, Robert. “Hellbound.” Amazon.co.uk 2011. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hellbound/dp/B0063S8Y4C/ref=sr_1_cc_2?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1376605065&sr=1-2-catcorr&keywords=robert+johnson+hellbound›. ———. “Contracted to the Devil.” Amazon.co.uk 2002. 1 Aug. 2013. ‹http://www.amazon.co.uk/Contracted-The-Devil-Robert-Johnson/dp/B00006F1L4/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1376830351&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=Contracted+to+The+Devil›. ———. King of the Delta Blues Singers. Columbia Records CL1654, 1961. ———. “Me and the Devil Blues.” Amazon.co.uk 2003. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.amazon.co.uk/Me-Devil-Blues-Robert-Johnson/dp/B00008SH7O/ref=sr_1_16?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1376604807&sr=1-16&keywords=robert+johnson›. ———. “The High Price of Soul.” Amazon.co.uk 2007. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.amazon.co.uk/High-Price-Soul-Robert-Johnson/dp/B000LC582C/ref=sr_1_39?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1376604863&sr=1-39&keywords=robert+johnson›. ———. “Up Jumped the Devil.” Amazon.co.uk 2005. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.amazon.co.uk/Up-Jumped-Devil-Robert-Johnson/dp/B000B57SL8/ref=sr_1_2?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1376829917&sr=1-2&keywords=Up+Jumped+The+Devil›. Marcus, Greil. Mystery Train: Images of America in Rock ‘n’ Roll Music. London: Plume, 1997. Morris, Christopher. “Phonograph Blues: Robert Johnson Mastered at Wrong Speed?” Variety 2010. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.varietysoundcheck.com/2010/05/phonograph-blues-robert-johnson-mastered-at-wrong-speed.html›. Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou? DVD. Universal Pictures, 2000. Palmer, Robert. Deep Blues: A Musical and Cultural History from the Mississippi Delta to Chicago’s South Side to the World. London: Penguin Books, 1981. Pearson, Barry Lee, and Bill McCulloch. Robert Johnson: Lost and Found. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2003. Prial, Dunstan. The Producer: John Hammond and the Soul of American Music. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006. Rothenbuhler, Eric W. “For–the–Record Aesthetics and Robert Johnson’s Blues Style as a Product of Recorded Culture.” Popular Music 26.1 (2007): 65-81. Rothenbuhler, Eric W. “Myth and Collective Memory in the Case of Robert Johnson.” Critical Studies in Media Communication 24.3 (2007): 189-205. Schroeder, Patricia. Robert Johnson, Mythmaking and Contemporary American Culture (Music in American Life). Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004. Segalstad, Eric, and Josh Hunter. The 27s: The Greatest Myth of Rock and Roll. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2009. Stewart, Jon. “Rock Climbing: Jon Stewart Concludes His Investigation of the Myths behind Robert Johnson.” Guitarist Magazine 327 (2010): 34. The Search for Robert Johnson. DVD. Sony Pictures, 1991. Talley, Ron. “Robert Johnson, 'Sweet Home Chicago', as It REALLY Sounded...” YouTube.com 2012. 1 Aug. 2013. ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCHod3_yEWQ›. Wald, Elijah. Escaping the Delta: Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues. London: HarperCollins, 2005. ———. The Robert Johnson Speed Recording Controversy. Elijah Wald — Writer, Musician 2012. 1 Aug. 2013. ‹http://www.elijahwald.com/johnsonspeed.html›. Wilde, John . “Robert Johnson Revelation Tells Us to Put the Brakes on the Blues: We've Been Listening to the Immortal 'King of the Delta Blues' at the Wrong Speed, But Now We Can Hear Him as He Intended.” The Guardian 2010. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2010/may/27/robert-johnson-blues›. Wolkewitz, M., A. Allignol, N. Graves, and A.G. Barnett. “Is 27 Really a Dangerous Age for Famous Musicians? Retrospective Cohort Study.” British Medical Journal 343 (2011): d7799. 1 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.bmj.com/content/343/bmj.d7799›.

Introduction This article reports on the emerging findings from a study undertaken as part of an international research collaboration (Australia, Belgium, Italy, UK; DP180103922) exploring the benefits and risks of the Internet of Toys (IoToys). IoToys builds upon technological innovations such as smartphone apps that remotely control home-based objects, and wearable technologies that measure sleep patterns and exercise regimes (Holloway and Green). Mascheroni and Holloway summarise the features of IoToys as entities that users can program, with human-toy interactivity, and which have network connectivity. In this discussion we focus on children’s play with a small programmable robot named Cozmo (fig. 1). The robot also has an ‘explorer mode’ in which children can view the world through the eyes of Cozmo, and a camera which can film the robot’s view, accessed through the mobile app. Children are encouraged to personify Cozmo, including feeding the robot and keeping it tuned up. Cozmo also has numerous functions including tricks, a coding lab, and games that utilise three provided ‘Power Cubes’ that encourage child-robot interaction: Keep Away – the player slides the cube closer to Cozmo then pulls away quickly when Cozmo ‘pounces’ – the aim of the game is to ensure Cozmo misses the cube. Quick Tap – a colour matching game which involves hitting the cubes (before Cozmo) when the colours match. Memory Match – Cozmo shows a pattern of colours, and the player then taps the cubes in the right colour order – each round the pattern gets longer. Fig. 1: Cozmo Whilst the toy uses Wi-Fi rather than connecting directly to the Internet, Cozmo was chosen as a focus for the study because many of its characteristics are typical of IoToys, including connectivity, programmability, and the human-toy connection (Mascheroni and Holloway). Children’s play lives have been changed through the development of digital technologies including smartphones, tablets, laptops, and games consoles (Marsh et al.) and inevitably, children’s play experiences now cross a range of boundaries including the “virtual/physical world, online/offline and digital/nondigital” (Marsh 5). As IoToys become more prevalent in the toy market, there is an increasing need to understand how these connected toys transcend digital-material boundaries between toy and media technology. Whilst toys such as Cozmo share similar traits with traditional toys, they also increasingly share characteristics with computing devices (i.e., video games, mobile apps) and domestic media (i.e., Amazon Alexa; Berriman and Mascheroni). The combination of the traditional and digital adds a layer of complexity to children’s play experiences as the interaction between the child and the robot is ‘reconfigured as a bidirectional, multidimensional, multisensory experience’ (Mascheroni and Holloway 5). By asking ‘what types of play does an Internet-enabled toy engender?’, this article examines the capabilities and limitations of Cozmo for children’s play experiences. Currently, there is little reliable information about children’s IoToy use despite the media attention the subject attracts. Many assumptions are made regarding how technological devices offer restricted opportunities for play (see Healey et al.), and therefore it is vital to investigate the benefits and limitations of these new-generation technologies for parents and children. This article contributes to ongoing debates focussing on children’s playful engagement with digital technology and the importance of engaging parents in discussions on different types of play and children’s development. Methodology This international study involved thirteen families across four countries (Australia, Belgium, Italy, UK; Appendix 1). Ethical clearance was obtained prior to the commencement of the study. Consent was gained from both the children and the parents, and the children were specifically asked if they could be audio-recorded and photographed by the researchers. Pseudonyms have been used in this article. Families were visited twice by a researcher, with each visit lasting around an hour. Firstly, the children were interviewed about their favourite toys, and the parent was interviewed about their thoughts on their children’s (digital) play practices. This provided background information about the child’s play ecologies, such as the extent to which they were familiar with IoToys. Cozmo was also introduced to the children during the first visit and researchers ensured they were confident using the toy before leaving. Cozmo was left with the children to use for a period of between one and three months before the researcher returned for the second visit. Families were reinterviewed, with a focus on what they thought about Cozmo, and how the children had engaged with the toy in their play. Data were deductively analysed using a revised version of Hughes’s taxonomy of play that takes account of the digital aspect of children’s play contexts. Hughes’s original framework, identifying the types of play children engage in, was developed before the rise of digital media. The revised taxonomy was developed by Marsh et al. (see Appendix 2) in a study that examined how apps can promote children’s play and creativity. Data emerging from this study illuminated how Hughes’s taxonomy can be applied in digital contexts, demonstrating that “what changes in digital contexts is not so much the types of play possible, but the nature of that play” (Marsh et al. 250). The adapted framework was applied to the data as a way of analysing play with Cozmo across digital and non-digital spaces, and selections from the transcripts were chosen to illustrate the categories, discussed in the next section. Framing Children’s Digital and Non-Digital Play Practices The findings from the data highlight numerous digital play types (Marsh et al.) that occurred during the children’s interactions with the robot, primarily: Imaginative play in a digital context in which children pretend that things are otherwise. Exploratory play in a digital context in which children explore objects and spaces through the senses to find out information or explore possibilities. Mastery play in digital contexts in which children attempt to gain control of environments. Communication play using words, songs, rhymes, poetry in a digital context. Other types of play that were observed include: Virtual Locomotor play involving movement in a digital context e.g., child may play hide and seek with others in a virtual world. Object play in which children explore virtual objects through vision and touch. Social play in a digital context during which rules for social interaction are constructed and employed. Imaginative Play “Imaginative play” was prevalent in all the case study families, in particular anthropomorphic/zoomorphic play. Anthropomorphic/zoomorphic play can be categorised as imaginative play when children are aware that the object is not real; they display a willing suspension of disbelief. The morphology of social robots is often classified into anthropomorphic (i.e., human-like) and zoomorphic (i.e., animal-like) and different morphologies can elicit differences in how users perceive and interact with robots (Barco et al.). This was the case for the children in this research, who all referred to the fact that the toy was a robot but often described Cozmo as having human/animal attributes. Across the sample, the children talked about Cozmo as if it was a fellow human being or pet. Eleanor (aged 8) stated that “I feel like he’s one of my family”, while Emma (aged 8) said “we sometimes call him ‘brother’ because he is a little bit like family”. Martina (aged 8) observed that Cozmo sometimes has “hiccups'' that prevent him from responding to her queries, reasoning that “it happens by itself because it eats too much”. Louis (aged 9) did not refer to Cozmo as being human, although he did attribute emotions to the toy, mentioning that Cozmo runs in circles whenever he is happy. Sofia’s mother stated that “one thing that made me laugh is that for Sofia it is a puppy. So, she would pet it, give it kisses”. The mother of Aryana (aged 9) commented that “they tried to like treat it like a living thing, not like toy, like a pet . ... They treat it not like something dead or something frozen, something live”. Epley et al. suggest that anthropomorphisation occurs because knowledge that individuals have about humans is developed earlier than knowledge about non-human entities. Therefore, the knowledge children have of being human is drawn upon when encountering objects such as robots. It may be of little surprise that children react like this because, as Marsh (Uncanny Valley 58) argues, “younger children are likely to possess less knowledge about both human and non-human entities than older children and adults, and, therefore, are more likely to anthropomorphise”. Severson and Woodard (2) argue that even in cases where children know the object is not real, the children ascribe feelings, thoughts, and desires to objects in such a serious manner that anthropomorphism is a “pervasive phenomenon that goes beyond mere pretense”. Robot toys such as Cozmo are specifically designed to stimulate anthropomorphism/zoomorphism. Beck et al. have shown that head movements help children identify emotions in robots. Cozmo is programmed to recognise faces and learn names, which inevitably contributes to children feeling an emotional connection. For example, Eleanor (aged 8) remarked that “he was always looking at me and it looked like he was listening to me when I was talking”. The desire for a connection with the robot was so strong for Oscar (aged 7) that he deliberately programmed the robot to respond to him, saying “I can make him do happy stuff which makes me feel like he likes me”. Emma’s mother stated that whenever Emma (aged 8) did something that seemed to make Cozmo happy, she would do those things repeatedly. Emma also referred to Cozmo as having agency, for example, when Cozmo built towers or turned himself into a bulldozer. Even though she made those commands herself via the app, Emma attributed the idea and action to Cozmo. Overall, the children implemented imaginative play practices through the pretence of Cozmo’s ‘human-like’ attributes such as knowing their name, “looking at” and “listening to” them, and displaying different emotions such as love, anger, and happiness. Exploratory Play “Exploratory play” usually occurred when the children first received the toy and most of the children immediately wanted to get to know Cozmo’s features and possibilities. Arthur’s father stated that the first thing Arthur (aged 8) did was grab the remote and start clicking buttons to find out what would happen. Oscar’s mother was amazed that her child had played initially for five hours using Cozmo when he did not spend this long with other toys. She explained that he had been exploring what the toy could do: “he was getting it to choose blocks, pick up blocks, do tricks, make faces, and do dances … . He really enjoyed that”. Controlling Cozmo to travel between rooms was an example of “Virtual Locomotor play”, although the robot could also lead to locomotor play in the physical world as children chased after Cozmo or danced with it. Further examples of virtual locomotor play occurred when the robot followed and chased children if they moved from the play area. Oscar (aged 7) enjoyed using this mode to set the robot on a course which led to it ‘spying’ on his younger sister. His mother noted that: because their bedrooms are opposite sides of the hallway, he kept sending Cozmo to go and watch what she was doing and waiting and seeing how long it took her to realise he was there. Jacob (aged 10) also swiftly realised Cozmo’s surveillance potential as he referred to the robot as a “spying machine”. Louis (aged 9) stated that after he had explored all the options Cozmo offers, playing with it became dull. To him, all the fun was in the exploratory play. Other children across the sample also reported that they stopped playing with Cozmo after a while when they felt like there was nothing new to explore. Mastery Play “Exploratory play” was also connected to “Mastery play” through programmatic sequencing which enabled the robot to move and follow different directions as requested by the children. For example, Eleanor (aged 8) commented, “I liked to play games with him ... . I liked doing the acting thing”. This involved programming the toy to undertake a series of actions that were sequenced in a performance. For Ebrahim (aged 7), the explorer mode also led to mastery play, as he set up an obstacle course for Cozmo using his toy soldiers, explaining that “I took a couple of my soldiers in here and made them out in a specific order and then I tried to get past them in explorer mode”. Arthur (aged 8) would continuously try to find ways to make Cozmo go through obstacle courses faster. He especially liked the coding and programming aspect of the toy, and his father would challenge him to think his decisions through to get better results. Children also utilised other objects in their exploratory and mastery play. Louis (aged 9) would put up barricades so that Cozmo could not escape, and Matteo (aged 9) constructed “high towers” and operated “stability tests” by using Cozmo’s explorer mode and constructing pathways through furniture and other objects. The blurring of physical/virtual and material/digital play, which is prevalent in contemporary play landscapes (Marsh et al., Children, Technology and Play), is highlighted during these episodes in which the children incorporated their own interests linked to their personal environments into their play with Cozmo. Mastery play inevitably involved “Object play”, as children played around with icons on the app to investigate their properties. Cozmo offers a variety of games which stimulate various abilities and can be played via the app or remote. Available games allow both child-robot interaction by means of the ‘Power Cubes’ provided with the robot, and programming games with different difficulty levels. Physical contact between the child and Cozmo, and the robot’s responses, encouraged anthropomorphism, as Jacob (aged 10) switched from referencing Cozmo as ‘it’ to ‘him’ as the discussion progressed: Interviewer: (to Jacob) We got a robot interfacing this time. (To Cozmo) Hello, are you still looking at me? That’s great. (To Jacob) So, do you want to show us your fist bumps that you coded? Jacob: Oh, I didn’t code it. Well, I did code it. Go to tricks. Do you want to fist bump him? Interviewer: Yeah, can I fist bump him? Jacob: Just put your fist near him like close, close, like that. In addition to the fist bump game, Dylan (aged 9) unlocked the Fist Bump app icon on his tablet enabling him to receive rewards by alternating physical fist bumps with himself and virtual fist bumps between Cozmo and the iPad. These object and exploratory play types were positioned as stimulating the robot’s feelings and emotions through musical sounds (like a robot “purring”) that seem to be designed to foster a stronger connection between the child and Cozmo. All the children in the research played Cozmo’s games; the tapping game and the building games with blocks were popular. A clear connection between mastery and object play is shown in those situations where children explore objects to gain control of their environment. While children pointed out that winning the games against Cozmo was almost impossible, some tried to change the game in their favour. Arthur (aged 8), for example, would move the blocks during games to slow down Cozmo. Whenever Emma (aged 8) became impatient with the games, she would move the blocks closer to Cozmo to finish certain games faster. Mastery play was valued by parents because of its interactivity and educational potential. Arthur’s father praised Cozmo’s programming and coding possibilities and valued the technical insight and problem-solving skills it teaches children. Oscar’s mother also valued the educational potential of the toy, but did not appear to recognise that the exploratory play he engaged in involved learning: I liked the fact that it had all these sorts of educational aspects to it. It would have been nice if we’d have got to use them. I like the idea that it could code, and it would teach coding ... but it wasn’t to be. There was some disappointment with the lack of engagement with the coding capabilities of Cozmo. Parents lamented that their children did not engage with coding activities but accepted that this was due to the level of difficulty or technical issues (i.e., Cozmo shutting down frequently), as well as their children’s inability to navigate coding activities (i.e., due to their age). Communication Play “Communication play” was observed as the English-speaking children learnt how to write things into Cozmo that the robot would then say. Ebrahim (aged 7) explained “you can type whatever you want him to say, like, I typed this, ‘I play with Monica’”. Emma (aged 8) made up entire stories for Cozmo to tell, and Arthur (aged 8) made up plays for Cozmo to perform. Oscar (aged 7) felt that the app had helped him learn to read: when asked how it helped him to read, he said “by me typing it in and him saying the words back to me so then I can hear what it says”. This highlights how IoToys can facilitate a playful approach to literacy and supports the work of Heljakka and Ihamäki (96), who assert a need to “widen understandings of toy literacy into multiple directions”. As such, the potential to support aspects of children’s literacy and digital learning in a way that is engaging and playful illuminates the benefits that these types of toys can provide. In contrast, Italian and Belgian children faced more difficulties in communicating with Cozmo as they did not speak English. However, this did not limit the possibility to interact and communicate with Cozmo, for example, through parental mediation or by referring to recognisable symbols (sounds, icons, and images in the app). Other Types of Play The data indicated that four play types (imaginative, exploratory, mastery, and communication play) were the most prevalent among the participating families, although there was also evidence of “Locomotor play” (during exploratory play), and “Object play” (during mastery play). “Social play” was also reported, for instance, when children played with the robot with siblings or friends. All the children wanted to show Cozmo to friends and family. Arthur (aged 8) even arranged with his teacher that he could bring Cozmo to school and show his classmates what Cozmo could do during a class presentation. “Creative play” (play that enables children to explore, develop ideas, and make things in a digital context) was limited in the data. Whilst there was some evidence of this type of play – for example, Oscar (aged 7) and Matteo (aged 9) built ramps and obstacle courses for Cozmo –, in general, there was limited evidence of children playing in creative ways to produce new artefacts with the robot. This is despite the toy having a creative mode, in which children can use the app to code games and actions for Cozmo. For Eleanor, it seemed that the toy did not foster open-ended play. Her mother noted that Eleanor normally enjoyed creative play, but she appeared to lose interest in the toy after displaying initial enthusiasm: “I don’t think it was creative enough, I think it’s not open-ended enough and that’s why she didn’t play with it, would be my guess”. Oscar (aged 7) also lost interest in the toy after the first few weeks of use, which his mother put down to technical issues: I think if it worked flawlessly every time he’d gone to pick it up then he would have been quite happy ... but after a couple of negative experiences where it wouldn’t load up and it’s very frustrating, maybe it just put him off. Other families also talked about how the battery was quick to drain and slow to charge, which impacted on the nature of the play. Emma’s mother stated that the WiFi settings needed to be changed to play with Cozmo which Emma (aged 8) could not do by herself. Therefore, she was only able to play with Cozmo when her mother was around to help her. According to the parents of Arthur and Emma (both aged 8), Cozmo often showed technical errors and did not perform certain games, which caused some frustration with the children. The mother of Aryana (aged 9) also reported a loss of interest in Cozmo, but not particularly related to technical reasons: “she lost interest all the time, so she didn’t follow the steps to the end, she just play a little bit and she'd say, ‘Oh I'm bored, I want to do something’ … mostly YouTube”. Such hesitant engagement may be due to technical issues but might also be due to the limitations regarding creative play identified in this study. Conclusion This study indicates that the Cozmo robot led to a variety of types of play, and that the adaptation of Hughes’s framework by Marsh et al. offered a useful index for identifying changing practices in children's play. As highlighted, children’s play with Cozmo often transcended the virtual and physical, online and offline, and digital and material, as well as providing a vehicle for learning. This analysis thus challenges the proposition that electronic objects limit children’s imagination and play. Prevalent in the findings was the willingness of children to suspend disbelief and engage in anthropomorphic/zoomorphic play with Cozmo by applying human-like attributes to the toy. Children related to the emotional connection with the robot much more than the technical aspects (i.e., coding), and whilst the children understood the limitations of the robot’s agency, there are studies to suggest that caution should be applied by robot developers to ensure that, as technology advances, children are able to maintain the understanding that robots are different from human beings (van den Berghe et al.). This is of particular importance when existing literature highlights that younger children have a less nuanced understanding of the ‘alive’ status of a robot than older children (Nijssen et al.). Children often incorporated more traditional toys and resources into their play with Cozmo: for instance, the use of toy soldiers and building blocks to create obstacle courses demonstrates the digital-material affordances of children’s play. All the children enjoyed the pre-programmed games that utilised the ‘Power Cubes’, and there was an element of competitiveness for the children who demonstrated an eagerness to ‘beat’ the toy. Importantly, parents reported that the app supported children’s literacy development in a playful way, although this was more beneficial for the children whose first language was English. The potential for children’s literacy development through playful child-robot interaction presents opportunities for further study. One significant limitation of the toy that emerged from the findings was the capacity to encourage children’s creative play. Kahn Jr. et al.'s earlier research showed that children endowed less animation to robot toys than to stuffed animals, as if children believe that toy robots have some agency and do not need assistance. Therefore, it is possible that children are less inclined to play in creative ways because they expect Cozmo to control his own behaviour. The research has implications for work with parents. The parents in this study emphasised the value of mastery play for education, but at times overlooked the worth of other types of play for learning. Engaging parents in discussion of the significance that different types of play have for children’s development could be beneficial not just for their own understanding, but also for the types of play they may then encourage and support. The study also has implications for the future development of IoToys. The producers of Cozmo promote types of play through the activities they support in the app, but a broader range of activities could lead to a wider variety of types of play to include, for example, fantasy or dramatic play. There are also opportunities to promote more creative play by, for example, enabling children to construct new artefacts for the robot toy itself, or providing drawing/painting tools that Cozmo could be programmed to use via the app. Broadening play types by design could be encouraged across the toy industry as a whole but, in relation to the IoToys, the opportunities for these kinds of approaches are exciting, reflecting rapid advances in technology that open up possible new worlds of play. This is the challenge for the next few years of toy development, when the first possibilities of the IoToys have been explored. Acknowledgement This research was funded by ARC Discovery Project award DP180103922 – The Internet of Toys: Benefits and Risks of Connected Toys for Children. The article originated as an initiative of the International Partners: Dr Louise Kay and Professor Jackie Marsh (University of Sheffield, UK), Associate Professor Giovanna Mascheroni (Università Cattolica, Italy), and Professor Bieke Zaman (KU Leuven, Belgium). The Australian Chief Investigators on this grant were Dr Donell Holloway and Professor Lelia Green, Edith Cowan University. Much of this article was written by Research Officers who supported the grant’s Investigators, and all parties gratefully acknowledge the funding provided by the Australian Research Council for this project. References Barco, Alex, et al. “Robot Morphology and Children's Perception of Social Robots: An Exploratory Study.” International Conference on Human-Robot Interaction, 23-26 Mar. 2020, Cambridge. 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"The Internet of Toys." Communication Research and Practice 2.4 (2016): 506-519. Hughes, Bob. A Playworker’s Taxonomy of Play Types. 2nd ed. Playlink, 2002. Heljakka, Katriina, and Pirita Ihamäki. “Preschoolers Learning with the Internet of Toys: From Toy-Based Edutainment to Transmedia Literacy.” Seminar.Net 14.1 (2018): 85–102. Kahn Jr., Peter, et al. "Robotic Pets in the Lives of Preschool Children." Interaction Studies 7.3 (2007): 405-436. Marsh, Jackie. “The Internet of Toys: A Posthuman and Multimodal Analysis of Connected Play.” Teachers College Record (2017): 30. ———. "The Uncanny Valley Revisited: Play with the Internet of Toys." Internet of Toys : Practices, Affordances and the Political Economy of Children's Smart Play. Eds. Giovanni Mascheroni and Donell Holloway. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. 47-66. Marsh, Jackie, et al. “Digital Play: A New Classification.” Early Years 36.3 (2016): 242. Marsh, Jackie, et al. Children, Technology and Play: Key Findings of a Large-Scale Research Report. The LEGO Foundation, 2020. Mascheroni, Giovanni, and Donell Holloway, eds. Internet of Toys : Practices, Affordances and the Political Economy of Children’s Smart Play. Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. Nijssen, Sari, et al. "You, Robot? The Role of Anthropomorphic Emotion Attributions in Children’s Sharing with a Robot." International Journal of Child-Computer Interaction 30 (2021). 15 Apr. 2023 <https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ijcci.2021.100319>. Severson, Rachel L., and Shailee R. Woodard. “Imagining Others? Minds: The Positive Relation between Children's Role Play and Anthropomorphism.” Frontiers in Psychology 9 (2018). 27 Jan. 2023 <https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2018.02140>. Van den Berghe, Rianne, et al. "A Toy or a friend? Children's Anthropomorphic Beliefs about Robots and How These Relate to Second-Language Word Learning." Journal of Computer Assisted Learning 37.2 (2021): 396– 410. 15 Apr. 2023 <https://doi.org/10.1111/jcal.12497>. Appendix 1: Participants Country Name (Pseudonym) Sex Age Siblings 1 UK Eleanor F 8 2 younger brothers 2 UK Ebrahim M 7 2 older sisters 3 UK Oscar M 7 1 younger sister 4 UK Aryana F 9 2 younger brothers 5 AU Jacob M 10 1 younger brother 6 AU Dylan M 9 2 older brothers 7 Italy Martina F 8 2 younger sisters 8 Italy Anna F 8 1 younger sister 9 Italy Luca M 8 1 older brother 10 Italy Matteo M 9 1 younger sister 11 Belgium Louis M 9 2 younger sisters 12 Belgium Emma F 8 1 younger sister 13 Belgium Arthur M 8 1 younger sister Appendix 2: Play Types Play Type Play Types (Hughes) Digital Play Types (adapted by Marsh et al., "Digital Play") Symbolic play Occurs when an object stands for another object, e.g. a stick becomes a horse Occurs when a virtual object stands for another object, e.g. an avatar’s shoe becomes a wand Rough and tumble play Children are in physical contact during play, but there is no violence Occurs when avatars that represent users in a digital environment touch each other playfully, e.g. bumping each other Socio-dramatic play Enactment of real-life scenarios that are based on personal experiences, e.g. playing house Enactment of real-life scenarios in a digital environment that are based on personal experiences Social play Play during which rules for social interaction are constructed and employed Play in a digital context during which rules for social interaction are constructed and employed Creative play Play that enables children to explore, develop ideas, and make things Play that enables children to explore, develop ideas, and make things in a digital context Communication play Play using words, songs, rhymes, poetry, etc. Play using words, songs, rhymes, poetry, etc., in a digital context, e.g. text messages, multimodal communication Dramatic play Play that dramatises events in which children have not directly participated, e.g. TV shows Play in a digital context that dramatises events in which children have not directly participated, e.g. TV shows. Locomotor play Play which involves movement, e.g. chase, hide and seek Virtual locomotor play involves movement in a digital context, e.g. child may play hide and seek with others in a virtual world Deep play Play in which children encounter risky experiences, or feel as though they have to fight for survival Play in digital contexts in which children encounter risky experiences, or feel as though they have to fight for survival Exploratory play Play in which children explore objects, spaces, etc. through the senses in order to find out information, or explore possibilities Play in a digital context in which children explore objects, spaces, etc., through the senses in order to find out information, or explore possibilities Fantasy play Play in which children can take on roles that would not occur in real life, e.g. be a superhero Play in a digital context in which children can take on roles that would not occur in real life, e.g. be a superhero Imaginative play Play in which children pretend that things are otherwise Play in a digital context in which children pretend that things are otherwise Mastery play Play in which children attempt to gain control of environments, e.g. building dens Play in digital contexts in which children attempt to gain control of environments, e.g. creating a virtual world Object play Play in which children explore objects through touch and vision Play in which children explore virtual objects through vision and touch through the screen or mouse Role play Play in which children might take on a role beyond the personal or domestic roles associated with socio-dramatic play Play in a digital context in which children might take on a role beyond the personal or domestic roles associated with socio-dramatic play Recapitulative play Play in which children might explore history, rituals, and myths, and play in ways that resonate with the activities of our human ancestors (lighting fires, building shelters, and so on) Play in a digital context in which children might explore history, rituals, and myths, and play in ways that resonate with the activities of our human ancestors (lighting fires, building shelters, and so on) Transgressive play Play in which children contest, resist, and/or transgress expected norms, rules, and perceived restrictions in both digital and non-digital contexts.

Introduction Food has always been an essential component of daily life. Today, thinking about food is a much more complicated pursuit than planning the next meal, with food studies scholars devoting their efforts to researching “anything pertaining to food and eating, from how food is grown to when and how it is eaten, to who eats it and with whom, and the nutritional quality” (Duran and MacDonald 234). This is in addition to the work undertaken by an increasingly wide variety of popular culture researchers who explore all aspects of food (Risson and Brien 3): including food advertising, food packaging, food on television, and food in popular fiction. In creating stories, from those works that quickly disappear from bookstore shelves to those that become entrenched in the literary canon, writers use food to communicate the everyday and to explore a vast range of ideas from cultural background to social standing, and also use food to provide perspectives “into the cultural and historical uniqueness of a given social group” (Piatti-Farnell 80). For example in Oliver Twist (1838) by Charles Dickens, the central character challenges the class system when: “Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger and reckless with misery. He rose from the table, and advancing basin and spoon in hand, to the master, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity–‘Please, sir, I want some more’” (11). Scarlett O’Hara in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind (1936) makes a similar point, a little more dramatically, when she declares: “As God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again” (419). Food can also take us into the depths of another culture: places that many of us will only ever read about. Food is also used to provide insight into a character’s state of mind. In Nora Ephron’s Heartburn (1983) an item as simple as boiled bread tells a reader so much more about Rachel Samstat than her preferred bakery items: “So we got married and I got pregnant and I gave up my New York apartment and moved to Washington. Talk about mistakes [...] there I was, trying to hold up my end in a city where you can’t even buy a decent bagel” (34). There are three ways in which writers can deal with food within their work. Firstly, food can be totally ignored. This approach is sometimes taken despite food being such a standard feature of storytelling that its absence, be it a lonely meal at home, elegant canapés at an impressively catered cocktail party, or a cheap sandwich collected from a local café, is an obvious omission. Food can also add realism to a story, with many authors putting as much effort into conjuring the smell, taste, and texture of food as they do into providing a backstory and a purpose for their characters. In recent years, a third way has emerged with some writers placing such importance upon food in fiction that the line that divides the cookbook and the novel has become distorted. This article looks at cookbooks and cookery in popular fiction with a particular focus on crime novels. Recipes: Ingredients and Preparation Food in fiction has been employed, with great success, to help characters cope with grief; giving them the reassurance that only comes through the familiarity of the kitchen and the concentration required to fulfil routine tasks: to chop and dice, to mix, to sift and roll, to bake, broil, grill, steam, and fry. Such grief can come from the breakdown of a relationship as seen in Nora Ephron’s Heartburn (1983). An autobiography under the guise of fiction, this novel is the first-person story of a cookbook author, a description that irritates the narrator as she feels her works “aren’t merely cookbooks” (95). She is, however, grateful she was not described as “a distraught, rejected, pregnant cookbook author whose husband was in love with a giantess” (95). As the collapse of the marriage is described, her favourite recipes are shared: Bacon Hash; Four Minute Eggs; Toasted Almonds; Lima Beans with Pears; Linguine Alla Cecca; Pot Roast; three types of Potatoes; Sorrel Soup; desserts including Bread Pudding, Cheesecake, Key Lime Pie and Peach Pie; and a Vinaigrette, all in an effort to reassert her personal skills and thus personal value. Grief can also result from loss of hope and the realisation that a life long dreamed of will never be realised. Like Water for Chocolate (1989), by Laura Esquivel, is the magical realist tale of Tita De La Garza who, as the youngest daughter, is forbidden to marry as she must take care of her mother, a woman who: “Unquestionably, when it came to dividing, dismantling, dismembering, desolating, detaching, dispossessing, destroying or dominating […] was a pro” (87). Tita’s life lurches from one painful, unjust episode to the next; the only emotional stability she has comes from the kitchen, and from her cooking of a series of dishes: Christmas Rolls; Chabela Wedding Cake; Quail in Rose Petal Sauce; Turkey Mole; Northern-style Chorizo; Oxtail Soup; Champandongo; Chocolate and Three Kings’s Day Bread; Cream Fritters; and Beans with Chilli Tezcucana-style. This is a series of culinary-based activities that attempts to superimpose normalcy on a life that is far from the everyday. Grief is most commonly associated with death. Undertaking the selection, preparation and presentation of meals in novels dealing with bereavement is both a functional and symbolic act: life must go on for those left behind but it must go on in a very different way. Thus, novels that use food to deal with loss are particularly important because they can “make non-cooks believe they can cook, and for frequent cooks, affirm what they already know: that cooking heals” (Baltazar online). In Angelina’s Bachelors (2011) by Brian O’Reilly, Angelina D’Angelo believes “cooking was not just about food. It was about character” (2). By the end of the first chapter the young woman’s husband is dead and she is in the kitchen looking for solace, and survival, in cookery. In The Kitchen Daughter (2011) by Jael McHenry, Ginny Selvaggio is struggling to cope with the death of her parents and the friends and relations who crowd her home after the funeral. Like Angelina, Ginny retreats to the kitchen. There are, of course, exceptions. In Ntozake Shange’s Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo (1982), cooking celebrates, comforts, and seduces (Calta). This story of three sisters from South Carolina is told through diary entries, narrative, letters, poetry, songs, and spells. Recipes are also found throughout the text: Turkey; Marmalade; Rice; Spinach; Crabmeat; Fish; Sweetbread; Duck; Lamb; and, Asparagus. Anthony Capella’s The Food of Love (2004), a modern retelling of the classic tale of Cyrano de Bergerac, is about the beautiful Laura, a waiter masquerading as a top chef Tommaso, and the talented Bruno who, “thick-set, heavy, and slightly awkward” (21), covers for Tommaso’s incompetency in the kitchen as he, too, falls for Laura. The novel contains recipes and contains considerable information about food: Take fusilli […] People say this pasta was designed by Leonardo da Vinci himself. The spiral fins carry the biggest amount of sauce relative to the surface area, you see? But it only works with a thick, heavy sauce that can cling to the grooves. Conchiglie, on the other hand, is like a shell, so it holds a thin, liquid sauce inside it perfectly (17). Recipes: Dishing Up Death Crime fiction is a genre with a long history of focusing on food; from the theft of food in the novels of the nineteenth century to the utilisation of many different types of food such as chocolate, marmalade, and sweet omelettes to administer poison (Berkeley, Christie, Sayers), the latter vehicle for arsenic receiving much attention in Harriet Vane’s trial in Dorothy L. Sayers’s Strong Poison (1930). The Judge, in summing up the case, states to the members of the jury: “Four eggs were brought to the table in their shells, and Mr Urquhart broke them one by one into a bowl, adding sugar from a sifter [...he then] cooked the omelette in a chafing dish, filled it with hot jam” (14). Prior to what Timothy Taylor has described as the “pre-foodie era” the crime fiction genre was “littered with corpses whose last breaths smelled oddly sweet, or bitter, or of almonds” (online). Of course not all murders are committed in such a subtle fashion. In Roald Dahl’s Lamb to the Slaughter (1953), Mary Maloney murders her policeman husband, clubbing him over the head with a frozen leg of lamb. The meat is roasting nicely when her husband’s colleagues arrive to investigate his death, the lamb is offered and consumed: the murder weapon now beyond the recovery of investigators. Recent years have also seen more and more crime fiction writers present a central protagonist working within the food industry, drawing connections between the skills required for food preparation and those needed to catch a murderer. Working with cooks or crooks, or both, requires planning and people skills in addition to creative thinking, dedication, reliability, stamina, and a willingness to take risks. Kent Carroll insists that “food and mysteries just go together” (Carroll in Calta), with crime fiction website Stop, You’re Killing Me! listing, at the time of writing, over 85 culinary-based crime fiction series, there is certainly sufficient evidence to support his claim. Of the numerous works available that focus on food there are many series that go beyond featuring food and beverages, to present recipes as well as the solving of crimes. These include: the Candy Holliday Murder Mysteries by B. B. Haywood; the Coffeehouse Mysteries by Cleo Coyle; the Hannah Swensen Mysteries by Joanne Fluke; the Hemlock Falls Mysteries by Claudia Bishop; the Memphis BBQ Mysteries by Riley Adams; the Piece of Cake Mysteries by Jacklyn Brady; the Tea Shop Mysteries by Laura Childs; and, the White House Chef Mysteries by Julie Hyzy. The vast majority of offerings within this female dominated sub-genre that has been labelled “Crime and Dine” (Collins online) are American, both in origin and setting. A significant contribution to this increasingly popular formula is, however, from an Australian author Kerry Greenwood. Food features within her famed Phryne Fisher Series with recipes included in A Question of Death (2007). Recipes also form part of Greenwood’s food-themed collection of short crime stories Recipes for Crime (1995), written with Jenny Pausacker. These nine stories, each one imitating the style of one of crime fiction’s greatest contributors (from Agatha Christie to Raymond Chandler), allow readers to simultaneously access mysteries and recipes. 2004 saw the first publication of Earthly Delights and the introduction of her character, Corinna Chapman. This series follows the adventures of a woman who gave up a career as an accountant to open her own bakery in Melbourne. Corinna also investigates the occasional murder. Recipes can be found at the end of each of these books with the Corinna Chapman Recipe Book (nd), filled with instructions for baking bread, muffins and tea cakes in addition to recipes for main courses such as risotto, goulash, and “Chicken with Pineapple 1971 Style”, available from the publisher’s website. Recipes: Integration and Segregation In Heartburn (1983), Rachel acknowledges that presenting a work of fiction and a collection of recipes within a single volume can present challenges, observing: “I see that I haven’t managed to work in any recipes for a while. It’s hard to work in recipes when you’re moving the plot forward” (99). How Rachel tells her story is, however, a reflection of how she undertakes her work, with her own cookbooks being, she admits, more narration than instruction: “The cookbooks I write do well. They’re very personal and chatty–they’re cookbooks in an almost incidental way. I write chapters about friends or relatives or trips or experiences, and work in the recipes peripherally” (17). Some authors integrate detailed recipes into their narratives through description and dialogue. An excellent example of this approach can be found in the Coffeehouse Mystery Series by Cleo Coyle, in the novel On What Grounds (2003). When the central protagonist is being questioned by police, Clare Cosi’s answers are interrupted by a flashback scene and instructions on how to make Greek coffee: Three ounces of water and one very heaped teaspoon of dark roast coffee per serving. (I used half Italian roast, and half Maracaibo––a lovely Venezuelan coffee, named after the country’s major port; rich in flavour, with delicate wine overtones.) / Water and finely ground beans both go into the ibrik together. The water is then brought to a boil over medium heat (37). This provides insight into Clare’s character; that, when under pressure, she focuses her mind on what she firmly believes to be true – not the information that she is doubtful of or a situation that she is struggling to understand. Yet breaking up the action within a novel in this way–particularly within crime fiction, a genre that is predominantly dependant upon generating tension and building the pacing of the plotting to the climax–is an unusual but ultimately successful style of writing. Inquiry and instruction are comfortable bedfellows; as the central protagonists within these works discover whodunit, the readers discover who committed murder as well as a little bit more about one of the world’s most popular beverages, thus highlighting how cookbooks and novels both serve to entertain and to educate. Many authors will save their recipes, serving them up at the end of a story. This can be seen in Julie Hyzy’s White House Chef Mystery novels, the cover of each volume in the series boasts that it “includes Recipes for a Complete Presidential Menu!” These menus, with detailed ingredients lists, instructions for cooking and options for serving, are segregated from the stories and appear at the end of each work. Yet other writers will deploy a hybrid approach such as the one seen in Like Water for Chocolate (1989), where the ingredients are listed at the commencement of each chapter and the preparation for the recipes form part of the narrative. This method of integration is also deployed in The Kitchen Daughter (2011), which sees most of the chapters introduced with a recipe card, those chapters then going on to deal with action in the kitchen. Using recipes as chapter breaks is a structure that has, very recently, been adopted by Australian celebrity chef, food writer, and, now fiction author, Ed Halmagyi, in his new work, which is both cookbook and novel, The Food Clock: A Year of Cooking Seasonally (2012). As people exchange recipes in reality, so too do fictional characters. The Recipe Club (2009), by Andrea Israel and Nancy Garfinkel, is the story of two friends, Lilly Stone and Valerie Rudman, which is structured as an epistolary novel. As they exchange feelings, ideas and news in their correspondence, they also exchange recipes: over eighty of them throughout the novel in e-mails and letters. In The Food of Love (2004), written messages between two of the main characters are also used to share recipes. In addition, readers are able to post their own recipes, inspired by this book and other works by Anthony Capella, on the author’s website. From Page to Plate Some readers are contributing to the burgeoning food tourism market by seeking out the meals from the pages of their favourite novels in bars, cafés, and restaurants around the world, expanding the idea of “map as menu” (Spang 79). In Shannon McKenna Schmidt’s and Joni Rendon’s guide to literary tourism, Novel Destinations (2009), there is an entire section, “Eat Your Words: Literary Places to Sip and Sup”, dedicated to beverages and food. The listings include details for John’s Grill, in San Francisco, which still has on the menu Sam Spade’s Lamb Chops, served with baked potato and sliced tomatoes: a meal enjoyed by author Dashiell Hammett and subsequently consumed by his well-known protagonist in The Maltese Falcon (193), and the Café de la Paix, in Paris, frequented by Ian Fleming’s James Bond because “the food was good enough and it amused him to watch the people” (197). Those wanting to follow in the footsteps of writers can go to Harry’s Bar, in Venice, where the likes of Marcel Proust, Sinclair Lewis, Somerset Maugham, Ernest Hemingway, and Truman Capote have all enjoyed a drink (195) or The Eagle and Child, in Oxford, which hosted the regular meetings of the Inklings––a group which included C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien––in the wood-panelled Rabbit Room (203). A number of eateries have developed their own literary themes such as the Peacocks Tearooms, in Cambridgeshire, which blends their own teas. Readers who are also tea drinkers can indulge in the Sherlock Holmes (Earl Grey with Lapsang Souchong) and the Doctor Watson (Keemun and Darjeeling with Lapsang Souchong). Alternatively, readers may prefer to side with the criminal mind and indulge in the Moriarty (Black Chai with Star Anise, Pepper, Cinnamon, and Fennel) (Peacocks). The Moat Bar and Café, in Melbourne, situated in the basement of the State Library of Victoria, caters “to the whimsy and fantasy of the fiction housed above” and even runs a book exchange program (The Moat). For those readers who are unable, or unwilling, to travel the globe in search of such savoury and sweet treats there is a wide variety of locally-based literary lunches and other meals, that bring together popular authors and wonderful food, routinely organised by book sellers, literature societies, and publishing houses. There are also many cookbooks now easily obtainable that make it possible to re-create fictional food at home. One of the many examples available is The Book Lover’s Cookbook (2003) by Shaunda Kennedy Wenger and Janet Kay Jensen, a work containing over three hundred pages of: Breakfasts; Main & Side Dishes; Soups; Salads; Appetizers, Breads & Other Finger Foods; Desserts; and Cookies & Other Sweets based on the pages of children’s books, literary classics, popular fiction, plays, poetry, and proverbs. If crime fiction is your preferred genre then you can turn to Jean Evans’s The Crime Lover’s Cookbook (2007), which features short stories in between the pages of recipes. There is also Estérelle Payany’s Recipe for Murder (2010) a beautifully illustrated volume that presents detailed instructions for Pigs in a Blanket based on the Big Bad Wolf’s appearance in The Three Little Pigs (44–7), and Roast Beef with Truffled Mashed Potatoes, which acknowledges Patrick Bateman’s fondness for fine dining in Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho (124–7). Conclusion Cookbooks and many popular fiction novels are reflections of each other in terms of creativity, function, and structure. In some instances the two forms are so closely entwined that a single volume will concurrently share a narrative while providing information about, and instruction, on cookery. Indeed, cooking in books is becoming so popular that the line that traditionally separated cookbooks from other types of books, such as romance or crime novels, is becoming increasingly distorted. The separation between food and fiction is further blurred by food tourism and how people strive to experience some of the foods found within fictional works at bars, cafés, and restaurants around the world or, create such experiences in their own homes using fiction-themed recipe books. Food has always been acknowledged as essential for life; books have long been acknowledged as food for thought and food for the soul. Thus food in both the real world and in the imagined world serves to nourish and sustain us in these ways. References Adams, Riley. Delicious and Suspicious. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Finger Lickin’ Dead. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Hickory Smoked Homicide. New York: Berkley, 2011. Baltazar, Lori. “A Novel About Food, Recipes Included [Book review].” Dessert Comes First. 28 Feb. 2012. 20 Aug. 2012 ‹http://dessertcomesfirst.com/archives/8644›. Berkeley, Anthony. The Poisoned Chocolates Case. London: Collins, 1929. Bishop, Claudia. Toast Mortem. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Dread on Arrival. New York: Berkley, 2012. Brady, Jacklyn. A Sheetcake Named Desire. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Cake on a Hot Tin Roof. New York: Berkley, 2012. Calta, Marialisa. “The Art of the Novel as Cookbook.” The New York Times. 17 Feb. 1993. 23 Jul. 2012 ‹http://www.nytimes.com/1993/02/17/style/the-art-of-the-novel-as-cookbook.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm›. Capella, Anthony. The Food of Love. London: Time Warner, 2004/2005. Carroll, Kent in Calta, Marialisa. “The Art of the Novel as Cookbook.” The New York Times. 17 Feb. 1993. 23 Jul. 2012 ‹http://www.nytimes.com/1993/02/17/style/the-art-of-the-novel-as-cookbook.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm›. Childs, Laura. Death by Darjeeling. New York: Berkley, 2001. –– Shades of Earl Grey. New York: Berkley, 2003. –– Blood Orange Brewing. New York: Berkley, 2006/2007. –– The Teaberry Strangler. New York: Berkley, 2010/2011. Collins, Glenn. “Your Favourite Fictional Crime Moments Involving Food.” The New York Times Diner’s Journal: Notes on Eating, Drinking and Cooking. 16 Jul. 2012. 17 Jul. 2012 ‹http://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/16/your-favorite-fictional-crime-moments-involving-food›. Coyle, Cleo. On What Grounds. New York: Berkley, 2003. –– Murder Most Frothy. New York: Berkley, 2006. –– Holiday Grind. New York: Berkley, 2009/2010. –– Roast Mortem. New York: Berkley, 2010/2011. Christie, Agatha. A Pocket Full of Rye. London: Collins, 1953. Dahl, Roald. Lamb to the Slaughter: A Roald Dahl Short Story. New York: Penguin, 1953/2012. eBook. Dickens, Charles. Oliver Twist, or, the Parish Boy’s Progress. In Collection of Ancient and Modern British Authors, Vol. CCXXIX. Paris: Baudry’s European Library, 1838/1839. Duran, Nancy, and Karen MacDonald. “Information Sources for Food Studies Research.” Food, Culture and Society: An International Journal of Multidisciplinary Research 2.9 (2006): 233–43. Ephron, Nora. Heartburn. New York: Vintage, 1983/1996. Esquivel, Laura. Trans. Christensen, Carol, and Thomas Christensen. Like Water for Chocolate: A Novel in Monthly Instalments with Recipes, romances and home remedies. London: Black Swan, 1989/1993. Evans, Jeanne M. The Crime Lovers’s Cookbook. City: Happy Trails, 2007. Fluke, Joanne. Fudge Cupcake Murder. New York: Kensington, 2004. –– Key Lime Pie Murder. New York: Kensington, 2007. –– Cream Puff Murder. New York: Kensington, 2009. –– Apple Turnover Murder. New York: Kensington, 2010. Greenwood, Kerry, and Jenny Pausacker. Recipes for Crime. Carlton: McPhee Gribble, 1995. Greenwood, Kerry. The Corinna Chapman Recipe Book: Mouth-Watering Morsels to Make Your Man Melt, Recipes from Corinna Chapman, Baker and Reluctant Investigator. nd. 25 Aug. 2012 ‹http://www.allenandunwin.com/_uploads/documents/minisites/Corinna_recipebook.pdf›. –– A Question of Death: An Illustrated Phryne Fisher Treasury. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2007. Halmagyi, Ed. The Food Clock: A Year of Cooking Seasonally. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2012. Haywood, B. B. Town in a Blueberry Jam. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Town in a Lobster Stew. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Town in a Wild Moose Chase. New York: Berkley, 2012. Hyzy, Julie. State of the Onion. New York: Berkley, 2008. –– Hail to the Chef. New York: Berkley, 2008. –– Eggsecutive Orders. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Buffalo West Wing. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Affairs of Steak. New York: Berkley, 2012. Israel, Andrea, and Nancy Garfinkel, with Melissa Clark. The Recipe Club: A Novel About Food And Friendship. New York: HarperCollins, 2009. McHenry, Jael. The Kitchen Daughter: A Novel. New York: Gallery, 2011. Mitchell, Margaret. Gone With the Wind. London: Pan, 1936/1974 O’Reilly, Brian, with Virginia O’Reilly. Angelina’s Bachelors: A Novel, with Food. New York: Gallery, 2011. Payany, Estérelle. Recipe for Murder: Frightfully Good Food Inspired by Fiction. Paris: Flammarion, 2010. Peacocks Tearooms. Peacocks Tearooms: Our Unique Selection of Teas. 23 Aug. 2012 ‹http://www.peacockstearoom.co.uk/teas/page1.asp›. Piatti-Farnell, Lorna. “A Taste of Conflict: Food, History and Popular Culture In Katherine Mansfield’s Fiction.” Australasian Journal of Popular Culture 2.1 (2012): 79–91. Risson, Toni, and Donna Lee Brien. “Editors’ Letter: That Takes the Cake: A Slice Of Australasian Food Studies Scholarship.” Australasian Journal of Popular Culture 2.1 (2012): 3–7. Sayers, Dorothy L. Strong Poison. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1930/2003. Schmidt, Shannon McKenna, and Joni Rendon. Novel Destinations: Literary Landmarks from Jane Austen’s Bath to Ernest Hemingway’s Key West. Washington, DC: National Geographic, 2009. Shange, Ntozake. Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo: A Novel. New York: St Martin’s, 1982. Spang, Rebecca L. “All the World’s A Restaurant: On The Global Gastronomics Of Tourism and Travel.” In Raymond Grew (Ed). Food in Global History. Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1999. 79–91. Taylor, Timothy. “Food/Crime Fiction.” Timothy Taylor. 2010. 17 Jul. 2012 ‹http://www.timothytaylor.ca/10/08/20/foodcrime-fiction›. The Moat Bar and Café. The Moat Bar and Café: Welcome. nd. 23 Aug. 2012 ‹http://themoat.com.au/Welcome.html›. Wenger, Shaunda Kennedy, and Janet Kay Jensen. The Book Lover’s Cookbook: Recipes Inspired by Celebrated Works of Literature, and the Passages that Feature Them. New York: Ballantine, 2003/2005.

She leant lazily across the picnic hamper and reached for my hearing aid in my open-palmed hand. I jerked away from her, batting her hand away from mine. The glare of the summer sun blinded me. I struck empty air. Her tendril-fingers seized the beige seashell curve of my hearing aid and she lifted the cargo of sound towards her eyes. She peered at the empty battery-cage before flicking it open and shut as if it was a cigarette lighter, as if she could spark hearing-life into this trick of plastic and metal that held no meaning outside of my ear. I stared at her. A band of horror tightened around my throat, strangling my shout: ‘Don’t do that!’ I clenched my fist around the new battery that I had been about to insert into my hearing aid and imagined it speeding like a bullet towards her heart. This dream arrived as I researched my anthology of memoir-style essays on deafness, The Art of Being. I had already been reflecting and writing for several years about my relationship with my deaf-self and the impact of my deafness on my life, but I remained uneasy about writing about my deaf-life. I’ve lived all my adult life entirely in the hearing world, and so recasting myself as a deaf woman with something pressing to say about deaf people’s lives felt disturbing. The urgency to tell my story and my anxiety to contest certain assumptions about deafness were real, but I was hampered by diffidence. The dream felt potent, as if my deaf-self was asserting itself, challenging my hearing persona. I was the sole deaf child in a family of five muddling along in a weatherboard war commission house at The Grange in Brisbane during the nineteen fifties and nineteen sixties. My father’s resume included being in the army during World War Two, an official for the boxing events at the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games and a bookie with a gift for telling stories. My mother had spent her childhood on a cherry orchard in Young, worked as a nurse in war-time Sydney and married my father in Townsville after a whirlwind romance on Magnetic Island before setting up home in Brisbane. My older sister wore her dark hair in thick Annie-Oakley style plaits and my brother took me on a hike along the Kedron Brook one summer morning before lunchtime. My parents did not know of any deaf relatives in their families, and my sister and brother did not have any friends with deaf siblings. There was just me, the little deaf girl. Most children are curious about where they come from. Such curiosity marks their first foray into sexual development and sense of identity. I don’t remember expressing such curiosity. Instead, I was diverted by my mother’s story of her discovery that I was deaf. The way my mother tells the story, it is as if I had two births with the date of the diagnosis of my deafness marking my real arrival, over-riding the false start of my physical birth three years earlier. Once my mother realized that I was deaf, she was able to get on with it, the ‘it’ being to defy the inevitability of a constrained life for her deaf child. My mother came out swinging; by hook or by crook, her deaf daughter was going to learn to speak and to be educated and to take her place in the hearing world and to live a normal life and that was that. She found out about the Commonwealth Acoustics Laboratory (now known as Australian Hearing Services) where, after I completed a battery of auditory tests, I was fitted with a hearing aid. This was a small metal box, to be worn in a harness around my body, with a long looping plastic cord connected to a beige ear-mould. An instrument for piercing silence, it absorbed and conveyed sounds, with those sounds eventually separating themselves out into patterns of words and finally into strings of sentences. Without my hearing aid, if I am concentrating, and if the sounds are made loudly, I am aware of the sounds at the deeper end of the scale. Sometimes, it’s not so much that I can hear them; it’s more that I know that those sounds are happening. My aural memory of the deep-register sounds helps me to “hear” them, much like the recollection of any tune replays itself in your imagination. With and without my hearing aids, if I am not watching the source of those sounds – for example, if the sounds are taking place in another room or even just behind me – I am not immediately able to distinguish whether the sounds are conversational or musical or happy or angry. I can only discriminate once I’ve established the rhythm of the sounds; if the rhythm is at a tearing, jagged pace with an exaggerated rise and fall in the volume, I might reasonably assume that angry words are being had. I cannot hear high-pitched sounds at all, with and without my hearing aids: I cannot hear sibilants, the “cees” and “esses” and “zeds”. I cannot hear those sounds which bounce or puff off from your lips, such as the letters “b” and “p”; I cannot hear that sound which trampolines from the press of your tongue against the back of your front teeth, the letter “t”. With a hearing-aid I can hear and discriminate among the braying, hee-hawing, lilting, oohing and twanging sounds of the vowels ... but only if I am concentrating, and if I am watching the source of the sounds. Without my hearing aid, I might also hear sharp and sudden sounds like the clap of hands or crash of plates, depending on the volume of the noise. But I cannot hear the ring of the telephone, or the chime of the door bell, or the urgent siren of an ambulance speeding down the street. My hearing aid helps me to hear some of these sounds. I was a pupil in an oral-deaf education program for five years until the end of 1962. During those years, I was variously coaxed, dragooned and persuaded into the world of hearing. I was introduced to a world of bubbles, balloons and fingers placed on lips to learn the shape, taste and feel of sounds, their push and pull of air through tongue and lips. By these mechanics, I gained entry to the portal of spoken, rather than signed, speech. When I was eight years old, my parents moved me from the Gladstone Road School for the Deaf in Dutton Park to All Hallows, an inner-city girls’ school, for the start of Grade Three. I did not know, of course, that I was also leaving my world of deaf friends to begin a new life immersed in the hearing world. I had no way of understanding that this act of transferring me from one school to another was a profound statement of my parents’ hopes for me. They wanted me to have a life in which I would enjoy all the advantages and opportunities routinely available to hearing people. Like so many parents before them, ‘they had to find answers that might not, for all they knew, exist . . . How far would I be able to lead a ‘normal’ life? . . . How would I earn a living? You can imagine what forebodings weighed on them. They could not know that things might work out better than they feared’ (Wright, 22). Now, forty-four years later, I have been reflecting on the impact of that long-ago decision made on my behalf by my parents. They made the right decision for me. The quality of my life reflects the rightness of their decision. I have enjoyed a satisfying career in social work and public policy embedded in a life of love and friendships. This does not mean that I believe that my parents’ decision to remove me from one world to another would necessarily be the right decision for another deaf child. I am not a zealot for the cause of oralism despite its obvious benefits. I am, however, stirred by the Gemini-like duality within me, the deaf girl who is twin to the hearing persona I show to the world, to tell my story of deafness as precisely as I can. Before I can do this, I have to find that story because it is not as apparent to me as might be expected. In an early published memoir-essay about my deaf girlhood, I Hear with My Eyes (in Schulz), I wrote about my mother’s persistence in making sure that I learnt to speak rather than sign, the assumed communication strategy for most deaf people back in the 1950s. I crafted a selection of anecdotes, ranging in tone, I hoped, from sad to tender to laugh-out-loud funny. I speculated on the meaning of certain incidents in defining who I am and the successes I have enjoyed as a deaf woman in a hearing world. When I wrote this essay, I searched for what I wanted to say. I thought, by the end of it, that I’d said everything that I wanted to say. I was ready to move on, to write about other things. However, I was delayed by readers’ responses to that essay and to subsequent public speaking engagements. Some people who read my essay told me that they liked its fresh, direct approach. Others said that they were moved by it. Friends were curious and fascinated to get the inside story of my life as a deaf person as it has not been a topic of conversation or inquiry among us. They felt that they’d learnt something about what it means to be deaf. Many responses to my essay and public presentations had relief and surprise as their emotional core. Parents have cried on hearing me talk about the fullness of my life and seem to regard me as having given them permission to hope for their own deaf children. Educators have invited me to speak at parent education evenings because ‘to have an adult who has a hearing impairment and who has developed great spoken language and is able to communicate in the community at large – that would be a great encouragement and inspiration for our families’ (Email, April 2007). I became uncomfortable about these responses because I was not sure that I had been as honest or direct as I could have been. What lessons on being deaf have people absorbed by reading my essay and listening to my presentations? I did not set out to be duplicitous, but I may have embraced the writer’s aim for the neatly curved narrative arc at the cost of the flinty self-regarding eye and the uncertain conclusion. * * * Let me start again. I was born deaf at a time, in the mid 1950s, when people still spoke of the ‘deaf-mute’ or the ‘deaf and dumb.’ I belonged to a category of children who attracted the gaze of the curious, the kind, and the cruel with mixed results. We were bombarded with questions we could either not hear and so could not answer, or that made us feel we were objects for exploration. We were the patronized beneficiaries of charitable picnics organized for ‘the disadvantaged and the handicapped.’ Occasionally, we were the subject of taunts, with words such as ‘spastic’ being speared towards us as if to be called such a name was a bad thing. I glossed over this muddled social response to deafness in my published essay. I cannot claim innocence as my defence. I knew I was glossing over it but I thought this was right and proper: after all, why stir up jagged memories? Aren’t some things better left unexpressed? Besides, keep the conversation nice, I thought. The nature of readers’ responses to my essay provoked me into a deeper exploration of deafness. I was shocked by the intensity of so many parents’ grief and anxiety about their children’s deafness, and frustrated by the notion that I am an inspiration because I am deaf but oral. I wondered what this implied about my childhood deaf friends who may not speak orally as well as I do, but who nevertheless enjoy fulfilling lives. I was stunned by the admission of a mother of a five year old deaf son who, despite not being able to speak, has not been taught how to Sign. She said, ‘Now that I’ve met you, I’m not so frightened of deaf people anymore.’ My shock may strike the average hearing person as naïve, but I was unnerved that so many parents of children newly diagnosed with deafness were grasping my words with the relief of people who have long ago lost hope in the possibilities for their deaf sons and daughters. My shock is not directed at these parents but at some unnameable ‘thing out there.’ What is going on out there in the big world that, 52 years after my mother experienced her own grief, bewilderment, anxiety and quest to forge a good life for her little deaf daughter, contemporary parents are still experiencing those very same fears and asking the same questions? Why do parents still receive the news of their child’s deafness as a death sentence of sorts, the death of hope and prospects for their child, when the facts show – based on my own life experiences and observations of my deaf school friends’ lives – that far from being a death sentence, the diagnosis of deafness simply propels a child into a different life, not a lesser life? Evidently, a different sort of silence has been created over the years; not the silence of hearing loss but the silence of lost stories, invisible stories, unspoken stories. I have contributed to that silence. For as long as I can remember, and certainly for all of my adult life, I have been careful to avoid being identified as ‘a deaf person.’ Although much of my career was taken up with considering the equity dilemmas of people with a disability, I had never assumed the mantle of advocacy for deaf people or deaf rights. Some of my early silence about deaf identity politics was consistent with my desire not to shine the torch on myself in this way. I did not want to draw attention to myself by what I did not have, that is, less hearing than other people. I thought that if I lived my life as fully as possible in the hearing world and with as little fuss as possible, then my success in blending in would be eloquence enough. If I was going to attract attention, I wanted it to be on the basis of merit, on what I achieved. Others would draw the conclusions that needed to be drawn, that is, that deaf people can take their place fully in the hearing world. I also accepted that if I was to be fully ‘successful’ – and I didn’t investigate the meaning of that word for many years – in the hearing world, then I ought to isolate myself from my deaf friends and from the deaf culture. I continued to miss them, particularly one childhood friend, but I was resolute. I never seriously explored the possibility of straddling both worlds, despite the occasional invitation to do so. For example, one of my childhood deaf friends, Damien, visited me at my parents’ home once, when we were both still in our teens. He was keen for me to join him in the Deaf Theatre, but I couldn’t muster the emotional dexterity that I felt this required. Instead, I let myself to be content to hear news of my childhood deaf friends through the grape-vine. This was, inevitably, a patchy process that lent itself to caricature. Single snippets of information about this person or that person ballooned into portrait-size depictions of their lives as I sketched the remaining blanks of their history with my imagination as my only tool. My capacity to be content with my imagination faltered. * * * Despite the construction of public images of deafness around the highly visible performance of hand-signed communication, the ‘how-small-can-we-go?’ advertorials of hearing aids and the cochlear implant with its head-worn speech processor, deafness is often described as ‘the invisible disability.’ My own experience bore this out. I became increasingly self-conscious about the singularity of my particular success, moderate in the big scheme of things though that may be. I looked around me and wondered ‘Why don’t I bump into more deaf people during the course of my daily life?’ After all, I am not a recluse. I have broad interests. I have travelled a lot, and have enjoyed a policy career for some thirty years, spanning the three tiers of government and scaling the competitive ladder with a reasonable degree of nimbleness. Such a career has got me out and about quite a bit: up and down the Queensland coast and out west, down to Sydney, Melbourne, Canberra, Adelaide and Hobart, and to the United Kingdom. And yet, not once in those thirty years did I get to share an office or a chance meeting or a lunch break with another deaf person. The one exception took place in the United Kingdom when I attended a national conference in which the keynote speaker was the Chairman of the Audit Commission, a man whose charisma outshines his profound deafness. After my return to Australia from the United Kingdom, a newspaper article about an education centre for deaf children in a leafy suburb of Brisbane, prompted me into action. I decided to investigate what was going on in the world of education for deaf children and so, one warm morning in 2006, I found myself waiting in the foyer for the centre’s clinical director. I flicked through a bundle of brochures and newsletters. They were loaded with images of smiling children wearing cochlear implants. Their message was clear: a cochlear implant brought joy, communication and participation in all that the world has to offer. This seemed an easy miracle. I had arrived with an open mind but now found myself feeling unexpectedly tense, as if I was about to walk a high-wire without the benefit of a safety net. Not knowing the reason for my fear, I swallowed it and smiled at the director in greeting upon her arrival. She is physically a small person but her energy is large. Her passion is bracing. That morning, she was quick to assert the power of cochlear implants by simply asking me, ‘Have you ever considered having an implant?’ When I shook my head, she looked at me appraisingly, ‘I’m sure you’d benefit from it’ before ushering me into a room shining with sun-dappled colour and crowded with a mess of little boys and girls. The children were arrayed in a democracy of shorts, shirts, and sandals. Only the occasional hair-ribbon or newly pressed skirt separated this girl from that boy. Some young mothers and fathers, their faces stretched with tension, stood or sat around the room’s perimeter watching their infant children. The noise in the room was orchestral, rising and falling to a mash of shouts, cries and squeals. A table had been set with several plastic plates in which diced pieces of browning apple, orange slices and melon chunks swam in a pond of juice. Some small children clustered around it, waiting to be served. When they finished their morning fruit, they were rounded up to sit at the front of the room, before a teacher poised with finger-puppets of ducks. I tripped over a red plastic chair – its tiny size designed to accommodate an infant’s bottom and small-sausage legs – and lowered myself onto it to take in the events going on around me. The little boys and girls laughed merrily as they watched their teacher narrate the story of a mother duck and her five baby ducks. Her hands moved in a flurry of duck-billed mimicry. ‘“Quack! Quack! Quack!” said the mother duck!’ The parents trilled along in time with the teacher. As I watched the children at the education centre that sunny morning, I saw that my silence had acted as a brake of sorts. I had, for too long, buried the chance to understand better the complex lives of deaf people as we negotiate the claims and demands of the hearing world. While it is true that actions speak louder than words, the occasional spoken and written word must surely help things along a little. I also began to reflect on the apparent absence of the inter-generational transfer of wisdom and insights born of experience rather than academic studies. Why does each new generation of parents approach the diagnosis of their newborn child’s disability or deafness with such intensity of fear, helplessness and dread for their child’s fate? I am not querying the inevitability of parents experiencing disappointment and shock at receiving unexpected news. I accept that to be born deaf means to be born with less than perfect hearing. All the same, it ought not to be inevitable that parents endure sustained grief about their child’s prospects. They ought to be illuminated as quickly as possible about all that is possible for their child. In particular, they ought to be encouraged to enjoy great hopes for their child. I mused about the power of story-telling to influence attitudes. G. Thomas Couser claims that ‘life writing can play a significant role in changing public attitudes about deafness’ (221) but then proceeds to cast doubt on his own assertion by later asking, ‘to what degree and how do the extant narratives of deafness rewrite the discourse of disability? Indeed, to what degree and how do they manage to represent the experience of deafness at all?’ (225). Certainly, stories from the Deaf community do not speak for me as my life has not been shaped by the framing of deafness as a separate linguistic and cultural entity. Nor am I drawn to the militancy of identity politics that uses terms such as ‘oppression’ and ‘oppressors’ to deride the efforts of parents and educators to teach deaf children to speak (Lane; Padden and Humphries). This seems to be unhelpfully hostile and assumes that deafness is the sole arbitrating reason that deaf people struggle with understanding who they are. It is the nature of being human to struggle with who we are. Whether we are deaf, migrants, black, gay, mentally ill – or none of these things – we are all answerable to the questions: ‘who am I and what is my place in the world?’ As I cast around for stories of deafness and deaf people with which I could relate, I pondered on the relative infrequency of deaf characters in literature, and the scarcity of autobiographies by deaf writers or biographies of deaf people by either deaf or hearing people. I also wondered whether written stories of deafness, memoirs and fiction, shape public perceptions or do they simply respond to existing public perceptions of deafness? As Susan DeGaia, a deaf academic at California State University writes, ‘Analysing the way stories are told can show us a lot about who is most powerful, most heard, whose perspective matters most to society. I think if we polled deaf/Deaf people, we would find many things missing from the stories that are told about them’ (DeGaia). Fighting my diffidence in staking out my persona as a ‘deaf woman’ and mustering the ‘conviction as to the importance of what [I have] to say, [my] right to say it’ (Olsen 27), I decided to write The Art of Being Deaf, an anthology of personal essays in the manner of reflective memoirs on deafness drawing on my own life experiences and supported by additional research. This presented me with a narrative dilemma because my deafness is just one of several life-events by which I understand myself. I wanted to find fresh ways of telling stories of deaf experiences while fashioning my memoir essays to show the texture of my life in all its variousness. A.N.Wilson’s observation about the precarious insensitivity of biographical writing was my guiding pole-star: the sense of our own identity is fluid and tolerant, whereas our sense of the identity of others is always more fixed and quite often edges towards caricature. We know within ourselves that we can be twenty different persons in a single day and that the attempt to explain our personality is doomed to become a falsehood after only a few words ... . And yet ... works of literature, novels and biographies depend for their aesthetic success precisely on this insensitive ability to simplify, to describe, to draw lines around another person and say, ‘This is she’ or ‘This is he.’ I have chosen to explore my relationship with my deafness through the multiple-threads of writing several personal essays as my story-telling vehicle rather than as a single-thread autobiography. The multiple-thread approach to telling my stories also sought to avoid the pitfalls of identity narrative in which I might unwittingly set myself up as an exemplar of one sort or another, be it as a ‘successful deaf person’ or as an ‘angry militant deaf activist’ or as ‘a deaf individual in denial attempting to pass as hearing.’ But in seeking to avoid these sorts of stories, what autobiographical story am I trying to tell? Because, other than being deaf, my life is not otherwise especially unusual. It is pitted here with sadness and lifted there with joy, but it is mostly a plateau held stable by the grist of daily life. Christopher Jon Heuer recognises this dilemma when he writes, ‘neither autobiography nor biography nor fiction can survive without discord. Without it, we are left with boredom. Without it, what we have is the lack of a point, a theme and a plot’ (Heuer 196). By writing The Art of Being Deaf, I am learning more than I have to teach. In the absence of deaf friends or mentors, and in the climate of my own reluctance to discuss my concerns with hearing people who, when I do flag any anxieties about issues arising from my deafness tend to be hearty and upbeat in their responses, I have had to work things out for myself. In hindsight, I suspect that I have simply ignored most of my deafness-related difficulties, leaving the heavy lifting work to my parents, teachers, and friends – ‘for it is the non-deaf who absorb a large part of the disability’ (Wright, 5) – and just got on with things by complying with what was expected of me, usually to good practical effect but at the cost of enriching my understanding of myself and possibly at the cost of intimacy. Reading deaf fiction and memoirs during the course of this writing project is proving to be helpful for me. I enjoy the companionability of it, but not until I got over my fright at seeing so many documented versions of deaf experiences, and it was a fright. For a while there, it was like walking through the Hall of Mirrors in Luna Park. Did I really look like that? Or no, perhaps I was like that? But no, here’s another turn, another mirror, another face. Spinning, twisting, turning. It was only when I stopped searching for the right mirror, the single defining portrait, that I began to enjoy seeing my deaf-self/hearing-persona experiences reflected in, or challenged by, what I read. Other deaf writers’ recollections are stirring into fresh life my own buried memories, prompting me to re-imagine them so that I can examine my responses to those experiences more contemplatively and less reactively than I might have done originally. We can learn about the diversity of deaf experiences and the nuances of deaf identity that rise above the stock symbolic scripts by reading authentic, well-crafted stories by memoirists and novelists. Whether they are hearing or deaf writers, by providing different perspectives on deafness, they have something useful to say, demonstrate and illustrate about deafness and deaf people. I imagine the possibility of my book, The Art of Being Deaf, providing a similar mentoring role to other deaf people and families.References Couser, G. Thomas. Recovering Bodies: Illness, Disablity, and Life Writing. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997. Heuer, Christopher Jon. ‘Deafness as Conflict and Conflict Component.’ Sign Language Studies 7.2 (Winter 2007): 195-199. Lane, Harlan. When the Mind Hears: A History of the Deaf. New York: Random House, 1984 Olsen, Tillie. Silences. New York: Delta/Seymour Lawrence. 1978. Padden, Carol, and Tom Humphries. Deaf in America: Voices from a Culture. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998. Schulz, J. (ed). A Revealed Life. Sydney: ABC Books and Griffith Review. 2007 Wilson, A.N. Incline Our Hearts. London: Penguin Books. 1988. Wright, David. Deafness: An Autobiography. New York: Stein and Day, 1969.

Getting the Family Together: A Fieldwork Account The final gig of Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band’s 2013 tour is a hometown show at New Lambton Community Hall in Newcastle on the coast of New South Wales, Australia. The tour had already covered Newcastle and surrounds at various locations within 50 to 100km of the Newcastle CBD. In addition to lead singer and guitarist Bob Corbett, there are three main members of the Roo Grass Band, Sue Carson on fiddle and mandolin, Dave Carter on banjo, bass and bagpipes and Robbie Long on guitar, mandolin and bass. I enter the building and at the top of the stairs a tall, slim woman with a shock of red hair rushes to greet me with a hug, “It is so good to see you!”This is Veronica, Bob Corbett’s Mum. She’s been busy setting up the merchandise desk, taking tickets, and greeting almost every member of the audience by name. Veronica has functioned as de facto tour manager throughout the band’s Lucky Country Hall Tour. As well as running the merchandise desk and ticketing, she’s occasionally acted as roadie, and has supervised the packing of cars and trailers. These day-to-day jobs on the tour have been done with help from either her sister Roberta or, for most of the tour, a close friend of the band, Jenny. I deposit home-made chocolate brownies and biscuits in the kitchen, setting them up alongside fruit brownies made by Veronica for the audience. Bob’s wife, Kirrily, comes and says hello, followed by their son Marley, who heads straight for the goodies. Their daughter Matilda is running around with her best friend and next-door neighbour, Sophie. Dave, who plays banjo, bass and bagpipes in the band, greets his wife Karen as she arrives with their kids. The band’s fiddle player, Sue, is pacing around, looking fractious. I ask if she’s okay. “Yeah, it is just that my family is meant to be here already and they’re running late. They’re going to miss it.”Not long after, Sue’s partner, Michael (who is also Veronica’s brother, Bob’s uncle) arrives with their son Elijah and his son Gabe, in time for the show. This final gig of the tour seemed to have been largely arranged for the families of the band, and there was little advertising for it. In the way of family get-togethers a mix of tension and excitement fill the room. But once the band starts playing things calm down, a group of kids occupy the dance floor, twirling, swaying, skipping and running along with the music. Family, Authenticity, and Commercial Practices in Australian Country MusicI open with this fieldwork account to illuminate how the presence and involvement of family, through parents, spouses, aunts, uncles, children and even close friends are central to the experience of what it is to be a country music artist in Australia. In the case of Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band, for example, band members make choices to involve family in the activity of “being” a band—touring, performing, engaging with fans—and these choices have emotional value for them, but are also yoked to broader discourses of family which circulate in the field of Australian country music. This field story reveals that “family” is not something carved off from artists’ public engagement with the field of Australian country music but is central to it. Discourses of and around “family” are implicit in the practices of Australian country music artists and are strategically used by artists to define what country music is and what is valued in the field. Crucially, the discourse of family is used to support claims to authenticity within country music culture. Ideas about and associated practices concerning, “authenticity” permeate the culture of country music. The discourse reaches across all aspects of the field, and all participants in the scene are compelled to at least turn their minds to questions of authenticity, and develop strategies for dealing with them. Value is conferred on artists seen to convey so-called “true” and “genuine” personas. Indeed the country music community demands something referred to as “honesty” from performers. It needs to be noted that country music is a commercial popular music form and culture. Many agents in the scene have an uneasy symbolic relationship with the commercial aspects of country music, but it is a basic premise within the field: the music exists to make money. This is not to say that financial and popular success (in their quantifiable forms: money made, units sold, crowd sizes, radio spins) is the only thing valued in country music. As a form of cultural capital, authenticity is also valued. But within Australian country music a tension exists between the part of field underpinned by commercial logic and the idea of the popular and those underpinned by notions of creativity, independence and musical integrity. Authenticity is deployed to distinguish country music from other styles of music in a number of keys ways. Authenticity can be taken as an essential quality of music, which “honestly” reflects or expresses an identity or experience (e.g., Australian national identity, rural experience, heartbreak) (Watson, Volume 1; Watson, Volume 2; Sanjek); as a proper way of relating music, artist and audience (Smith); as a ideological watchword which tempers commerciality (Sanjek); or as something “fabricated” or constructed in the codification of the genre (Akenson; Peterson; Carriage and Hayward). I am not positing authenticity as a feature unique to Australian country music. A number of authors have highlighted the role authenticity plays in many forms of popular music to navigate, understand or obfuscate the functions of the commercial music industry and shape its output (Frith; Sanjek; Barker and Taylor). The scholarship on country music and popular music in general often explores how authenticity is inscribed in the products of country music, rather than the processes and practices behind those products: the everyday, extra-musical activities of participants in the scene. This article is concerned then with how discourses of authenticity are sutured to business, musical and promotional practices, and how such tropes function alongside discourses and practices concerning “family” in the negotiation of commercial realities in Australian country music. Rather than looking at end products, my research takes a ground-up approach, exploring what people are doing and how they talk about their practices and decisions. Discourses of “family”, and practices around kin, provide one of many possible entry points for this exploration. MethodologyThis article is based on ethnographic research on Australian country music. Between 2012-2014 I spent many months of focused immersion with Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band at festivals and on tour. This research was part of broader participant observation I conducted which included attending more than 150 country music events across New South Wales and Queensland. I also conducted hundreds of informal interviews at these events, as well as in-depth, semi-structured interviews with key informants, including band members Bob Corbett, Sue Carson, Robbie Long, and Michael Carpenter (sometimes drummer).Bob Corbett was recognised by the “mainstream” Australian country music scene in 2012 after winning the Star Maker competition. Since the win Bob and the band’s success within the field has increased—higher album sales, larger crowds, more airplay, recognition, sponsorships and nomination for Golden Guitar Awards (the main Australian country music industry awards). They play a mercurial mix of styles including bluegrass, Western swing, pop folk, and rock. At the core is a concern with storytelling and live, acoustic based performance is central. Bob and the band are primarily engaging with the field of Australian country music (through festivals, media, and self-identification), rather than the folk or bluegrass scenes, which, while related, are distinct fields with different logics, rules and relations.The conceptual framework for this article is indebted to Pierre Bourdieu. In using the term “field” to talk about Australian country music, I understand it as a discrete, relatively autonomous social microcosm, which is located within the social space of Australian society and the broader music industry, yet it is ruled by logics which are “specific and irreducible to those that regulate other fields” (Bourdieu in Bourdieu and Wacquant 97). Australian country music consists of systems of relations, which define the occupants of the field—country musicians, country music stars, or country music fans (to name but a few)—and shape the products and practices of the field. Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band are participants in the field of Australian country music, and work to differentiate their position, and gain a monopoly over authority and influence within the field—to be recognised as successful, authentic country music artists (Bourdieu and Wacquant 100). This framework allows analytic space for exploring and understanding a tension between authenticity, as a form of cultural capital, and the commercial imperatives of country music as a popular music form.Family Bands and the Family BusinessThe significance and foregrounded presence of “family” within Australian country music is a result of the history of the field in which family bands have been prominent. The practice of touring with your spouse, children or other kin has been connected to a discourse of the “Family Band” in Australian country music. Slim Dusty and his family, as pioneers in the Australian country music industry, and arguably the most commercially and culturally successful artists in the scene’s history, are held up as an example par excellence of the country music canon, and provide the model for how country music should or could be done as a family. Slim, his wife Joy, daughter Anne Kirkpatrick and other extended family worked as a “family band” touring, performing, songwriting, recording, and being country music artists. As the “first family” Australian country music band (Baker; Ellis) they dominate the social and cultural imaginary of Australian country music. They represent a tradition of family involvement in the business of country music as a way of dealing with the practical realities of touring, providing emotional support and enjoyment, and as a part of a relatively conservative set of values drawn from country life­. These features work together to discursively distance the “family band” from the commercial music industry and imbue integrity and naturalness in those artists’ engagement with the music business. Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band is a family band: fiddle player Sue is Bob’s aunty; her partner Michael Stove, Bob’s uncle, was an original member of the Roo Grass Band. But more than that, the band understands themselves as a “family”. Sometimes-drummer in the band, Michael Carpenter, talked at length about the “Roo Grass Family” when I interviewed him, including the affective value he places on those relationships:I love it when Bob says… ‘Michael’s been a part of the Roo Grass family for a long time’ … it’s a very country music thing to say … when Bob says it, it actually means something, there’s a certain level of weight to it, because I know the way he treats his bands, I know the way he treats the people who are involved ... it does make them feel like they are a part of something special and so, and that’s beyond just doing a gig … it kind of creates this sense of loyalty that is important to me.The other members of the band also understand and value their involvement with the band in a similar way, and it spills into the chemistry the band has on stage, and the enjoyment they derive from playing together. The idea of the family band opens out beyond the actual band as well: the “Roo Grass Family” includes friends, fans and others with strong ties and involvement with the band.Practical, on the ground support (both on tour and also at home) offered by family to artists in Australian country music is a significant source of capital for those artists. However, participants also talk about this family help as a chance to spend time together, and couch it within discourses of loyalty, love, fun and commitment. Practices and discourses of small, DIY business are also sutured to discourse of family, as a way of reinforcing the fierce independence from big business and record companies. The fieldwork account at the beginning of this article reveals some of the work done by family on tour for Bob and the band, mainly through the presence of Bob’s mum, Veronica, as defacto tour manager. During the gig Bob offered a series of acknowledgments for the tour. After thanking the audiences and tour sponsors, he moved on to family:Bob: I’d like to thank my aunty Roberta, she came along and helped us on a tour leg … Ah, I’m going to forget people, I’m going to leave the special ones to last … I would like to thank Kirrily personally, but as Sue said, all partners and stuff, so I love you Kiz. But the most special one of all: Mrs Veronica Corbett [loud applause and cheers]. She’s the backbone! Of the tour, so thanks mum, thanks for everything.Veronica: Absolute pleasure Bobby.Bob: It’s been, it’s been a pleasure. You love doing it.Veronica: I love it.Bob: Yeah, you do love doing it, it’s been great, you know. I don’t want to get too, too sentimental, but, um just before dad died, he turned to me and said ‘look after mum’, and I don’t, I don’t look after mum, but in a way, just sharing all these experiences, like, we’re looking after each other, so, thank you for doing that.In this account, I am interested in the ways in which Bob, Veronica and Sue talk about the labour provided by family. There are a number of ways that participants talk about the practice of getting family to help do the work of touring and performing country music, which emerge here, and are consistently used by Bob and the band. It is spoken of in terms of “spending time” with each other, and of loving that time. Discourses of enjoyment and sociality permeate Bob, Veronica, and others’ discussions of the practical reality of people giving up their time to help. This is part of the cultural capital of authenticity: being a professional country music band out on the road is about more than hard slog, making money and cold business; it is an enjoyable experience, underpinned with love. To be authentic, it should be about more than the dollars.While the involvement of family in the activities of the band is discussed and understood as a chance to spend time together, an enjoyable experience, there are also discourses of support and help tied to these practices by those in and around the band. It is often acknowledged as a practical reality that family members are involved in the activities of the band (or in maintaining the home front) as a source of free or cheap labour which makes touring and performing possible. Sue acknowledged the importance of family support to the band, particularly as an independent band, in the interview: Main sources of support? … the management from Toyota and everything … after winning Star Maker, that was really great, so they’ve really helped … and also family … you certainly need that support, because you can’t, you’ve got to get out there and do it, that’s the only way to do it … it’s very personal support in a lot of ways … we’re not at that stage where, we’re not at a bigger level where there’s plenty of money being thrown around by record companies, that sort of support.In acknowledging the role of family at home while the band tours, as well as the “personal support” given to the band, Sue binds the practices of individuals staying at home, minding kids and maintaining home life, to the discourse of family. She is also linking the practices to the band’s “independent” status and the lack of “money being thrown around by record companies” as the reason this support and other on the road, tour based work, is essential. Within Sue’s account here, and at other times during my fieldwork, there was a sense that she saw the need for family support as a sign of inadequacy, a sign that the band had not yet “made it” to the level where the support comes from record companies, and there will be money thrown around to support the activities of the band. This touches on a broader set of discourses that circulate in the country music community about professionalism and amateurism, which are also linked to ideas about family. While the foregrounding of family has value within the field of country music, there is something else going on here. A division is often drawn between “commercial” and “creative” endeavours in Australian country music. By linking practices involving kin and discourses of family, Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band position themselves as authentic, or real, grass roots, and with creative freedom, in contrast to being creatively constrained or selling out. Within this division, a reliance on one’s family can be understood in some ways as a rejection of the commercial, business networks of country music. In the case of Sue’s account above there is a sense that it is also a way of negotiating success when you do not have access to a record label or other big business support, which may seem the easier route. Sue’s view differs somewhat from Bob’s in this respect. Bob often expressed pride in the fact that they are “doing it on their own” and boasting an independent DIY model of music business (for example through ticketing, tour organisation and production); a business model that relies on the support of their family, but which is respected and valued within Australian country music. ConclusionArtists such as Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band all occupy “positions” in the field of Australian country music, and the discourses of “commercial”, “creative”, and “authentic” all work to categorise artists, and their position in the field. Economic and material circumstances limit, enable or influence the decisions to involve families or not: for Bob, a desire to remain in control of his creative output and career, and the need to maximise income to feed his family makes DIY ticketing, and taking his mum and friends on the road a good choice. But these material factors work with symbolic and cultural factors, in the game of cultural legitimisation about what it is to be a country music artist. The way in which Bob and the band invoked particular discourses of family, loyalty, fun and enjoyment, to talk about the on-the-ground practices of having family involved (or not) in their working lives as musicians is part of the work these bands and artists are doing to represent themselves to the country music community; they are attempting to establish themselves as adequately, legitimately and authentically “country”. In the process they are also shaping what it is to be a country music artist and what is valued within the field—in this case “family”. The constant struggles over what country music is, what is “authentic” country and what represents success, are struggles over the “schemata of classification … which construct social reality” (Bourdieu 20). Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band are using strategies in this struggle, in this case the strategies link practices involving kin to discourses of honesty and openness by collapsing public and private, heritage and tradition through the family band, and authenticity, professionalism, and success in the way family support can limit the need to rely on record labels and big business. ReferencesAkenson, James E. “Australia, The United States and Authenticity.” Outback and Urban: Australian Country Music. Ed. Philip Hayward. Gympie, QLD: aicmPress for the Australian Institute of Country Music, 2003. 187–206. Baker, Glen A. “Liner Notes - Annethology: The Best of Anne Kirkpatrick.” July 2010.Barker, Hugh, and Yuval Taylor. Faking It: The Quest for Authenticity in Popular Music. New York: W.W. Norton, 2007.Bourdieu, Pierre. “Social Space and Symbolic Power.” Sociological Theory 7.1 (1989): 14–25. Bourdieu, Pierre, and Loïc J. D. Wacquant, eds. An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology. 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