—
Ethnography recently has come to be written almost exclusively in the first person. It is a straightforward way of writing and an effective one. If ethnographers want people to take what they say seriously, the cultural anthropologist Clifford Geertz once observed, they have to convince readers that they have “been there.” “And that,” Geertz said, “persuading us that this offstage miracle has occurred, is where the writing comes in.”16 The first person has become the chosen mule for this task. I was there. I saw it happen. And because I saw it happen, you can believe it happened. Ethnographers shrink themselves in the field but enlarge themselves on the page because first-person accounts convey experience—and experience, authority.
But first-person narration is not the only technique available to us.17 In fact, it may be the least well-suited vehicle for capturing the essence of a social world because the “I” filters all. With first-person narration, the subjects and the author are each always held in view, resulting in every observation being trailed by a reaction to the observer. No matter how much care the author takes, the first-person ethnography becomes just as much about the fieldworker as about anything she or he saw. I have sat through countless conversations about a work of ethnography or reportage that have nothing to do with the book’s subject matter and everything to do with its author’s decisions or mistakes or “ethical character.” And after almost every academic talk I have given on the material in this book, I have been asked questions like: “How did you feel when you saw that?” “How did you gain this sort of access?” These are fine questions, but there is bigger game afoot. There is an enormous amount of pain and poverty in this rich land. At a time of rampant inequality and widespread hardship, when hunger and homelessness are found throughout America, I am interested in a different, more urgent conversation. “I” don’t matter. I hope that when you talk about this book, you talk first about Sherrena and Tobin, Arleen and Jori, Larraine and Scott and Pam, Crystal and Vanetta—and the fact that somewhere in your city, a family has just been evicted from their home, their things piled high on the sidewalk.
There are costs to abandoning the first person. In the context of this study, it meant disguising when I intervened in nontrivial ways. There are two such instances in this book. When a “friend” rented Arleen a U-Haul truck to move from Thirteenth Street and when Vanetta borrowed money from a “friend” to buy a stove and refrigerator in anticipation of a visit from Child Protective Services, that was me. It is also important to recognize that none of the tenants in this book had a car. I did, and I sometimes drove people around when they were looking for housing. When I didn’t, people relied on Milwaukee’s irregular bus system or set off on foot. It would have taken families much longer to find subsequent housing if they hadn’t had access to my car (or phone).
I didn’t pay people for interviews or for their time. People asked me for money because they asked everyone for money. I stopped carrying a wallet and learned how to say no like everyone around me did. If I had a few dollars on me, I’d sometimes give it. But as a rule I didn’t give out large sums.
In Milwaukee, people bought me food, and I bought them food. People bought me gifts, and I bought them gifts. The Hinkstons once sent me into their basement to see if I couldn’t bang the furnace back to life. When I emerged unsuccessful, I found a birthday cake waiting for me. Once, Arleen bought me a tin of cookies and one of those cards that play a silly song. We kept it in my car and would open it when we needed a laugh. Scott still sends my eldest son a birthday card with a ten-dollar bill tucked inside, just like he did when he was homeless.
The harder feat for any fieldworker is not getting in; it’s leaving. And the more difficult ethical dilemma is not how to respond when asked to help but how to respond when you are given so much. I have been blessed by countless acts of generosity from the people I met in Milwaukee. Each one reminds me how gracefully they refuse to be reduced to their hardships. Poverty has not prevailed against their deep humanity.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the people I met in Milwaukee: thank you for everything. You invited me into your homes and work, taught me so much more than I could report here, and were patient, courageous, generous, and honest.
My editor, Amanda Cook, read this book several times and provided thirty single-spaced pages of comments on earlier drafts. Thank you, Amanda, for your brilliant reads, broad vision, flat-out hard work, and most of all, for getting it. I’d also like to thank the rest of the team at Crown, including Molly Stern, for her commitment to serious nonfiction, and Emma Berry, for her careful eye.
Jill Kneerim, my deep-thinking and resolute agent, worked closely with me to develop a proposal, a rigorous and clarifying ordeal. I owe Jill, and everyone at Kneerim and Williams, a huge debt of gratitude.
I began this project while studying sociology at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. Mustafa Emirbayer, my dissertation advisor and total sociologist, spent untold hours reviewing my work and pushing me hard. Thank you, Mustafa, for teaching me so much about the craft. Robert Hauser supported this work in many ways, including by funding my final semester at Wisconsin. Ruth López Turley and Felix Elwert coached me in statistics and much more. Timothy Smeeding connected my ideas and findings to public policies. Chad Goldberg, Myra Marx Ferree, Douglas Maynard, and Pamela Oliver offered their time and guidance.
The University of Wisconsin Survey Center helped me design and implement the Milwaukee Area Renters Study and the Milwaukee Eviction Court Study. I thank everyone at the Survey Center, especially Kerryann DiLoreto, Charlie Palit, Jessica Price, and John Stevenson, who went above and beyond the call of duty (and my budget).
While writing this book, I have benefited enormously from my colleagues and students at Harvard. I would like to thank Bruce Western, for reading this manuscript in full and fundamentally shaping how I think about poverty and justice in America; Robert Sampson, for deepening my perspective on cities, crime, and the purpose of social science; William Julius Wilson, for setting the agenda and encouraging me every step of the way; Kathryn Edin, for trusted advice and contagious optimism; Christopher Jencks, for accepting zero easy answers; Devah Pager, for clarity of mind and generosity of spirit; Christopher Winship, for stimulating conversations about theory, methods, and making a difference; and Michèle Lamont, for stretching my understanding of inequality beyond these shores. I have also relied on insights from William Apgar, Mary Jo Bane, Jason Beckfield, Lawrence Bobo, Alexandra Killewald, Jane Mansbridge, Orlando Patterson, James Quane, Mario Small, and Mary Waters. Deborah De Laurell helped in countless ways, including by offering comments on the manuscript. Nancy Branco and Dotty Lukas aptly handled grant management. And a special thanks to a Brisbane taxi driver.