Write anthropology presentation

How to Write AAA Papers Savage Minds If you're taking a sociology class or interested in doing some independent research, this list can help you get started. Sociology is the study of groups of people and their cultures, customs, practices. Because this topic is so broad, and our culture is always changing, the possibilities for writing and research are endless. With sociology, you can research just about anything, from Beyonce to Scientology. This list will also guide you to make your own, original topic based on theoretical sociology. The top ten sociological subjects are listed below with plenty of ideas for your research. The list is organized around 10 umbrella topics, each with its own set of mini-topics. These umbrella topics include: Race, nationality, and ethnicity are some of the most written about subjects in sociology. The classical sociologist Emile Durkheim discussed the effects of origin on a person and the solidarity that they feel with others from the same or similar origin. Sociologists like to study these bonds as well as the negative effects of difference. The census data from your nation provides the raw materials for literally thousands of research papers. The following are some sociological topics on race, nationality, and ethnicity: One of the most interesting topics of sociological research is the mass media. What we see on television, in magazines, and in theaters has an effect on us as members of society. There are endless topics to study in the media, but below is a list of topic ideas. Food culture is a very interesting topic to research not only in terms of how food is produced and distributed but also in terms of how it's consumed. Here are some possible research topics for those of you who want to learn more about how our food is grown, distributed, consumed. Youth culture is another fascinating sociological topic. Young people belong to many subcultures, which they illustrate in their attitude, clothing, music, and more. Studying these cultures allows us to understand how our world works--particularly the media due to the fact that the majority of American media consumers are between the ages of 14 and 21. The gender divide has been one of the most important subjects that sociologists study because it exists in every culture around the world. Men and women have always been opposites in society, which has contributed to numerous inequalities. The following is a list of sociological research topics on gender. Studying social movements and revolutions can illuminate how communities that share the same beliefs and goals form. Social movements are always happening, which makes them current as well as historical, so choosing a topic is easy! To study a movement, just choose a movement or a group of people that are being oppressed. In addition to studying the movement itself, you can also choose to research its oppression, formation, accomplishments (or downfall), or its impact on larger society. Here are some movements to get you started: People in society want to be a part of a group that shares their same beliefs. Sometimes these groups become so united that they are destructive, whereas some of the groups create solidarity, community, and fellowship. The following is a list of religions, cults, and other groups that share similar beliefs and can be studied. Because the inequalities are so deeply embedded in our society, it is difficult to eliminate them. Geographically, classes are segregated, which further complicates the pursuit for equality. Here are some topics to study: One of my favorite topics to write about is ancient Hawaiian culture. The ancient Hawaiians had many myths and legends as do numerous other cultures. Sociological studies about myths and legends illustrate the purposes of these legends. Below are some interesting cultures and legends to get you started. The family is another fascinating topic for sociologists. Not only does everyone have a family, but one's family is often an incredibly important influence on one's life, for better or worse! Since our view of what a family is and should be is constantly changing, there's always something new to research. Apr 20, 2011. Take it seriously don't be a total moron and “write your paper on the. to layout, which is why anthropologists write long-form monographs.

How to Write a Critical Review of an Anthropological. - AnthroNiche This guide is intended to help you identify and locate scholarly and non-scholarly resources (books, articles, etc.) on the subject of anthropology. on library services, research tips, career info., etc If you need help writing your best resource is the Wolak Learning Center (Undergraduate Day Students) or the Online Writing Center (Online Students). However, the library has a number of resources that can help and librarians can lead you to web resources that may also be useful. The following are some recommended books and web resources to help you write: If you need help preparing a presentation your best resource is the Wolak Learning Center (Undergraduate Day Students) or the Online Writing Center (Online Students). However, the library has a number of resources that can help and librarians can lead you to web resources that may also be useful. Jan 11, 2011. How to Write a Critical Review of an Anthropological Text. How are the author's main points presented, explained, and supported?

Writing an Abstract General Guidelines for Anthropology Projects. Title: Introduction to Anthropology 1Introduction to Anthropology The Nature of Anthropology What is Anthropology? Subfields of Anthropology Cultural Anthropology Archaeology Linguistics Biological Anthropology How is anthropology unique? It is holistic It is comparative The perspective of Cultural Relativism Should there be any universal values? 2Etymology of Anthropology Greek term anthropos meaning Man and logia or logis, meaning science Literally the study of Man (human species) 3Anthropology is the study of humans, both ancient and modern 4Forms of Cultural and Biological Adaptation to High Altitudes 5Subfields of Anthropology Anthropology Biological Anthropology Archaeology Cultural Anthropology Linguistic Anthropology Ethnographic Studies Ethnological Studies including focus areas in Economics Politics Gender Religion Play Art Music Kinship Social organization Healing arts Urban studies Applied Paleoanthropology Primatology Contemporary Human Variation Applied Prehistoric Archaeology Historical Archaeology Cultural resource management Ethnoarchaeology Experimental Applied Historical Descriptive Sociolinguistics Ethnolinguistics Applied 6Biological Anthropology Paleoanthropology 7Louis Leakey displaying cast of fossil hominid Skull from East Africa 8Biological Anthropology Primatology 9(No Transcript) 10(No Transcript) 11Biological Anthropology Contemporary Human Variation Genetics 12Archaeology Prehistoric Archaeology 13(No Transcript) 14(No Transcript) 15Archaeology Historical Archaeology Plymouth Plantation Summer 1970 16Archaeology Cultural Resource Management 17Archaeology Ethnoarchaeology 18(No Transcript) 19Archaeology Experimental 20Cultural Anthropology Ethnographic Studies 21Cultural Anthropology Ethnological Studies Politics 22Cultural Anthropology Ethnological Studies Gender 23Cultural Anthropology Ethnological Studies Religion 24Cultural Anthropology Ethnological Studies Art and Music Ankor wat Angola Ivory figurine Angola Art 25Cultural Anthropology Ethnological Studies Kinship 26Cultural Anthropology Ethnological Studies Social Organization 27Cultural Anthropology Applied 28Students Select another of your introductory level college courses and list three specific ways that the subject matter of anthropology is different from these disciplines and one way it is the same. Compare and discuss your list with that of a classmate 29How is Anthropology Unique? 36Cultural Ethnocentrism Makes value judgments when describing aspects of another culture The tendency to view ones own culture as best and to judge the behavior and beliefs of culturally different people by ones own standard The Concept of Cultural Relativism The position that the values and standards of cultures differ and deserve respect. Aspects of a culture must be viewed and evaluated from within the context of that culture. Power is a leading presentation/slideshow sharing website. Whether your application is business, how-to, education, medicine, school, church, sales, marketing, online training or just for fun, Power is a great resource. And, best of all, most of its cool features are free and easy to use. 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Researchers usually write a preliminary abstract when submitting a paper to present at a conference, but writers often revise and write a final abstract for the final.

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Writing an Anthropology Essay - Macquarie University By Paul O'Hare (University of Sheffield) The writing of a thesis comes at the end of a long and, for some of us, torturous journey. It is in the thesis that we must present the research process, defending the methodology that was utilised, and explain our insights and conclusions. Writing up is the stage at which we must make order and sense out of what is usually a messy research project. Yet at the same time, it is clear that the write-up is not necessarily a straightforward reflection of our actions; it is not simply a matter of reporting how we 'did' research. Furthermore, our approach to the write-up is itself a critical methodological consideration. For instance, the presentation of material, deciding what to include and exclude in a final manuscript, is subjective and frequently becomes a source of concern and self-doubt. Writing represents the 'end game' when we can no longer be cautious regarding our thoughts and must commit to paper what had hitherto been ethereal. As such, it often represents a psychological leap of faith in our own minds and this can bring with it many challenges. In this paper I examine these issues in more detail by reflecting upon my own doctoral thesis write-up, in particular, the writing of my empirical chapters. I consider both how I was troubled by my leaving the field and insecurities that this entailed. I secondly turn to consider the practical difficulties faced in writing up complicated and lengthy case study chapters. In so doing, I illustrate how, rather than representing obstacles to the completion of the thesis, such challenges can in fact produce a more balanced and reflexive research write-up. 'Doing a Ph D' is a complicated and challenging business, as is most apparent when we turn our attention to writing up. It is at this point, as I have discovered recently, that we are forced to not only make sense of our study, but to do so in a manner that is transparent and communicable to others. Leaving aside for a moment the looming realisation that the completion deadline is creeping ever closer and the unease and the personal insecurity that this produces, there is the obvious and acute awareness that the thesis contains the text through which we will be held to account and ultimately against which we shall have our academic credentials examined. No matter how innovative the research, or the value it may hold to the sphere of academia to which it is related, it is through the thesis alone that we must record and present our efforts. It represents the culmination of at least three years of work and there is a huge responsibility, more often than not self-inflicted, to serve justice to what so much time and energy has been invested into. By consequence, the thesis and its composition also embodies a significant emotional investment. This paper charts my experiences as I approached my own thesis write-up. The process of writing and the resultant product varies from person to person, across disciplines and even within departments. Many elements of this reflective account are therefore unique to my own experience. I have, however, organised this paper into broader themes that will hopefully resonate with other doctoral students. I do not, however, offer explicit guidance regarding how I dealt with the issues - indeed I myself have yet to resolve many of these concerns. It is, rather, an opportunity to explore some of the challenges more deeply from my personal perspective. I pay particular attention to the writing up of my research findings, which formed two chapters, each reporting an independent qualitative case study. These were the first elements of my thesis that were written in a comprehensive fashion. This paper is organised into two broad, yet interrelated sections. The first considers the often-overlooked concerns and issues created by a move from generating and collecting data in the field to the desk-bound writing process. In the second section I turn to my case study write-ups and examine in more detail how I started and sustained these chapters and assess how the pressures encountered during the drafting process affected me. By way of background I begin with a brief synopsis of my research. My research, in the field of town planning at the University of Sheffield, United Kingdom, was funded by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC). Entitled it examines how 'grassroots' or community based civic bodies interact with the state, other voluntary bodies, and their own 'constituencies', in the management and governance of localities. The study focuses on issues regarding public participation and democratic involvement, the role of the civic sector in the delivery and facilitation of services, and partnership building between community organisations and statutory bodies. It centred on two case study groups, one based in an urban area of South Yorkshire and the other in a predominantly rural area of Derbyshire. It drew upon a range of qualitative methodological techniques: participant observation of meetings and other ethnographic activities, documentary analysis, and around 40 semi-structured interviews with key members of the community groups, statutory bodies, and other actors. I had identified conceptual themes for the assessment of the data through the drafting of an analytical framework before I entered the field although, as with most such studies, this was not set in stone; many aspects of the research were both flexible and exploratory. The doctorate followed a traditional British format with a first year spent in project formulation, that is identifying and reviewing appropriate bodies of literature and developing research questions, a second year in 'the field', also interspersed with preliminary data analysis and a third year spent on intensive data analysis and thesis drafting. Around three months into my third year I took a six-month 'break' to pursue an ESRC secondment. Therefore, when I started writing the case chapters in earnest in August 2006, almost two years had passed since the commencement of the fieldwork. During my fieldwork I spent around six months intensively 'following' my case study organisations, attending their internal meetings and their encounters with statutory and other voluntary bodies, mainly through the use of participant observation, with a further six months spent conducting rather less intensive ethnography, writing up preliminary findings and in preparing for interviews. The research, as with most ethnographic projects, was both concentrated and challenging. Both case studies operated in politically charged environments and consisted of dedicated and opinionated individuals who had passionate and often adversarial relationships with other groups and statutory bodies. I was granted, for the most part, full access to the groups' activities and leaders, enabling me to build a personal rapport and lasting relations with many group members. As a result, I felt a great deal of empathy with the groups, and although I sometimes disagreed with some of their activities (thoughts I kept to myself at the time), I genuinely supported their core aspirations and goals, namely to make their areas safer, healthier and happier places to live. That said, at times I also received the impression that some members of the groups were a little wary of my 'true' intentions. Some regarded my keen interest in the group's affairs as a little peculiar and, particularly during the more challenging times for the group, I am quite sure that my presence and inquisitiveness was somewhat of an irritation. I became thoroughly enthused in the maelstrom of community politics. I observed and in many instances shared with case studies their highs and lows, their frustrations and achievements, and even observed one group's fight for survival in the face of bureaucratic regulations, tight funding regimes, and internal feuds and fractures. The research was rewarding and informative yet also overwhelming and, at times, disenchanting. The whole process was both captivating and consuming. To an extent I was relieved to leave the field and to return to my office (see Hammersley and Atkinson 202 for a further discussion of this). I looked forward to turning off my recorder after the final batch of interviews, and anticipated the feeling of emancipation from the research. In a practical sense, I would no longer be bound by public transport timetables or the dates of meetings. I believed that I would also finally feel comfortable in the knowledge that the information I required to finish my research was now in my possession. I would not have to rely upon others, or ensure links and good relations were retained with the groups (for a further discussion of the 'tiring' anxiety of fieldwork, see Lareau 198-220). I could, I insisted to myself, regain control of my research and finally (re)assert my ownership over the project. Ultimately, I could draw a line under a substantial aspect of the doctorate. Yet, despite my relief at leaving the field, and even though I was looking forward to immersing myself in the analysis and writing, there lingered at the back of my mind a strong desire to return to the field. Whilst my primary research on them had finished, the cases remained, evolving and changing, developing new interests and entering new, interesting and potentially enlightening relationships. Having now had time to consider these feelings, I realise that my desire to retain close links to the groups served other purposes also. I had a persistent concern that there remained data waiting to be collected in the field. I believed that perhaps another chat with certain actors, or the attendance of a more events, could provide yet another seam of material to further enrich my analysis. It was comforting to know that when I encountered a gap in my knowledge or understanding, sustained links with the cases would provide opportunities for return to the field, or to at least permit a distant monitor of their activities, a sentiment that it would seem even experienced researchers encounter: "It can therefore be difficult for the researcher to decide finally to leave the organization, to gather no more information, and to begin the process of analysing and documenting what data have been collected. This can be an awkward psychological leap, as there is always the possibility, usually a strong probability, that vital information has been overlooked." (Buchanan, Boddy and Mc Calman 19) This feeling was exacerbated by the fact that my cases were becoming increasingly involved in controversial regeneration issues and both were periodically reported in the local press as protagonists in local disputes. Such matters clearly were important to 'my subjects' and those they claimed to represent and, by extension, they interested me. As I returned to the process of writing and began to realise just how daunting this was, the field suddenly appeared to be rather less intimidating than it did whilst I was there. I had, in the short time since leaving the field, assumed a faint nostalgic warmth towards it. This is, I can now surmise, most likely due to the familiarity I had developed towards the cases. In contrast, writing up was an unknown and daunting task, particularly the prospect of making sense of and representing the cases. It took some time to adjust to my new tasks and to accept that my role and duties had evolved. Hammersley and Atkinson discuss these issues in further detail: "As the fieldwork progresses, however, the researcher becomes inescapably familiar with the setting, and the accumulated fieldnotes and transcripts represent a physical record of that familiarity. Before embarking on any major writing up, therefore, one has to undertake a further task of estrangement. If one does not distance oneself from them, then there is a danger of being unable to dismantle the data, select from them and re-order the material. One is left in the position of someone who, when asked to comment on and criticize a film or novel, can do no more than rehearse the plot. The ethnographer who fails to achieve distance will easily fall into the trap of recounting 'what happened' without imposing a coherent thematic or analytic framework." (Hammersley and Atkinson 192-13) Upon reflection, many of the anxieties that I felt at this time were not unwarranted. There were aspects of the cases and nuances in the detail that I did not fully understand, and the very fact that the groups remained accessible acted both as an opportunity for escape from the office and the intense task of drafting, and a psychological crutch. I could, if required, or by way of distraction, nip back to the field for a catch-up, a cup of tea, to ask just one more question, or just to see how things were going. In short, I found it hard to let go of the field and to get on with writing, a feeling that was not unknown by fellow researchers. Once, when a member of staff in my department asked me how it was going shortly after what was to be my last interview and I said that I had finally 'finished' my fieldwork, I was returned a knowing smile and the comment, 'Well, just be sure to resist the temptation to go back...' There is no easy or definitive method of exiting the field once and for all. This is accentuated in more intensive studies in starkly different social or cultural contexts where a researcher must place a great deal of effort in going native, as discussed by, amongst others, Bacchiddu (2004:7), who, when reflecting upon her intensive anthropological study on a remote Chile - an island community, commented: "The desire to feel part of the group and to succeed in creating ties - in order to conduct... successful research has unexpected emotional consequences. I had experienced the end of my fieldwork period as an abrupt rupture, a too sudden change, which I had no time to come to terms with before it was upon me. I did not feel, as often happens, that it was time to go. While I could have taken my sense of familiarity as a signal and a reminder that my research had reached a satisfactory point of completion and that it was time to move on, instead I dreaded the approaching separation." In the weeks and months after my final interviews, as I became increasingly preoccupied with data analysis and writing, I fell out of daily contact with the groups and the temptation to return to the field gradually diminished. That is not to say that the desire was extinguished altogether. Instead, I had become engrossed in alternative activities. The Ph D process was entering a new phase, and there was increasing pressure to write. I was also well aware that my supervisors would have expressed concern regarding any plans to return to the field. I had told the groups that, at some point, I would feed back my results to them, but I became aware that some of my findings would not make for comfortable reading for participants. Some of the observations I had made regarding the groups' operations were far from complementary, and whilst I stopped short of criticising the organisations, and indeed felt much empathy with them, some observations were quite critical. I knew that anything I wrote not only ran the risk of unintentionally offending research subjects but, perhaps more worryingly, could potentially be used by the groups to legitimise their efforts or to criticise adversaries. These two issues, combined with the fact that group members probably would have found many of the less refined and rather tentative findings a little esoteric, meant that any 'formal' returns to the field would have to be both carefully considered and would involve time-consuming preparations. A few months after the research interviews I left Sheffield for six months to assume a secondment some 170 miles away in London. Ultimately, it was at this point that I drew a line underneath my fieldwork, although I now too realise and have come to terms with the fact that my study can only provide a snapshot in time. This section has illustrated how the move from the field to the write-up can be difficult to negotiate. Even though my research did not entail extremely intensive fieldwork in comparison with many other ethnographer or anthropologists, the field remained alluring long after the fieldwork had been 'completed'. I retained a deep sense of attachment to 'my' cases, partly due, as I have noted, to my awareness that field data is imperfect. Developing an ability to handle these apprehensions - in appreciating that the study can only provide a brief snapshot in time, and recognising the failings of my work without allowing such reflections to consume my thoughts - gradually helped ease my approach into writing. My planned thesis structure included two or three literature review chapters, a methodology chapter which would include research questions and a framework for analysis (drawn from my literature), a chapter for each case study write-up, and a discussion chapter which would draw out the main findings of the analysis. Throughout the doctorate, my supervisors reminded me that my empirical chapters were the most critical elements of the research and would constitute the driving force of the thesis. Despite the (now obvious) central role the empirical work assumed in my doctorate I rather naively, and perhaps due to my six month 'break' from thesis writing, was rather more concerned with my grasp of the literature and, more particularly, in relating my findings to the academic concepts and debates that had formed the backdrop to my research. However, when I started to compose the case study reviews, I realised both how onerous this aspect of the writing was and its fundamental significance to the project as a whole. I, like all of us, wanted my cases to be as representative and accurate as possible, as Hammersley and Atkinson note: "We cannot continue to regard the 'writing up' of ethnographic work as innocent. On the contrary, a thorough recognition of the essential reflexivity of ethnographic work intends to the work of reading and writing as well. We must take responsibility for how we choose to represent ourselves and others in the texts we write." (Hammersley and Atkinson 208) I wished to remain true to my research subjects; both members of the community groups, yet also other interviewees that were treated as adversaries by the groups. I felt that all my interviewees were open and honest, but given the nature of the research, many details were contested. I obviously felt a sense of ethical duty to report a rounded and balanced version of events that caused no malevolence to those I had engaged with. Murphy and Dingwall (2001), drawing on the work of Josselson (1996), further relate to the concern that researchers face when reporting on the lives of the researched: "The experience of being written about may be a matter of concern in its own right: 'I worry intensely about how people will feel about what I write about them. I worry about the experience of being "writ down", fixed in print, formulated, summed up, encapsulated in language, reduced in some way to what the words contain. Language can never contain a whole person, so every act of writing a person's life is inevitably a violation.'" (Josselson 19, cited in Murphy and Dingwall 201) On top of these issues, I was all too aware that drafting itself was a form of commitment - the moment when our thoughts must become transparent and ideas and insights are laid open to criticism. With these concerns in mind, when I sat down to the task of writing up my two case studies, I found it difficult to stop. In much the same way that I was reticent to leave the field and to draw a line underneath that aspect of the study, I was similarly fearful of 'missing something' in my write-up. My supervisors, as well as former and current doctoral students, constantly reminded me that there was no right or wrong way to draft case study chapters. This advice was both a source of comfort yet also of unease. On the one hand I felt the cases should have the freedom to tell 'their own story'. On the other hand I was filled with a great sense of ambiguity; I didn't really know how to make sense of and commit such complicated cases to paper with, at that point, rather rarefied insights and conclusions. The tension between two key commitments, firstly ensuring that the chapters were as robust and as coherent as possible, and secondly being 'true' to and considerate of the detailed cases and nuanced opinions of those I had engaged with, meant difficult judgements and trade-offs had to be contemplated, yet these were painful and a source of great unease. I decided to initially write the case studies in as comprehensive a manner as possible. I started by reviewing the data and research material that had been generated in the field. I had somewhere in the region of 500,000 words, within personal note books and interview transcripts, and that excluded the countless e-mails, internal notes, memos, reports, applications for funding and business plans produced by the groups themselves, and policy documents issued by the myriad of statutory bodies that interacted with the cases. By the time I had compiled the first drafts of the cases they each amounted to around 60,000 words. They provided detailed descriptions of the many events that I deemed to be important in addressing my broad research questions, including lengthy quotes from interviews and documents. After the completion of my initial draft I was still unclear as to exactly which trajectory the research conclusions would take. I was, I admit, unsure about exactly what it was that my research said, an issue that would cause recurring problems. Here, Charmaz and Mitchell (201) outline how ethnographic data may become unwieldy without critical engagement: "A potential problem with ethnographic studies is seeing data everywhere and nowhere, gathering everything and nothing. The studied world seems so interesting (and probably is) that an ethnographer tries to master knowing it all. Mountains of unconnected data grow but they don't say much... Ethnographers who leave data undigested seldom produce fresh insights and, sometimes, may not even complete their projects, despite years of toil." It was difficult to deal with conflicting and subsidiary data as, whilst for the most part, my evidence base was unambiguous, there were occasions when interviewees and observations made slightly contradictory points or held opposing positions. Publications very often detail research that appears to be unequivocal and doubtless, yet I knew the shortcomings of my research all too well, and found it difficult to approach my own writing with such deep confidence. How can I, I constantly asked myself, report robust findings, but in a way that also is true to the intricacies of the research? As Yin (204) notes: "The selectiveness is relevant in limiting the report to the most critical evidence and not cluttering the presentation with supportive but secondary information. Such selectiveness takes a lot of discipline among investigators, who usually want to display their entire evidentiary base, in the (false) hope that sheer volume or weight will sway the reader. (In fact, sheer volume or weight will bore the reader.) I indeed felt this temptation to insert many similar quotes or 'data', precisely because it was self-affirming." Due to their comprehensiveness, my two case study chapters had to be edited by around two thirds. Writing up suddenly was not as troublesome as 'deleting down'; I did not want to purge anything that could be useful later, and it was very difficult to delete sections where the composition had been so considered and upon which so much energy had been expended. At one point, and just for a moment, I gave serious consideration to throwing the chapters into the wind and keeping only those pages that I was able to retrieve before they were whipped away by the wind. The torturous process of editing felt fraudulent - a betrayal of my time spent in the field, and the time expended by research participants for what to them undoubtedly seemed to be obtuse and esoteric academic interests. As I searched through and sorted sections of text, it all seemed important. There was always a nagging doubt as to whether the material I considered deleting really was surplus and I found it easier to leave sections in the text to deal with later on. It was all too easy to become stuck in the detail of the cases, to tweak at their edges without paying enough attention to the overarching themes through which the chapter narrative would be sustained. Ultimately, procrastination became my mechanism for avoiding decision-making and commitment. Data, we are reminded, is not collected but is generated (see May 2002), and as such it represents much more than just a story; it becomes 'our' story. I had, by now, worked with the material for a long time and developed a personal attachment to it. I wished to reflect both my efforts and the complicated nature of the groups and was therefore loathe to let any of it go. After the challenges of the fieldwork, I felt that the information I had obtained was 'hard won' and I even began to feel a little precious regarding my data. I found no easy way to approach the editing process. It involved taking a step back from my empirical work and trying to ensure that the chapters told a story that was both interesting and relevant to my key research themes. This allowed me to refocus the narrative, with priority and prominence being afforded to those points that were deemed to be most pertinent. As I redrafted, rewrote, gained feedback, and more importantly tightened and abridged the chapters, I gradually felt that the versions were becoming more coherent, not only helping build the chapters into more effective case studies, but also developing my own critiques and conclusions. In hindsight, I realise this editing and redrafting was itself an essential analytical tool and that writing my empirical work should therefore only have been completed in such an iterative fashion. The move from the field to the desk to commence writing my thesis was not an easy one. Throughout my time in the field I had compiled notes and drafted broad narratives, yet when I began to think about writing chapters I found decisions concerning the inclusion or exclusion of material and the prospect of commitment to conclusions an immense challenge. As outlined, these difficulties were not only practical and intellectual but had also a personal and psychological dimension. I wanted to cling on to the familiar space of fieldwork, and found the prospect of making sense of my empirical work daunting. I had not, I felt at the time of leaving the field, had a chance to digest what I had witnessed and observed. The work felt incomplete and retaining links with my subjects was a source of comfort. Although it is useful to sustain links to the field, and indeed it may be unavoidable to do so, it is important to accept that other activities must be encountered. With time, and as I became more involved with the thesis, other issues regarding the case study chapters provided fresh challenges. I found it difficult to confine my research, and to recognise that boundaries must be drawn around the cases if I was to ever complete the thesis. As deadlines crept ever closer (and too frequently rushed by...), I recognised that my case study chapters, as with the thesis as a whole, would never be perfect. Compromises had to be made and I had to learn (indeed I continue to learn) how to tolerate the draft's inadequacies and the associated insecurities in my own ability that these created. A thesis is, therefore, not only an academic enterprise, but also a personal voyage; the work often assumes an intimate quality. 'Getting in, getting on, getting out and getting back.' In Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. The cathexis created by 'our' research often means that it can be difficult to let go of material simply because we have become too close to our object of study and too attached to our findings. The author wishes to thank Sara Fuller and the reviewers for comments made on earlier drafts of this article. The concerns outlined here are not limited to writing and are indicative of many underlying demands that are inherent in doctoral research. 'Stepping between different worlds: reflections before, during and after fieldwork.' 6(2) ( Thanks also to Ingie Hovland for facilitating and supporting the publishing process. They are also, I have learnt, the manifestation of the obligations and responsibilities we all face and must confront in the completion of the rite of passage that is a doctorate. journal=anth_matters&page=article&op=view&path[]=95) Buchanan, D., D. The research was sponsored by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC), award number: PTA-030-2003-01134. Paul O'Hare is currently finishing his Ph D at the Department of Town & Regional Planning at the University of Sheffield. He previously completed a BA in Geography and Politics at Queen's University, Belfast, before graduating from the University of Sheffield with an MA in Town Planning Research. His present research considers public participation in local decision making processes, particularly the role of collective action and the civic sector in community and neighbourhood governance. He can be contacted at p.ohare(AT)uk or paulohare(AT) Writing an Anthropology Essay. work without acknowledgment is plagiarism, i.e. the presentation of the words and ideas of another writer as your own.

Writing in the Disciplines Anthropology - Image Credits The term ‘fieldwork’ is used to describe reserach in all areas of anthropology from social and cultural anthropology to medical or biological anthropology. The practice of ‘fieldwork’ can be done in a variety of different settings such as an urban or virtual environment, a small tribal community, a museum, library, cultural institution, business, or a primate conservation area. There is a general consensus amongst anthropologists today that fieldwork came to be considered part of the practice of social anthropology with the work of one of the founding fathers of British anthropology, Bronislaw Malinowski. Unlike the ‘armchair anthropologists’ before him, Malinowski advocated, instead of studying other peoples from the comfort of university libraries, going ‘into the field’: that is, living with the people he was studying, engaging in their community, learning their language, eating their food, and taking part in their everyday life. Since Malinowski’s time, fieldwork – traditionally, away from one’s own society – has been regarded as an essential and necessary part of an anthropologist’s professional training. Fieldwork over an extended period – typically 1-2 years - has been thought of as particular to social anthropology, and part of what distinguishes the discipline from other social sciences. Today, some anthropologists still consider that doing fieldwork in the traditional Malinowskian sense is an essential and distinguishing aspect of anthropological research. Others see fieldwork as encompassing a wide variety of practices in different settings, and as one of many different methods by which anthropologists can gain intimate knowledge of a community. Fieldwork itself is increasingly practised in highly contemporary settings, as well as the more traditional ‘remote’ ones. Fieldwork is among the most distinctive practices anthropologists bring to the study of human life in society. Through fieldwork, the social anthropologist seeks a detailed and intimate understanding of the context of social action and relations. Fieldwork in a previously unfamiliar setting has among its aims a deep understanding that encompasses as much as possible of an ‘insider’s’ perspective. Conducted in a more familiar setting, it can lead the anthropologist – and those for whom he or she writes – to look at everyday reality in new and unexpected ways. Where fieldwork is conducted within museums, archives, or cultural institutions, the process can be similar in that the social anthropologist seeks to understand the underlying symbolic and cultural meanings of a text, or a collection of objects. Equally, biological anthropologists frequently base research projects on human remains or artefacts held in museum collections. Fieldwork can take many different forms, shaped by factors such as: the topic of investigation, questions guiding the research, where the research will be carried out, who is funding it, external political or economic factors, the age, sex or ethnicity of the anthropologist, the technological facilities available. Newer formats for research, such as use of multiple sites and the study of large-scale centres of power such as intergovernmental organisations, are becoming increasingly common; as is the use of visual technologies and methods of presentation such as film, photography and digital media. Anthropologists may assemble data in numerous ways. They may gather quantitative information by conducting surveys or analysing records such as historical archives, government reports and censuses. Quantitative data is often useful for biological anthropologists in mapping physical traits within a population, or making cross-population comparisons. Quantitative information is also useful and often necessary when anthropologists work on interdisciplinary projects with other specialists. However, for the most part social anthropologists concentrate on gathering qualitative data. They do so by conducting individual and group interviews, by undertaking oral histories, through online discussion forums and, most importantly, through the Malinowskian tradition of ‘participant observation’. Participant observation enables the social anthropologist to undertake detailed, lengthy and often complex observations of social life in fine detail. It may be directed to such disparate groups as a virtual network, a tribal village, or an activist group in an urban environment. By participating in the fabric of daily life as well as more formal ceremonies and rituals, and discussing his/her developing ideas with willing members of the community (sometimes termed ‘informants’) the fieldworker builds up a progressively deeper understanding of what is happening. Many fieldworkers find this a personally transforming experience. A variant of participant observation also exists within biological anthropology, where primatologists may analyse the social dynamics of a monkey or ape society by spending long periods observing the group and being to some extent accepted by it. However, the crucial difference is that only human beings can talk to the anthropologist and reflect on their society through language. Anthropologists may write up their data in reports, articles, or journal contributions. Where the project is interdisciplinary or team-based, these may be co-authored. Alternatively, they may describe their experiences and findings in the form of Strangers Abroad Series – Central Television’s major documentary series directed by anthropologist Andre Singer and presented by Bruce Dakowski. The series looks at the first anthropologists to move away from ‘armchair theorising’ and go out to live among the peoples who interested them. The series includes: • Sir Walter Baldwin Spencer: Fieldwork• Franz Boas: The Shackles of Tradition• William Rivers: Everything is Relatives • Bronislaw Malinowski: Off the Veranda • Margaret Mead: Coming of Age• Sir Edward Evans-Pritchard: Strange Beliefs General Fi Lo is a researcher run and inspired network, that aims to bring together researchers who have chosen London as their field site. –a very comprehensive checklist of things to bring when going off to do fieldwork, written by James A. reflections on fieldwork in a tourist destination. - Doing Research with Busy People by Susanne Wessendorf of the Max Planck Institute. Doing Fieldwork in Eastern Europe (Anthropology Matters Journal, 2006, Vol.8 (1). The following tips provide some key points to keep in mind while writing an anthropological paper in order to maintain some clarity and organization to one's.

So You're Giving a Conference Presentation The Geek. Presenting at conferences is an important part of entering academic society, and grad students are usually encouraged to present their Ph D work at least once to a major conference. But before you even get to the stress of writing a presentation, you have to be successful in the scrum that is abstract submission. Considering the brevity of these documents – typically less than 500 words – the amount of effort required to write one seems disproportionate! Whilst some conferences provide detailed examples of what they wish to see, others do not even give formatting guidelines. I’ve had mixed success in the past, and the current abstract is intended for a particularly important conference which I really want to present at, so I’ve been trying to create an explicit pathway for creating the best abstract I can. Some aspects of abstract writing remain a bit of a mystery, so I’d appreciate any feedback you could give, but I present below what I’ve learnt so far: One important aspect of abstract writing that is sometimes overlooked is the conference itself. Abstracts have to be tailored to the whims of the conference and session organisers. It is worth making sure that the conference you are eyeing up really is the best place for you to present. With money for conferences sometimes in short supply, check with your supervisor or colleagues whether this is the best conference. If you are certain, Trying to fit into the conference ‘theme’ is unlikely to work well at graduate level, because unless life is being particularly serendipitous, your work is probably so niche that shoe-horning it into a ‘theme’ will be obvious and not that successful. Don’t try and make your work something it isn’t, just to fit it into a particular conference. Remember that in general, conference organisers only like to include presentations by people who have completed their work. If you have an incomplete study, it will be difficult to get a conference to accept your abstract because you won’t be able to tell them the conclusions of your work. This is a key piece of information they use to judge whether your work is suitable for the conference! Whilst important members of your field, including your supervisor, may have a laissez-faire attitude to submitting on time, you are unlikely to have that luxury. Remember to draft the abstract early and enquire whether your supervisor will offer constructive criticism before you send it off. Submit on time: whilst you can try submitting late, don’t hold out too much hope! Some people place the study in the wider disciplinary context right at the beginning, others suggest making the first sentence/paragraph bold and challenging. That’s probably okay if you can count on people knowing the material reasonably well, but in some disciplines or interdisciplinary events your subject can be so niche that you need that first paragraph to properly give the context. The above structure works for a 300-500 word abstract, but if you are allowed more or less you will need to adjust this outline. No matter how short or long, remember to avoid generalisations and make every word count. Reviewers always appreciate someone who gets to the point! Some conference organisers send their abstracts to be reviewed anonymously – it might be worth making sure that any references to your previous work that you make are done carefully so that you don’t spoil that. Generally it is advisable not to put your name on the abstract or in the file name of a document unless you are asked to. As ever, double-check things, proof-read and get as many people as you can to help you read through and check the draft. Keep reading, revising and coming back to the abstract for as long as you can, as it will really benefit from your tender loving care. Conferences are a great way to offend people, and this is also true of abstracts. Remember that the abstracts are likely to be visible to lots of people, so don’t be overly critical of another researcher, even if that is the main thrust of your work. If your work is conducted with someone else, make sure they are happy with what you are submitting. Lastly, if you need to include an additional author due to their earlier help – do not forget. Some people take this sort of stuff very very seriously. Oct 7, 2016. The idea of presenting at a conference may seem frankly terrifying, so here. But anthropologists also pride themselves on writing outside and.

How To Present A Paper - or Can Anthropologists Talk? An abstract is a brief summary of the paper you want to present at an academic conference, but actually it’s much more than that. It does not only say something about the paper you are proposing, but also a lot about yourself. An experienced evaluator giving his time for the tedious process of paper selection will attentively study your proposal, but will at the same time read quite a few things between the lines: the enthusiasm you have for your topic, the professionalism with which the proposal has been drafted, the respect you show for the event you are applying for. Respect for the event is expressed by a) verifying if your topic really fits the call for papers; b) limiting yourself to the word count that is indicated by the organisers; c) following the instructions on how to format the proposal; d) including all the additional information required (such as basic personal data, keywords, exact level of study, etc.); e) writing a text in correct English syntax and spelling; f) keeping to the deadline. A good abstract provides an idea of why the original research this paper is based upon provides an added value to the conference and the ongoing dialogue in the field. It is obviously not easy to squeeze the research of an entire Ph D thesis into a few lines. You will need to focus on one specific angle, answering four straightforward questions: a) What is the problem you address? b) What method(s) do you use to research this problem? c) What data have you been able to produce or process? d) What (intermediary) findings will you be able to discuss? In answering these four questions in a succinct manner, the usual 200 to 300 words of an abstract are quickly used up. A good abstract is not written in just a few minutes. Even experienced researchers prefer to go over it several times. Keeping to the word limit is easier if you resist the temptation to start with an introduction. Just enter into the subject – your problem or research question itself is introduction enough. There is no need either to include references to authors or works that underpin your research. The evaluators will trust you have not engaged into a Ph D or managed it to your third year without having appropriated the theoretical and conceptual basics. If you are part of a pre-established panel, ask you panel convenor what he/she thinks about your abstract. (Obviously, it helps if this is not done at the very last minute…). Ask your Ph D supervisor whether he/she can give some advice. Or browse the numerous abstracts that are online from previous conferences. Look for abstracts of young researchers, who are still at very early stages of their career. Ask yourself: what made the evaluator gain a positive impression of a given proposal? Your abstract is like a business card or ‘elevator pitch’. You want to be remembered by the people to whom you offer it. We have discussed anthropological writing. Maybe we should also talk about anthropological talking. Anthropologists can't write. Maybe they can't talk either.

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