By Ruth M. Underhill, Chip Colwell, Stephen E. Nash
In brutally sincere phrases, Underhill describes her asymmetric passage via existence, starting with a searing portrait of the Victorian restraints on girls and her fight to wreck loose from her Quaker family’s privileged yet tightly laced regulate. Tenderly and with humor she describes her transformation from a suffering “sweet lady” to spouse after which divorcée. Professionally she grew to become a welfare employee, a novelist, a pissed off bureaucrat on the Bureau of Indian Affairs, a professor on the collage of Denver, and at last an anthropologist of distinction.
Her witty memoir unearths the creativity and tenacity that driven the boundaries of ethnography, relatively via her specialise in the lives of ladies, for whom she served as a job version, getting into a operating retirement that lasted until eventually she used to be approximately one hundred and one years old.
No citation serves to precise Ruth Underhill’s adventurous view larger than a line from her personal poetry: “Life isn't really paid for. lifestyles is lived. Now come.”
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Additional resources for An Anthropologist’s Arrival: A Memoir
Oh, I knew I wasn’t. I did not have soft, light brown hair that parted in waves over my forehead or blue eyes like gentians or small hands and feet. Why does God do these things to his creatures! I really needed small hands and feet, what with my lank black hair and big mouth, but it was Margaret who got them. Margaret, my sister, was only two years younger. Yet somehow the ability to be an angel had come to her magically, as such things did to princesses in fairy tales. When ladies patted Margaret’s head and said, “How like your mother,” she could smile at them and did not have to think of anything to say.
When she actually did so now, I almost melted with bliss. “I guess I’d rather not get married,” I said firmly. It seemed I had found a key to life’s management. But later that evening, I was rather dashed when I made my proclamation at the supper table. ” Father’s grey eyes shot lightning at me from out of the black beard. “Well, it’s, it’s . ” I stumbled. “The child is too young to know what she’s saying,” said Mother, in that tone that brought the pang of indigestion. Robert began to chant, “Won’t get married!
For that month, there was a fat woman in the house, Mrs. McBird. Mother spent most of the time in her room, and we hardly ever saw her except when we came in to kiss her good morning and goodnight. Then she gazed at us with swimming eyes that made a lump come in my throat, but those eyes changed to pieces of a cement sidewalk when she saw the badge I was wearing. It was a bit of black tape, fringed at one end and embroidered with the letter B. ” Ah, but she could see how homemade it was. ” The eyes were already clouding over.