Lectures (6b)—The Accidental Ethnographer (Opening the Book)

Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Lectures a la fleur"

One year ago on Round and Square (27 July 2011)—Seinfeld Ethnography: Downtown

[a] March 2009

This is the longer, written version of a lecture I gave as part of Doylestown, Pennsylvania's bicentennial celebration on June 1, 2012. When I say "longer, written version," I mean just that. This is not a transcript of the talk, although it follows its direction in every way. What is posted here is the "talk" combined with all of the little details that would not have been possible...unless I spoke for six hours. In any case, it reflects my two years of work with the Geil archives at the Doylestown Historical Society, and owes a great deal to the friends and colleagues I have met there, who have made this research one of the most enjoyable archival pilgrimages of my life.

Accidental 6a          Accidental 6b          Accidental 6c          Accidental 6d
Accidental 6e          Accidental 6f           Accidental 6g          Accidental 6h

Back down the mountain the next day, I logged onto the Abe Books site and tracked down a copy of William Edgar Geil's The Sacred 5 of China. My electronic receipt made clear that it would be delivered to my door by the time I returned to the United States. In the meantime, I finished my whirlwind visit to all five sacred mountains in a two-week period, and filled my ethnographic jottings notebook in anticipation of a long winter's write.

And read, as it turned out.

[b] Mt. Tai map (from The Sacred 5 of China)

Back in Beloit, Wisconsin, I unpacked my bags, organized my notes, began teaching the second half of a busy semester, and opened a chubby package from Abe Books. There it was, and it looked impressive. Hardbound with gold cloth covers, the front pictured a turtle bearing a Luo River chart upon its carapace. The volume was substantial, and even a little bit elegant. This struck me as a very serious effort. Although the text was front loaded (a third of the text) toward Mt. Tai—this is so hard to avoid that it has taken me three years to find a solution to the problem—it contained meaty chapters on all five mountains.

Moreover, he knew the classical cosmology of it all. Mt. Tai, the mountain of spring, was followed by Mt. Heng in the south—the mountain of summer. In the very middle of the book came Mt. Song, the central mountain, and the pivot of the four quarters. From there, Geil proceeded to the spectacular vistas of Mt. Hua in the west (just an hour today further down the road from the terracotta soldiers, but the better part of a day by donkey caravan for Geil and his entourage in 1919). He finished the book with the lonely little mountain of the north, Mt. Heng, which is cold much of the year and was actually outside the borders of China's dynasties during much of their history.

It was impressive, and powerfully more so because it contained some of the beautiful hand-sketched maps of mountain details that could only be found by working through many dozens of original texts from the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. William Edgar Geil had gotten hold of them and put them into a single volume. That feature alone made the volume worthy of study by students of Chinese culture. It crossed my mind again that there must be something...some reason...why I had never heard of him during a quarter century of study. Had I just missed something that everyone else knew? Was this a hidden gap in my preparation that would have embarrassed me in conversation with other "sinologists," had I admitted that the name Geil had never crossed my pupils before that autumn?

[c] Mt. Tai temple (from The Sacred 5 of China)

So I checked. I wrote e-mail messages to a cluster of China scholars, and asked if any had heard of a certain William Edgar Geil, who had traveled to all five sacred mountains in China and written a major work on the subject. Just to be sure, I mentioned five other names, all of whom had lived and traveled in China during the first two decades of the twentieth century. I asked—at the risk of a little embarrassment—if they were unaware of any of the following names.

                            Edouard Chavannes (1865-1918)

                            Paul Pelliot (1878-1945)

                            Marcel Granet (1884-1940)

                            William Edgar Geil (1865-1925)

                            Herbert Giles (1845-1935)

                            D.T. Suzuki (1870-1966)

To be sure, a few people who were less familiar with earlier eras and national traditions of Chinese studies marked names such as Pelliot and Suzuki. Still, the vast majority of responses had just one name noted as unrecognized. Let me make this as clear as I can. Of fifty total responses, only one name was unrecognized by everyone. Not one person among a substantial group of China scholars in North America, Europe, and Asia recognized the name of the only Western person to have written a book about China's five sacred mountains.

No one.

Let me take things one step further. If you do an Internet search tonight (1 June 2012), you will find that only one of the names above lacks even a stub of a Wikipedia entry. That will be remedied soon enough, but it should give you a sense of how completely unknown this author was.

[d] June 1919 (from The Sacred 5 of China)

Back in late-October of 2009, though, I couldn't tear myself away from the pictures. You see, William Edgar Geil, in addition to publishing a verbal account of his journey up and down each of the sacred peaks in the summer of 1919, included a hundred original photographs. And they are impressive. I was so intrigued by one photograph that I brought it immediately to my evening seminar group (our topic was, appropriately, "Mountains") and opened the floor for discussion. On one side was Geil's 1919 photograph of the "eighteen bends" (十八盘) up Mt. Tai. On the other were two of my own 2009 photographs. Eighty years separated them. What was different? What was the same? What could we learn from it all?

To begin, Geil's photograph showed a spectacularly barren landscape. I could recognize the twisting stairway to heaven—to the 南天門, the South Gate of Heaven. Not much of the rest seemed possible. How could only two little tufts of pine trees be visible? It looked like a moonscape—all rock, and no water. T.S. Eliot might have mused about this very scene as he drafted the first section (edited with the help of sinophile Ezra Pound) of The Wasteland.

                              What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

                              Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
                              You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
                               A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
                               And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
                               And the dry stone no sound of water.

[e] June 2009 RL

Where did all the foliage go in 1919? Why is the same rock face drenched in vegetation eighty years later? Photo A, above, is fairly close to the angle and distance of Geil's picture. You will notice that, even in early March of 2009, the stone path was dotted by shrubbery and buds of various kinds. By late-June, eighty years to the month after Geil took his photograph, the rock is covered in greenery. My seminar students came up with a wide range of answers, but two interrelated ones dominated. In 1919, in the midst of general confusion and territorial fragmentation, the mountain was scoured for firewood, building supplies, and other uses. By contrast, in 2009 Mt. Tai had spent over two decades as a UNESCO World Heritage site and was vigorously promoted by the Chinese government as one of the the most significant tourism sites in the country.

***  ***

In other words, Geil's book immediately found its way into my classroom, and I was favorably disposed toward him after our first full day together. Indeed, I was getting ready to champion him as a truly significant, yet somehow forgotten, figure in the history of Chinese studies. This was one of the most exciting days of my career, and I could not help thinking that I had found a heretofore unknown Margaret Mead hidden in the deep recesses of the Western sinological tradition. I had unpacked, spent a full-day teaching, and now had a long weekend ahead of me to study The Sacred 5 of China. I was ready to meet William Edgar Geil on his own turf—the 360 pages and five mountains of his text.

Accidental 6a          Accidental 6b          Accidental 6c          Accidental 6d
Accidental 6e          Accidental 6f           Accidental 6g          Accidental 6h

[f] Lush RL

Lectures (6a)—The Accidental Ethnographer

Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Lectures a la fleur"

One year ago on Round and Square (26 July 2011)—Longevity Mountain: The Road to South Peak

[a] Ascent RL

This is the longer, written version of a lecture I gave as part of Doylestown, Pennsylvania's bicentennial celebration on June 1, 2012. When I say "longer, written version," I mean just that. This is not a transcript of the talk, although it follows its direction in every way. What is posted here is the "talk" combined with all of the little details that would not have been possible...unless I spoke for six hours. In any case, it reflects my two years of work with the Geil archives at the Doylestown Historical Society, and owes a great deal to the friends and colleagues I have met there, who have made this research one of the most enjoyable archival pilgrimages of my life.

Accidental 6a          Accidental 6b          Accidental 6c          Accidental 6d
Accidental 6e          Accidental 6f           Accidental 6g          Accidental 6h

In the autumn of 2006 I made a pilgrimage to the very center of Chinese culture—a journey that many admirers of the Chinese tradition have made over the course of 3,000 years of written history. My destination was Mt. Tai, the eastern peak of the five sacred mountain template known in Chinese cosmology and statecraft since the Zhou Dynasty (c.1050-221 BCE). I hiked the 7,000 winding steps, including the steep ascent to the South Heaven Gate that everyone in China can recognize from photographs. Through it all, I passed more than a thousand stone inscriptions (石刻). These had been written throughout the centuries by various poets, emperors, and itinerants, creating a mountainous cluster of vegetation, rock, and writing that, in profound ways, merged nature and culture.

A year later, after five different trips to Mt. Tai—making sure that I got everything down—I watched the sunrise on the eastern edge of the eastern sacred peak. I had spent a hundred days on the mountain in the previous twelve months, and that day's sunrise struck me as being just a little too much like Groundhog Day for my intellectual comfort. I treasured the natural and cultural nooks and crannies of Mt. Tai, but something was wrong. Something was just a little off-kilter. As the throngs began to disperse, making their various ways up and around Mt. Tai's vast, city-sized summit, I pondered what to do next. Why was I spending my time researching just Mt. Tai? Weren't there four other mountains in this cosmological series? Why did my research and travel insist upon counting 1-1-1-1-1 instead of 1-2-3-4-5?

[b] Top RL

I hurried down the steep steps, packed quickly, and caught a train to Luoyang. I had a new plan.

In that week, I climbed the east-west axis of the mountain series. Mt. Tai in the east was followed by Mt. Song in the center and, just before having to rush back to teach the second half of the semester, Mt. Hua in the west. Before the lunar year was through, I would climb the north-south axis, as well—I hiked Mt. Heng in the south, went up Mt. Song again for good measure, and then finished the trip with the Mt. Heng of the north. By the beginning of 2008, I had familiarized myself with all five sacred mountains, and was learning to appreciate them as a network of ideas, rock carved poetry, and cultural practice. I spent all of China's Olympic year searching out both the well-traveled and forgotten spaces on the five mountains. Another year later, by late-2009, I had spent 400 days on these five escarpments in just over three years.

***  ***

And that is how I met William Edgar Geil (1865-1925). I won't forget that first encounter. It was a cool, clear October evening in 2009. On the western peak of China's western sacred mountain, I caught a clear internet signal and did a quick search of the phrase "five peaks" (五嶽; 五岳). I wanted to see what had been published, and what books—any language—I could get my hands on. I hit return, and allowed a few seconds for the information to load (I was on top of a mountain, but it was as though the tower was down on the Shaanxi plain). Then up came three screens worth of answers.

[c] Western RL

Line after line showed the rich literature in Chinese and Japanese about the mountains. The vast majority of these, including a handful in Western languages, centered on the storied importance of Mt. Tai in the east. What I wanted was books that focused on all five mountains, though. I may have started on Mt. Tai, but I had been studying the complex of mountains, and I wanted to read books and articles dealing with the cluster, the template, the mountain network as a whole. I already knew that this topic was unusual, and required a combined sense of Chinese cosmology and a willingness to traverse the countryside. I wasn't surprised that—taking Mt. Tai books out of the equation—I saw only a dozen or so Asian language books and nothing at all in any Western language. Nothing. Nada.

This was what I had expected, but I glanced at the second screen, if only to confirm my certainty. Westerners had shown some interest in Mt. Tai, and even written several terrific books about it (I already admired these). No Westerner had bothered to look at the five sacred mountains in depth as a complex idea and series of linked destinations. That must be an "Asian" concept, and one that I was out front on in my own work. I got a little chill of combined significance (I was onto something) and irrelevance (no one—in the West—really cared). Then, for some reason, I decided to hit the third screen, even though I was certain that it would just contain a few more Asian language works.

[d] Nature/culture RL

It did. But there was one title I had never seen before, and it was in English. My reaction was a combination of excitement and concern. It turned out that I was less significant but also less irrelevant than I had thought. There I saw the surname GEIL, the given names WILLIAM EDGAR, and a title that struck me as oddly quaint—The Sacred 5 of China. I also noticed that the work was hardly insubstantial, coming in at about 350 pages. What floored me during that mountaintop book search, though, was the date of publication. 1926. Huh? 1926? Eighty-three years before my Internet search, one Westerner had written a book about all five sacred mountains in China...and, at least according to this search, no one else had done so. Eighty-three years? I had begun studying Chinese history and culture almost three decades before that day, and had read tens of thousands of pages in the intervening years. I had assigned big chunks of those numbers in my classes, and talked with students and colleagues about hundreds—well over a thousand—scholars who had devoted their work to Chinese topics.

But I had never, ever heard of William Edgar Geil. Not once, and not even as part of an elaborate language joke using the word guile. Nope. Never.

It was late in the evening, and I needed sleep before the next day's mountaintop research. I would not forget, though. I had to learn more about this guy(l) who had scooped me on my project by almost a century—a traveler who had done what I was in the midst of doing, but who couldn't take domestic aircraft and regional buses (still a  travel challenge) from mountain to mountain. I had to learn more about this William Edgar guy who knew that the five sacred mountains—all five—were worthy of serious attention. I had been worrying about some journalist getting the idea and whipping up the project as an afterthought. Little did I know that William Edgar Geil had thought my thoughts and traveled my paths (as I saw it) nine decades before I heard of his name.

I was determined to know more.

Accidental 6a          Accidental 6b          Accidental 6c          Accidental 6d
Accidental 6e          Accidental 6f           Accidental 6g          Accidental 6h

[e] Paths RL

The Cortex Chronicles—Introduction

One year ago on Round and Square (25 July 2011)—Longevity Mountain: Mao and Then

[a] Young, swell, undeveloped RF

I received a nice note the other day from a Beloit College alumnus, a graduate of the distinguished class of 2009. He told me about the three years he had spent since leaving the ivy turrets, and mentioned that he had just passed a milestone—his twenty-fifth birthday. He did this in a way that has become familiar to me over the years, since he repeated a phrase that I have heard (by this time) from over a hundred students. Here is how it went:

        I just wanted to let you know that I now have a fully-developed frontal cortex.

[b] Frontal RF

What? A fully-developed what?

There is a reason why I receive these cards, notes, and e-mail messages from many of my former students. Most of it goes back to their memories of something I say repeatedly in my anthropology and history classes. It is not particularly "sensitive," but there is a method behind the odd anthropometry of it all. Here is what I say whenever I get the chance:

         I am the only person in this room with 
         a fully-developed frontal cortex.

Huh?...and on several levels. Huh? 

You see, the human frontal lobe takes time to develop—up to a full quarter century, and long after we ask youthful brains to do all sorts of important things ranging from taking SATs (and GREs), voting, serving their country, drinking, and making kin. We have "kids" do all of that without even having a fully-polished ability to consider the full implications of their actions. You see, that is one of the most important social functions of the frontal cortex. It provides that extra time to consider important questions such as "Is it really the best use of my time to play Madden NFL 13 all day, even with finals approaching?" It can provide the difference between doing tequila shots and just sipping a nice, chilled Chardonnay. The frontal cortex is like a traffic-control center for all of the comings and goings of your thoughts and actions.  

[c] A lot RF

And it takes time to develop. The fact that the body's capabilities mature a great deal faster than its control functions...well, that is a wee little problem that creates all sorts of fun for traffic police, college administrators, and even swimming coaches. One evening during my regular weekly seminar, I explained the frontal cortex and its role in human behavior. I stressed that the frontal lobe at eighteen has not finished developing, and that such matters as relative freedom, physical maturity, swarming signals in your limbic system, and even testosterone could make for a volatile combination. One young man, sitting quietly and pensively at the end of the table slowly shook his head and said: "That explains a lot."

There is a commercial on television these days that goes something like this. A young man seems intent on doing everything just a bit too long—a bit too "involved." Rising to shake hands after a job offer, he begins an elaborate handshake ritual...that is stopped abruptly by a soft beep. Kissing his date goodnight, he begins to extend the moment with mouth gymnastics...before another beep stops him in his behavioral tracks. 

Nissan Altima commercial

The frontal cortex is a little like the Nissan tire monitoring system, in other words. It is ready to emit a few warnings that you might be about to cross behavioral lines, and might want to rethink your current set of actions.

[d] Reflection RF

It's like a warning screen, asking if you really want to erase the entire contents of your hard drive. Are you sure? When fully developed (after about the age of twenty-five), it will even give you the equivalent of a "this action cannot be undone" warning.

Now, let's be clear. Plenty of eighteen year-olds check their actions and not a few fifty year-olds rush headlong into folly. The frontal cortex is just a warning system, performing a set of executive functions, as it were. It is not a behavioral control. It won't stop you from doing something really stupid. It just enables you think it over, reflect, and pause. Do I really want to do that? Really?

And that is what this series will be about. We will consider people who paused and said "I don't want to go down that road after all" as well as those who said "I think I'll have another drink and dance with this lampshade on my head." Stick around for a bumpy ride with us as we look at the many ways this neurological court of last resort works out in the lives we live.

[r] Pensive RF

Fieldnotes From History (59)—Provincial Elections-t

Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Fieldnotes From History."

One year ago on Round and Square (24 July 2011)—Hurtin' Country: Holding On to Nothing But the Wheel

[a] En masse RF

Click below for other fieldnotes dealing with Taiwan's 1985 provincial elections:

Election 1         Election 2          Election 3          Election 4          Election 5          Election 6
Election 7         Election 8          Election 9          Election 10        Election 11        Election 12
Election 13       Election 14        Election 15        Election 16        Election 17        Election 18

Part of an occasional Round and Square series that follows the blog’s main theme (east meets west, round meets square, and past meets present), these snippets from my early fieldnotes are reproduced as they were written by hand—and then revised on an ancient desktop computer—during my first fieldwork stay in Taiwan (1985-1987).  All entries are the way that I left them when I returned to the United States in 1987—some nicely-stated and some embarrassing. Although the series began with my assumption that the entries can stand alone, I have found that separate comments and notes might help readers understand a world that is now, well, history. These are always separate from the original fieldnote.

The next several dozen entries in this series represent my memories—in the form of fieldnotes that were already well on their way to being letters—of Taiwan's provincial elections in November 1985. I had taken down what I call "jottings" at the time, and "now," two months later, I was ready to get a little bit more detail down in the form of fieldnotes. If you are somewhat unfamiliar with the five-stage process that framed my work habits even back then, it might be worth a quick look at the introduction to this series. Suffice to say here that in Taiwan in 1985 I was working from "jottings" to "fieldnotes" most of the time. Every month or so, I would write a letter that made it all into a more sustained narrative. Even early on, I realized how powerfully the knowledge that I would be writing letters influenced my fieldnotes. You may see it, too. It has remained my method to this day.

[b] Home fires RF

Like many fieldnotes, these were "written up" (a term I dislike, but am occasionally willing to use) after the fact. I wonder if most students of anthropology know how common this is. The implications for research, eye-witness authenticity, and historiography are numerous. It is a reality that has never gone away for field researchers of all kinds, though, and I suspect that it never will. 

Comment 

This last comment, since this is where I finished on the afternoon of February 16, 1986, is a bit sarcastic. It has some of the better anthropological firepower at work (even now I am a sucker for "agnatic" and "affinal"), and hits a key point about cutting the influence of ethnic Taiwanese. This was a strategy that the Guomindang employed from the moment it arrived on the island, and was effective (depending on whom one asked back then) in diminishing "traditional" influence in island politics. 

Still, the last few sentences drip with a blend of sarcasm and contempt. These are only fieldnotes, after all, so my concern was not about "final draft" quality. Still, I attribute most of my tone to the kind of adrenaline one gets when working too long and almost being done. Many of us have experienced this in term papers, late-night e-mail correspondence, or company reports. A certain Mary Tyler Moore went through a similar adrenaline rush when writing Wee Willie Williams's obituary back in the 1970s.*
*You'll get what you need in the first seven minutes of the link.

The lesson? Edit the next morning. Mary didn't, and neither did I.

Notes 

[c] Meandering RF

[1] "Agnatic" kinship is reckoned through the father's family. "Affinal" refers to marriage relationships that provide the social glue for local politics in China. In China (and this holds for Taiwan), affinal ties provide networks among different villages.

[2] As a political strategy, this Guomindang gerrymandering shows that (unlike many other occupiers) they understood how marriage, politics, and culture fit together in this particular social order.

16 February 1986 

Taipei 
So elections in Taiwan are local and the issues debated severely limited. Higher offices are not negotiable; they are entirely based upon appointments from the Guomindang’s ruling clique. Even local elections have been tightly controlled. During the first wave of elections in Taiwan during the late 1950s, the government drew election boundaries through the heart of most traditional political units. This “cultural gerrymandering” severely weakened the influence of traditional village leaders and village-wide factions in the countryside. The changes reduced political affiliation based on agnatic ties or cross-village affinal relations. Thus the “energies of the people” are channeled in a way that leaves the ultimate decisions—economic, military, and governmental decisions—solely in the hands of those benevolent old men capable of running the country through the force of their virtue. 

[d] Harmony RF

Fieldnotes From History (58)—Provincial Elections-s

Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Fieldnotes From History."

One year ago on Round and Square (23 July 2011)—Longevity Mountain: Summer Wanderings

[a] Glimpse RF

Click below for other fieldnotes dealing with Taiwan's 1985 provincial elections:

Election 1         Election 2          Election 3          Election 4          Election 5          Election 6
Election 7         Election 8          Election 9          Election 10        Election 11        Election 12
Election 13       Election 14        Election 15        Election 16        Election 17        Election 18
Election 19       Election 20

Part of an occasional Round and Square series that follows the blog’s main theme (east meets west, round meets square, and past meets present), these snippets from my early fieldnotes are reproduced as they were written by hand—and then revised on an ancient desktop computer—during my first fieldwork stay in Taiwan (1985-1987).  All entries are the way that I left them when I returned to the United States in 1987—some nicely-stated and some embarrassing. Although the series began with my assumption that the entries can stand alone, I have found that separate comments and notes might help readers understand a world that is now, well, history. These are always separate from the original fieldnote.

The next several dozen entries in this series represent my memories—in the form of fieldnotes that were already well on their way to being letters—of Taiwan's provincial elections in November 1985. I had taken down what I call "jottings" at the time, and "now," two months later, I was ready to get a little bit more detail down in the form of fieldnotes. If you are somewhat unfamiliar with the five-stage process that framed my work habits even back then, it might be worth a quick look at the introduction to this series. Suffice to say here that in Taiwan in 1985 I was working from "jottings" to "fieldnotes" most of the time. Every month or so, I would write a letter that made it all into a more sustained narrative. Even early on, I realized how powerfully the knowledge that I would be writing letters influenced my fieldnotes. You may see it, too. It has remained my method to this day.

[b] Sustained RF

Like many fieldnotes, these were "written up" (a term I dislike, but am occasionally willing to use) after the fact. I wonder if most students of anthropology know how common this is. The implications for research, eye-witness authenticity, and historiography are numerous. It is a reality that has never gone away for field researchers of all kinds, though, and I suspect that it never will. 

Comment 

Again, I wince at the conflation of "Confucian" and "traditional Chinese" here. Almost three decades ago it was easy for me to think of these terms as unproblematic. Today, I would try to express such ideas with a little more nuance. Here is one of the ways I would express that nuance: while it is absolutely true that patience with criticism was never the strong suit of Chinese imperial governments or most Chinese political thinkers, there is an exception. The concept of remonstrance (諫), which I have now studied for twenty years, addresses some of the weaknesses that traditional "Confucian" thought has with regard to critique. This is not to say that it provides for anything like a sustained engagement between government policy and opposed perspectives. It should be part of the larger discussion of politics in the Chinese tradition, though.

The goals of prosperity and harmony should prick the ears of any readers familiar with China today. The verb "to harmonize" has been used to withering effect by critics of this very perspective on government. And even though I think that the next-to-last sentence in the first paragraph of the fieldnote is a bit overstated, there can be little doubt that the step toward organized, competing factions (parties) was different in kind from most approaches to statecraft in Chinese history. Just look at the thirty-plus provinces on the other side of the Strait of Taiwan.

[c] Open RF

The most interesting thing about these sentences for me is the reference to "emotional ties." I don't remember when I thought of that, but I suspect that it came out of discussions I was having with a classmate from Carleton who was at that time doing fieldwork for her dissertation on the emotional life of the Welsh. Our letters, back and forth, deepened my perspectives on these matters, and I think it is fair to say even today that emotional passion and politics strike many people in the Chinese speaking world as unseemly. This is precisely why some people in and beyond China still speak with derision of Taiwan's (the ROC's) move toward direct elections at all levels. The televised fights in parliament and city hall give as much fuel to those on the side of "benevolence and strength" as the messiness of participation does to people arguing for a more open process.

Notes 

[1] The Republic of China still saw itself in 1985 as a bulwark against Communism. Although the intensity of the "Free China" rhetoric had diminished in other parts of the world, anti-Communism was alive in Taiwan when I was there. That is why I make the specific mention to the Guomindang goal of abolishing Communism in this note. Positives such as prosperity and harmony were fine, but the rooting out of dangerous ideology (as Guomindang leaders saw it) was just as important. This is a new twist on a centuries-old political argument.

16 February 1986
Taipei
Confucian political philosophy does not especially concern itself with minority interests and equal representation. It also has little patience with criticism of government policy. From Confucius onward, the Chinese view of the relation between ruler and ruled was based upon the view that the ruler represented a moral force intent upon attaining a single goal: establishing a prosperous and harmonious society. To prosperity and harmony, Taiwan’s Guomindang elite would add the abolition of Communism. Still, the very idea of competing interests with vastly different views at all levels of government is antithetical to Confucian political philosophy. When push comes to shove, the masses defer to their leaders.

Traditional Chinese political philosophy stresses that the relationship between a leader and follower should not be based upon emotional ties—the kind of ties all too easily created by an electoral process. Confucianism has no time for demagogues. Taiwan’s Guomindang elite fears demagogues—from separatists to Communists—and they fear the role elections may have in encouraging them. This is the crux of the problem behind the plan to open the energies of the island's people, and one of the main reasons why the party is wary of the process. 

[d] Wary RF

Fieldnotes From History (57)—Provincial Elections-r

Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Fieldnotes From History."

One year ago on Round and Square (22 July 2011)—Longevity Mountain: Table of Contents

[a] Rocky RF

Click below for other fieldnotes dealing with Taiwan's 1985 provincial elections:

Election 1         Election 2          Election 3          Election 4          Election 5          Election 6
Election 7         Election 8          Election 9          Election 10        Election 11        Election 12
Election 13       Election 14        Election 15        Election 16        Election 17        Election 18
Election 19       Election 20

Part of an occasional Round and Square series that follows the blog’s main theme (east meets west, round meets square, and past meets present), these snippets from my early fieldnotes are reproduced as they were written by hand—and then revised on an ancient desktop computer—during my first fieldwork stay in Taiwan (1985-1987).  All entries are the way that I left them when I returned to the United States in 1987—some nicely-stated and some embarrassing. Although the series began with my assumption that the entries can stand alone, I have found that separate comments and notes might help readers understand a world that is now, well, history. These are always separate from the original fieldnote.

The next several dozen entries in this series represent my memories—in the form of fieldnotes that were already well on their way to being letters—of Taiwan's provincial elections in November 1985. I had taken down what I call "jottings" at the time, and "now," two months later, I was ready to get a little bit more detail down in the form of fieldnotes. If you are somewhat unfamiliar with the five-stage process that framed my work habits even back then, it might be worth a quick look at the introduction to this series. Suffice to say here that in Taiwan in 1985 I was working from "jottings" to "fieldnotes" most of the time. Every month or so, I would write a letter that made it all into a more sustained narrative. Even early on, I realized how powerfully the knowledge that I would be writing letters influenced my fieldnotes. You may see it, too. It has remained my method to this day.

[b] Disputation RF

Like many fieldnotes, these were "written up" (a term I dislike, but am occasionally willing to use) after the fact. I wonder if most students of anthropology know how common this is. The implications for research, eye-witness authenticity, and historiography are numerous. It is a reality that has never gone away for field researchers of all kinds, though, and I suspect that it never will. 

Comment 

I am a little uneasy with the simplistic rendering here of the term "Confucian." As I have stated elsewhere in this series, I was much "faster and looser" with such characterizations back in the day. Still, my overall point about the Guomindang leadership's self image comes through clearly; they saw themselves as strong, benevolent, and productive. What struck me most powerfully when I lived in Taiwan in the mid-1980s was the "tone" of that governmental rhetoric. I was trying to capture it here—a combination of compassion and "knowing better" that was at least somewhat at odds with the electoral process. Again, this is not unusual in political discourse, and a quick study of historical examples (or international relations today) should provide sufficient examples.

That the Guomindang leadership saw a need to open the process back then...well, this still surprises me, and the fact that I did not see it coming is clear enough in these fieldnotes. For me, the linkage to a long philosophical tradition was also important. The quotations from Confucius's Analects summed up what I saw as the "studied privilege" (I mean that in several ways) perspective of the Guomindang leadership. One had to work at it, and stay good at it. This wasn't a perspective that merely rubber-stamped existing privilege. No, it was something thought to be earned through careful attention to the arts of rulership. The second quotation makes that abundantly clear.

Yet, in the end, this same process—throughout Chinese history—created a group (I hesitate to say "class") of people who were quite taken with their abilities and successes. In time, they sought to perpetuate it. Does that sound familiar today? Just read the papers, all over the world.

[c] Outlet RF

Notes 

[1] The "still point of the turning world" reference is from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. I still think that it sums up the ruling philosophy in early Chinese philosophy as well as anything. Let me add that Eliot was not referring to China, unless he had somehow channeled some knowledge from Ezra Pound in over the decades.

[2] In some ways, I would take exception to my third sentence. There was the language of competing political philosophies, especially as what we call the Spring and Autumn period (771-403 BCE) gave way to the Warring States period (403-221 BCE).* This latter period is the backdrop for one of the most interesting books in Chinese studies in the last thirty years—A.C. Graham's Disputers of the Tao. This was contended—and often contentious—discourse. My overall point in the note, however, still holds. The Guomindang leadership in 1985 was extremely suspicious of competition, even as it planned to open the process further, and this can clearly be seen in some of the government newspaper editorials in my previous fieldnotes about provincial elections. 
*I have my reasons for using these dates, not the least because the partition of Jin in 403 BCE was the most important event of the period. My professional opinion.

16 February 1986

Taipei

It is not easy to resolve democratic and Confucian values. Like the imperial leadership of the Chinese dynasties, Taiwan’s Guomindang leadership sees its role as the guidance of the masses and, ultimately, the country toward a more perfect society. This is not the language of competing parties. Underlying Confucian rhetoric is the assumption that some people are better positioned to lead than others. In their virtue, their scholarship, and their moral rectitude they show distinctive capabilities for leading the country. 

The Analects state the matter clearly. Rulers—the still point of the turning world—guide the ruled through sagacity and force of virtue. The government’s political vision must be accepted by a unified populace and instituted by enlightened scholar-officials. Two closely connected passages in the Analects succinctly state both the privileges and responsibilities of leaders. If all works well, society prospers.
 

          The Master said, He who rules by moral force is like the pole star, which 
          remains in its place while all the lesser stars do homage to it 
                                                                             —Analects II,i

          The Master said, Govern the people by regulations, keep order among 
          them by chastisements, and they will flee from you. Govern them by moral 
          force, keep order among them by ritual and they will keep their self respect 
          and come to you of their own accord 
                                                                             —Analects II,iii

[d] Bridged RF

Fieldnotes From History (56)—Provincial Elections-q

Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Fieldnotes From History."

One year ago on Round and Square (21 July 2011)—Longevity Mountain: Introduction

[a] National RF

Click below for other fieldnotes dealing with Taiwan's 1985 provincial elections:

Election 1         Election 2          Election 3          Election 4          Election 5          Election 6
Election 7         Election 8          Election 9          Election 10        Election 11        Election 12
Election 13       Election 14        Election 15        Election 16        Election 17        Election 18

Part of an occasional Round and Square series that follows the blog’s main theme (east meets west, round meets square, and past meets present), these snippets from my early fieldnotes are reproduced as they were written by hand—and then revised on an ancient desktop computer—during my first fieldwork stay in Taiwan (1985-1987).  All entries are the way that I left them when I returned to the United States in 1987—some nicely-stated and some embarrassing. Although the series began with my assumption that the entries can stand alone, I have found that separate comments and notes might help readers understand a world that is now, well, history. These are always separate from the original fieldnote.

The next several dozen entries in this series represent my memories—in the form of fieldnotes that were already well on their way to being letters—of Taiwan's provincial elections in November 1985. I had taken down what I call "jottings" at the time, and "now," two months later, I was ready to get a little bit more detail down in the form of fieldnotes. If you are somewhat unfamiliar with the five-stage process that framed my work habits even back then, it might be worth a quick look at the introduction to this series. Suffice to say here that in Taiwan in 1985 I was working from "jottings" to "fieldnotes" most of the time. Every month or so, I would write a letter that made it all into a more sustained narrative. Even early on, I realized how powerfully the knowledge that I would be writing letters influenced my fieldnotes. You may see it, too. It has remained my method to this day.

[b] Figures RF

Like many fieldnotes, these were "written up" (a term I dislike, but am occasionally willing to use) after the fact. I wonder if most students of anthropology know how common this is. The implications for research, eye-witness authenticity, and historiography are numerous. It is a reality that has never gone away for field researchers of all kinds, though, and I suspect that it never will. 

Comment 

This one is important. Let's just say that the challenge of political participation in Chinese history has a fascinating and fragmented legacy. From Confucius to Mao Zedong, "the people" have figured in Chinese political theory, and so has their participation in "politics" under heaven (天下). This Chinese phrase refers in elegant ways to what a Westerner might call "the whole world."

The vast majority of thinkers (not to mention rulers) thought of "the people" as a problem to be solved...or coddled or assuaged. Many of the memorials quoted in the book I have studied for thirty years, the Comprehensive Mirror, speak of the necessity of reassuring the people so they don't boil over like bubbling broth. In other words, this is a key question, and one that (here I go again) I think anthropologists should study just as readily as do political scientists and historians. To be sure, many do (good job, Marissa Smith '08!), but we need even more.

And this is the other reason why some of these notes seem sort of "academic." My training has been in history and anthropology from almost the first day of college, and it has never wavered. In a nutshell, I am interested in political culture, and that is a topic that has multiple dimensions.

[c] Social (trust me) RF

Notes 

[1] Winckler nailed it here, I think. This "liberation of energy" and "channeling into public affairs" is key to understanding the motives—and the plan—of Guomindang leaders in the mid-1980s. As we will see in the next few notes, this is central to understanding what a millennia-old strategy in new, democratic robes.

16 February 1986 

Taipei 
“The national elite would like democracy to liberate the energies of the people,” writes Edwin Winckler, a Harvard political scientist studying Taiwan. [It wishes to] “channel them into public affairs, and discipline them into the orderly pursuit of a unified general will.”  This appears to be Confucian political philosophy with a modern, somewhat democratic twist. Political participation has always been an issue in China. It simply has rarely been cast in terms of all the people.

In theory, Taiwan’s elite—the upper echelons of the Guomindang—see elections as a way to bring the talents of the most able and conscientious citizens to the aid of government. Like the selection of scholar-officials in imperial times, democracy should provide the country with a vast storehouse of talent, to use, as Professor Winckler puts it, “in the orderly pursuit of a general, unified will.”  This phrase combines the rhetoric of Confucianism with that of modern democracy, and therein lies its problem. Therein, too, lies the challenge for Taiwan’s political elite. 

[d] Fishing votes RF