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Extending the Metaphor: Notions of Jazz in Portraiture
Adrienne D. Dixson
Qualitative Inquiry 2005 11: 106
DOI: 10.1177/1077800404270839
The online version of this article can be found at:
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QUALITATIVE
10.1177/1077800404270839
Dixson
/ NOTIONS
INQUIRY
OF JAZZ
/ February 2005
Extending the Metaphor:
Notions of Jazz in Portraiture
Adrienne D. Dixson
The Ohio State University
Portraiture, as a qualitative research methodology, challenges how we define objectivity
and rigor in the social science research tradition. More recently, and in this “seventh
moment” of qualitative research, scholars have begun to explore the impact of “racialized
discourses” and “ethnic epistemologies” on both the process and content of qualitative
research, particularly within communities of color. In this article, the author offers jazz
as a heuristic for thinking about research that is informed by and a reflection of
“racialized discourses” and “ethnic epistemologies.”
Keywords:
portraiture; jazz; teachers; research; urban education
You know, I only agreed to do this because you’re a sista. I have been in a
lot of people’s research. They hear about the school and me, and they
want to come and do a study. I’m just tired of them coming here and me
helping them out to get their degrees. So, when I saw what you were trying to do, and that you’re a young sista, I thought it was finally an opportunity for me to help one of my people. ’Cuz you know, not many of us get
out of there with a doctorate.
—Ms. Theodora Johnson, High School
Teacher1
Jazz is merely the Negro’s [sic] cry of joy and suffering.
—“Lewis” in The Cry of Jazz (Bland, Hill,
Kennedy, & Titus, 1959)
The above quotes, in part, mark the essence of what I am attempting to
express in this article. Ms. Johnson’s statement demonstrates the subjective
and relational nature of research, particularly within one’s community. Moreover, Lewis, a character in the film The Cry of Jazz (Bland et al., 1959), states
Author’s Note: I would like to thank Professor Gloria Ladson-Billings at the University
of Wisconsin–Madison for the intellectual guidance and space to produce this work. I
would also like to thank Assistant Professors Jessica DeCuir-Gunby of North Carolina
Qualitative Inquiry, Volume 11 Number 1, 2005 106-137
DOI: 10.1177/1077800404270839
© 2005 Sage Publications
106
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Dixson / NOTIONS OF JAZZ
107
very poignantly what jazz is. I will attempt to build on the essence of both Ms.
Johnson’s and Lewis’s statements to articulate what I mean by a jazz research
methodology.
Like most graduate students, graduate study was challenging for me. I
struggled specifically with the notion that one can know something objectively and abstractly and that this knowing was not emotional. That is, I struggled with the notion that one can know something and not be invested in its
meaning or the process of discovery. Although there are certainly those for
whom the concept of knowing and researching are indeed emotional acts, for
the most part, much of the training for graduate students is to know in the
abstract, objectively and without emotional investment. I found this aspect of
graduate study particularly difficult to absorb. In the academy, we are trained
to express what we know as benignly and sterilely as possible—to divorce
our emotions from the topic. We are trained that personalizing an issue, especially in academic writing, compromises one’s credibility and objectivity. As
Ms. Johnson’s statement illustrates, what I could know and how I would
access what participants in my study knew was predicated on a great deal
more than what I had been officially trained to know about research and being
a researcher.
My struggle with the idea that one can know something with absolute certainty came in part from my liberal arts undergraduate education. As most
undergraduates, I had my share of required psychology and science courses
wherein I was introduced to the ideas of objectivity and the scientific method.
However, as a jazz studies major, I had an abundance of courses that encouraged me to analyze, question, and express ideas creatively. I was trained to listen and be keenly aware of my surroundings such that what I had to offer as a
speaker, singer, or instrumentalist served to complement, rather than detract
from, that which was transpiring around me.
I was initially trained as a “classical” musician in that I developed some of
the technical skills of playing the flute through the study of European music.
Although studying European music helped me acquire a high level of facility
on my instrument and a broad knowledge of music theory and composition,
studying jazz gave me a keen insight into the interpretive aspects of creating
and performing music. Similarly, my instrumental facility was enhanced as I
learned to manipulate tonalities, harmonies, and rhythms in ways that European music did not. The notion of praxis became even more salient for me
because through playing jazz, the musician is simultaneously exploring and
negotiating the boundaries of theory and practice. As a member of Southern
State University, Jeannine Williams Dingus of the University of Rochester, and
Thandeka K. Chapman of the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee as well as Heather
Harding-Jones, doctoral candidate Harvard University, for their thoughtful and
insightful comments on earlier drafts of this article. I am sincerely grateful to Yvonna
Lincoln, Norm Denzin, and the reviewers for their suggestions and encouragement as I
prepared this article.
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University’s Jazz Ensemble, I learned more intimately how to participate in
and contribute to an ensemble. I learned to listen carefully to what others
were “saying”2 such that my contribution added to the aesthetic whole. Most
profoundly, I learned the difference between being “correct” and “right.” This
notion of being “correct” and “right” has been key as I begin to conceptualize
jazz as a qualitative methodology, particularly in light of how a “racial discourse and an ethnic epistemology” might inform my work in this area
(Ladson-Billings, 2000).
My primary jazz professor, Clarinetist Alvin Batiste, spoke frequently about the
contradiction in traditional conceptions of Western music theory between what is
often “correct” theoretically and “right” musically. Thus, the task of the jazz musician is to understand music theory, but to know when to play music “right.”
I also learned to express my thoughts on political and social issues creatively. By studying the work of master jazz musicians and composers who
were able to transform their insights on political issues into provocative
pieces of music, I learned that we are indeed affected and influenced by our
surroundings. For example, John Coltrane produced a haunting composition,
“Alabama.” Coltrane composed this piece in response to the horrific church
bombings in Birmingham, Alabama, that claimed the lives of four young
African American girls who were worshipping in a church one Sunday morning (Werner, 1999). The piece opens with a somber and melancholy introduction, with Coltrane on the tenor saxophone and the rhythm section playing
over a single chord. Both Coltrane and the piano are playing in the lower registers of their instruments. This voicing adds to the melancholy timbre of the
piece. The sound is dark and emotional, with the drums playing a diffuse and
ominous rhythm. Although there is a redemptive section in the piece, the
introduction alerts the listener that the song is serious in nature. Through this
composition, Coltrane not only made a statement about the lives lost but also
lent his support to the civil rights movement. With the lighter, redemptive
section of the piece, he signaled the response of the leaders of the movement
to this tragic event (Werner, 1999, p. 125).
Similarly, Billie Holiday was a vocalist whose talent lay not necessarily in
the quality of her voice but rather, in the genius of her delivery and ability to
phrase or to express a melody. Holiday added her voice to the efforts of
the antilynching movement by performing and recording the composition
“Strange Fruit,” which laments the senseless and violent deaths of Black people, both male and female, during the Jim Crow era (Davis, 1998).
Contemporary jazz musicians such as Branford Marsalis and Wynton
Marsalis have used their music to respond to issues and events facing African
Americans. Branford Marsalis’s 1992 recording I Heard You Twice The First
Time featured two songs that were political in nature: “Brother Trying to
Catch a Cab (On the East Side)” and “Simi Valley Blues” (written in response
to the acquittal of four White police officers accused of beating Rodney King.
The trial was held in Simi Valley, California). Wynton Marsalis, by the same
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109
token, recorded Blood on the Fields in 1997 as a musical documentation of the
experience of slavery in the United States and for which he won the Pulitzer
Prize in music, the first jazz musician to ever win the award. These two musicians use their music to make commentary on both the historical and contemporary experiences of African Americans specifically as well as the much
larger project of humanity and democracy. Wynton Marsalis has been at the
forefront of the movement to recognize jazz as the first and only truly American art form. He also has worked tirelessly for the national recognition of significant and innovative musicians such as Duke Ellington, Mary Lou
Williams, Jelly Roll Morton, and Louis Armstrong.
The efforts of these musicians (and many others) taught me that through
jazz, I could make profound statements creatively. In addition, I learned that
what I could offer would be part of a collective statement that could and perhaps should be political and liberatory. It is this training (that included learning to be part of an ensemble) that influences my understanding of researching and knowing.
I must admit that using this metaphor did not come to me organically.
Rather, through my quest for a methodological and epistemological perspective that spoke to my worldview and beliefs about research, I found Sarah
Lawrence-Lightfoot’s work on portraiture. It was through my reading of
Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis’s (1997) The Art and Science of Portraiture
and Lawrence-Lightfoot’s (1994) I’ve Known Rivers: Lives of Loss and Liberation
that I discovered it is possible for research to be creative, subjective, and rigorous. Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis argued that the researcher’s perspective
must be acknowledged and accounted for during and throughout the
research process (p. 11). For me, learning that there is a way to conduct intellectually rigorous research that is honest and creative was both intriguing and
liberating. As I will discuss later, the tenets of portraiture allowed me to
explore the issues of gender, race, and class identity in Black women’s pedagogy without compromising my commitment to producing work that is responsible to my participants.
By using the jazz metaphor, as Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997) have
with portraiture, I will explore how this idiom might be helpful for further
research on topics and issues through which traditional research methodologies might not capture the complexity and nuances. In addition, through this
metaphor, I believe that I am able to make connections across genres that
speak to the interconnectedness of the Black experience. Using examples
from a 10-month study I conducted on the pedagogical philosophies and
practices of two Black women elementary school teachers that I believe exemplifies the essence of a jazz sensibility, I will attempt to make some connections to qualitative research methodology and that of jazz.3 The challenge that
guides the use of the jazz metaphor is avoiding superficial comparisons
between both qualitative research and jazz music. Moreover, I want to avoid
haphazardly replacing one metaphor of methodology for another.
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In this article, I argue for both the usefulness of jazz as a metaphor for qualitative research and attempt to explain how it might look as a research methodology. My interpretation of jazz as a metaphor for qualitative research
departs slightly from Oldfather and West’s (1994) interpretation in that I situate my discussion within what Ladson-Billings (2000) has described as a
“racial discourse and an ethnic epistemology.” I argue that given the cultural
and political roots of jazz as not only an American art form but also a decidedly African American art form, its use as a qualitative research methodology
for working in and with African American communities can be described as a
culturally relevant approach to research. In other words, I am conceptualizing jazz as an epistemological approach to research as well as looking at how
to do jazz as a research methodology. It is important to note that I am still at the
early conceptual and theoretical stages of this work. Moreover, I am conscious of the tendency for researchers to do what Rist (1980) has described as
“blitzkrieg ethnography.” That is, I am hoping to offer a thoughtful and deliberate epistemological perspective and methodology and not merely an “alternative” methodology because “racial or ethnic” epistemologies are the “in”
thing to do at this moment in qualitative inquiry.
Black Feminisms in Real Life
My paternal grandmother, Alice Lynn-Audrey Rose Bryant, was the first Black
feminist I knew. She did not call herself a feminist, but her lifestyle and ideology suggest that if she knew what a Black feminist was, she would most certainly subscribe to
the idea. My grandmother was a staunch supporter of a woman’s right to choose. She
came from a long line of midwives on her mother’s side of the family. These women—
her mother, grandmother, and aunts—helped hundreds of women give birth in rural
Phoenix, Louisiana. She was also a registered nurse, having received her training at
one of the few Black hospitals in the city of New Orleans, Flint-Goodrich. According
to my grandmother, as a result of the civil rights movement, Flint-Goodrich closed
down because “Black folks believed the White hospitals were better than the ‘colored’
ones.” The hospital closed in the late 1980s; it has since been reopened as a convalescence home and serves the aging Black residents located in its neighborhood.
Shortly after becoming a registered nurse, my grandmother moved with her then
only child, my Aunt Martha, to Los Angeles, California. She, along with a number of
her neighbors, was among the other migration of Blacks out of the South. This second
wave of migrants was mostly from Louisiana and had moved to Southern California
in the early 1940s (Franklin & Moss, 1947/2000). Generally, they all purchased
homes in nearby neighborhoods and created a “little New Orleans” in their community. This move to Los Angeles was prosperous for my grandmother in many ways. It
allowed her to find gainful employment as a nurse as well as maintain her private
practice performing abortions for women in need. Her belief was that no woman
should be forced into becoming a mother or giving birth to a child if she was not ready
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or did not want to. From her midwife grandmother and aunts she had learned to use
natural herbs and teas that could induce a miscarriage. She often counseled young
women on what herbs to purchase from the pharmacy (one of which is still legal and
available over the counter) and what to tell the pharmacist if he inquired as to the
woman’s need for the product. She would sit with the women when they used the teas
to make sure there were no complications. As a general rule, she performed surgical
abortions only if the woman had waited too long to use the tea “remedy” which was
usually effective only in the first few weeks of pregnancy. She would chastise a woman
for waiting too long so as to need a surgical abortion because my grandmother believed
that a woman always knows when she is pregnant. In addition, she generally performed abortions only for Black women. She had a room set up in her home where she
performed these procedures unbeknownst to her children (my father and Aunt Marva
were born in 1947 and 1946, respectively). She ultimately lost her license in the early
1950s when she performed an abortion on a White woman whose husband coerced her
into identifying my grandmother as her abortionist. She spent one night in a county
jail and lost her nursing license. As a result, she was relegated to working in the hospital as a food service worker. Several years later, she had an opportunity to be reinstated
when it was discovered that a physician at Los Angeles’s General Hospital (the hospital where she was a nurse) had performed an abortion. However, circumstances prevented her from taking advantage of the reinstatement. She eventually worked as a
private care nurse, although she was unable to dispense medication to her patients.
Most of her patients were elderly and White. This unfortunate turn of events did not
deter my grandmother from continuing to help young women and mothers in need.
For as long as I can remember, my grandmother’s home has always been a temporary shelter to a number of women and their children. At any given time, and in addition to the 11 or so biological grandchildren who occasionally roomed at her home, my
grandmother might have two additional families. She expected that the women help
with the general housekeeping, laundry, and with preparing meals for everyone else in
the household. They made a small financial contribution to the utilities and in return,
had a safe and clean place to live for as long as they needed to “get themselves
together.” Marriage related some of the women to us and others were the daughters of
my grandmother’s friends (mostly also Louisiana transplants). My grandmother
made no distinction, however, between her own biological grandchildren and the
women’s children—we all called her “Granny”—and she would have it no other way.
If any of us—her “real” grandchildren—made the “other” children feel unwelcome,
we were severely chastised and might even “catch a whipping” if she thought we were
too mean. Everyone knew her as “Granny” in her neighborhood. Thus I learned first
hand this notion of “othermothering” from my grandmother who had been mother/
grandmother to literally hundreds of people during the course of the 48 years she lived
in South Central Los Angeles.
During her 20-year marriage to my stepgrandfather, Blyde Bryant, from Shreveport, Louisiana (who passed away in the early 1980s), she made all the financial decisions for the family and purchased several homes in the Los Angeles area. She was
savvy financially, with a portfolio of investments in the stock market. She stressed to
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her daughters, nieces, and granddaughters the importance of women being financially independent. She would take all the granddaughters (there were five of us) with
her as she collected the monthly rent, lecturing us about planning for our futures.
From my perspective, she was a fair landlord who attended to her property as carefully
as she did her grandchildren. The properties were well kept and clean and the tenants
seemed happy.
JAZZ AND PORTRAITURE
The portrait is created through negotiation of the discourse between the
portraitist and the subject. Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997) argued that
portraiture as a qualitative research methodology is a subjective process in
which the researcher acknowledges the extent to which her or his perspective,
or vantage point, informs her or his vision of the subject. That is, the portrait
represents, in part, the portraitist’s vision or seeing of the subject. LawrenceLightfoot described an experience as the subject of a portrait in which she
viewed the artist’s rendering of her as capturing the “essence—qualities of
character and history some of which I was unaware of, some of which I
resisted mightily, some of which felt deeply familiar” (Lawrence-Lightfoot &
Davis, 1997, p. 4). Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis defined social science
portraiture as
a method of qualitative research that blurs the boundaries of aesthetics and
empiricism in an effort to capture the complexity, dynamics and subtlety of
human experience and organizational life. Portraitists seek to record and interpret the perspectives and experience of the people they are studying, documenting their voices and their visions—their authority, knowledge, and wisdom. (p.
xv)
Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997) went on to discuss how the images
portraitists create, both in the social science and fine arts contexts, are really
translations of the subjects that are layered and shaped by their relationships
with the participants/subjects. The perspective of the subject is shaped by
many factors. Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis named five essential features of
portraiture that help the portraitist render an image that may not be a literal
representation of the participant’s perspective of herself or himself but again,
one that captures the essence of the participant. Those five essential features
are context, voice, relationship, emergent themes, and aesthetic whole.
In exploring how portraiture relates to a jazz methodology, the notions of
context, relationship, and emergent themes are related to the idea of ensemble
playing and improvisation. Playing together in front of a live audience influences the creative process differently than playing in a recording studio or an
empty rehearsal hall. In qualitative research, the context not only affects the
data collection process but also adds to the understanding of the research
question. Studying African American students in an elite, private, suburban,
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predominantly White school provides a different context for understanding
the schooling process than in a public, urban, predominantly Black school.
How does the schooling environment—physically and psychologically—
compare to what students experience in their communities? Paying close
attention to language use and personal interactions, for example, is as important as the aesthetic value of the physical plant in understanding the context
within which our participants live and work.
Jazz musician Art Blakey (personal communication, 1984) generally
closed his concerts by saying that music comes “from the Creator, through the
musician, to the audience.” Blakey was suggesting that for jazz musicians,
music is in part a manifestation of not only the musician’s deeply spiritual
relationship with “the Creator” but also the musician’s relationship with the
audience. Thus, the music could not happen without those key relationships.
Similarly, jazz musicians’ relationships to each other greatly influence the
music that they create. Miles Davis was significantly affected by the presence
of John Coltrane in his band. He felt that playing with Coltrane had opened
up his senses of harmony and improvisation in ways that playing with other
musicians did not (Dibb Directions, 2001).
In a jazz methodology that is situated within this idea of a “racial discourse
and an ethnic epistemology,” the relationship between the researcher and
participant is vital. Moreover, given the decidedly political intent of a jazz
methodology, equitable relationships between the two must be sought. The
researcher must see herself or himself as part of and invested in the community in which she or he is conducting research. It is more than just a site and an
opportunity to learn something new. In my study of African American
women teachers, I was very much invested in the outcome of the study
because I saw myself in the participants’ experiences and stories. Thus, as an
African American woman and a teacher, I could relate to many of their beliefs
and experiences. In many ways, the data and my analysis would reveal as
much about me as an African American woman teacher as they would about
the women who participated in the study. Although the context of my teaching has changed from a middle grades classroom to a university classroom, I
share with them their sense of commitment to African American children, a
sense of urgency and importance in helping African American children be
successful in a society that makes it nearly impossible for them to do so. I also
understand intimately how it feels to be blamed for the lack of opportunity
and perceived underachievement of African American children.4
Given the popular and pervasive images and stereotypes of Black women
as immoral, hypersexual, and lazy, neglectful mothers and of Black teachers
(primarily Black women) as mean, authoritarian, incompetent, and irrational,
I was sensitive to the teachers’ reticence in participating in a study.5 Prior to
the study, I had never met the women who agreed to be participants. I had to
build a relationship with each of them such that each trusted that I was not
interested in casting her as an incompetent and mean teacher. Thus, the
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research process must be conceptualized as having a positive impact on the
participants. This happens through relationships that the researcher builds
with the participants. Sharing field notes, discussing the data analysis, creating opportunities for the participants to help with the data analysis, and participating in community events are all ways that the researcher can build a
substantive relationship with the participants.
Similarly, the notion of improvisation is related to Lawrence-Lightfoot and
Davis’s (1997) concept of emergent themes. Although jazz musicians may use
a written piece of music as a guide, the profundity and beauty of their performance is through the act of interpretation. The interpretation is demonstrated
not only through changes in meter or harmony but also in the addition of
improvised embellishments to the melody through the use of breaks and solo
passages. These breaks and improvisations—emergent themes—manifest in
the data. Through observational or interview data, themes come to the fore
that either support and enhance the researcher’s initial hypotheses, hunches,
and beliefs or contradict and refute them.
Three aspects of portraiture that I find particularly powerful are the search
for goodness, voice, and validity. It is important to point out that several features of portraiture, as Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997) have conceptualized it, are complementary to a jazz methodology. However, given space
limitations, I am focusing on these three areas of portraiture primarily
because they address some fundamental aspects of jazz, particularly jazz as a
methodology, that I believe are essential.
My Sister’s Keeper
“Bitch!” came out of John Patrick’s mouth as if he were spitting in the face of his
worse enemy. Perhaps at that moment he was; the recipient of such a venomous epithet
was Shaundrelle. Both Shaundrelle and John Patrick were overage students in my
sixth-grade class. John Patrick was 15 years old and Shaundrelle was 14 years old.
Both had been retained, or “kept back” as the children referred to it, at least twice as a
result of failing the state’s promotion examinations when they were in third and fifth
grade, respectively.
As a 1st-year teacher in New Orleans, I had my share of war stories about fights
among the children and my other classroom management woes. This exchange
between John Patrick and Shaundrelle was a relatively new trend with the boys in my
classroom calling the girls bitches. John Patrick was a frequent perpetrator. I called his
name and motioned for him to meet me outside our classroom and into the hallway. As
usual, the other children suddenly got silent and a chorus of “Ooh, you in trouble now,
John Patrick” rang out. Another child called out, “You know how Ms. Dixson feels
about that word!”
I asked John Patrick if he had noticed a change in Shaundrelle that I had seemed to
miss. He looked at me perplexed. I explained to him that the term bitch referred to a
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female dog—as in a canine. John Patrick had a surprised look on his face when I said
bitch as if to acknowledge that its use in school was inappropriate. I continued to
explain to him that as far as I could tell, Shaundrelle had not changed species since
school had started several hours earlier. John Patrick looked at me and said, “Come on,
Ms. Dixson, you know what I mean.” I explained to him, that no, I did not know what
he meant. He stated that he was angry at her for “getting smart with him” when he
asked her a question. I looked at him blankly and explained that I failed to see how the
situation warranted him calling Shaundrelle “out of her name.” I asked John Patrick
how he would feel if someone called his sister or a female cousin a bitch. He responded
that he would be angry and ready to fight the name caller. I asked him to consider that
Shaundrelle was someone’s sister and someone’s cousin. In other words, if he would be
angry and ready to defend his sister’s and cousin’s honor, so would her relatives. I
asked, rhetorically, what gave him the right to disrespect Shaundrelle and call her a
bitch? I asked him to consider that every time he called a girl or a woman a bitch, he
was calling someone’s mother, sister, cousin, or aunty, a bitch. Furthermore, the anger
that he felt because his sister, mother, or other female relatives were disrespected is the
same anger that the girl/woman and her relatives feel when she is called a bitch. Moreover, I explained that when I heard him calling a girl bitch, I felt like he was calling me
one too. John Patrick was a young man who, despite his recent use of demeaning and
sexist language, had generally been very respectful and gentle toward me. Looking
down at the ground, as if he were too embarrassed to look at me directly, John Patrick
said that he would never call me a bitch and apologized. I told him that I thought he
needed to apologize to Shaundrelle because he disrespected her. He agreed. I called
Shaundrelle out into the hallway so that John Patrick could apologize to her privately.
He agreed to also acknowledge to his classmates that his comment was inappropriate
and made a public apology to Shaundrelle in our classroom.
The Search for Goodness
For Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997), portraiture as a methodology
serves as “counterpoint to the dominant chorus of social scientists whose
focus has largely centered on the identification and documentation of social
problems” (p. xvi). In addition, given that much of social science research is
written for a certain audience, quite often the language is inaccessible for the
general lay public. Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis explained that with portraiture, they seek to “illuminate the complex dimensions of goodness and [it
is] designed to capture the attention of a broad and eclectic audience” (p. xvi).
This search for goodness is especially important when we consider the volume of literature, with the exception of more recent research by scholars of
color, that focuses a pathological lens on African Americans and other groups
of color. Specifically, with respect to Black women teachers, rarely has a positive light been shown on us as women and teachers. Lawrence-Lightfoot and
Davis offered,
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It is an intentionally generous and eclectic process that begins by searching for
what is good and healthy and assumes that the expression of goodness will
always be laced with imperfections. The researcher who asks first “what is good
here?” is likely to absorb a very different reality than the one who is on a mission
to discover the sources of failure. (p. 9)
Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis, however, were quick to add that through the
search for goodness, the portraits are not “documents of idealization or celebration.” Rather, the inconsistencies, the vulnerabilities, and the ways in
which people negotiate these terrains are “central to the expression of goodness” (Lawrence-Lightfoot & Davis, 1997, p. 9). Similarly, the definition of
goodness is defined in collaboration with the subject. The examples of goodness are organic. A primary objective for the portraitist is to look for multiple
ways the subject expresses it.
If we think about the project of the jazz musician as that of expression and
aesthetic interpretation, the goal is implicitly one of success. That is, the musician, for the most part, endeavors to successfully express, represent, and
interpret. In jazz, this “search for goodness” manifests in the myriad ways
that jazz musicians attempt to do this. Their “search” may manifest sonically
(i.e., through instrumentation like pairing a harmonica with a saxophone)
and/or compositionally (i.e., composing songs that harmonically and melodically signify events, emotions, or issues). The success lies not necessarily in
flawless technical execution but rather, it is both the pursuit and attempt at
interpretation through which success is measured. Moreover, the interchange, and the “success” of the interchange between musicians on the bandstand is, thus, another attempt at the “search for goodness” for the musician.
Furthermore, the very events, ideas, and issues that the musician chooses to
express and interpret may themselves be contentious. Consider again
Wynton Marsalis’s masterwork, Blood on the Fields. U.S. chattel slavery was/is
not a “good” or positive event in U.S. history. However, Marsalis sought to
express the love, enduring spirit, and humanity of those held in bondage—to
“search for goodness” in a very tragic event.
In extending this metaphor of jazz to research, the “search for goodness” is
one of both finding and interpreting “good.” As Lawrence-Lightfoot and
Davis (1997) have pointed out, much of social science research seeks to document failure. That is, we are trained as researchers to critique and find what is
missing or has not “worked.” Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis argued that finding failure is easy. The challenge, however, is finding success. Thus, the jazz
methodology would always already be focused on finding that which is “good.”
Voice
Unlike traditional social science research that controls for the researcher’s subjectivity, in portraiture, the voice of the researcher or portraitist is
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acknowledged and adds richness to the portraits. Lawrence-Lightfoot and
Davis (1997) asserted,
Voice is the research instrument, echoing the self (or the “soul” as Oscar Wilde
would put it) of the portraitist—her eyes, her ears, her insights, her style, her aesthetic. Voice is omnipresent and seems to confirm Wilde’s claim that portraits
reflect more about the artist than about the subject. (p. 85)
In addition, in portraiture, voice encompasses three orientations: epistemology, ideology, and method. It also includes the portraitist’s authorship, interpretation, relationship, aesthetics, and narrative (Lawrence-Lightfoot &
Davis, 1997, p. 87). Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis added that this use of voice
does not exclude a commitment to rigorous research “grounded in systematically collected data, skeptical questioning (of self and actors), and rigorous
examination of biases—always open to disconfirming evidence” (p. 85).
One of the essential elements for jazz musicians is this notion of voice. Jazz
musicians are identified primarily through the “voice” they develop on their
instrument. That is, within jazz, musicians have an identity that is formed in
large part through their individual nuanced performance on their instrument. John Coltrane, through the span of his career, developed a voice that
was distinct but not stagnant. Educated listeners and jazz musicians are able
to identify other jazz musicians by their distinctive instrumental and interpretive voice. In addition, one is generally able to identify the musical influences of jazz musicians through their tone, phrasing, and the musical ideas
they express during improvisation or soloing. This suggests that within jazz,
voice is not only a highly individualized characteristic but also inextricably
dependent on one’s relationship (either directly or indirectly) with another.
Moreover, this notion of voice in jazz speaks to Lawrence-Lightfoot and
Davis’s (1997) suggestion that voice encompasses epistemology, ideology,
and method.
Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997) identified six aspects of voice that
might be useful for the portraitist. These six aspects are voice as witness, voice
as interpretation, voice as preoccupation, voice as autobiography, listening
for voice, and finally, voice in conversation. Similarly, they cautioned the
researcher to limit the volume or range of her or his voice such that it does not
mute the subject’s voice. The portraitist’s voice accompanies the subjects—
it adds to and enhances the themes, insights, and articulations. Furthermore,
Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis argued that in many respects, the researcher is
creating a self-portrait that “reveals her soul but produces a selfless, systematic examination of the actors’ images, experiences, and perspectives” (p. 86).
Balancing the creation of the researcher’s self-portrait and “documenting the
authentic portrait of others” is a “complex and nuanced” undertaking. All of
the dimensions of voice introduced by Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis speak
to the text or the portrait. It is through one or all of these dimensions of voice
that the portraitist creates the narrative portrait of her or his subject.
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Although all of the aspects of voice identify the subjective and interpretive
nature of this methodology, it is the “voice as interpretation,” “voice discerning other voices/listening for voice,” and “voice in dialogue” that appear to
make the closest translation to conceptualizing a jazz methodology.6 It is
through these ideas of “interpreting,” “listening,” and “dialoguing” that the
synergy and exchange that occur between jazz musicians on the bandstand
are captured. Hence, “interpreting,” “listening,” and “dialoguing” are essential in a jazz methodology.
It is useful to quote Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis (1997) at length:
Each of these modalities of voice reflects a different level of presence and visibility for the portraitist in the text, from a minimalist stance of restraint and witness
to a place of explicit, audible participation. In each modality, however, the chosen stance of the portraitist should be purposeful and conscious. Whether her
voice—always dynamic and changing—is responding to or initiating shifts in
dialogue, action, or context, she should be attentive to the ways in which she is
employing voice. And although it is always present, the portraitist’s voice
should never overwhelm the voices or actions of the actors. The self of the portraitist is always there; her soul echoes through the piece. But she works very
hard not to simply produce a self-portrait. (p. 105)
Culturally Relevant Pedagogy
Miss Kinney was the first Black woman teacher I had from my elementary school
years until I was graduated from high school in Portland, Oregon. She was my fourthgrade teacher, and my class was her first teaching assignment. I felt very lucky to be in
her classroom. She was the only Black teacher in our building, and she was also one of
the youngest teachers. She was 24 years old. I know because she told us. She also told
us that she had just been graduated from college to be a teacher. We were all very
impressed. For almost all of my classmates, Miss Kinney was the first Black teacher
we ever had with the exception of Mr. Allen, the gym teacher, who lived a few blocks
from our school. All our teachers were mostly older White women who did not live in
or near our neighborhood.
Miss Kinney was the most beautiful teacher I had ever seen. She was a “plus size”
woman who dressed in a manner that complemented her shape and size. Her wardrobe
seemed to be up to date with the latest fashion trends of 1978. She had full lips on
which she wore a muted berry-colored lipstick that seemed to blend perfectly with her
cocoa brown skin. Her dark brown hair was chemically straightened and always
styled perfectly. It seemed that her favorite style was a well-kept ponytail pulled back
and gelled with a scarf tied around the base such that the loops of the scarf flowed out
from the back of her head. The color and pattern of the scarves always seemed to match
her outfits. She had an infectious smile that spread across her face and made her eyes
disappear. It made you smile when you saw it. She also had a hearty laugh that made
her whole body move. She laughed and smiled a lot. She mostly laughed and smiled at
us and we all loved her.
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I blossomed in Miss Kinney’s class. I was eager to come to school and learn. I had
the reputation of being a behavior problem in school; more often than not, I was insubordinate and at times openly defiant and belligerent with my previous teachers.
Although at the time I could not articulate what was bothering me, I was aware
enough to know that the White teachers treated the African American students differently from my White classmates. As a “smart” student—I was a good reader and read
several levels above my grade—I was often in groups where I was the only African
American. Many times in these groups, I was ignored. My creativity and participation in discussions and activities went unrecognized and my interest in learning was
ignored; it seemed that my misbehaviors were highlighted. Although I loved to learn
and would complete assignments when asked, my behavior was far from cooperative.
Consequently, and to my parents’ distress, my grades reflected my behavior more than
my ability and aptitude. We later learned that although I consistently scored very
high on standardized tests, my previous teachers refused to recommend me for the Talented and Gifted Program (TAG) in our district. It took 2 years for me to be placed in
TAG, as I needed to “prove” that I was capable. In Miss Kinney’s class, I was a completely different student in the sense that my surliness disappeared.
I cannot identify one thing in particular that I liked about Miss Kinney; however, I
recall that I liked her immensely. She read to us everyday. She allowed us to pick the
books she would read, and we sat at our desks and worked quietly while we listened to
her. She was animated when she read, and if something were funny, she would stop
reading and laugh along with us. Most of all, I remember that Miss Kinney seemed to
like us and to really like me. To her, I was not some disrespectful child who needed to be
punished. I was bright, funny, and she seemed to enjoy our conversations as much as I
did. She did not ignore me, and when she thought I was doing something I should not
be doing, she told me to stop the behavior that to her was unacceptable or inappropriate and explained why. Her directions and expectations were very clear. She expected us to work hard and to do the best we could. If we strayed from the expectations,
we were the first ones to know. I respected her for that. It was not that simple with
my other teachers. With other teachers, I did not quite understand what I had done
that they considered inappropriate when I was reprimanded or graded lower than I
expected.
Miss Rogers,7 my second-grade teacher, would yell at us and turn red. The other
African American students and I had never witnessed someone turning red when she
was angry. Because we did not always know what would make Miss Rogers angry and
turn red, we were intrigued. We would try different things to see if it would happen
again. Miss Kinney never yelled at us—she did not have to. She also did not turn red
when she was angry. In fact, I do not remember a time when she was angry with us,
although I am certain there may have been moments when we were not always behaving appropriately. However, she made certain that her expectations and rules were
clear. I think we were so afraid of not seeing her smile or hearing her laugh that more
often than not we were eager to be “good.”
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Validity
The uses of voice and subjectivity beg the question of validity. How, if the
researcher is inserting her or his voice, can the research be validated? Within
portraiture, the subject is observed in multiple contexts, using a variety of
perspectives. Similarly, the five dimensions of voice allow for multiple perspectives for the purposes of authenticating the data. Moreover, not only is
the subject the focus of the portrait but also the setting in which she or he operates such that colleagues, students, and others who directly (or indirectly)
interact with the subject provide insight into her or his actions and beliefs.
Themes or interpretative ideas that are generated by the researcher are
always checked against the voice of the subject (through interview and observational data) and contextual information gathered in the field. Therefore,
establishing validity is inherent in the design and implementation of the
portrait.
Although I find the portraiture methodology liberating in the sense that it
acknowledges the subjective and creative nature of research, as a trained
musician, the metaphor to visual art does not speak as clearly to me. I used the
basic tenets of portraiture to conduct the research in that I was mindful of my
voice and perspective as I collected data; however, the actual collection of the
data that included my relationship to and interactions with the participants is
more likened to the dynamics that occur between jazz musicians on the bandstand. In addition, the creation of the text or portrait or the final narrative in
which I will share my “findings and results,” to me, is more akin to that of
composing and performing a jazz composition. Although both the composer
and performer hold to some basic tenets or foundational musical elements,
through their own creative energy and disciplined understanding of music
theory and composition, they simultaneously create a separate but complementary composition—an element of jazz performance and improvisation. In
the previous sections I have drawn some similarities between portraiture and
elements of jazz. In the next section, I will discuss the basic tenets of jazz
music and composition and speak more directly to jazz as a methodology.
ETHNIC EPISTEMOLOGIES AND JAZZ
Most music historians and critics agree that jazz music is a major contribution to the American aesthetic. Many argue that jazz is the only truly American, as in North American, United States of America, American art form. That
this music, jazz, is truly American and is a contribution from African Americans
is also significant. This significance lies not merely in the fact that African
Americans created the music but, rather, that because of the experiences of
African Americans in the United States, the music emerged (Jones, 1963/
1999; Murray, 1976/2000).
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For most people, nonmusicians that is, jazz is an enigma. It is akin to poetry
in that any piece of writing that rhymes and does not follow the conventions
of grammar and syntax, qualifies as poetry. Similarly for jazz, if the performer
improvises, or a song is performed sans a vocalist, it qualifies as jazz. The term
is also typically used to describe something that is unique, different, and creative. If a woman displays a certain flare in her attire, her outfit is jazzy. Hence,
the term jazz has come to denote creativity and uniqueness, a catchall term to
describe something, someone, or some act that is in essence abnormal. To be
creative, different, and unique to many are desirable attributes. However, on
closer examination, the term jazzy has actually come to be meaningless. If
anyone can become jazzy simply by adding colorful language to a story or
wearing a striped shirt with plaid pants, then what, in fact, makes her or his
actions, stories, or personal style unique? Similarly, the notion of creativity is
questionable if a musician can simply embellish a line or change a note here
and there in a piece of music and be deemed a jazz musician. I am not making
an argument for purity; rather, my point is that because jazz music is to many
enigmatic, its place in the American aesthetic is precarious. Furthermore,
both the term and the form of jazz have been appropriated in ways that may in
fact diminish its liberatory intent and potential. This is not a discussion of the
history and purity of jazz music as an art form. Rather, my discussion of the
treatment of jazz in both popular culture and the vernacular is more illustrative than plaintive.
I want to explore more specifically how this art form can be a meaningful
heuristic or expressive idiomatic instrument for African American researchers
(Murray, 1976/2000, p. 93). Ladson-Billings (2000) suggested that the field of
qualitative research be open to epistemological perspectives, particularly
those that are “multiply informed and multiply jeopardized” by race, class,
gender, sexuality, and other aspects of difference (p. 273). This is not to say
that scholars who are situated within marginalized or liminal groups are
“burdened” by their race, class, gender, sexuality, and so forth but rather, that
these positionalities provide a perspective on both the margin and the center
that can serve to “reveal the ways that the dominant perspectives distort the
realities of the other in an effort to maintain power relations that continue to
disadvantage those who are locked out of the mainstream” (Ladson-Billings,
2000, p. 263). Thus, given the inherent political mission of jazz music, how
might we begin to use it as a way to both think about and “do” the critical
qualitative research Ladson-Billings described? It is important to clearly
delimit the form, structure, and usage of this idiomatic instrument as a means
through which we can express and display research, ideas, phenomena, and
theories that may be outside of what is official and legitimate in the academy.
By relating the process of research as akin to that of jazz composition and
performance, a host of questions emerge. How can one express the nuances of
a participant’s experiences, beliefs, and/or practices? To what extent can
these nuances be attributed, for example, to gender, racial, and class back-
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ground? How can a researcher account for her or his influence on and interaction with the field and the data? In what ways does the interaction between the researcher and the participant enrich the data and the findings?
Sundgaard (1955) suggested that there is no precise notation method in music
that captures the nuances and the essence of what jazz musicians express in
their music and especially in their improvisation. In terms of research methodology, many scholars of color and those in liminal groups have argued that
research is limited in its ability to accurately indicate the complexity of their
lives and experiences (see, e.g., Collins, 1990/2000; Lather, 1991; St. Pierre &
Pillow, 2000). However, the struggle to express what is learned or discovered
is perhaps the beauty of the research process. Indeed, “improvisation” is what
the researcher does when presenting or discussing her or his findings. If we
can acknowledge that what we learn as researchers, albeit discovered under
“rigorous” methods, is in reality a subjective representation that is bound and
constrained by a “system of notation” that is similarly constrained, then a jazz
research methodology might be useful.
Theresa Jenoure (2000) suggested that jazz improvisation represents a
kind of intelligence or way of thinking that is “sophisticated and multidimensional” and is fundamental to African American cultural expression. She
believed that the attitudes and behaviors associated with jazz improvisation
have extramusical implications. I submit that this “intelligence” might also be
helpful for qualitative researchers. In addition, this jazz sensibility might be
helpful for engaging in research that is phenomenological. This notion of a
jazz sensibility might be particularly useful when exploring issues such as
culture and gender influences. Jazz improvisation, according to Jenoure, is a
system of spontaneous composing that requires that ideas be instantly organized and expounded on. In addition, Jenoure stated that jazz improvisers
assess the past, present, and future in a relatively short span of time and choose
appropriate melodic, harmonic and rhythmic solutions. This choosing, or composing, requires that musicians have physical, mental, and emotional access to a
vast reserve of musical ideas. Negotiating a fine balance between structure and
freedom, they often rely on pre-established perimeters to guide the expression
of spontaneous yet highly crafted ideas. It is the personality, attitude, and individual choices made by listening, analyzing, and feeling that produce the music.
In this way, performers are also co-composers in that they shape the particular
structure or outline into a fully realized work, which enables the process and the
product to unfold simultaneously. (p. 15, italics added)
Jenoure’s work has interesting implications for developing a jazz research
methodology. Thinking of research in these terms, although jazz researchers
employ a level of creativity and spontaneity, they maintain the integrity of the
research process by accessing “a vast reserve” of research ideas, concepts, and
theories, both “established” and cutting edge. Similarly, data analysis occurs
as the researcher attends to “pre-established” perimeters, in addition to
attending to the choices she or he makes from “listening, analyzing, and feel-
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ing.” Jenoure outlined three principles of jazz improvisation that might also
be helpful in further developing the jazz methodology. These principles are
interaction, the mutual shaping of ideas; definition, the offering of ideas that
take into account the ideas of others in a larger context yet express the individuality of a musician that is shaped by introspection and honesty; and transcendence, the “process of upliftment from the ordinary to the extraordinary”
(Jenoure, 2000).
Discipline as Expectations for Excellence
It is an hour before the end of the school day and Mrs. Fisher is standing in front of
her class of 20 first-grade students. As usual, Mrs. Fisher is dressed in her “business
clothes.” She has on a cream-colored blouse, a knee-length brown skirt, “flesh” toned
nylons, and low-heeled brown pumps. She says that she dresses “professionally”
because during her teacher training program (at a historically Black college), they
were told that they needed to dress professionally because the work they did was serious business. She often decried the way that some of the preservice teachers came
dressed to school—wrinkled shorts, T-shirts, sandals. She said it was often difficult to
tell the difference between the children and the student teachers. Mrs. Fisher is in her
early 40s and describes herself as “old school” and attributes much of her beliefs about
teaching from her upbringing in what she describes as the “segregated South.”
She is at the chalkboard writing words for a penmanship activity. The students are
all sitting at their desks, which she has arranged in not-so-symmetrical rows of four
across. The students are arranged such that boys and girls alternate sitting next to
each other. I’m not sure if she arranged this on purpose, but for now, it seems to not
make a difference in terms of whether students socialize with each other. They all seem
friendly and talkative.
Mrs. Fisher asks students to name things that go up and down. The students
are excited and engaged. She laughs with them as they name things such as frogs. On
the chalkboard, she writes two of the most popular words that the students name—
basketball and kite. They are supposed to write a story or some sentences with words
that go up and down and draw a picture to match the sentences. The students get right
to work. She allows them to talk quietly with their neighbor while they work. At this
age it does not seem reasonable that they would sit next to each other and not hold a
conversation.
She instructs the students to complete the penmanship activity in their notebooks. We both walk around the classroom, making sure that students understand the
assignment and helping students if necessary. After 5 minutes, a girl brings her notebook to Mrs. Fisher, indicating that she is finished with the assignment. She hands her
the notebook. Mrs. Fisher takes a seat at a table in the front of the classroom. After looking over the student’s work, she erases the entire page and returns the notebook to the
student. She tells her, firmly but very gently, that she wants her to do the assignment
again because she did not do her best work and it looks like she rushed through the
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assignment. She tells the student that she has seen her do a better job on her penmanship and gives her examples of assignments on which she has done a “good job and
taken her time” and asks her if she remembers those assignments too. The student
nods her head. Mrs. Fisher asks her to return to her desk and put in the same effort on
this assignment as she did on the other ones. She does not appear to be upset. The little
girl returns to her desk and begins rewriting her sentences. Mrs. Fisher reminds the
students to take their time and to do their best work.
Each student comes to Mrs. Fisher and shows his or her notebooks. She erases work
that she believes is poor quality. She explains to each child why his or her work is not
acceptable. She instructs them to do it again. She tells each student to do his or her best
work and not to rush through it.
“How many of you know that Mrs. Fisher doesn’t like work like this?” Mrs. Fisher
asks. All the students raise their hands.
ELEMENTS OF JAZZ
Murray (1976/2000) asserted that the blues idiom statement is art that
is “the process by which raw experience is stylized into aesthetic statement”
(p. v). I would submit that for those of us as African American researchers
who are engaged in research that examines the dynamic nature of African
American and Black culture,8 Murray’s conception of the blues idiom may
also be a helpful way to conceptualize our research, our participants, and ourselves. Likewise, Collins (1990/2000) asserted that the ways in which both the
African American female researcher and participant determine or validate
what is truthful or valid can differ from that of White researchers. In particular, within the African American community and Collins argued, for African American women specifically, the use of narrative, story, or “testitfyin,”
wherein one can verify information through personal experience, has been a
traditionally more valid form of determining truth.
Although jazz musicians “borrowed” the song form and theoretical conventions from European music, the execution of the song form and the development and enhancement of those theoretical conventions, which includes
harmony, melody, and rhythm, is distinctly African American and quite
unique (Jones, 1963/1999; Murray, 1976/2000; Werner, 1999). Jones (1963/
1999) stated that the early music “African Negroes” played in New Orleans
was in some ways imitative of European music. The funeral dirges, marches,
and quadrilles were song forms that Black musicians copied from White
musicians. However, the execution of the song forms, in rhythm and in harmony, differed tremendously from the original song form:
It was usually a spiritual that was played [at a funeral procession], but made into
a kind of raw and bluesy Napoleonic military march. The band was followed by
the mourners—relatives, members of the deceased’s fraternal order or secret
society, and well-wishers. (All night before the burial, or on as many nights as
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there were that intervened between the death and the burial, the mourners came
into the house of the deceased to weep and wail and kiss the body. But these
“wakes” or “mourning times” usually turned into house parties.) After the
burial, the band, once removed some good distance from the cemetery, usually
broke into the up tempo part of the march at some approximation of the 2/4 quadrille time. Didn’t He Ramble and When the Saints Go Marchin’ In were two of the
most frequently played tunes—both transmuted religious songs. (Jones, 1963/
1999, p. 74)
Similarly, Murray (1976/2000) offered that although jazz (and its precursor
blues music) may be an amalgamation of West African rhythm and European
musical elements, the music is still a by-product of the “U.S. Negro.” Murray
suggested that although the distinct harmonic characteristic of the blue or
bent notes are important in distinguishing jazz from European music, the
syncopation of the beat is also a distinctively U.S Negro marker. It is worth
quoting Murray at length:
Drum talk is not only what the accompanying guitar, banjo, or piano answers or
echoes the folk blues with, and not only what such singers answer and echo
themselves with when they hum, beat out or otherwise furnish their own comps,
fills and frills; it is also most likely to be what all blues singers do even as they
play with their voices as if on brasses, keyboards, strings and woodwinds. . . . In
any case it is a mistake for the uninitiated listener to approach blues music with
the assumption that rhythm is only incidental to melody, as it tends to be in European music. . . . It is not enough, however to say that blues musicians often play
on their horns, their keyboards, and strings as if on drums. Nor is it enough to
say that the drums are more African than European in that they keep rhythm and
talk at the same time. The rhythmic emphasis of blues music is more obviously
African than either the so-called blue note or the call-and-response pattern, but
all the same, the actual voices of which all blues instrumentation is an extension
speak primarily and definitively as well in the idiomatic accents and tonalities of
the US Negroes down South. (pp. 117-118)
Murray offered the notion that you cannot separate out those parts of jazz by
taking the simplistic approach of “add blue notes and stir” or by adding a
“swing” rhythm and there you have jazz. It is the complex combination of the
rhythm, the blue notes, and the relationship of the musicians to each other
and the audience (à la the call-and-response pattern) that help to create and
perhaps even sustain the music. In addition, these “idiomatic accents and
tonalities” are a cultural expression that comes out of an experience in the
South. Certainly, others would argue that there are a number of talented jazz
musicians who are not Southerners and therefore this ability to combine
rhythm, harmony, and melody in a unique way is not lost on African Americans from the North. This discussion is helpful in terms of imagining a process of research that is responsive to the communication styles and epistemology of African Americans. Of course, there is always a concern about
essentialism. However, there may be some merit to the notion that although
culture is not fixed, people of the same ethnic group (i.e., African Americans)
share some commonalities regardless of regional, educational attainment,
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and socioeconomic differences. Moreover, finding the commonalities in
experience among those of the same cultural/racial group has been helpful
politically (Ladson-Billings, 2000, p. 262).
During the solo or the improvisation, the jazz musician essentially creates
her or his own composition while simultaneously performing another piece
of music. That is, the ensemble will generally play a piece of music one time
through together; the subsequent refrains, or choruses as jazz musicians call
them, will generally be played sans the ensemble collectively performing the
melody while the pianist, drummer, and bassist, otherwise known as the
rhythm section, play the harmonic chord progressions. While the rhythm section is playing the harmonic progression of the original melody, the soloist is
creating a musical composition of her or his own. Although the technical
intricacies of how this is done is beyond the scope of this article, suffice it to
say that being able to do this, and do it well, requires a high level of facility on
one’s instrument as well as a vast theoretical vocabulary. Jazz musicians refer
to these skills as “chops.” It is important to note that “skill” on one’s instrument, in this sense, should neither be confused nor conflated with technical
ability or virtuosity. Rather, I am connoting skill more with interpretive ability
rather than technical facility, as it is perhaps the singular most important
attribute a jazz musician should have.
Although jazz musicians generally perform their solos without accompaniment by other wind instruments, in ensemble playing, riffs and breaks
played by the other horn players in the band quite often serve as backdrops
for the soloist and often complement what the soloist is playing. Murray
(1976/2000) described a riff as “a brief musical phrase that is repeated, sometimes with very subtle variations, over the length of a stanza as the chordal
pattern follows its normal progression” (p. 96). Riffs may be played spontaneously or written as part of the composition. Murray added that the creativity
of riffs lies not in their originality, as many riffs are lines from famous or commonly recognized melodies, but in their frame of reference and how they add
to the aesthetic expression of the composition (p. 96). For example, while a
soloist is playing a solo on a blues composition, the other musicians might
reference another song with a similar harmonic structure. Or the band members might play the melody to “Mary Had a Little Lamb” behind the soloist.
This can be a playful move on the part of the background and/or the rhythm
section. They may use a riff to lighten the tone and timbre of the solo and/or
as a way to engage the audience. It may also serve as an inspiration to the
soloist.
Breaks serve as a form of rhythmic, melodic, and harmonic relief. The
break is a momentary suspension of harmonic, rhythmic, and melodic activity by the rhythm section. In other words, the break is a moment for the soloist
to “confront . . . [an] empty sonic landscape” (Meacham, 2001). Within this
“empty sonic landscape,” the soloist also confronts what Murray (1976/2000)
described as a “moment of truth” wherein the soloist maintains the melodic,
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rhythmic, and harmonic integrity of the composition vis-à-vis her or his
interpretive prowess.
These elements of jazz composition help to mark the uniqueness of the
music. Although the form of jazz compositions is similar to that of European
music, it is the composite of the harmonic devices such as the blue or bent
notes, the melodic elements such as improvisation and riffs, and the definitive rhythmic element of swing that set it apart from many other forms of
music. It is important to note that from jazz, other musical forms have sprung,
particularly popular music (e.g., rock and roll, rhythm and blues, and from an
improvisational perspective, hip-hop).
Teaching as Othermothering
When I arrive to observe in her third-grade classroom, Andrea Collins is “fussing”
at Melinda Faulkner, an African American female. I have been here to observe more
than a dozen times already. The other students in the classroom are working independently on an assignment. While she is standing at the front of the classroom,
Andrea calls Melinda over so that she can talk to her. Two other African American
female students have come to complain to Andrea about Melinda “playing the dozens.” There are seven African American female students in her classroom, more than
any other class on her grade level.
Andrea gave birth to her son last year and is not yet back to her “prebaby” weight.
She generally comes to school dressed in casual clothing. Today, she is wearing black
leggings with a long burgundy-colored oversized tunic blouse. She has on nylons and
low-heeled black shoes. Her dark brown, chemically straightened hair is chin length
and combed so that it sweeps forward onto her cheeks. In African American women’s
hair styling parlance, her hairstyle would be called a “wrap.” She wears wire-rimmed
glasses. When she is making a point or is chastising a student for misbehaving or not
having his or her homework, her eyes open widely. Her eyebrows rise prominently
over the rims of her glasses.
Melinda is a tall 8-year-old girl who towers over the other third-grade students in
her class. At first glance, she looks much older than many of them. She is a “brown
skin” girl and “healthy,” as my grandmother would say. Melissa is not heavy but has
a large body frame. She is a cute child and has a constant smile that shows the deep
dimple in her right cheek. Her hair is parted down the middle and braided in two
plaits. She has on a cute outfit—navy blue pedal-pusher pants, a white shirt, white
ankle socks, and white tennis shoes.
Andrea begins her discussion about the incident with all three of the girls by telling
them that they are all strong. She is obviously upset with the girls for arguing with
each other and is especially upset at Melinda. “Melinda Faulkner! Who do you have
control over?” All the young women (including Melinda) reply that they have control
over themselves. Their response reminds me of how children respond to their mothers
when they know that their behavior is inappropriate. Incredulously, Andrea asks the
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girls, “Why can’t we all be strong together?” She speaks directly to Melinda about
using her size to physically intimidate other students. “What do you think is going to
happen when you’re 17 years old and you try to fight people?” Melinda replies that
she doesn’t know what will happen. The other girls look so small standing next to her.
Her height belies her age; her response to and interaction with Andrea remind me that
she is still only 8 years old. Andrea’s voice projects louder as she admonishes Melinda.
“It’s called an assault charge. You go to jail. Do you have a relative in jail?”
Melinda replies that yes, she does have a relative in jail. “Do they like it?” Andrea
asks Melinda. Melinda says that she doesn’t know. “ You don’t know?! I have a friend
who’s a police officer and I’ll have him talk to you about jail. Do you think that if you
are in jail that you are in control? No [replies before Melinda has an opportunity to]!
The person with the key is in control. Do you think I had to swallow a lot of stuff?
Swallow my pride sometimes?”
All the African American girls shake their heads and answer, “Yes.” “Don’t you
think I had disagreements with my friends?” Again, all the girls shake their heads and
answer, “Yes.”
“But guess what, we all came together. Melinda, how you gonna punk somebody?
How you gonna talk about somebody’s mama? What if someone talked about your
mama? What’s going to happen next, Miss Faulkner? What do you think I’m gonna
do the next time I hear about this?” Melinda shrugs her shoulders to indicate that she
doesn’t know what will happen. She lowers her head and looks at the floor while
Andrea is talking to her. “Is that something that you need to work at?” Melinda
answers, “Yes.” Andrea tells all the girls involved that they need to work on not talking about people. She asks them what will happen if they do it again. They respond that
they will, “get in trouble.” “Why does it have to be in trouble? Can it be that you’ll
learn a lesson and deal with Ms. Collins?”
Using the first name of each girl’s parent to demonstrate that she knows each girl’s
parents well enough that they would be equally disappointed in their child’s behavior,
she asks each one what her parents would say. “Melinda, what would Arlene say if she
knew you were fighting and talking about someone’s mama? Mariah, what would
Vanessa and James say if they knew you were fighting and talking about someone’s
mama? Sydney, what would Jocelyn and Terence say if they knew you were fighting
and talking about someone’s mama?” Sydney attempts to explain that she didn’t say
anything about “anyone’s mama.” Andrea stops her and tells her that she doesn’t
want to hear any excuses and says, “I know that you are not innocent.” She sends the
girls back to their seats with an admonition to “get along with each other.”
STRAIGHT, NO CHASER:
“DOING” JAZZ RESEARCH
A song of itself is not jazz, no matter what its origin. Jazz is what the
jazzmen searching together bring to it, take from it, find within it. Spirituals, blues, stomps, ragtime, quadrilles, folk ballads, popular songs—all
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these and more are the subjects of their creative scrutiny. Even the most
sensitive and skilled of jazz arrangers like Duke Ellington and Ralph
Burns cannot put down all that is actually played. Much is left free for
improvisation, and no precise method of notation has been developed to
indicate its rhythmic and emotional complexities. In most cases no formal
score whatever is followed. The song and its arrangement become for
these men a means to an end. The music used, in other words, is somewhat incidental to the inspired uses to which it is put. For this reason jazz,
within the realm of music, thrives on endless exploration and ceaseless
discovery.
—Sundgaard (1955, p. 54)
Sundgaard’s (1955) quote captures not only the essence of jazz as a musical
form but also the complexity of qualitative research. This comparison of jazz
to qualitative research to me is quite obvious. In other words, many qualitative researchers are attempting to make sense of phenomena that are not
easily measurable quantitatively. That is, a “pure numbers” approach to research, although valid and useful in particular instances, can leave out important contextual information and fail to capture the socio-emotional-linguistic
aspects of particular “research” environments, with educational environments being one example.
Earlier I discussed extending Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis’s (1997) portraiture metaphor to jazz as a metaphor for research. Although my discussion
was broad in terms of providing some basic definitional elements of music
generally and jazz specifically, it is important here to describe in more detail
the ways in which I am conceptualizing jazz as a research methodology. The
challenge has been and continues to be more than just a “swapping” of metaphors such that in place of the language of portraiture (i.e., canvas, paint, portraitist), I replace it with jazz terms. This would be a superficial use of jazz and
a corruption of Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis’s powerful and important
work. My challenge is to provide a more substantive description of the ways
in which jazz as a research methodology captures what I attempt in this article. It is important to note that my decision to discuss the critical qualitative
research process in jazz terms rather than some other heuristic is not solely
related to my training as a musician. As I stated earlier, although my musical
training had a profound epistemological impact on me, I believe that jazz, as
both a musical and cultural concept, is a powerful way to discuss particular
projects with African Americans and similar projects that are inherently political and cultural. In particular, a jazz methodology has important implications for those of us engaged in research and scholarship that takes a critical
look at race and racism in education. Specifically, a jazz methodology may be
a powerful complement to critical race theory (Calmore, 1995).
Jazz, at its roots, is an expression of African American consciousness
that addresses liberation, political awareness, and community. Thus, my dis-
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sertation project was inherently political (Dixson, 2002). The theoretical
framework that I employed—Black feminist ideology—mandated that I pay
attention to the ways in which Black women teachers struggle for relevant
curriculum, safe schools and neighborhoods, political freedom, and equity on
behalf of their students and themselves.
Secondly, jazz music began out of African Americans’ resistance of
oppression and the struggle for equality. The music epitomizes the political
will of Black people who toiled for liberation (Jones, 1963/1999; Murray,
1976/2000). Thus, it made sense to me that in researching the impact of racial,
gender, and class identities on Black women’s pedagogy, I would need a
methodology or at least a way of thinking and talking about these issues in a
way that was to me, culturally relevant. Furthermore, Collins (as quoted in
Denzin, 1997, p. 70) suggested that Black women researchers look for ways to
explore the lives, experiences, and praxis of other Black women that challenge
“traditional” research methodologies and epistemologies that have historically pathologized our behaviors and/or rendered us invisible.
Finally, just as jazz music builds on, extends, and enhances a basic framework using disciplined creativity, so would, I argue, a jazz methodology. In
other words, using careful and rigorous research tools, the jazz researcher
may desire to “creatively” move beyond traditional methodologies and conventions. For example, in developing rapport with my participants, our interactions extended beyond their classrooms and into community, social events,
and even worship services. In fact, I actually taught the daughter of one of my
participants in a precollege, after-school program in which both of my sons
also participated. Moreover, our children were not only classmates in this
precollege program but were also coworkers at a community-based newspaper produced by adolescents. Thus, our relationship took on several aspects beyond just that of researcher-researched. It is important to note that I
developed and cultivated relationships with my participants not in service to
the project but rather, the relationships were enhanced somewhat serendipitously as a result of our (mine and the research participants’) membership
and participation within the broader African American community.
I paid closer attention to my behavior during interviews such that I did not
divert the speaker’s attention or her train of thought. Some of our interviews
were extremely conversational, and topics were introduced and expounded
on spontaneously. These conversations were based entirely on what I heard in
terms of the narrative the teacher constructed during the interview. Both the
speaker and I would often code-switch such that we might have begun the
interview speaking common American English but at various points intuitively found it more appropriate to express an idea by speaking African
American Vernacular English or Ebonics. This use of African American Vernacular English/Ebonics is not limited to syntax and grammar but reflects
style, body language, facial expressions, and volume (Smitherman, 1977/
1986).
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It is during my training as a musician that I learned that listening is essential to being both a solo musician and a member of a musical group. That is,
whether I participated in an orchestra, jazz band, or performed as a soloist, I
learned to listen to my fellow musicians such that what I played added to the
overall presentation of the music and did not detract from the performance.
Balance was the key. In addition, as a flautist, listening for the tone and mood
of the piece and my part in it was primary because the timbre and range of my
instrument made it possible for me to “rise above” the sound of my band
mates and detract from the overall beauty of the piece we were playing.
Hence, my musical training was helpful for me as a researcher in terms of listening for rather than listening to a story. In addition, I learned to play what
was right versus playing that which was correct. As a researcher, I had to be
careful that my comments during interviews or informal conversations with
the research participants did not become the focal point of the discussion but
rather, complemented what they were sharing with me. Similarly, I had to listen for their stories in the variety of venues afforded me—conversations with
colleagues and parents, interactions with students, and our interviews and
informal conversations. The stories that emerged from these arenas were
enhanced by the metalanguage the teachers employed. Gesticulations,
glances, frowns, smiles, chuckles, exclamations, and “um hmms” were aspects of the teachers’ voices that I needed to listen for because they added
depth to their stories.
Three fundamental elements frame my understanding of jazz as a
researcher methodology: swing, solos, and riffs. Swing, a defining element
of jazz music, is a “sensation of momentum in which a melody is alternately heard together with, then slightly at variance with, the regular beat”
(Microsoft Encarta: Online Encyclopedia, 2000). For my developing conception of a jazz methodology, this swing is characterized by an understanding of
Black cultural expressions, aesthetics, and consciousness; a commitment to
uncovering and highlighting examples of success for African Americans; and
a fundamental respect for research participants, their experiences, and
knowledge.
Solos/Improvisation are represented in the participants’ stories/narratives
and the analysis and interpretation of the data. In other words, the participants’ stories and narratives are essentially their solos/improvisations in
terms of their (and their lives, personal histories, experiences, etc.) being
highly individualized and unique and an expression of their disciplined understanding of their profession, culture, and the like. Furthermore, the participants’ solos may also be their way of “speaking back” to the profession. For
example, in the case of African American teachers, how they imagine and
approach their work as teachers is often in direct contradiction to traditional
teacher education to the extent that African American teachers, and African
American women teachers specifically, have been cast as “harsh” and
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“authoritarian.” These characterizations were insidiously used as justification for displacing thousands of Black teachers and administrators following
the 1954 Brown vs. Board of Education decision and the subsequent school
desegregation that took place across the nation (with all deliberate speed;
Bell, 1987).
Riffs are those recurring ideas and themes in the data (interviews, observations, artifacts). Riffs can also be those ideas and themes that do not seem to
“fit” with the rest of the analysis—the ideas, comments, and actions that fall
outside of the themes the researcher (and the researcher’s peer debriefers or
participants) have identified. Riffs can be found in the relationship between
the researcher and the participant in terms of developing rapport and trust.
The researcher might also “riff” during interviews in terms of her or his language use and style during interviews and her or his role in the field. Essentially, riffs are those actions by the researcher and/or the participant that add
to the overall melody. Similarly, breaks provide those moments where the
researcher (and participants) make sense of the data vis-à-vis their personal
experiences, or the theoretical framework that also frames the study, or both.
Using data and narratives from my study of African American women teachers, I provided examples of how riffs and breaks illustrate the researcher’s
theoretical and epistemological perspectives.
I used Breaks 1 and 2 to demonstrate how my family history and educational experiences shape my epistemological perspective. These breaks speak
in large part to Lawrence-Lightfoot and Davis’s (1997) assertion that researchers bring with them experiences and beliefs that shape and inform how they
make sense of information and “see” when in the research site and in their
interactions with participants. Moreover, through these breaks I addressed
how I, as an African American woman, bring my personal experiences—as a
female and a student—to bear on my beliefs about teaching and feminism.
Similarly, I used Riffs 1 and 2 to present two of the themes from my study of
African American women teachers. With these riffs, I am demonstrating the
nuances of African American women’s pedagogical practices. Finally,
through the riff about John Patrick, I discussed my attempt as a teacher to disrupt the sexist and demeaning practice of calling girls “bitch” that I noticed
had become a common practice among the boys in my classroom. By talking
to the perpetrator and attempting to humanize the victim as well as personalize the verbal attack, I had hoped to make John Patrick see how his actions
against one woman affected all women.
Data collection. Interviews with participants can be as synergistic as performing live music by taking the researcher and the participants to spaces that
are more revealing and informative with each exchange. For example, traditional interview methods would have the researcher follow a predetermined
list of questions that allow for some conversational spontaneity but primarily
limit the type of “call and response” and the nonlinear manner that is some-
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times found in the narrative and speech styles of African Americans (EtterLewis, 1993; Smitherman, 2000). Hence, in the jazz interview, transcripts are
quite often lengthy and colloquial because both the researcher and the participant may engage in storytelling and testifyin’ sessions during the course of
the interview. Thus, the jazz methodology is an interactive, synergistic process. It is much like that of musicians on the bandstand who create and recreate music using the ideas and energy of not only the other members of the
band (the researcher and the participant) but also the audience. Moreover,
relationship and trust building are essential elements within a jazz methodology. To facilitate the exchange or synergy between and among participants
and researcher, the nature of the relationship between the “musicians” is
necessarily different than within traditional research methodology.
Data analysis. Similarly, the interpretative stage of research can be an additional site of energy and interaction depending on the method of analysis the
researcher uses. Denzin (2001) suggested that in this “seventh moment” of
ethnography, there is a need for researchers to be reflexive (p. xii). It is also not
done in isolation but rather, with the participants. Member checks and peer
debriefing help to get at this notion of synergy and interaction that is a hallmark of jazz. In Ladson-Billings’s (1994) study with eight successful teachers
of African American students, she used what I would a call jazz methodology
to the extent that she involved the research participants in every step of the
research process. I see this notion of data analysis as a creative process that
requires me to create and re-create instantly and sometimes simultaneously.
Listening to or rereading the interview transcripts or field notes is essentially
re-creating a moment in time. In attempting to analyze the field notes and
interview transcripts, I am simultaneously making sense of the data and composing, just as jazz musicians when they improvise. From this improvisation results a creation of something “new,” a moment described by Meacham
(2001) as “affirmation.” Affirmation is, according to Meacham,
a broadened and more flexible sense of relationships from which future crossroads will be encountered and acts of improvisation will be engaged. Affirmation represents the new awareness of musical relationships and possibilities that
follow an improvisational performance. (p. 194)
This suggests, then, that research is not for the sake of research but that
it should lead us to a “new level of consciousness” (Vygotsky, as quoted
Meacham, 2001, p. 194). In my case, this “new level of consciousness” should
inform the ways in which we work within communities of color, specifically
within educational contexts. Thus, a jazz research methodology always
already works toward this moment of affirmation.
It seems appropriate to close with a quote by Murray (1976/2000) to sum
up my conception of jazz and research:
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Such being the nature of the creative process, the most fundamental prerequisite
for mediating between the work of art and the audience, spectators, or readers,
as the case may be, is not reverence for the so-called classics but rather an understanding of what is being stylized plus an accurate insight into how it is being
stylized. Each masterwork of art, it must be remembered, is always first of all a
comprehensive synthesis of all the aspects of its idiom. Thus to ignore its idiomatic roots is to miss the essential nature of its statement, and art is nothing if not
stylized statement. (p. 196)
NOTES
1. This opening statement comes from Theodora Johnson (a pseudonym), an African American woman teacher, who participated in a pilot study I conducted in 1999 on
the pedagogical philosophies and practices of African American women teachers. It is
important to note that the comment has been paraphrased to fit the narrative style of
this article.
2. In jazz terms, musicians’ improvisations are often described as their statements,
as though they are speaking or verbalizing their thoughts through performance on
their instruments.
3. Due to space limitations, I do not provide a lengthy discussion of the specific
study but am instead focusing on methodological considerations. It is important to
note, however, that in this study, I explored the extent to which the pedagogy of Black
women teachers is informed by their race, class, and gender identities using both culturally relevant pedagogy and Black feminist theory as the theoretical framework. The
study found five overlapping themes that reflect my interpretation of the interviews
with teachers, parents, and colleagues; my participant observations; and my informal
conversations with the teachers. The themes are teaching as a lifestyle and a public service, discipline as expectations for excellence, teaching as othermothering, relationship
building, and race, class, and gender awareness.
4. Moynihan (1965), in his very famous report, The Negro Family: The Case for National
Action, commissioned by the U.S. Department of Labor, essentially blamed Black
women for the poverty, decay, and underachievement in U.S. urban areas.
5. See the first episode of Boston Public (Kelley & Pontell, 2000) wherein the first
Black woman teacher viewers meet, Ms. Hendricks, runs down the hall screaming. The
principal goes to her classroom to find it full of students and a message that Ms.
Hendricks “scrawled” on the chalkboard that reads, “Gone to kill myself, hope you’re
happy.”
6. Through “voice as interpretation,” the portraitist makes sense of the data through
the use of cultural anthropological ethnographic methods of “thin” and “thick”
description. The thin description is vivid but superficial in that it describes only the
basic information of who, what, why, where, when of the setting and the actors in the
setting. Conversely, thick description is much more rich in detail and provides for interpretation on the actions, actors, and setting by the portraitist. Lawrence-Lightfoot and
Davis (1997) added that the portraitist “must be vigilant about providing enough
descriptive evidence in the text so the reader might be able to offer an alternative
hypothesis, a different interpretation of the data” (p. 91); “voice as discerning other
voices/listening for voice” and “voice in dialogue”—these two aspects of voice require
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the researcher to balance more carefully her or his own voice with that of the participant. That is, while the researcher is in the setting, she or he is paying close attention to
the ways in which the participant expresses herself or himself both verbally and
nonverbally, such that voice moves beyond just words to gestures, actions, and silences.
Similarly, the conversations between the portraitist and the participant are chronicled
such that she or he shares the varying stages of her or his relationship from its developmental stage (in perhaps negotiating entrance into the site) through the completion of
the project. The researcher, through this dimension of voice, acknowledges her or his
proximity to the participant in that the researcher’s view is not on the boundary but
instead, up close and personal. The methodological concerns—questions, interpretations, and interventions—are again exposed through this aspect of voice. It is through
“voice in dialogue” that the portraitist and the participant “express their views and
together define meaning-making” (Lawrence-Lightfoot & Davis, 1997, p. 103).
7. A pseudonym.
8. Although jazz historians, critics, and aficionados recognize jazz as an African
American aesthetic, I would argue that we could apply a jazz sensibility when we
explore cultural phenomena in the African diaspora. Hence, I have included the term
Black to include those in the diaspora who do not identify as African American but
rather, as Black and part of a collective struggle toward liberation and equality.
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Adrienne D. Dixson is an assistant professor in the school of Teaching and
Learning at The Ohio State University. She teaches master’s and doctoral
courses that focus on equity and diversity issues in urban schools as they relate
to middle childhood education. Her research interests primarily focus on the
sociocultural aspects of teaching and learning in urban schools. She situates
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Dixson / NOTIONS OF JAZZ
her scholarship theoretically within Black feminist and critical race theories.
Her recent publications include “‘And Nothing of That Had Ever Been Mentioned’: Using Critical Race Theory as a Tool of Analysis and Desilencing
in Education” in Educational Researcher (June/July 2004) and “‘Let’s Do
This!’: Black Women Teachers, Politics and Pedagogy” in Urban Education
(2003).
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