Today is the
first day of class at East Tennessee State University, a regional institution
of higher education nestled in Johnson City at the foothills of the Appalachian
Mountains. It is of course a time of new beginnings, fresh new faces, a new
excitement, and a time to renew the commitment to the teaching part of the
triad that makes being a professor such wonderful work.
There is, this
year anyway, a silence, a loss for those of us who are – and desire to be -
great teachers and researchers in this discipline we call Communication. That,
of course, is the loss of Bud Goodall.
I could spend an
inordinate amount of time discussing Bud’s work. As one of the early narrative
ethnographers he helped break new ground, proving that research doesn’t need
use objective writing wherein the author can hide. Nope. Not Bud. When
you read Casing a Promised Land: The Autobiography of an Organizational Detective as Cultural Ethnographer you can hear Bud’s distinctive voice.
When you read Living in the Rock n Roll Mystery: Reading Context, Self, and Others as Clues, you can feel Bud in his words on the pages. This continued
throughout his narrative ethnographic writing, all the way through to the end...when he was writing on his blog, called The Daily Narrative.
* * * *
The first time I
met Bud I was so uncomfortable and out of my depth. I was a communication pup -
a mere first year Master’s student at Saint Louis University brought
"backstage" at NCA. I entered this hotel room and there was Bud with Nick Trujillo, Bob Krizek, Kathy Miller, Paaige K. Turner, and a
few others I cannot recall. I think Eric Eisenberg was there too. The guitars came out. Singing commenced. The songs
were classic rock and I could almost imagine Bud on the road living that rock n roll
mystery. Bud, however, could tell I was feeling out of my element. Shoot, I was
out of my element! As I was leaving he said, "Don't worry about it Andrew,
soon enough you'll be on this side of the stage." Funny. I hadn't made up
my mind to get my doctorate at that point. But he - he knew - he knew before I
did.
* * * *
Bud was more than just a narrative writer though. He was a teacher in
every sense of the word. His texts Writing the New Ethnography, and Writing Qualitative Inquiry: Self, Stories, and Academic Life are exemplars of – and for – a type of
dialogical writing that consumes the reader through engagement.
* * * *
The second time
I met Bud was when he came to Saint Louis University to give a talk while he
was doing research on A Need to Know. His voice filled the room – when he
started by saying “I’ve written this and I read what I’ve written, so I hope
you don’t mind if I read exactly what I wrote.” It was endearing that a man who
made communication his life, was so protective of his words, that he did not
want to deviate. And we graduate students listened, enraptured.
Well, not all of
us. Not quite. When he was finished he asked for questions. One of my peers
(whom I adore to this day) asked, “How is THAT research?” I cannot recall what
Bud said. All I can remember is “how” he said what he said. He was gracious and
kind. He was open hearted and embracing. He was big and grand and full and
wonderful to this student who did not agree with him. They went back and forth
a few times.
She never came around to his point of view about personal
narrative research. And he was OK with that. He never wavered. Moreso, he never
attacked, never raised his voice, and never disconfirmed her as a person. Put
simply, he was Buberesque.
* * * *
The next time
Bud and I met, I was in 2006 at the International Congress of Qualitative Inquiry. I was just finished with my second year in my doctoral program. A
little background will help. Once I started my dissertation research my friend
and MA thesis advisor Bob Krizek would tell me “Get it done. The only good
dissertation is a done dissertation.” He would call me and tell me that. The
would paste it on my Facebook wall. “The only good dissertation is a done
dissertation.” This had become something of a running joke. From my notes of
the conference:
“We are coming to see your panel,” Paaige Turner says.
“You are?”
“Yeah. Hey Goodall is signing his book in
the registration room. He wants to see you,” Bob says.
I head over to the registration room. Bud
is sitting there behind a table talking with a middle-aged woman. As I walk up,
he’s talking.
“…I didn’t know the story very well. I
knew bits and pieces. Hey Andrew.”
“Hey Bud.”
Bud continues talking about his son Nic and
scholarships and how to get him into school. Mitch Allen comes up to me.
“You want one of these books.”
“You bet.”
“Then I want 20 bucks and your address.”
“Well the 20 bucks I can see, but the
address I dunno.”
“Well the CIA needs to take it,” Mitch
says laughing. I hand Mitch my cash, and then I fill out the forms.
“Andrew. Do you want it A-N-D-R-E-W?” Bud
asks.
“Yeah. How you doing?
“Quite Well. And you?”
“Good. Really Good.”
“Are you going to be doing your dissertation
or are you gonna get sidetracked?”
“Aww. Have you been talking to Bob?”
“Who me?” We start laughing.
“Yeah, butt in the seat all fall and
spring.”
“Good. That’s what I want to hear,
because the only good dissertation…”
Uh-oh!
“…is
a done dissertation.” We laugh, Bud with his hearty laugh and big smile.
“I can’t believe I’ve got the final
product here in my hands,” I say. “I’ve seen this in so many forms, but I’ve
got to split. I’m presenting in a few minutes…”
“Right, you’re doing narrative ethics.”
“Yeah. But I’ll be at the panel tomorrow
where we can all bow down and worship you for the God you pretend to be,” I
joke.
“If that happens, I’m leaving!” We laugh
and I chuckle my way back up the stairs. I’m being mentored in multiples.
* * * *
That wasn't, however, wasn't the end of our friendship, even tough we didn't see each other again.
Bud was a mentor
and a life coach. Not merely to his students, but to others trying to make a
way through this thing called academe. I was one of the latter. (I recently found out he was to my buddy Art Herbig too!) When I was struggling as a Ph.D. without a
tenure-track job I was too ashamed to talk with my advisor Art Bochner. (You
can ask me about it sometime. But don't do like I did. Always always always maintain a great relationship with your advisor!!) I didn’t reach out to Bud. Rather, Bud reached
out to ME. That’s the kind of man he was. When I was bitter and scared and
about to throw my academic life down the toilet, he recognized it. He saw it.
What
did he do? He reached out and asked if he could read something I was writing. I sent him “Fear and Loathing in Urbana: Confessions of a Disgruntled Ethnographer.” When it came back to me, it was torn to shreds. His notes read:
“This it whiny!”
“Stop interrupting your own narrative.”
“Who cares what that guy says?”
“Get on
with it.”
“Quit griping and get back to the story.”
“From story comes theory.”
That
original bitter piece was completely transformed into the recently
published “’Criteria Against Ourselves?’ Embracing the Opportunities of Qualitative Inquiry.”
Here’s
the thing. Bud DID NOT need to do that. He did not have to ask to see my piece
or ask about me. This is the kind of man that he was, that he took upon himself
the responsibility to help struggling young scholars. He was not only able to
help, but he was willing.
* * * *
Today, I'm going
to walk into my first class of the semester - Organizational Communication -
for the first time. I’m using Eisenberg, Goodall, & Trethewey. The focus of
the class on organizational ethnography, and we will be reading quite a bit of
Bud’s work. I hope and pray I can do you justice. I know, in spirit, you will be there as provide my students the passion, the intelligence, the good humor, and the graciousness that you bestowed upon me.
You are a
mentor to me.
You are a scholarly influence.
You are a life coach.
Most of all, you are my friend.
Thank you Bud Goodall.
For
everything.
