Last week while reviewing some of my dissertation data with the research assistants, we dove into some contradictory remarks.
My data consist of interviews, or “semi-structured conversations,” with veterans at a university during their first semester as undergraduates. During these conversations, I have a set of questions that guide my question-asking. I like this method because it seems to relax the participants. Although since this is all done via zoom, I’m not sure yet if that’s still true. When face-to-face, I’ve noticed only once that a participant oriented towards the recording device (i.e they looked at it while talking to me). If this sounds interesting, I’d check out my advisor’s work on the observer’s paradox.
Anyway, in my data, I talk with each of my participants about their decision to join the military. One participant first described their hometown of blue-collar workers (many who joined the military), and that they felt the collective call of 9/11. Later on in the same interview, while explaining their interest in sports and working out, they prefaced how they played sports throughout high school. And, that they had hoped to go to college and continue playing sports. However, one summer they experienced an injury that prevented that dream. They then explained joining the military as an opportunity. This “opportunity” aligns with my other participants’ explanations for joining the military. They saw the benefits (e.g. paying for school, career, work experience) of joining the military. This also parallels Martinez and Huerta’s (2020) findings in their study about Chicano/Latino males who enlist in the military. They found, among their participants, that joining the military was a pathway to upward social mobility and a career.
What I find interesting about this is the way the participants talk about their reasons for joining the military. It’s transactional. This contrasts with the 9/11 collective call narrative that is in the beginning of my participant’s interview, and contrasts with the narrative I hear so often by folks who joined when I did – around 9/11.
But how do I explain this? I don’t. I think identities are complex and how they emerge in interaction is complex (and messy at times). As a researcher, I think of my role is observing and describing what is going on. If there are contradictory and paradoxical behaviors manifested in the language, then I say “oh that’s interesting” .. and think about it more. What I think is happening is that the participant is drawing on sociably recognizable discourses – the collective call to service that was invoked by President Bush during 9/11 (See Podvornaia, 2013) and the military as a bunch of benefits (this is the stuff that recruiters talk about). All of which they are using to construct their identity.
What I think is interesting and will explore further is the development of a sense of service in my data. Each one of my participants talk about being proud of their service and how they want to continue doing something that benefits people around them.
Martinez Jr, E., & Huerta, A. H. (2020). Deferred enrollment: Chicano/Latino males, social mobility and military enlistment. Education and Urban Society, 52(1), 117–142.
Podvornaia, A. (2013). The discursive battlefield of the “War on Terror.” In A. Hodges (Ed.), Discourses of war and peace (pp. 69–91). Oxford University Press.
Recently, I was invited to contribute my research about how Naval Officers who identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual, and/or transgender talk about their leadership performance through “sea-stories.” The book, which centers on Queer Linguistics as an approach, really forced me to re-examine my analysis through a Queer Theory and Queer Linguistics lens.
The chapter will draw on data from my master’s thesis which takes a social constructionist stance towards how identity is constructed. For my thesis, I interviewed 14 Naval Officers. Six identified as cis gender men, five identified as cis gender women, one identified as a trans man, and one identified as a transwoman. Of the seven total men, three identified as straight, two as bi, and two as gay. Of the five total woman, two identified as straight and three identified as lesbians.
In each of their interviews, each participant had a “sea-story” to tell. A sea-story is a common term in the Navy used to describe some interesting story that occurred while at sea. These sea-stories in particular were elicited, meaning I asked for a specific story. And in each story, the participants talk about standing watch as Officer of the Deck (OOD). While standing OOD, the Naval Officer is pretty much in charge of all operations occurring on the ship. They’re also in charge of navigating where the ship goes. In these sea-stories, the participants shared a story where they talked about a challenging experience while standing OOD. One participant talked about transiting the Straits of Malacca and experiencing a near collision, another participant described conflict between her and another officer while launching and landing helicopters on the flight deck, and one officer described a man-overboard. So what I was interested in examining here is how each participant talked themselves into “being” a leader in these stories.
While writing my master’s thesis I thought it was a first step towards examining how people who identify as queer do leadership. To my knowledge, it is and was the first of its kind.
As so as I mentioned above, I am excited to re-examine my data from a Queer Linguistics perspective and question “what is masculinity” in the context of the military. And I think more exciting – “what is heterosexuality” in the military? What’s fascinating to me about Queer Theory and Queer Linguistics is that even though I’ve always thought that individuals can express sexuality in different ways, I never actually thought about heterosexuality in this way.
So from this perspective, even individuals who identify as heterosexual (and cis gender) are performing a specific type of heterosexuality and masculinity. So quite literally, in the words or Ru Paul, we’re all born naked and the rest is drag.
This week in Language and Society (a class I’m a teaching assistant), we’re talking about linguistic landscapes. I remember when I was a kid, I used to read signs and billboards out loud when driving around with my parents. I always thought it was cool when there were signs in other languages because it felt like I was traveling further away. These signs were (and are) different because they can say what a community is about, and if that community is welcoming or not.
Language can also have a very specific function as well. For this class, I shared the linguistic landscapes of the inside of a US warship. These aren’t my photos – I friendsourced via facebook, found some on DVIS (defense Visual Information Service), and found one on navalhistory.org. On a US Navy ship you’ll find pretty much everything labeled. Every door is labeled, every bulkhead (wall) is labeled, and every kind of pipe you can find is labeled. These first three pictures demonstrate that.
In the first photo, the officer is in their living quarters playing guitar hero. You can tell they’re likely an officer because of the khaki colored belt. (US Navy Chiefs, or E-7s and above, also where khaki belts.) Above the television is a pipe that says “SPLY Vent.” It’s probably part of the HVAC (heating, ventilation, air conditioning) system, and supplying air for that purpose. In the second (center) photo is a ladder well that leads to a vertical hatch to the outside. It has a Z (super small sorry) on it. All doors (hatches) leading to the outside will have a letter code on it (X for X-ray, Y for Yoke, and Z for Zebra). These refer to material conditions of readiness. X-ray is the least secure and Zebra is the most secure. During certain events on a ship (from entering port to general quarters), a material condition is set. If Zebra is set, then anything marked with a X, Y, or Z are secured (i.e. closed). In the third photo, there is a fire hose on the left and fire extinguishers marked with AFFF ( read A triple F), which means Aqueous Film Forming Foam). These are obviously to fight fires – but the type of fire will determine how to fight it. AFFF is used for flammable liquids, e.g. if fuel catches on fire.
These three photos are a small sample of the types of identification systems you’ll find on a ship. And, they convey the highly technical nature of the linguistic landscape that’s predicated on safety and awareness – a responsibility of all sailors.
It’s important to note that each section of the ship is “owned” by a specific department of the ship. So engineering spaces (i.e. where the engines are located), will be “owned” by the engineering department. Sailors who work in that department are responsible for keeping it clean and making sure everything throughout it is labeled correctly. So what about living quarters? Or the mess decks (where sailors eat)? Those spaces are owned by the supply department. As we see in the first photo, there is a supply vent going through the officer’s room. Nearby there’s likely a bunch of fire fighting equipment as well. While these are equipment owned by engineers, they run through supply department spaces. Sailors in supply department must be aware of what these things do in cases of emergency.
These next two photos demonstrate how intertwined the systems are and how important this linguistic landscape serves the sailors on a ship in regard to safety and awareness.
The photo on the left with the sailor in red has several things going on in the background. The space is likely an engineering space (specifically a passage way) and is below the main deck. The door has a yellow sign with noise protection ear muffs. That’s likely an engine room that requires double hearing protection (ear muffs and ear plugs). Above the sailor are a bunch of pipes. The white wipes are probably air. The purple pipe is likely fuel. And then there’s a small pipe labeled AFFF. In cases of collision or fire, it’s probably important to know that there’s fuel running through that space in a pipe. It’s also really helpful to know there’s an AFFF source there to fight a liquid fire.
The photo on the right has a sailor cleaning in a passageway. This kinda looks like an Operations Department space. The door in the back leads to the outside so it’s definitely on or above the main deck. On right right-side of the photo we have a bunch of pipes again. Since these are blue they’re likely water. There’s also a fire hose for fighting fires. On the left side of the photo there is a poster that says OPSEC which means Operational Security. It’s a reminder to sailors to not share sensitive information about the ship or their jobs.
In these two photos, we again see how safety and awareness is present throughout the linguistic landscape. The sailor on the left (who is likely a boatswain because he’s wrapping rope around a bar) has a bunch of things going on behind him that he might want to be aware of if there was a fire. If it’s a liquid fire, he knows he has an AFFF source nearby. If he wanted to enter that door, he knows he needs to have ear protection. The sailor on the right who is cleaning, is reminded that he shouldn’t share sensitive information about the ship with people who don’t need to know.
The last photo I want to share is one of the most fundamental elements of shipboard knowledge that conveys a sense of awareness in a ship’s linguistic landscape. It is the compartment identification system. The photo is a door to “Female Officer Country” and I borrowed it from navalhistory.org. It was taken in 1994 on board the USS Eisenhower when women were first able to serve on US warships. Today for officers, the women’s living spaces are integrated in with the men’s living spaces. But women are assigned to rooms with the same gender. I want to point to the “FR 44” and the “02-44-3” on the door.
On every door (likely above it), you’ll find the compartment identification number. In this photo, you have 02-44-33. It’s crucial that all sailors are able to read and understand what this means. These numbers represent (from left to right) deck number, frame number, centerline, and usage. I further explain them here:
Deck Number: The main deck is 1. Anything above it is labeled 01, 02, 03 etc. Anything below is 2, 3, ,4, 5 etc. So 5 would be 5 decks below 1 and 05 would be 5 decks above the main deck. Frame Number: This is the foremost bulkhead. It indicates where the compartment is in relation to the front of the ship. Centerline: Where the compartment is in relation to the centerline. If it’s an even number it’s on the port side (i.e. left side), if it’s an odd number it’s on the starboard side (i.e. starboard side). So a 1 would be on the starboard side but close to the centerline while a 7 would be further away from the centerline. Usage: These are usually letters. An E is for Engineering spaces. An L would indicate a living quarter.
In the example above, the FR 44 refers to the frame of the bulkhead (wall). On the door, the compartment label is 02-44-3-Female Officer Country. So it’s on the 02 deck meaning it’s 2 decks above the main deck. It’s frame 44 (i.e. where it is in relation to the front of the ship). And it’s the 3rd compartment, starboard from the centerline at that frame. Instead of “Female Officer Country” it could also be L for living quarters.
This has a lot of practical implications. It means anyone who’s familiar with this system can go on board any ship and independently find a space. One of the most crucial implications is fighting fires and floods, or other emergencies. With this system, a ship can direct the appropriate fire/flooding teams to the emergency.
It’s fun using my experiences in the Navy to demonstrate to the class how a linguistic landscape is more than just signs on the street. It can also be signs in an office building, a school, or a navy warship. The examples I used here convey the technical nature of a warship’s linguistic landscape that serves to inform sailors of their surroundings (situational awareness) and ensure their safety, the safety of others, and the safety of the ship.
My dissertation project has seven participants who I interviewed three times over the course of their first semester. I then transcribed each interview during the same semester to start my analysis mid-January. (It’s going ok, not as fast as I’d like it to). To facilitate my analysis, I am using MAXQDA. It’s been really helpful for organizing my data into “categories” and then coding it for specific themes. To help conceptualize this process, I recommend checking out Johnny Saldaña’s book The Coding Manual for Qualitative Researchers.
This morning (however) as I’m coding a transcript, I notice one of my participant’s files has zero coded segments. I then went back ~3 weeks to a (automatic back up) and found the coded transcript. I also opened the back up I created yesterday but the transcript wasn’t coded.
So you’re probably wondering why I would title this post “Create (your own back up).” I still think it’s important but what I should have done was checked my document system that all my transcripts had codes in them before creating my own back up. Because I had to go back nearly 3 weeks to find the project with the transcript coded means I didn’t notice it for some time.
To resolve this issue, I opened up the older back up and exported the transcript with the coded segments as if I were a team member working separately. I then imported the transcript with all the codes into my current project file.
If you’re unfamiliar with MAXQDA I created this working document to teach my research assistants how to use the program.
