Ode to the cherry and the differences that make differences
Walkers: Fenna, Ildikó, René, Myriam and Andie.
As ethnographers we go into the field, observe what happens there, talk, listen. We are taught to attune to relational determinants like ‘familiar’ and ‘strange’ to understand how normals are made and differences discerned. What we learn is not the same from one site or situation to the next. The objects of our research must be considered in context to distinguish what is stable and what is contingent in a subsequent moment or another setting. One informant says that all X are P and the other tells they are Q instead. How might this be a problem or a blessing for your research? How to deal with such differences?
In the social sciences some differences get a lot of attention: geographical ones (between places and across borders), socio-economic ones (between classes), functional ones (between professions, or fields, or systems). How do we relate to these differences and what kind of differences are relevant in our research? What literature do we use to help make sense of them? Are there differences that obfuscate rather than elucidate our objects of interest? And what can be done with them?
On this Friday afternoon, we started our journey towards the Amsterdamse Bos, to see the cherry blossoms, on two wheels. However, we did not ride our bicycles right away. First we boarded the Metro and only after a 15 minute journey we started to pedal. Riding the bikes all the way from the University would have stretched our traveling time by a good 20 minutes. Therefore, taking the metro with bikes seemed to be making a difference: in getting us to the Bos faster, in allowing us to use our bikes later on in the field, in saving us from having to cycle against the wind, etc. But given that we were heading to our walking seminar, taking one or the other means of transport made little difference in that we were not walking. Not yet.
Does the directionality of perceiving a difference matter? What does it do if we come to difference by unpacking an assumed similarity or begin with an apparent difference and arrive at what is shared? And how does all this relate to how our work changes over time- as we come to understand our field and objects differently; and to the difference that we hope to make with it?
Arriving to the Amsterdamse Bos we realized that the Blossom Park we wanted to visit is still a good 5 kilometers away, so walking there and back would give us little time to enjoy the cherry blossoms. Therefore, to stretch the time under the cherries, we decided, once again, to shorten the time of traveling by doing the first part of the journey by bike.
Does it make a difference in thinking and talking while cycling instead of walking? It certainly does. While pedalling we could at most pay attention to each other, cycling close enough so that we hear each other’s voices. The park got reduced, or rather got configured as a view, green scenery, winding cycling paths and amplified wind. Only when we parked our bikes and started to walk did we notice smells and shapes, minuscule living creatures that made us stop, squat and engage in a rescue operation.
That between concrete and plant?
(or perhaps rather between what either do for the caterpillar?)
That between the bike-lane-concrete and the footpath-concrete?
(or perhaps rather the difference between biking and walking – and their different needs vis-a-vis the concrete ground?)
That between caterpillar and human?
(or perhaps rather between what is at stake for either as we cross a bike path?)
That between the cherry blossom and the part of the forest where other trees stand?
And so on. Some of these differences may seem more obvious than others. The cherries are blossoming, the other trees are not
(but then again, that is not the same difference for bumblebees looking for a snack versus humans yearning for spring).
Just before arriving at the blossoms the road leads us under the motorway. An instance of darkness that feels like trespassing through a chanted underworld. Listen to its sounds HERE. Does it make a difference to write about this strange location? To show you a photo of it? Or make you listen to what is audible to a little microphone built into our smartphones? How do different media and modalities layered in ethnographies (and this blogpost) speak of/do the differences that are made to matter?
Arriving at the Blossom Park we are struck by its scent, small size and the disproportionate amount of people visiting it on a Friday afternoon. Mind you, this photo is misleading to say the least. It took careful framing and editing, cropping the people out, or hiding them behind trees. The cherries, 400 in number, are planted in neat lines on a circular terrain. And at least 50 other visitors are marveling at the blossoms, taking pictures, walking up and down on this small partition.
However, the cherry blossom is calming, where there are the other trees you can hear the cars of the nearby motorway
(but that is not inevitable either: “If you bend your mind enough, the cars sound like the sea”, says one of us).
Here, a point to make: Differences are not given – some force themselves into this or that situation, yet others may be pulled to the fore or pushed to the back. So what may be achieved in doing so?
(and, no less relevant, which kind of difference to work out, on which terms, for what?)
The cherry trees are not happy, we learn. They suffer from a ground stamped by the hordes of visitors each year. But aren’t we part of this crowd now? Those who contribute to their suffering by stamping the ground? So shall we not just leave? What are the differences that we ourselves make through our bodily presence, weight, chit-chat while pondering about differences?
And as we leave the blossoms behind and make our way back under the motorway and through the meandering concrete bike path, we conclude – yet again – that differences do not exist outside of the “fields”, surrounded by earth and living creatures, noises and smells, bicycles and stamping feet. Differences that matter are made into differences, and are made to matter through practices that we, as ethnographers, engage in: gazing, touching, smelling, cycling, walking, talking, recording, and not least writing (this blogpost).
“If you bend your mind enough, the cars sound like the sea!”
