From the Branches of the Lemon Tree

7/31/2019 From the Branches of the Lemon Tree

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Angie Koponen Lemon tree Page 1 of 21

2012 Angela Koponen, Ph.D.

Running head: Lemon tree

From the branches of the lemon tree: An autoethnography of a perfect event

Angie Koponen

Originally completed 2 April 2009

Edited 17 May 2012


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Introduction

I wanted to write about a perfect event so that I could learn how it happened and

duplicate it often enough to realize all my dreams. Just this last year I have thirsted daily for

lemonade. I tired at first to quench my thirst with other seemingly suitable liquids, but none

sufficed. It had to be lemonade, sweet-tart, cool, cleansing. This perfect nectar springs from an

unlikely beginning. Healthy and refreshing, lemonade can surprise even the most seasoned

lemonade lover. The first sip of the first summer batch taken after a long cold winter finally

recedes into its annual hibernation can sometimes pucker the mouth. After its tartness finally

makes peace with a reluctant tongue, its sweetness rewards the drinker with renewed sense of

freshness and joy.

Recipe for Fresh Lemonade6 fresh lemons

2 c. sugarWater to fill

1 gal. jugJuice 6 fresh lemons. Put the juice into a 1 gallon jug. Add 2 cups of sugar. Add

enough water to fill 1 gallon jug and stir well. Pour over ice and sip slowly untilyour mouth no longer puckers from the initial tartness.


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From a tiny seed is born a tree

When I was born, my mother, out of ignorance, desperation, or perhaps disappointment,

planted a lemon tree. I say ignorance because I cannot see how she could not know that lemon

trees cannot grow in the area of Illinois where I was born and grew up. However, it could have

been desperation, because she did not expect to give birth to a partially deformed child. Why she

chose to plant a lemon tree and not a hardier, more suitable variety of fruit tree, was a mystery

until recently. I didnt understand until I once again tasted lemonade .

The tree sprouted from a seed my mother must have saved while making lemonade the

summer before I was born. At 16, she found herself married and expecting a child. The stories of

how that happened vary depending on who tells. Having been 16 and with raging hormones, I

know which version I can accept. Having been that age and desperate for acceptance, I can

accept too that the truth no longer matters. My mother was given lemons and so she made

lemonade. Pregnant, my mother married my father and I was born.

A perfect event

Seldom does anyone say that the more work they are given, the more they want. Graduate

school was like that for me, the more work I was given, the more I wanted. I thrived. I found

myself surrounded by extraordinary perfection unconditional acceptance, firm encouragement,

and unbelievable productiveness. It was as if the planets of academic experience had aligned

themselves perfectly for the first time. At no other time have I ever been more overextended and

productive, and overjoyed as a result.

I am not an expert in that area, but think its great that you want to explore it.


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Thats a great question.

Dont be disappointed if you are not accepted. Few are their first time. Just do it anyway; you

have nothing to lose.

Congratulations. Youve done it!

Their words challenged and inspired. I never feared rejection because I knew I was

already accepted by my heroes and mentors. I drank my lemonade with some of the best in the

discipline. The cool, refreshing elixir was concocted like stone soup. Everyone brought

something to the mix. The water was provided by the university in the form of structure,

tradition, and opportunity. The sugar was provided by the faculty. They embraced me,

encouraged me, and shared my joy unselfishly. I provided the lemons from my own tree. All my

past lemons -- disappointments, challenges, near failures, and tragedies were just bitter enough

to help me appreciate the water and the sugar as they were presented and to be open to the

possibilities to envision the end result. Together we mixed the world s most perfect lemonade.

The lemon tree that shouldnt have

I wanted to explore my perfect event without regret and without revealing the one person

who sowed the seeds of my personal lemon tree, the one who gave me lemons time and again. At

first it was easy to exclude her because I did not recognize the tree, nor did I remember the tart

juice from its fruit. I spent years trying to forget. The pain could be overwhelming at times and I

feared that if I remembered, I would be stuck in bitterness. I feared that I would not be able to

move past the tartness and taste sweetness.


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My lemon tree should not have survived. It should have withered from the cold winters,

and the long periods of neglect. But my tree was watered and fed, often just in time to help it

survive a while longer until it could produce yet another lemon. At first the fruit was small and

nearly unrecognizable. It paled next to more hearty store-bought fruit. Of course, I would not at

the time recognize the difference. The juice from both exhibited the same tartness.

No.

Shut up!

See what you made me do.

The egg began to burn and I was blamed. I asked questions and created tension. I failed at

6 or 7 to tell her that the burner was too high. I forgot to mention that eggs cook at a fairly low

temperature and that the hard brown edges cannot be digested. I was a curious child and I tried

her patience. Cooking the perfect egg requires a little patience. She had very little. She was

nonetheless most generous. She gave me a ripe, beautiful lemon.

Ill teach you to never squirm in church again ! she screamed as she began to beat me.

My father intervened and took her away long enough for me to escape. Church still

suffocates me. I havent gone in years and the threats that Id be struck by lightning if I

misbehaved never materialized. My life has not been more tragic than any other average life. The

irony is that I believe I am happier and more successful than many of the others with whom I

attended Catholic school and most of those that remained true to the faith. I unconsciously stored

that lemon away with the first until I could figure out what to do with it. I didnt realize at that

young age what I was given.


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A basket of lemons, please!

I do not remember two-sided conversations. I remember asking questions and I remember

that the answers were rarely forthcoming. I day-dreamed in class, and felt the painful reminder of

the long wooden pointer as it hit my back forcing me back to reality. I preferred my reality. It

was pleasant and peaceful. I could ask as many questions as I liked and no one hit me or yelled.

It was like a few grains of sugar in the palm of my hand.

I also remember being talked at. They told me what to do, what to think, and how to be.

The waters in those early years were often cloudy and luke-warm. They spilled easily so that I

never had quite enough. I literally suffered for a couple of years from one infection after another

caused by dehydration. My soul dehydrated, too, as my spirit was beaten and berated out of me.

Come out here and show everyone your diaper

Did I protest? I think so, but I cannot recall my voice. I still only hear her voice

humiliating me in front of her guests. I didnt know at nearly three or four years old that it wasnt

my fault, that my bladder was small, and the infections caused incontinence. I must have been

bad because I was the one who wet my panties. The tartness of that lemon remained for a very

long time.

By ten my basket of lemons overflowed. At times the water cleared and occasionally I

was given a hint of sugar. I began to recognize the making of lemonade.

Our Lady of the Lake

She was like no other. Her beauty spread over a great lawn and smiled at her lake.

Crawling into her gentle arms may have been my first perfect event. I saw her and I saw beauty.


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I had a taste of how things might be if only my basket of lemons were not so full. I rested in her

caressing arms and learned to embrace lasting thankfulness. That year I went for one blessed

week to church summer camp. I had my first memorable taste of pure, fresh lemonade.

I think I must have had lemonade before, but the memory was lost, covered over in the

bottom of my lemon basket. I left my lemon basket at home that week. I was always somewhat

forgetful. I liked being happy and forgetting easily left no room for agony. I was too nave to

know that having so many lemons was a rare gift. It wasnt that my peers had fewer lemons so

much, as it was that they had so many other fruits. They had more new clothes. They were

allowed to go to the skating rink. They had birthday parties every year, not just at ten. They had

heard the music and knew the words to the songs of The Sound of Music. Their lemons more

often spilled out and never puckered their mouths. Their lemons seemed smaller and less tart.

My week consisted of three glorious meals a day, a warm bed in a cabin surrounded by

trees, and my first taste of doing something so well that someone else felt threatened. My camp

counselors were geniuses. In a week they not only each cared for about ten girls daily needs ,

they also found time to speak with us instead of talking at us, lead us to the table of abundance,

and coordinate a production of the music of the movie, The Sound of Music .

I had not heard of The Sound of Music before my week at summer camp. I sang much

before that, but I do not recall what I sang other than the ABC Song. I know I loved singing, but

I can only see myself singing in a pantomime. My voice is muted and no one can hear me. That

week the counselors taught me the choruses to Sound of Music songs. They tried to teach me to

sings the solo pieces, but I couldnt learn both the music and the lyrics in such a short time.

Another girl already knew the lyrics to all the songs and was given the lead role in the


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production. I remember that she was kind of mousy and while her voice was not extraordinary

she sang clearly and pleasantly enough. When she heard me singing the chorus, she became ill.

They took her to the nurse who gave her medicine for a headache and put her to bed. I remember

her saying that she was afraid they would give her part to me because my voice was so much

better. She didnt even realize that I didnt want the lead. I was terrified of doing something so

bold and I was equally frustrated that I could not learn the words to the songs. No, she could

keep her lead. I was glad to be the chorus and overjoyed with the prospect of another fantastic

lunch. I was content. The water was clearer than ever before, my lemon basket was at home, or

maybe just hiding in my trunk, and I was given a lovely crystal jar to collect little bits of sugar.

The best part was that only I could see my sugar jar, so nobody could take it away from me. It

was mine, all mine!

In the end, that girl sang her part brilliantly, I sang in the chorus, and I was given all the

ingredients for making my own lemonade. Even though I did not know what I had gained until I

was much older, when life became difficult, I could visit that lovely lady in my imagination and

because only I could see my journey, it could not be taken away from me.

Please, may I have a bigger basket?

Life became more dangerous and difficult for a while after I left the nurturing arms of My

Lady. As I was growing, my lemon tree grew as well. It grew fine strong branches. The fruit

became larger and juicier. The weight of the fruit pulled the branches down until the tips nearly

touched the ground. For a while it seemed like lemons were thrown at me from all directions.

Oo! I dont want to play with you. You have leprosy. Look how your fingers already fell off.

Come on gir ls, lets not play with Angie.


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Look at your knee socks! Laugh, laugh! Dont you know that all the cool girls are wearing

tights?

Dont you know anything? Everyone [whos anyo ne] knows what happened on the Monkeys

yesterday! Yeah, dont you know anything, the chorus sounded off. Come on, lets play

ball. You cant play.

Girls are a brutal group when they gang up under the leadership of a bully. They beat you

down at every opportunity. That year my lemon tree took on gargantuan proportions. Never

before had the fruit been so huge and brightly colored. It was a capital year for lemon tree

fertilizer sales and many of my friends and others took full advantage of very appealing

promotions. One such promotion began in religion class. There, we learned about the leper

colonies and how the disease ate away at its victims flesh . We also learned details about

Purgatory and how if you told a little white lie, you would not be allowed into heaven until your

lips burned in Purgatory for a thousand or more years. They would burn and burn and nothing

could stop the pain. Im sure the girls in my class did not believe the stories of Purgatory. Led by

one of the girls who had all the latest fashions, music, and other essentials, about ten of my

classmates ganged together to torment me. That year I was forced to ask for a bigger basket for

my lemons. My lemons multiplied faster than I could put them all in my basket. My basket

began to overflow and I had to humiliate myself to ask for a bigger basket. I had to admit that I

could not turn the other cheek and let the lemons my classmates threw at me roll off and away

from me. Instead those lemons splattered against my tender face and bruised the delicate skin so

severely that I nearly died from misery. I was so humiliated at my inability to cope that I in turn

hurt someone else. Fortunately, as I cried and beat him on the chest while he restrained my

outburst, I was not able to inflict much damage. He was older and bigger and he understood. I


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think he saw that the weight of my basket bent my back and cramped my legs. What little sugar I

had co llected didnt yet allow for decent lemonade and the waters that normally would flow

gently downstream came in a torrent that eroded my strength even further. They came so

violently that as they filled my pitcher, they spilled back out. So, I was left with more lemons

than I could handle. I was given a bigger basket and for a while a few other helped me to carry it

until I could grow large enough to carry it on my own.

Row, row, row your boat

As the waters rose I was given a boat and told to row. The very person, who filled my

basket from the day I was born, handed me the oars and told me to row. She was an unforgiving

yet gentle coach She vacillated between total insensitivity and cradling me in her arms while I

shed years of tears. I didnt see i t then, but I now believe that she had a basket just like mine. In

spite of the added burden of rowing that sorry excuse of a boat while carrying that damned

basket, I began to develop large muscular arms. I also learned, finally, how to deflect all the

lemons my basket couldnt hold. I wasnt allowed to just dump the contents out. That would be

littering. Instead, by some unfathomable miracle I grew into a strength that would take me past

the next few years.

On the moon my basket was lighter

While the previous fruitings hint at the climate of my early years in a general way, some

events specifically impacted my education. In those early years I do not recall consequences for

either doing an exceptional job or failure. As long as I appeared to be doing really well and

didnt embarrass my family, I was fine. Appearances were primary. I heard over and over again,

What will people think? If I said the wrong things or sneezed the wrong way, the response


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particularly from, my mother, was always the same. It seemed that we had some kind of superior

reputation to uphold, although I dont know where that would have come from. I re member my

immediate family, first cousins and others, as having dysfunctional families and living somewhat

like white trash. Most of the men worked at my grandfathers machine shop and the cousins had

brushes with the law. The boys were lost and the girls were just victims. During this time my

lemon tree began to produce less fruit, although what fruit it did produce was larger and

potentially more lethal if it made a direct hit. Only once during the years between childhood and

the age of 22 did a lemon, the largest ever, come close to making a direct hit and ending my life.

For a while my soul was nearly sucked out of me, but all that needs to be said now is that I

survived and my basket sufficed. It was then that I took a trip to the moon.

I have been blessed to love two extraordinary men in my life. One is my soul mate, my

best friend, and my biggest fan ever. It was he who picked me up and rescued me between the

ages of 20 and 22. At 20, he slipped into my life. At 22, I married him. He was the first to see

potential and to encourage me to seek a true education. He pushed and cajoled me into my

bachelor and master degrees. His influence was constant and unfailing. It is he to whom I cling

every night and from whom I still after 30 years receive smiles from every morning. Where

many who influenced my earlier years nearly loved me to death, he loved me to life. Without

him, I would never have experienced my perfect event.

The second man was a key part of my perfect event. He is still my intellectual angel

whose belief in what I can do continues to gently nudge me. I only need to think of sitting in his

classes and raising my hand to ask a question and to then be thanked for my asking to tear with

joy. Where in my early years asking questions was discouraged, sometimes though physical and

mental abuse, in his classes it was welcomed and celebrated.


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Doctor!

Doctor, he would respond to my greeting. He often called me doctor, especially when I was

coming to discuss my research. He knew years before I even thought of seeking my PhD that I

would someday do it.

To understand my perfect event, I need to look at two events during my first couple of

years of college. I began my college career at 21 and quickly dropped it for valid and important

reasons related to survival. At 39 I picked up where I left off. The challenges were great and a

couple took me completely by surprise. These were no longer lemons being thrown at me, but

full sized extremely ripe watermelons.

My first semester of back to college was fairly uneventful. I worked full time in the

adjoining town and took two evening classes. That, along with raising three children and

continuing to share life with my soul mate, left little time for imagination. It was not bad.

I just began my second semester after quitting my day job because the classes I needed

for my plan were not available at night. I was happy to be back in school full time. I began to

thrive. Then a maniac tried to kill me. That fateful night, we started home from the Comedy Club

in Denver where friends took us to celebrate my 40 th birthday. We did it right. We stopped first

for coffee to be sure that wed be alert, especially for the drive. We drove an acceptable speed

limit. But that demon was drunk and he drove like a bat out of hell the wr ong direction down

the exit ramp. Our driver did all that he could to avoid the oncoming truck to no avail. Just

before the truck hit us our driver turned the steering wheel sharply so that the truck would hit at

an angle instead of head-on. He may have saved our lives, but I still ended up in 5 hours of

surgery with a plastic surgeon who put 500 stitches in my head. The drunk driver took something


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more precious to me than gold. He took my ability to read. I loved reading and I needed to be

able to read to stay in school. It terrified me to imagine never being able to open a book again

and understand the words.

Dont tread on me: an anatomy of a perfect event

All my life I was denied educational opportunities. I was denied through social

conditioning to believe that I would ever accomplish more than being a wife and mother. I was

denied by lack of support for my abilities and interests. I was denied by lack of reward if I did

well or consequences if I failed. After the accident I silently screamed that it wasnt fair to finally

have a chance and then to have that chance pulled from under me. When I recovered by some

miracle well enough to continue with school, I was driven mad at times by an insatiable desire to

do something special, to be somebody who mattered, and to leave something behind that people

might remember me by. It was the result of that horrible incident and two fantastic events that

would make my perfect event possible.

The most significant happened nearly two years later. I received a phone call at home one

day while I was studying.

Hello, may I please speak with Angela?

This is she

Im [name forgotten] from the Ronald E. McNair program at UNC. The McNair Program

has received your name as a possible match for o ur scholars program. Wed like you to apply

She then briefly explained what the program entails.

Oh, why me?


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Youre a good student, youre a minority because you are a woman, and you are a first

generation college student. Are you interested?

Sure.

Great, Ill mail you the application.

Months later when I completed the program, collected my stipend, and bonded with my advisor,

the foundation was set for my perfect event.

The second fantastic event emerged when I applied and was accepted to my masters

program. Even with the McNair Program, which prepared me for and gave me the skills I needed

to successfully apply for and complete graduate school, I still felt uncertain. My previous

experience made me expect that the opportunity would be cruelly pulled away and I would be

left with nothing but sadness and regret. Being accepted meant that, even if I didnt attend, I was

worthy. Me, only me. Me as myself. I gladly accepted, eager for the challenge and honored by

the opportunity.

Graduate school was perfect. Every lemon that came my way acted as a super motivator

that drove me harder. I maintained a 4.0. I researched and presented my research at conferences

across the country. I received recognition for my work. I received praise from my instructors.

Even when the department chair ignored me, I knew I was a star. Her lemons could not fill my

basket. My basket even began to shrink. I look back now and realize that the accomplishments

and successes will always be with me as a source of great pride. What elements came together to

make the experience so triumphant?

I was nurtured by my faculty.


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I was encouraged to take chances. I was inspired by a great body of knowledge and the lives and work of wonderful

theorists.

My faculty never doubted my ability. My faculty allowed and encouraged me to think, question, and do works in areas that

they did not fully understand.

All the lemons disappeared from my basket and could no longer sour my self-esteem, or

my belief in myself.

Most important, my husband cheered me on.

I learned to make lemonade at last. It was the worlds greatest lemonade ever made and I did it.

I know that, had my mom not planted that lemon tree when I was born, I would not have

developed the character, strength, and determination to overcome all the adversity that came my

way. I know that if a few kind and nurturing mentors had not stopped when they saw me

struggling to offer their aid, I would not have had the sugar to make the lemonade. They made it

all so sweet. I know that, if I had not been allowed to take the water from the spring instead of

the muddied rivers, the lemonade would not have tasted so sweet. I do not regret or grieve now

for all that might have been or for all that was taken from me. I do not wish that the pain I

suffered had been lessened. I am truly a better person than I would have been. This I know in my

heart and in my soul. The waters still run clear and fresh, the lemons are a blessing that are

sweeter than any other lemons that ever grew before, and the sugar flows freely from the hands

of those wonderful angels that follow my footsteps in case I fall or lead the way though

darkened passageways. I have made the worlds best lemonade.

Epilogue - 2012


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I just graduated with my Ph.D in Educational Technology with a minor in Research and

Applied Statistics. The experience was enlightening, challenging, and at times, frustrating, but I

did it. My soul mate cheered, badgered me actually, me on. My former advisor cheered me on.

Once again my lemonade making expertise served me we ll. I have once again made the worlds

best lemonade.


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Methodology

.

When I chose to complete an autoethnography in order to fulfill the requirements of a

Narrative Inquiry class, I had only minimal understanding of the implications. As the course

progressed and I read more about this qualitative research method, I began to have my doubts. I

procrastinated and when I did put forth effort early on, my stomach often became queasy. I am

not a revealing person. Richardson (1994) tells us that:

Autoethnography can be a very difficult undertaking because this form of scholarship

highlights more than ever issues of representation, objectivity, data quality, legitimacy,

and ethics. Although working through these challenges can lead to the production of an

excellent text, the intimate and personal nature of autoethnography can, in fact, make it

one of the most challenging qualitative approaches to attempt (p. 521).

For me, the challenge would be particularly difficult . I would need to recall events that Ive spent decades

trying to forget. After recalling these events I would need to relate them without conveying bitterness or

anger. I have every right to be angry, but I believe that by focusing on my goal to understand something

positive in my life, I could ultimately write about bad experiences in a positive light.

Autoethnography requires the researcher to gaze, first through an ethnographic wide-

angle lens, focusing outward on social and cultural aspects of their personal experience; then,

they look inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through, refract,

and resist cultural interpretations ( (Ellis & Bochner, 2000). In this, Ellis offers this more simple

personal explanation: I started with my personal life. I payed attention to my physical feelings,

thoughts, and emotions. I usede what I call systematic sociological introspection and emotional

recall to try to understand an experience that I lived through. Then I wrote my experience as a

story.


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.

Additionally, Ellis recognizes feminism s role in the development of autoethnography,

saying that in reflexive ethnography, a feminist tool, researchers incorporate their personal

experiences and standpoints in their research by starting with a story about themselves,

explaining their personal connection to the project, or by using personal knowledge to help them

in the research process (Ellis in Ellis & Bochner, 2000). In the Dictionary of Qualitative Inquiry

(2001) it states that it is commonly claimed that the striking stories that frequently comprise

autoethnography are intended to illustrate and evoke rather than to state or make a claim, and

that the author of such a text aims to invite readers into the text to relive the experience rather

than to interpret or analyze what the author is saying (Schwandt, 2001). Dyson adds to this by

expalining how autoethnographers use metaphor to order thought, experiences, and to construct a

reality about lived experiences rather than use particular procedures, to generate format and

empirical truths (Dyson, 2007). These three key descriptions, only a small part of the literature,

tell me the basics I need to know in order to begin the assignment. Additional readings expand,

corraborate and confirm the methodological path I must take. Many of the other writers about

autoethnography quote the work of Denzin and Lincoln: Dyson; and Ellis and Bochner Klinker,

Spry, and Porter whom I looked to for additional clarification asnd inspiration (Klinker & Todd,

2007; Porter, 2004; Spry, 2001). Klinker offered that the researcher as the intrument of data

collection [works] through personal reflection, conversation, introspection, emotional recall, and

sharing (Klinker & Todd, p. 167). Spry synthesizes Denzin and Lincoln, Ellis and Bochner,among myriad others: autonethnography is a radical reaction to realist agendas in ethnography

and sociology which privilege the researcher over the subject, method over subject matter, and

maintain commitments to outmoded conceptions of validity, truth, and generalizability.


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Autoethnography writing resists Grand Theorizing and the faade of objective research that

decontectualizes subjects and searches for singular truth (Spry, 2001).

Finally in Wall (2008) we are treated to an excellent description of autoethnographic emphases

drawn from several bodies of research:

Autoethnographers vary in their emphasis on auto- (self), -ethno- (the sociocultural

connection), and -graphy (the application of the research process) (Reed-Danahay, 1997).

Although some consider a personal narrative to be the same thing as an autoethnography

(Ellis & Bochner, 2000), others use autoethnography as a means of explicitly linking

concepts from the literature to the narrated personal experience (Holt, 2001; Sparkes,

1996) and support an approach as rigorous and justifiable as any other form of inquiry

(Duncan, 2004).

Guided by these researchers I asked myself if I could indeed reveal myself, become a part

of my research, expose my short-comings, and tell a story that would evoke. I realized with some

refelction that I had already unknowingly done that in several previous research works. Now for

the first time I had justification and solid support for my methods. However, unlike many

authethnographies I read, I wanted to focus, not on a negative event, but on something wonderful

in order to try to understand the event better and to replicate the same kinds of feelings,

motivations, and energy that lead to great success. Autoethnography offers the structure needed

to accomplish that goal. Richardson wrote that narratives of the self are a form of eveocative

writing that draws upon techniques of fiction to produce highly personalized and revealing texts

in which authors tell stories about their own lived experiences and invite the reader to

emotioanlly relive the eve nt with the author (Richardson in Sparks, 1994). Perhaps for me that

is what attracts me to writing an autoethnography, the opportunity to draw upon techniques of

fiction. Im still not sure about inviting you in to relive these events emotionally with m e. For


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the most part, I am beyond the deep emotions. I look through a self-detached lense to make sense

of something good, so that I might create more such good events in my life.


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Works Cited

Duncan, M. (2004). Autoethnography: Critical appreciation of an emerging art. In Wall (2008). International Journal of Qualitative Methods , 3(4), Article 3. Retrieved June 28, 2005

from http://www.ualberta.ca/~iiqm/backissues/3_4/html/duncan.html .

Dyson, M. (2007). My story in a profession of stories: Autoethnography - an empoweringmethodology for educators. Australian journal of Teacher Education , 36 (1), 36-48.

Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity. In N. Denzin,& Y. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of Qualitative Research (2nd ed., pp. 733-768).Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Holt, N. L. (2001). Beyond technical reflection: Demonstrating the modification of teachingbehaviors using three levels of reflection. In Wall (2008). Avante , 7 (2), 66-76.

Klinker, J., & Todd, R. (2007). Two autoethnographies: A search for understanding of genderand age. The Qualitative Report , 12 (2), 168-183.

Porter, N. (2004). CMA methodology: Autoethnography. Retrieved March 25, 2009, fromComputer-Mediated Antropology:http://anthropology.usf.edu/cma/CMAmethodology-ae.htm.

Reed-Danahay, D. E. (1997). Auto/ethnography: Rewriting the self and the social. In Wall(2008). Oxford, UK: Berg.

Richardson, L. (1994). Writing: A method of inquiry. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 516-529). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Schwandt, T. (2001). Disctionary of Qualitative Inquiry (2nd ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Sparks, A. The Fatal Flaw: A Narrative of the Fragile Body-Self. Qualitative Inquiry 1996; 2;463

Spry, T. (2001). Performing autoethnography: An embodied methodological praxis. Qualitative Inquiry , 7 (6), 706-732.
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From the Branches of the Lemon Tree

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