This semester I’m teaching SOAN422, in which sociology and anthropology majors write an undergraduate thesis. They interpret music videos, life histories of refugees, the work of doulas. They write ethnographies of remote Thai villages, local diners, and urban neighborhoods.
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This semester I’m teaching SOAN422, in which sociology and anthropology majors write an undergraduate thesis. They interpret music videos, life histories of refugees, the work of doulas. They write ethnographies of remote Thai villages, local diners, and urban neighborhoods.
Whatever they do must be written in American Anthropological Association (AAA) style. We consulted the editorial style guide in early September, but when we checked it again in October, we found this message: “After much consideration of publishing standards and member input, AAA has decided to cease production of the AAA Style Guide.”
Students turned first to practicalities: “How are we going to format our theses?”
I had a different response: grief.
There is a hole in my world where AAA style used to be. A beauty has slipped away from us. The AAA offers a contact for further information, but why bother? An autopsy report is cold comfort.
As a graduate student, mastering AAA style was an important initiation ritual for those seeking inclusion in the guild. I took it up with enthusiasm: When cultural anthropology asks me to jump, I ask, “How high?” AAA style and my work would be yin and yang: The style is the scaffolding, my genius thoughts the content in need of structure. For 21 years, it has held up its end of the bargain more than I have.
Even more, it has come to provide existential comfort. Consider what this citation says about the meaning of life:
Parsimony is a virtue. AAA style manifests Occam’s razor: no superfluous periods or spaces, no italics, nothing but elegant necessity. Even I, spare in fashion and home décor, enjoy an italicized book and journal title now and then. AAA allows only a thin “In” preceding the title of an edited volume.
Losses sometimes accumulate, but not infinitely. Line one is left justified, line two indents two spaces, line three indents further, and then, ah, line four. Line four keeps the left justification of line three, as do all subsequent lines. Lasting stability follows progressive losses: May it be so in life.
People matter.
If you can stand it, look over this American Psychological Association citation.
Where to even start? Periods plopped down like raindrops, italics flaunting themselves like peacocks, that hyperbolic five-space second-line indent, and the maniacal refusal of capitals in titles.
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But let me focus on the worst. M. Mead could be Michael, Mary, or Moonpie. APA style obscures gender, making even more difficult the task of holding scholars accountable for diversity in bibliographies. AAA style honors the person and reminds us that identity relates to analysis. M. Mead is nobody. Margaret Mead is the real deal.
The American Anthropological Association has not left us destitute, however. Henceforth it favors The Chicago Manual of Style. I use Chicago for my magazine, blog, and book publishing outside of anthropology. The Chicago guide is serviceable, dominant in the publishing world, and likely to be useful in students’ professional lives. Here’s its version of our citation:
No existential horrors here, though again, I hardly think five spaces are necessary to indicate a second line. We all saw it after two. The Chicago Manual of Style repeats second-line indenting for the third line and following, offering unrealistic hope to those facing life’s descending despair. Furthermore, the citation fatigues my eyes, demanding that they travel so far from author to date. (I have become accustomed to seeing both at a glance in the American Anthropological Association’s style.)
Despite these surmountable challenges, I refuse to be comforted. CMOS just isn’t AAA. When your dog dies, you may get a new one, and you may come to cherish it, but it will never replace the one you lost. When I pause, bring the American Anthropological Association’s decision to mind, and dwell on it, I feel it in the place in my chest that gets tight when I cry.
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Just this morning at breakfast my 10-year-old son asked, “Why do we call this thing ‘knife’? Why can’t it be ‘swlee,’ or ‘balu?’ "
There is a hole in my world where the American Anthropological Association’s manual used to be.
“It’s a symbol,” I replied, “and symbols are arbitrary. It is ‘knife’ because English speakers agree that it is. It could be otherwise.”
An hour later I left for work, worrying aloud over the death of AAA style and how to alter my assignment for seniors writing their final papers. My husband, an electrician who follows a code book, asked, “Hey, nerd, why is this such a big deal? Didn’t you just say symbols are arbitrary?”
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Arbitrary, yes, but not random or meaningless. Symbols are the stuff of culture. If you’ve ever been in an unfamiliar society and couldn’t properly ask for a cutting implement at the dinner table, you can appreciate the importance of inhabiting a symbolic universe shared with others. Symbols are integral to our survival: We make them and share them constantly.
And sometimes we alter them to adapt to new environments. The Chicago Manual of Style positions anthropology for stronger social influence. It will socialize anthropologists to communicate with broader audiences, publish in more popular venues, and blend and fuse our literatures with others. In conforming to a dominant style, we will be practicing Fieldwork 101, taking on the manner of the people with whom we work so we can better understand them and strive with them toward their goals.
I get that, and I’ll get over all of this — but not quickly. The body is not yet cold. Let me sit with it a spell.
Jenell Paris is a professor of anthropology at Messiah College, in Pennsylvania.
Correction (12/7/15, 11:55 a.m.): The second two Margaret Mead citations were accidentally swapped in the conversion to the web. They have been fixed.
