Watershed Ethnography

This post is an early draft of a chapter that didn’t make it into my final dissertation. I’m sharing it here because I think it still carries and important line of thought that I hope to develop further in future research and writing.


I set out to do an ethnography of a computer model; I ended up doing a watershed ethnography.

When I began researching computational modeling in the Chesapeake Bay region, my initial goal was to understand the effects that modeling had on management and decision making at different levels. I had planned to do a comparative study looking at different modeling projects taking place in the region and exploring the ways that different modeling techniques and methods influenced the relationships that make environmental management possible. However, as I undertook the research, things changed dramatically, as often happens in ethnographic field work, and gradually the watershed began to emerge as a framework for my project.

Two key changes – one research driven, the other resulting from a personal shift – really brought the watershed into focus. First, as I attempted to undertake comparative study, it became increasingly clear that there was no clear division between the different projects that I was researching. They all kind of flowed together much like the water flowing through the various tributaries converges in the Chesapeake Bay. All of the projects I had set out to study – including one that was technically outside of the watershed – drew upon the same sets of data, the same modeling methodologies, and fed into the modeling taking place at the Chesapeake Bay Program. This meant that a comparative analysis, while not impossible, would have been confounded by the interconnections of the different projects. After a great deal of deliberation, I decided to continue studying the projects, but now as a reflection of how different modeling practices can flow together. As a result, the focus of my research became the Chesapeake Bay Program’s modeling efforts and the convergences that underlie it.

The second change was the result of a personal decision. In 2005, I moved from College Park, Maryland to Binghamton, New York to be with my current wife who had just started a PhD program there. While this move made it necessary for me to commute to conduct my research in Annapolis, it also opened up my understanding of environmental management and shifted my perspective from the Chesapeake Bay to the watershed as a whole. Despite the distance between the two cities, Binghamton is still part of the watershed, sitting at the confluence of the Susquehanna and Chenango rivers. My house is blocks away from the Susquehanna and within walking distance of the park where the two rivers converge. Living up here has enabled me to not only see more of the watershed itself, but to see the processes and practices of environmental management that ultimately affect the Chesapeake Bay. It has made me cognizant of water quality issues that I would not have been aware of if I had stayed in the DC area. And it has allowed me to understand the perspectives on modeling from the people whose lives and livelihoods are affected by it.

It seems to me that theory and method often develop to take on the shape of the objects we are studying – especially in an environmental anthropology that is sensitive to ecological relationships and processes. This is evident in Anna Tsing’s work on matsutake mushrooms – she describes her writing style as a “riot of short chapters.” She then goes on:

“I wanted [the chapters] to be like the flushes of mushrooms that come up after a rain: an over-the-top bounty; a temptation to explore; an always too many… They tangle with and interrupt each other – mimicking the patchiness of the world I am trying to describe” (viii).

In this way, mushrooms are not only the objects of Tsing’s research, but also models for the process and practice of studying and writing about them.

Similarly, Laura Ogden’s ethnography of the socio-ecological processes that shape the Everglades takes on a “rhizomatic” quality that mirrors the rhizome of the vast, and thickly tangled swamp itself. Describing her ethnographic approach, Ogden says:

“This book should be read as a part of the everglades entanglement, or better, as an experiment with the rhizome’s logic… I have allowed the rhizome to guide this book’s composition. Each chapter maps the course of a particular trajectory within the Everglades rhizome” (31)

Following from these examples, I think it makes sense that my own research and writing would take on some of the characteristics of a watershed. And so, in what follows I hope to explore what I have come to think of as watershed ethnography – one that goes with the flows,” to find the places where they converge, and to navigate the currents that emerge from the intensive variations in their viscosity.

Watershed Theory

The Chesapeake Bay’s watershed covers 64,000 square miles and includes approximately 18 million people. Conducting an ethnography of the watershed on this scale would be an enormous undertaking far in excess of a doctoral dissertation, and potentially even the confines of ethnographic methods themselves. Instead, I characterize my research as a “watershed ethnography.” It is a subtle, and some may argue, small semantic difference, but there is good reason for inverting the terms. An ethnography of a watershed implies simply that the object of the research is a drainage basin, but “watershed ethnography” is something different, and, at the same time that it is shaped by the contours of the flow of water on the landscape, it also redefines our conception of the watershed itself.

A watershed is traditionally defined as “the area that drains to a common waterway, such as a stream, lake, estuary, wetland, aquifer or even the ocean” (EPA). For example, all of the water that falls on the Chesapeake Bay’s watershed ultimately flows into the Chesapeake Bay. Ecologists have come to recognize that there is more to a watershed than water drainage, and have begun to think of them as complex, interconnected systems. This notion includes the myriad living organisms who depend on the water for their livelihoods, and, to varying extents, the social lives of humans that utilize and affect water quantity and quality. Integrating human and non-human practices and processes in a way that adequately represents both presents a challenge to existing social and natural science theories and methodologies.

An ethnography of a watershed would apply an ethnographic methodology to the drainage basin and its inhabitants. In other words, an ethnographer might conduct interviews and participant observation with people who live in the watershed – especially those who are engaged in work to improve water quality. In more recent years, the ethnographer might incorporate some quantitative methods as well to develop a broader sense of the perspectives of the people who live throughout the watershed’s boundaries. The questions driving such research might be the way people think of themselves as part of the watershed, or the ways that their actions affect the water and other natural elements that constitute the watershed. In this sense, ethnography itself is taken to be an abstract methodology that can be equally applied to any issue or cultural practice. Additionally, regardless of how “integrated” the natural and social systems are thought to be, the focus of ethnography will always be on the “social dimensions” of life in the watershed because it fails to present the watershed itself as a product of social relations.

Several developments in the social sciences and humanities in the last few decades have made it possible to imagine a different kind of ethnography – one that is able to expand beyond the “social dimensions” and the dualistic view of natural and social systems. This is not meant as a way to usurp the role of ecologists and other environmental scientists. Because their methods were also designed with a particular object in mind, they are very effective for studying natural processes. What natural science methods are not well designed for is studying interconnections and the complex entanglements of humans and non-humans precisely because they must in some ways isolate themselves from social and political discourse. Attempting to study social practices objectively creates ethical and political conflicts because research is always socially situated and cannot be isolated in the same ways.

Recent approaches enable a better integration of natural and social systems because they transform our conception of the relationships between humans and nonhumans including materials, organisms, and technologies. Specifically, these developments have come together around social science and humanities research that attempts to address the myriad political and ecological crises we face around the world today. We live in a time that many have called the “anthropocene” – a time when human activity has reached a point where it can be recognized as a global geological force. Although the timeline for the epoch is contested, its origins have been traced  back to the 16th and 17th centuries. This period has been characterized by climate change, deforestation, and mass extinctions as well as global inequalities in the form of colonization, slavery, and economic exploitation. I would not be the first to point out the links between these processes, and some philosophers and social scientists have gone so far as to propose alternate names that reflect the social causes underlying both ecological destruction and human exploitation.

Haraway (2016), as a remedy for the anthropocene/capitalocene, proposes “tentacular thinking” in what she refers to as the Chthulucene “…a name for an elsewhere and elsewhen that was, still is, and might yet be” (31) and “…an ongoing temporality that resists figuration and dating and demands myriad names” (51):

“The tentacular ones tangle me in SF. Their many appendages make string figures; they entwine me in the poiesis – the making – of speculative fabulation, science fiction, science fact, speculative feminism, soin de ficelle, so far. The tentacular ones make attachments and detachments; they ake cuts and knots; they make a difference; they weave paths and consequences but not determinisms; they are both open and knotted in some ways and not others.”

In other words, tentacular thinking attempts to overcome the dualistic thought that created the anthropocene by exploring the entanglements of beings and the processes of sympoiesis – or making-with – in which we are all always engaged. These modes of thought force us to reconsider not only our relationships with nonhuman organisms, but also with the technologies we utilize, the knowledge practices in which we engage, and the institutions that govern us. And it challenges us to be cognizant of the kinds of relational systems that are produced from these myriad interactions including our own.

Within this conceptual framework, all forms of scientific research – including ethnography – take on a new character. The anthropocene requires a scientific practice that is not only oriented around the production of knowledge, it demands “… new research practices to excavate, encounter and extend reparative possibilities for alternative futures” (Manifesto, ii). This means that scientific practices must be considered as part of the social milieu in which they operate…Ethnographies of science began this work starting in the 1980s. In fact, much of the theory and practice that has developed into the kinds of tentacular thinking I have been describing emerged within the field of science studies.

Science poses a unique problem for social scientists. It is, without question, a social process. The knowledge it generates would not be possible without the social practices, norms, and institutions that foster it. But it is a social practice primarily oriented around understanding the material world. As a result, anthropologists and sociologists who study scientific practice can either relegate it to a unique category somehow outside of the social field, or we can incorporate it into our understanding of social practice. This is what sociologists of science refer to as first-order symmetry – treating all science, and not simply faulty science (e.g. Lysenkoism), as inherently social.

However, once we begin to treat science as a social process, a second problem emerges – the scientists resist. Science is not social, they argue, it is an objective process that produces objective knowledge. To say otherwise would be to reject the “facts” that science generates as mere “social constructs” – as if to stop believing in Boyles Law would cause airplanes to fall from the sky. In fact, this is exactly what happened in what came to be known as the “Science Wars” in the 1980s and 90s. The response on the part of some science studies scholars was to extend our conception of the social field through what came to be known as second-order or generalized symmetry.

Generalized symmetry maintains that science is indeed a social process, but that social processes always include nonhuman participants – the very materials, objects, technologies, and organisms that scientists themselves are tasked with studying. With this, science becomes a very different kind of practice whose primary project is not to develop accurate or truthful representations of the world, but rather to build effective relationships with the nonhuman beings with whom we share it. In other words, symmetry forces us into a non-representational position wherein practice and process are primary (Pickering).

Pickering advocates for what he calls a “performative idiom” for science and technology studies. The philosophy and sociology of science, he argues, has had an “obsession with knowledge” and performativity rebalances our understanding “toward a recognition of science’s material powers” (7). In a performative idiom, “science is regarded as a field of powers, capacities, and performances, situated in machinic captures of material agency” (7). Through what he calls the “dance of agency” scientists interact with the material world through the medium of machines in order to “capture” material agency and domesticate it. However, the outcome cannot be predicted or known in advance – the materials resist capture, and the machines must be remade:

“… we have no idea what precise collection of parts will constitute a working machine, nor do we have any idea what its precise powers will be. There is no thread in the present that we can hang onto which determines the outcome of cultural extension” (24).

Thus, the “dance of agency” or “mangle of practice” as he also refers to it is temporally emergent. But this process of emergence and mangling is not simply a scientific procedure. Pickering describes a metaphysics of agency in which the world is “…continually doing things, things that bear upon us not as observation statements upon disembodied intellects but as forces upon material beings” (6). He calls to mind the weather “winds, storms, droughts, heat and cold” that not only affect us materially, but also in “life threatening ways” (6). Everyday life, he contends involves “coping with material agency” that cannot be reduced to human causes. “My suggestion is that we should see science (and of course technology) as a continuation and extension of this business of coping with material agency” (Pickering; 6-7).

So we come back to the entanglement of human and nonhuman practices in the anthropocene that far exceeds the practices of science, and this has resulted not only in a reconceptualization of the role of science, but also of the nature of society as well. Social practices, too, must be reconsidered as the entanglement of human and nonhuman agencies leading to the further breakdown of the boundaries that define the social and natural sciences. Haraway’s cyborgs and companion species are two familiar examples wherein boundaries are breached – between organism and machine, and human and animal. Where Haraway differs from many science studies scholars is in recognizing that these boundaries are not simply oriented around objective knowledge production in the sciences, but also shape and are shaped by the asymmetries of power that operate within our broader social world. She advocates for a “situated knowledge” that is responsive to these asymmetries and responsible for the kinds of asymmetrical relationships in which it is engaged.

Making such a situated knowledge possible requires a thorough understanding not only of the entanglements of humans and nonhumans, but also of how these interactions combine to produce systemic asymmetries, and how scientific and ecological practices are in turn affected by these systems. Haraway, for her part, shows not only how science is entangled with the nonhumans it is tasked with understanding, but also with global capitalist markets, the military, and patriarchal society. In other words, in order to think about the entanglements of scientific practices, we must also think about the broader entanglements that make scientific research possible in the present era.

We seem to be operating in what Moore (2016) refers to as a capitalist “web of life” – a political ecology of exploitation that reduces both humans and nonhumans to their market value. This “web” is produced from the entanglements of humans and nonhumans and also reciprocally influences the contours that those entanglements take, including those of scientific practices. Thus, conceptualizing the web of global capitalism helps us think through our day-to-day entanglements and the possibility for building a different kind of political ecology.

But capitalism is not global by default. As Tsing (2005) points out, capitalism “spreads through aspirations to fulfill universal dreams and schemes” but “it can only be charged and enacted in the sticky materiality of practical encounters” (1). Thus, we must understand capitalism not as a global system, but as a series of “global connections” linked together by capitalism’s universalizing project. This enables us to recognize the localized entanglements in which we are all engaged, while also indexing the universal project of capitalism that influences many, if not all, of them.

To take universals at face value, Tsing argues, is to “erase the making of global connection” (7). She asks, “How  can universals be so effective at forging global connections if they posit an already united world in which the work of connection is unnecessary?” (7). Universals are “…knowledge that moves… across localities and cultures” (7) but movement cannot happen without what Tsing calls “…friction: the awkward, unequal, unstable, and creative qualities of interconnection across difference” (4). Universals cannot simply travel unimpeded anywhere they please, rather, it is through friction that universals gain “grip” and they become “charged and changed by their travels” (8). In other words “friction gives purchase to universals, allowing them to spread as frameworks for the practice of power” (10).

Techno-science also works within and amongst these global connections, and frictions. Edwards (2010), for example, refers specifically to the concept of computational friction or “the expenditures of energy and limited resources in the processing of numbers” (112), however, his concept mirrors that of Tsing’s in many ways. He describes the history of the field of meteorology and the processes by which it became a global science able to chart climatological effects around the world. In the early days, such a science simply wasn’t possible. Material frictions including computational power (“computers” at the time, were people whose job it was to process complex equations by hand), and data collection (a lack of devices for tracking atmospheric processes) were compounded by the social frictions between nation-states that impeded the sharing of data and other resources (the fear was that the information could be used for military purposes).

It was by working through these material and social frictions that meteorology became a global science with an international body of scholars, the IPCC, keeping it functioning. At the same time, these processes were bound up with the same globalizing aspirations of capitalism itself.

These global connections and the processes that maintain them feed back into our everyday lives and influence the kinds of entanglements in which we choose to engage through a process of subjectification. Robbins (2007) describes how people become subjectivised by turfgrass. Lawns, he argues, are not only aesthetically appealing surroundings for our houses, they draw us into a web of entanglements with turfgrass, weeds, other home owners, the chemical industry, the real estate industry, and other influences that in turn shape how we think of ourselves and the kinds of engagements that are possible.

“The lawn as sculpted, immaculate, atemporal, and emerald green monoculture … only developed as a product of the economic growth conditions in suburban real estate development, tied to proselytizing that connected the lawn with a certain kind of desirable urban citizen and economic subject” (129).

Lawn people are anxious, he claims, anxious about the condition of their lawn and others’ perceptions of it, but also anxious about the economics of maintaining it, and the ecological harm resulting from the chemicals they must apply in order to maintain the idyllic lawn. Lawns “hail” into existence certain kinds of human subjects with ecological causes and consequences.

This is why attempts at education so often fail to alter behavior. As subjects of these broader political ecologies – particularly those of us who have little political power – we are unable to simply choose one action over another because of the kinds of entanglements in which we are engaged. Crafting more sustainable and just political ecology will require more than simply the production of knowledge and the legislation of behavior. It will mean restructuring the entanglements that constitute the present political ecologies in which we are engaged through material  and social reconfigurations and the production of new subjectivities.

Watershed Ethnography

How does one do a watershed ethnography? I have already pointed out that there is a difference between an “ethnography of a watershed” and a “watershed ethnography.” Maybe the case is belabored, but I want to press the idea that ethnography – in light of the theories of entanglement and the consequent redefinition of the project of science – can no longer be conceived as an abstract set of methods that can be almost universally applied with some modest modifications. Ethnography must be situated within the political ecologies in which it operates, and that means that it becomes a different practice in each case.

In this sense, perhaps we need a conception of “tentacular” ethnography. But in this case, I refer not only to the entanglements that tentacles suggest, but also the extraordinary camouflaging capabilities of many cephalopods. Octopuses, in particular, are exemplary of this skill. Able to change not only their coloration, but also the texture of their skin to blend in with almost any surface. They accomplish this with the use of chromatophores – specialized skin cells that expand and contract to expose different colors and textures. However, these cells are not simply color changing cells, they are also sensory organs that operate through a distributed network throughout the octopus’s body. In other words, when the octopus changes its color and texture, it is not only attempting to match its surroundings, it is feeling the rocks, sand, plants, and shells around it. In other words, the octopus’s skin is its way of relating to the ecology that surrounds it.

Ethnography has always been this kind of sensing-camouflaging skin – ethnographers are chromatophores. The ethnographer’s skill is to immerse herself in the cultural ecology that she is attempting to understand. She must not only observe the activities and practices of the people, she must also participate, take part in those practices, and allow herself to be transformed by them. This was the original purpose of ethnography, and the reason for the trepidation among early ethnographers around the possibility of “going native.” Despite this, these early ethnographic practices were oriented around gaining some semblance of objective knowledge about the people rather than sensation as feeling and being.

In recent years, ethnographic methods have been reduced to simple data collection practices. Participant-observation and interviews allow the researcher to gather detailed and rich information about almost any topic, but what has been lost is a sense of immersion – of mimicry and camouflage as itself a process of sensation. Ethnography, in this sense, is not about entanglement with other modes of existence, but simply capturing what can be observed and documented in order to convey an abstracted understanding. The ethnographer – and the reader of the ethnography – are not transformed as a result of the encounter, and there is no risk of “going native.”

Tentacular ethnography is the way to bring ethnography into the anthropocene and confront the entangled problems we currently face. But this kind of ethnography must not be considered an abstract suite of methods that can be universally applied, instead as Kim Fortun (2012) argues, it must make itself “‘appropriate’ to the historical conditions in which we find ourselves” (459). She claims that:

“Ethnography also has a record and habit of shifting in concert with the times, responsive to both historical conditions and internal critique (of the sort Writing Culture offered). And these conditions can be discerned ethnographically” (Fortun 2012; 451)

I take this to mean not only that the practice of ethnography as a whole must change to meet global historical conditions, but must also – octopus-like – situate itself with respect the particular systems that ethnographers are attempting to resolve… Fortun, whose concern is the condition of late industrialism and the technological systems that pollute our atmosphere, land, and water, describes ethnography as itself a kind of technology – a “…means through which things are enabled” (450). In this sense, ethnography, like technologies, can be “designed” and “produces” various things.

In other cases, ethnographers have reconfigured their practice to align with other kinds of systems. I have already mentioned Anna Tsing’s work with matsutake harvesters, which takes on a patchy and “unruly” quality, and Laura Ogden for whom, “…the rhizome is not only a metaphor for thinking through the world’s relations, or in this case, theorizing the Everglades landscape, but also a model for producing landscape ethnography” (31, italics original). In both cases, the features of the system influence the character of the ethnographic process and define what features the ethnographer must be on the look out for. Participant observation and interviews continue to form the core of all of these ethnographic practices, but these processes “tolerate, indeed cultivate, open-endedness” (Fortun 2012; 451). Done well, they are, as Tsing would put it, “arts of noticing” – a way of feeling, but also of being that is attentive to the particular histories of the political ecologies in which we are engaged.

It is in this spirit that I propose the idea of watershed ethnography. A watershed is formed by flows. Water falls upon a landscape, percolates through the soil, condenses into drops and begins to pool. It flows over the land and gradually converges into increasingly larger creeks, streams, and rivers. Ultimately these cascade into a single confluence – a lake, estuary, wetland, or ocean. As I mentioned above, however, it is not only water that flows in a watershed, and it is the confluence of these disparate flows – the way they shape and reshape one another – that interests me.

In my research with the Chesapeake Bay watershed, I have followed the flows that constitute the political ecology of the landscape and sought out the sites of confluence. I was fortunate to begin my research with the modeling taking place at the Chesapeake Bay Program (CBP). It was wading in the waters of this enormous techno-scientific environmental management framework that I began to see flows converging. From there I had only to follow them up and downstream to see what other confluences emerged and how different flows tended to influence one another. I spent a lot of time at the CBP attending meetings because it was in these meetings where things tended to converge – although the streams themselves can be seen elsewhere. I conducted interviews to… I also jumped into the streams at various points where possible – learning to make simple computational models and requesting feedback on the models from my collaborators. In many ways, I tried my best to immerse myself in the various projects and processes taking place.

But the goal of tentacular ethnography, and watershed ethnography as a manifestation of it, is not only to learn and produce knowledge about the political ecologies in which we are entangled. The goal cannot be to become entangled one’s self – to simply and unreflexively “go with the flow.” The goal, as I mentioned earlier, must be to reconfigure the flows materially and subjectively in the hope of producing something more just, more sustainable. As Fortun describes:

“Our task now becomes creative. We must try, through the design of an experimental ethnographic system, to provoke new idioms, new ways of thinking, which grasp and attend to current realities. Not knowing in advance what theses idioms will look and sound like” (Fortun 2012; 453)

in order to encourage

“…particular subject effects—subjects able and willing—even wanting, desiring—to become party to new ways of thinking about and engaging a particular problem domain, a domain that we have analyzed ethnographically to understand the discursive gaps and risks that characterize it” (458-459).

In my research, I have seen the tensions – the currents and gyres – that emerge from the various material and subjective confluences that constitute the watershed. My hope is that this ethnography serves as an “experimental system” in the way Fortun describes – that it reveals and even brings into existence new “frictions” that we must work through collectively. I hope that by channeling, redirecting, and potentially damming some of these flows, we might reconfigure the watershed system to produce new subjectivities and new political relationships in order to produce a more just and sustainable watershed political ecology.

…and with that, it was over

Finally… after 6 years. Eight years with the master’s. Over a decade if you count undergrad. After all of the classes, the papers, the exams. After all of the grant proposals, the research, the writing. After all of the sleepless nights wondering if it would ever end, the seemingly insurmountable student loans, the years of living off of a graduate student stipend. Finally, after all that, it is over. Finally, I have a PhD.

I’m late in posting this, actually. It was in mid-June that I defended my dissertation. In late-June I turned in the revisions. And with that, I have jumped through all of the hoops, undergone all of the rites of passage. Now I am officially a doctor. A PhD of Anthropology.

What now? The truth is not much has changed. I still have research to do, and there is always more writing. As an adjunct, I still get paid dirt. But a weight does seem to have lifted, and I feel as though there is time. I have read more novels in the past month than I did in the entire year before. I have re-immersed myself in the ocean of thought and interests that had subsumed me before I started working on my dissertation.

I feel a bit lost, to be honest. As if I’ve been in a cave and just emerged to a world that has changed dramatically. Not the big news, of course – the tragedy of global politics, the ongoing disaster of climate change, etc. I was never that isolated, but I remember a time when the blogosphere was lit up with exchanges about processes and relations, the nature of agency, or the value of pluralism. It all seems so distant now, and in their place has emerged a much more political and immediate discourse. So much has happened, and I think it took us all off guard, but focusing on finishing a PhD prevented me from keeping up with all of the changes going on around me.

I hope to be posting here again more frequently now, but at the same time, I don’t really know what I have to say anymore. Or rather, it seems as if there’s no point to saying anything at all. Everything keeps going on regardless. But then, this whole thing has never been anything more than me throwing message bottles into the chaotic abyss – and I’ve gotten some good message bottles back now and then. So here’s another bottle… and another to follow soon after. We’ll see what comes of them.

Hacking the Watershed

The following is a summary of a chapter/article that I am working on for my dissertation. I am hoping that sharing this now will allow me to get some feedback on the general ideas I am working with and the overarching argument. I appreciate any comments.

For the past few years, I have been doing ethnographic research with computer modelers working in the Chesapeake Bay watershed. Primarily, my work has been with modelers who contribute to the Chesapeake Bay Program’s (CBP) effort to reduce nutrient pollution that flows into the Bay. The CBP is a watershed management organization composed of a collaboration between the federal government represented primarily by the EPA, the six states within the watershed (NY, PA, DE, MD, VA, and WV) along with several academic, private, and non-profit partners. CBP modelers along with partners from federal, state, and local agencies as well as from academic institutions in the region have, over the past 30+ years, constructed a large and complex computer model that simulates the watershed and the estuary and provides detailed information about the sources and effects of nutrients on the Bay. The model is sometimes referred to as the Chesapeake Bay Modeling System (CBMS) to indicate the multiple linked models that are part of it. This CBMS is used to help inform decision-making as well as to identify, track, and predict the effects of management practices on the landscape. However, in addition to this, I would like to understand the effect that the process of building and using a computational model like the CBMS has on the institutional relationships that form around environmental management.

I suggest that we can view the CBP modelers as “hackers” as described by Wark and others as those who “produce something new out of the old.” (It is important to note here that the term “hack” typically has a negative connotation in popular culture, indicating the act of breaking into computer systems to steal information. However, within the tech community, this is generally considered a misuse of the term.) In that sense, the modelers hack together the CBMS out of various bits of data and code. However, I argue that, in the process of hacking the model, they also hack the institutional structures that make up the CBP partnership. I have three ethnographic examples that illustrate my point. I won’t go into detail on the examples here. Instead, I provide a brief account of each:

First, the modelers hack the tools and resources of the CBP partnership to build a network of modelers and researchers to help inform and improve the CBMS. They use meetings and workshops to assemble these researchers, to provide information, and modeling methods and code. For example, when trying to resolve issues around the Conowingo Dam, they assembled a workshop to bring together disparate data and theories for modeling dam reservoir infill. This network of modelers and scientists give credibility to the model and the associated management process.

Second, the modelers hack the institutional structures and procedures of the CBP in order to get access to data that wouldn’t be available to them otherwise. For example, in order to get access to USDA farm data that would normally be unavailable to them due to privacy constraints, the modelers forged an agreement that created a data pipeline from the USDA to the USGS to the states and then to the CBP. In the process, the data is transformed into a form that does not breach privacy concerns. In addition to gaining access to data, this process helps to build links between the various institutions involved.

Finally, the modelers hack the different incentive structures of the various institutions involved in the CBP in order to generate data that is needed for the model, but doesn’t yet exist. Regulatory institutions have different incentives (informing management) than research institutions (developing good scientific knowledge). By providing model data, helping to get funding, and collaborating on publications, the modelers are able to encourage people in those institutions to work on research that is needed to improve the model. This not only provides further access to data, but also builds reciprocal relationships between the institutions that help to keep them involved in the process.

Together, these three examples illustrate how modelers at the CBP have become adept at institutional hacking. This process goes far beyond the construction of a complex modeling system. It also shapes the institutional relationships that make up the CBP partnership. Modelers might not actually be “hackers” in the general sense, but understanding how they engage in these forms of “hacking” can help us understand their role in the management process and the role of modeling in management institutions.

The Behemoth: A Chesapeake Horror

This is something fun I wrote as I’ve been working on my dissertation. It may or may not end up in the final version, but maybe in an article or book someday. In any case, enjoy!


Imagine driving up the coast. It is late, and you’re just trying to get to your destination before your mind begins to slip beneath the thin film of consciousness. There is a dense fog laying over the landscape and the darkness is like a brick wall that your puny headlights cannot penetrate. Nevertheless you try to focus on the flashing lines on the pavement and watch out for the dim red-eyed taillights of cars up ahead. Perhaps you should pull over and take a rest, but it’s just a few more miles to the next town and you’d feel more comfortable stopping there than on the side of a dark highway in the middle of the night.

Presently, you round a curve and for a moment the light of the full moon breaks through the blanket of fog. In that brief flash of light, instead of the liberation of clairvoyance, you are rewarded with a vision so unsettling it leaves your mind spinning and your heart pounding in your chest. Before you, glistening in the gelatinous moonlight, is a watery behemoth reaching out across the land. It is far larger than your vision can encompass, but in this ephemeral glimpse your mind somehow grasps its full immensity. Its body, long and sinewy, rises up from a massive trunk, not toward the familiar torso and head, but bulges and stretches into a writhing mass. You can see its form churning below the surface – see the bodies of other creatures rise and fall inside of it: mollusks, fish, plants, insects, animals, even people. They seem to be part of it, subsumed wholly by the coursing beast. 

Many tentacle-like arms emerge from its frame and snake through the hills and valleys, seeping into the ground and drawing in everything that they come into contact with. Indeed, the bodies of every living thing seem to have been permeated by it. They walk around as if they are individuated beings, but really they are simply like fingers of the monstrous creature before you. Now you yourself can feel it churning inside of you, feel it coursing through your veins and seeping its way into every tissue of your body. The feeling makes you want to retch, but you sense that the bilous vomit that emerges will merely find its way back into the monster.

The fog and darkness encase you once again. Never had you wished so hard for the protective embrace of obscurity. Slowly you are able to console yourself that this vision was truly a trick of your delirious mind – a sign that you should stop as soon as possible and sleep. You focus back on the road, and shortly the fog breaks and darkness lifts as you enter the luminous streets of the town. Nervously, you look in the direction you would expect to see the behemoth and are reassured as all that greets your eyes is the surface of the Chesapeake Bay glistening in the moonlight. 

Standing Rock is About More than Just A Pipeline

I’m not Native American, and I won’t pretend to understand the importance of the DAPL issue for indigenous people in North Dakota and throughout the country. However, I have a quick thought about how people like myself – white, liberal, and concerned about indigenous issues and settler colonialism in the US and around the world. I have a busy weekend ahead, so I’m kind of in a rush, but I wanted to say this while the issue is still fresh in people’s minds. So, briefly, what I want to say is that Standing Rock is about more than just a pipeline, it’s about a broader context of settler colonialism and systemic violence in the US.

It is often easy for us (white, liberals like myself) to feel impassioned about an issue at a moment of crisis, when the omnipresent reality of structural violence rears its ugly head and when those who fight back everyday join together and take a stand. It’s also easy when the issue at hand fits in with other issues that concern us like historic preservation or environmental sustainability. But it is also important for us to remember that this same exact thing is going on all of the time in places other than Standing Rock, places that are less visible, and less dramatic, but no less violent.

So, while we’re enraged and upset about this particular issue, let’s take some time to learn and become impassioned about the deeper concerns facing indigenous peoples here and abroad. Read some Vine Deloria, some Winona Laduke. Look around for other contested pipelines or development projects. Learn about symbolic violence like cultural appropriation and native mascots, and how these affect indigenous communities. Just as the Black Lives Matter movement has brought systemic racism into our everyday lives (just like it is a part of their everyday lives), let us start paying attention to the everyday presence of the systemic violence of settler colonialism. The warriors at Standing Rock have done an amazing job bringing these issues to our attention, and there is hope that they will win at the end of the day, but win or lose, let’s not turn away from the underlying problem and the always ongoing battle for decolonization.


It should come as no surprise that anthropologists are Sci-Fi fans, and I’ve never made a secret of my influences (see the quote in the sidebar…). Last night there was a flurry of conversation on twitter initiated by Ryan Anderson around the idea of an anthropology through/of/in/about sci-fi course as well as some kind of sci-fi session at the upcoming AAA meeting. I’ve used sci-fi stories and films in my intro to anthropology classes before, and I think they can be used in almost any course – not just one specifically oriented around anthropology and science fiction – to highlight issues and raise important questions. With this post, I just want to start collecting some ideas for stories that could be used for different topics/themes in a syllabus. The list is obviously limited by my own limited reading (and my terrible memory), but hopefully it can provide some starting points and others can share, brainstorm, and add as needed.


  • Aye, and Gomorrah by Samuel Delany
  • Stars in My Pocket like Grains of Sand by Samuel Delany
  • Blood Child by Octavia Butler
  • Ancillary Justice


  • The Magical Negro by Nnedi Okorofor
  • The Killing Moon by N.K. Jemison


  • Moxyland by Lauren Beukes
  • Railsea by China Miéville
  • Perdido Street Station by China Miéville
  • Neuromancer by William Gibson
  • VALIS by Phillip K. Dick


  • Pumzi by Wanuri Kahiu (short film)
  • The Word for World is Forest by Ursula Le Guin
  • The Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff VanderMeer

Encounters with Others

  • Lagoon by Nnedi Okorofor
  • Three Body Problem by Cixin Liu
  • The People in the Trees by Hanya Yanagihara
  • Lilith’s Brood by Octavia Butler
  • Roadside Picnic by the Strugatsky brothers
  • Star Diaries by Stanislaw Lem
  • There Lies the Wub by Phillip K. Dick
  • Blindsight by Peter Watts
  • The Things by Peter Watts


  • The Evening and The Morning and The Night by Octavia Butler
  • Lock In by John Scalzi


  • Dune by Frank Herbert
  • Behold the Man by Michael Moorcock


  • The Mars Trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson
  • The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin
  • The City and The City by China Miéville
  • Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (I know….)


Now that I’ve got something of a list together, I realize how difficult it is to categorize many of these stories – they really touch on so many issues, and I think that’s some of their value as potential pedagogical tools. Another thing I thought of as I write this is that it’s important to always bring these stories back to things that are happening here and now, and the potential they offer for us to think through ways to deal with real, concrete issues. It’s easy to talk about gender or race when you’re talking about a galaxy far far away, but how does that help us understand and relate to the variety of gender expressions and racial conflicts that shape our world today? Treading that line is hard, and something to always be conscious of…

Salvage Redistribution

This will be a brief post because I have to run and attend a meeting this morning. Because of this meeting, I’ve been thinking a lot the last day or so about collaborative projects and what makes them “effective.” A lot of criteria are thrown around that I think are interesting, but coming from an at least quasi-materialist perspective, I’m not sure how relevant they are. Much of it involves changing perspectives – which I think might be great IF the perspectives you’re changing are those of the people who have power, make the decisions, and control the flows of resources. Changing the perspectives of anyone else is meaningless because their actions are far too constrained. Another oft-cited goal is “empowerment” but there is kind of a vague notion of what that actually means. The idea is that decision-making is done by the community, but lacking the material and social resources to implement the decision, I’m not sure how valuable decision-making ability is. So I’ve been thinking that the real measure of a collaborative project – or any project really – is whether or not it redirects flows of resources in a way that benefits communities (broadly defined). That made me think of Anna Tsing’s concept of salvage accumulation – the process whereby non-capitalist resources and values are translated into capitalist goods and then sometimes back into non-capitalist resources and values. It strikes me that maybe in this ruined landscape, we need an approach to salvage redistribution – a way of tapping, hacking, or mining the flow of capitalist value towards non-capitalist ends. It’s not a new idea, just a new term for one that’s been bouncing around for a while… Something to think with though.

Redefining Utopia

For my birthday yesterday, Trish got me an advanced reader’s copy of Pacific Edge signed by Kim Stanley Robinson. It’s one of the best presents I could have gotten, since this is the book from which the name and underlying philosophy of this blog – and all of my work – is derived: Struggle Forever!

The quote on the sidebar is only a small part of the section in which Robinson redefines utopia – it’s the culmination of the thought – but the entire section (a brief introduction to one of the chapters, which I believe are Robinson’s own examinations of the process of writing the novel as well as his reflections on politics and utopia) is worth sharing as well. So here it is:

“Light cracks on the black gloss of the canal, and a gondola oar squeaks under us. Standing on the moonlit bridge, laughing together, listening to the campanile strike midnight, I decide to change Kid Death’s hair from black to red – ”

Something like that. Ah yes – the vibrant author’s journal in The Einstein Intersection, young mind speaking to young mind, brilliant flashes of light in the head. No doubt my image of Europe owes much to it. But what I’ve found… could half a century have changed that much? History, change – rate constants, sure. It feels so much as if things are accelerating. A wind blows through the fabric of time, things change faster than we can imagine. Punctuated equilibrium, without the equilibrium. Hey, Mr. Delany, here I am in Europe writing as book too! But yesterday I spent the morning at the Fremdenkontrolle, arguing in my atrocious German which always makes me feel brain-damaged, getting nowhere. They really are going to kick me out. And in the afternoon I did laundry, running around the building in the rain to the laundry room, Liddy howling upstairs at a banged knee. Last load dry and piled in the red basket jogging round the front I caught my toe on a board covering the sidewalk next to some street work, fell and spilled the clothes all over the mud of the torn-up street. I sat on the curb and almost cried. What happened, Mr. Delany? How come instead of wandering the night canals I’m dumping my laundry in the street? How come when I consider revisions it’s not “change kid Death’s hair from black to red” but “throw out the first draft and start the whole thing over”?

And only two weeks before Liddy and I leave.

What a cheat utopias are, no wonder people hate them. Engineer some fresh start, an island, a new continent, dispossess them give them a new planet sure! So they don’t have to deal with our history. Ever since More they’ve been doing it: rupture, clean cut, fresh start.

So the utopias in books are pocket utopias too. Ahistorical, static, why should we read them? they don’t speak to us trapped in this world as we are, we look a t them in the same way we look at the pretty inside of a paperweight, snow drifting down so what? It may be nice but we’re stuck here and no one’s going to give us a fresh start, we have to deal with history as it stands, no freer than a wedge in a crack.

Stuck in history like a wedge in a crack

with no way out and now way back –

Split the world!

Must redefine utopia. It isn’t the perfect end-product of our wishes, define it so and it deserves the scorn of those who sneer when they hear the word. No. Utopia is the process of making a better world, the name for one path history can take, a dynamic, tumultuous, agonizing process, with no end. Struggle forever.

Compare it to the present course of history. If you can.

Not A Happy Birthday Post

This is the day I turn thirty-five. Thirty-five is also the age my big brother, Tim, was when he died. In fact, he died only 19 days after his 35th birthday. It’s a fact I can’t forget on this day that is supposed to be a celebration.

Whenever someone dies “before their time,” they become frozen in time. We don’t have the benefit of seeing the arc of their life and the many changes they might have gone through. Instead our image of them remains forever frozen on the moment of their death. My brother is forever thirty-five to me. I can remember him as a rambunctious child, a rebellious teen, an energetic and artistic twenty-something, but thirty-five – the time when he was just beginning to figure himself out and settle into a life – is how I will always remember him. Today is the day I turn thirty-five, and from now on I will always be the older (but never the big) brother.

This is also the day – the date, really – that marks the mid-point between the anniversary of his birth (Feb 4) and that of his death (Feb 23). I don’t know if someday my feelings about it will change – if the impact of his loss will grow softer over the years – but it’s something I can’t help but remember today. It’s a period of mourning for me, but in the midst of mourning there is this celebration of my own life and existence. I don’t know how to feel about it, and so my feelings are a little confused and mixed.

I don’t mean for this to be a sad day, and it won’t! But these are the things I grapple with in the wake of the loss of one of the most important people in my life. It’s these things that make me continually undone – to borrow Judith Butler’s idea – by his loss, but only, as Butler points out, because I was – we all were – completely undone by his presence.

The Moral Repugnance of Wage Labor

There are a lot of discussions to be had about the value and purpose of moral standards, and I could go on and on about the problems inherent in most moral systems. However, even starting from a baseline Western, Judeo-Christian morality, there is something repugnant about wage labor.

It suggests that people are worthless unless they do some kind of work – and specifically, some kind of work that someone else deems valuable enough to pay for. In essence, it suggests that those who do not or cannot work – or, more likely, who can’t find someone to pay them for their work – do not even deserve to live, since money is needed to buy food, health care, shelter, etc. In other words, people who don’t work for a wage deserve to die.

I could see a case for wage labor if all of the necessities of life were provided outright – if food, shelter, health care, maybe education, etc. were free. “You get the basics, but then anything else you have to work for anything extra.” That I could understand within a classical moral framework. But that’s not the case. In fact, it’s specifically those things that many conservatives reject when we discuss welfare or social programs to help the poor. I cannot understand how, within a classical moral framework, anyone could suggest that those who do not work deserve to die.

I don’t think anyone deserves to die… I think that’s a simple moral assumption that most people can accept, and I think it’s one we need to start using to interrogate our social systems.