field notes: a journal of collegiate anthropology 8 (1) (2016)

Field Notes:

A Journal of Collegiate Anthropology

Volume 8 Issue 1 June 2016

Field Notes:


Volume 8

Field Notes:


Volume 8 Number 1 June 2016

Published by the Anthropology Student Union (ASU)

at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, USA

Editors-in-Chief

Lara Ghisleni

Lindsey Jo Helms Thorson

Jessica Skinner

Editorial Board

William Balco Matt Dalstrom

Benjamin Campbell Jen-Li Ko

Amy Samuelson

Editorial Committee

Faculty Advisors

W. Warner Wood

Benjamin Campbell

Cover Design

Jessica Skinner

Field Notes: A Journal of Collegiate Anthropology

University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee

Department of Anthropology

3413 N Downer Ave

390 Sabin Hall

Milwaukee WI 53211 USA

414.229.4175

[email protected]

http://www4.uwm.edu/StudentOrg/asu/Field_Notes.htm

Sarah Boncal

Ashley Brennaman

Heather Brinkman

Shaheen Christie

Christopher Cooley

Andrew Dicks

Josh Driscoll

Todd Ebling

Adrienne Frie

Kevin Garstki

Stephan Hassam

Alexis Jordan

Laya Liebeseller

Victoria Pagel

Aurora Prehn

Cheri Price

David Strange

Occasional Reviewers

Karen Esche-Eiff Anika Jones

Katinka Hooyer Sarah Smith


June 2016 Volume 8 (1)

Table of Contents

About the Contributors 7

Articles

Tactile Encounters and the Ephemerality of the Graffiti Image 12

Plácido Muñoz Morán, University of Manchester, UK

Shipwreck Artifacts from the S.S. Otago and the S.S. Tairoa 28 as Symbols of Dominant Maritime Regional Identity Narratives in Southeastern New Zealand

A. Asbjørn Jøn, University of Canterbury, New Zealand

Negotiating Moral Identity with Type 1 Diabetes: 50

Care and Contradiction in Conversations with Young Adults

Megan Ketchell, Providence College

Major Questions about Teres Minor: 70 The Pattern of Reactive Changes in a Pre-Columbian Human Skeletal Sample From Illinois

Deborah L. Neidich and Maria O. Smith University of Pittsburgh, Illinois State University

Effects of Picture References on Reproducibility 86 of Entheseal Change Recordation

Dustin J. Lloyd, Illinois State University

Subadult Growth Stunting at Schroeder Mounds (11He177): 104 A Late Woodland Sample from Illinois

Christopher Nicosia, Jessica R. Dorsz, and Maria Ostendorf Smith Illinois State University, Henry M. Jackson Foundation for the Advancement of Military Medicine, Illinois State University

A Striped Hyena Scavenging Event: 122 Implications for Oldowan Hominin Behavior

David E. Leslie, University of Connecticut

Analysis of Intraspecific Communication Plasticity in 140

Captive Female Bornean Orangutans (Pongo pygmaeus)

Sara Cooper, University of South Florida



Table of Contents (Cont’d.)

Book Reviews

Ruben Andersson – Illegality, Inc.: Clandestine Migration 158

and the Business of Bordering Europe, 2014

Rasmus Rodineliussen, Stockholm University, Sweden

Katie Tucker – An Archaeology of Human 162

Decapitation Burials, 2015

Shaheen Christie, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee

Carrie L. Sulosky Weaver – The Bioarchaeology of 168

Classical Kamarina: Life and Death in Greek Sicily, 2015

Stephan Hassam, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee

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Contributors 7



About the Contributors

Shaheen Christie is a PhD candidate at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, focusing on the diverse Romano-British culture, specifically mor-tuary practices, during the Roman Iron Age. Her dissertation examines how decapitation practices, as part of the complex mortuary program, were de-ployed and may have been used to distinguish difference through the bodies of individuals within and between communities in Roman Britain. This project contributes to the growing cross-disciplinary literature on how ancient popula-tions utilized the body conceptually and physically, in life and in death, and to the larger literature on the differential place and (de)construction of the body in society. Shaheen received her Master of Arts in the social sciences/anthropology from the University of Chicago, focusing on the archeological evidence for eastern religious practices and agentful activities in Roman Lon-dinium during the Roman Iron Age.

Sara Cooper received her BA in anthropology from the University of South Florida. Her research interests include primate communication, animal cogni-tion, and evolutionary anthropology. She will be enrolling as a master’s student at the University of Roehampton, where she intends to expand her thesis on orangutan communication plasticity.

Jessica R. Dorsz received her bachelor's degree in anthropology from Illinois State University in 2012 and in June of 2015, a Master of Public Health from the University of Illinois, Chicago. Growth stunting in Schroeder Mounds was an aspect of her bachelor’s thesis. Her master's thesis research focused on per-ceptions of protection among men who have sex with men at risk for HIV in Chicago. Jessica now works in the Chicago area for the Henry M. Jack-son Foundation for the Advancement of Military Medicine in the Depart-ment of Operational Infectious Diseases. She is currently contracted to the US Navy.

Stephan Hassam is pursuing his MS in anthropology at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. His research interests include ceramic production and trade, colonial encounters, and mortuary archaeology in the ancient Mediterranean, particularly in Sicily and Malta. He has excavated in Sicily and is currently doing research for his thesis on a collection of Phoenician and Punic ceramics from Malta in the Milwaukee Public Museum.

8 Contributors

A. Asbjørn Jøn is a PhD candidate in the Anthropology Department at the Uni-versity of Canterbury (New Zealand), where he is researching the use of the pre-colonial and colonial maritime heritage from New Zealand’s South Island in the formation and affirmation of collective regional identity. He completed an MLitt in mediaeval studies at the University of New England, with a disser-tation exploring interpretations of the Cult of Óðinn, and has also studied at the University of Wollongong (Australia).

Megan Ketchell recently graduated from Providence College with a bachelor of science in health policy and management, and a certificate of business stud-ies. Megan conducted ethnographic research into the patient experience of type 1 diabetes in young adults under the supervision of Dr. Jessica Mulligan, Asso-ciate Professor of Health Policy and Management at Providence College begin-ning in January 2015. Megan's other interests include health policy reform in the United States, global health, and pharmaceutical policy. Megan will begin her career in health policy research and consulting in June 2016, and plans to return to graduate school in the near future.

David E. Leslie recently received his PhD in anthropology from the University of Connecticut (May 2016). His research interests include stable isotope anal-yses of pedogenic carbonates, mammalian tooth enamel, paleosols, and brachi-opods; human evolution; Middle Stone Age archaeology; and taphonomy. His dissertation research focused on environmental reconstructions of the Kapthu-rin Formation, Kenya, a Middle Pleistocene sedimentary sequence with Acheu-lean and Middle Stone Age archaeological traces.

Dustin J. Lloyd is a graduate student at Illinois State University completing his master’s degree in anthropology under Dr. Maria Smith. His thesis centers on a late Mississipian (AD 1300–1600) site in the Tennessee River Valley, Toqua. His thesis will use entheseal change data to reconstruct activity at the site and to compare the reactive osseous changes of individuals buried at the mound versus individuals buried at a secondary cemetery in order to answer more complex questions about social stratification, social class, and sexual division of labor at Toqua. His interests lie within cultural resource management, bioar-cheology, construction and maintainence of power and social relationships, paleopathology, trauma analysis, activity reconstructions, and entheseal chang-es.

Plácido Muñoz Morán has recently completed a PhD in social anthropology with visual media at the University of Manchester (UK). He has a special inter-est in the study of visuality, social movements, artistic practices, and the city, with particular reference to participatory and collaborative anthropology re-search and the use of audiovisual means.

Contributors 9

Deborah L. Neidich received her bachelor's degree (2012) and mas-ter's degree (2015) from Illinois State University. Her master's thesis was an outgrowth of her research on the Schroeder Mounds material (west-central Illinois); she compared entheseal changes in the proximal humerus between Archaic period (2500–100 BC) hunter-gatherers and Middle Mississippian period (1100–1250 AD) intensive agriculturalists from Tennessee. She is currently a doctoral student at the University of Pittsburgh.

Christopher Nicosia is a first-year master's student at Illinois State Universi-ty. He received his BA in anthropology from SUNY Oneonta in 2015. Chris-topher is interested in bioarchaeology with focal interests in diet, intergroup/interpersonal violence, social status and identity, and mortuary practice. His thesis uses mortuary treatment (grave goods, body placement, body orienta-tion, etc.) to determine the social identity of subadults (e.g., personhood, sex-role) in a multiple-site late Archaic Period (ca. > 2500–100 BC) sample from west-central Tennessee.

Rasmus Rodineliussen is a master's student in the Department of Social An-thropology at Stockholm University. His undergraduate thesis explores Syri-an refugees in Sweden with a focus on narrative theory and forced migration. He was an exchange student at Nanyang Technological University in Singa-pore during the spring 2014 semester. He published “We Are Young” in the Nanyang Chronicle (Singapore) 2014/04, an article about the differences between living in a Syria in crisis and living in the Swedish welfare state as seen by one of his interviewees. He did also publish the article "Syria to Sweden: Refugee Stories" in Anthropology Now 8.1 (2016): 37–45, an arti-cle about Syrian refugee students’ reasons for leaving Syria, their journey to Sweden, and their first time in their new country.

Maria Ostendorf Smith is a Professor of Anthropology (specifically bioarchaeology) in the Sociology and Anthropology Depart-ment of Illinois State University. She conducts and supervises research in pre-Columbian contexts from Tennessee and Illinois.

Articles

Field Notes: A Journal of Collegiate Anthropology 8 (1): 12–26 (June 2016) Copyright © 2016 by Field Notes: A Journal of Collegiate Anthropology

Tactile Encounters and the Ephemerality of the Graffiti Image

Plácido Muñoz Morán

University of Manchester, UK

Abstract: The use of new materials such as stickers, posters, and stencils has transformed how graffiti (or if you prefer street art) is made in the public spac-es of Barcelona. In this article, I explore the practice of graffiti in this city through my participation in the project Haciendo la Calle, “Making the Street.” Here I collaborated with the local photographer Teo in pasting his photographs of street workers on surfaces of public spaces. The project was inspired by the work of the French contemporary street artist JR who mixes photography and graffiti, pasting large-scale photographs on the walls of cities worldwide. Like JR, Teo tries to give visibility and voice to the subjects of his photographs and produce alternative representations of them, in contrast to those provided through mainstream media channels. Using audio-visual media I recorded and became part of Teo’s performances in the public spaces of Bar-celona. I argue that graffiti is shared and rejected as part of Barcelona’s every-day life, travelling between multiple ways of doing and being in the city. This project offered me the opportunity to move between different situations and play with my position as an anthropologist as well as a subject in my own research. It required me to cross the boundaries between the observer and the observed and allowed me to get an insight into the politics and aesthetics of public space in Barcelona through the practice and representation of graffiti. Keywords: Graffiti, sensory ethnography, collaborative anthropology, détournement, Barcelona

Introduction

Guy Debord posited that “the primarily urban character of the drift, in its element in the great industrially transformed cities, could be expressed in Marx’s phrase: ‘Men can see nothing around them that is not their own image; everything speaks to them of themselves. Their very landscape is alive.’ ” (Sadler 1998, 15)

As Michel de Certeau (1985) has argued, the modes in which the inhabitants move through the city produces visible and invisible boundaries, which continuously transform the use of the space. Looking at my personal experiences within the project Haciendo la Calle, or “Making the Street,” in this article I explore graffiti in the city of Barcelona as a modality of transfor-mation, from the point of view of those who make it, those who engage with it (the public), and those who regulate it, through prevention in the case of the local council and through collaboration in the case of social art projects and galleries. The practice of graffiti in Barcelona has been transformed through-

Muñoz Morán 13

out the last thirty years, with the explosion of this phenomenon in the 1990s coinciding with the transformation of some of the central neighborhoods of the city, such as “El Raval.” During that time graffiti grew in popularity, transforming some parts of the city into a street gallery for these ephemeral artworks. Graffiti artists had unofficial freedom to produce their artworks and they took advantage of this, eventually creating an internationally recognized graffiti scene in the city. The local council’s approach to graffiti changed in 2006, when the civic ordinance to regulate the image of, and behaviors in, the public spaces of the city was approved. I argue that changes in the graffiti scene in Barcelona reflect changes in the city’s conception of public space. In these processes of transformation, graffiti artists have developed different ways of making graffiti according to the different situations that they have faced in the city. The use of different materials, media, and techniques, such as stick-ers, posters, photographs and stencils, has become helpful in reducing the risks of unauthorized graffiti. Needing less time to create artworks in public space means that there is less risk of being caught by the police, and therefore expensive penalties can be avoided. In this article, I provide insight into these new ways of performing graffiti in Barcelona through my participation in the photographer Teo’s project, “Making the Street.” The research intended to examine the practice of graffiti in this city and how it navigates between the self-promotion of the artists and the collaborative and critical nature of their artistic practice in public space. The fact that graffiti in Barcelona is today only allowed on specific walls in connection with street art associations and is supervised and controlled by the local council and galleries shapes not only the perception of graffiti, but also its practice. The following literature review and description of my methodology will help to define the key concepts in this work. Graffiti as a Visual Device for Tactile Encounters The modern history of graffiti is built upon a paradox in which a mo-saic of perspectives about aesthetics, the uses of common space, politics, and ownership are at play. Graffiti appears and disappears in the streets of Barce-lona, fostering different kinds of tactile encounters. These encounters can be approached through a visual anthropology that is of and by the senses, and thus conceiving of graffiti images as “corporeal images” (MacDougall 2006). Following David MacDougall, “we see with our bodies and any image that we make carries the imprint of our body” (2006, 4). Graffiti images, as I will show throughout this article, are not only images made by other bodies but also images made by the way in which we interact with them. The tactility of perception implies looking at the moment in which the meanings of the imag-es emerge from experience as “corporeal images.” In this sense, MacDougall notes, “as we look at things, our perception is guided by cultural and personal interests, but perception is also the mechanism by which these interests are altered and added to” (2006, 2). Drawing an analogy between Situationist theories and graffiti artists’ performances becomes a useful strategy to explore methodologies to experi-ence and represent our practices in the city. The Situationist International was a multidisciplinary group of artists and theories formed in the 1950s and

14 Tactile Encounters and the Ephemerality of the Graffiti Image

1960s, who sought to change the everyday life of citizens into a world of ex-periment, anarchy, and play (Sadler 1998, 76). As I will describe later in my collaboration with Teo, I put into practice some Situationist methods such as détournement to explore alternative ways of being in the city and representing graffiti. It becomes a useful practice to create arenas for experimentation in which themes of resistance, subversive practices, and new meanings linked to graffiti and the use of public space are in play. In trying to study and represent the city, researchers from different social science disciplines have used Marxists theories (Castells 1977; Delgado 2007; Harvey 1989, 2006). Drawing on political economy approaches, they describe “a city that works in the interest of capital accumulation and exploita-tion” (Bridge and Watson 2002, 15). Exploitation, as Walter Benjamin (1969) claims, is not only economic but also cognitive. It can be said that Barcelona is recognized at the local and international levels by its specific image, which is built on “its steady amassing of symbolic capital and its accumulating marks of distinction” (Harvey 2006, 104). This image, therefore, can be seen and experienced from multiple perspectives. To get an insight into how graffi-ti forms part of it, I have approached graffiti in sensory terms, looking at the “aesthetic” of public space. Following Ranciére’s (2009) broad notion of aest-hetic in his study of critical art, I argue that public space is made by politics and aesthetics and represents particular ways of doing and being. The transfor-mation of the “aesthetic” of public space by Teo’s performances and photo-graphs set the scope for this research. This research approach implies that graffiti cannot be approached as an object or an idea, but must be considered a lived experience based on actions and imagination. These are, as I will descri-be in the methodology section, felt and stimulated by relations between mate-rial objects, social relations, and mental processes.

Methodology

Figure 1: Descriptive diagram of the methodology.

Muñoz Morán 15

The preceding diagram (Figure 1) portrays how my approach to methodology is based on multiple strategies, which interact with each other towards the production of anthropological knowledge. My experience as ethnographer in this collaborative project was used as a method to embody the sensory dimension of what others might experi-ence to produce academic knowledge (Hockey 2006; Pink 2009; Russell 1999). These ethnographic experiences took place in three situations that sometimes overlapped with each other and in which I adopted different roles as an ethnographer: being an observer, a collaborator, and a producer of graf-fiti images. Applying a phenomenological model, the experiences of the every-day activities of the streets have been conceptualized by many academics as multisensory and not dominated or reduced to the visual sense as merely the operation of sight. Here, I follow the approach to vision of Cristina Grasseni (2004, 41), “not as a disembodied ‘overview’ from nowhere, but as a capacity to look in a certain way as a result of training the body.” The knowledge pro-duced from the project “Making the Street” was embodied through the prac-tice of body movements as part of the process of filming Teo’s performances in public spaces. The anthropologist Michael Taussig proposes a mode of analysis of everyday life based on the tactility of vision and other senses to overcome the obvious and reach the “flash of a profane illumination” (1991, 152). In this project, the camera became a tool not only to film Teo’s perfor-mances, but also to analyze the aims and meanings of our collaboration and practices. What did we want to achieve by pasting Teo’s photographs on pub-lic space walls? Did we want only the footage of the intervention or were we following something else? Throughout the ethnographic process, as I will show in the following sections, this visual material was transformed into an edited video for Teo’s exhibition in an art gallery, an alternative cartography of the city produced by our own interaction with the public space, and finally into anthropological knowledge as part of my research analysis. “Making the Street”: A Collaborative Project

Figure 2: Teo's studio. Photograph © by the Author.


This collaborative project began when I met Teo in his studio, where the above photograph was taken (Figure 2), and he explained to me the project on which he was working. Teo, in his project “Making the Street,” was using photography to create images of street workers. The sub-jects of his photographs were people involved in illegal activities in public space, such as selling beer, sunglasses, or women’s handbags; providing sexual services; or playing music without a permit. The photographs were created in collaboration with street workers who became images of satirical, comical, and exaggerated situations. These photographs were pasted on sur-faces of public spaces and ended up intertwined with my own research inter-ests. When I interviewed Teo for my research about graffiti in Barcelona, he proposed that I collaborate with him to film his interventions in the streets and to add another perspective to the project. In that first interview, he de-scribed his project in one of the following terms:

I want to make visible through my photographs the reality of the street workers in the public space of Barcelona. Although they are involved in illegal activities, they are also part of the socioeco-nomic landscape of the city providing service to local people and tourists, and I want to highlight this contradiction. With my pho-tographs, I pay an homage to them and “making the street” [pasting photographs on the wall without authorization] is my way to get closer to their everyday life working illegally in the streets. (Teo 2012, interviewed by the author in Barcelona, No-vember 2012)

We eventually agreed to create a collaboration fuelled by his photographic art project and my anthropological research about graffiti. This common project became the arena for experimenting and exchanging ideas on the practice of graffiti, ways of filming, and modes of representation. The pro-cess activated what Ranciére (2004) calls “aesthetic experiences,” in which the collaboration between anthropology and, in this case, photography and graffiti is shaped by the redistribution of the roles and positions of each col-laborator. This resulted in an alternative spatial configuration of the field-work, which allowed for a politics of collaboration between different “worlds” based on “anarchic disruption of the anthropological” (Strohm 2012, 119). For our collaboration, we transformed some of Teo’s photographs into black and white A0 format prints; then we trimmed them, leaving only the shape of the characters, and, finally, we pasted them onto different walls of the city and filmed the whole process. Within the street art world, this practice is called “wheatpasting” and it was inspired, as I mentioned above, by the French street artist, JR. Like the artworks of many of the artists whom I knew and interviewed in Barcelona, JR’s projects propose a different image of the city from the one mediated through institutions and advertisement campaigns. In the “Inside Out” project, which has developed since 2011 on a global scale, JR gives everyone the opportunity to share their portraits and transform messages of personal identity into works of public art. Meanwhile, in “Unframed,” another of his projects that began in 2009, he also deals with social memory and visibility, transforming archive photographs into public

Muñoz Morán 17

art. These projects posit questions about the boundaries between the self-promotion of graffiti artists and the critical nature of their practices in public space. The existence of graffiti is embedded in complex social relations. I define it as complex due to the multiple contexts, actors, and concrete and abstract relations (Strathern 1995, 30) that shape graffiti. Here we can identi-fy the involvement of various social actors such as graffiti artists, art associa-tions and galleries, city institutions, and the general public. We can find con-tradictions in their discourses and in addition we can see processes of trans-formations through adaptation of the graffiti to the legal order of the city, and alternative ways of making graffiti that transgress that same order in the city space. The last position mirrors the Situationist theories about capitalism and how the image mediated under capitalism portrays a false and inauthentic life in the city (Debord 1994[1931]; Knabb 1981; Sadler 1998). The capitalist city can be identified in Sharon Zukin’s (2009) image of New York as a “Naked City” that has lost its soul due to the mass construction and gentrification pro-cesses, and also in Manuel Delgado’s (2007) critique of Barcelona as the “The Lying City” that hides its social reality under an ideal urban “model.” Members of the Situationist movement proposed methods such as détourne-ment to transcend conventionalism and create new meanings through means of communication and interaction with the city space. I applied the method of détournement to explore the meanings associated with graffiti in public space and its relationship with institutions such as galleries and local authorities. I applied this method in two directions: first, as way to transcend the ways of being and acting in public space, producing in our case graffiti artworks; and second, when I used my camera to record and represent our interventions in public space as “corporeal images” that “are not just images of other bodies; they are also images of the body behind the camera and its relation with the world” (MacDougall 2006, 3). In these processes, the use of audio-visual me-dia acted as an extension of my body to record and later represent Teo’s ac-tions in an edited audio-visual work. Throughout this process, I learn how to move and act in public space to film the actions and at the same time collabo-rate with Teo to make the photographs visible and long lasting in the streets. In “Making the Street,” the photographs were transformed from con-ventional photographs to graffiti artworks in the streets. These transfor-mations were inserted in public spaces through my collaboration and partici-pation. The experience of these transformations and the existence of these images in the city were recorded in different forms such as interviews, video recordings, and soundscapes. The recordings were later edited in a video, which was screened alongside some of Teo’s photographs in his exhibition at the local art gallery “La Escalera de Incendios.” The video represented the process of image making in connection with our journey in the city as a dy-namic and juxtaposed dimension to the static nature of the photographs. Ap-plying the method détournement to our project is a way to explore new mean-ings associated with the images that we created throughout our collaboration. It allows us to look at these images not only as material objects but also as acts embedded in different surfaces, sensory orders, and social relations. To organize our interventions and record them on video we split our roles. Teo pasted the photographs onto the walls while I filmed the whole intervention with my camera. The photographs were taken, selected, and edit-


ed by Teo, but inspired and incorporated into public space and its everyday life through a previous interaction with local street workers such as the street vendor Jussif, my own participation, and the involvement of the spontaneous public while we were pasting the photographs in the streets. The various inter-ventions that we carried out in different locations in Barcelona became “stories” shaped by the involvement of different participants. Taken during one of our first intervention, the following photograph (Figure 3) encloses different layers of interaction between people, people and materials, and peo-ple and means of representation. Additionally, this intervention became one of the graffiti “stories” that I am discussing and that I have incorporated as part of this research.

Figure 3: Pasting one of Teo's photographs next to Blu's mural in “El Carmel.”

Photograph © by the Author.

Looking at one of these graffiti “stories” in the city is a useful way to understand the symbolic and mutable dimensions of the graffiti in Barcelona. In the neighbourhood of “El Carmel” up in the mountains of Barcelona and almost erased but still visible on a containment wall, is one of the political murals painted by members of the PCC Partido de los Comunistas Catalanes, “Catalonian Communist Party,” during the transition to democracy in Spain. In 2009, the internationally recognized Italian street artist Blu1 created next to it, on the same wall, one of his murals, which was commissioned by Barcelo-na’s art Festival “Influencers.” The new mural represents a gigantic shark with skin made out of green 100 Euro notes and a big open mouth with sharp teeth, which is eating the old PCC mural. This case opens up multiple inter-pretations and shows how we need to approach graffiti not only in connection with its content but also by making reference to its use and how the inhabit-ants interpret and embody it as part of their environment. It is necessary to allow graffiti and street artworks to open up “stories.” Teo and I tried to add another layer to the murals described above and we pasted one of his photo-graphs close to the mouth of Blu’s shark. Our intervention was very difficult because it was one of the first ones that we did, and the new layer that we

Muñoz Morán 19

added did not last more than one day. Therefore the tactility of graffiti prac-tices, as we will see in the following section, involves learning through train-ing the body in a certain way of looking and acting in city space. First Tactile Encounter I was with Teo in his studio ready to transform the first photograph into an image to be incorporated into the public space of Barcelona. He trimmed the A0 (118.9 x 84.1 cm) black-and-white printed photograph, leav-ing only the contour of the photographed character. The name of the featured person on that first photograph was Jussif, a street worker from Ghana, who had lived in Barcelona for five years. Jussif arrived in the city without a resi-dent permit and was working as an illegal street vendor. As a friend of Teo, he collaborated with him and was photographed featuring a street vendor run-ning from the police, an everyday situation seen both in the center and other tourist areas of Barcelona.

Figure 4: Our first intervention in "El Raval." Photograph © by the Author.

For the first intervention, Teo asked a friend who worked pasting wallpaper onto the walls of houses for some practical advice on pasting our first photograph (Figure 4). In theory, it seemed a very easy process. First, we needed to prepare the glue. We followed the instructions to prepare it, mixing a powder with the right proportions of water while we shook it to avoid lumps forming until it became a sticky liquid. Then Teo rolled up the photograph that we had trimmed, and we headed to the street with a plastic bucket full of glue and a brush. Everything was ready for our first expedition, and we jumped on Teo’s motorbike towards “Carrer de la Verge,” a street located in the “Raval” neighborhood, which is part of the central district in “Ciutat Vel-la.” Teo had chosen this first location on the corner of a street where a second-hand local market took place every Saturday. He thought that in this location the photograph would be very visible. Later we would realize that a visible place was not the only aspect that we needed to take into account for our in-


terventions. It was also important to look at the texture of the wall, how clean it was, the time of day, the location, and the amount of graffiti artworks that were already on that wall. The textures of the wall surfaces are one of the main stimuli for graf-fiti artists. For instance, the textures that stimulate the painting of a quick “tag” (small graffiti signatures) in Barcelona can be found in a diversity of surfaces, such as a metal business shutter, the cement surface of any urban furniture, or in the plastic box that surrounds an electric meter. Throughout my interviews with graffiti artists and observations in the public spaces of Barcelona, I found that graffiti artists’ aim is that their artworks will last in the urban space for as long as possible. Teo and I learned this throughout the development of our project after many of the first photographs lasted a few days and sometimes even a few hours. For graffiti artists the textures of the wall surfaces in the city have meanings, which offer them different possibili-ties to develop their works. I observed that in Barcelona they usually avoid painting on surfaces where their works were erased soon afterwards, such as the walls of official, corporate, or new buildings. Graffiti, as James Elkins (1999) states about painting, is both the object on the wall of a city, with its different meanings linked to institutional regulations, art theories, and graffiti crew relations as well as the actual action and experience that make that ob-ject visible—“Paint incites motions, or the thought of motions, and through them it implies emotions and other wordless experiences” (Elkins 1999, 193). Coming back to the narration of our first tactile encounter, it was one o’clock in the afternoon, and the street was full of children and young people who had finished their classes in the nearby schools and public universities. We eventually decided to act and began to paste the photograph onto the wall of the street corner. This street ends at “Carrer Vallonzella,” one of the arter-ies of the “Raval,” linked to “Ronda Sant Antoni,” which is part of the “Eixample” district. Both districts, “Ciutat Vella” and “Eixample,” were built-in grid patterns but at different historical times and according to different spatial proportions: narrow and irregular in the old district of “Ciutat Vella” in the “Raval,” and wide and squared in the modern “Eixample.” Most of the “Raval” is a space in almost permanent shade where the sunlight is blocked by buildings (maximum six floors) that are very close to each other. It is a labyrinthine space where it is easy to get lost but also stay hidden. Our first intervention took us longer than we expected and this increased the possibility of being seen and sanctioned by the authorities. First, the glue did not stick enough, and, moreover, Teo applied too much of it. That made the photo-graph slip all over the wall, which did not have the right texture for good ad-herence either. Meanwhile I had set up my camera on the tripod in front of the wall and the action with the aim of filming not only Teo, but also what was happening around him in the street. After twelve long minutes of struggle, we were very lucky that the photograph did not end up ripped into pieces. Although these images had an ephemeral nature, from the moment we abandoned the image on the wall of the street corner, it also became part of public space and open to multiple and varied interpretations and reactions from the city’s inhabitants. A couple of days later I passed by the street corner and the photograph was still up. I took a couple of photographs and paid at-tention to the people who were passing by and looking at it. I observed how a group of local teenagers looked at the photograph and laughed when one of

Muñoz Morán 21

them said, pointing to the image of Jussif, “look a nigger.” Soon after that day, the specialized council cleaning team removed it from the wall. The 2006 new regulation encouraged the prosecution of unauthor-ized graffiti and limited the creation of more elaborate and spontaneous mu-rals, localizing this kind of artwork to particular walls regulated by the local authorities. In addition to the use of new materials and ways of performing graffiti that I am describing within the project “Making the Street,” the new regulation triggered new forms of graffiti production in which proposals and extensions of projects were necessary to obtain formal permissions from the local institution of Paisatge Urba, “Urban Landscape.” Within this new pro-cess of graffiti production the role of street art associations have become a key element in the organization of events, applications for formal authoriza-tions, and interactions between graffiti artists and the local council. These street art associations were inhabitants’ initiatives, which appeared as an an-swer to the new civic regulation of 2006 and its zero tolerance graffiti policy. In this new scenario, the art associations started to work as a bridge between the graffiti artists and the council institutions to legally find and manage walls in the public space for the practice of graffiti. This situation has resulted in alternative forms of graffiti creation in which the street art associations play a controversial role in the production of authorized graffiti. The method of adapting the way of making graffiti to the local regulations also bears similar-ities to the Situationist method of détournement. These new forms of graffiti creation, however, refer to the reuse of graffiti elements in a new social land-scape in which the loss of its anti-authority and anti-capitalist nature is framed by new power relationships between graffiti artists, street art associations, and local institutions. Discussion: Graffiti and the City Throughout my fieldwork, I identified how graffiti was practiced within different social contexts and not always within the anti-authority and antisocial alternative system of public communication. This attention to mul-tiple settings made it possible to find graffiti artworks that had been socially recognized or rejected and institutionally approved or erased. I argue that graffiti is shared and rejected as part of Barcelona’s everyday life, travelling between the “aesthetic” and the “anaesthetic” of the city. Here I follow Walter Benjamin’s understanding of “aesthetic” as a form of cognition based on the “sensory experience of perception” (Benjamin in Buck-Morss 1992, 6). Thus the public spaces contain smells, images, tactile encounters, soundscapes, and tastes. But how is this human sensorial realm created? To understand the graf-fiti of Barcelona, as part of Teo’s project I engaged in a multi-sited ethnogra-phy in connection with different neighborhoods, graffiti associations, artists, social collectives, and galleries in the city. Hence, I tried to be part of the pro-duction of graffiti artworks rather than only observing them. My participation allowed me to be in between the non-existence and existence of the works as well as experience different ways of seeing and making graffiti. Applying Elkins’ (1999) work “What Painting Is” to graffiti, I question what is thinking in the practice of graffiti? And this led me to explore its material memories, get immersed in its substances, and question how the material elements form part of corporeal experiences of graffiti. For instance, on the walls of Barcelo-


na on which graffiti is authorized, we find surfaces formed by a thick multi-layered texture formed by an overlapping of graffiti murals. The process of painting a new mural on these walls began by erasing the previous one, nor-mally by covering it with white plastic paint applied with a paint roller. Some of the graffiti artists that I interviewed complained about the limited adher-ence of this kind of multi-layered texture. Therefore, they also scraped the wall before they painted it. The possibility of painting these walls with offi-cial authorization gives graffiti artists more time to spend on the walls to pro-duce more elaborate works. This immersion into the walls can have different levels of depth, depending on the kind of work painted: the scale of the im-age, whether it is authorized, and whether it is created individually or collec-tively. Most of the authorized graffiti works are painted in groups, during daylight and in public space. This creates a kind of festive environment that attracts the curiosity of pedestrians who normally stop to take photographs and interact with the artists. In Benjamin’s terms the project of modernity and its new technolo-gies began to shape human experiences in the city as “mass culture.” Benja-min’s argument implies a transformation of aesthetics from a cognitive form of being “in touch” with the space, its people, and memories to a way of ma-nipulating the sensorial experiences. Benjamin calls this manipulation phan-tasmagoria,2 and as Susan Buck-Morss says, it has “anesthetic” effects over the organisms, “not through numbing but through flooding the senses” (1992, 22). It is within this ocean of sensory inputs that graffiti appears and disap-pears in public space. In addition to my participation in Teo’s interventions, I had the opportunity to be close to the painting of great scale murals on differ-ent walls and observed different techniques for moving over the surface. In the squatted building of “La Carboneria” the graffiti artists used ropes and harnesses in order to hang in the air, transgressing the boundary practices of bodies and surfaces and the horizontal, of being and moving in the city. In doing this, as Damien Droney (2010, 106) states, graffiti artists strive to cre-ate a city that is conducive to passion, democracy, and authenticity rather than utility, hegemony, and non-life. Whereas the practice of graffiti is shaped by the aesthetics of détournement and its emphasis on resistance, my observa-tions and experiences in Barcelona show that the boundaries between differ-ent public space aesthetics in the city are sometimes unclear. Using Benjamin’s idea of phantasmagoria applied to a modernized city, I argue that graffiti artists endeavor to reduce its anaesthetic effects by being in touch, to produce their works, with a diversity of surfaces and ways of being in the city. The desired corporal relation with the materiality of the city is experienced through making. It has meaning in connections with other materials and practices that are developed within the public space. The photo-graphs that Teo pasted on the walls formed also part of an “ocean of materi-als” in which human beings, like other organisms, were immersed, generating and transforming the city (Ingold 2007, 7). These temporal situations fostered the imagination of the people who were involved in them and incorporated the outside world as a form of empowerment and reflection in contrast to the mimetic adaptation of life in the city (Buck-Morss 1992, 17). In this case, Benjamin’s claims about phantasmagoria as a quality of modernity were over-turned through the practical experimentation and ephemeral transformation of the city space by some of its inhabitants.

Muñoz Morán 23

Ephemeral Dynamics In addition to what the local council calls illegal graffiti, we also find graffiti and street artworks commissioned or formally authorized by institu-tions in the public space of Barcelona. In some of those cases, the graffiti and street artworks have become permanent works alongside other public artworks in the city. This shows that graffiti has also gone through different processes of transformation, which have changed its social dynamics and how it is prac-ticed, perceived, and consumed. In the project “Making the Street” I wondered if the removal of the photograph from the wall by the authorities really mat-tered, as we had filmed and taken photographs of the whole process. Now, I can say that I personally enjoyed the fact that the photographs survived as part of the public space in Barcelona. The fact of seeing the photographs on the walls made me remember our actions and wonder about why and how those images had survived in the city. Reflecting on their survival made me look at images, as W. J. T. Mitchell (2005) argues, in terms of their desires as personi-fied objects. In this sense, the ephemeral nature of graffiti images has not only ma-terial implications, but also tells us about the importance of the act of painting or making them. Many authors who have studied graffiti pay attention to its ephemeral nature. The anthropologist Susan Phillips (1999) analyzes the ephemeral features of graffiti from different perspectives. She looks at the in-stability of graffiti as a form and how it is exposed to the actions of other peo-ple; moreover, she analyzes how graffiti is part of the particular social and his-torical context in which it is created. The concept of ephemerality, Phillips states, “points not just to the circumstances that surround a graffito’s produc-tion but to the broader context of its ‘being and becoming’ in the first place” (1999, 33). To support her statement, Phillips (1999) makes reference to the analysis of the ephemeral quality of graffiti developed by the art historian Ellen Handler Spitz (1991), who compares the ephemerality of graffiti with adolescence and its unstable and temporary circumstances. Spitz’s and Phil-lips’ approach can be interpreted in two ways: on one hand, we can emphasize the material characteristics of graffiti as an ephemeral object across space and time; and on the other, we can think about the creation of graffiti as part of a process shaped not only by space and time, but also by individual and collec-tive experiences, learning processes, memories, and motivations. Through the latter interpretation, graffiti works are not only approached as isolated material elements that we have to document and categorize. In contrast, they are part of individual artists’ careers, cities, and societies, which change with them and are part of their ephemeral reality. Since the “Making the Street” project, Teo has continued pasting more of his photographs in Barcelona and other cities, such as Bristol and London. In 2015, he developed a proposal alongside a bio-construction collective called T-Xtema,3 and they applied to the council for a permit. This permit allowed Teo to paste some of his photographs on a larger scale and on a more permanent basis on the public space walls that surround the space where the bio-construction collective is developing one of its pro-jects.


Conclusion This ethnography enables us to reflect on how graffiti images are not only localized within particular and isolated social networks, but are also em-bedded in materials and bodies in motion. Here I have argued that Teo’s and my graffiti practices were shaped by the constant flux of everyday life in pub-lic space. Our images on the walls of the city represented multiple dimensions of vitality, linked to the people who were represented on them and connected with image making, collaborations, personal projects, and different aesthetics. I think that once we left the photographs pasted onto the walls, they immedi-ately started to be fused with other images in the city. They could be removed or cleaned up by the council or transformed or covered by other artists. In each of those possible cases, the photographs communicated something to other people. However, we also need to keep in mind that these photographs did not communicate anything for many of the inhabitants, who passed by without paying attention to them. In relation to graffiti and street art images, this “double consciousness” (Mitchell 2005) was undetermined and unpredictable within the messy networks of the city. All of the interventions of the “Making the Street” project were rec-orded through videos and photographs. Photography and video were useful tools for reflecting on the transformations of these images, not only as part of different public space surfaces, but also as other kinds of images. In the final stage of the project, I helped Teo to prepare his exhibition and together we edited two videos. One of them was used as part of the promotion of the exhi-bition. It was uploaded on Vimeo and YouTube and later posted on Facebook and other social media networks. The second video, as I said before, was part of Teo’s exhibition in the gallery and was played on a plasma screen alongside the framed photographs of the characters that we had pasted onto the street walls. It could be argued that the project was a starting point for Teo as a street artist. It helped him as a form of self-promotion and as a new way of working with his photography. For me it implies a way of reflecting on how graffiti artworks are not static images; as Jarman (1998) states about the murals in Ireland, they can be reproduced, manipulated, and transformed, and therefore they need to be approached taking into account both their physical and social environments. Our journey across the city space searching for possible spots was like a path composed by multiple possibilities. The visual material that we recorded allowed us to reflect on the interactions that we had and learn for future ones. Throughout this process, we learned that our interventions had to be planned in advance taking into account aspects such as the time of the day and the space we were targeting. The rest of the circumstances and possible risks were beyond our control. We also learned that pasting photographs onto walls was a tactile experience, based not only on the practical side of how to stick the paper onto the walls, but also on the way in which we saw the city and moved and acted within the city space. There were practical aspects that we also learned throughout this process, such as applying the glue directly onto the photograph and only a small amount onto the wall. Eventually, we started to identify certain features of the space where the photographs lasted longer and where it was safer to intervene. Most of these locations ended up being in the central district alongside other graffiti and street artworks, on the metal doors of abandoned buildings, and on walls that seemed to have been

Muñoz Morán 25

forgotten or appropriated by graffiti artists that had become “small hidden is-lands of freedom”4 and surrounded by the general order. Finally, in terms of our collaboration, we had multiple debates throughout the whole process about different ways of filming, the framing of the images, the distance from the action, or the editing of the final videos. Eventually our collaborative relations also shaped the images that we produced during the project. Thus, these images can be seen, using MacDougall’s (2006) term, as “corporeal images” created not only by the interplay of different ways of looking and image making but also imprinted by the movements and inter-actions of our bodies in the streets. After our third time in the streets pasting photographs, I adopted a different way of filming the interventions without a tripod. This allowed me to invest less time, be more spontaneous, and have more freedom of movement to follow the action. As many of the street artists explained to me, the graffiti artworks created today in the central district of Barcelona are very different from the big murals painted in the 1990s. The time invested, the materials used, and the aesthetics of the graffiti artworks in public space have changed. However, this has opened up other possibilities shaped by other materials and ways of interacting with public space. These practices, as I have tried to show in this article, are shaped by tactile encoun-ters and ephemeral dynamics and can be approached according to the method of détournement and its changeable aesthetics. Like in the “Making the Street” project and in my own research, the graffiti in Barcelona navigates between planned and spontaneous practices.

Notes

1. http://blublu.org/

2. For Benjamin the idea of phantasmagoria was linked to the experience of intoxication of the reality in the city. In Das Passagen-Werk, Benjamin describes this idea of phantasmagoria in public space in connection with the Paris shopping arcades and the World Fairs and how both fostered fictional experiences of reality (Benjamin in Buck-Morss 1992, 22).

3. https://goteo.org/project/biobui-l-t-txema?lang=en

4. I refer to Arendt’s words “small hidden island of freedom” (1968, 6) as spaces taken by opposi-tional groups to claim their rights against the dominant orders.

References

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Debord, Guy. (1931) 1994. The Society of the Spectacle. New York: Zone Books.

De Certeau, Michel. 1985. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: Universi-ty of California Press.

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Delgado, Manuel. 2007. La Ciudad Mentirosa: Fraude y Miseria del “Modelo Barcelona.” Barcelona: Catarata.

Droney, Damian. 2010. “The Business of ‘Getting Up’: Street Art and Market-ing in Los Angeles.” Visual Anthropology 23:98–114.

Elkins, John. 1999. What Painting Is: How to Think about Oil Painting, Using the Language of Alchemy. London: Routledge.

Buck-Morss, Susan. 1992. “Aesthetics and Anesthetics: Walter Benjamin's Artwork Essay Reconsidered.” October 62:3–41.

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Ingold, Tim. 2007. “Materials against Materiality.” Archeological Dialogues 14:1–16.

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Phillips, Susan. 1999. Wallbangin: Graffiti and Gangs in LA . Chicago: Univer-sity of Chicago Press.

Pink, Sara. 2009. Doing Sensory Ethnography. London: Sage. Ranciére, Jacques. 2004. The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the

Sensible. Translated by Gabriel Rockhill. London: Bloomsbury Revela-tions.

———. 2009. Aesthetics and Its Discontents. London: Polity. Russell, Catherine. 1999. Experimental Ethnography: The Work of Film in the

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ic Epitaph for New York Subway Car Graffiti.” In Image and Insight: Essays in Psychoanalysis and the Arts, edited by Ellen Handler Spitz, 30–56. London: Columbia University Press.

Strathern, Marilyn. 1995. The Relation: Issues in Complexity and Scale. Lon-don: Prickly Pear Press.

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Zukin, Sharon. 2009. Naked City: The Death and Life of Authentic Urban Places. London: Oxford University Press.


Shipwreck Artifacts from the S.S. Otago and the S.S. Tairoa as Symbols of Dominant Maritime Regional Identity Narratives in Southeastern

New Zealand

A. Asbjørn Jøn

University of Canterbury, New Zealand

Abstract: This article considers the actions of social actors and organizations, who through engaging with artifacts from the wrecks of the nineteenth-century S.S. Otago and S.S. Tairoa, have helped affirm the dominance of shipwreck-based maritime heritage and identity narratives along, or near, the region of the southeastern coast of New Zealand called The Catlins. Those actions are con-sidered through: exploring some episodes of salvaging and exhibiting objects, providing commentary about the way that those actions and objects interact with identity formation and affirmation processes, and examining the connec-tion between local communities and a not-so-distant past. The notion of en-gagement with material objects leading to their gaining in status/agency, and becoming dominant elements within the negotiation of a shared regional identi-ty and brand, is also considered, along with associated notions of materiality and links between landscape and identity. Keywords: Maritime history, maritime archaeology, material culture, shipwrecks, iden-tity, regional identity, regional branding, heritage, nautical history, New Zealand, nine-teenth century, Otago, Southland, The Catlins

Introduction

The Catlins, an isolated rural region that spans across the southeastern portions of New Zealand’s Otago and Southland provinces (Figure 1), draws its name from the nineteenth-century whaler Captain Edward Cattlin (c. 1792–1856), and, as such, has a strong association with nineteenth-century maritime imagery. Many times it has been associated with maritime imagery of the “Roaring Forties” (regions of stormy and rough ocean with strong winds that are located between latitudes 40° and 50° south), and it is of significant interest to both southern shipwreck buffs and eco-tourists, as well as heritage tourists interested in historic sites such as nineteenth-century whaling base camps. Through much of the colonial period (in the nineteenth century), a regular ship-ping route from Dunedin to Bluff—and then on to Australia—saw ships pass along its treacherous coastal landscape, building upon associations with ship-ping. In addition to the ships travelling that regular route, there was also the maritime traffic associated with Catlins River port, which for a time shipped the most timber from New Zealand’s South Island. Shipping activity within The Catlins was also heavily increased through the presence of whalers and bay whaling stations as well as other early marine industries, such as ship building, fishing, and sealing. Early ports and personages associated with mari-time industries as well as wrecks and objects salvaged from those wrecks con-

JØN 29

tributed heavily to the negotiation (and then affirmation) of layers of a rich, and even folkloric, regional identity.

For many, the most striking feature of the region’s maritime history is the many shipwrecks. A partial list of shipwrecks of significance along The Catlins coastline, and the sites at which they occurred, would include disasters such as those listed in Table 1 below.

Table 1: A partial list of shipwrecks of significance along The Catlins coastline (largely adapted from Jøn 2008).

Contributing to the memorability of those wrecks, many occurred around the December festive period, bringing news of the wrecks to families of The Cat-lins and across New Zealand through media reports at times when families were gathered in seasonal celebration; hence, wider discussion of the wrecks was possible. It can also be noted that many of them occurred in calm seas. Consequently, during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, public in-

Ship Date Incident Henry Fielding 12 November

1839 Wrecked at Tautuku headland.

Burmah 1859 Probably wrecked at Lathyrus Bay—a wreck was found in 1870 and is presumed to be the Burmah but we lack defin-itive proof.

Wallace 5 December

1866 Wrecked on Chaslands Mistake Reef.

Tairoa 27 May 1871 Wrecked at Port Molyneux. Surat 1 January 1874 Wrecked on Surat Beach. Otago 4 December

1876 Wrecked at Chaslands Mistake.

William Ackers 12 December 1876

Wrecked at Waipapa Point.

Tararua 29 April 1881 Wrecked at Waipapa Point.

Bessie (previously Dauntless)

6 December 1887

Wrecked at Long Point.

Star of Erin 6 February 1892

Wrecked on Waipapa Reef.

Manuka 16 December 1929

Wrecked at Long Point.

Maruffa 3–4 March 1979

Wrecked on Tautuku Peninsula.

Voyager 22 April 1985 Wrecked near Pillan’s Bay.

30 Shipwreck Artifacts

terest in the region’s shipwrecks, and associated lore of maritime loss, was intense. Maritime disasters (including wrecks, collisions, and fires) were simp-ly a part of daily life. The geography, economic interests, and communicative webs of the region were all tied to shipping lanes—and hence to the sea. Entire communities prospered based upon the success of maritime industries, and both suffered and mourned maritime losses. Accordingly, as participant obser-vation has highlighted, maritime happenings still strongly echo within the memory of the region’s family and social histories, and the many significant shipwrecks of the region’s past have become a part of the lore and “brand” of this treacherous coastal landscape.

The current study sets out to explore the social processes at work around interactions between social actors and shipwreck landscapes, stories, and material culture through focusing on their place in identity negotiations/affirmations as forces central to shaping a regional notion of place brand/identity. Over ten years of participant observation within The Catlins, a series of semi-structured interviews with informants, historic research, and an investi-gation of the region’s cultural memory institutions and heritage festivals and sites form the basis of analysis. The actions of social actors and organizations, who through engaging with material culture from the wrecks of the nineteenth-century S.S. Otago and S.S. Tairoa, have helped affirm the dominance of ship-wreck-based maritime heritage and identity narratives, will be the primary fo-cus of discussions. The research process has included interviewing local ex-perts—such as a museum curator, prominent members of the local community, and some people involved first hand with the salvage of shipwreck artifacts along this stretch of coast—as well as considerations of the materiality of ob-jects salvaged. The theoretical paradigm for the study follows Palmenfelt’s (2010) framework for considering dominant units within the negotiation of regional identity narratives. The materiality and agency of shipwreck artifacts, and the role of human actors in sanctioning interactions with them as fulcral affirmations of a negotiated collective regional identity, will then be explored through case studies of interactions with maritime material culture in The Cat-lins.

Figure 1: Map of The Catlins region—the southeast corner of New Zealand’s South Island. Sourced from Topographic Map 250 map 30–Owaka. Crown Copyright © Reserved. Available from: http://www.linz.govt.nz/land/maps/linz-topographic-maps/map-chooser/map-30. (Accessed 5 November 2015).

http://www.linz.govt.nz/land/maps/linz-topographic-maps/map-chooser/map-30

http://www.linz.govt.nz/land/maps/linz-topographic-maps/map-chooser/map-30

JØN 31

The History and Context of “The Shipwreck Coast”

From the 1850s until the arrival of the railway in the late 1800s, coastal ves-sels were the main mode of transport and the ports and lighthouses were es-sential for safe passage. (Bond 2011)

Many current residents of The Catlins possess family memory stretching back to the above-described not-so-distant past, including tales of their relatives having come to the aid of the region’s shipwreck survivors (or working to establish early maritime indus-tries). That social memory has then been augmented by current generations actively help-ing to salvage artifacts from local wrecks—at times even the same wrecks that their rela-tives had aided survivors from. Such powerful personal connections between social actors, their families, and shipwrecks, embodied through the remnant sites and salvaged artifacts of the wrecks, amplifies the affective agency and materiality of objects symbolic of those wrecks. Such artifacts are afforded agency to carry or prompt heritage and identity memo-ries, linking engagement with local shipwreck lore across generations. In this way, the material culture of local shipwrecks, the landscapes remnant of those wrecks, and the wrecks themselves as well as the interactions of engaged social actors with that material culture and those landscapes become central to the negotiation and affirmation of the re-gion’s maritime-themed collective place-based identity. This identity manifests in a local brand that is often employed in heritage and tourism marketing, such as the “Shipwreck Ball” and heritage trails run during the 150th anniversary celebrations of The Catlins town Owaka (White 2016), the architecture and branding of hospitality providers like the light-house-themed The Point Café in Kaka Point or The Rudder Bar at the South Otago Hotel in Balclutha, or the dominance of the shipwreck- and whaling-themed exhibition gallery at the Owaka Museum. The region also enjoys interesting links to shipwreck lore in earlier Māori oral tradition. The chief settlement, Owaka, standardized its name in 1893 after previously being known as Catlins River (after Captain Cattlin), and then Quakerfield. In Māori, Owaka means “place of the canoe,” most likely referring to geographic and social links with the Owaka River, Catlins River, and the nearby estuary and sea. However, the re-spected anthropologist and folklorist Herries-Beattie noted that Owaka features in the lore of the important Āraiteuru canoe—the vessel that brought the ancestors of the indigenous Ngāi Tahu people of the South Island (on Āraiteuru see White 1887–1891). Herries-Beattie recorded that after Āraiteuru was wrecked at Matakaea Point (north of Dunedin), an ancestor named Puketapu travelled south to seek wood, which he found in Owaka (Beattie 1994, 568). Nowdays the town center of Owaka is marked with a giant steel sculpture of a traditional waka canoe (White 2015). We also know that the southern Māori worshipped a deity named Kowkoula (McNab 1909), who some critics have suggested may be synonymous with the deity Kahukura. Herries-Beattie recorded traditions holding that Kowkoula lived near Tautuku in The Catlins and was a god of wind and rain who could command fish and taniwha (supernatural aquatic beasts that are often associated with large sharks and whales) living in the sea along The Catlins coast (Beattie 1994, 556). We know from oral traditions across New Zealand that taniwha, when called upon to take a protective role by either powerful tohunga (shaman) or other supernatural beings who could command them, may help drowning Māori to shore after their vessels either wrecked or capsized. Studies have shown that the residents of the region have generally come to ac-cept shipwrecks as an important part of their regional cultural heritage. In 2003, with much public consultation, a draft tourism strategy was released for the region (Lovelock et

http://nz.yelp.com/biz/the-point-caf%C3%A9-kaka-point


al. 2003), which suggested that shipwrecks were so significant to the region that it might even be branded “The Shipwreck Coast.” While the strategy plan had been developed in response to a growing public interest in The Catlins as a tourism destination, it remains a good measure of which themes and ideas had been highlighted throughout the develop-ment of and consultation for the document. That document then sparked further public consultation as well as the development of a tourism interpretation plan by a community-based organization, Tourism Catlins, in 2008, which also highlighted the connection of the region and local people to shipwrecks (Greave et al. 2008). Reinforcing that shipwreck theme upon the landscape and social memory, maritime tragedies continue to occur in The Catlins with shocking regularity. In 2014 the community mourned the loss of a well known teenage girl following a boating accident (Askew 2014), and then in 2015 two prominent members of the community disappeared at sea along with their vessel, the Kristala (Hume 2015). Notably, at the time of Kristala’s disappearance, the skipper was widely regarded by locals as one of, if not the, most knowledgeable persons regarding local open waters, with even the region’s Senior Con-stable, Murray Hewitson, recognizing that he “had a ‘phenomenal’ knowledge of the Catlins coastline” (Hewitson in MacLean 2015). Therefore the social memories prompt-ed by the artifacts from significant wrecks and their sites continue to be amplified by residents’ ongoing lived experiences of the sea.

Theoretical Approach

Modern scholarly discussions regarding notions of the collectively accepted identities of spatial regions often consider the way that networks of social actors negotiate dominant themes, and that those themes then take on a greater social significance to those regions and the communities within them. That process can often also be seen in organic developments of a landscape’s brand, as a growing number of scholars now recognize that regional brands “are built out of the raw material of identity and [that] identity emerg-es in the conversation between stakeholders and what brings them together” (Kavaratzis and Hatch 2013, 82). Here we might remember the recognition of shipwreck themes in tourist planning documents that were developed following consultations in The Catlins (Greave et al. 2008; Lovelock et al. 2003). That recognition is well characterized in a recent call for papers issued by the journal Place Branding and Public Diplomacy, which stressed that “our places are an expression of who we are and what we value” (Place Branding and Public Diplomacy 2007)—a statement that, in this case, tightly reflected the efforts of social actors whose ancestors may have worked in local maritime industries and most likely helped those stranded after ships wrecked within the region, and who more recently are connected to community-based shipwreck salvage efforts.

Following that line, and analyzing those social processes from a theoretical anthropology/folkloristics’ standpoint, Ulf Palmenfelt (2009, 2010, 2013) has convinc-ingly argued that the interactions between individual narratives of identity objects and performances in a regional community form a type of negotiation between regional nar-ratives or units—an argument built upon Eskeröd’s earlier theory of dominant traditions (Eskeröd 1947). Palmenfelt theorizes that narratives are moulded through negotiation processes into unique regional identities that are constructed around the most dominant units/narratives within the process. This view is shared by Gilberto Marzano, who simi-larly notes that “place identities emerge from the ‘conversation’ between stakehold-ers” (2015, 139) and that “place identity … [is] a ‘negotiation process’ ” (2015, 140). Highlighting the complexity of those negotiations, and the range of factors influencing

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the negotiation, Govers and Go explain that “place identities are constructed through historical, political, religious and cultural discourses; through local knowledge, and influ-enced by power struggles” (2009, 17), with those power struggles forming a legitimate element of the dominance negotiation process. Therefore, we might say that place identi-ty/brand is constructed “from the intrinsic features and history of a given place and a shared (personalized) relationship to these elements” (Mayes 2008, 125). In turn, the material culture seen to best represent that identity/brand gains an amplified level of ma-teriality and agency as it becomes symbolically significant to communities as a social memory prompt for the units/narratives most dominant within their collective heritage/identity negotiations. In this way, the agency of materiality symbolic of dominant identity narrative units is tightly interwoven with the collective efficacy of actors participating in social heritage and identity negotiation processes, and to an extent the social agency of those actors as well.

The power of networks or organizations associated with the social actors who engage with the identity narratives, or their negotiation processes, also plays a key role in determining the relative dominance ascribed to the tangible or intangible objects, lore, and performances that compose the heritage and identity narratives. Arguably, that as-cribed level of dominance can at times be directly linked to the way that objects and per-formances are positioned within the philosophical flux of the social, economic, and politi-cal context within which they are interpreted. From the lens of studies of material culture we might connect these ideas to theories such as Woodward’s (2013), who notes that “a key area of contestation in the literature on material culture is the question of agency and the ways in which objects can produce particular effects or allow and permit certain be-haviours or cultural practices.” Since the agency of objects (and narratives) is a contesta-ble, shared construction, an object’s level of agency varies depending on the values and interpretation of human-object interactions as well as the efficacy of the human actor(s) involved. This interrelationship generates not only a social or cultural identity for the object but also contributes to cultural and spatial identities of landscapes that surround the object.

The discourse of power within the negotiations of dominant heritage and iden-tity narratives is then further complicated when material culture becomes linked to domi-nant units within the negotiations. Artifacts with canonized affective agency over the negotiation process, through their selection and then exhibition within community- and state-sanctioned tourist and social memory spaces (such as cultural memory institutions), contribute much weight to the affirmation or ongoing re-negotiation of assemblages of heritage and identity. That step in the process also amplifies the materiality of objects involved, constructing a cycle of power around objects. Furthermore, the objects’ affec-tive agency functions as a memory prompt for the activities or events that they symbolize as well as the spatial regions or places that they functioned within—in the case of The Catlins, specific shipwreck sites and the rugged coastline. Operating simultaneously to that process, material objects, such as the wrecks themselves, become not only an attrac-tion for particular kinds of eco- and heritage tourists, but also exert agency upon the shap-ing of cultural and social memory for the landscapes that they are positioned within, as physical signifiers of the past, of dominate heritage/identity units, and of the stories can-onized within cultural memory institutions. Therefore, the locations of the wrecks, and the wrecks themselves, also hold power within affirmations and re-negotiations of the dominant units/narratives.

Consequently, the negotiation process can be one that is, at times, heavily influenced by the relative power and efficacy levels of the social actors and the networks that they either operate within or exert influence over, as well as the materiality and agen-


cy of the material culture that symbolizes the different negotiating units/narratives. Power within the process of negotiating collective identity can be held, or gained, through a wide range of social mechanisms. So, arguably, as with Eskeröd’s dominant traditions, Palmen-felt’s description of negotiations among narratives to determine the dominant identity units for a region could be equally applied to both heritage and identity processes. Furthermore, due to the plurality of actors and processes in operation in the forging of dominant collec-tive identity narratives, Palmenfelt’s theoretical structure makes space for multi-layered notions of place and multi-faceted identities as well as the existence of actors equipped with multiple interpretive identity lenses.

Notably, as identity is a fluid, negotiated construction that is assembled through social processes, the negotiation of identity narratives must be considered as an ever-active process where lenses of collective identity are negotiated and re-negotiated as populations and interpretations of events shift and in which the stakeholders of different identity narra-tives have variations in their levels of social influence. That “People are partly the products of their environments, but by selecting, creating and transforming their environmental circumstances they are producers of environments as well” (Bandura 2000, 75) is a notion that applies well to socially negotiated assemblages of collective identity. Canonized ma-terial culture has the ability to exert affective agency upon notions of regional identity held by social actors within an environment as a part of their enculturation into being a product of their environment. However, that same social actor also possesses power and efficacy to shape future re-negotiations of identity, and hence to reshape that same environment. Therefore, the agency of materiality interwoven with heritage and identity negotiations is inextricably connected to the agency of the negotiating actors. Regional landscapes are culturally encoded with meaning based upon the negotiated dominant identity units and narratives. Materiality linked to those landscapes holds affective influence over communi-ties while at the same time being acted upon by communities engaged in collective identi-ty projects.

The analysis of those negotiations, and the influential power levels ascribed to objects, can be particularly interesting when considering the maritime objects of ship-wrecks, as we then must also factor in the links to the sea, the risks often involved in their salvage, and the embedded memories of remnant landscapes and maritime loss, as well as in this case issues of colonialism and post-colonialism. While maritime scholarship and the study of the British Empire’s connection to the sea—including that of its southern colonies—has been “enjoying something of a renaissance” (O'hara 2009, 1109) in recent years, “the sea and identity, be it individual, local, regional, corporate or national, is an area that has not attracted as much attention” (Redford 2014, 1). Consequently there is a sub-stantive gap in the literature around the area of maritime material culture being used as focal points or memory prompts for the negotiation of identity narratives.

The Significance Ascribed to Maritime Heritage and Shipwreck Narratives

The Foreshore and Seabed Act 2004 and the replacement Marine and Coastal Area (Takutai Moana) Act 2011, legislation as a consequence of Māori claims to the fore-shore and seabed, provoked political debate. In part, this was because the legislation touched the strong and often emotional connection that New Zealanders, Māori and Pāke-hā had with the land, beaches, and the ocean (Barker 2012). Throughout New Zealand, and arguably very strongly in southern regions such as The Catlins, people possess a strong connection to the ocean. From the mid-nineteenth century, efforts had been made by influential social actors, such as Dr. Thomas Hocken (see Otago Witness April 26, 1884), to inspire public interest in maritime events and the stories of ships. These efforts

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fed directly into the growing dominance of those narratives as a core element within the negotiation of regional identity. That cause was even adopted by the Early History Society of Otago, who also lobbied for the place of maritime history and lore as fundamental to the identity and heritage of the region. Similar interests can be seen in the Otago Early Settlers’ Association (Brosnahan 2008). Their efforts to reinforce that stance were afford-ed a reasonable degree of newspaper coverage.1

Interest in maritime wrecks (and related history, heritage, and identity narra-tives) has maintained a presence from those early days, and extended throughout the twen-tieth and early twenty-first centuries, although enthusiasm did decrease somewhat from about 1920 until the mid-1960s. That decrease in public discussion coincides roughly with a slowing in the frequency of new large wrecks upon the southern coast. Three of the four arguably most prominent Catlins wrecks occurred in the nineteenth century (S.S. Surat in 1874, S.S. Otago in 1876, and S.S. Tararua in 1881), and the fourth, the T.S.S. Manuka, wrecked at Long Point in 1929. Interest spiked heavily following the wreck of the Manu-ka, and as might be expected, continues to spike after each modern maritime loss.

In keeping with Hosty and Stuart’s (1994) findings regarding Australian interest levels in the sites of wrecks, there is a very noticeable increase in the public interest that takes place in the 1960s. Notably, it was at the time that diving equipment became more readily available for purchase through specialized shops, specifically the point at which Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus (SCUBA) equipment had reached com-mercial production and sale (Cousteau and Dumas 1954). In the mid-1950s, there was only a small amount of dive equipment and instructional material “being sold in some [larger and usually city based] sports shops” (Hosty and Stuart 1994, 10). Consequently, after a dip in interest that coincides with a reduction in the number of current wrecks, there was a rise in interest when equipment enabling wider access to underwater wreck sites became available to the general public. There was also “a limited number of professional maritime archaeologists available, or even in existence at the time” (Souter 2008, 163) prior to the 1960s. Therefore, as Robinson (1977) has noted, amateur divers, including through grass roots community-based salvage efforts, took a leading role in early maritime archaeological efforts during the second half of the twentieth-century, which arguably helped fuse notions of community, place, and landscape with the material culture of the wrecks and salvaged artifacts.

Despite long-lasting community interest, a centralized government-sponsored mechanism for the collection and preservation of significant maritime material culture was slow to be effectively enacted, such that in many cases, networks of individuals as well as private organizations drove the early preservation of tangible maritime culture. Those efforts to salvage objects symbolic of maritime heritage and identity narratives did not gain legislative support until the mid-1970s. Speaking generally of problems associated with conserving New Zealand’s shipwrecks, Bradstock explained that “this very rich part of New Zealand’s heritage has until recently been rather neglected, and it was not until 1976 that legislation came into force protecting shipwrecks—long after the more accessi-ble ones had all been looted by souvenir hunters and scrap-metal salvors, and there is still very little policing done of the Historic Places legislation of 1975” (Bradstock 1989, 106). That slow legaslative response to public connections with maritime heritage was arguably seen to be justified by often resistant responses from traditional archaeologists and other groups questioning the merits of maritime archaeology (Bass 1966). Shifts in global think-ing about maritme archaeology as well as gains in prominence for the field occurred only just prior to New Zealand introducing this important leglislation. George Bass’ influential work in the 1960s on maritime archaeology may have also contributed to a global change in thinking about underwater heritage at that time (Hosty and Stuart 1994, 10). Notably,


both of these developments coincide chronologically with increases in the availability of diving equipment.

Efforts to salvage and maintain maritime material culture of heritage signifi-cance continued to be primarily driven by individual social actors and their networks as well as regional organizations until the late twentieth century. The selection of which objects to salvage was, as Mayes suggests, a matter of regional identity formation, based entirely on “a shared (personalized) relationship” (2008, 125) between the objects and the actors. In turn, it could be argued that affective relationships with selected objects influ-enced actors’ choices to promote the dominance of identity narratives associated with the objects, further assisting in the attribution of social power and agency to the salvaged artifacts. These circumstances did, however, leave the determination of heritage value largely to laymen who often possessed little knowledge regarding the types of objects they were attempting to identify and salvage. In this way, informed valuation of objects became paramount to the process of social actors amplifying the objects’ agency, negoti-ating and affirming the dominance of related heritage and identity narratives. Participant observation within the region as well as the interviews undertaken for this research indi-cated how acts of recovery contributed to the construction of the salvaged objects’ mean-ing in collective narratives of maritime heritage. In simple terms, as lay social actors came to recognize and attribute value to objects such as wrecked ships’ masts and rudders, they demonstrated that those segments of a ship held symbolic meaning and imagery that is pervasive and widely understood within maritime communities, even when the social actors have no direct personal connection with maritime industries or boating.

Community-Driven Salvage Operations and Object Selection for Museum Exhibits: The S.S. Otago and the S.S. Tairoa

In heavy fog, on the 4th of December 1876, the S.S. Otago was wrecked upon rocks at Chaslands Mistake in The Catlins, while the second mate was in control of the ship. A “Court of Inquiry into the loss of the Otago found that the casualty was occa-sioned by the default of the second mate in not keeping to the course ordered by the mas-ter; in neglecting to call the master and to take the usual precautions in thick weather when so near the land. The second mate’s certificate was suspended for two years” (Ingram 1984, 177). At the time of the wreck the Otago was en route to Australia, with forty crew members and eighty passengers. This wreck quickly became one of note within the re-gion, due to a combination of factors including: the ship’s reputation as a very fast vessel; the high value of the cargo lost with the wreck, which included 4000 oz. of gold; the er-rors of the second mate; the reputation of the The Catlins as a wrecking coast; and the dissemination of S.S. Otago shipwreck tales by locals, crew, and passengers. Many identi-fied the wreck as a significant event in the social affirmation of the district’s position as a stretch of coast rich in shipwreck history and lore. Fortunately, the wreck of the S.S. Ota-go did not occasion any loss of life.

During an interview about the region’s connection to shipwrecks and the asso-ciated history of amateur maritime archaeology, an informant, Helen-May Burgess (August 10th, 2015), recounted that in 1991, some 115 years after the wreck, the mast of the Otago became exposed on Waipati Beach (just north of Chaslands Mistake) due to extreme weather patterns. It was explained that upon hearing of the exposed mast, the informant’s mother-in-law encouraged her son, Alan Burgess, and several others to help rescue it, due to a shared local belief that shipwreck “artifacts” held great symbolic signifi-cance for collective notions of the region’s heritage. Notably, Helen-May used the word “artifacts” here.

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A salvage operation was then jointly organized by Alan Burgess and a promi-nent local resident, Richard (an alias), who had previously written a volume on the re-gion’s history (including that of the wrecks). Alan Burgess took charge of securing the manpower and permissions from landholders and organizations to cross their land in transporting the mast. The prompt from Alan Burgess’ mother, and the subsequent re-sponse from both Alan Burgess and Richard, suggests that this material object would be classified as meeting the criteria of “what we value” (Place Branding and Public Diploma-cy 2007) as an expression of the region’s heritage narratives. Alan Burgess’ mobilization of the manpower for the salvage engaged a larger number of social actors in the perfor-mance. Arguably, as that network of social actors became involved in the performance, their shared engagement further amplified not only the significance of that particular land-scape as a place resonant with these heritage and identity narratives, but also intensified the level of agency attributed to the mast as an “artifact” symbolic of the heritage narratives valued collectively by the group. Given the prominence in the community of the actors involved, their efforts contributed to the broader regional construction of value around maritime objects as well. It is also of interest that the ancestors of some social actors in-volved in the salvage had been part of community efforts to assist the survivors of promi-nent historic shipwrecks within the region.

Figure 2: Locals resurrecting the mast of the S.S. Otago. Photo taken by Helen-May Burgess, 1991. Used with permission.

Those actions also illustrate a performance of heritage negotiation as a “social

experience”—in the sense of Herzfeld (1997) –—while the telling of tales related to those events as well as the exhibiting of connected material objects link neatly with Dicks’ (2000) notion of heritage as a “communicative practice.” This means that heritage, once negotiated, becomes something that groups communicate to each other, to new group members, and, where appropriate, to the outside world, in the process of affirming that identity. By telling the stories of this amateur maritime archaeology, the informants


participated in the “communicative practice” of heritage, reinforcing the heritage signifi-cance of that landscape and continuing to affirm the dominance of the narrative. Conserv-ing and exhibiting salvaged material culture is also an element of that “communicative practice.” Returning to Palmenfelt’s description of negotiating dominant units—i.e., the idea that engagement extends beyond the social actors who organized the salvage to all other actors involved, including those behind the scenes (e.g., those who made lunches for the group)—we can see the collectivity of social influence in valuing objects and con-structing dominant narratives within the region’s identity.

In the above image (Figure 2), which Helen-May Burgess aptly labelled in her photo album “the performance of resurrecting the mast,” we can see the result of Alan Burgess, Richard, and a network of local farmers (plus tractors) helping to salvage the Baltic Pine mast from Waipati Beach. The group included people whom Alan had rallied from the districts surrounding both the Owaka (South Otago) and Tokanui (Eastern Southland) townships, containing several members of the Owaka Lions Club.2 Helen-May Burgess recounted the tale of Alan and his network of locals managing to uplift and transport the mast across the beach, then along Chaslands Mistake access road (which was a basic bush track) and over a section of the Waipati River in order to reach State Highway 92. The process, according to both Helen-May and her husband, Alan Burgess, included people coming up with “crazy, funny ideas” on how to best transport the mast along that bush track, at one point including an axel with two wheels and one flat tyre that had been over a cliff. In the end, the ingenuity of rural New Zealand’s purported number eight wire mindset (a New Zealand colloquialism referring to a tradition of Kiwi ingenui-ty sparked by a need to make anything that could not be obtained due to significant geo-graphic isolation from global markets in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries) triumphed, and the mast was saved. Once the mast reached State Highway 92, the Otago Electric Power Board helped by transporting it north to Owaka. Here again we can identi-fy the involvement of a wider network of social actors and organizations in a social per-formance (including one that adds an element of official, yet still amateur, sanction to the social process, given the status of the Electric Power Board) that encodes this material object with agency as a valued part of the region’s heritage—an agency that directly influ-ences the negotiation of this object and related narratives as dominant within the for-mation and affirmation of the region’s identity.

Once in Owaka, Richard became involved in helping to organize the mast’s restoration. Helen-May Burgess and Alan Burgess also recounted further significant de-tails of Richard’s involvement in the mission to save the mast. They explained how, dur-ing the salvage, Richard “got a phone call from the Historic Trust accusing us of remov-ing an artifact that was over one hundred years old without permission, but … [Alan Bur-gess] made a phone call to a member and we didn’t have to go to jail as was first suggest-ed” (Helen-May Burgess, 2 November 2015). The overwhelming attitude of the group, as communicated by Helen-May Burgess and Alan Burgess, was that the mast was of such significance to the local region that they felt that it could not be left (despite any personal risk), as that would chance tidal changes either washing it away or covering it again, to the point that it could not be saved for decades to come, during which it might be damaged by the natural weathering processes of the sea or the rugged coastline. From this perspective we can see that the actors were independent of state-based prompts in their choices, even ignoring advice to not proceed with salvaging and thereby empowering the object with greater agency. It is also significant to note, due to the inaction of the Historic Trust, the practical continuation of amateur networks, individual actors, and organizations taking a lead role in maritime archaeological efforts to salvage and conserve the material objects that they have a personal connection to, and deem representative of their own heritage, a

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situation that was more common prior to the 1976 legislation. Arguably the extremely remote nature of The Catlins may have contributed to social actors within the region being able to continue with past practices without too much official interference. Consequently these actions are an enactment of heritage and identity as “something people do” (Smith 2006, 192), where their choices concerning which historic elements to value amplify the agency of the material culture that they engage with in an authentic way.

Analysis of the mast has shown that it has been relatively well preserved. The network of actors involved with the salvage sought advice from experts in both Dunedin and Wellington regarding the best way to maintain the mast, and as a result a decision was taken to build a cover over the mast and keep it raised from the ground. Following that decision, the Owaka Lions Club became directly involved, organizing fund raising efforts to build a covering for the mast where it was displayed beside the Owaka Museum. The involvement of the Lions Club further added local weight to perceptions of the mast’s importance. Consequently, it could be argued to have contributed to the successful negoti-ation of the object and its salvage as part of a dominant regional identity unit. These events receive only a very scant mention in Collins’ The Wreck of the SS Otago (2006) and no analysis elsewhere and are recorded in purely historical detail without any discussion of their impact on constructions of heritage and identity or their connection to a regional culture. The events clearly demonstrate the significance of this maritime artifact to the collectively negotiated heritage and identity of the region through the number of actors and organizations involved with the process, and the legitimacy extended to it by the in-volvement of the Lions Club, the Owaka Museum, and the Otago Electric Power Board.

Other similar performances of community-driven salvages of pieces of wrecked nineteenth-century ships exist across the region, suggesting that this social process most likely reflects that the residents of the region value—and are actively negotiating—“shipwreck” and maritime loss heritage/identity–themed units rather than ones connected solely to the wreck of the S.S. Otago. During a period of king tides in 2007, on August 9th, a resident of Kaka Point notified the South Otago Museum of what seemed to be a piece of a ship, newly exposed on a beach near the old site of “The Vanishing Port”—Port Molyneux.3 The curator of the South Otago Museum became involved immediately, and a rudder was salvaged from the site. Similarly to the Otago’s mast, the rudder was moved using a combination of man power, a tractor, and a trailer. Also similar to the Otago’s mast, the rudder represents a piece of a local wreck that possessed informed value to the amateur archaeologists involved—i.e., as an item with meaning to maritime laymen. This investment of meaning highlights the notion that it is objects and narratives that people value and, following Palmenfelt, that are successfully negotiated to become dominant heritage symbols. One could speculate that hanging knees or futtocks may not have even been recognized if washed away from the main site of the wreck by the sea and extreme tides, and then discovered without the prompt of an earlier piece with more highly in-formed value.

Other sections of a ship (probably the same ship, but this has not yet been veri-fied) became exposed along that stretch of beach over a period of months; however, many of those had to be manhandled to safety instead of being moved with the aid of a tractor, due to the geographic features of the spaces that they became exposed within. It has been suggested by an informant, Greg (an alias), that groups of locals had gone to the place where the rudder had been found, specifically looking for anything that was not obviously driftwood “in case anything else might wash up” (discussion on October 20th, 2015). That active and recurrent process of groups seeking shipwreck artifacts, due to their perceived heritage and identity value, stresses the way that these narratives became dominant within the lives of many members of the local community. Greg recounted that one very hefty


piece was carried by a dozen residents of Kaka Point for over a kilometer in order to find a safe location before it could be transported to the South Otago Museum (in Balclutha) by road. While no definitive identification for the rudder has been made, several promi-nent maritime historians have viewed the piece with great interest, including Bruce E. Collins. These actions, particularly in the case of the dozen or so individuals manhandling a very large and heavy rudder to safety over a kilometer in soft sand, clearly indicate a high degree of community value in these objects. Furthermore, the events also reinforce the theme that the community has collectively negotiated shipwreck and maritime themes as dominant identity strands through the widespread engagement with those themes and their active participation in salvaging related material objects from the sea.

It is loosely supposed at the South Otago Museum that the rudder might be an artifact from the 1871 steamer wreck, the Tairoa, which came to grief on the 27th of May at Port Molyneux (on the 1871 wreck, see Collins 1995, 60), just a short distance from where these pieces were uncovered by the tides. However, there were seven known wrecks in that small area of the landscape between 1857 and 1904, and pieces of other wrecks from as far afield as Australia have been located lying on beaches in the rough vicinity. The Tairoa would be of particular interest to maritime historians, as she was the first locally built steamer, being constructed from wood sawn at Sawyers Bay, near Port Chalmers (Dunedin). However, even without a definitive identification, the rudder and associated material culture remain as part of a prized exhibit at South Otago Museum, and their tale—like that of the Otago salvage—highlights the engagement of the region’s people with shipwrecks as symbols of their regional heritage, providing a tangible focal point for the affirmation of that identity. The pieces also identify a way that nineteenth-century material objects have become a part of local lore —i.e., through the “communicative practice” (Dicks 2000) of museum staff recounting tales of the Tairoa. Through the selection and ordering of material culture, cultural memory institutions are mythicizing the landscape with maritime elements that help shape the identity of commu-nities, landscapes, and oceanscapes for both visitors and locals.

In considering these cases, it should also be noted that the social actors dis-cussed, and arguably all long-term residents of The Catlins, possess lived connections with the sea and maritime culture. Those lived connections have included a noteworthy exposure to social memories of the significant wrecks of the district. As Palmenfelt notes,“collectively known phenomena achieve such a strong agency of their own that they have the power to force themselves into individuals’ life histories” (2010, 63). Ship-wrecks and the lore of maritime loss take on an important, and dominant, place within the heritage and identity negotiations of the region. The centrality of this lore is due to a range of factors, including: the sparse population of the region; the geography and maritime basis of the region; the ongoing loss of life due to maritime tragedies within the region; the social influence of actors involved with the community-driven amateur salvage opera-tions; the high percentage of residents descendant from people who assisted after nine-teenth-century shipwrecks; and the prominent way that material culture is displayed—and communicated through narratives about those displays—across the region. These factors demonstrate how shipwreck artifacts act as symbolic elements of the region’s brand, which at times extends beyond community-based practice into official documentation (Greave et al. 2008; Lovelock et al. 2003; Low 2005). The particular cases discussed here exemplify that process due to the prominence of their display, the frequency of their sto-ries being communicated within the community, and the large number of social actors involved in their salvage. Consequently, as dominant units within the negotiation of herit-age and identity in the region, the narratives of these wrecks, and the material culture sal-vaged from them, has been strongly forced “into individuals’ life histories” and collective

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memory across the region. Therefore, the materiality of artifacts from wrecks that feature in the dominant heritage and identity units of the region is highly developed. Amplified agency exists within the social relationships that the region’s actors have with the material world and the social functions that symbolic material culture is empowered to perform around the identity affirmation of motifs surrounding those dominant units. The Land-Bound Travels of the S.S. Otago’s Figurehead and Positioning It as Valued Artifact in the Eyes of the Region’s Young People

The figurehead of the Otago was carved from English Oak in the 1860s and still maintains a striking appearance. Alan Burgess explained (November 2nd, 2015) that dur-ing his efforts to secure the figurehead of the Otago as a centrepiece for the Owaka Muse-um’s maritime exhibit (when the museum was being rebuilt in 2007) (Figure 3), many elements of southern lore and local history associated with that artifact came to the fore-front. He gave details that he had uncovered of the figurehead being traded from its home in Port Chalmers—as partial cover for a debt—to a prominent northern Southland family. He explained that, while in the possession of the northern Southland family, the figure-head found a home sitting on the lawn of a homestead in the township of Clinton (Clinton is an inland rural township of about 300 people near the border of South Otago and South-land and lies about halfway between Balclutha and Gore on State Highway One). Local lore records that on one New Year’s Eve, the figurehead was taken as a prank and carted out to Clinton’s main street, where it was left adorned with a string of sausages. However, after the lady of the homestead learned of the prank, it was quickly carted back to her lawn, minus the string of sausages. Events such as this have not only enriched the lore of the Otago, but have also enabled inland southern communities to engage with, and be-come historically interwoven with, the history of the broader region’s maritime artifacts.

Some time later, the Otago Youth Adventure Trust’s Tautuku Outdoor Educa-tion Centre managed to acquire the Otago's figurehead for use at the Tautuku youth campsite. Notably, Tautuku is a coastal settlement that is in close proximity to Waipati Beach, and hence geographically linked to the sites of both the wreck and the salvage of the Otago's mast. In this location it was identified as a heritage/identity artifact to the regu-lar flow of school camp groups that passed through the Centre, arguably solidifying and affirming the dominance of the region’s maritime heritage and identity narratives, as the camp leaders communicated the stories of the wreck and figurehead. Research into visitor studies has recognized that the identity and brand generation for the region as a destination is tightly linked to “perceptions about a place as reflected by the associations held in tourist memory” (Cai 2002, 273). Therefore, visitors to that camp will possess memories of the significant figurehead there, which accordingly helps affirm the identity and brand of the region as linked to a heritage of shipwrecks. Alan Burgess, who is also a member of the Otago Youth Adventure Trust, explained that the Trust had asked to relocate the figure-head to the camp so that it could be better protected than it was sitting on a lawn in Clin-ton. It was from the youth camp at Tautuku that Alan Burgess managed to organize for the figurehead to be moved to the new Owaka Museum for safe keeping, only after gain-ing the permission of a wide range of stakeholders, who included both the figurehead’s northern Southland owners and the Otago Youth Adventure Trust.

These stories and connections between people, places, and this heritage object increase the layers of meaning that the object is able to generate. It ties the object to spaces and people through the regional lore and history that its travels have occasioned, adding additional reference points (both spatially and temporally) with which people can identify and then by extension link to the object’s maritime nature.


It also further reinforces the way that networks of social actors and organizations have functioned in collectively negotiating these narratives and objects as significant dominant strands within the region’s shipwreck coast identity and the way that exhibits of these material objects have helped affirm that identity.

Figure 3: A segment of the shipwreck displays at Owaka Museum, including the figurehead of the SS. Otago. Photograph was taken by A. Asbjørn Jøn 2014.

In Sum

Through engagement with, and the ongoing presence of, lore and material cul-ture connected to the wrecks of the S.S. Otago, S.S. Tairoa, and other ships, the communi-ties of The Catlins are continuing to carry the stories and materiality of the wrecks and their artfacts into the present day. The community has negotiated the dominant historical narratives of the region, and these maritime stories have become affirmed and exhibited key symbols of regional heritage. The negotiations were supported by actions undertaken while the actors were demonstrating their way of “being-in-the-world” (Heidegger 1996; Ingold 2000), which many social critics view as one of the most effective styles of perfor-mances from which to view heritage, identity, and culture. The ready exhibition of sal-vaged artifacts from these wrecks is also notable in this process as “in most museums in the last 150 years, the majority of objects in collections were never put on dis-play” (Alberti 2005). Consequently the selection of these objects as primary exhibits across the museums of the region indicates a shared valuing of regional maritime identity narratives across the cultural memory institutions that affirm heritage and identity. The artifacts themselves not only possess a high degree of agency as symbols of regional iden-tity, but also function as memory prompts for the significance of the places where the wrecks lay, and where they were themselves salvaged from. In an overseas context, it has been suggested that shipwreck sites and their interpretation can operate to “foster national pride and identity” (Nutley in Philippou and Staniforth 2003, 144), a social function that

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they also seem to exhibit in this case. Beyond the generation of meaning from intangible sources, material cultural

objects—such as these shipwreck artifacts—also prompt the further generation of mean-ing from their tactility. There is something very deliberate about such objects, and their form and intended purpose reveal another set of meanings to informed audiences. In that light, the artifacts not only symbolize the maritime heritage and negotiated collective herit-age and identity of the region, but they also tell a segment of its developmental story. Linked to that concept, we should not forget the important point that scholars of materiali-ty, such as Prown, have recognized:

This affective mode of apprehension through the senses that allows us to put ourselves, figuratively speaking, inside the skins of individuals who commis-sioned, made, used, or enjoyed these objects, to see with their eyes and touch with their hands, to identify with them empathetically, is clearly a different way of engaging the past than abstractly through the written word. Instead of our minds making intellectual contact with minds of the past, our senses make affective contact with senses of the past. (Prown 1980, 208)

Consequently, the affirmations of heritage and identity provided by the exhibition of these artifacts in or near cultural memory institutions surely also provide memory links to the other industries and practices that led to their production. This connection is important as it often stresses the land-based aspects of these maritime heritage symbols. These material objects also contribute strongly to affirming this negotiated dominant regional identity strand. The meaning generated through the tactility of such objects also extends to their function and original purpose and is connected to their informed value in the eyes of view-ers. In the three cases of recovered and exhibited objects discussed here (mast, rudder, figurehead), the function and original purpose of the objects likely contributed heavily to the generation of their affective agency, as their almost universally recognized value em-powered their ability to perform symbolic functions for the region’s social memory of maritime loss. It is generally recognized that amateur maritime archaeologists often choose items such as ship’s wheels, lifebuoys, figureheads, portholes, masts, and rudders to salvage and conserve, while other pieces of shipwrecks less commonly visually recog-nized by laymen as coming from ships are often either left behind or collected for a differ-ent purpose (such as timber recycling or even firewood). In discussions with Helen-May Burgess it was revealed that several such less visually recognized pieces from wrecks within the region—especially those from the T.S.S. Manuka—were recycled into build-ing materials for farmsteads, and in one case a cabinet was even built into a house in a guest bathroom. Those choices regarding which objects to conserve within cultural memory institutions and which objects to effectively treat as washed up wood are not always conscious, and in many cases the actors performing the salvage may not know what less commonly visually recognized objects are, or even if they are actually part of a ship. In this way the materiality of these shipwreck artifacts is tightly linked to their in-formed value.

Looking forward, and arguably adding official weight to the collective efficacy and efforts of the research participants and their social networks, The Catlins region now falls within the scope of Heritage New Zealand archaeologist Dr. Matthew Schmidt, who has been appointed as the Regional Archaeologist for Otago and Southland. Since his appointment Schmidt has shown a considerable commitment to the salvage and conserva-tion of the broader region’s maritime heritage, including efforts, in his own time, to under-


take the necessary studies and reviews to have the historic early twentieth-century Norwe-gian Whalers Base on Stewart Island listed with Heritage New Zealand (a project that won him the New Zealand Archaeological Association’s Groube Fieldwork Award in 2014). Schmidt has contributed to the conservation of a range of important maritime arti-facts and wrecks since his appointment. In a piece highlighting the heritage significance of “from 124 to upwards of 170 wrecks [having taken place] between the Waitaki and Cat-lins rivers,” he notes that in the nineteenth century, “everything was shipped by boat … [so the wrecks] tell us exactly who was doing what, how they were doing it, and where they were going. … [They are] a really key piece of our heritage” (Schmidt in Munro 2015). Coupled with that, maritime archaeologists such as Matthew Carter have recently undertaken significant work on wrecks and the material culture of the broader Otago/Southland region’s maritime heritage (Carter 2012; Carter and Dodd 2015). A centrally funded project titled the Southland Coastal Heritage Inventory Project is also well under-way, including work across much of The Catlins (Fuseworks Media 2012). In keeping with the philosophy displayed in the salvage of the Otago’s mast, a greater public aware-ness of the need to salvage maritime heritage expediently has also developed (Hayes 2013). Collectively, all of these efforts as well as a growing broader scholarly interest in southern wrecks have lent significant weight to the prior actions of the social actors dis-cussed when viewed as important episodes in the public negotiation of identity units.

Finally, as the renowned Swedish cultural historian Sverker Sörlin has found during research into the way that landscapes, territories, and identities are articulated—i.e., through the layering of narratives, images, and cultural memory institution exhibits and interpretations of significant landscape features, including maritime elements like light-houses and shipwrecks—communities and individuals augment landscapes with addi-tional “inner layers” of meaning that become deeply embedded in understandings of re-gions/regionalism and nations/nationalism (Sörlin 1998). Those “inner layers” of mean-ing would arguably contribute strongly to identity affirmation processes that support Pal-menfelt’s (2010) idea of dominant identity narratives. Consequently, these inner layers of meaning and memory help empower the heritage and identity of regions, bringing a not-so-distant past into the present through their tactility and the emotive memory prompts that they engender. The landscapes and oceanscapes that they connect to are signified and empowered by the position that the artifacts hold within the built landscape and the cultur-al memory institutions of the region. In this way, the artifacts, as pieces of material culture, begin to solidify the place of the stories of landscapes and oceanscapes from which they were salvaged, reinforcing the region’s negotiated dominant heritage and identity narra-tives that they represent.

Notes

1. “The Early History Society of Otago has been founded in Dunedin, and we may expect the most important results without delay. All the old papers connected with the first ships that came here are to be fossicked up, and thrilling details are, we need hardly say, to be looked for” (New Zealand Tablet May 2, 1884). The article goes on to discuss Hocken’s desire to generate similar interest in first ships in New Zealand to that which exists in the United States of America. 2. The Owaka Museum and Catlins Information Centre has identified (on their publically accessible website) that the following local men were among the group involved: Alan Burgess, Barry Burgess, Inness Burgess, Robin Chisholm, Bill Evans, Peter Evans, Stephen Evans, Ray Francis, Craig Johnston, Nobby McLean, Des Pirie, Mur-ray Stratford, Ron Tyrell, Bruce York, and Robin Whipp, based upon a series of photographs that they hold (CT08.4851). Discussions with Helen-May Burgess have revealed that the group also included one other prominent local farmer, and that two farmers brought along tractors. 3. Notably, as a place name Port Molyneux bears witness to the nautical and maritime history of the region even,

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beyond the element “port.” Port Molyneux was given its name by Captain James Cook after his sailing master, Robert Mollineux.

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Negotiating Moral Identity with Type 1 Diabetes: Care and Contradiction in Conversations with

Young Adults

Megan Ketchell Providence College, USA

Abstract: This article is based on original ethnographic research among col-lege students aged 18–25 living with insulin-dependent type 1 diabetes. I in-vestigate how moral language in medical treatment settings and social envi-ronments informs patients’ experiences of managing their diabetes. Moral language about choice, control, responsibility, and risk was regularly used to describe daily diabetes management habits. Young adults with diabetes inter-nalized a moral imperative to prioritize health. This moral obligation to health contributed to participants’ conceptions of self and influenced participants’ characterizations of other people with diabetes (PWD). Since the mid-twentieth century, the clinical approach to diabetes care has relaxed; however, some harmful assumptions linking patient character to his or her ability to comply with a prescribed treatment regimen still circulate in the culture of type 1 diabetes care. While failing to take insulin or to check blood sugars can lead to dangerously high or low glucose levels in the body, language tying patient worth to treatment compliance fails to show the complexity of striking a balance between hypervigilance and negligence in daily diabetes care rou-tines. Keywords: Ethnography, type 1 diabetes, morality, young adults, care, choice

Introduction

At age ten, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. The day started like any other Saturday: I woke up, ate some Rice Krispies for breakfast, and pre-pared for a birthday party at the movies. Preceding my diagnosis, I was eating more but losing weight, drinking water excessively, and constantly using the bathroom. I was irritable and complained every week on the way to dance class. My mom noticed these changes, and called a friend whose daughter had diabetes. She recognized my symptoms and told my mom to bring me over to have my blood sugar tested using her daughter’s glucometer.

Once we arrived at our friend’s house after the party, I was terrified of having my finger pricked. The glucometer read CRITICAL HIGH, signify-ing that my blood sugar was above 500 mg/dL, and could not be calculated by the machine. Blood sugar levels for people without diabetes typically do not rise above 140 mg/dL within two hours of eating a meal (IDF 2007). Thus, with a blood sugar above 500, something was wrong. We cried the whole drive to the hospital, where I stayed for four days. A team of healthcare pro-viders stabilized my condition, and taught my parents and me how to test my blood sugar, count carbohydrates, and give insulin shots.

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I could not participate in the annual standardized testing at my ele-mentary school that year and I assumed I would make it up another time. However, when I returned to school this was not the plan. As a conscientious fourth grader who emphatically monitored her academic progress, I was frus-trated that my hospital visit prevented me from receiving affirmation of my identity as a “good” student. I have since recovered from this disappointment, but a fixation on measurement has long permeated my self-management of diabetes.

The use of letters and numbers as indicators of academic achieve-ment in the American education system has created a moral hierarchy of re-ward and punishment meant to commend students who adhere to guidelines promulgated by teachers. Students who do not excel according to these guide-lines are given grades labeling them as lazy or stupid. I rely on a normative definition of morality in this paper as defined by the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Gert and Gert 2016). In this sense morality is defined as “a code of conduct that, given specified conditions, would be put forward by all ra-tional persons” (Gert and Gert 2016). The normative moral guidelines for diabetes care, including the measurement of glycated hemoglobin for people with diabetes (PWD), called HbA1c, parallel the moral hierarchy of the edu-cation system. Patients with A1cs above the range recommended by the American Diabetes Association (ADA) may be labeled out of control by health providers and peers. These recommendations are intended to prevent complications of poorly regulated blood sugars, including deterioration of nerve, kidney, and eye functioning. Adults aged 18 and over are recommend-ed to maintain A1c levels below 7.0%, denoting an average blood sugar of 154 (ADA 2016).

The language of the A1c implies a moral duty for patients to behave responsibly to preserve health. The ADA notes that “targets must be individu-alized based on a patient’s circumstances,” and healthcare providers advise that one’s A1c is “just a number” (ADA 2016). These phrases purport a clini-cal migration toward flexibility: nevertheless, for those interviewed, the un-derlying premise of the A1c is that health is an objective good (Kirkland and Metzl 2010; Mulligan 2014). While no one would argue persistent high blood sugars are desirable, immense emotional weight rests on the receipt of a “good” A1c.

In The Logic of Care, Annemarie Mol (2008) discusses how empha-sis on patient choice in healthcare discourse fails to recognize the social and corporeal constraints of life with chronic disease, holding patients morally liable for failure to achieve control. Mol defines care as “a calm and persis-tent, but forgiving effort to improve the situation of a patient, or to keep this from deteriorating” (2008, 20). She discusses numbers as normative “fact-values” that are frequently mistaken as objective parameters, producing dis-tress for patients (Mol 2008, 44). Her explanation of numbers and their lack of neutral value lends itself to discussion of the morally charged A1c. It would follow that the time preceding receipt of A1c results is often filled with worry. Do I have a reasonable explanation for why my blood sugars were not in control? How will my parents or doctor react? This idea of control, and the blame that befalls a person with chronic illness considered out of control, is paradoxical, as the nature of type 1 diabetes is that one’s pancreas no longer controls the metabolic processes for which it is responsible. This paradox is

52 Negotiating Moral Identity with Type 1 Diabetes

particularly relevant during the young adult period, as responsibility for dia-betes management shifts almost entirely onto the increasingly independent patient, whose social supports such as parents may occupy a smaller role in his or her daily care routine (Anderson and Wolpert 2004). A great deal of research into clinical and self-care for diabetes has established daily management practices as fraught with morally charged ac-tivities described in value-laden terms by family members, providers and pub-lic health officials (Borovoy and Hine 2008; Broom and Whitaker 2004; Fer-zacca 2000; Mol 2008; Oldani 2010; Rock 2010). This research demonstrates a population’s departure from assumed perceptions of risk, autonomy, respon-sibility, and choice defined through the lens of a consumer model for biomed-icine. This model celebrates discipline, informed-choice, and risk-prevention—activities that tend to break down in self-care practices, while the care-based model attempts to reconceive this notion of choice in chronic dis-ease management (Mol 2008). This research has primarily focused on patients with type 2 diabetes, who have long been moralized based on socially con-structed assumptions that lack of self-discipline and overindulgence in food resulted in their obesity and ill health (Borovoy and Hine 2008; Broom and Whitaker 2004). Through interviews with young adults with type 1 diabetes, I investi-gate how nine young adults have experienced moral language. I depart from the significant body of literature about type 2 diabetes to evaluate self-understanding negotiated through the lens of life with type 1 diabetes. Young adults are fascinating because they encounter new levels of freedom and re-sponsibility as they transition to adulthood. Interviews with this sample re-vealed an internalized moral imperative to prioritize health, and provided sup-port for a more caring—as opposed to consumerist—model of chronic disease management as espoused by Mol (2008). Based on review of existing litera-ture, evidence from interviews, and autoethnographic commentary, a per-ceived duty to preserve bodily wellbeing as the highest good contributes to participants’ conceptions of self, generates internal conflict, and influences participants’ characterizations of others with diabetes. The Moral History of Diabetes Care

To provide context regarding moralization in diabetes care, it is nec-essary to understand how management ideals developed following the discov-ery of insulin in 1922. In Bittersweet, Feudtner (2003) describes the transmu-tation of type 1 diabetes from an acute to chronic illness and investigates Dr. Elliott Joslin’s role in developing care practices through analysis of scrupu-lously maintained patient records. Joslin, the first doctor to specialize in dia-betes in the United States, made it his mission to improve health and prolong life for PWD by sending them on an arduous quest to exercise control in eve-ry aspect of life. Feudtner describes Joslin’s philosophy of care as “marked by a strong Protestant work ethic, a zealous attention to detail, and high regard for self-control” (2000, 64). He embraced a paternalistic model of the physi-cian-patient relationship, employed morally charged language in discussions about and with patients, and failed to understand why patients might not fol-low his rules (Emanuel and Emmanuel 1992; Feudtner 2003). Joslin required patients to arrange their lives around testing urine for glucose, eating meals on

Ketchell 53

a strict schedule, and injecting the right amount of insulin at the right time (Feudtner 2003). These original tasks have evolved to include testing daily blood sugar levels using a glucometer, changing insulin pump infusion sets, and inserting Continuous Glucose Monitor (CGM) sensors to track blood sug-ar levels. A cure they are not, but these technical improvements have in-creased flexibility in diabetes care.

Changes in standards of care demonstrate a departure from Joslin’s interpretation of diabetes care as a moral obligation to live an ascetic lifestyle. Joslin was content with supervising more than disease-related aspects of his patients’ lives (Feudtner 2003). His emphasis on strict regulation of exercise, diet, and insulin as crucial to achieving “victory” over diabetes has had a bit-tersweet legacy for the lived experience of diabetes. His guidelines imply that PWD must care for themselves, and those who stay the course will escape debilitating complications such as eye, nerve, and kidney damage. Unfortu-nately, he could not guarantee that those with the strictest regimens would avoid long-term complications, even with medical technological advance-ments. The results of the Diabetes Control and Complications Trial (1996), which studied whether strict management practices were the best method to preserve health and avoid complications, proved Joslin’s philosophy of care scientifically relevant posthumously. However, questions regarding patient quality of life under rigorous care expectations as well as evolving views con-cerning physician authority produced ambivalent responses to these results. Ambivalence continues to permeate the lives of PWD who are challenged by striking a balance between pursuing health without forfeiting a satisfying life. While diabetes care has changed over time, Joslin’s moralization of treatment remains alive through a perceived duty to manage risk and a culture of cease-less measurement. Methodology

The purpose of this study was to evaluate how moral language is used in diabetes care practice for college students aged 18–25 living with type 1 diabetes. Drawing on topics from other ethnographic accounts of diabetes management, I employed qualitative research methods to analyze how ideas about choice, control, responsibility, and risk contribute to moral language implicit in diabetes care practices, and the impact of this language on personal identity and quality of life.

Prior to recruiting participants, I obtained approval for human sub-jects research from the Providence College Institutional Review Board. I use pseudonyms to protect participants’ identity and avoid revealing personally identifiable health information. I utilized convenience sampling and identified participants through my personal network, including friends and acquaintanc-es affiliated with the diabetes community through the nonprofit College Dia-betes Network.1 Using text message, email, social media, and word of mouth, I explained to prospective participants that I was studying the illness experi-ences of college students with diabetes. Interviews were scheduled in conven-ient locations or conducted through Skype video chats. They were informal and lasted between one and two hours. I employed a semi-structured, open-ended method directed by an interview guide I designed to collect information about participants’ lives (Crabtree and DiCicco-Bloom 2006). Topics ad-


dressed during the interviews included relationships, health practices, educa-tion, employment, interactions with health providers, social supports, and personal beliefs. Interviews were audio-recorded using a smartphone and lap-top computer, and transcribed by hand. Having considered a range of existing literature, interview transcripts were manually reviewed to identify common themes among interviewee responses and to pinpoint areas of ambiguity that require further inquiry, thus employing deductive analysis. Participation in the interviews was voluntary, and no incentives were offered.

As a friend of many of the participants, they were aware of my status as an undergraduate student with diabetes. Due to my personal connection to the topic, I incorporated autoethnographic evidence.2 Autoethnography en-riches the epistemological soundness of the study results by better contextual-izing participants’ experiences for cultural outsiders through my subject posi-tion as a cultural insider (Ellis et al. 2011). By acknowledging my lack of neutrality toward the topic of interest and employing the reflexive approach to anthropology, I reinforce the theoretical relevance of study participants’ nar-ratives by providing a distinctive interpretation of the lived experience of chronicity that a person without diabetes could not provide. Malterud explains reflexivity as how an author’s subject position influences “what they choose to investigate, the angle of investigation, the methods judged most adequate for this purpose, the findings considered most appropriate, and the framing and communication of conclusions" (2001, 483–84). My collection and analy-sis of participants’ responses was done through triangulating existing litera-ture, participant interviews, and personal experience with diabetes. The sample consisted of four males and five females. Seven partici-pants were currently enrolled at an American four-year college or university, and two had recently graduated. All participants were white and shared gen-eral class cohesiveness, as all but one participant indicated consistent access to health insurance through their parents and reported seeing diabetes care providers at least annually (Table 1).

Requiring that interviewees be enrolled at a college in the United States limited educational and socioeconomic diversity of the group. I recog-nize that this sample is not representative of the true level of diversity in the undergraduate student population. While the global incidence of type 1 diabe-tes has been increasing since the mid-twentieth century, this increase is less pronounced in the United States than other countries (Maahs et al. 2010). Some evidence also points to a higher prevalence of type 1 diabetes in non-Hispanic white youth in the United States, which may have further dimin-ished the diversity of the sample (SEARCH for Diabetes in Youth Study Group 2007). Participants exhibited positive outlooks on life with diabetes. All felt generally supported by their friends and family, indicating “stable psychosocial resources,” which has been associated with improved blood sug-ar control over time and has positive implications for mental health status (Peyrot et al. 1999; Rock 2010). I anticipated low diversity, but I did not ex-pect most participants to fit a rather normative standard of a “good” PWD.

Ketchell 55

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As a newcomer to medical anthropology, the study was limited by the learning curve and uncertainty of how my subject position influenced par-ticipants’ answers to my questions. I empathized with interviewees’ experi-ences and appreciated their enthusiastic responses. As I felt more comfortable during interviews, participants seemed more comfortable sharing their forma-tive experiences, with and without chronic illness. Discourses of Diabetes Management

The historical progression of diabetes treatment and technology of-

fers a partial view of the moralization of diabetes. Though Joslin’s philosophy of care has been reinforced by results of clinical studies, his strict guidelines have had a conflicting legacy in the lives of PWD. Through interviews with young adults, I uncovered lasting evidence of Joslin’s puritanical approach in the colloquial language of chronic care.

A Duty to Care

Liz is a sophomore at a small college in the northeastern United States, majoring in political science and women’s studies. She was born in New England, but now lives in the South. On recesses from school, Liz lives with her parents, with whom she shares a close relationship. She was diag-nosed with diabetes at age six, after beginning to wet the bed and experienc-ing unquenchable thirst. Her mom recognized these symptoms—as she also has type 1 diabetes—and tested Liz’s blood sugar using her meter.

I remember the number. It was 235. I had eaten a piece of cake the night before, and my mom didn’t always eat sugar, because of her diabetes. And I said, “Oh Mommy, I’m like you, I probably shouldn’t have eaten the cake!” And she responded, “Yeah you’re right, you are like me now” but I didn’t connect it. Then she said, “It’s not because you ate the cake.”

Diabetes can be diagnosed in a variety of ways, but in a patient with

classic symptoms, a random plasma glucose test greater than 200 mg/dL typi-cally indicates diabetes (ADA 2016). Liz’s mom took her to the doctor to be officially diagnosed. The doctor discussed the basics of diabetes—blood sug-ar testing, carbohydrate counting, insulin injections—and explained that Liz would need to monitor her diet and be on the lookout for high and low glu-cose. Liz’s description of her doctor’s advice reflects the moral duty to care for oneself that accompanies a diabetes diagnosis. A qualitative study of type 1 diabetes patients in Finland found that patients felt a responsibility to them-selves, their families, their doctors, and society to work hard to prevent emer-gency situations and negative health outcomes by managing risks on a daily basis (Hirjaba 2014). These duties range from remembering to carry your insulin, glucometer, and snacks for low blood sugar, to wearing a medical identification bracelet. All participants employed similar language implying that lack of awareness of yourself and your surroundings as a PWD is unac-ceptable. Liz discussed the challenge of remembering the bag she used to carry her supplies.

Ketchell 57

Having diabetes made me grow up faster. I had to be more respon-sible, remember things. I would get yelled at because I used to for-get my purse. I would forget it on recess or in my locker. But it was hard for me to remember it.

Another participant, Ann, a recent graduate who has had diabetes for four years, also cited that diabetes gave her a duty to care.

A big part of having diabetes is making sure you’re always healthy, you’re always doing it right.

Variations of Liz’s and Ann’s narratives were present in every interview. These responses affirmed that participants felt a moral injunction to choose responsibly and prioritize health.

Participants’ accounts reflected a consumerist biomedical culture that assumes patients act rationally to mitigate health risks and prolong life (Borovoy and Hine 2008). While failing to take insulin or check blood sugars can cause life-threatening glucose levels, this neoliberal conception of pa-tients does not acknowledge unpredictable events, human error, and conflict-ing patient values. Nor does it recognize the emotional suffering that accom-panies imperfect choices that can produce undesirable results, as Mol (2008) explains in her criticism of the logic of choice. Ann reported agonizing over food choices and insulin-dosing decisions.

It’s so involuntary now for me to check my sugar and give myself insulin. There are times when my sugar gets low or high and I’ll start questioning what I did. Did I overshoot my insulin? What did I do to mess this up?

Ann’s description of management practices as “involuntary” calls into ques-tion the decision-focused rhetoric of the neoliberal conception of patients. Thus, neoliberal ideologies create unrealistic expectations that autonomous patients who act in accordance with a normative standard of diabetes care will achieve precise results. These unrealistic expectations then translate to an increased pressure for patients to seek control of more than just blood sugars.

My conversations with James and Ann about alcohol demonstrated this tension. James is a junior studying management at a large university. He works two jobs, participates in student government and a fraternity, and vol-unteers in the community. James was diagnosed with diabetes days before he would have left for his freshman orientation at another school farther away from his childhood home. Diabetes deterred his original plans and spoiled his dream of becoming a US Marine.3 As James was diagnosed approximately two years prior to our interview, he still considers himself in the “honeymoon period,” a phase where the pancreas remains partially functional. This phase is characterized by more stable blood sugar levels. James considers himself healthy aside from having diabetes: he exercises regularly and eats a well balanced diet. Despite his dedication to living a healthy life, James’ loved ones still worry about him. Sometimes this care holds James and others living with diabetes to higher standards of managing risk.


As risk management chair of his fraternity, James cannot drink at most fraternity events, and opts not to drink when he feels out of control. However, like many college students, James is inclined to occasionally test his boundaries.

“James, you’re the scariest person to drink with” my fraternity brothers say. But they’re team players so they take care of me.

James appreciates their concern, but his choice reflects a complicat-

ed value judgment and shows desire for social inclusion—as opposed to bla-tant disregard for health. James’ circumstances resonate with Borovoy and Hine’s (2008) discussion of moral language in the treatment of elderly Rus-sian immigrants with type 2 diabetes. Their American doctors deemed them difficult and noncompliant because they chose to continue drinking vodka and eating traditional foods. Noncompliant meant that the patients failed to adhere to the treatment regimen of diet and lifestyle recommendations. The assump-tion underlying the doctor-patient relationship in diabetes management that patients are fully autonomous, prioritize avoiding risk, and will make choices to preserve health at all costs does not adequately account for the plurality of patient social and cultural values (Borovoy and Hine 2008; Emanuel and Emanuel 1992). For James and the Émigré population, the impetus driving their “noncompliant” behavior is often synonymous with the free choice and individualism that inform the American culture of biomedicine in the first place (Borovoy and Hine 2008; Ferzacca 2000). While James drinks as part of his social experience of college, and the Russian Jewish Émigrés refuse to alter their diets upon emigrating to America, they should not be classified as careless. Instead, these circumstances show the complexity of life with chron-ic illness as well as the incomplete picture of the emphasis on choice alone. Blaming patients who fail to act in ways deemed rational and desira-ble by American biomedical culture can send harmful messages about person-al capacity for self-control and the value of one’s character. Too heavy a bur-den to choose wisely prevents patients from adapting to fluctuating physical and emotional needs of life with chronic illness (Anderson and Wolpert 2004, 348). Ann describes the challenge of reconciling competing interests in rela-tionship to drinking, facing criticism from peers for choosing not to drink, and receiving pressure from her parents to act more carefully than her siblings.

My parents say, “We worry about you more because of the diabe-tes” compared to my sister and brother. And I’d ask why? It’s got-ten better, they know I make good decisions now because they can see it, but it was really hard because I felt, I’ve given you no rea-son to not trust me, or not to think that I’d be ok. So I wasn’t sure why they felt that way?

Ann is a person with diabetes and a young adult seeking social inclusion. Mulligan discusses the dysfunctional nature of neoliberal health policies that assume complete patient autonomy and omniscience for “consumers” in the health “market” (2014, 89). She claims that assumptions about “carefully cal-culating consumers” do not take into consideration the “moral and social cri-teria that people actually employ when making decisions about their health

Ketchell 59

care,” and that the consumer model does not account for how people respond to illness (Mulligan 2014, 90). Ann’s situation shows the complexity of crite-ria used to inform decisions, and the contradictory interests of peers, parents, and self that blur lines of free choice. While none of these young adults can speak to the experience of parents of children with diabetes, Ann’s experience also illustrates the increased pressure PWD feel to measure up to the expecta-tions of themselves and those around them. Measuring Up

Living with diabetes is a constant game of numbers: I test my blood sugar several times a day, count the carbohydrates I eat, and adjust my insulin intake according to a set of ratios my doctor and I have discussed. The objec-tive is to stabilize my blood sugars to fend off neuropathy, nephropathy, reti-nopathy, and other daunting consequences of persistent high blood sugar. I assess how I feel throughout the day, and rely on a CGM, which measures my blood sugar every five minutes to alert me if I am above or below the numeric thresholds I have set it to measure.4 While this acute self-awareness may translate to tighter regulation of diabetes and a more detail-oriented approach in other areas of life, it comes at a cost to self-acceptance. Diabetes manage-ment is a process of constant striving. While the struggle to achieve stellar results, especially as related to one’s health, seems a worthy cause, it is diffi-cult to determine when to accept that enough effort has been put forth toward a goal. The implications of constant monitoring are palpable in the guilt that participants described feeling at the doctor, when forced to face the numbers. In Prescribing by Numbers, Greene (2007) elucidates how numbers often supersede patient and physician perception in the diagnosis of various diseases. While physical perception remains relevant throughout the lifespan in diabetes due to symptoms produced by fluctuating blood sugars, measures such as the A1c and CGM have allowed for extensive collection of empirical data, which can paint a picture of a patient’s daily blood sugar control and inform a patient’s conception of self-efficacy. These measures allow for evi-dence-based treatment adjustments, and with the CGM, lessen the responsibil-ity of the patient by automatically recording blood glucose data in real time. Nonetheless, emphasis on numbers was concerning for Nicholas, a graduate student who was diagnosed with type 1 just before his freshman year. Feudt-ner (2003, 15) explains that PWD express concerns about how they are per-ceived by their peers and doctors, and that these worries influence patients’ lived experiences and relationships with medical providers. I asked Nicholas if he had ever manually falsified his blood sugar records before going to the doctor, and his response echoed Feudtner’s claim.

I have to write down my blood sugars. At first, it’s not too bad, but it’s annoying when you have to go through at the end of each day and write everything. It’s easy to forget. So how did I get away with it? There was one month that I actually did it, I wrote down my numbers. Then I was reminded that I had the endo [endocrinologist appointment] coming up and thought to myself “I haven’t been keeping track. I’m screwed.” So I took my last visit’s


numbers, and wrote them out on an excel spreadsheet, because my doctor hadn’t seen it in that form, then I presented it to him, and he bought it. I save it on my computer and those are my default blood sugars. It’s bad, but this past month I didn’t have time for this blood sugar nonsense. I changed the dates, I fudged the numbers, and I went to my doctor.

Nicholas’ story shows the lengths that some go to represent themselves in a way that meets social expectations. He demonstrates how numerical evidence can be subject to human interference, but is also an example of the complex relationship between PWD and their numbers. Nicholas’ account depicts the challenge of diabetes management in practice, as described by Mol: “In prac-tice daily care turns around messy, material, smelly, bloody, frightening, or tedious activities that tend to be difficult to do (for professionals as well as patients). Choice has very little to do with all of this” (2009, 1756). Mol (2008) asserts that a mischaracterization of health-related decision-making has led to a poorly-thought-out adoption of the “logic of choice” in healthcare. This model fails to recognize the physical and emotional con-straints of human existence with disease. Mol (2008) advocates for a transi-tion from this consumer model of medicine to a “logic of care,” which would necessitate patients and providers accepting that flawed treatment practices and technology make it impossible to achieve total control. Nicholas’ story illustrates the tension between trying to preserve and live life simultaneously.

Nicholas was the only participant who falsified his records, but other participants had anxiety about reviewing records at endocrinologist appoint-ments. Liz described a cycle of guilt and self-doubt tied to her A1c. She finds her experience with grades analogous to receiving A1c results.

Getting Bs in my classes makes me want to pull my hair out. I think, I need to work harder, I need to do better, I need to get this right. I’m still scared sometimes to go to the doctor. Because I know that A1c number is not gonna be what he wants it to be. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. It’s not like he is going to do any-thing to me? He’s a really nice guy, and he doesn’t yell at me ei-ther. It’s a disappointment look almost—that kills me.

Liz says she feels guilty and disappointed in herself frequently during doc-tor’s visits.

When my blood sugar is high, I’ll kick myself about it. I’ll think, “Oh I shouldn’t have eaten that.” But I wanted to? I haven’t had dessert this whole week, and then I have one thing of ice cream, and I tested an hour later, and it’s high. It’s annoying. It kind of furthered my own kind of self-doubt thing.

While Liz’s perfectionist tendencies were more pronounced than some of the others I interviewed, several participants revealed their struggles with separat-ing their numbers from self-perception. Interviewees noted feeling anxious when their blood sugar is out of range, likely a combination of the physiologi-cal effects of unruly blood sugars and the burden of personal responsibility.

Ketchell 61

Liz and other participants also mentioned premeditating justifications for their numbers prior to seeing the doctor. Perfectionism raises concerns that a patient will reach a breaking point where they become unable to care for themselves, often termed “diabetes burnout.” Frustration with managing diabetes lies in “the fact that ‘good’ behavior does not always translate into good results” (Snoek and Skin-ner 2006). Burnout is a state of distress occurring when a person may develop self-destructive management habits as a result of feeling overwhelmed, de-pressed, anxious, or apathetic toward their diabetes-related responsibilities (Gebel 2013). While no participants reported experiencing burnout, burnout presents itself as a blend of mental health concerns (e.g., depression, anxiety), but is unique to PWD as it arises from the demands of chronic disease man-agement.5 Impractical treatment goals and lack of understanding by parents or providers can lead to a culture of “perfectionism,” leaving young adults more susceptible to burnout (Anderson and Wolpert 2004, 348). Moving toward Mol’s definition of care as well as extracting choice-focused rhetoric from daily care practices might offer a solution for burnout. Engaging in this type of care would accept the unpredictability of chronicity and allow patients to adapt to fluctuating states of physical and emotional need. No interviewees reported that their doctors were stern during ap-pointments; however, despite participants’ best efforts to separate sugar levels and moral character, their narratives of guilt and disappointment showed that this is an ongoing challenge. Patients are not alone in their frustration with diabetes as a game of numbers. Oldani (2010) discusses the danger of treating patients as “relative value units” in an incentivized, corporate compliance model. He describes the potential for blocking access to medical care for type 2 diabetes patients who do not have the right numbers by linking physician compensation to patient A1c’s, among other measures (Oldani 2010, 220). Doctors were encouraged to discontinue seeing “bad” patients with diabetes, which presented them with a unique ethical dilemma (Oldani 2010).

Another study evaluated the existence and impact of moral language with respect to people living with type 2 diabetes who “described a culture of surveillance and monitoring” of their activities by themselves and third par-ties to ensure they were following prescribed treatment regimens (Broom and Whitaker 2008, 2374). These authors interviewed adults with type 2 diabetes and found that they struggled to achieve a balance between submitting to strict care routines and asserting autonomy as independent adults. The results showed that participants often equated “good” with “exercising restraint” and self-regulation in diabetes care practices, while being “naughty” was equated with “diverging from the recommended regimen” (Broom and Whitaker 2008, 2377). Using these morally charged terms to reference compliant or deviant behaviors was found to lead to a sense of diminished agency for adults with diabetes who have had to transform their conception of responsi-bility in response to their condition. Participants characterized themselves in childish ways or reduced non-compliance to immaturity to transfer guilt they felt from failing to adhere to prescribed treatment regimens. Furthermore, the language recorded in interviews reflected a biomedical culture praising con-trol, denoting states of being out of control as evidence of “moral failing,” similar to the implications of Joslin’s philosophy (Broom and Whitaker 2004, 2381). Though this study evaluated people with type 2 diabetes, many of its


themes resonated with young adults who have type 1 diabetes—but not in the way I anticipated.

Prior to starting interviews, I expected participants to experience similar phenomena to the participants in Broom and Whitaker’s study. This might include infantilizing narratives and questioning of self-discipline—such as others asking “Can you eat that?”—from family, friends, providers, or strangers with little understanding of diabetes. Instead, I found participants mostly denied experiencing judgment from third parties. Almost all partici-pants employed “stigmatizing rhetoric” toward peers with diabetes and them-selves (Metzl 2010, 5). Sociologist Erving Goffman (1963) developed the concept of stigmatizing rhetoric, which claims that to affirm you are healthy, you must find a way to establish that another person is unhealthy. Participants employed varying degrees of moral language to describe “good” patients as healthier than other presumably “bad” patients. For example, James shared his opinion regarding online networks for PWD.

When I was first diagnosed, I thought it was cool, I joined all these online websites. I got an email today from one. … I hate it. It’s stupid. I don’t know, I think they are more for people that don’t know how to control themselves and don’t have a life outside of diabetes.

This quote displays stigmatizing rhetoric, as James characterizes people who participate in online diabetes groups as people who fail to take care of them-selves. James also engaged in self-moralizing during our conversation.

I found myself using stigmatizing rhetoric too, measuring up how many times in a day I typically test my blood sugar or how often I forget to take insulin, in relationship to whom I was speaking. This occurred extensive-ly with James in discussing his recent A1c, which happened to be 6.2%. Without even thinking, I commended James for his accomplishment. It sparked jealousy at first, then an onslaught of perfectionist leaning thoughts about my complacency and need to improve my own A1c. I struggled with this conversation. I recognized James as worthy of praise because the exercise and food habits he previously described to me in the interview signaled that he earned his A1c. But as I listened forward, even James began to self-moralize.

I'm cheating a little. I'm technically still in the honeymoon period. My Lantus [type of insulin] is on 10 units, and I only have to take—I take 1 unit for every 20 grams of carbs. So, I cheated a little bit.

His disclosure stimulated a comparison of our carbohydrate ratios and insulin sensitivity factors. Discussing these numbers revealed their lack of objective value and validated the culture of surveillance of others and oneself. Further-more, my own rationalization that James deserved his A1c was a moral judg-ment of his work ethic, which proved relevant to how participants defined themselves.

Ketchell 63

Defining a Self with Diabetes

Most participants emphasized the quality of their work ethics and expressed desire to dissociate diabetes from public identity. Some feared be-ing labeled as lazy or weak of will because they could not meet others’ and their own expectations. Liz discussed this frustration with her experience playing field hockey.

I’m a hard worker, and I wanted to give it my all, but sometimes I couldn’t because my blood sugar was dropping and I couldn’t run however many miles. One day we were doing a really hard workout and my sugar was low. So I sat down, let my coach know, and started eating. There were girls on my team who thought I used diabetes to avoid working out. I felt judgment that the reason I worked so hard was to compensate.

Liz was upset that diabetes detracted from her identity as a committed athlete. Mol addresses this problem in her discussion of the citizen patient: “By defi-nition, citizens are not troubled by their bodies . . . a citizen is someone who controls his body, who tames it, or who escapes from it. But this implies that you can only be a citizen in as far as your body can be controlled, tamed or transcended. Disease interferes with this” (2008, 31). This definition of a citi-zen and idea of choice, especially in a disease state, reflects the most signifi-cant challenge for study participants: understanding identity in the context of chronic illness that interferes with parts of life subject to moral judgment and often beyond their control. Liz’s unease about being perceived to have a diminished work ethic because of diabetes was ironic though, as all participants cited that diabetes had shaped their character, or in James’ case, catalyzed their motivation and leadership skills.

I was never a control freak before I had diabetes. Now, I have to be the leader of everything. I was always a leader. I was always on executive boards of everything, but never the president. I’m realiz-ing that I do have all these leadership qualities—but I didn’t have that until I was diagnosed.

James’ self-awareness demonstrated a culture of surveillance transformed into self-reflection. When asked if they retained a personal philosophy about liv-ing with diabetes, most participants provided immediate answers, and some even cited specific quotes. James’ quote was: “Improvise, Adapt, Overcome.” This quote guides his thoughts and actions and he has found it useful in his adjustment to diabetes. Mol (2008, 79) explains that guilt accompanies the logic of choice in healthcare, because patients make decisions and are consid-ered responsible for all consequences. She calls for replacing the logic of choice by reclassifying patient action as activities instead of decisions, and accepting aspects of disease that escape control (Mol 2008). Many partici-pants struggled to detach themselves from numbers and accept limited capaci-ty for control, but James accepted his responsibility and did not consider him-self morally suspect based on his numbers. When asked if he felt personally


responsible for out-of-range glucose levels, James’ responded as follows:

I see a number, and I think all right, this is what I have to do to get back to normal. When I was at 500, I thought, I clearly know what caused this, great. Now let's go back to normal. I see it as solving a problem. I don't think about it with any emotion. I think about it more logically.

On one hand, James avoids self-moralizing in this process, but on the other hand, his detached method of problem solving resembles apathy. James, Nicholas, and several other participants cited approaching their diabetes care in a detached, logical fashion, but unguarded excerpts from Liz’s and Ann’s interviews offered another illustration of the varied reactions to chronic ill-ness.6, 7 Conclusion Life with diabetes has evolved with changes in treatment and tech-nology. Early care practices, which emphasized a normative standard of right action, framed health as an unqualified good worthy of pursuit at any cost (Feudtner 2003). The attitudes of participants and their positive experiences with providers show how clinical culture has attempted a more “caring” ap-proach and sought to detach blame from patients. However, the internalized moral injunction that participants displayed through perceived obligation to manage risk, hyper-meaningful interpretation of numbers, and reflections on their conditions’ influence on their lives shows how health functions as a source of moral judgment. The elusive quest for control through responsible decision-making according to neoliberal conceptions has generated anguish for patients who internalize pressure to manage their condition, and also influ-ences other areas of their lives. Liz’s and Ann’s narratives of distressed deci-sion-making as well as James’ disinterested approach to solving problematic blood sugars support Mol’s argument for dissociating the logic of choice from tending to chronic disease. Based on the ethnographic data and analysis of existing literature, distancing blame from care activities and a more compas-sionate approach to diabetes management are causes worthy of increased pur-suit.

Joslin’s philosophy of care led him to create “Victory Medals,” which were awarded to PWD who survived with diabetes for 25 or more years and who were deemed to be in good health after thorough physical ex-amination, for their unflagging commitment to a strict diabetes regimen (Feudtner 2003, 175). The diabetes community expressed mixed reactions to this system of moral hierarchy, as tying patient willpower and ability to fol-low a doctor’s orders to health outcomes assigned immense blame to PWD. These awards imply that those who develop long-term complications are neg-ligent and thus deserving of a deteriorating health status. The medals have since been modified to reward longer periods of time lived with diabetes and continue to be granted through various outlets (Nauen 2014). While these medals might serve as incentives to prioritize health, the idea that choosing steadfast commitment to medical care can defeat diabetes is misleading. Chronic care does not lead to cure, and rigorous care may not lead to escaping

Ketchell 65

diabetes complications (Feudtner 2003; Mol 2008). I recently received a variation of a Victory Medal for living ten

years with diabetes. While this required no physical certification of health, the letter of congratulations I received commemorated my “outstanding accom-plishment” and applauded my “discipline in maintaining a healthy lifestyle.” This language is unsettling. The culture of achievement embodied in “Victory Medals” perpetuates the faulty assumption that diabetes can be mastered through good choices—a far too simplistic view of chronic disease manage-ment that may spoil the identity of people living with diabetes.

Acknowledgments Thank you to my faculty mentor, Dr. Jessica Mulligan, Associate Professor of Health Policy and Management at Providence College, for sharing her knowledge, experiences, and encouragement throughout the duration of this project. In addition, thank you to the Providence College Under-graduate Research Grant Committee for awarding me an Undergraduate Research Grant to pur-sue this project. Furthermore, I thank the College Diabetes Network for assisting in participant recruitment, and finally, thank you to the those who generously shared their time and stories.

Notes

1. I use the term diabetes community to refer to people and interest groups that professionally focus on diabetes or are personally impacted by the condition. 2. See Ellis et al. (2011) and Ngunjiri et al. (2010) for further information regarding the develop-ment and practice of autoethnography. 3. PWD have historically been prohibited from entering the military. Some exceptions have been made for people who are diagnosed after entering the military, but they must receive approval by a medical board (Neithercott 2013). 4. For information regarding blood glucose monitoring technology, see Clarke and Foster (2012). 5. Diabetes burnout or distress, though a blend of various mental health concerns, is considered a separate mental health issue tied to living with chronic disease. While participants’ neuropsycho-logical conditions and experience of diabetes may be interrelated, the scope of this study did not allow for proving any relationship between these participants’ comorbid conditions. See Li et al. (2008) and Lin and Von Korff (2008) for more information regarding diabetes and mental health. 6. I noticed a trend in the interviews that male participants exhibited less concern with managing diabetes than female participants. This study is too small to make claims about the broader popu-lation, and I do not intend to perpetuate gender stereotypes based on social constructions of ex-pected gender behavior, but some evidence exists claiming that levels of diabetes-related worry were lower in adolescent boys than in adolescent girls (Hoey et al. 2001). More in depth analysis of this question of gender difference in response to chronic disease was not within the scope of the study; thus I cannot provide any conclusions. 7. Another variable that emerged, but was not central to the research question, was the impact of years lived with diabetes on a person’s self-care practices. My sense is that this has an impact on approach to diabetes management, but this study was not designed to track this variable. Further research could analyze this to better contextualize participant responses.

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Major Questions about Teres Minor: The Pattern of Reactive Changes in a Precolumbian Human

Skeletal Sample From Illinois

Deborah L. Neidich

Department of Anthropology, University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

and Maria Ostendorf Smith

Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Illinois State University, Normal, Illinois, USA

Abstract: The ubiquitous presence of reactive changes at the insertion of a minor muscle of the rotator cuff on the proximal humerus (teres minor) is analyzed in an adult Late Woodland (AD 800–1150) period osteological sam-ple (N = 43) from west-central Illinois (Schroeder Mounds, 11HE177). Fifty-seven percent left (20/35) and sixty-nine percent right humeri (25/36) have reactive change to the t. minor facet. There are no statistically significant dif-ferences by sex or side asymmetry. Reactive change generally co-associates with greater humeral robusticity. Besides a minor collaborative role in shoul-der joint stability, teres minor has a limit range of movement as an abductor and external rotator of the arm. Injuries to the t. minor are exrememly rare in modern clinical contexts and only in athletes who engage in actvivites that utilize overhead arm movements. That is, the reactive change may be associ-ated with particular arm movements or body posture which, in this pre-Columbian horticulturalist sample, may be related to activities for which there are no modern clinical correlates.

Keywords: Illinois, Woodland Per iod, mechanical injury, teres minor , Schroeder Mounds

Introduction

The most lateral structure of the proximal humerus is the greater tubercle. Three of the four muscles that comprise the rotator cuff attach at three successive facets located on the superior to posterior margin of the tu-bercle (Culham and Peat 1993; Halder et al. 2000; Soslowsky et al. 1992; White et al. 2011). The muscles of the rotator cuff collaboratively act as joint stabilizers and individually perform a range of shoulder movements. The teres minor muscle attaches on the most inferior of the facets (Halder et al. 2000; Prescher 2000; Terry and Chopp 2000). Teres minor originates on the dorsal surface of the axillary border of the scapula. It primarily functions to posteri-orly rotate the humerus and, when the arm is in the horizontal plane, as an arm abductor and extender (Escamila and Andrews 2009; Oveson and Niel-son 1986). As part of the rotator cuff, the muscle also plays a collaborative role in shoulder joint stability. However, this role is mimimal, as it is the smallest and weakest of the cuff muscles (Keating et al. 1992), supplying only

Neidich and Smith 71

ten percent of joint muscle strength (Keating et al. 1993). Teres minor is clinically observed to be infrequently damaged in rota-

tor cuff injuries (Hodgson et al. 2012; Melis et al. 2011). However, reactive change at the teres minor insertion is frequently observed in the adults from the Late Woodland (circa AD 800–1100) skeletal sample from Schroeder Mounds (11He177), Illinois. Minimal attention has been given to the muscle in bioar-chaeological assessment of musculo-skeletal stress in the shoulder joint (e.g., Clapper 2006; Eshed et al. 2004; Lieverse et al. 2009; Molnar 2006; Peterson 1998). Considering the limited range of motion and direction of teres minor in physical activity, the presence of reactive change in the Schroeder Mounds sample is an opportunity to quantify, assess by age and sex, and biomechani-cally interpret the results.

Materials and Methods

The Schroeder Mounds site (11HE177) is located in west-central Illi-nois in Henderson County (Figure 1). The site is a multiple overlapping mound mortuary context situated on a low bluff overlooking a floodplain of the east bank of the Mississippi River. Schroeder Mounds dates to the Late Woodland period (circa AD 800–1100) (Esarey 2000; Kolb 1982). No habitation areas are associated with the mound. The site was a salvage excavation consequential to disturbance by a domestic construction project. Schroeder Mounds yielded 119 very well preserved burials (sixty-nine adults, forty-eight subadults, two sex-indeterminate adults.). Forty-three adult (third molars in occlusion) individuals with at least one proximal humerus preserving an intact greater tubercle were examined for teres minor facets.

Figure 1: Map of Schroeder Mounds (11HE177), Henderson County, Illinois.

The adults were aged and sexed according to standard osteological

criteria (Brooks and Suchey 1990; Buikstra and Ubelaker 1994). As the facet variant may be a progressive development, the adults were segregated into three age-at-death categories: “old” (over 40 years of age [yoa]), “middle age” (30–40 yoa), and “young” (under 30 yoa). The glenohumeral joint is the main articulation of the shoulder joint. Besides the glenoid labrum and three glenohumeral ligaments, the joint is sta-

72 Major Questions about Teres Minor

bilized by a suite of seven muscles, four of which (supraspinatus, infraspina-tus, teres minor, and subscapularis) define the rotator cuff and have insertions (entheses) on the greater tubercle of the humeral head (Culham and Peat 1993; Halder et al. 2000; Soslowsky et al. 1992). As noted, the teres minor enthesis is on the inferior facet (Figure 2a, b). All of the inferior facets on preserved greater tubercles of the adults in the Schroeder Mounds sample were examined for the presence of any reactive change. A score of zero identified an unremod-eled (e.g., smooth, no porosity) facet surface (Figure 2b). Given the small Schroeder Mounds sample size, a simplified quantification method relative to the Coimbra protocols (see Henderson et al. 2012; Jurmain and Villotte 2010; Villotte and Knüsel 2013) was preferred. Reactive change was scored on two levels: score A (Figure 3a) reflected some evidence of cortical change (e.g., porosity, spicules) on the facet or at the margins; score B indicated more ex-tensive and intensive reactive change resulting in facet lipping or a lytic defect or depression at the insertion site (Figure 3b). Although reactive change was macroscopicically visible, each level assignment was corroborated by photo-graph (Nikon S8100, 10x optical zoom). Facet size was not a scoring factor.

Figure 2: a) Origin and insertion of teres minor muscle and illustration of posterior rotation; b) illustration of adduction and abduction in the horizontal plane; c) location of insertion of teres minor (arrow) on the posterior-inferior facet of the greater tubercle.

Body size or robusticity may also be a predisposing or mediating fac-tor in reactive changes at muscle entheses (e.g., Weiss 2005, 2006; Weiss et al. 2012; Wilczak 1998); therefore, a simple robusticity index (i.e., Pearson 2000; Stock and Shaw 2007) was employed. Three standardized measurements (Bräuer 1988) were utilized: maximum humeral length (ML), maximum diam-eter at midshaft (MDM), and minimum diameter at midshaft (mDM). The hu-meral index for each humerus was calculated:

(MDM x mDM)/ML x 100


Two statistical tests were utilized to determine acceptance or rejection of the null hypothesis (p-value). Mean differences were assessed using the t-test. Paired comparisions of differences by distribution (two-tailed) and direc-tion (one-tailed) were assessed using the Fisher’s exact test. Statistical signifi-cance for both tests was set at the ninety-fifth percentile (p < .05). The Fisher’s exact test was employed because the Schroeder Mounds sample sizes were expected to be small and the p-value calculated by the Chi-square test is an approximation (D’Agostino et al. 1988). The Fisher’s exact test is conservative, particularly in small samples. That is, the mathematical threshold for rejection of the null hypothesis may actually be greater than the ninety-fifth percentile. Given that biomechanical or behavioral interpretations would rest on statistical-ly significant differences, a conservative test was preferred (Berkson 1978; D’Agostino et al. 1988).

Figure 3: a) initial stage (A) reactive change at teres minor insertion; b) insertion remodeling at stage B.

Results

The Schroeder Mounds sample yielded a total of sixteen males, twenty-six females, and one sex-indeterminate individual (N = 43) who collectively generated thirty-six right and thirty-five left humeri (Table 1). Collectively, fifty-seven percent of all left humeri (20/35) and sixty-nine percent of all right humeri (25/36) had some level (i.e., A or B) of entheseal remodeling. The com-parative prevalence by side was not statistically significant (p = .3303). When segregated by more involved reactive change (level B) (5/35 left, 7/36 right), there was also no statistically significant difference by side (p = .7531).

Prevalence and Pattern by Sex

Sex differences were examined within (i.e., side prevalence, expres-sion) and between the sexes by the collective left and the collective right hu-meri. Within the female sample, forty-seven percent of left (10/21) and sixty-seven percent of right (14/22) teres minor entheses have reactive change (level A or B). Right-side prevalence was tested (one-tailed test) and was not statisti-cally significant (p = .2269). Examining reactive change in the females (i.e., prevalence of level B) by side (1/21 versus 3/22), there was also no significant


difference (p = .6069). In the male sample, over sixty-nine percent had scores of A or B on the left humerus (9/13) and over seventy-eight percent (11/14) had scores of A or B on the right. Neither right-side prevalence (p = .4539) nor left-side prevalence by reactive change (level B) (4/13 versus 4/14) (p = .6151) was significant. Prevalence differences between the sexes (Table 1) revealed a higher male frequency on the left humerus (69% versus 40%) (p = .0990) and the right humerus (78.6% versus 62%) (p = .3628) for any level of score (A+B) was not statistically significant. The B facet level comparisons (left side 4/13 versus 1/20, p = .0657, right side 4/14 versus 3/21, p= .2704) were also not statistically significant.

Lateralization

Twenty-eight individuals (eleven males, seventeen females) preserved the greater tubercle on both a left and a right humerus (Table 1). Twenty of these individuals exhibit reactive change at the t. minor enthesis (20/28, 71.4%) on either one or both humeri, with twelve (seven females, four males, one sex- indeterminate) of these (12/20) presenting bilaterally. Where a side difference occurs (8/28), more individuals exhibit reactive change on the right side (7/8). Relative to females, males are not more likely to express a score bilaterally (p = .5646, one-tailed). Nine of the eleven males with both humeri (82%) dis-played reactive change. Two of the nine males had level A reactive change on the right side. Two individuals had an asymmetrical expression: Burial 58 had a score of A on the left and B on the right, and Burial 39 displayed the oppo-site. The remaining five individuals with a facet on both humeri (5/11) dis-played symmetrically: two individuals had level A and three had level B.

Eleven of the seventeen females with both humeri have at least one humerus with a facet score (64.7%) and all facets express at the incipient (A) level. Seven females exhibit reactive change bilaterally. Of the four females that exhibited laterality, all had reactive change on the right side.

Facet Pattern and Age at Death

The forty-three ageable Schroeder Mounds adults were segregated into three age groups (< 30, 30–40, and 40+) to assess the role of age in pres-ence and level of reactive change (Table 2). Comparing total left and total right humeri in the young adult sample (<30 years, eight males, sixteen females, one sex-indeterminate), there is a right-side bias in reactive change (10/20 versus 16/22) and severity (2/10 level B versus 5/16), but neither (p = .2040, p = .4143 respectively) were statistically significant. The right-side bias also occurs with-in the male and female samples (Table 2). Among individuals who preserve both proximal humeri, over seventy-two percent (13/18) have a facet bilateral-ly, with six individuals (6/13) showing a right-side bias of either any level of entheseal remodeling (A or B) or advanced reactive change (level B) (Table 2). Young males have a higher prevalence of remodeling by side (5/8 versus 5/12, 6/7 versus 10/15) and a higher prevalence of a bilateral presence (6/7 versus 7/11). The observed sex differences in the young adult cohort are not statisti-

cally significant. However, the results may reflect sampling error. The middle age cohort (circa 30–40 yoa at death) was small (five

males, six females). Left and right humeri had equal prevalence of entheseal change (6/9) with four of six who preserved both humeri exhibiting bilaterally.


A noticeable pattern in this age category is the few cases with B-level reactive change (1/12, 8.3%, N humeri = 18). In contrast, out of the twenty-six total facets (26/42) in the young adult sample, seven (27%) were at the B-level. However, this age difference was not statistically significant (p = .1934, one-tailed).

The oldest age cohort (circa 40+ years) has only two males and four females. There were five left and five right humeri with no side bias of reactive change for prevalence or severity. However, four of the six humeri with facets (two left, two right) had remodeled facets.

Tab

le 1

: P

rese

nce

an

d l

evel

of

reac

tiv

e ch

ang

e on

the

tere

s m

ino

r fa

cet.

No

tes:

A =

lo

w l

evel

of

reac

tiv

e ch

ang

e (e

.g.,

sp

icu

les)

; B

= e

xte

nsi

ve

enth

esea

l re

mo

del

ing

(li

pp

ing

, ly

tic

def

ects

); A

+B

= a

ll r

eact

ive

chan

ges

. S

amp

les

are

seg

reg

ated

by s

ide

(by s

ex a

nd

by t

ota

l sa

mp

le)

and

by

in

div

idu

als

wh

o p

rese

rve

bo

th a

lef

t an

d r

igh

t hu

mer

us.


Robusticity Indices and Symmetry

Body size may play a role in facet remodeling; therefore, a robusticity index was calculated for forty three individuals (sixteen males, twenty-six fe-

Tab

le 2

. L

evel

of

reac

tiv

e ch

ang

e b

y a

ge

cate

go

ry.

No

tes:

Pre

sence

of

reac

tive

chan

ge

segre

gat

ed b

y s

kel

etal

age-a

t-d

eath

. S

core

s ar

e ta

bula

ted

by t

he

tota

l sa

mp

le o

f le

ft a

nd

rig

ht

hu

mer

i an

d b

y i

nd

ivid

ual

s p

rese

rvin

g b

oth

. In

div

idual

s p

rese

rvin

g b

oth

hu

mer

i ar

e sc

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males, one sex-indeterminate) who had at least one measurable humerus (i.e., maximum length, minimum and maximum diameters at midshaft) as well as a preserved greater tubercle (Table 3). In general, there is no statistically signifi-cant difference in the means (t-test) in the total sample by side (p = .4865), for side asymmetry in males (p = .9931), or for side asymmetry in females (p = .5369). There is also no significantly different side asymmetry means be-tween the sexes for either the left (p = .4035) or the right humeral index (p = .6933). However, given the probability of sampling error, the left and right humeri are evaluated separately.

Table 3: Level of reactive change by mean robusticity index.

1

Notes:

1 Numbers in parenthesis = sample N; 2 includes unsexable individuals; 3

includes individuals without a preserved greater tubercle. The mean scores for robusticity are tabulated by presence and degrees of reactive change and are presented for the total sample and by sex.

In the subset of humeri that preserve a greater tubercle, the presence of any reactive change (A+B) versus the absence of reactive change (Table 3) is statistically significant for the left humerus (10.97 versus 11.90, p = .0009) but not on the right (11.30 versus 11.68, p = .1886). This may reflect sampling error as the total sample mean indices for left and right humeri are virtually the same (11.45 versus 11.59). The differences relate to the differences by sex. Specifically, for both the left and right humeri samples, males and females with no reactive change have the lowest mean robusticity index. The highest robus-ticity indices (samples of 2+ individuals) occur in the samples with B-level reactive change. Individuals with some reactive facet change (A) have mean indices between the two. Although sampling bias may influence the pattern (male N = 4), females without reactive change have a larger mean robusticity index than the males (10.61 versus 11.09 [p = .2093], 11.08 versus 11.40 [p = .5012]) and females with any score have smaller mean indices (11.98 versus 11.80 [p = .6723], 11.79 versus 11.58 [p = .5463]). Although segregating the sample by the age cohorts markedly reduces the sample size in each (Table 4), some patterns can be observed. Mirroring the total sample, the mean robustici-ty score across all three age categories is lowest for individuals without facet scores. With the exception of the right humerus of young males, the robusticity index of B-scored humeri are the largest. Small sample sizes result in a mixed


pattern for age-controlled sex differences and asymmetry patterns; however, several trends may be apparent. The mean robusticity scores for adults with B scores are higher in the older age cohort than in the young adults.

Table 4: Mean robusticity index by sex and by age category.

Notes: 1 includes unsexable individuals; 2 includes individuals without a preserved greater tubercle; numbers in parenthesis = sample N.

Although sampling error should be considered, this may potentially reflect the morbidity of young age-at-death males. Comparing side differences across all age cohorts, the side with the lower mean robusticity index has a higher mean score threshold for A-level facet change. Where sex comparisons are possible (young cohort, left and right humeri; middle age cohort, right humerus), fe-males have a higher robusticity threshold before they exhibit facet scores.


Within-sex comparisons are largely case comparisons, but these may predict life course patterns (e.g., Elder 1998; Kuh and Shlomo 2004; Mayer 2009) in larger samples. For example, for the right humerus, the single middle age fe-male case with no facet score has a higher robusticity index (11.93) than the two young females with B-scored facets (11.54) and a higher score than five out of the seven females with A-scored facets (range 10.3–11.8). Between the male young and middle age cohorts (right humerus), the mean robusticity in-dex for the A facet (12.07) in the middle age sample is higher than the A (11.50) and B (11.06) facet robusticity means for the younger males. Discussion The presence and expression of remodeled teres minor facets in the adult Schroeder Mounds sample is certainly patterned. Reactive changes on the facet occur in both males and females. Although there is some right-side bias, most individuals with preserved left and right greater tubercles exhibit some level of reactive change bilaterally. Males are more likely to exhibit side bias and are more likely to display more involved reactive changes (i.e., score of B). The male bias predicts a co-association with body size or robusticity. The proxy for size adopted in this study is the humeral index. The mean humeral indices for the total sample and subsets (i.e., sex, age) are larger in the presence of any entheseal remodeling of the facet. However, intra-sample patterns that suggest body size is not the exclusive predictor of facet condition are apparent. These patterns include a higher mean robusticity index in females relative to males in individuals without reactive change. These higher mean values in fe-males are apparently maintained with age (Table 4, right humeral data). This implies some sex differences in amount or manner of activity that is conducive to reactive change. It can also be interpreted that less robust male adults with reactive change may be more likely to die young. But, given the small sample size from Schroeder Mounds, particularly when subdivided by age, this can only be a speculation. Associating reactive changes (e.g., osteoarthritis and enthesopathies) observed on osteoarchaeological material to specific activities has proven to be problematic (Doying 2010; Jurmain 1999; Jurmain et al. 2012; Kennedy 1989; Knüsel 2000; Niinimäki 2011; Stirland 1988; Villotte and Knüsel 2012; Weiss 2005, 2006; Weiss et al. 2012). The reactive changes are multifactorial, proba-bly synergistic, and often associated with body size (Jurmain 1999; Weiss 2005). However, clinically, injuries to the rotator cuff are primarily due to ad-vancing age or consequential to shoulder activities where the arm is elevated (e.g., tennis, golf, baseball, swimming [Melis et al. 2011; Miranda et al. 2005; Ouellette et al. 2008; Prescher 2000; Rizio and Uribe 2001], and equivalent arm use in industrial labor [e.g., Buckle and Devereaux 2002; Ohlsson et al. 1995]). The fact that in clinical contexts the teres minor muscle is rarely in-volved in rotator cuff injuries could suggest elevated arm movement activities in the Schroeder Mounds sample that are uncommon or absent in Western cul-ture (e.g., Clapper 2006; Molleson 2007; Molnar 2006).

The prevalence in both males and females and the bilaterality of the reactive change does not support the performance of lateralized activities such as use of the bow and arrow or the atlatl (e.g., Bridges 1990; Capasso et al. 1999; Peterson 1998; Ubelaker and Zarenko 2012). It could include body pos-


tures where both arms are elevated, such as arboreal seed crop harvesting where a long pole is used to knock the nuts from high branches (e.g., Pinyon nut harvesting by the Paiute, Washo, Shoshone, and Navajo [Fenenga 1975; Giambastiani 2007; Hildebrandt and Ruby 2005; Rode 1988]) or the use (by both sexes) of a canoe paddle (Claassen 1997, 71). It may also reflect arm ele-vation in scraping or grinding activites where the body is in a prone postion. These activities are traditionally associated with women and would be con-

sistent with the results from the small Schroeder Mounds sample. The right-side bias may reflect handedness (but see Ubelaker and Zarenko 2012) or lat-eralized behavior obscured by other elevated arm tasks that employ both arms. The female pattern is of interest, as independent assessment of degenerative vertebral disk disease in the Schroeder Mounds sample suggests burden-bearing behavior (Andrews 2012; Boncal and Smith 2013; Caldwell and Smith 2013). A case of Porter’s Neck and a seven percent frequency of os acromiale (i.e., a failure of epiphyseal fusion of the acromial process) were observed. As the name implies, Porter’s Neck is the fracturing of the upper cervical verte-brae associated with axial load bearing (Joosab et al. 1994; Kennedy 1989; Levy 1968). In sum, os acromiale is frequently associated with rotator cuff pathology (e.g., Biglioni et al 1991; Boehm et al. 2005; Mudge et al. 1984). Recent meta-analyses of the same site samples on vertebral disk disease (Boncal 2014) and reactive changes at the rotator cuff, including the teres mi-nor insertion (Neidich 2013, 2014), support this interpretation.

Conclusion

Over fifty percent of both the left and right humeri of the Schroeder Mounds adult sample exhibited reactive change at the insertion of the teres minor muscle. The percent and levels of reactive change suggest activities that are bilateral, engaged in by both males and females, and partly related to body size/robusticity. Injuries to the rotator cuff in clinical contexts are primarily age-related or consequential to activities where the arm is elevated. In these clini-cal contexts, injuries at the teres minor insertion are infrequent. It is very likely that reactive change at the site of the teres minor insertion in the Schroeder Mounds adults is a collateral of multiple types of overuse activity that have no corollary in Western society. More comprehensive analysis of the entheses on the greater tubercle is underway. Auxiliary assessment of osteoarthritis of the humeral head and glenoid fossa is certainly needed. Of course, ultimately, more subsistence-settlement controlled studies are needed to determine the ubiquity and pattern of entheseal change at the teres minor insertion and the insertions of the other rotator cuff muscles.

Acknowledgments The authors would like to express their appreciation to the Illinois State Museum and Dr. Michael Wiant, director of the Dickson Mounds Museum, for access to the osteological collection, as well as Ms. Casey Jenkins and Mr. Benjamin Neidich.

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Effects of Picture References on Reproducibility of Entheseal Change Recordation

Dustin J. Lloyd

Illinois State University, USA Abstract: Reproducibility and observer agreement are critical to the produc-tion of standardized and comparable data sets. The reproducibility of record-ing methodology is a current issue in entheseal change studies. The effects of a picture reference guide on current entheseal change methodology are ex-plored in the hope of increasing observer agreement and thus overall applica-bility of the picture reference guide method in a variety of archaeological con-texts. The picture guide seems marginally effective; however, it requires a few modifications and subsequent testing before full-scale implementation. Keywords: Entheseal change, Schroeder Mounds

Introduction Entheseal changes (EC), formally musculoskeletal stress markers and renamed at the Coimbra Conference of 2009 (Henderson et al. 2010, 2012, 2015; Villotte 2013), are the recordation of osteophytic change at an enthesis. An enthesis is any muscular origin or insertion on the bone. The results and conclusions drawn from EC have been criticized in the past con-cerning limitations in methodology and broader applicability of their findings and interpretation (Jurmain et al. 2011; Schlecht 2012); the criticism is not unfounded. Various methods of scoring coexist (Hawkey and Merbs 1995; Henderson et al. 2010, 2012, 2015; Mariotti et al. 2007), which certainly low-ers comparability between studies. Many individuals pursue questions of EC because they are valuable in decoding past life activities, life courses, social dynamics, and health, through the study of the physical manifestations of ac-tivity and health changes at the sites of EC. The various methods concentrate on different, largely functional, aspects of EC (e.g., biomechanical stress and quantifying types of osseous reactions) and do not always provide a holistic picture of other causative or confounding factors (e.g., trauma, chronic dis-ease [e.g., diffuse idiopathic skeletal hypertrophy or DISH]) affecting enthe-seal change (Beyeler et al. 1990; Utsinger et al. 1976). Others do not account for the complex osteobiological etiology of entheseal development (e.g., age, sex, injury, occupation) and insist that entheseal changes are activity driven.

Currently, paleopathological researchers use three methods to assess entheseal change: Hawkey and Merbs (1995), Mariotti et al. (2007), and Hen-derson et al. (2010, 2012, 2015). One aspect of comprehensive recording is the categorical quantification of progressive reactive change. Most categorical quantification strategies are attribute lists with examples of the most extensive reactive changes; the recorder, depending on their personal experience, can variably interpret these attributes. The most recent method (Henderson et al. 2012, 2015) uses images. Observer error can confound and obscure the cause(s) and mitigating factors of entheseal change (Jurmain et al. 2011; Schlecht

Lloyd 87

2012). Thus, the production of standardized and comparable data is an ongo-ing and crucial debate within the EC community. This paper strives to criti-cally examine methods established by Henderson et al. (2012) by testing the usage and efficacy of a picture reference compendium on an archaeologically recovered skeletal sample using five independent observers. Results are fur-ther compared against previously published results.

Background

Hawkey and Merbs

Hawkey and Merbs (1995) is the oldest of the three protocols. Their protocol was described in the authors’ publication of a study of joint reactive changes in the upper extremities (clavicle, scapula, humerus, radius, and ulna) of an Inuit population. The scoring method has a proven past and alleviates reliance on an observer’s experience through use of pictures to describe scor-ing degrees. Inter- and intraobserver error differences are statistically insignif-icant (P < 0.5) in a number of studies (Hawkey 1988; Hawkey and Street 1992; Nagy and Hawkey 1993; Peterson 1994), demonstrating a high repro-ducibility. Hawkey and Merbs (1995) described three main categories: robus-ticity (osseous reaction to biomechanical stress), stress legions (pitting on the cortical surface of the bone), and ossification (exostosis). Each category con-tains four scoring grades: 0–4 with zero being absence of the trait.

The Hawkey-Merbs scoring protocol is implicit, even offering meas-urement requirements and restrictions. This mitigates experience-based errors. Furthermore, the method quantifies three types of reactive entheseal change: robusticity, stress lesions, and ossification. Robusticity is further scored for both periosteal and myoskeletal attachment, stress lesions, and ossification exostosis. Unfortunately, the authors assume that entheseal pathological change and reactive development always have a biomechanical etiology. They offer no other explanations for entheseal change. Their assumptions are a product of the then accepted paradigm. Current research and studies show a more complex etiology for EC (Cardoso and Henderson 2010; Henderson and Cardoso 2013; Henderson et al. 2012; Milella 2012; Niinimaki 2012; Schlecht 2012), shedding light on possible limitations and how certain aspects of EC were scored. Correspondingly, this method requires a precise situation regulated by three rules: relatively narrow time frame, cultural and genetic isolation, and a small number of known and specialized activities. While not as glaringly obvious as some weaknesses, the authors wanted to associate certain enthesopathies and entheseal developments with particular activities; thus, they needed to restrict their studies to well documented, small, and spe-cialized activities. However, their goals and interpretive framework notwith-standing, the resulting protocol underscored a larger problem: lack of stand-ardized scoring protocols. Without standardization, it is difficult to compare results from different studies. Further problematic issues include no controls for age at death and no clinically or archaeologically supported occupation corroboration.

88 Effects of Picture References

Mariotti et al.

Mariotti et al. (2007) proposed a detailed standardized scoring meth-od for 23 postcranial entheses. The scoring protocol was similar to Hawkey-Merbs; however, there are a few key differences. Observers score three as-pects of the enthesis: robusticity (vs. Hawkey and Merbs’ definition), osteo-phytic enthesopathies (OF: prevalence of osteophytic activity), and erosive osteolytic enthesopathies (OL: vs. Hawkey and Merbs’ definition of stress lesions). The authors provide many descriptive pictures for all 23 entheses to aid in scoring by comparison. Their method has an intra- and interobserver error of 28% when applying their five degree method. This reduces to 20% when using three out of the five scoring degrees. The authors recommend only using the three degree method unless the sample is large. Since the scor-ing scale is flexibly tailored to both the observers' expertise and the sample size, an experienced observer is able to gather more nuanced data from an archaeological context (Mariotti 2001; Mariotti and Belcastro 2011). Their method attempts to control for age through the use of robusticity. According to research, entheseal reaction positively correlates with increased age. Ro-busticity acknowledges the correlation of EC with age and provides a good comparative model for younger versus older individuals.

The method also suffers from some weaknesses. Despite the pictures and descriptions, the method is not user friendly. The protocol is demanding of the observer; therefore, the data collected are only as good as the observer. A good, well trained, and practiced observer would excel with this method; however, a less well trained one would find difficulty in scoring. Moreover, robusticity scores all have pictures for comparison. OF and OL are only ad-dressed through scant written description. OF and OL are important entheseal changes and require a more descriptive scoring methodology than the generic protocol, which the authors provide. Generic descriptions of the degrees of OF and OL further problematizes the issue of experienced vs. amateur ob-server. A final shortcoming is the choice of parameters. It has been argued that the scoring methodology was articulated without reference to medical literature concerning entheseal etiology, namely the lack of separation be-tween fibrocartilaginous and fibrous entheses (Jurmain et al. 2011; Vilotte 2009).

Henderson et al.

The Henderson et al. (2010, 2012, 2015) method evolved from a workshop at a conference in Coimbra, Portugal. The conference focused on musculoskeletal stress markers and their uses in reconstructing past activity as well as on reassessing terminology, recording methods, and possible corre-lates of repetitive (possibly occupation-related) joint movement (Henderson 2012). Henderson and colleagues attempted to construct a definitive standard-ized data collection method for EC (Henderson et al. 2010). As one of the newest attempts at quantifying EC data, the Henderson et al. method splits the enthesis into two zones: Zone 1 = the margin opposite the acute angle of mus-cle insertion; Zone 2 = remaining margin and surface of insertion. Zone 1 is scored for bone formation (BF Z1) and erosion (ER Z1). Zone 2 is scored for bone formation (BF), erosion (ER), fine porosity (FPO), macroporosity

Lloyd 89

(MPO), and cavitation (CA). A sampling of scoring degrees for the biceps brachii is shown below (Figure 1).

Figure 1: Sampling of Entheseal Variation from picture reference guide of proximal radial attach-ment of biceps brachii. A) Bone Formation Degree 1: Notice slight osteophytic nodule in circled area. B) Bone Formation Degree 2: Notice very slight raised ridge on under 50% of Zone 1 in circled area. C) Bone Formation Degree 3: Notice very well developed ridge on more than 50% of Zone 1 in circled area. D) Fine Porosity Degree 1: Notice fine pin prick–like depressions with-in the circled area. E) Macroporosity Degree 1: Notice enlarged porosity (> 1 mm) in circled area.

Their method excels at quantifying the types of reactive changes on

an enthesis. Henderson et al. (2012) suggest that a closer examination of the suite of changes may provide more information on the age correlation that the other methods note but do not quantify (Hawkey and Merbs 1995; Mariotti 2007). Their method allows for the collection of data, which can differentiate the types of changes in different ages groups (e.g., whether certain changes take place more often or in greater severity in old or young individuals). Ac-cording to the authors, bone formation seemed to be closely correlated with age, which makes sense since an older individual would have more opportuni-ty to incur microtrauma resulting in increased bone formation; however, the study sample was small so this may not hold true for a larger sample. A wide array of features recorded helps to diversify the data so that more complex questions can be asked since activity patterns are easier to recreate. Overall, the error rate was 20% (Henderson et al. 2015), though error on certain enthe-ses ranged from 30–40%.

A major problem of the Henderson et al. (2012) method is the issue of reproducibility; there was a systematic disagreement between observers one and four in their study (Henderson et al. 2012). Observer one consistently scored higher than four. The authors attribute this to each observer’s previous creation of their own scoring protocol. However, such disagreements under-score the larger issue of lack of standardized scoring methods. That with-standing, a systematic disagreement between the same observers may also point to a programmatic flaw in their method.

Some scoring points (i.e., MPO) have rather banal scoring protocol,


which is easy to understand; others (i.e., BF and ER) have more vague and overlapping scoring criteria, which rely on the observer’s judgment to segre-gate. The three-degree scoring levels encompass the extremes and middle option. To reduce error, Henderson et al. (2015) recommended decreasing the scoring degrees for BF and ER from three to two. Decreasing options will certainly reduce the error. However, combining the middle and upper extreme or middle and lower extreme would lead to data loss and possibly more inter-pretive confusion. For example, a skeletal sample that was characterized as robust but normal on the old scoring system may now present scores in a higher range and support a false assumption of advanced entheseal develop-ment.

The authors suggested an accompanying picture compendium, which outlines what each scoring point looks like. The addition of pictures strength-ened Mariotti et al.’s (2007) method and would do the same for the Hender-son et al. method. Visual description should theoretically decrease inter- and intraobserver error, which would be a great step toward the attainment of a standardized scoring method.

Methods and Materials

The collection utilized for this test is a Late Woodland (AD 900–

1150) skeletal sample from the Schroeder Mounds site (11He177), which is currently housed at Illinois State University. The skeletal elements scored are non-pathological and include 41 elements: 15 humeri, 18 radii, and 8 scapu-lae. Five observers (identified by numbers one through five) with osteological experience assessed the 41 elements at four entheses: biceps brachii, triceps brachii, infraspinatus, and supraspinatus. Biceps brachii was scored at the long head attachment on the radial tuberosity. Triceps brachii was scored at the medial head attachment on the distal posterior aspect of the humerus slightly superior to and surrounding the olecranon fossa. Infraspinatus and supraspinatus were scored at their scapular attachment sites of infraspinous fossa and supraspinous fossa respectively.

A scoring pamphlet (Figure 1) was given to all observers. It con-tained a list of definitions for each enthesis, picture references for each scor-ing feature and degree, and two examples of a scored enthesis for each scor-ing feature and degree (Henderson et al. 2010). Observers were given prelimi-nary instructions on scoring, which included an overview of the definitions of bone formation (BF), erosion (ER), macroporosity (MPO), and fine porosit(FPO). Charts and tables use the previous abbreviations for scoring features: Z1 and Z2 are used for Zone 1 and Zone 2 respectively. Observers scored each enthesis without input from the author or other observers. Observers scored twice, a week apart, to provide data for both inter- and intraobserver agreement.

The scoring definitions mirrored the work of Henderson et al. (2015), and the scoring degrees came from their 2012 publication (Table 1). Furthermore, the definition of cavitation makes macroscopic identification and photography difficult since the opening must be smaller than the subcorti-cal cavity. Cavitation was also not scored since no good examples existed in the Schroeder Mound sample, which made it difficult to test the usefulness of the picture reference guide. Textural change was not recorded since it is

Lloyd 91

scored on a presence or absence basis, which is not a robust enough scoring protocol. As such, cavitation and textural change were excluded from this research.

S

cori

ng F

eatu

re

Deg

ree

of

Ex

pre

ssio

n

Zon

e 1

: M

arg

in o

pposi

te a

cute

angle

of

fib

er a

ttac

hm

ent

Bon

e F

orm

atio

n (

BF

Z1

): S

ee d

e-gre

es o

f ex

pre

ssio

n.

Norm

al m

or-

pholo

gic

al s

mo

oth

-ro

und

ed o

r m

ou

nd

-lik

e (c

hec

k b

y t

ou

chin

g)

mar

gin

s, e

ven

if

the

mar

gin

is

ele-

vat

ed,

shou

ld b

e sc

ore

d a

s 0

.

1 =

sm

all,

no

du

lar

or

slig

htl

y r

aise

d

mar

gin

< 1

mm

2

= d

isti

nct

ive,

sh

arp

cre

sts

or

oth

er

enth

eso

ph

yte

s 1

mm

bu

t <

50

%

of

mar

gin

3

= d

isti

nct

ive,

sh

arp

cre

sts

or

oth

er

enth

eso

ph

yte

s 1

mm

bu

t

50

% o

f m

arg

in

E

rosi

on

(E

R Z

1):

Dep

ress

ion o

r ex

cav

atio

ns

of

any

sh

ape

and

in

-vo

lvin

g d

isco

nti

nu

ity

of

the

lesi

on

gre

ater

in w

idth

an

d d

epth

wit

h i

r-re

gula

r m

arg

ins.

On

ly e

rosi

on

s >

1m

m w

her

e th

e fl

oo

r ca

n b

e cl

earl

y

seen

wer

e re

cord

ed.

Th

is d

oes

no

t in

clude

pore

s (r

oun

ded

mar

gin

s).

Sco

re e

rosi

on

s if

th

ey o

ccu

r o

n b

on

e fo

rmat

ion

.

1 =

< 2

5%

mar

gin

2

= 2

5 t

o 5

0%

mar

gin

3

= >

50

% o

f m

arg

in

Tab

le 1

: S

cori

ng

def

init

ion

s an

d d

egre

es o

f ex

pre

ssio

n (

Hen

der

son

et

al. 2

01

0, 2

015

).


Zon

e 2

: R

emai

nin

g m

arg

in a

nd s

ur-

face

B

on

e F

orm

atio

n (

BF

Z2

): A

ny b

on

e pro

du

ctio

n f

rom

ro

ug

hn

ess

of

sur-

face

to t

rue

exo

sto

ses

(e.g

., d

isti

nct

bone

pro

ject

ion

s o

f an

y f

orm

, li

ke

bony

sp

urs

, bo

ne

no

du

les,

an

d a

mo

r-phou

s b

on

e fo

rmat

ion

).

1 =

ro

ug

hn

ess/

rugo

sity

ch

ang

e is

d

iffu

se n

ot

a d

isti

nct

str

uct

ure

2

= d

isti

nct

str

uct

ure

mea

suri

ng

> 1

m

m,

affe

ctin

g <

50

% o

f su

rfac

e 3

= d

isti

nct

str

uct

ure

mea

suri

ng

> 1

mm

, af

fect

ing

5

0%

of

surf

ace

E

rosi

on

(E

R Z

2):

Dep

ress

ion

or

exca

vat

ion

s o

f an

y s

hap

e (b

ut

no

t co

ver

ed b

y t

he

def

init

ion

of

mac

rop

oro

sity

) an

d i

nv

olv

ing

dis

-co

nti

nu

ity

of

the

floo

r o

f th

e le

sio

n

gre

ater

in w

idth

than

dep

th w

ith

irre

gu

lar

mar

gin

s. O

nly

ero

sion

s >

2

mm

wer

e re

cord

ed.

MP

O a

nd

FP

O

occ

urr

ing

wit

hin

an

ero

sio

n s

ho

uld

no

t b

e re

cord

ed s

epar

atel

y.

Bo

ne

form

atio

n i

s o

nly

sco

red

if

it e

x-

ceed

s th

e h

eigh

t o

f th

e d

epre

ssio

n

(do n

ot

sco

re w

ov

en b

on

e). S

core

er

osi

on

s if

th

ey o

ccur

on

bo

ne

for-

mat

ion

.

1 =

< 2

5%

of

surf

ace

2 =

25–

50

% o

f su

rfac

e 3

= >

50

% o

f su

rfac

e

Tab

le 1

con

t.

Lloyd 93

F

ine

Po

rosi

ty (

FP

O):

Sm

all,

ro

und

to

ov

al p

erfo

rati

ons

wit

h s

moo

th,

roun

ded

mar

gin

s <

1 m

m.

Th

ese

sho

uld

be

vis

ible

to

th

e n

aked

eye

and

be

in a

lo

cali

zed

are

a. D

o n

ot

sco

re i

f th

ey a

re a

t th

e b

ase

of

an

ero

sio

n o

f if

they

occ

ur

as p

art

of

wov

en b

on

e.

1 =

< 5

0%

of

surf

ace

2 =

5

0%

of

surf

ace

M

acro

po

rosi

ty (

MP

O):

Sm

all,

ro

und

to

ov

al p

erfo

rati

on

s w

ith

sm

oo

th,

roun

ded

mar

gin

s ab

ou

t 1

mm

or

larg

-er

in

siz

e w

ith

th

e ap

pea

ran

ce o

f a

chan

nel

, b

ut

the

inte

rnal

asp

ect

is

rare

ly v

isib

le. D

o n

ot

score

if

they

ar

e at

th

e b

ase

of

an e

rosi

on

.

1 =

on

e o

r tw

o p

ore

s 2

= >

2 p

ore

s


Interobserver agreement was tested by feature and enthesis. Each ob-server was compared to other observers for the two scoring sessions to obtain the rate of agreement between observers and between the two tests of the same observer. Agreements at each enthesis and scoring degree were compared to produce percent agreement scores (Figures 1&2). An exact agreement was counted as a match. These agreement percentages were then averaged for each observer pair across either entheses or scoring degrees into a composite agree-ment percentage (Table 2). A composite score represents the average agree-ment between observers at each enthesis or scoring feature. Inter- and intraob-server agreement was calculated for both scoring rounds. Intraobserver agree-ment was calculated with the same averaging methodology as interobserver agreement. Since the observers had no previous experience with the methods and since the project goal was to test the methods, the interobserver error and their potential statistical significance were calculated from the results of the second scoring session.

A Fisher’s exact test was also done to determine the statistical signifi-cance of this paper’s findings relative to the original tests (Henderson et al. 2012). Data were rounded up or down to the closest whole number to adhere to the parametric standards of the test. The data was also calculated using propor-tional fractions to ensure quality of the rounding method. The results of signif-icance or nonsignificance were the same from both methods. Below results are from the rounded up or down figures.

The choice of entheses in this study varies from the entheses scored in the Henderson et al. (2012) scoring tests. Entheses utilized in this test mirror the entheses that will be used for a later master’s thesis work. Data collected here serve to evaluate the effects of a picture reference guide on observer agreement and as a pilot study for methods in future data collection. Thus, it was more important to test the method on those entheses than to mirror the entheses of Henderson et al. (2012). The results are still comparable since both tests assessed percent agreement and not the agreement of a specific enthesis.

Results

Highest interobserver agreement for an enthesis is the supraspinatus

at 87.8% (Figure 2); however, results may be slightly skewed by the relatively low number of scapulae in the sample (n = 8) relative to humeri (n = 15) and radii (n = 18). Discounting the scapulae score, the highest interobserver agree-ment by enthesis is the biceps brachii at 72.6% (Figure 2). Composite average interobserver agreement for all entheses is 76%.

Highest interobserver agreement by scoring feature was MPO at 95.2% (Figure 3). Composite average agreement by feature was 72.6%. High-est interobserver agreements for all scoring features were between observer one and observer three (89.5%) and between observer one and observer five (82.3%) (Figure 3). Composite average interobserver agreement by scoring feature is 72.9%. Overall interobserver agreement of combined feature and enthesis was 74.45% (Table 2).

Lloyd 95

Figure 2: Interobserver agreement by enthesis.

Figure 3: Interobserver agreement by scoring feature.


Figure 4: Intraobserver agreement by enthesis.

Table 2: Composite interobserver agreement scores by feature and enthesis: roman font (upper right) are the feature composite scores; italicized (lower left) are enthesis composite scores.

The composite intraobserver agreement by scoring feature is 76.6% (Table 3). Composite intraobserver agreement by enthesis is 79.7% (Table 4). Overall intraobserver agreement by feature and enthesis is 78.15% (Tables 3&4). Fisher’s exact test revealed significant statistical variation at ER Z1, BF Z2, and MPO. Table 5 provides the breakdown of the Fisher’s exact test re-sults of interobserver agreement by scoring feature and entheseal comparison.

Observer 1 2 3 4 5

1 62.17% 89.5% 73.5% 82.33%

2 67.12% 59.33% 62.67% 61.67%

3 87.29% 65.17% 77.0% 86.67%

4 74.67% 67.74% 81.96% 74.83%

5 85.33% 65.0% 89.29% 77%

Lloyd 97

Table 3: Intraobserver agreement by scoring

Table 4: Intraobserver agreement by enthesis; parentheses indicate number of each enthesis

scored.

Table 5: Fisher’s exact test by scoring feature (interobserver) and Entheseal Comparison.

* = significant ** = very significant *** = extremely significant.

Scoring Zone

Observer 1

Observer 2

Observer 3

Observer 4

Observer 5

BF Z1 53.7% 61% 78% 27% 61% ER Z1 75.6% 76% 85% 66% 78% BF Z2 82.9% 73% 83% 66% 97.5% ER Z2 75.6% 59% 88% 73% 88% FPO 80.4% 51% 97.5% 85.5% 88% MPO 100% 54% 97.5% 100% 100% Average 78.03% 62.33% 88.17% 69.5% 85.42%

Enthesis Observer 1

Observer 2

Observer 3

Observer 4

Ob-server 5

triceps brachii (18)

72.07% 56.72% 97% 63.5% 86%

biceps brachii (15)

81.5% 59% 80% 74.17% 85%

infraspinatus (5)

83.3% 77% 97% 77% 93.3%

supraspinatus (3)

83.3% 72% 97% 60% 100%

Average 80.04% 66.18% 92.75% 68.67% 91.08%

Scoring Zone

P Value Entheseal Comparison P Value

BF Z1 .7725 biceps brachii vs. biceps brachii 1.000

ER Z1 .0332* triceps brachii vs. iliopsoas 1.000

BF Z2 .0001*** supraspinatus vs. common ex-tensor

.0279*

ER Z2 .4406 infraspinatus vs. achilles .7425

FPO .4587 infraspinatus vs. iliopsoas .02648*

MPO .0012** supraspinatus vs. iliopsoas .0008***

SD = .321606; 90% CI = .2161 - .6719; 95% CI = .2007 - .7887; 99% CI = .1757 – 1.1207.

SD = .46604; 90% CI = .31320 - .97368; 95% CI = .29090 – 1.14302; 99% CI = .25463 – 1.62405.


Discussion

Decrease in Average Score

Outside of the scores for ER Z1/2 and FPO for observer two and BF Z1 for observer five, the observers tended to score lower in the second scoring session. Extraneous factors like differential lighting between testing or psycho-logical effects like mental fatigue are unlikely to be responsible for the de-creases in scoring in the second session because the sessions were conducted in the same classroom and the sessions were brief. The most logical interpreta-tion is that the observers scored less the second time because of familiarity with the scoring protocol. Observers scored much faster the second attempt. In the first attempt, the observers were recorded as taking between 45–60 minutes to complete the task; however, the second attempt only took each about 20–30 minutes, supporting the idea that they had gained familiarity with the method.

Decrease in average scores between sessions mirrors the Henderson et al (2012) results. In summary, the more often an observer uses the method, the more they agree with each other and themselves. The decrease makes sense since the observers have now seen double the amount of bones and can assess the differences between each scoring degree. Experience will help to determine a score of one or three. If an observer is comfortable with the extremes, then they determine two by elimination.

Variance in Agreement at Entheses

Results indicate a stark difference between entheseal agreements. The difference between the triceps brachii and supraspinatus is statistically signifi-cant at p = .0285. The method may simply be better at describing one enthesis over another, or the scoring protocol may better describe entheseal change at the supraspinatus than at the triceps brachii. Different types of reactions may take place at each enthesis. Typical entheseal changes at the supraspinatus may be more easily recorded by this method than the changes at the triceps brachii.

Another possible explanation is that changes unrecordable with this method took place at the triceps brachii, which caused observers to find a cate-gory that best fit the observed reactive change. Observers may have scored a change in an inappropriate category. One observer noted reactive change on the scapular spine that was outside of the area of intended scoring. Perhaps future iterations of this method need to consider changes that happen to the surrounding cortical bone. A major function of an enthesis is to dissipate stress from the muscle body down into the enthesis and the surrounding cortical bone. The cortical bone may also have potentially scorable reactive changes.

The difference may also indicate an overall lack of experience with each enthesis. The highest entheseal agreement is the biceps brachii, which has one insertion at the radial tuberosity. Most osteologists have more extensive experience with the radial tuberosity through normal osteological data collec-tion. The one scored attachment for the tricep brachii was on the distal posteri-or humerus, which is not a typical area for osteological data collection. All of the observers in this trial normally collect paleopathological data, and the dis-tal posterior humerus rarely presents any pathological condition in isolation. Experience with this surface may be limited, meaning some could have scored

Lloyd 99

normal bone surface as entheseal reaction. Additional trials targeting entheses of lesser and greater knowledge would confirm or deny this hypothesis.

Another possible explanation is that the variance between individual entheses does not matter as much as looking at the overall composite muscle groups for arms, legs, torso, etc. Weiss (2003) suggests composite entheseal scoring by muscle groupings. Looking at entheses as collaborative groups may reveal new archaeological applications. An action is not performed with one muscle and therefore involves multiple entheses. Shoulder abduction, a mundane action, requires the supraspinatus, deltoid, trapezius, and serratus anterior. Consideration of multiple entheses and the creation of composite scores for muscle groups may assist in recreating the types of actions of past people within an archaeological context.

Variance in Interobserver Agreement

Wide variance in agreement speaks to the reproducibility issues found in the previous testing attempts (Henderson et al. 2012). Addition of pictures was intended to alleviate this issue and bring the agreement scores closer to the 80% score of the newest Henderson et al. method (2015). Pic-tures may still have a role; however, a reference book may not be the ideal place.

An odd trend emerged during the second scoring sessions. Observers extensively used the picture references during the first scoring session, which was the intended use for the guides; however, only one observer used the ref-erence guide during the second session, and they only used the guide twice. Every observer produced higher agreement scores during the second test.

One possible explanation is that the books are better suited as a teaching tool than a reference guide. Observers received no extensive instruc-tion using the guide prior to their first scoring. They used the book to refer-ence each bone with pictures or attempted to match the reaction on the bone to one of the pictures. On the second scoring sessions, the observers seemed to have a mental image of what each scoring degree entailed and felt no need for the scoring pamphlets; this conjecture requires more experiments on new observers unfamiliar with the protocols to validate this conclusion.

Ways to Improve the Picture Guide

If the picture guide is to function as both a reference and teaching tool, then the pictures need to change in quantity and quality. The observers’ guide contained examples of each scoring feature and degree; however, the guide did not contain pictures of every scoring degree for every enthesis. The book was heavily weighted toward the radial insertion of the biceps brachii. One observer remarked that pictures of feature degrees by enthesis would assist her. Inclusion of each enthesis may also decrease the chances that an observer will score normal bone as entheseal change. The largest incongru-ence is between scores of zero and a positive value. Some observers seem to have been scoring normal bone as entheseal change; this phenomenon may be related to inexperience in both the scoring protocol or with the enthesis. Ob-server three had the most osteological experience and also had the highest composite intraobserver agreement at 90.4%. It seems that unfamiliarity with


the method may play a bigger role than unfamiliarity with an ethesis. Inclusion of entheseal development at each enthesis may increase inter- and intraobserv-er agreement in future testing and decrease scoring normal osseous develop-ment as entheseal change. Another possible addition to the reference guide is the inclusion of various pictures of each scoring feature degree. Entheseal change is not a dis-crete variable but rather a continuous one making scoring a combination of experience and standards. Various states of change could be scored the same. For example, FPO is scored on a percentage basis: 10%, 25% and 50% FPO are all scored as a one. Adding pictures that reflect the multiple forms that a score of one can take would increase observer agreement. Entheseal change is progressive and the scoring protocols need to reflect this aspect of entheseal change. Jacobi and Danforth (2002) suggest a similar idea for scoring porotic hyperostosis and cribra orbitalia.

Results of Fisher’s Exact Tests Relative to Picture Guide

Results of the Fisher’s exact tests are very interesting. They suggest that the pictures may be useful at scoring features ER Z1, BF Z2, and MPO. The aforementioned features all had results with statistically significant varia-tion from the 2012 Henderson et al. scoring trials. Pictures may assist observ-ers in more often agreeing on the types of changes happening in those zones; however, the 2012 sample was much larger than this sample. It is uncertain if these results are an artifact of smaller relative sample size or if they would hold true for a larger sample.

The results also indicate that the pictures may be more helpful at cor-rectly identifying changes at an enthesis of relative unfamiliarity. Comparisons between common extensor and supraspinatus (p = .0279) and iliopsoas and supraspinatus (p = .0008) are both statistically significant, indicating that the pictures may assist observers, who are unfamiliar with a particular enthesis. The common extensor is a more commonly encountered entheseal surface than the supraspinatus. The iliopsoas and supraspinatus are both relatively unfamil-iar. In both cases, the results of this study were positively statistically signifi-cant relative to the 2012 results. Therefore, pictures seem to assist in identify-ing entheseal change at an unfamiliar enthesis.

Conclusions

The goal of this paper was to test the effects of a picture reference on

the existing Henderson et al. (2012) methodology and to assess inter- and in-traobserver error and repeatability. The study suggests that the picture refer-ences may be more useful at certain entheses (biceps brachii and supraspina-tus) and at certain scoring features (ER Z1, BF Z2, and MPO). Various addi-tions and modifications to the picture reference book were also explored to increase its practicality. Results and observer experience advocate for an in-crease in quantity and quality of pictures. The picture reference should include pictures of all entheses at all scoring stages and multiple pictures of scoring degrees scored on a percent present basis.

The picture compendium developed for this study should not be con-sidered generally applicable yet. Testing of the above modifications and their

Lloyd 101

effects on inter- and intraobserver error and reproducibility are still needed. Reproducibility seems largely reliant on experience; however, using the pic-ture guide as a teaching tool may alleviate this. The picture guide needs to be more fully developed and then tested on a group of observers with no prior knowledge or experience to assess the general usability of the method outside of researchers already familiar with entheseal changes. Although more testing is necessary, the results of this study suggest that a fully developed, compre-hensive picture guide is both a good teaching tool and a means to increase inter- and intraobserver agreement. Additional testing should include a large sample from diverse populations within a variety of health and activity con-straints to reflect the variety of etiological causation of EC and to create a more comparative database.

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———. 2015. "The New ‘Coimbra Method’: A Biologically Appropriate Method for Recording Specific Features of Fibrocartilaginous Entheseal Changes." International Journal of Osteoarchaeology. Accessed Novem-


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Subadult Growth Stunting at Schroeder Mounds (11He177):

A Late Woodland Sample from Illinois

Christopher Nicosia

Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Illinois State University, Normal, Illinois, 61790, USA

Jessica R. Dorsz

Community Outreach Intervention Projects, University of Illinois at Chicago, 60612, USA

Maria Ostendorf Smith

Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Illinois State University, Normal, Illinois, 61790, USA

Abstract: Constitutional growth delay in subadults may be caused by chronic illness, malnutrition, and/or undernutrition. Very little is known about the community health of the presumptive forager-farmers of the Late Woodland (~ AD 900-1150) period site of Schroeder Mounds (Henderson County, Illinois). In an effort to increase understanding of community health, the subadults (N=15) were examined by age-at-death for evidence of growth stunting as re-flected in forelimb shortening. Crural and brachial indices were calculated for those subadults preserving measurable femora and tibiae and/or measurable humeri and radii. These indices were compared by age category to indices cal-culated from normal bone lengths taken from published clinical data. Stunting was evident for all ages-at-death in the Schroeder Mounds sample. The stunt-ing was contextualized by assessing the presence/absence of potentially causa-tive or synergistically related skeletally visible chronic health stress indicators (i.e., porotic hyperostosis, cribra orbitalia, linear enamel hypoplasia, periosto-sis). The results indicated that all subadults exhibited growth stunting regard-less of the presence of the quantified health issues. This may suggest that stunting is potentially a free-standing osteological marker of developmental stress. Within Schroeder Mounds, stunting may ultimately be due to various environmental (e.g., harvest or resource shortfall) and cultural (e.g., weaning, child labor) factors. Keywords: Subadults, Late Woodland Period, Schroeder Mounds, Illinois, growth stunting

Introduction In affluent societies, subadults are presumed to reach their genetic

growth potential (de Onis and Blössner 2003; de Onis et al. 2012; Waterlow 1994). However, growth stunting is routinely observed in substandard or im-poverished socioeconomic circumstances (e.g., Black et al. 2008; de Onis et al. 2012; Lin et al. 2013; Lun 2002; Lundeen et al. 2014; Nobarro et al. 1988; Piperata 2007; Worthen et al. 2001). This is particularly problematic for very

Nicosia, Dorsz, and Smith 105

young children and infants as environmentally and culturally determined events (e.g., early weaning) additionally and differentially affect immature immune systems and their increased nutritional needs for growth and devel-opment (Baxter 2005; Lewis 2007; Schillaci 2011; Schweich and Knüsel 2003). However, stunting may be difficult to quantify. Absolute bone length may reflect either short stature or compromised subadult growth (Bogin and Varela-Silva 2010; Lai 2006; Vischer 2008; Waterlow 1994). In archaeologi-cally-based subadult samples with no direct data about community health and hygiene, it is often unclear if long bone length is quantifying population-specific stature or growth stunting (Flores-Mir et al. 2005; Vercellotti 2012). This is particularly compounded as skeletal age-at-death is an age range and may not be congruent to chronological age (Buikstra and Ubelaker 1994).

In archaeological skeletal samples, compromised growth is routinely identified by evaluating long bone length relative to developmental age against some standard or subsistence-settlement controls (Crane-Kramer et al. 2007; Gunnell et al. 2001; Ribot and Roberts 1996; Zakrzewski 2003). This is often corroborated by co-association with chronic health stressors visible on dry bone (i.e., periostosis, porotic hyperostosis, linear enamel hypoplasia, cribra orbitalia) (e.g., Agnew et al. 2014; Buckley 2000; Cardoso 2005;

Humphrey 2000; Kemkes‐Grottenthaler 2005; Lewis 2007; Mays et al. 2009; MacCord 2009; Pardo 2011; Pinhasi et al. 2005; Roberts and Manchester 2007; Ribot and Roberts 1996; Schillaci et al. 2011; Waldren 2009). Archaeo-logically, this can be meaningful as stunting has been documented to co-associate with subsistence, settlement, and sociopolitical changes (Blackwell et al. 2009; Cardoso 2005; Crane-Kramer et al. 2007; Claassen 2002; Mum-mert et al. 2011; Petroutsa and Manolis 2007; Pinhasi et al. 2005; Ribot and Roberts 1996; Shell-Duncan and Obiero 2000). However, in archaeological samples with few subadults and little or no subsistence-settlement context, stunting may be difficult to segregate from stature.

One clinical measure of compromised growth that is independent of stature is forelimb foreshortening (Crimmins and Finch 2006; Dewey and Mayers 2011; Harrison 1992; Lewit and Kerrebrock 1997; Lunn 2002; Nebar-ro et al. 1988). With nutritional and/or medical intervention, distal limb catch-up growth is possible (e.g., Coly et al. 2006; Lundeen et al. 2014; Palacios 2011), otherwise foreshortening is likely permanent. Paleopathologically meaningful, foreshortening may be a predictor of premature death (e.g., Black et al. 2008; Crimmins and Finch 2006; Norgan 2000; Victora et al. 2008). Context of the Schroeder Mound Site

The Late Woodland period in Illinois (~AD 650-1000) was a time of major subsistence, settlement, demographic, and sociopolitical changes (Esarey 2000; Nansel and Green 2000; Stoltman 2000; Studenmund 2000). It culminated in small-scale agriculture, political centralization, and large nucle-ated village settlements characteristic of the subsequent Mississippian period (~AD 1050-1350). The site of Schroeder Mounds (Figure 1) is a later Late Woodland (~AD 900-1150) burial context located along a bluff line in Hen-derson County, Illinois.

106 Subadult Growth Stunting at Schroeder Mounds (11He177)

Figure 1: The location of the Schroeder Mounds mortuary site (black triangle) in the Mis-sissippi River Valley of west-central Illinois indicated by the black triangle.

There is no subsistence-settlement information for this osteological sample (Kolb 2000; Riggle 1981). Therefore, only the skeletal material can reveal life-quality information, which can potentially be compared to other Illinois sam-ples. The aim of this paper is to determine whether the Schroeder Mound subadults exhibited stunted growth in the forearm (ulna relative to the humer-us) and foreleg (tibia relative to the femur), as the development in these partic-ular skeletal regions is the most sensitive during subadult growth periods. It is possible that one or more of the suite of commonly quantified osteologically visible pathologies (i.e., periostosis, cribra orbitalia, linear enamel hypoplasia) has a synergistic, if not a causative, role in growth stunting. Materials and Methods Skeletal Aging

Although age ranges had already been assigned to each of the subadults (e.g., Dorsz 2012), they were re-assessed for the present study to corroborate or refine the age-at-death estimates. A subadult was defined as any individual with no more than two (maxillary and/or mandibular) third molars in occlusion. Subadult skeletal age was assessed by two methods: dental erup-tion sequence and epiphyseal fusion. The deciduous and permanent teeth were macroscopically evaluated for presence, level of visible crown-root develop-ment, and degree of alveolar eruption. Dental age was determined by the Massler and Shour dental development chart as reprinted in Ubelaker (1989) and White et al. (2011). The standards for epiphyseal fusion (Krogman and Iscan 1986; McKern and Stewart 1957; Redfield 1970; Suchey et al. 1984; Ubelaker 1989a, 1989b) were from Buikstra and Ubelaker (1994 43). Quantifying Growth Stunting

Since absolute bone length may be a combination of genetic as well as environmental growth determiners, this study used the ratio of the forelimb


to the proximal limb, a relationship that is independent of absolute length. Long bone stunting was determined by using the crural index (femur bicondy-lar length x 100/maximum tibial length) and the brachial index (maximum humeral length x 100/maximum radial length) (Buikstra and Ubelaker 1994, 46). The landmarks to determine the lengths are defined in the Standards Manual (Buikstra and Ubelaker 1994, Figures 14, 16, 17 & 18). A standard portable osteometric board (Paleotech Model FOB-P) was utilized. To reduce observer error, the bones were measured by one of the authors (Dorsz) and measurement was taken to the nearest millimeter. Intraobserver error was reduced by repeated blind study measurements to assure consistency of meth-od and repeatability of the measurements. Out of fifty subadult skeletons, fifteen preserved long bones were complete enough to calculate a brachial and/or a crural index.

As absolute bone length is irrelevant to the calculated proportion of the brachial and crural indices, the comparative sample needed only to reflect the achievement of genetic length. The sample used was the long bone meas-urements of normal clinical data reported by biological age and sex in Maresh (1970). Since the sex of archaeologically derived skeletons of subadults can-not be reliably estimated, this study adopted the method of Schafer, Black, and Schuger (2009), which called for the average of Maresh’s (1970) mean male and mean female tabular data that is, (n-male + n-female)/2, and graphed in half-year intervals from six months to age five and then by year to eighteen years. Three Schroeder Mounds subadults had unfused distal and fused proximal humeral epiphyses. The maximum lengths of those humeri were measured with the addition of the unfused epiphyses and are regarded here as estimated maximum lengths.

Because the sample size of the Schroeder Mounds subadults by age cohort was very small, no statistical tests were attempted. Stunting was as-sessed by visual comparisons of the cases to the calculated clinical indices.

Pathological Conditions

Various reactive changes observable on dry bone are indicative of health stress. Any one or more of these may affect linear growth. The most commonly quantified reactive changes are periostosis, cribra orbitalia, porotic hyperostosis, and linear enamel hypoplasia. Periostosis (Figure 2A) is reactive change to the bone cortex caused by dissemination of non-specific inflamma-tion of the periosteum due to either mechanical injury or infection (Buckley 2000; Kim et al. 2013; Ortner 2003; Šlaus 2002). It was considered present in an individual if reactive change (either woven or mature bone) was present on at least one bone of the appendicular skeleton. Cribra Orbitalia (Figure 2B) is another pathological condition, and although its specific etiology is unclear (Holland and O’Brien 1997; Sullivan 2005; Walker et al. 2009; Wapler et al. 2004; Vaselech 2011), it is considered a good indicator of childhood stress. It was considered present if at least one orbit exhibited the slight stage of porot-ic pitting as defined by the Standards Manual (Buikstra and Ubelaker 1994). The last condition Linear Enamel Hypoplasia (LEH) (Figure 2C) is a widely utilized non-specific stress indicator of the secondary dentition (Goodman and Armelagos 1988; Klaus, et al. 2009; Ribot and Roberts 1996). It was consid-ered present if at least two authors identified a horizontal line across at least


one permanent tooth.

Figure 2: Examples from the Schroeder Mounds subadults for A) periostosis, B) cribra orbitalia, and C) linear enamel hypoplasia.

Results Fifteen subadults from the Schroeder Mound sample preserve meas-urable long bones to calculate a brachial index, a crural index, or both. In Fig-ure 3, the brachial index by chronological age of the Maresh-based samples indicates a steady ratio (between 10.7 to 11.2) until at or around puberty (circa twelve to thirteen years of age) when the forearm grows longer relative to the humerus (i.e., reduction of brachial index score), particularly after age four-teen. The brachial indices for the eleven Schroeder Mounds subadults are graphed across the comparative sample by the range of the skeletal age-at-death. No subadult from the Schroeder Mounds sample overlaps with the bra-chial index for any age category in the clinical sample. Indeed, the difference between the Schroeder Mounds sample and the clinical normal sample is greatest after age twelve. Considering the possibility that dry bone measure-ment error in the estimate of humeral length for the three adolescents (aged 12–15 years, 15–18 years) may have underestimated humeral length, the differ-ence may be greater (i.e., the indices may actually be higher). There is no con-sistent pattern of association between forearm stunting with the three stress indicators. That is, LEH is present on 33% of the subadult dentition, cribra orbitalia is present on 33% of the subadults, and periostosis is present on 8%. Stunting is also present on the 26% who exhibit no evidence of chronic health stress.


Figure 4 displays the data for foreleg stunting (i.e., the crural index). Similar to the brachial index, the clinical sample exhibits a foreleg growth spurt at or around puberty with rapid relative growth occurring after age four-teen. Eleven individuals have measurable femora and tibiae to calculate an index. The Schroeder Mounds crural indices for the diaphyseal lengths are only slightly above the calculated normal indices. A marked departure occurs circa age thirteen and fourteen (at or near puberty). Two of the subadults with crural index data exhibit cribra orbitalia (18%); two subadults exhibit periosti-tis (18%); three exhibit linear enamel hypoplasia (27%). An absence of reac-tive change occurs in 36% of the small sample. It is possible that a different suite of Schroeder Mounds cases resulted in more congruence between the sample indices and the calculated normal pattern. Seven individuals preserve both arm and leg elements to enable a comparison of brachial and crural indi-ces.

Figure 3: Brachial indices for eleven Schroeder Mounds subadults compared to the calculat-ed brachial indices of the means for long bone length (Maresh 1970) by age in years. Schroeder cases with superscripts are based on estimated maximum humeral length on a diaphysis with preserved but unfused distal epiphyses.


Figure 4: Crural indices for eleven Schroeder Mounds subadults compared to the crural indi-ces of the Maresh (1970) tabular data.

Figure 5 illustrates the graphic position of the seven individuals against the calculated normal for five age categories. The chronologic age with the highest indices (i.e., the most foreshortened limbs) is circa ten years of age. A line at the intersection of the two indices segregates the scores into a brachial index bias (upper left chart) or a crural index bias (lower right chart). The Schroeder Mounds individuals all fall into the upper left side of the chart, meaning that for individuals with arm and leg data, the forearm is relatively more foreshort-ened. Discussion

The results indicate that the subadults of the Schroeder Mounds sam-ple experienced some combination of disease or nutritional stress, as all had some level of forearm or foreleg foreshortening relative to modern clinical samples. The irrelevance of the presence of the specific suite of chronic patho-logical conditions or developmental stress to the evidence of growth stunting is not unique to this study (e.g., Temple 2008) and suggests that many factors influencing growth and development may be involved. Indeed, a consistent context of malnutrition and pathologies has been documented in other paleo-pathological samples suggesting that variables not quantified in this study may


yet explain the role of the Late Woodland period socioeconomic circumstance (Buckley 2000; Cardoso 2005; Cook 2007; Coly 2006; Crimmens et al. 2006; Goodman and Armelagos 1988; Green and Nolan 2000; Larsen 2015; Lewis 2007; Lin et al. 2013; Mays et al. 2009; Pardo 2011; Roberts and Manchester 2007; Šlaus 2002; Temple 2007; Waldren 2009).

Figure 5: Chart of the brachial to crural indices. Comparative indices presented are the oldest age cohort and the subadults that generated the shortest forearm and foreleg indices. The Schroeder Mounds individuals who generated both indices indicate that both limbs display growth stunting and the brachial index is higher (i.e., more foreshortened) than the crural.

The evidence of stunting in an infant and the individuals skeletally aged as between one and two years in the Schroeder Mounds sample suggests a co-association with a poor prenatal maternal diet and/or poor quality of sup-plemental foods during the process of weaning. Bioarchaeological evidence of in-utero stress (e.g., Buckley 2000; Cardoso 2005; Chang et al. 2003; Goodman and Armelagos 1989; Owsley and Jantz 1985; Šlaus 2002; Thorn et al. 2013; Watson and Wall 2012), and/or poor quality supplemental foods (Grottenthaler 2005; Krishnamachari et al. 1975; Lagia et al. 2007; MacCar-thy et al. 2012; Martin et al. 2014; Walker et al. 2009) has certainly been doc-umented in other samples. The evidence in the Schroeder sample is not paleo-pathologically unique.


The difference between the brachial and crural departures from the calculated normal trajectory may relate to the differential growth of the human body (Harrison 1992; Martorell and Habicht 1986; Sinclair and Dangerfield 1973). Maximum appendicular growth is first attained by the lower limb and then the upper limb. It is possible that the differential seen in the Schroeder Mounds subadults reflects sufficient health and nutritional resources to achieve leg length, but a shortfall with respect to arm growth.

Socioeconomic and Physical Environment

During the Late Woodland period in the mid-continent, there were major subsistence, settlement, demographic, and sociopolitical changes mov-ing toward maize-intensive agriculture, large nucleated settlements, and the centralized political authority that characterizes the Mississippian period (~1050-1350 AD) (Emerson and Lewis 2000; Green and Nolan 2000; Pauketat 2004). The adoption of a sedentary lifestyle and the incorporation of agricul-ture (and the potential of poor harvests) or starchy foods (high volume, low nutritive or caloric value) possibly contributed to negative community health responses that affected overall subadult growth and development (Mummert et al. 2011). The subsistence-settlement system of Schroeder Mounds was remote from the Mississippianization of lower west-central Illinois and apparently exhibited a forager-farmer economy with small semi-sedentary settlements (Emerson and Lewis 2000; Green and Nolan 2000; Mosher et al. 2015; Smith et al. 2016; Trader 2011). The resources, such as nuts (acorn, hickory, and groundnut) and indigenous cultivated grains (chenopod, knotweed, maygrass, etc.) were prominent food sources. These plants were incorporated into staple gardens while maize incorporation was quite slow during the Middle-Late Woodland periods in Illinois (Cook 1979; Cook 2007; Hedman and Emerson 2008; Yarnel and Black 1985). But once societies increased their reliance on maize agriculture, population density increased and diseases became more prominent. These were heavily influenced by the poor nutritional content of maize, its negative effects on dental health (e.g., dental carries [cavities], peri-odontal disease, etc.), and individuals living in close proximity to one another (Roberts and Manchester 2007). During the Late Woodland, the American Bottom lacks evidence of maize cultivation indicating that there was a contin-ued reliance on small-seed crops (Cook 2007; Hedman and Emerson 2008). However, caries are present in the Schroeder Mounds sample (Lacy and Smith 2013), suggesting an economy in flux and possibly vulnerable to agricultural shortfall, which may have contributed to subadult forelimb stunting. Pathological Conditions

The subadults in this study variably exhibited cribra orbitalia, LEH, and periostosis. Some of the subadults displayed no evidence of stress yet growth was still stunted. LEH can be caused by a wide variety of perturbations and are bioarchaeologically useful, as they are a permanent record of early childhood stress (Goodman and Armelagos 1988; Larsen 2015; Lewis 2007; Ribot and Roberts 1996; Roberts and Manchester 2007; Temple 2008), but may or may not reflect frailty. However, LEH occurs as early as one year of age in the Schroeder sample, indicating that perturbations could possibly have


played a role in subadult forelimb stunting during the infancy and/or weaning periods. The presence of multiple cases of cribra orbitalia within the fifteen-case sample suggests chronic, perhaps community-wide, subadult health is-sues. The causes of cribra orbitalia include anemia (dietary [iron deficiency] and/or parasite load), scurvy, and/or malnutrition (DiGangi and Moore 2012; Humphrey 2000; Mittler et al. 1994; Roberts and Manchester 2007; Yarnell and Black 1985). Although cribra orbitalia is primarily a reactive process of childhood, maternal anemia can be associated with elevated pre- and postnatal infant mortality (Blom et al. 2005). However, unhealthy bone tissue is subject to remodeling in chronic conditions and ultimate recovery (i.e., obliteration of pitting) by adulthood. The presence of an iron-deficiency could have caused the weakening of the immune system, contributing to an increased presence of acute diseases, such as heart disease and parasitic infections, ultimately causing higher mortality rates within a sample (Humphrey 2000). Periostosis is present on only a few of the subadults. The reactive change (e.g., fine pitting, longitudinal striations, and/or plaque-like new bone formation) is an inflammatory response of the periosteum initiated by the immune system, resulting in the stimulation of osteoblasts lining the subperi-osteum (e.g. Larsen 2015; Lewis and Roberts 2007; Waldren 2009). Periosto-sis reflects a chronic inflammation that might reflect, or be indicative of, con-stitutional stress, which might result in forearm or foreleg stunting.

In sum, the presence of chronic and early childhood stress in the Schroeder Mounds subadults suggests that there were a wide range of pertur-bations that could affect growth.

Cultural Impacts on Growth

Many aspects of culture—such as practices (e.g., weaning age, child labor, women engaged in heavy labor while pregnant, workload distribu-tions), social organization, and implementations of activities (e.g., hygiene, medical care)—can affect the development of subadult growth (Baxter 2005; Humphrey 2000; Larsen 2015; Leonard et al. 2010; Lewis 2007; Martin et al.

2014; Scheper–Hughes 1985; Shell‐Duncan and Walter 2000). For example, during the Middle to Late Woodland periods, Claassen (2002) considers the possibility of workload increase (e.g., intensified agriculture) for women to the point of marshaling young children to assist as field labor, or child care-takers. Workload may also have resulted in early infant weaning. There may also be a cultural or emotional disconnect toward small children due to high mortality or societal exclusion (i.e., personhood) (Schillaci 2011). Conclusion

When compared to the normal growth curve, the Schroeder Mounds subadults exhibited forearm and, to a lesser extent, foreleg stunting. Although malnutrition is often cited as a primary cause of growth stunting, much clini-cal and bioarchaeological literature cite the contribution of chronic health problems that stress the physiology and result in a failure to thrive. A wider range of stressors than the LEH, cribra orbitalia, and periostosis quantified here apparently contribute to growth stunting, as it is present in individuals


who do not exhibit any past or chronic reactive change. The fifteen individual subadult sample size is too small to assess the relative or differential im-portance of the pathological conditions to growth and development. Clearly, more auxiliary information is needed to contextualize the growth data. This includes the assessment of subadults from other Late Woodland period sam-ples as well as the time periods preceding and post-dating Schroeder Mounds. Also, it would be beneficial to investigate other proxies to measure subadult growth stunting when long bone lengths are immeasurable. Future research will address the presence of growth stunting in the adult population from Schroeder Mounds (study pending). Whether or not forelimb foreshortening is exclusive to the subadult component will impact the interpretations of the die-tary stability of Mississippi River Valley. The goal of the current project and future research is to generate a more cohesive picture of the Late Woodland subsistence-settlement context of Schroeder Mounds and of the greater Missis-sippi River Valley.

Acknowledgments The authors would like to thank the staff of the Illinois State Museum as well as Dr. Michael Wiant, Director of the Dickson Mounds Museum, for access to the Schroeder Mounds collection.

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A Striped Hyena Scavenging Event: Implications for Oldowan Hominin Behavior

David E. Leslie

University of Connecticut–Storrs, CT, USA Abstract: The spotted (Crocuta crocuta), brown (Hyaena brunnea), and striped hyena (Hyaena hyaena) are well documented collectors of faunal remains. Ac-tualistic studies of spotted and brown hyenas used as analogs for hominin be-havior abound, while the striped hyena has received relatively little attention. Ultimately, the composition of hyena scavenging and den assemblages and their taphonomic histories are of interest to paleoanthropologists, archaeolo-gists, and paleontologists because they may help elucidate questions about ear-ly hominin behavior. Striped hyenas are the most prodigious bone collector among extant hyenas, and their small body size, omnivorous diet, and deferen-tial behavior are all applicable to previously hypothesized foraging behaviors of Oldowan hominins. In 2009, near Mount Olorgesailie, in the Kaijado Dis-trict of Kenya, an adult eland (Taurotragus oryx) was presumably killed by a lion (Panthera leo), and subsequently scavenged by striped hyenas. Detailed observations of this scavenging event, which lasted for more than 30 days, are reported here; the results of this actualistic study are applied to current hypoth-eses of Oldowan hominin foraging behavior. Given the small body size, soli-tary social structure, and deferential behavior of striped hyenas, and presuma-bly their Pliocene phylogenetic counterparts, early hominins could have suc-cessfully challenged striped hyenas for recently killed prey more efficiently than they could have contested spotted hyenas for prey. Extant striped hyena behavior also provides paleoanthropologists with exciting analogs for early hominin scavenging behavior. Keywords: Str iped Hyena, taphonomy, ear ly hominin behavior

Introduction The spotted hyena (Crocuta crocuta) is a successful species of hyena that has fascinated biologists, archaeologists, and paleontologists. These ani-mals have been used as the rubric for scavenging animals that would have competed with Oldowan hominins for early access to carcasses for meat and late access for bone marrow (Blumenschine and Cavallo 1992; Domínguez‐Rodrigo and Pickering 2003; Lansing et al. 2009). Many actualistic studies have been conducted with spotted hyenas to infer how archaeological and pale-ontological sites might have accumulated (Behrensmeyer 1978; Faith et al. 2007; Hill 1978; Pokines and Peterhans 2007). However, other species of hye-na interacted with hominins in the past and would have also created paleonto-logical sites. In fact, the spotted hyena is a poor bone accumulator when com-pared with the brown hyena (Hyaena brunnea) and the striped hyena (Hyaena hyaena) (Kuhn et al. 2009). While there have been several behavioral and ac-tualistic studies conducted on brown and spotted hyenas (Berger et al. 2009; Mills 1982, 1989, 1990; Skinner and Van Aarde 1991), academic literature is

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surprisingly sparse on the striped hyena. Over the summer of 2009, while engaged in archaeological fieldwork

at the site complex of Olorgesailie, Kenya, the scavenging of an adult common eland (Taurotragus oryx) carcass by a striped hyena was observed. The eland was presumably killed by an African lion (Panthera leo), and then scavenged for over 30 days by at least one striped hyena. Detailed observations of striped hyena scavenging behaviors presented here suggest that paleoanthropologists should begin to incorporate these behavior patterns (solitary social structure, omnivorous diet, and sneak and deferential behavior) into the possible scav-enging behaviors of early hominins. One of the main implications of this study is that early hominins would have been able to scavenge mammal remains from the Pliocene phylogenetic counterparts of striped hyenas more easily than from those more closely related to spotted hyenas (Werdelin and Solounias 1991).

Background Hyena Behavior

While behavioral studies of social carnivores abound in the literature, studies of solitary carnivores are much less common (Wagner et al. 2008). The hyena family (Hyaenidae) has been extensively studied, but a disproportionate amount of this work has focused on the spotted hyena, while the striped hyena has received relatively little attention (Kruuk 1972; Lansing et al. 2009; White 2005). This lack of research may be due to the striped hyena’s solitary behav-ior and its nocturnal nature. Fortunately, a few studies on the feeding and social behavior of the striped hyena have been conducted and this work provides a baseline of information for comparison with the spotted hyena. Kruuk (1976), while working on a monograph on the behavior of the spotted hyena in the Serengeti National Park and Ngorongoro Crater in Tanza-nia, was able to observe the feeding and social behavior of the striped hyena. Other studies have been carried out on striped hyena bone collecting behavior in Israel (Horwitz and Smith 1988; Kerbis-Peterhans and Horwitz 1992) and Jordan (Kuhn 2005), and their diet and spatial distribution in northern Kenya (Leakey et al. 1999; Wagner et al. 2008) and represent the general extent of research into striped hyena behavior.

The geographic distribution of the striped hyena extends into pockets of Sub-Saharan Africa, North Africa, West Asia, and India, while the spotted hyena is confined to Sub-Saharan Africa (Mills and Hofer 1998). In both Israel and India, striped hyenas prefer open country as their habitat, but within the Serengeti they prefer more marginal areas such as the drier savannah grass and areas with more dense vegetation (Kruuk 1976). This is contrary to spotted hyenas in the Serengeti, which prefer the open parts of the savannah grasslands (Kruuk 1972), where large game animals are most abundant. The striped hyena weighs an average of 26 kg, with males weighing slightly more than females. The spotted hyena, in contrast, is much larger; males weigh an average of 48 kg, while females average 55 kg (Kruuk 1972). The striped hyena is generally a solitary animal, although one study (Wagner et al. 2008) suggests that they may live in polyandrous spatial groups comprised of several males and a single female. Although striped hyenas will not regular-

124 A Striped Hyena Scavenging Event

ly form foraging or social groups, males may form coalitions to defend a fe-male’s territory from other striped hyenas. This is different from the gregarious behavior of the spotted hyena, which lives in large social groups of up to 100 individuals (Kruuk 1976). Spotted hyenas also live in matrilineal groups domi-nated by females (Boydston et al. 2001; Goymann et al. 2001; White 2005). Table 1 displays the diets of striped and spotted hyenas in the Seren-geti, based on feces analysis by Kruuk (1976). There are several key differ-ences in the diets of the two species. The spotted hyena is a strict carnivore that occasionally eats insects, while the striped hyena should be classified as a true omnivore, as it eats a variety of foods including mammals, reptiles, birds, insects, and vegetable matter. There is also a clear difference in the prey choice of these two species. The spotted hyena hunts and scavenges large and medium sized mammals, although they will also eat very large mammals and small mammals (Kruuk 1972). The striped hyena, however, does not eat or have access to very large mammals and instead eats a range of large to very small mammals. Given what is known about the biology and behavior of these species, the larger stature and group size of the spotted hyena enables it to challenge other carnivores for higher ranked food resources in contrast to the striped hyena, which is forced to rely on lower ranked food sources due to its smaller stature and low degree of sociality. Kruuk (1976) also reports direct feeding observations of the striped hyena, which include animals not present in the 50 fecal samples, specifically giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis), lion (Panthera leo), ostrich (Struthio camelus), vulture (Gyps sp.), spotted hyena (Crocuta crocuta), bat-eared fox (Otocyon megalotis), and hedgehog (Atelerix sp.), as well as the dung of both buffalo (Syncerus caffer) and zebra (Equus zebra). These observations varied between remains found near dens, hair-balls at dens, and direct scavenging episodes. Although there were no very large mammal remains in the feces of the striped hyena, it appears that they will scavenge this size class when given the chance. Leakey et al. (1999) also observed the diet of the striped hyena near Lothagam in northern Kenya. Their results do not differ greatly from Kruuk’s (1976), with a few exceptions. Leakey et al. (1999) collected 120 fecal sam-ples and determined that 37% of the remains constituted vegetable matter, 30% were bones and teeth, and 20% were insects. A total of 1,452 identifiable bones were collected from six striped hyena dens, representing 15 different mammalian species, crocodile (Crocodylus niloticus), catfish (Clarius sp.), and bird remains. The mammal food sources were comprised of 63.4% ungulates, 25.7% carnivore, and 9.9% human. The majority of the ungulates found at the hyena dens are comprised of goat (Capra hircus), camel (Camelus dromedar-ies), and donkey (Equus asinus) that are scavenged and poached from the Tur-kana people. The carnivore remains came from wild cat (Felis libyca), dog (canis), and other striped hyena. Prior to Leakey et al. (1999), cannibalism had not been observed in the striped hyena, but remains the most parsimonious explanation for processed hyena remains found at the den. The human remains most likely come from grave sites that the striped hyena excavated, a behavior that is identical to the grave robbing behavior documented among striped hye-nas in Israel (Horwitz and Smith 1988). Kuhn (2005) excavated five striped hyena dens in the Eastern Jordan Desert and the faunal assemblages of these sites suggest a somewhat different

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diet when compared with the diets of striped hyenas in East Africa. Kuhn (2005) identified 3,775 specimens from the five dens, of which only 24.5% were identifiable to species. The results show that striped hyenas scavenged or hunted large mammals frequently: camels (Camelus dromedaries) accounted for 35.2% of the assemblages, sheep and goats (Ovis/Capra) accounted for 13.3%, donkey (Equus asinus) accounted for 9.9%, and wild species accounted for 3.3% of the combined assemblages. Clearly, in an area where there is little pressure from other large carnivores and scavengers, and domesticated animals are plentiful, striped hyenas will prey upon and scavenge large domesticated mammals; a similar conclusion was drawn by Leakey et al. (1999).

Table 1: Table of diets of striped and spotted hyenas in the Serengeti, based on fecal analysis. Total indicates percentage of feces (50 striped and 44 spotted) that contain the whole category of prey and is not a sum. Adapted from Kruuk (1976).

The foraging behavior of the striped hyena is distinct from the spotted

hyena, as expected given the differences in their diets (Table 1). Kruuk (1976) found that the striped hyena is most active at dusk and early night, followed by a period of rest and a second, shorter activity period just before dawn, averag-ing six total hours of foraging time per day. The majority of time was spent searching for food in an area measuring approximately 44 km2 for females and 72 km2 for males. Kruuk (1976) reported that although the striped hyena search


patterns appeared random, they were clearly traveling to foraging patches along the landscape, including human settlements, fruit trees, and large kills. This is contrary to the spotted hyena, who searches for large kills or hunts in packs (Kruuk 1972). In fact, the spotted hyena is the most adept mammalian scavenger because they respond to circling vultures faster than any other carni-vore or scavenger (Kruuk 1972). The striped hyena, on the other hand, appears to have a foraging behavior that is adapted to obtaining small food resources from dense vegetation areas, foraging for fruits, hunting insects and small ani-mals, and scavenging kills. Kruuk (1972) also reports on the scavenging behavior of striped hye-nas in the Serengeti. On two successive nights, a striped hyena was attracted to a giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis) carcass, only to be confronted by a pack of spotted hyenas. The striped hyena was only successful at taking a piece of skin from the giraffe once before the spotted hyenas chased it off. Kruuk (1976) reports that in Israel striped hyenas have been observed to scavenge the hind-quarters and the flesh around the anus of donkeys. This is different from spot-ted hyenas, which usually eat the loins of an animal first (Kruuk 1972). Striped hyenas have also been observed eating the dung of herbivores. Most of Kruuk’s (1976) observations of striped hyenas hunting dealt with insects. The striped hyena would catch insects while they were on the ground or during flight. Kruuk (1976) witnessed several attempts to catch birds, amphibians, and reptiles, but none of these hunts were successful. He also observed twelve attempts to catch mammals of the following species: hare (Lepus microtis), bat-eared fox (Otocyon megalotis), domestic cat (Felis ca-tus), cheetah cubs (Acinonyx jubatus), reedbuck (Redunca arundinum), Thom-son’s gazelle (Eudorcas thomsonii), and Dik-dik (Madoqua kirkii). The only successful attempt involved a bat-eared fox, which was caught while staring at Kruuk’s vehicle and not the advancing striped hyena. On one other occasion, Kruuk (1976) observed a striped hyena with a recently killed hare in its mouth, and inferred a successful hunt. These hunting behaviors are different from spotted hyenas, which hunt in large packs and can take down very large mam-mals, including lions (Kruuk 1972). The striped hyena will cache uneaten food along the landscape, a be-havior that has not been observed in the spotted hyena (Kruuk 1976). This stor-age behavior is probably related to the striped hyena’s solitary lifestyle, while the non-caching behavior of the spotted hyena is most likely due to its gregari-ousness. It would not serve a spotted hyena to cache food along the landscape, because in their large packs another spotted hyena would see this behavior and most likely eat the food. The striped hyena will also provision cubs at their dens, another behavior that has not been recorded among spotted hyenas. This is also most likely due to the spotted hyena’s gregarious behavior and their propensity for cannibalism. For these two reasons, the striped hyena collects many more bones than the spotted hyena, both across the landscape and at den sites. When the striped hyena encounters other large carnivores it engages in sneak behavior. Shipman (1986) describes this sneak behavior as maximiz-ing the amount of meat one animal can scavenge without risking a conflict. Kruuk (1976) notes that not only do striped hyenas avoid spotted hyenas, but they will also hide when one comes close to them. Kruuk (1976) also cites examples of striped hyenas being much more vocal in Israel, where there are

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no other large predators; however, in sub-Saharan Africa these vocalizations would only serve to attract spotted hyenas. In Israel, striped hyenas have been observed collecting human re-mains and bringing these remains back to their den sites. Horwitz and Smith (1988) excavated two striped hyena dens in the northern area of the Negev Desert of Israel and found eight human skulls with carnivore damage. Horwitz and Smith (1988) predicted that puncture marks would best predict the degree of processing. This prediction was not borne out; striped hyena jaws are not large enough to engulf a human skull. Instead the progressive pattern of dam-age to the remains was the best way to predict the degree of processing. In humans, the areas of skulls that were processed in order of frequency were the zygomas, facial bones, lateral margins of the orbits, mastoid processes, and occipital condyles (Horwitz and Smith 1988). This was similar to the pattern of processing found in forty dog skulls also excavated from the dens. The pattern of damage in the dog skulls, in order of frequency, were the zygomas, bullae, pterygoid plates, occipital condyles, supra-orbital processes and frontal crest, and nasal bones (Horwitz and Smith 1988). Due to their smaller jaws and bite forces, the striped hyena is not able to process bones to the same degree as the spotted hyena, and do not leave many puncture marks on skulls of medium to large sized mammals (Binder and Valkenburgh 2000; Faith 2007; Kuhn et al. 2009). Striped hyenas also exhibit interesting social behavior for the hyaenid family. Instead of moving in large packs like spotted hyenas, striped hyenas are constantly solitary. However, Wagner et al. (2008) report that a group of striped hyenas in the Laikipia District of Kenya form polyandrous groups. They found that male and female striped hyenas form spatial groups, but they do not form foraging or social groups. Males will form coalitions to defend a single adult female’s territory against other males. Wagner et al. (2008) sug-gest that the relationship among spatial groups, resources, and patterns is best explained by the diets of females, the number of males in an area, the number of guarding males, and the territory size of females. Also, the diets of female striped hyenas best explains the number of females in an area, while the males that neighbor a female’s territory are integral in determining the number of males in a group. The number of males that guard a female’s territory deter-mines the size of that female’s territory, and the female territory size, in turn, can determine the male territory size (Wagner et al. 2008). While the logistics of predicting striped hyena spatial patterns and social behaviors developed by Wagner et al. (2008) require further testing, one of the key aspects of their study is the existence of polyandrous behavior in an otherwise solitary species. In sum, the striped hyena is a solitary, sometimes polyandrous species of hyena, in which the males are slightly dominant. They regularly collect large quantities of bones, both across the landscape and at their den sites. They have also been known to excavate graves and take human remains back to their dens, but interestingly, puncture marks on skulls are not the best indicator of the degree of processing or resource stress. Instead the progressive pattern of damage to the skull is indicative of the degree of striped hyena scavenging and bone processing. As an alternative to focusing on hunting or scavenging large mammals, striped hyenas engage in omnivorous optimal foraging behavior, eating almost anything they come across, while actively hunting and scaveng-ing smaller animals instead of larger prey. During times of resource stress,


striped hyenas will rely more on fruits and vegetables instead of meat. Alt-hough relatively little is known about striped hyena behavior, it is apparent that its behavior differs substantially from the spotted hyena. Site Background

Mount Olorgesailie and the surrounding graben and basin are situated in the southern Kenyan Rift Valley, Southwest of the Ngong Hills and North-east of Lake Magadi, in the Kaijado District. The Kaijado District is one of nine Key Resource Areas (KRAs) in Kenya, which are interspersed within Kenyan rangelands and provide foraging zones for herbivores during dry sea-sons (Ngugi and Conant 2008). Communal and smaller individually owned parcel ranches are common in the district, and are increasing the degree of fragmentation of rangelands (Kimani and Pickard 1998). The dominant land cover type for the Kaijado District is shrub savannah, and the mean annual rainfall is approximately 500 mm (FAO 2000; Ngugi and Conant 2008). The local environment where the eland was killed is riverine woodland, with sur-rounding open shrub savannah. The river is dry for most of the year, but wet periodically during the wet season, depending on the amount of local precipita-tion. In recent years, wild animals have been relatively uncommon at Olor-gesailie, but in 2009 a drought had set in that adversely affected the local Maa-sai cattle population, possibly attracting predators and scavengers. Olorgesailie is a stopping point for Tanzanian Maasai people who are driving their cattle to markets in Nairobi. Presumably, because the drought reduced the amount of people and cattle in the area, and also the key resources in the area, wild ani-mals were more common in 2009 due to decreased competition with domesti-cated animals. Grant’s gazelle (Gazella granti), eland (Taurotragus oryx), gi-raffe (Giraffa camelopardalis), olive baboon (Papio anubis), and Kirk’s Dik-dik (Rhynchotragus kirki) were seen frequently that year. Both aardvark (Orycteropus afer) and leopard (Panthera pardus) footprints were also com-mon. Striped hyenas are relatively common in the area; one was seen during the 2008 field season, a weathered skull was found in 2009, and they were of-ten heard at night from the camp. Spotted hyenas are uncommon, although a local Maasai man did say that in 2006 a man had been trapped in his car over-night by a pack of spotted hyenas about 40 kilometers from the mountain. Oldowan Scavenging Behavior

Paleoanthropologists disagree vociferously about the nature of scav-enging and possible hunting behavior of Oldowan hominins. The scavenging behavior, or secondary access to carcasses, has been suggested in several dif-ferent scenarios. One of the earlier developed scenarios is the marginal scav-enging of recently abandoned food remains, a relatively safe albeit low food yield strategy (Binford 1981). Bunn (2001) suggested power scavenging or direct confrontational scavenging, where hominins could usurp mostly com-plete carcasses from other predators. Passive scavenging, the disarticulation and removal of carcass parts (flesh, marrow, limbs, and brains) while unattend-ed by predators but before other scavengers locate the carcass, would allow hominins intermediate food yields when compared with marginal or power scavenging, and could be considered less dangerous to hominins

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(Blumenschine and Cavallo 1992). Finally, direct hunting of medium to large sized mammals could provide Oldowan hominins with early access to carcass-es without the dangers of directly engaging large felid or hyena predators and scavengers (Domínguez-Rodrigo and Barba 2006). A direct comparison of modern striped hyena scavenging behavior may be useful in extrapolating Oldowan hominin behavior. Methods

While engaged in archaeological fieldwork at Olorgesailie, Kenya,

during the summer of 2009, a freshly killed eland (Taurotragus oryx) carcass was observed by a research team on July 6th. It was clear the eland had not been dead for more than a day, as the blood had dried, but none of the remain-ing organs or meat had begun to putrefy. The eland was also killed in close proximity to an archaeological site, along a path traversed by the team every day, and could not have been dead for more than 24 hours. The eland was killed at the edge of the riverine woodland, just above the dry riverbed of the Olorgesailie River. A lion was the most likely predator responsible for the kill. On the initial observation of the eland carcass, lion footprints were abundant near the carcass, and were identified using Stuart and Stuart (2000). The adult age of the eland makes it unlikely that any other predator would have been able to bring it down, and the wounds sustained by the eland suggest the killer was a member of the felid family. The eland’s esophagus had been crushed, the organs, guts, and blood had been eaten, the large intestines had been dragged away from the carcass, and there were claw marks where the predator attempt-ed to bury the entrails. These are all typical behaviors of a lion killing a large mammal (Stuart and Stuart 2000). This eland carcass presented an opportunity to observe the scavenging behavior of local striped hyenas and to test carcass survivability and disarticu-lation sequences predicted by Blumenschine and Cavallo (1992) and Hill (1979). For the remainder of the field season (38 days), the scavenging behav-ior associated with the carcass was observed. Tracks of any additional animals were noted, although after the initial lion tracks, only striped hyena tracks were apparent. All tracks of animals were identified following Stuart and Stuart (2000). Detailed notes about the scavenging events were recorded, including the order of disarticulation, disappearance of elements, movement of the car-cass and individual elements, and degree of rot of the carcass. Movement of the carcass was measured using metric tapes and a GPS system. Hereafter each day is referred to with reference to the day the carcass was found (July 6, 2009) and subsequently scavenged by striped hyenas. Results On Day 1 (July 6) the carcass was untouched by scavengers and the only traces on the carcass appeared to have been made by the lion (Figure 1). The vital organs had been eaten and most of the blood had been drained from the carcass. Some meat on the underbelly of the carcass had also been eaten and the large intestine had been dragged approximately three meters from the body. Putrefaction of the carcass had not set in, indicating that it was killed no more than one day prior to July 6.


Figure 1: Images of eland carcass captured on different days of multi-day scavenging event; Days 1, 3, and 4 are displayed above.

The carcass scavenging was not documented on Day 2 (July 7), but by Day 3 (July 8) it was clear that at least one striped hyena had discovered the carcass, and putrefaction had set in. There were multiple hyena tracks sur-rounding the carcass (suggesting more than one hyena scavenged the eland), the large intestinal sac had been disturbed, and approximately one-third of the entrails had been eaten (Figure 1). Almost all of the underbelly meat and skin had been consumed, as well as skin and meat around the face. A small portion of meat and skin from the lower left loin and approximately half of the meat and skin from both hindquarters had been scavenged (Figure 1). With the skin of the face eaten, it was clear that the eland was a prime-aged adult; all of the molars were erupted, but had not been worn down significantly (Hilson 1986).

By Day 4 (July 9), the meat and skin from the hindquarters and the remaining meat and skin from the lower loin of the eland had been entirely consumed by striped hyenas (Figure 1). The large intestines were now com-pletely eaten and approximately one third of the left foreleg’s meat and skin had also been consumed. Day 4 also marked the cusp of the 100-hour mark (with reference to the predation event) that Blumenschine and Cavallo (1992) predict should see the carcass disappear with spotted hyenas in a savannah environment.

By Day 5 (July 10), the meat and skin from the upper loin of the eland had been completely eaten, exposing sections of the ribcage. Small portions of the neck and skull had been scavenged as well. To this point, no elements had been disarticulated. By Day 6 (July 11), nearly all the remaining skin covering the ribcage and loins had been consumed (Figure 2). The left foreleg had also

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been disarticulated, and all the meat attached to it was consumed. These bones were still articulated in anatomical position, some of the tendons and cartilage remained intact, and the left foreleg was immediately adjacent to the rest of the eland carcass.

Figure 2: Images of eland carcass captured on different days of multi-day scavenging event; Days 6, 8, 10, and 11 are displayed above.

By Day 7 (July 12), the left foreleg bones had been dragged approxi-mately three meters from the carcass, but were still articulated. By Day 8 (July 13), the striped hyenas had moved the carcass approximately one meter from its original position and the right foreleg appeared to be gone. Upon further in-spection, the shoulder meat from the right foreleg had been consumed, and the rest of the foreleg was wedged underneath the carcass, probably as it was dragged. The hyenas had also completely exposed the left portion of the rib-cage (Figure 2).

By Day 9 (July 14), portions of meat from the right hindleg had been consumed along the tibia and femur. Both the left and right sections of the ribcage were now almost fully exposed. The left hindleg had been disarticulat-ed from the carcass, and the right foreleg was still wedged beneath it. By Day 10 (July 15), more of the meat on the right hindleg along the tibia had been eaten (Figure 2). Skin remained only on the neck and part of the loins of the eland. The hyenas had also moved the carcass another 1.5 meters.

By Day 11 (July 16), the left scapula had been disarticulated and lay approximately two meters from the carcass, while the right foreleg was no longer wedged underneath the carcass (Figure 2). By Day 12 (July 17), the en-tire right hindleg had been disarticulated from the carcass and could not be lo-


cated. The striped hyenas had also moved the carcass approximately 50 centi-meters (Figure 3).

Figure 3: Images of eland carcass captured on different days of multi-day scavenging event; Days 12, 13, 19, and 24 are displayed above.

By Day 13 (July 18), the scapula had been dragged two meters, and the skull was now completely exposed. The right hindleg had also been trans-ported approximately 85 meters from the main carcass, with portions of the marrow exposed in the femur (Figure 3). By Day 14 (July 19), the position and condition of the carcass and the right hindleg appeared unchanged. This was the first day that carrion vultures were observed. By Day 15 (July 20), the striped hyenas had removed the remaining skin from the ribcage and the car-cass had again been slightly moved. By Day 16 (July 21), the right hindleg was missing, but the main part of the carcass was apparently untouched. On Day 17 (July 22), the carcass remained untouched. By Day 18 (July 23), the skull, neck, associated skin, and right scapula and foreleg had been separated from the ribcage and pelvis. By Day 19 (July 24), the ribcage and pelvis had been moved approximately one meter from the skull, neck, skin, and right scapula and foreleg (Figure 3). On Days 20 and 21 (July 25–26), there was no apparent change in the carcass composition, although the left scapula was moved one meter and the ribcage and pelvis were moved three meters from the neck and skull portion of the carcass. By Day 22 (July 27), the ribcage and pelvis had been moved an-other two meters and the sternum had been removed from the ribcage. The skull, neck, and right foreleg and scapula had also been moved an additional meter. On Day 23 (July 28), no changes were observed in the condition of the carcass.

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By Day 24 (July 29), the pelvis and lumbar vertebrae had been re-moved from the ribcage (Figure 3). The cervical vertebrae had also been re-moved from the skull. There were no apparent changes in the composition of the carcass from Days 25 to 27 (July 30–August 1), but on Day 28 (August 2), the cervical vertebrae lay approximately three meters from the skull, associated skin and right foreleg and scapula. On Days 29 to 31 (August 3–5), there were no observed changes in the carcass, but on Day 32 (August 6), the cervical vertebrae had been moved eight meters from the skull, associated skin, and right foreleg and scapula. On Days 33 to 38 (August 7–12), no changes were observed in the position or condition of the carcass. Other than an occasional carrion vulture, no other scavengers left tracks or signs near the carcass. Only striped hyena tracks were observed after Day 1. Discussion Some interesting observations can be made from these data that con-tribute to the broader understanding of scavenging niches. First, striped hyenas can intensively scavenge very large mammals opportunistically. This research represents one of the few instances that striped hyenas have been (indirectly) observed scavenging an eland carcass. The dearth of recorded observations of striped hyena scavenging of very large mammals may be due to their nocturnal behavior, but is more likely due to their lower rank in areas where spotted hye-nas are present. Given the opportunity, striped hyenas can fill ecological niches generally left to spotted hyenas. A second observation is that striped hyenas apparently require much more time to extract nutrients from a carcass than do spotted hyenas. Instead of processing the carcass in the 100 hours that Blumenschine and Cavallo (1992) predicted for spotted hyenas in a savannah environment, the eland carcass sur-vived over 912 hours of scavenging by striped hyenas in a riverine woodland environment. This is likely the result of several factors. First, the vegetation cover probably made the carcass difficult for vultures and other carrion birds to locate. Second, the carcass was located approximately two kilometers from a Maasai village and one kilometer from the Olorgesailie Site Museum. The proximity to these two locations may have discouraged diurnal scavenging. The dead eland also lay along a footpath that was heavily trafficked by archae-ologists, which would have further discouraged scavengers. Striped hyenas, however, were immune to these obstacles because they scavenge at night. The eland carcass was scavenged almost exclusively by striped hyenas, providing important information about the timing and length of scavenging by this spe-cies, although a few carrion vultures were noticed by Day 14. Perhaps the factor most affecting the carcass’ survivability is the soli-tary social structure of the striped hyena. The solitary nature of the striped hye-na resulted in the carcass being exploited by a few animals (or one) at a time, rather than a large group of animals. This enabled the carcass to survive far longer than it would have under spotted hyena group scavenging conditions. The exact number of striped hyenas engaging in this scavenging event is un-known, but it may have only been one; that would explain the long carcass survivability. The local human impact at Olorgesailie may have also created a niche for omnivorous striped hyenas, but prevents spotted hyenas from living in the area due to the dwindling large mammal populations. Regardless, the


situation at Olorgesailie suggests that striped hyenas are adapted to filling niches that spotted hyenas are incapable of filling, a trait that might extend into the past. If this is the case, striped hyenas could be expected to have filled niches away from spotted hyena populations, which may have implications for hominin scavenging opportunities. A third observation is the widespread behavioral adaptations of striped hyena scavenging. In different contexts (Kruuk 1972) striped hyenas have been observed to open a carcass up from the hindquarters. The striped hyenas at Olorgesailie displayed the same behavior, eating the hindquarters of the eland prior to the loins. Striped hyenas also engage in caching behavior. This was demonstrated with the right hindleg, which was removed from the carcass by Day 12 and found on Day 13 some 85 meters from the main car-cass. This leg was left unmolested for two days before a striped hyena returned to it, to presumably finish eating it or drag it to its den. Striped hyenas have also been observed to eat the dung of other animals (Kruuk 1972). This behav-ior was observed when the eland’s large intestines were consumed by Day 4. A fourth observation is a notable difference in the expected disarticu-lation sequence from Blumenschine and Cavallo (1992). Instead of disarticu-lating the hindlegs first as predicted, the striped hyenas first disarticulated the left foreleg and then disarticulated the hindlegs, ultimately leaving the right foreleg with the carcass. This may be one spurious encounter, or it may be that the foreleg of an eland is more prone to disarticulation and the right foreleg was not disarticulated due to being wedged under the carcass for four days. This would be in keeping with Hill (1979), who suggests that the order of dis-articulation of an animal by scavengers is dependent on the species of the car-cass. The observations of striped hyena scavenging behavior at Olorge-sailie may have several implications for Oldowan hominin behavioral research. First, in areas where striped hyenas were common but spotted hyenas were not (or their Pliocene phylogenetic counterparts), hominins could have been more successful at scavenging carcasses (Werdelin and Solounias 1991). This is due mostly to the solitary behavior of the striped hyena, which in turn leads to longer carcass survivability on the landscape. Hominins would have been more efficient in their scavenging niches in areas where Pliocene phylogenetic coun-terparts of striped hyenas were common, but spotted hyenas were not. Another factor impacting carcass survivability is the environment where the kill takes place. If killed in the open savannah the carcass will not survive long, probably due to vultures circling overhead, cueing other scavengers. However, in a closed woodland, a carcass would be more likely to survive for a longer period of time. This is problematic because Oldowan hominins would certainly be more adept at spotting carcasses in open environments, but if they were able to develop a way to find carcasses in closed woodland environments they would have greater access to food resources. Another benefit of living in areas with striped rather than spotted hye-nas is that striped hyenas are smaller animals. This, as Shipman (1986) notes, would have allowed hominins greater access to carcasses as well. Because they are solitary and small in size, it would have been easier for groups of early hominins to move striped hyenas away from kills. Smaller bodied Pliocene hyenas may have allowed Oldowan hominins to employ power scavenging as a foraging behavior (Bunn 2001). This would be in keeping with Kruuk’s

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(1976) observation that striped hyenas defer whenever they encounter a larger predator. Additionally, the nocturnal nature of striped hyenas likely would have reduced the likelihood of encountering early hominins. The opposing behavior patterns of the two species would have enabled hominins to scavenge the same carcass as striped hyenas at different times. Finally, striped hyenas may also serve as a good analog for Oldowan hominin behavior. Many people have investigated spotted hyenas as analogs for hominin behavior, but only Shipman (1986) has suggested striped hyenas as an analog. Striped hyenas, however, may serve as a better comparison to these early hominins. They are omnivorous and have a similar body size (26kg). Alt-hough striped hyenas are not as gregarious as Oldowan hominins are suspected to have been, they do form polyandrous groups, which would serve as a novel analog for early hominins. Conclusions The striped hyena has been grossly understudied when compared with the spotted hyena. Paleoanthropologists are better served with multiple exam-ples of extant hyena behavior to reconstruct early hominin daily lifeways. That the behavior of the striped hyena differs from the spotted hyena is apparent, but its’ importance to the paleoanthropological record has so far been underappre-ciated (but see Shipman [1986] and Turner [1988]). The scavenging behaviors of the striped hyenas under study at Olorgesailie indicate that given an environ-ment where larger carnivores are absent, large carcasses will persist well be-yond the expected limit of scavenging. This has implications for striped hyena behavioral research, pointing towards behavioral continuity and spotted hyena niche filling. The documented disarticulation sequence of the eland carcass also deviates from the one predicted by Blumenschine and Cavallo (1992). These observations provide evidence to suggest that striped hyena behavior should be incorporated into early hominin scavenging patterns. The observations presented here suggest that hominins would have found it more energetically efficient to scavenge food resources from the Plio-cene phylogenetic counterparts of striped hyenas, rather than scavenging from the ancestors of spotted hyenas. This is due to striped hyenas’ small body size, solitary nature, and nocturnal feeding habits. Further study of striped hyenas’ behavior should be undertaken to verify the length of carcass survivability ob-served in this study. This would help to determine if the woodland environment better determines lengthened carcass survivability or if the striped hyenas’ feeding behavior is more important in carcass survivability. Although these observations were made in an area that has been altered by the Maasai to ex-clude spotted hyenas, it still holds that striped hyenas occupy separate niches from spotted hyenas. This alone seems enough to warrant further study in striped hyena behavior and will certainly aid paleoanthropologists in recon-structing past hominin lifeways.


Acknowledgments I would like to thank the entire paleontological Olorgesailie research and field team for facilitating this research and for many thoughtful discussions about this subject while in the field, particularly Rick Potts, Jenny Clark, Briana Pobiner, Alison Brooks, and John Yellen. I would also like to thank Sally McBrearty and Sarah Sportman, who provided helpful comments on previous versions of this paper. Finally, I would like to thank the editorial staff at Field Notes and two anonymous reviewers for their detailed comments on a previous version of this paper; it has been greatly im-proved as a result.

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Analysis of Intraspecific Communication Plasticity in Captive Female Orangutans (Pongo pygmaeus)

Sara Cooper

University of South Florida,1 USA

Abstract: Social plasticity, the adjustment of social behavioral expression to the nuances of daily life, is an important facet of primate communication be-cause it is a response to the selective pressures that make one form of commu-nication more advantageous over another when utilized in specific social situa-tions (Oliveira 2012). In this study examining social plasticity of orangutan communication as a function of sex, I compare the time budgets of communica-tive behaviors among female Bornean orangutans (Pongo pygmaeus) at the Lowry Park Zoo, Florida. Sex-based social plasticity was defined as a behav-ioral difference between same-sex and opposite-sex interactions. Data collec-tion included 65 hours of video, recorded observations, and frame-by-frame analysis using focal animal sampling. Communicative behavior differed signifi-cantly between same-sex and opposite-sex interactions (χ 2=35.13, df=1, p<0.01). When interacting with same-sex conspecifics, females spent most of their time utilizing tactile communication (86.8%), followed by visual communication (13.2%). When interacting with males, females spent most of their time utilizing visual communication (57.2%), followed by tactile commu-nication (42.8%). No significant auditory communication was observed (<0.1%). I conclude that female orangutan communication exhibits sex-based social plasticity. I propose that this plasticity is a behavioral adaptation result-ing from sex-specific social selective pressures. Keywords Pr imatology, zoology, evolutionary anthropology, pr imate communica-tion, animal cognition, primate social behavior

Introduction: Reconciling Biology and Culture Consideration of the evolutionary trajectory of primate communica-tion must emphasize a theoretical shift away from a traditional Neo-Darwinist framework. Neo-Darwinism posits that geographic variation in morphology and behavior are attributed to varying selection on local genotypes (van Schaik 2013). Experiments to test this concept have focused primarily on invertebrates and fish, organisms capable of expedited genetic evolution as a result of small brains and fast life histories (Holbrook et al. 2014; Krutzen et al. 2011; Oliveira 2012). Orangutans are large-brained animals with slow life histories as well as low population rates inhabiting rapidly changing physical and social environ-ments. Genetic selection is therefore too slow to have a significant impact on their behavior (Krutzen et al. 2011; van Schaik 2013). An evolutionary ap-proach to analyzing the adaptability of different communication strategies would not imply genetic adaptation. It would consider adaptation a function of social learning and behavioral plasticity. A social approach to evolutionary theory implies consideration of the selective pressures that would make one form of communication more advanta-geous over another when utilized in specific social situations. My research aims

Cooper 141

to question the differences in social bonding and therefore in selective pres-sures that manifest as a function of sex. If the maleness of a recipient necessi-tates a means of social bonding different from a female recipient in order to facilitate a successful interaction, then I hypothesize that a different communi-cation modality will be employed as well. Griebel and Oller (2008) suggest that as a social system becomes more complex, communicative flexibility, the ability to adjust communicative behavior to fit a situation, evolves as a means of breaking away from “fixed cues,” unspecialized involuntary states or actions that convey stereotypical information. Fixed cues limit the complexity of information that can be con-veyed and would therefore become a disadvantage as the need for multi-functional and contextualized social signaling developed within a group. McComb and Semple (2005) apply a similar concept to vocal communication, suggesting that vocal repertoire size has a strong positive correlation to group size and time spent grooming. McComb and Semple’s work implies that com-munication modalities, in this case vocal communication, evolve as a function of social bonding in primates. Changes in communicative strategy, from fixed cues to flexible sig-nals, had a profound effect on neurological processing of social behavior. These changes can be observed on a gradient scale within the primate order. The simplest form of primate communicative flexibility is found among mon-keys. Wild rhesus monkeys are known to exhibit within-group call similarity as well as population-specific vocal “dialects” (Hodun et al. 1982). Among Japanese macaques, populational differences have been found in use of food and contact calls (Green 1975; Sakura 1989). Arbib et al. (2008) hypothesize that mirror neuron activity, as ob-served in monkeys, is the evolutionary basis for language parity. In other words, all means of communicative ability are the result of brain mechanisms that expand upon the mirror neuron system responsible for perception of grasp-ing actions. Within controlled laboratory studies, monkeys shown a video of a hand picking up an object and then shown another video of an object being placed behind an opaque screen, followed by a hand reaching behind the screen, will exhibit the same discharge of neurons indicative of perception of a grasping action in response to both videos (Fogassi and Gallese 2002). This identical set of responses indicates that the monkeys were recognizing that the hand in the second video, despite not being visible, still had the same goal ac-tion as the hand in the first video. However, mirror neurons only discharged during the second video if the monkey knew that an object was behind the screen. If the monkey did not know there was an object behind the screen, then no response was detected. Mirror neurons were activated only when the mon-key had a concrete understanding of the trajectory of the action being per-formed by the hand. The monkey was able to use this information to create a motor representation of the action whether or not the action was visible. These results support Arbib et al.’s hypothesis by suggesting a correlation between mirror neurons and action understanding. Action understanding is fundamental to social assessment skills and subsequent development of proper behavioral responses (Rizzolatti and Craighero 2004). The most effective means of testing the function of a neurological process is to study the effects of damage or developmental atrophy to the part of the brain responsible for said process. Monkeys reared in social isolation

142 Analysis of Intraspecific Communication Plasticity

have been shown to produce species-specific call types but lack the ability to produce their own new signals. This lack of ability suggests that socially iso-lated monkeys lack the communicative flexibility found in monkeys that learn how to communicate within their social group (Rizzolatti and Craighero 2004). Concerning great apes, the involvement of a high degree of social learning in acquisition of communicative abilities is supported by studies that show enculturation with humans giving apes a different gestural repertoire from that exhibited by their wild counterparts (Premack and Premack 1972). Furthermore, apes add to the complexity of social ontogeny by exhibiting per-ception of psychological facts about conspecifics as opposed to just external behaviors (Brothers 1990). For example, DeWaal (1989) describes observing a captive bonobo becoming stranded at the bottom of a moat that is usually con-nected to the surface by a chain that had been pulled up by previous individu-als. The mate of the stranded individual was seen dropping the chain back down the moat, allowing the stranded individual to climb up. DeWaal hypothe-sizes that this situation was an act of empathy and altruistic assistance by the mate. In the context of Brothers’ argument, this implies that the mate con-structed a psychological model of another individual, interpreted signs of dis-tress within that individual, and responded accordingly. Such a response also implies that the psychological model of the stranded individual was construct-ed within an emotional context. If Arbib et al.’s mirror neuron hypothesis is correct, then the construction of a psychological model of another individual would begin with mirror neurons coding the intentions and dispositions of oth-ers through interpretation of present actions and learned social signals. Re-search tentatively suggests that these neuron firings are processed at least part-ly through limbic structures such as the amygdala and orbital frontal cortex, areas correlated with emotional response and in which brain lesions have been shown to cause deficits in social behavior (Kling and Steklis 1976). Theoretical Approach Analysis of social influences on neural mechanisms for social behav-ior as previously described requires a cohesive theoretical model that addresses the interdependent selective pressures that arise from both the physical envi-ronment and the social environment. In this section, I propose a model that combines aspects of social plasticity, niche construction, and evolutionary the-ory. Social plasticity is the ability to adjust one’s social strategy to fit the current situation or social influence. Such a broad definition allows social plas-ticity to be observed within the context of both the physical environment and the social environment. For example, as primates made the switch from noctur-nal activity to diurnal activity, a greater reliance on visual communication than olfactory communication developed as shown by the disproportionate expan-sion of the visual system within the primate brain (Brothers 1990; MacKinnon and Fuentes 2012). Certainly, heightened vision was a great advantage in re-gards to basic survival, providing new means of finding food and avoiding predators. However, the addition of visual communication to the primate reper-toire also allowed for a higher degree of temporal sequencing and brevity of signals that surpassed the efficacy of olfactory communication. This new com-municative complexity preceded the evolution of more complex social struc-

Cooper 143

tures (Brothers 1990). The evolution of visual communication began as a so-cially constructed exaptation of a response to a change in the physical environ-ment. The niche construction framework suggests that an organism is active-ly modifying its environment. In the context of communication, niche construc-tion expands the meaning of communication from a simple transfer of infor-mation to an active manipulation of an individual’s conspecifics in order to maximize inclusive fitness (MacKinnon and Fuentes 2012). Among orangutans, Knott et al. (2010) found that in response to high levels of forced copulation, females began to exhibit selective resistance as a function of their reproductive status. Near ovulation, females mated cooperatively only with prime flanged males. When conception risk was low, willingness to mate with lower ranked males increased. Knott et al. hypothesized that if a mating is un-likely to lead to conception, females may reduce resistance to avoid costs of male aggression such as personal harm or infanticide. The females are respond-ing to a situation within their social environment by adjusting their social strat-egy through manipulation of their conspecifics. Niche construction integrates social theory into an evolutionary frame-work by expanding Darwinian evolution beyond the physical environment. In opposition to the Neo-Darwinist perspective of evolution, this model posits that among social species, the ability to construct a niche through social manipula-tion is evolutionarily advantageous. Organisms are responding to their environ-ment as well as using their ability to adapt to a situation in order to manipulate aspects of said environment to their advantage. Concerning long-lived and large-brained animals, geographic influence on local genotypes is statistically insignificant particularly within a micro-evolutionary analysis (Kuze et al. 2005). Instead, social evolution both in response to and in spite of the physical environment must be emphasized. The ability to construct complex social strat-egies that take into consideration both physical and social context in order to convey desired information is the most advantageous means of survival for an organism, such as the orangutan, that inhabits a consistently and rapidly chang-ing environment.

Methods Animals

The group of animals, described in Table 1, was comprised of an adult male, Goyang, two adult females, Josie and DeeDee, and two juvenile females, 9-year-old Hadiah, an offspring of Josie, and 6-year-old RanDee, an offspring of DeeDee.

Setting

This study was conducted at the Lowry Park Zoo in Tampa, Florida. Lowry Park Zoo is a 63-acre nonprofit zoo. The ground level of the enclosure (Figure 1) had a grass-covered floor with palm fronds and moss on raised plat-forms of rock. This level was almost entirely hidden from the vantage point of the visitors’ area unless a visitor observed the level from the edge of the barrier separating the visitors’ area from the enclosure.


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Cooper 145

An artificial pool and waterfall provided a constant supply of water. One wall of the exhibit had an entrance from which zookeepers provided food and care for the orangutans on a daily basis. The second level of the enclosure (Figure 2) had a hay-covered floor upon which a series of raised wooden platforms and columns was erected. Wooden logs and rope bridges connected the structures and provided walkways between the levels of the enclosure. Blankets and en-richment items were distributed among the platforms. Spectators could observe the second level from an open air sidewalk or a glass protected sidewalk that led visitors on a path through each of the primate habitats. The third level of the enclosure (Figure 3) consisted of large wooden platforms connected by rope nets and wooden logs atop 50-foot columns in the center of the habitat.

Figure 1: First level of enclosure.

Figure 2: Second level of enclosure.


Figure 3: Third level of enclosure.

Observation Procedures

Data collection was conducted using a series of duration recording sessions. Duration recording monitors the percentage of time a behavior occurs during an observation period. The percentage is calculated by dividing the du-ration a behavior occurs by the total interaction time (Defler 1993). This type of behavioral recording is the most advantageous method for multimodal com-munication research because it can account for behaviors of varying duration without distorting statistical significance. Sessions occurred in 40-minute intervals with 15-minute interludes between each interval. One individual, and all resulting interactions involving said individual, was the focus of observation per session. The target individual was decided upon beforehand using a fixed schedule to ensure that equal time was spent observing each individual. Six duration recording sessions occurred per day. Two individuals were observed per day in alternating sessions. This ensured that each individual was observed for an adequate amount of time at least every other day. Morning and afternoon intervals were alternated between pairs of individuals to ensure that each individual was observed at different times of the day. Primate communication studies are vulnerable to observation bias through projection of human traits onto nonhuman primates. Operationaliza-tion of each concept studied is of particular pertinence. Only behaviors that exhibited intentionality, as opposed to fixed cues, were considered within the scope of this study. Fixed cues were defined as involuntary actions that con-veyed stereotypical information thereby limiting its use to only one particular function (Griebel and Oller 2008). Bard defines communication by intentional-ity and operationalizes intentionality as behaviors that include direct manipula-tion of an animate or inanimate object in order to accomplish a specific goal (Bard 1992). This is a useful concept for evaluation of tactile communication. However, Bard’s definition must be expanded when studying three types of communication modalities to include all behaviors utilized to accomplish a

Cooper 147

specific goal. In the context of communication, this means all behaviors uti-lized to convey information to a recipient. Therefore, a behavior was coded as an intentional communicative gesture if it was performed to capture and main-tain the attention of another individual as well as convey desired information in a manner that the recipient understands. Recipient understanding was opera-tionalized as an active attentional state to the interaction, particularly in the form of bodily or facial orientation towards the instigator. Additionally, the instigator must have exhibited a lack of repetition of the communicative behav-ior to ensure that said behavior did not fail in conveying desired information (Russon and Andrews 2010). Only behaviors that contributed to a mutual inter-action, in which the communication recipient responded to the instigator with a communicative behavior, were coded for. Otherwise, recipient understanding, and therefore the signal’s efficacy, remained unclear and considered beyond the scope of the study. Communication modality was defined as a particular way in which communication is expressed. Communication modalities were categorized into three different groups: visual, auditory, and tactile. Visual communication was defined as conveyance of information that could be looked upon by the com-munication recipient. Auditory communication was defined as conveyance of information that relied on vocalizations. Tactile communication was defined as conveyance of information that relied on physical touch. If an individual uti-lized more than one modality at a time, then all observed modalities were sepa-rately coded for. The purpose of this study is to gain an understanding of the social advantages of each communication modality category (visual, auditory, and tactile). If a single modality contributed to the efficacy of a multimodal signal, then it exhibited an advantage within a particular social environment. Therefore, coding multimodal signals as single modalities does not contribute to statistical overrepresentation of multimodal signals. All observed behaviors were organized in an ethogram and catego-rized by modality. Five days of preliminary observation were conducted to become acquainted with individual orangutans and to identify specific behav-iors utilized by the group. A behavior was added to the ethogram when ob-served more than once. These preliminary sessions were not included in the study analysis. Each interaction was timed from start to finish. Communicative be-haviors, as previously defined, were individually timed and recorded for the selected individual. An interaction was considered instigated when an individ-ual’s communicative strategy captured the attention of another individual. An interaction was considered completed when the individuals did not utilize com-municative strategies towards each other for a period of more than 2 minutes. Any further interaction past this timeframe was considered a new bout. Due to the subtle nature of many orangutan behaviors, all interactions were video recorded on an Apple iPad using iMovie, a high-speed video re-cording and video editing software application. Data collection was conducted through frame-by-frame analysis of the video recordings. A separate audio tape recorder was utilized for observation notes. Recordings were transferred to a computer file after data collection.


Analytical Procedures

Utilization of duration recording sessions allowed for analysis of data using a modified time budget approach focusing only on communicative be-haviors as previously defined. Time budgeting, calculation of an individual’s distribution of time expenditure as a function of implemented behaviors, has been a common form of analysis for behaviors such as feeding, sleeping, and grooming. The significance of the time budget in previous studies is that the results suggest prioritization among the behaviors observed (Defler 1995; McFarland et al. 2014). Within an evolutionary context, preference for a spe-cific behavior implies that said behavior is most conducive to fitness. I propose that preference for a specific communicative behavior implies that said behav-ior is most conducive to social efficacy. Among social species such as pri-mates, social efficacy implies a higher level of fitness. Social efficacy was defined as the ability to produce a communicative behavior that conveys de-sired information in a manner that the recipient understands. Data was analyzed for correlations between type of interaction, same-sex or opposite-sex, and communication modality frequency. Tests of inde-pendence were conducted using Pearson’s chi-square test, calculated by hand. The chi-square test evaluates the likelihood that observed differences between multiple sets of data arose by chance. Chi-square tests were conducted for same-sex interactions and for opposite-sex interactions to evaluate behavioral frequency for each type of interaction. If the chi-square test showed an insig-nificant likelihood of differences between same-sex interactions and opposite-sex interactions, then it was possible to conclude that there were no differences between same- and opposite-sex interactions. If the likelihood of differences between same-sex interactions and opposite-sex interactions was shown to be significant, then the most frequent modality in each set was considered the preferred modality for that type of interaction. Frequency of a modality was determined by longest average time among all interactions within a set. Results

Female orangutans spent a total of 214.38 minutes out of the 65-hour observation period engaging in communicative interactions. A repertoire of 23 communicative behaviors, as defined in the Methods section, was observed, containing 7 visual behaviors and 16 tactile behaviors. One auditory behavior was observed for a statistically insignificant amount of time (<0.01%) and was not considered in the final analysis. Table 2 shows all observed communicative behaviors categorized by modality in association with a short description. When interacting with same-sex conspecifics, females spent most of their time utilizing tactile communication (86.8%) followed by visual commu-nication (13.2%). When interacting with the one male subject, females spent most of their time utilizing visual communication (57.2%) followed by tactile communication (42.8%) (Figure 4). The difference in time budgets between same-sex and opposite-sex interactions was shown to be statistically signifi-cant (χ 2=35.13, df=1, p<0.01) (Table 3). These results imply that females ex-hibited an adjustment in social strategy, through changes in communication modality preference, in response to the sex of the individual with whom they were interacting.

Cooper 149

Table 2: Observed orangutan behaviors categorized by modality in association with a short description.

Modality Behavior Definition Visual Eye-gaze/stare Instigator looks steadily and

intently at recipient Baring of teeth Instigator opens mouth slight-

ly with corners of mouth pulled back and teeth visible

Arm wave Instigator extends arm and waves it horizontally in front of own body

Move away Instigator gazes at recipient within a distance of 3 feet or less then moves away from recipient

Present genitals Instigator sits in front of re-cipient, facing forward or backward, and presents geni-tals

Chase Instigator pursues recipient engaging in “Move away”

Smile Slight turning of the corners of the lips with mouth closed; all open mouthed variants are coded as “baring of teeth”

Tactile Bite Instigator bites recipient on

any body part Hold tight Instigator seizes hand or foot

of recipient Put hand on head Instigator puts flat hand on

head or back of recipient and remains there

Give object Instigator gives object to re-cipient

Grab object Instigator seizes object in re-cipient’s possession, usually followed by attempt to take object away from recipient

Throw object Instigator throws object at recipient

Suckle Instigator suckles recipient’s nipple

Social grooming Instigator removes dead skin or parasites from recipient


Table 2 cont.

Figure 4: Bar graph depicting time budget percentages for same-sex and opposite-sex interac-tions.

Modality Behavior Definition Tactile Grab Instigator forcefully

grasps body part of recipi-ent

Embrace Instigator puts one or two arms around body of re-cipient

Gentle touch Gentle touch with hand or foot

Lip touch Instigator touches recipi-ent’s lips with own lips

Pull Instigator grasps and forcefully moves body part of recipient

Push Instigator forcefully shoves recipient

Slap Instigator forcefully touches recipient with a flat hand

Mate Instigator engages in sex-ual intercourse with recip-ient

Cooper 151

Table 3: Chi-square test variables for same-sex and opposite-sex interactions.

Results: χ 2=35.13, df=1, p<0.01

Limitations Multimodal communication research is inherently limited because attention must be divided between the modalities. Due to site and sample size limitations, the findings of this study may be highly contextualized. Captive subjects may exhibit different behaviors from their wild coun-terparts due to the nature of their environment and upbringing. The social sys-tem of orangutans in the wild is considered to be semi-solitary. However, cap-tive orangutans are kept in groups for long periods of time (Tajimi and Kuro-tori 2010). The difference in environment and upbringing can have a signifi-cant effect on their behavior that must be considered when conducting a cap-tive study. Frequency of social interactions increases as a function of closer proximity (Tajimi and Kurotori 2010). Tobach et al. (1989) found that in a close-quarters setting orangutans behave similarly to chimpanzees in that asso-ciative behaviors revolve around the behavior of the females and infants. How-ever, Tobach et al. defined associative behavior strictly by tactile association. Rather than dictating the associative behavior of the group, perhaps females were exhibiting a preference for tactile communication when interacting with each other or their infants. Observation of varied opposite-sex interactions was limited because only one male inhabits Lowry Park Zoo. The male is an adult so observation of interactions with male infants and juveniles was impossible.

Discussion and Conclusions Analysis of the collected data indicated a difference in female com-municative behavior between same-sex and opposite-sex interactions. Females preferred tactile communication when interacting with other females and visual communication when interacting with the male. These results indicate that fe-male orangutan communication exhibits sex-based social plasticity. I propose that, by budgeting their interaction time in preference of a particular communi-cation modality, females deemed said modality most advantageous in achiev-ing a successful social interaction. This social success is indicated by the mutu-al participation of both instigator and recipient in a communicative bout as well

Interaction Type

Modality Percent-age

Observed (minutes)

Expected (minutes)

Same-sex Tactile 86.8 155.53 142.56

Same-sex Visual 13.2 23.58 36.55

Opposite-sex Tactile 42.8 15.1 28.07

Opposite-sex Visual 57.2 20.17 7.2


as observation of recipient understanding as defined in the Methods section of this study. Congruent with the niche construction framework, the behavioral dis-crepancy between same-sex and opposite-sex interactions indicates considera-tion as well as intentional response to the sex of the communication recipient. Intentionality requires conveyance of information in a manner that the recipient understands. The results of this study indicate that sex was recognized as a var-iable that required a change in a female’s manner of information conveyance. In other words, females had to adapt their social strategy to fit the particular social situation. Requirement of adaptation in order to successfully navigate the social environment categorizes sex as a social selective pressure. Further study is required to understand the implications of sex as a social selective pressure. These results simply indicate the presence of said pressure. It can also be tentatively concluded that female orangutans exhibit an ability to recognize social selective pressures through their plastic response to this particular change in the social environment (sex of communication recipi-ent). Further study is required to ascertain whether this evaluative ability ex-tends to other social pressures, such as familial relation and resource posses-sion. Such studies could lead to a better understanding of communication plas-ticity as a means of social adaptability. This study was a pilot study of time budget analysis for strictly com-municative behaviors. Time budgeting has been a common form of analysis for behaviors such as feeding, sleeping, and grooming. According to Defler (1995) and McFarland et al. (2014), the significance of the time budget is that the re-sults suggest prioritization among the behaviors observed. Within an evolution-ary context, preference for a specific behavior implies that said behavior is most conducive to fitness. When communication is included in a time budget, it is usually placed under the umbrella category of social activity. For example, Defler (1995) conducted a time budget analysis of wild wooly monkeys that included categorizing behaviors as either “resting,” “moving,” “foraging,” or “social behavior.” “Social behavior” was operationalized as any interaction between two individuals. Such a vague definition implies that any form of as-sociation could be considered social. This disregards the need for context and cognitive processing of said context, which separates a social situation from a simple spatial relation. Similar categorization can be found within a study on orangutan social behavior conducted by Mitani et al. (1991) in which the terms “association” and “social behavior” were utilized interchangeably and opera-tionalized as two animals approaching within 30 meters of each other. Time budget analysis has the potential to integrate social behavior into an evolutionary framework but only if communication is considered a separate and more complex category than that of spatially defined associative behaviors. As preference for a specific type of behavior implies that said behavior is most conducive to fitness (Defler 1995; McFarland 2014), I propose that preference for a specific communicative behavior implies that said behavior is most con-ducive to social efficacy. Among social species such as primates, social effica-cy implies a higher level of fitness.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Lorena Madrigal and Daniel Lende for their guidance. I also thank Lowry Park Zoo for allowing me to conduct research at their facility.

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Notes 1. The author completed the research for this article at the University of South Florida and will be enrolling as a master’s student at the University of Roehampton.

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Geographic Variation in Orangutan Behavior.” Current Biology 21:1808–12.

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Book Reviews


Illegality, Inc.: Clandestine Migration and the Business of Bordering Europe Ruben Andersson. Oakland: University of California Press, 2014. 360 pp. ISBN: 9780520282520. $29.95. Rasmus Rodineliussen Stockholm University, Sweden

In his debut book, Ruben Andersson engages with one of the most urgent topics within the European Union—the migrant crisis. The situation has been described as the worst crisis since the two world wars. Andersson discusses different migrant routes to Europe, one of them being by boat. According to the UNHCR (3/14/2016), the number of migrants who have come to Europe by boat in 2016 is estimated to be roughly150,000—a number that is expected to surpass the 1,015,078 migrants that arrived this way in 2015. Given that the crisis is ongoing, the topic of Andersson’s study is timely and significant. Andersson invites the reader to follow him and his informants on a journey through the Spanish section of the Euro-African border towards Europe. Starting in Senegal, Mali, Mauritania, Morocco, and continuing past the border into the European border organization FRONTEX's1 headquarters in Warsaw, Poland. However, the focus is not on the journey, or the migrants per se, but on the industry built around illegal migration, which Andersson calls the “illegality industry.” The illegality industry consists of local police patrols, aid agencies, governments, FRONTEX, and smugglers who all benefit from each (failed) attempt from migrants to cross the European border. Each attempt results in more funding from European governments to battle migrants coming to Europe. Andersson uses his broad ethnographic material to guide the reader through his argument about how the illegality industry functions and what consequences are imposed. The material was collected from 2010 to 2011 in the form of several hundred interviews and through the method of participant observation, including visits to border agencies (xiii). Andersson places himself within theoretical debates in anthropology concerning migration, borders, refugees, and security. Due to the book being part of the California series in public anthropology, the theory is kept on a rather light level, which works well with the dense empirical material. The argument throughout the book is that, when Europe closes its borders by force, the migrants are criminalized and punished, but they do not stop coming to Europe. This criminalization of migration leads to migrants ending up in the hands of smugglers who facilitate their continuing migration to Europe, often under harsh conditions. The profits earned in Europe, including money paid by hopeful migrants to cross the border, is what fuels the productivity of the illegality industry (7–8). Andersson explains how European governments are illegalizing migrants, and by doing so are creating the foundation for the illegality industry. He also states that migrants will continue to move as long as the pressure and hardships they face continue in the future.

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In a globalized world where information, technology, and people are moving at a faster rate than ever before, there is an increased need to understand who can and who cannot move. Andersson begins the book by defining migrant as a label constructed by developed countries, a label that only applies to the poor and powerless —those who should not move, especially not to global centers such as Europe (4). He argues that the fear of migrants in Europe does not correspond to the number of migrants who actually materialize on its soil (5). In order to mitigate a fear of migrants, the states of Europe, through FRONTEX, have enforced their borders with fences, armed guards, military vessels at sea, and other kinds of surveillance. The main discussion in this book resonates with a larger discourse around borders, boundaries, and rituals that has developed from Mary Douglas' Purity and Danger (1966)2 as well as Victor Turner’s The Ritual Process (1969).3 Andersson does not refer to Douglas or Turner directly, but includes himself in this discourse by claiming that, because migrants are not supposed to come to Europe, they are labeled as outsiders and out of their place (180). Conceiving of migrants as a “matter out of place” may lead to a conception that migrants pollute, which serves to justify the process of “animalization” by governments who reduce migrants to mere bodies. Andersson argues this is vital in order for the border regime to work its methods against migrants trying to enter “Fortress Europe” (120). Migrants attempting to travel to Europe are thus becoming part of the ritual of the border—through their deaths, they are the sacrifices needed to sustain the ritual and strengthen the border (120). Migrants who manage to arrive in Europe are instead separated from society, because of this “polluting” nature (180). Andersson describes migrants trying to evade the all-seeing eye of the border regime as “being en route … at turns visible and invisible to the border forces that chase them” (108). By including Andersson’s discussion alongside Douglas and Turner, it is evident how the journey of the migrants can be viewed as a liminal phase of migration, the middle stage of a rites de passage. The obstacles imposed by the border regime and the danger that follows are variables that the migrant must overcome in order to reach his or her goal—Europe. The migrants are continuously in a state of not knowing what is next on their journey. They do not know when they will arrive in Europe, if they will arrive, or if they will be alive at the end. The liminality aspect is not always explicit in Andersson’s text, but the ethnographic examples and the theoretical concepts used are easier to understand with this framework in mind. If we consider migrants in a state of liminality, as “polluting,” it is possible to understand their role in the “illegality industry.” Andersson’s work illuminates how migrants' bodies become commodities of the industry through being packed, shipped, paid for, declined, and sent back. The industry is fuelled by funds from Europe, but it is the migrants' bodies that constitute the danger and thus trigger the response from European governments to fund fighting them off. Migrant bodies are not supposed to be on European territory, and therefore they are in and of themselves polluting when they arrive. The aspect of pollution is created by European governments as a rhetorical and imaginational tool to keep migrants at bay. The book is divided into three sections: Borderlands, Crossings, and Confrontations. In the first section, Borderlands, Andersson provides ethnographic descriptions of how migrants are coming to the borders of

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Europe, and he shows how the illegality industry is built around these journeys. He also show how the fear of migrants in Europe results in actions of “fundamental absurdity” to keep the migrants out (5). Lastly, this section describes the expansion of Europe's borders into African territories that has instigated a hunt for the “illegal migrants.” In the second section, Andersson focuses on what he calls the “game,” which constitutes the relationship between migrants and border guards. The migrants do all they can to avoid detection, and the guards seek to detect the migrants in order to stop them from entering Europe. The third section explores the Spanish African enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla by showing how a politics of containment is born as a means of making an example of migrants. This politics is acted out on migrant bodies by keeping them in one restricted area for an extended period of time, sometimes for several years. The detainment of migrants for an extended period of time is done to discourage migrants from making the journey. Lastly, this section also brings the reader back to Africa by showing the response to deportations of migrants caught in raids or trying to cross the borders of “Fortress Europe.” Because of Andersson’s vast geographical scope and multi-site method, this book is at times a bit disjointed, and unless the reader is attentive, it can be difficult to grasp where the story takes place. Andersson addresses this problem in his introduction, where he provides a time chart to help orient the reader. Furthermore, while women and children are present in Andersson's narrative, he does not address the role gender might play in their experiences of migration. This is one of the main weaknesses of the book because the number of both women and children migrating has increased dramatically compared to years before. Therefore, gender and age would have been important aspects to explain in relation to the industry’s treatment of migrant bodies. Another aspect that Andersson notes is the role of smugglers in facilitating migrant journeys as part of the illegality industry, although he does not discuss this in detail. Addressing this variable of the industry more explicitly would have added another significant dimension to his analysis. The book addresses a current and controversial human rights topic and offers a contribution to future anthropological research. Andersson’s discussion of how the European border is expanded outside of Europe (see part one of the book—Borderlands) is an example of a broader contribution. This expansion of European borders is not a one-time development. We can see examples of these developments today with the agreements and regulations between Europe and Turkey. The deal states that Turkey will close its borders and keep refugees instead of allowing them to migrate towards Europe. In return, Turkey will continue to receive economic and political benefits from Europe. As a consequence of this deal, European borders are expanding into Turkey, a parallel pattern. The reasons for the expansions of the European government into Turkey (and the African territories as noted by Andersson in his fieldwork) are the same—the migrants are coming to Europe. As Andersson states in his conclusion, and points out throughout the book, the responses towards the migrants are often absurd due to the media exaggerating the risks migrants pose to the public. One example provided in Andersson's book of this absurd dimension is the migrants coming to the shores of Spain in sinking boats. This caused hysteria in Spanish media, and a massive response from the government ensued. All of the hysteria and money spent on stopping

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these migrants suggests that the government overreacted, considering that the migrants who arrived in this way from 2005 to 2014 only constituted a mere 1% of the flow of undocumented migrants into Spain since 1990 (5). Illegality, Inc. is a well written and enlightening book that I strongly recommend to anyone interested in migration studies, refugee studies, borders or questions of security. In addition, the light approach to theory and rich ethnography provides an interesting and informative reading for those outside of socio-cultural anthropology. At times the book was hard to follow geographically, and lacked a gender approach in the consideration of data, but the main arguments made by the author were clear throughout the volume. This book is a welcome addition to the field, as it illuminates anthropological issues as well as necessary avenues of inquiry for future research on this topic by students and advanced scholars alike.

Notes

1. “European Agency for the Management of Operational Cooperation at the External Borders of the Member States of the European Union” (Andersson 2014, 74–75, italics in original). 2. Mary Douglas analyzes concepts of pollution and taboo. Her most well known contribution is her description of how something becomes dirty when it’s a ” matter out of place.” This idea has been developed by numerous scholars as a way to explain why things or people are treated as less worthy because of their coming from another place. 3. Victor Turner develops the concept of liminality from Arnold van Gennep. Liminality is explained to be the second step in a rites de passage. The first step, separation, is when the individual is separated from a known environment. Step two, liminality, is a state of not knowing—where anything can happen. The final step is incorporation, when the individual once again gains a distinguished role in society. The concept of liminality has been used by scholars interested in rituals, border studies, and many other areas.

References

Douglas, Mary. 1966. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London & New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd.

Turner, Victor Witter. 1969. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-structure. Itacha: Cornell University Press.

UNHCR. 2016. “Refugees/Migrants Emergency Response—Mediterranean.” Accessed March 14, 2016. http://data.unhcr.org/mediterranean/regional.php.

http://data.unhcr.org/mediterranean/regional.php

http://data.unhcr.org/mediterranean/regional.php


An Archaeology of Human Decapitation Burials Katie Tucker. Barnsley, England: Pen and Sword, 2015. 264 pp. IBSN 978-1-47382-551-2. $36.00. Shaheen M. Christie University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, USA

In this nuanced and well written volume, Katie Tucker aims to guide readers beyond considering prehistoric decapitation and associated violence strictly as a peri- or post-mortem rite due to warfare or intra/inter personal vio-lence, demonstrating that this diverse practice was considered and utilized in culturally specific ways throughout many prehistoric and historic periods. Drawing on multiple lines of evidence (e.g., ancient literature, iconography, material culture, physical remains, and ethnographic cases), Tucker offers a thorough look at the complexity of the uses of the body in relation to decapita-tion in British prehistory. Tucker’s central aim is to provide a critical examina-tion of the previous interpretations of decapitation in the past and parse out the meanings of this socio-political, economic, and culturally constructed practice. She supports this central thesis by drawing on historical sources as well as skel-etal and material culture recovered from a number of British and Continental European contexts (with a focus on those from the British Roman Iron Age). The main body of evidence is drawn from physical and archaeological contexts from Roman Britain during the Roman Iron Age, held today in a number of institutions and archaeological contract service firms. In her analysis, Tucker identifies evidence for variability in health, pathology, and trauma among de-capitated individuals over time. With this data, she creates a comparative anal-ysis of the geographic and temporal nature of decapitation contexts in British prehistory, from which she is ultimately able to produce a signature list for identifying different types of decapitation trauma in the physical remains for future researchers.

An Archaeology of Human Decapitation Burials is written for both academic and public audiences alike, although archaeologists and historians will appreciate the volume for its succinct overview of the diverse practice, particularly the osteological assessment of remains from the Roman and medie-val periods in Britain. Tucker’s volume has concisely presented much of her analyses and conclusions from her doctoral research (Tucker 2012), and pro-vides additional photos, illustrations, and diagrams that aid the reader in under-standing the catalogue of finds, analysis, and conclusions. One of the major contributions of this volume is Tucker’s breadth of knowledge and meticulous osteological analysis of the physical remains, which led to the development of schemas for identifying decapitation types (187–93), and the overall nature of the trauma, stress, and health of numerous decapitated individuals. In addition, Tucker has provided strong evidence demonstrating that decapitation was used as the mechanism of death more often than was previously thought, and subse-quently, was not strictly reserved for the corpse as a post-mortem rite, as was argued by previous authors.

Tucker begins the introduction (6–7) by outlining her contract position as the osteology specialist with the York Archaeological Trust, a position that has exposed her to the “out of the ordinary” human remains from the Romano-

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British period examined in this study. This experience spiked her interest in conducting an osteological assessment of the larger contexts of decapitation in British prehistory further, with particular emphasis on the pathological condi-tions and trauma present on a select number of “headless Roman” remains. The first chapter, “The Study of Decapitation Burials” (8–23), provides useful syn-theses of early antiquarian research (8–11) as well as later small-scale surveys (Clarke 1979; Harman et al. 1981; O’Brien 1999; Philpott 1991; Roberts and Cox 2003) of local and regional decapitation finds. The summary reveals two types of decapitation patterns and notes a variety of contradictory statements for specific decapitation contexts, which is the result of competing oversimpli-fied interpretations and a lack of systematic consideration of these data by ear-lier scholars (20–22). Tucker’s literature review in the following chapters aims to address and question preconceived assumptions about the forms of decapita-tion practice. In the second chapter, “Evidence for Decapitation in British Pre-history” (23–45), Tucker summarizes the chief interpretations for decapitation practices by previous scholars and presents the reader with an overview of the chief physical evidence for peri-mortem trauma and post-mortem mutilation in formal and informal burials and isolated deposits from the Neolithic period (4000–2500 BC), Bronze Age (2500–800 BC), Iron Age (800 BC–AD 43), Roman Iron Age (AD 43–410), and medieval period (AD 450–1500) in Britain and Continental Europe. Tucker’s analysis revealed general patterns of similar-ity and difference in the use of decapitation within each temporal period and firmly indicated that none of the patterns detected should be attributed to no-tions of pan-British or pan-European meaning in prehistory. The third chapter, “Decapitation in the Romano-British Period” (46–92), provides a detailed examination of the geographical, temporal, and site type contexts of many decapitation burials in Britain during the Roman Iron Age (AD 43–410). By comparing and contrasting the health, trauma, and soci-oeconomic data by site type (e.g., urban, rural, small town, villa), Tucker’s analysis is particularly illuminating, as it shows that multiple factors influenced the regional diversity of decapitation practices used during this period. Tuck-er’s analysis revealed regional patterns in the spatiotemporal use of decapita-tion practices on the basis of specific attributes such as age, sex, health, and site type. She also developed a list of osteological signatures to determine whether decapitation was deployed ante-, peri-, or post-mortem on an individu-al basis (87–92). This multi-scalar regional analysis and subsequent conclu-sions are further showcased in Tucker’s in-depth osteological analysis of the uses of decapitation practices in Roman York (Eboracum) in the fourth chap-ter, “Decapitations from Roman York—A Case Study” (93–103). The reader is brought back to Tucker’s work with the York Archaeological Trust (YAT) and is drawn into the nuanced levels of osteological analysis conducted to parse the evidence for differential markings of trauma found on decapitated individuals discovered during a series of YAT excavations in 2004 and 2005. From the recovered sample of decapitated individuals, analysis revealed a high number of “unusual aspects,” such as a statistically significant number of decapitated adult males when compared to the larger decapitation sample amassed from around the country (100–2). Upon reanalyzing the skeletal remains, Tucker utilized literary sources and settlement data from the Roman sites excavated by YAT in order to consider different interpretations for these “unique” burials. She concludes that decapitation was most likely the mechanism for death (a

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peri-mortem rite) in a series of judicial executions for many of the individuals (possibly associated with the military presence in York) rather than a form of ritual post-mortem rite or activity. The fifth chapter, “Decapitations in Ancient European Literature, Art, Material Culture and Ethnography” (104–8), offers a brief survey of the vari-ous lines of non-physical evidence for decapitation from the pre-Roman and Roman Iron Ages, including the ancient classical sources (Caesar, Tacitus, Diodorus Siculus, Polybius, Livy, Lucian), iconographic representations (statuary, columns, tombstones), and material culture (e.g., coins, sarcophagi, swords, pottery) from archaeological sites in Britain, Continental Europe, and Northern Africa. Tucker utilizes these sources to build a broader picture of the prominence of the varied uses and methods of decapitation over space and time, which offers a smooth segue into the sixth chapter, “Decapitation Buri-als from Elsewhere within the Roman Empire” (109–12), which provides a brief overview of the primary skeletal evidence from archaeological sites in Continental Europe, the Mediterranean coast, and Northern Africa. Tucker revealed that the Roman-period examples of decapitation from Continental European contexts mainly appear in the form of isolated skull deposits and articulated skeletons in inhumations, which closely parallels the forms of de-capitation and depositional practices from earlier periods in prehistory (Neolithic period and Bronze Age, chap. 2). However, in comparison, decapi-tation use and modes of deposition and burial from Romano-British sites re-vealed localized and more diverse patterns overall (outlined in chaps. 3 and 4) (112). Tucker therefore suggests that the localized and diverse forms of decap-itation practices discovered in Romano-British sites were local developments, and did not spread from Continental Europe into Britain over time. The seventh chapter, “Decapitation in the Early Medieval Peri-od” (113–35), much like the previous chapter, provides an overview of the geographical, temporal, and site type contexts of many decapitation burials in Britain during the early medieval period (5th–8th centuries AD). Much like the Romano-British period, decapitations were discovered in formal cemeter-ies, execution cemeteries, isolated burials, settlement sites, and mass graves (119–31). Tucker confirmed that, prior to the establishment of designated bur-ial grounds, some decapitation burials were included in formal cemeteries alongside “normative” burials, while some were buried in complete isolation until execution cemeteries were established at a later time (132). In addition, her analysis also revealed that the location of the majority of decapitations might have marked important boundaries in various locations, as previously suggested by Reynolds (2009). The practice of decapitation burials serving as potential markers or locational boundaries was reflected in earlier periods; however, these earlier examples did not exhibit as definitive or identifiable patterns as in the early medieval period, which suggests a change in the con-ception or meaning of decapitation and the importance of the body. This re-gional analysis in Britain and subsequent conclusions (132–35) are further showcased in Tucker’s osteological analysis (138–44) of the uses of decapita-tion practices in the following medieval and post-medieval periods in chapter eight (136–45). Much like the previous chapter, Tucker walks the reader through the osteological analysis of decapitated individuals found in a variety of contexts; however, unlike the previous chapters, her analysis revealed that nearly all decapitations were adult males and had extensive peri-mortem trau-

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ma, poor diet, and increased physical strain (though the sample was smaller than previous periods). Tucker concludes that the use of decapitation in medie-val and post-medieval times differed from earlier periods, and was most likely an incidental form of the physical trauma in many cases or was just one part of a suite of trauma-inducing activities associated with martial or judicial execu-tion contexts (144).

The ninth chapter, “Comparisons between the Decapitated Individuals from the Iron Age, Romano-British and Early Medieval Periods” (146–54), weaves together the many lines of evidence gathered and presented in the earli-er chapters to search for continuity between decapitation practices throughout the various temporal periods of Britain. Tucker’s analysis assessed evidence for continuity in the use of decapitation practices from the Iron Age to the ear-ly medieval period based on demographic profile, the burial practice, position of the head within the grave, overall health, and evidence for peri-mortem trau-ma among the individuals selected for the sample. The analysis revealed that compared to earlier temporal periods, individuals from the Romano-British period had more categorical differences in the method of decapitation and se-lection of individual for decapitation, particularly among the sample of indi-viduals from rural or small town site types. The pre-Roman and Roman Iron Ages had the strongest evidence for continuity between periods based on health status, higher levels of activity-related trauma, decapitation “chopping” trauma, and cranial manipulation. Tucker suggests there may have been conti-nuity in the concept that decapitated individuals were somehow different (particularly during the Romano-British period) when compared to the wider population (151–54). The tenth chapter, “Interpretations of the Practice of De-capitation” (155–65), explores Tucker’s findings further and re-evaluates the potential interpretations for the known decapitation forms over time in Britain. Tucker concludes the volume with a thorough reappraisal of her findings (166–70) and emphasizes the need for reanalysis of skeletal remains, particularly those excavated by antiquarian archaeologists, to identify trauma and patholog-ical health more clearly in the future.

Tucker’s outline for future research (169–70) calls for a more holistic approach to the study of decapitation practices (particularly toward non-adult individuals) through a combination of osteological analysis and the examina-tion of mortuary contexts and historical sources. Specifically, Tucker’s outline shows a need for continued analysis of the large amount of demographic and health status data, which may lead to further revelations about the use of the body in ancient societies.

This book could have benefited from a broader anthropological dis-cussion of cross-cultural ethnographic examples of decapitation and violence over time elsewhere in the world, as those examples may have helped the au-thor further compare the contexts and consider additional interpretations for those practices. In addition, this volume lacks any major discussion of the con-ceptual and theoretical references to other/strange/unusual/deviant concepts in the archaeological literature. Tucker notes (e.g., 6, 19, 93, 102, 156) that the language of deviancy has plagued most discussions of decapitation burials and practices in prehistory, particularly in antiquarian-dated literature, but does not explore the issue in depth. She states that the “bizarre” nature of decapitation burials peaked her interest during her tenure at the YAT, and thus, a short dis-cussion or reference (especially in chap. 1) advancing our conceptions of de-

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capitation away from deviancy or strangeness in the archaeological literature would have been welcomed. In the same light, as most of the volume remains situated comfortably within more standardized bioarchaeological approaches to the study of human activity, scholars may be disappointed with the lack of engaging social theory that could have been used (given the wealth of data) to address larger discussions about the body and its agency, materiality, entan-glement, and fragmentation in the past (see Armit 2012; Bonogofsky 2011; Crandall and Martin 2014; Martin et al. 2012; Sofaer 2006).

Although other case studies on decapitation burials and practices have been conducted (see, e.g., Crerar 2012 and Philpott 1991), prior to Tuck-er’s research on human decapitation in British contexts, no large-scale compi-lation of the data had yet been amassed. Therefore, this volume is not only a repository of information on this subject, but is sure to be considered a semi-nal work for reference and study in the future. Tucker’s research is a welcome addition in the archaeological and anthropological literature, as it illuminates the necessary avenues for future research, providing potential research oppor-tunities to scholars and students with diverse geo-temporal interests on this topic.

References

Armit, Ian. 2012. Headhunting and the Body in Iron Age Europe. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press. Bonogofsky, Michelle, ed. 2011. The Bioarchaeology of the Human Head:

Decapitation, Deformation, and Decoration. Gainesville: University Press of Florida.

Clarke, Giles. 1979. Pre-Roman and Roman Winchester, Part II: The Roman Cemetery at Lankhills. Winchester Studies 3. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Crandall, John J., and Debra L. Martin. 2014. “The Bioarchaeology of Post-mortem Agency: Integrating Archaeological Theory with Human Skele-tal Remains,” in “The Bioarchaeology of Postmortem Agency,” ed. John J. Crandall and Debra L. Martin, special section, Cambridge Archaeolog-ical Journal 24 (3): 429–35.

Crerar, Belinda. 2012. “Contextualising Deviancy: A Regional Approach to Decapitated Inhumation in Late Roman Britain.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge.

Harman, M., T. Molleson, and J. Price. 1981. “Burials, Bodies and Behead-ings in Romano-British and Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries.” Bulletin of the British Museum of Natural History (Geology) 35: 145–88.

Martin, Debra L., Ryan P. Harrod, and Ventura R. Pérez, eds. 2012. Bioar-chaeology of Violence. Gainesville: University of Florida Press.

O’Brien, Elizabeth. 1999. Post-Roman Britain to Anglo-Saxon England: Buri-al Practices Reviewed. British Archaeological Reports British Series 289. Oxford: Archaeopress.

Philpott, Robert. 1991. Burial Practices in Roman Britain: A Survey of Grave Treatment and Furnishing AD 43–410. British Archaeological Reports British Series 219. Oxford: Tempus Reparatum.

Roberts, Charlotte, and Margaret Cox. 2003. Health and Disease in Britain from Prehistory to the Present Day. Stroud: Sutton.

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Sofaer, Johanna. 2006. The Body as Material Culture: A Theoretical Osteoar-chaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Tucker, Katie. 2012. “‘Whence this Severance of the Head?’”: The Osteology and Archaeology of Human Decapitation in Britain.” PhD diss., Universi-ty of Winchester.


The Bioarchaeology of Classical Kamarina: Life and Death in Greek Sicily Carrie L. Sulosky Weaver. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 2015. 336 pp. ISBN: 978-0-8130-6112-2. $84.95. Stephan Hassam University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, USA

In The Bioarchaeology of Classical Kamarina, Carrie Sulosky Weav-er seeks to integrate the study of the materiality of burial practices with human skeletal analysis to provide a more holistic perspective on life and death in Sicily during the Classical period. In this comprehensive and detailed book, the author makes an important contribution to Sicilian archaeology. The Bioar-chaeology of Classical Kamarina is not only the largest study of its kind, but is also the first book of its kind to follow the trend of synthesizing classical ar-chaeology and physical anthropology in analyzing a Sicilian-Greek necropolis (MacKinnon 2007). The book belongs to the series entitled Bioarchaeological Interpretations of the Human Past: Local, Regional, and Global Perspectives, edited by Clark Spencer Larsen, and is the product of research on a large sam-ple of the Passo Marinaro necropolis dated to between the fifth and third cen-turies BC within the archaeological park of Kamarina. The sample consists of 258 skeletons and their associated tombs and grave goods out of a total of 1,007 burials that were excavated in the early 1980s by Giovanni Di Stefano. Kamarina was an ancient Greek colony in southeastern Sicily that underwent a turbulent history from its original foundation in the sixth century BC through its final abandonment in the third century BC. Sulosky Weaver’s work contrib-utes a great deal of detailed human history to the polis. The book follows in the footsteps of recent osteological work in Greek archaeology published in Schepartz et al. (2009), which also attempted to take a more synthesized ap-proach to examining mortuary contexts. This shift towards a more synthesized approach is important in order to avoid the artificial disassociation of osteolog-ical and archaeological materials, which are both inherently a part of the hu-man behavior constituting mortuary practices.

Sulosky Weaver provides a thorough examination of Greek burial practices in the wider Greek world, drawing on a wealth of ancient sources and modern scholarship in order to contextualize Sicilian-Greek mortuary practices on the island. As a rule, all anthropological concepts and arguments are exam-ined thoroughly and critically, providing an extensive bibliography of many different aspects of the study. Even in places where certain techniques were unable to be used in the study, such as methods of sexing a skeleton (the Passo Marinaro sample was too poorly preserved to do so), Sulosky Weaver provides the reader with the basic methods and challenges of the practice. She even explains the possibility of sex determination through the extraction of ancient DNA (aDNA) as well as the exact method of aDNA extraction.

There have been other studies done on skeletons from Kamarina that have examined 23 and 11 skeletons, both of which are still unpublished (245). Sulosky Weaver’s sample, with a minimum number of individuals of 258, dwarfs these. Considering the relative scarcity of data available from other Sicilian contexts (Becker 2002), Classical or otherwise, these data are espe-

Hassam 169

cially helpful. The study also provides a large dataset that would be otherwise hard to find. The dataset is accessible from an online data repository hosted by the University of Pittsburg (abbreviated as PDR in the volume) at no additional cost (Sulosky Weaver 2014). This PDR contains a summary of burial data, additional data tables that are cited in the book, the original skeleton recording forms, and the two relevant DNA reports. The PDR is a valuable source for anyone wishing to do research of this kind or for examining the methodology of the study.

The book opens with two forewords. The first is by the editor of the series, followed by a foreword by Giovanni Di Stefano, the former director of the archaeological park of Kamarina. An introduction provides the reader with a brief history and the nature of the osteology in classical archaeology today, as well as the theoretical backdrop for the work. The concept of materiality devel-oped by Fahlander and Oestigaard (2008) provided inspiration for the theoreti-cal approach of the book, which is divided into six chapters. The first two chapters act as introductions to the wider context of death and burial in the Greek world and to the site of Kamarina. Chaps. 3 and 4 cover the osteological analyses of the Passo Marinaro sample, while chaps. 5 and 6 cover the artifact assemblages and the final analyses of the necropolis as a whole.

Chap. 1 covers the burial practices in Kamarina and how they com-pare to the rest of the Greek world. The chapter is divided into three sections, a common pattern throughout the work. The first section reconstructs funerary rituals and public festivals associated with death, while the second provides a summary of beliefs of the afterlife, and the third examines Greek burial prac-tices through time and space. The overview is quite comprehensive, and even cites modern ethnographic examples in rural Greece (Danforth 1982) that some scholars believe to be closely related to ancient Greek burial practices. Sulosky Weaver finds that the ritualistic treatment of the dead in Kamarina reflects the practices of other Greek necropoleis on the island.

Chap. 2 consists of a discussion of the larger site and its historical and archaeological context. This chapter is divided into three parts, which cover the historiography of the polis of Kamarina, then its history and archaeology, and finally a discussion of the book’s case study, the necropolis of Passo Marinaro.

Chap. 3 begins the analysis of the skeletal remains and covers the demographic attributes of the sample. This chapter is split into sections follow-ing the various information that osteological analysis can provide, including age determination, sex determination, stature estimation, nonmetric traits, and ancestry estimation. Of particular note is the discussion of the possibility of Sub-Saharan African individuals living in Kamarina, determined through cra-nial measurements. The reader is also further informed about the severe limita-tions of the sample that restrict its analysis. For example, the skeletal material recovered from Passo Marinaro was so degraded that no individuals were able to be sexed. Nevertheless, the author explains the methods that can be used to sex a skeleton and to what degree these methods are accurate. In this chapter, Sulosky Weaver demonstrates a catastrophic mortality profile (112). This cor-roborates what we know of the turbulent history of Kamarina in this period.

Chap. 4 covers the state of health of the sample population. Sulosky Weaver determines that the prevalence rates of pathological conditions are lower than other similar sites in Sicily during this period. Unfortunately, there is very little interpretation offered as to why. Considering the catastrophic mor-

170 Book Review: The Bioarchaeology of Classical Kamarina

tality profile discussed earlier, some explanation from the author would have been welcome. The sections of this chapter are copious and cover topics such as discerning disease in the archaeological record, the prevalence of malaria, physical trauma and trepanation, non-specific infections, degenerative joint disease, pituitary dwarfism, and dental disease. Each of these larger sections is structured like an osteological report. The last of these is even divided into further subsections discussing the different types of dental anomalies.

Chap. 5 consists of the analysis of the grave goods. This chapter is split into three sections covering the general interpretation of grave goods/grave gifts. The author begins by providing an overview of what she calls pro-cessualist and postprocessualist approaches to mortuary studies. Summarizing the concepts of “methodological collectivism” and “methodological individu-alism” (processual and postprocessual concepts respectively), she argues that the concept of materiality as used by Fahlander and Oestigaard (2008) can bridge the theoretical gap between the two (172). Using examples from around the world she funnels her investigation into the use of grave goods in the Greek world and ends with an analysis of the assemblage of grave goods from Passo Marinaro. The third section goes over the various forms of Greek pot-tery that were found as grave gifts and how they compared with finds from other necropoleis in Sicily and southern Italy after using Fisher’s exact test. Unfortunately, there is no distinction made between local or imported ceramic types, but her statistical treatment of the types of grave goods confirmed past associations between Sicilian necropoleis, and also determined that the pres-ence of olpai, or ritual pouring vessels, might be associated with higher status burials.

Chap. 6 examines the ritualistic treatment of the dead, examining and quantifying head position, grave/burial containers, grave orientations, and body position. Each category is given its own subsection and is treated statisti-cally using Fisher’s exact test to determine whether the sample’s similarities with other necropoleis are statistically significant. The next section provides an often overlooked overview of ancient Greek deviant burials, of which there are two in the Passo Marinaro sample. The last section presents a cluster anal-ysis that took into consideration the various ritualistic treatments of the de-ceased combined with the various categories of material goods. While there were no groundbreaking new patterns inferred from the evidence, there was some indication that “social status is probably reflected in one cluster,” though the relationship was somewhat weak (221).

The wealth of sources that the author uses makes the work read like a textbook introduction to the field as well as a focused study. Each chapter functions as a standalone piece, cutting the book into manageable portions. For the novice, this book is not only a study of the remains of a Classical Greek population but also a thorough guide on what such a study entails and how to approach it. This sort of thorough treatment of all the aspects of the study makes it an excellent introduction but can sometimes make the chapters seem unfocused. Some of the examples seem out of place at times, such as the mention of rituals from the Mexican formative period to explain the use of grave goods, since a more closely related example from the Mediterranean may have sufficed (169). Another point in which the text seems to lose some of its focus can be found in the section discussing deviant burials. There are two examples of deviant burials in the Passo Marinaro sample that prompt the

Hassam 171

author to explore in depth the belief in “revenants” (or the undead) among both the ancient Greeks and more recent populations. The lengthy discussion of what sort of rituals may have been required to prevent the deceased from com-ing back as well as the processes of decomposition that may have inspired these beliefs in the undead seem a little removed from the topic at hand. Yet, there is no doubt that Carrie Sulosky Weaver’s contribution to Sicilian archaeology is extremely welcome. While some aspects of the work suffer from treading the line between a focused research project and a macro-examination of burial practices in the Greek world, the work as a whole is suc-cessful and makes itself useful to both the student and the established scholar.

References

Becker, Michael J. 2002. "The People of Sicily." Rivista di Antropologia 80:1–120.

Danforth, Loring M., and Alexander Tsiaras. 1982. The Death Rituals of Rural Greece. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Di Stefano, Giovanni. 1984/85. "Ricerche a Camarina e nel territorio povin-ciale di Ragusa." Kokalos 30/31:727–99.

Fahlander, Fredrik, and Terje Oestigaard. 2008. "The Materiality of Death: Bodies, Burials, Beliefs." In The Materiality of Death: Bodies, Burials, Beliefs, edited by Fredrik Fahlander and Terje Oestigaard, 1–16. Ox-ford: Archaeopress.

Mackinnon, Michael. 2007. "State of the Discipline: Osteological Research in Classical Archaeology." American Journal of Archaeology 111:473–504.

Schepartz, Lynne A., Sherry C. Fox, and Chryssi Bourbou, eds. 2009. New Directions in the Skeletal Biology of Greece. Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens.

Sulosky Weaver, Carrie L. 2014. "Burial Data for the Bioarchaeology of Clas-sical Kamarina: Life and Death in Greek Sicily, ca. 5th to 3rd c. BCE." D-Scholarship@Pitt data repository. Accessed December 31, 2015. http://d-scholarship.pitt.edu.

Aims & Scope

Field Notes: A Journal of Collegiate Anthropology recognizes that the research conducted by students throughout the course of their undergraduate and graduate education is a valuable re-source. Therefore, Field Notes exists to give students of anthropology a forum to showcase original, high quality scholarship. The journal is reviewed, edited, and published entirely by anthropology students and is sponsored by the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee’s Anthro-pology Student Union (ASU). The ASU serves anthropology students by encouraging interac-tion across the four subfields of anthropology in both social and professional environments.

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Book Reviews

Ruben Andersson – Illegality, Inc.: Clandestine Migration and the Business of Bordering

Europe, 2014

Rasmus Rodineliussen, Stockholm University, Sweden

Katie Tucker – An Archaeology of Human Decapitation Burials, 2015

Shaheen Christie, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee

Carrie L. Sulosky Weaver – The Bioarchaeology of Classical Kamarina: Life and Death in Greek Sicily, 2015

Stephan Hassam, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee

Articles

ISSN 1944-0154

field notes: a journal of collegiate anthropology 8 (1) (2016)

Documents