By Olivier Pilette, WIP 7001
These days, coffee in hands, as I’m doing my PhD “comps,”I have deep and intensive encounters with various types of text and writing styles. Thinking about the role of learning and teaching writing in my discipline makes me reflect on the cycle of reading others’ work and transforming it into our own. writing. I’m an anthropological archaeologist, and I read various types of work that happen to be anchored in many disciplines. This is what I like about archaeology: its multidisciplinary nature. Sometimes I joke and say that archaeology doesn’t really exist and is just a convergence of ideas and methods taken from many other sciences like geography, history, geology, anthropology, chemistry, physics, art history, sociology. It is not true in the absolute, but there is a soupçon of truth.
Once you study the “science of old things” you realize how multidisciplinary it is, and at the same time being philosophical and technical.
Training in archaeology is a long and challenging journey. There are a lot of debates, a lot to learn about the evolution of humans and culture, time to spend outside drawing stratigraphies, taking measures, and fight over an argument to decide if archaeology is a social science or part of the humanities. If you can pass the threshold of academic incertitude, get some glimpse of light, and progress in your degree, at that moment when you start thriving and dreaming about archaeology, you realize that reading and writing are core components of the job.
But let me tell you. First reading comes first. It is not well acknowledged by the professors and teachers that most of the results of any archaeological research endeavor are transmitted through some form of text. We do not specifically learn about the importance of pen and paper—or mice and keyboard. It is not explicitly taught to students. Rather are we learning by an immersion into the plethora of archaeological “contents.” We learn about a region and its culture; we read articles and books on that part of the world. Egypt, Mesoamerica, the Arctic, the Old town of Québec, an American revolutionary war battlefield, name it. We learn about methods, let’s say the infamous radiocarbon (C14) dating method; we read about how revolutionary it has been since the 1950s and how it contributed to crush the “culture-historical” paradigm. We learn about theories of culture; we read complex texts that merge philosophy, anthropology, and art history. Everything goes through the pipeline of texts. The learning curve is punctuated by such diverse types of texts written by many different hands. Some are confronting, some are spiritually inspiring, and others are the greatest boredom of our lives.
But why I am describing this learning package? Am I trying to convince myself of something? I think this reflection on the role of the textual medium is fundamental. When you start developing a reflective understanding of the discipline of archaeology, and if you aspire contributing to the discipline, you begin thinking about your place, your text, your ideas, your writing ethos. You start thinking about writing as well as your archaeological jedis that, through their writing, inspired you so much. You start trying to emulate them and develop a sense of style and poetry, your own way of writing about what culture is.
And then someday a shovel hits your forehead. All this philosophical immersion hides a hard reality: archaeology also demands writing that is anything but poetic. That day your task is to write an excavation report. Part of becoming an archaeologist is to do fieldwork as an excavation “technician” first, and then someday as a project director.
At this point it is your responsibility to report what happens in the field, what you found, how you found it, with whom, which tools, etc. Being straightforward is not only the key; it is the standard.
No place for finicky anthropological and philosophical discussion. No time for theoretical debate and ideation. Efficacy and efficiency. After years immersed in intellectual literature, the shovel still comes as a surprise. This is unexpected professional learning, or unlearning. Writing reports is no fun for many of my colleagues. It is a burden. However, this the most important part of the post-fieldwork stage of the work of the archaeologist: sharing information in an intelligible way so that other people can use it for their own research. It is fundamental, and this is why we shall not write a report in a cryptic philosophical style. Other people should not have to decipher that you found 25 pieces of
ceramics in the third layer of the soil in the excavation subunit 14B. It should be readily understandable.
As I drink my coffee early this morning, like many teachers do, I am allowing myself to dream about a better future. Perhaps someday I will teach archaeology; my own archaeology. This is something I would like to do. My program will give space to more technical writing exercises since this is a blind spot in anthropology and archaeology. Or at least in my education. It seems the value of teaching technical writing is underestimated. It is something that we learn at the school of life, “sur le tas” as we say in French. But why? Why not prepare students adequately when they are in the best position to learn quickly? Learning to write meaningfully about the past is a complex journey. But does this mean that we must be complex ourselves?