By
Josie Hu
MA Creative and Collaborative Enterprise
I used to think that anthropological fieldwork always happened somewhere far away, in unfamiliar places. Over time, I realised that my earliest and longest field site was much closer than I imagined: myself.
The fieldwork began in the long corridors of my secondary school.
At the time, blending in groups did not come easily to me. I kept some distance from tight-knit groups and spent much of my time on my own, simply because solitude felt more natural. Back then, it never occurred to me that this might carry any costs.
Things changed after I took on a student leadership role. My name flooded noticeboards and rang out in assemblies. I became more visible. In a school that placed great emphasis on order and collective recognition, being visible did not necessarily mean being included. Instead, it quickly magnified my existing sense of not belonging. I became increasingly aware that I was being seen, yet without a group to lean on.
What appeared first was not direct confrontation, but a low, constant kind of noise. It took the form of glances that lingered for too long, voices that grew quieter as I passed, and the occasional remark delivered in vague but unmistakably sharp words. I did not know how to make sense of these signals and simply began to avoid them. I tried not to pass through the corridors during peak hours. This was not a carefully reasoned decision, but a gradually forming awareness: as long as I kept my distance from the crowd, things remained manageable.
This was the beginning of what I later came to call my “shield.” It was a way of moving through the world with caution, distance, and control. I began to regulate my visibility on campus more deliberately. I avoided the most crowded hours, arrived early, and left before the campus quieted for the day. Within familiar spaces, I also made sure to keep routes that allowed for a quick exit. Over time, this way of moving no longer required conscious thought; it settled into the body and became automatic.
Years later, during a quiet family dinner, I tried to recount that period in a deliberately light tone. My mother knew that I had gone through some unpleasant experiences in secondary school, but she did not know the full details. As I spoke, I did so quickly and kept my emotions contained, as if to demonstrate that everything had already been properly dealt with.
After listening, she paused for a moment and then said calmly, “When you are strong enough, other people’s storms will sound like nothing more than wind and rain.”
Her words did not immediately change anything. However, they stayed with me, and over time I found myself returning to them and using them to measure my own situations. Perhaps I only understood part of what she meant. What I took from it was this: strength is not only a way of coping, but also something worth pursuing and recognising. My self-control, endurance, and independence gradually became qualities I learned to value.
In the years that followed, the shield proved effective. It made me disciplined and efficient, and it accustomed me to carrying responsibility alone. In both academic and professional settings, this stability was often met with positive feedback. I was trusted, relied upon, and described as “steady” and “reliable.”
Through this process, the shield was repeatedly refined and gradually named. I no longer treated it as a tool I could simply pick up or put down. Instead, it became part of how I understood myself. It had been internalised as my most natural way of facing the world.
When the Shield Became an Object of Observation
What truly unsettled me occurred during a class I took while studying for my master’s degree at UCL. The course was called Collaborative Enterprise. During a discussion, the lecturer remarked, “Researchers can never stand outside the field.”
For a moment, my constantly racing mind came to a halt. The statement reminded me that observers are always situated within the environments they observe. From this point, I began to reconsider the shield through that lens. I came to realise that it was not something I had consciously chosen, but rather a response that had been repeatedly validated within specific environments. It was, in other words, an accumulation of experiences over time.
Anthropology did not ask me to abandon the shield. Instead, it taught me reflexivity. Rather than rushing to correct it, I learned to observe. I began to treat myself as a field site. I recorded my reactions in different situations, including when I instinctively occupied stable positions in discussions, how I unconsciously took on the role of holding things together in groups, and how I habitually suppressed fatigue when it emerged.
Most of these notes were written in my phone’s memo app, often tucked between class reminders and shopping lists. The focus was not on emotions, but on patterns: which reactions appeared repeatedly, and the contexts in which they were triggered.
Through this process, anthropology offered me a new perspective. I was still within it all, experiencing everything as before. But I could now take a step back and explore how the shield had shaped my life—what it protected, what it concealed.
Being strong once meant building a fortress to avoid being hurt. But anthropology taught me a different understanding of strength; it became about facing vulnerability, fear, and uncertainty head on, and examining how they operate within—much like practising participant observation on myself.
Carrying the Shield, Knowing the Terrain
Today, I walk through new corridors. The shield remains with me; it is part of my history and part of the strength I have acquired. I continue to live within various social structures, but I no longer mistake their shadows for the whole of reality.
In this sense, this may be anthropology’s most valuable gift. It never promised to remove me from my culture. Instead, it offered me a particular lens. Through it, I can finally see how I am dancing, and also the precise shape of the shackles around my ankles.
Seeing them is already the beginning of loosening. Understanding them, too, is the prelude to freedom.
Anthropolitan 