When the lion learns to write: a counterstory about a doctoral student’s qualitative research project

Abstract

This essay utilizes critical race theory composite counterstorytelling to tell a story about Alberto, a first-generation Xicano doctoral student who is presenting his dissertation research proposal to his qualitative research class. Through Alberto’s character, I discuss my complicated process of designing and conducting a research study. Specifically, I reflect on why I decided to study the experiences of Mexican, Mexican American, and Xicanx students in higher education, why I used critical race theory, Latinx/a/o critical race theory, and critical race spatial analysis as theoretical frameworks, why I utilized critical collaborative ethnography as my research approach, and why I chose counterstorytelling as a research method to distribute my findings.

Keywords:

• Counterstorytelling
• first-generation college student
• qualitative research
• critical race methodology

Counterstorytelling

As a first-generation, low-income Xicano college student, I was unaware of what research was, much less how to do it. Yet, through various research programs, opportunities, and courses, I gained a keen understanding of how to conduct rigorous, collaborative, community-informed research. Although I familiarized myself with the research process, the thought of writing traditional research papers to disseminate findings did not sound appealing to me. I do not want to spend an excessive amount of time to write a very lengthy paper that would not be read by my family and community, not necessarily because they cannot read, but because a traditional academic research papers are structured and written in a way that is uninviting to those who are not in academia. Fortunately, as a doctoral student, I came across and became a student of critical race theory (CRT) counterstorytelling. I was assigned and went out of my way to read the works of academic counterstorytellers such as Delgado (1995, 1996), Bell (1992, 1989), Yosso (2006), Solórzano (2013), Martinez (2020), and many more. Their counterstories created an avenue, a foundation, and a possibility for me to write my own stories in academia.

It became obvious to me that CRT research methods would help me better understand the experiences of Latinx students in higher education without undervaluing their voices, ultimately challenging traditional forms of research (Pizarro, 1998; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a). I realized that storytelling as a research method is very important because it disrupts harshly misleading, oppressive stories, narratives, conventions, and understandings of People of Color that were established by dominant groups long ago (Delgado, 1993). Specifically, counterstorytelling allowed me to tell stories of people whose experiences are seldom told while also exposing, analyzing, and challenging the majoritarian stories of racial privilege grounded in inaccurate, oppressive notions (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a). In this way, storytelling became a useful tool for me as a Xicano because stories “invite the listener to suspend judgment, listen for the story’s point, and test it against his or her own version of reality” (Delgado & & others, 1989, p. 2440). Ultimately, counterstorytelling as a research method and methodology humanizes People of Color, a humanity too often denied (Martinez, 2020).

It is especially important to note that counterstories are not just made-up stories to blow off steam by venting or ranting regarding one’s own racial struggle, and that these counterstories are grounded in experiential knowledge and other forms of data (Ladson-Billings, 2013; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a). Therefore, rather than dismissing this counterstory as self-indulgent, I urge you to consider it as a medium of resistance and as a counterdiscourse to challenge scholarly standards of objectivity and neutrality (Espino, 2012). While this counterstory is loosely based on several experiences, conversations, and observations, I use a composite story and characters, which I created in order to humanize the research data and ultimately recount my experiences as a first-generation Xicano student navigating a doctoral program (Cook & Dixson, 2013; Griffin et al., 2014; Martinez, 2014a; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a). Further, Martinez (2014a) argues that composite counterstorytelling “differs from fictional storytelling by critically examining theoretical concepts and humanizing empirical data while also deriving material for counterstory’s discourse, setting, and characters from sources” (p. 37). That said, the composite story that follows is comprised of a systematic analysis of literature (books, peer-reviewed articles, reports, etc.) related to qualitative research methods, and I supplemented this literature with my experiences and cultural intuition as a Xicano (Delgado Bernal, 1998).

Moreover, Griffin et al. (2014) suggest that there are numerous benefits of composite counterstorytelling, which are that they “vocalize perspectives from the margins; reveal struggles for equitable treatment and opportunity; validate and build community among those who suffer similarly; expose barriers that inhibit success and derail social consciousness; creatively position quotidian experiences as critical cultural commentary; teach those unfamiliar about marginalization; and challenge and transform the imposition of domination” (pp. 1355–1356). In the same way the renowned law professor and critical race theory scholar, Derrick Bell, used storytelling to simplify complicated verbiage in the United States constitution (Martinez, 2020), I needed to write a story to demystify the seemingly complex process of creating a research project as a doctoral student. It is important to note that this counterstory is not and shouldn’t be taken as a step-by-step manual on how to use counterstorytelling for a methods section in a dissertation. Sometime in the future, I hope to write a methodological paper in which I discuss in more detail the different steps I took to make this counterstory happen. As is, this counterstory is simply for you to read, enjoy, and realize that counterstorytelling matters.

The setting and context

The Department of Culture and Education (C&E) at Snow City University (SCU) in Upstate New York is known to be the mover and shaker of the university in that the professors and doctoral students in this department were always involved in social justice efforts on and off campus, and openly calling out the university’s administrators for their failure to fulfil the needs of historically Students, Staff, and Faculty of Color.¹ Each course that is offered through this department addresses social justice issues by critically analyzing systems of oppression like racism, white supremacy, patriarchy, sexism, ableism, classism, and so on and addresses social justice issues.

Every spring semester, C&E offered an advanced qualitative course, which exposed doctoral students to various research methods and data collection techniques such as, in-depth interviewers, participant observations, focus groups, content analysis, discourse analysis, and so on. Yet, these seemingly unbiased traditional research methods were problematized, and course readings and discussions pointed to positionality, race, racism, sexism, and colonialism, along with other isms, as important facets to consider while conducting and/or theorizing about research (Brown et al., 2014; Twine & Warren, 2000). Unfortunately, and per usual, these topics made the white doctoral students uncomfortable and they were reluctant to engage in those critical conversations. Phrases such as, “Why do we constantly have to talk about race? I thought this was a research class.” Or “Why should we care about our research participants?” or “Why can’t we just collect our data and leave?” were commonplace and indicative of the lack of investment they had in the communities they were doing research in. Out the eight students who were enrolled in this course, only two of them were from C&E and both were Students of Color (Alberto, a Xicano, and CJ, a Black woman). The other six students were white and from other departments, such as Sociology, Anthropology, and Environmental Forestry.

To help doctoral students strengthen their research quality and production, SCU recently mandated that all doctoral students, regardless of department or field of study, to defend their research proposals. The logic went as follows: critical conversations among doctoral students regarding their research projects would result in good feedback and thereafter, groundbreaking research. However, the white doctoral students’ disinterest in social justice research came at the expense of potentially fruitful class discussions. Their reluctance to engage in conversations about the problematic nature of traditional research methods came at the expense of Alberto, who had scheduled his final research presentation during the first day available, which was the second-to-last week of classes. Alberto and another white student from Sociology strategically signed up for the first day to get it out of the way. However, when that day arrived, no one showed up except for Alberto, Professor Lachica, and CJ.²

This wasn’t surprising. In past discussions, both CJ and Alberto would frequently question the criticality behind their white classmates’ research projects. Like a skilled pair of tag-team wrestlers, CJ and Alberto would simultaneously problematize approaches to doing research, especially in Communities of Color—which were grounded in the idea researchers were meant to “save” and “educate” these communities through research (Parker & Lynn, 2002). Along these lines, they would constantly talk about how white people have privileges even when conducting research. For example, whenever the class completed a book about an extensive research study that delved into settings that were once inaccessible and/or asks questions that were once unthinkable, they both immediately questioned the positionality of the researcher. At times, Alberto would exclaim matter-of-factly, “I bet you they’re white!” and CJ would laugh in agreement. Ninety-five percent of the time, Alberto was correct!

Professor Lachica, the qualitative research specialist in C&E, was no innocent bystander in that she added fuel to these conversations. She was a first-generation Filipina who specialized in social justice and education. While she had received her doctorate degree in education, her Ethnic Studies background heavily informed her research training and mission. She self-identified as a scholar activist and used this research course as a platform to challenge traditional forms of research in hopes to inspire research driven by social justice.

Nonetheless, the absence of white doctoral students was a blessing in disguise for Alberto. Despite not having his gaze-filled, non-responsive white colleagues in attendance, the conversation between Alberto, CJ, and Professor Lachica was extremely insightful. In fact, the conversation was more organic and productive. Not only was Alberto able to successfully defend his research proposal, but he also received concrete, constructive recommendations. And so, when his time finally came to shine, Alberto did his thing.

Professor Lachica walked in and greeted Alberto and CJ: “Hi y’all! How are y’all doing? Today is the big day! I’m excited for you, Alberto! You’ve come a long way. I’m looking forward to your presentation.”

“Thank you,” Alberto smiled anxiously.

Professor Lachica smiled, “Alright let’s get this show on the road,” she stated before she realized that no one else had shown up.

“Hey! Where’s everyone at?” Professor Lachica asked innocently.

Alberto and CJ stared at each other, at a loss for words.

“Oh. I guess they finally got fed up,” Professor Lachica giggled, referring to previous unpopular conversations about positionality and racism in research.

CJ smiled. Alberto walked over to his seat and sat down comfortably.

Brief statement of purpose and literature review

“Now, both of you know that I’m interested in learning more about the experiences of Mexican, Mexican American, and Xicanx students in higher education. I’ll refer to them as MMAX students. Specifically, I am interested in how racism impacts their experiences on a university campus,” Alberto recited.

In a serious manner, Alberto continued, “First off, I’m a MMAX student myself. I’m the youngest of seven, yet the only one in my family to go to college. At first, I blamed my siblings for not getting a college degree. But as I read more books, reports, and articles, I slowly came to the realization that there’s a larger problem in our current educational system. Even when MMAX students make it to college, they don’t make it out (Pérez Huber et al., 2015). And this is why I am studying the experiences of Latinx students in higher education.”

He clicked to the next slide, “Context, racial micro-aggressions, and research purpose”: “Research shows that even though the Latinx population is growing drastically, their educational attainment has been horrible during the past decade (Gándara, 2010; Pérez Huber et al., 2015). Of all Latinx students, MMAX students have one of the worse university graduation rates. To be exact, only about 10% of MMAX students graduate with a college degree (Mares-Tamayo & Solórzano, 2018).”

“Ahh. I see,” Professor Lachica interrupted. “I think it’ll be very important to mention that Latinx students have been excluded from serious educational desegregation efforts and that they are becoming one of the most segregated minorities in particular regions in the U.S.” (Orfield & Lee, 2006; Orfield et al., 2014).

“That’s a good point,” CJ added. “The very little exposure to white people before college could explain why efforts to help Latinx transition into a white mainstream campus culture have been unsuccessful (Hurtado & Ponjuan, 2005). Plus, you tack on white supremacists’ beliefs engrained in college campuses, and it’s wrap! We both know that universities’ seemingly neutral decisions about establishing a welcoming campus environment perpetuate and reward white-normative behavior (Muñoz, 2009). To be honest, it is not surprising if you take into consideration that many universities were established and have historically remained accessible exclusively for whites only (Wilder, 2014).”

“Yeah! That’s what I was thinking. University campuses are designed to preserve whiteness and the status quo (Pérez, 2020),” Alberto agreed. He continued, “Over a short span of time, it became obvious to me that a white mainstream campus culture at a historically white university was no joke. In the few years I have studied the experiences of MMAX students, and when taking into consideration my own observations and experiences as Xicano university student, I can side strongly with West’s (2001) well-informed argument that ‘race still matters.’”

“Amen,” CJ snapped her fingers. “Son, not only does race still matter, but also race and racism are a natural and central part of our educational institutions and our society as a whole (Solórzano, 1997). This country was founded on racism. Hello, slavery? Colonization?”

Alberto nodded his head in agreement, “True. The racism be super hidden, too. That’s why I became interested in studying it, especially in higher education. For example, to illustrate the hidden presence of race and racism, Pierce (1970) put forth a term called ‘racial micro-aggressions,’ which he described as subtle degradations and putdowns directed toward People of Color. Pierce suggested that most offensive actions against People of Color are not gross nor explicit, instead they are subtle and take a heavy toll on the lives of victims.”

“Hmmmmm,” Professor Lachica hummed, confirming Alberto’s assertion. “From what I have read, Latinx students at predominantly white universities absolutely experience racial micro-aggressions (McCabe, 2009; Solórzano, 1998; Yosso et al., 2009).”

“Absolutely,” CJ interfered. “There’s no doubt that microaggressions result in emotional, mental, and physical strain. They’re cumulative and keep People of Color ‘in their place’ (Pérez Huber & Solorzano, 2015).”

“Yup! That’s exactly why I’m so interested in learning more about them,” Alberto stated, with sincerity.

“This research topic is very important. It’s key to understand the various factors that negatively impact the educational trajectories of MMAX students in higher education. This will be a good structural critique. Rather than blaming MMAX students like your siblings, you get to offer a different explanation as to why MMAX students do not graduate from universities. An explanation that doesn’t blame MMAX’s cultures” (Yosso, 2005), Professor Lachica suggested, siding empathically with Alberto.

Research questions

“I know. That’s what I want to do. I want to show the world that there are other reasons why MMAX students don’t finish college.” Alberto moved to his next slide, “Research Question”: “Drawing from previous studies on racial micro-aggressions and racism on university campuses, my research study will address the following question: How is a predominantly white university experienced by MMAX students (Harwood et al., 2012; Minikel-Lacocque, 2013; Solórzano et al., 2002; Yosso et al., 2009)?”

Professor Lachica and CJ squinted their eyes while they took a long ten seconds to process the question.

“Is this question too broad?” Alberto asked, unsure of the correct answer.

Professor Lachica quickly mumbled through the question, “Yes. I guess it could be considered broad.”

CJ made eye contact with Alberto, “I think it’s coo, but you should add a sub-question or two. For example, you asked what are MMAX students’ experiences; but you should also ask something that gets at how MMAX students respond to these experiences.”

“What about, ‘How do MMAX students experience and navigate a predominantly white university?’” CJ suggested. “This points to the fact that MMAX are resilient and constantly navigating the infinite maze of higher education” (Rodriguez, 2005).

“That sounds good to me,” Alberto looked over to Professor Lachica for affirmation.

“That works! That’s a good point, CJ.” Professor Lachica responded. “Alberto, this also ties into your mentoring work with MMAX students. Aren’t you part of the MMAX organization campus? I always forget its name.”

“Yeah. It’s called ¡Poder Xicanx! I helped found it,” Alberto reminded her.

“That’s it!” Professor Lachica remembered. “Perhaps you can incorporate those experiences and observations to your research, too! From what you’ve told me, MMAX students join this organization as a way to deal with an adverse campus climate (Hurtado & Carter, 1997), right?”

“Yeah, well at least that’s what they’ve told me during our conversations. And you read my mind! I was actually planning on interviewing students from that organization,” Alberto replied excitedly.

“Good. So why don’t you create a question regarding the organization’s role that is informed by studies that talk about counter-spaces? In higher education, counter-spaces are sites or spaces where Students of Color can challenge stereotypes. These sites are created in response to racial micro-aggressions and racism on and off campus. They could be ‘academic’ or ‘social’ or a little bit of both (Solórzano et al., 2000),” Professor Lachica explained without skipping a beat.

CJ intervened, “Bro. Remember the creation of that ‘Latina space,’ on campus where a group of Latinas would gather for the purpose of letting out their painful experiences with oppression on campus? (Flores & Garcia, 2009). That’s a counter-space!”

“The one that Valeria started?” Alberto asked.

“YES! Well, that’s a prime example of a counter-space,” CJ maintained.

“YES IT IS!” Professor Lachica agreed in excitement. “These counter-spaces serve as an adaptive mechanism to oppression and provide marginalized individuals security, solidarity, hope, respite, and healing (Case & Hunter, 2012, p. 268).”

Alberto jotted a few notes down on his writing pad, “This question is going to be tough.”

All three of them pondered silently for a full minute.

“Building off your initial question, you could ask, ‘In what ways does a MMAX-based organization embody characteristics of and serve as a counter-space?’ (Solórzano et al., 2002),” Professor Lachica offered in encouragement.

“Ooo. I like that,” Alberto said, while he wrote it down carefully, word for word.

Theory—CRT, LatCrit, and critical race spatial analysis

“Ok. Now that I got my questions out of the way, let’s talk about this theoretical framework,” Alberto explained. “Like we mentioned earlier, race is so important in our everyday lives. I think the person who best explained this was WEB Du Bois (1903, 2007).”

“Hmmm hmmmm,” CJ affirmed.

“Man, Du Bois was on another level. Back in the day, he predicted the future. Du Bois (1903) suggested that the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line. In other words, how someone looks can—in and of itself—be a problem. Far beyond his era, this intelligent suggestion would remain true for centuries to come,” Alberto read from his computer.

“Yes. ’Til this day, race—or the color line, as put forth by Du Bois—has been at the forefront of various conversations. But it’s important to also keep in mind that a focus on race does not necessarily mean that class and gender, along with other identifiable oppressive characteristics must be put to the side (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995). Instead, a focus on racism helps us underscore and perhaps affirm the notion that ‘race matters’” (West, 2001), Professor Lachica reminded Alberto.

“Of course!” Alberto shook his head up and down in agreement.

Professor Lachica elaborated, “More times than not, race is used as important characteristic to help explain inequalities and social injustices in the context of the U.S., along with other places. From police brutality to wealth gap to disproportionate expulsion rates in schools, in most circumstances, someone’s race is both casually and critically thrown into conversations in order to shed light on its prominence.”

“Exactly! For this reason, I decided to pay close attention to race for all that it entails and for its undeniable influence on the experiences of MMAX students in a white university setting. As you two may already know, Critical Race Theory, aka CRT, in education draws from and expands on the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement, a movement created by critical legal scholars in order to challenge US’s social and legal structure. Still, unsatisfied with the failures of CLS, a number of lawyers left this group and formed CRT (Martinez, 2014b). The newly reformed CRT movement was heavily informed by the early work of Derrick Bell, Alan Freeman, Patricia Williams, Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, Mari Matsuda and Richard Delgado, who were ultimately discontent and had concerns about the slow pace of racial reform (Delgado & Stefancic, 1995).”

Alberto continued, “With respect to K-12 education, educational researchers Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) maintained that CRT in education offers a unique view on school inequities. I think Ladson-Billings and Tate do a great job of persuading readers that race continues to be a significant factor in determining inequity in the U.S. (p. 48).”

“You know, CRT in education wasn’t always popular,” Professor Lachica insisted. “Expecting skepticism of CRT in a ‘nice’ field like education, Ladson-Billings (1998) wrote an article titled, ‘Just What is Critical Race Theory and What’s It Doing in a Nice Field Like Education?’ to plead her case.”

“I got to cite this piece for sure then,” Alberto wrote down a few notes and moved on. “Over the years, CRT has been used to analyze university settings, most notably by Solórzano (1997), who suggested how the five tenets of CRT could and must inform educational policy, pedagogy, theory, and research.”

Alberto had the five CRT tenets listed on the screen, “First, race and racism are an endemic and central part of society. Second, dominant ideologies must be challenged. Third is that there must be a commitment to social justice while also eliminating racism.”

“But can you completely eliminate racism, tho?” CJ questioned.

“True. I’m not sure. I think that one can certainly reduce instances of racism. I always say what 2Pac said—‘just because I don’t know how to change it, doesn’t mean I will stop talking about it. I know if I keep talking about how dirty it is out here, somebody’s gonna clean it up (Jericho2892,2892, 2012),’” Alberto rehearsed, just like 2Pac.

“Aye. I ain’t mad at cha,” CJ told Alberto, also reminiscent of 2Pac.

Alberto nodded, “Fourth, and probably my favorite, is that experiential knowledge of People of Color is valuable and must be taken seriously as it is legitimate and useful.”

“That’s also my favorite,” Professor Lachica confessed. “I teach this to my Students of Color all the time. I always see them as holders and creators of knowledge (Delgado Bernal, 2002).”

“That’s how I feel about my participants. They’re all undergrads, but I remind them often that they are holders and creators of knowledge, too!” Alberto sided with Professor Lachica.

“Good. That’s important,” Professor Lachica replied.

“And last but not least, CRT utilizes interdisciplinary approaches to examine critical issues impacting underrepresented, marginalized communities. Basically, for my research I’m drawing from different fields, such as education, psychology, and sociology.”

“And geography!” Professor Lachica added. “You can’t talk about counter-spaces without considering geography, that’s for sure! In the context of space and education, and in employing tenets of CRT, Vélez and Solórzano (2017) suggest that the role of race, racism, and white supremacy must be accounted for as important facets in all educational spaces. In this chapter, Veléz and Solórzano adapt tenets of CRT to critically examine educational spaces. I don’t think you can talk about counter-spaces without citing this piece. It’s a must add.”

“I don’t think I’ve read that piece,” Alberto admitted openly.

“Ok! This is really helpful. Thanks!” Alberto thanked Professor Lachica. “Needless to say, CRT is a framework that will allow me to closely examine race and racism, expose it, and help to ultimately eliminate racial barriers at universities.”

“Undeniably, CRT in education centers and validates the experiences of People of Color while simultaneously refuting the dominant ideology. In the past, CRT has been used as a vital instrument to capture the unique and continuously overlooked experiences of those historically marginalized in higher education spaces” (Ledesma & Calderón 2015), Professor Lachica elaborated, adding to Alberto’s point.

“But I feel like something is missing,” CJ suggested, timidly. “You said your focus is on MMAX students, right?” CJ asked. “So there’s gotta be a framework specific to that population. I feel like your project has the potential to move beyond the Black-white binary and better focus in on the experiences and knowledges of particular Students of Color, such as MMAX students.”

“What do you mean?” Alberto inquired.

“Well, I’m just thinking about readings that we did over the semester. I remember reading TribalCrit (Brayboy, 2005), which was a research framework that built off CRT in order to analyze the unique experiences of Indigenous students. In my own research, I’ve even come across BlackCrit (Dumas & ross, 2016), which is Black Critical Theory, another extension of CRT. Is there something similar for Latinx students?” CJ wondered.

Alberto scratched his head, “Not that I know of.”

“YES! There is actually,” Professor Lachica interjected loudly. “It’s called Latino Critical Theory, or LatCrit (Delgado Bernal, 2002; Pérez Huber, 2010; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001), for short. LatCrit shares many similarities with CRT, complementing it well (Valdes, 1996). Because of this, it is in the best interests of researchers to use CRT and LatCrit concurrently (Delgado Bernal, 2002).”

“What’s the difference between LatCrit and CRT?” Alberto speculated.

“Let me tell you what it says specifically,” Professor Lachica pulled out her phone from her bag and proceeded to look it up on Google, “According to Delgado Bernal, this framework provides an outlook that underscores the contradictory nature of educational structures, processes, and discourses operate, which is the potential to oppress and marginalize and the potential to emancipate and empower.”

“That sounds hella academic. What’s that mean in regular language. Also, how is LaCrit different from CRT?” Alberto joked.

Professor Lachica laughed briefly and then read through her phone, “Basically what this means is that LatCrit allows researchers to better comprehend the experiences of Latinx students by urging them to pay close attention to the unique forms of oppression this group encounters (Pérez Huber, 2010; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001; Villalpando, 2004).”

“So really it’s the same thing but just replace with Latinx experiences?” Alberto guessed.

Professor Lachica nodded, halfway agreeing, “Ummm. Not really. More specifically, LatCrit zeros in on the ways Latinx people, in particular, experience race, class, gender, and sexuality, while also keeping in mind that Latinxs face unique experiences and barriers such as issues of immigration status, language, ethnicity and culture (Pérez Huber, 2010; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001). Therefore, LatCrit helps to analyze issues that CRT cannot or does not, like language, immigration, ethnicity, culture, identity, phenotype, and sexuality (as cited in Villalpando, 2004). This is important because we need to deconstruct the Black/white binary as it applies to discussions about racism (Solórzano & Yosso, 2001).”

“Ahh. So in other words, LatCrit is a more valid and reliable lens through which to analyze Latinx/as/os’ multidimensional identities and experiences (Villalpando, 2004),” CJ recommended.

“Basically,” Professor Lachica agreed. “LatCrit as a framework challenges traditional theoretical frameworks that have under-theorized the voices and experiences of Latinx students (Pizarro, 1998). Because of this, CRT has worked its way into higher education to critically examine campus climate (Hiraldo, 2010; Ledesma & Calderón, 2015; Solórzano, 1998; Yosso & Lopez, 2010). Something that you are doing for this research project.”

“LatCrit was my missing link! I’ll be using LatCrit in conjunction with CRT as my theoretical framework for my research,” Alberto said proudly.

“I think it’s the right thing to do. The combination of CRT and LatCrit will allow you to focus on how race shapes university structures, practices, and discourses from the perspectives of those injured by and fighting against institutional racism (Yosso et al., 2009, p. 663). Given that CRT tenets address different, yet interconnected themes, they will help you discover the various ways in which higher education institutions reinforce racism (Hiraldo, 2010),” CJ offered.

“It speaks to the importance of your work,” Professor Lachica encouraged Alberto. “Even 20 years after it was first introduced by Ladson-Billings and Tate, CRT in education has not disappeared or vanished, and it has urged us to continue interrogating the discursive frames that are employed against the interests of justice (Dixson & Anderson, 2018). CRT as a theoretical framework has been utilized by various educational scholars in recent years who have used it to examine the experiences of Latinx students in higher education (Haywood, 2017; Minikel-Lacocque, 2013; Muñoz, 2016; Patrón et al., 2021; Pérez Huber, 2010; Yosso et al., 2009). Until we are adamant that race and racism exist in educational settings—across the board—then there will continue to be unjust educational experiences and thus unequal outcomes between students from different racial backgrounds. Ultimately, CRT in education keeps us honest about the harsh realities based on race within educational settings.”

Methodology—doing research “with” as opposed to “on”

Alberto looked at the screen, “I had a methodology section but since having this conversation, I’m second guessing my choice.”

“That’s okay. We’re here to help,” Professor Lachica encouraged. “Future educational researchers readily refer to Bogdan and Biklen (1982) often-cited research handbook, for advice and tips in terms of what theories and methods to apply for their respective research studies. However, within a matter of time, newcomer educational researchers like you and other graduate students will eventually come across a major predicament—what research theories and methods to use and why. So you’re not the only one who feels this way.”

“I just don’t know if I have the best method,” Alberto leaned back in his chair.

“Let me tell you that the process of selecting methods and methodologies is a highly contested terrain. It’s very political. And it has significant implications for the researcher as well as the individuals and contexts that serve as the focus of the study (Brown et al., 2014, p. 1),” Professor Lachica raised her voice.

“So, the process of research and investigating is not a neutral one (Brown & Strega, 2005; Delgado-Gaitan, 1993)?” Alberto asked innocently.

“Of course not! More times than not, research helps reinforce conditions that sustain systemic violence (as cited in Duncan, 2002),” Professor Lachica replied quickly.

The conversation paused. Both Alberto and CJ were reminded, once again, that traditional research is very problematic.

Professor Lachica looked at Alberto, “So, what’s your methods and methodology?”

“My interest in studying universities’ campus climate, specifically the experiences of MMAX students in higher education, has led me to utilize ethnography as a research method,” Alberto stuttered.

“Ethnography, as indicated by Bogdan and Biklen (1982), is the attempt to describe culture or aspects of culture. Is that what you are doing?” CJ questioned Alberto.

“Yeah. In the context of my research, I aim to ‘describe’ not only an already established university campus ‘culture,’ but also the subcultures created MMAX students in order to help them survive (Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998; Yosso & Lopez, 2010). Why do you ask?” Alberto wondered.

“Because that sounds very traditional. We know that through traditional research methods and approaches, research becomes a one-way street in which those who conduct research are rewarded through various forms while those who are researched are colonized and exploited (Kovach, 2010; Sandoval, 2000; Smith, 2013; Villenas, 1996). I don’t think that’s you. That’s all I’m saying,” CJ responded, empathetically.

Professor Lachica intervened, “It’s true. Traditional ethnographers objectify the subjectivities of the researched, assume authority, and do not question their own privileged positions. Traditional ethnographers participate as colonizers of the researched (Villenas, 1996, p. 713).”

“That’s what I’m trying to get at,” CJ agreed. “Since the research process is likely to produce unequal, immediate benefits between the researchers and researched, the question then becomes ‘For whom (Fine et al., 2000) is the research you are conducting?’”

Alberto scratched his chin. He wanted to do research that recognized MMAX students as empowered individuals and producers of knowledge (Delgado Bernal, 2002).

CJ continued, “Traditional research is troubling. We have read these books, reports, and articles. It’s like researchers aren’t actually invested in the communities they are researching.”

“That’s facts!” Alberto responded. “It seems like most of the research we’ve read ignores historically marginalized groups by simply not addressing their concerns. It says peoples’ problems are genetic or biological, and not structural. Shoot, it definitely de-emphasizes race (Parker & Lynn, 2002, p. 13).”

“That’s right!” CJ replied. “Researchers get greedy and conduct research for the mere purpose of obtaining data. We both agreed that it is very important for the researcher to transform and redefine her/his/their role as a researcher in order to be more reciprocal (Lather, 1986), especially when working with historically disenfranchised Communities of Color like our own (Delgado-Gaitan, 1993).”

“That’s why I assigned all those books and articles,” Professor Lachica said proudly. “We should challenge traditional research. We wouldn’t be the first nor the last. Constantly ask yourself, how is your research methods and study empowering or helping the community you are working with (Delgado-Gaitan & Trueba, 1991)?”

Both Alberto and CJ stared at each other, amazed by such an important question.

After five long, thoughtful seconds, Alberto responded, “In my study, empowerment happens through genuine relationships and collaboration. I have gotten to know my participants very well and I help them as much as I can. In the past, I have looked over their personal statements, written letters of recommendations, and more. Through mutual respect, critical reflection, caring, and collective participation, I can recognize the participants as empowered individuals (Delgado-Gaitan & Trueba, 1991, p. 391).”

“Amen,” CJ added. “That’s how research should be done. Research as praxis. Collaboration is absolutely necessary for empowerment, advocacy, and emancipation (Lather, 1986, p. 272).”

“So,” Alberto grabbed his pen ready to write down any recommendations. “Should I not do an ethnography?”

“I mean you can do it, but just be intentional about it and be mindful of your presence as a researcher,” CJ replied.

“Actually, you can do a critical ethnography (Madison, 2005, 2009; Thomas, 1993; Weis & Fine, 2000)!” Professor Lachica exclaimed excitedly.

“Critical ethnography disrupts the nonreciprocal relationship between the researcher and the researched (Elenes & Delgado Bernal, 2010),” she explained. With critical ethnography, the researcher doesn’t just take, but also gives back.”

“But what makes an ethnography, critical?” Alberto wondered aloud.

“Basically, critical ethnography is conducting a conventional ethnography with a political purpose (Thomas, 1993). Yet, critical ethnography encourages researchers to critically examine their own power, privilege, and biases (Madison, 2005). When researchers reflect on their own identities, they hold themselves accountable for their research designs, their authority, and their moral responsibility in respects to representation and interpretation of the data they have collected (Madison, 2005, p. 14),” Professor Lachica answered.

“Okay. This is making a lot more sense now,” Alberto’s eyes widened. “Critical ethnographers must acknowledge how their own acts of studying and representing people are acts of domination. So, they have to be very thoughtful about how they go about it (Noblit et al., 2004). In my case, I have to constantly think about it means to be a Xicano collaborating with other Xicanx students.”

“That’s how I understood it,” CJ nodded her head. “Critical ethnography encourages, if not requires, researchers to be cognizant about the importance of contributing to emancipatory knowledge and conversations of social justice by way of their ethical responsibilities (Madison, 2005, p. 5). So morality is key.”

“That’s funny cuz to have morals, one must have compassion for people who are suffering. But through traditional, objective research, it’s nearly impossible to be compassionate. Regular research doesn’t allow for you to be compassionate cuz’ you gotta be ‘objective’ and not too attached to your participants,” Alberto added.

Alberto took a sip of water and asked, “Professor, how do you make sense of the fact that the ‘research participants’ are students I’ve worked with closely in the past? Like, I mentored and helped establish ¡Poder Xicanx!, yet now I am doing a study that investigates it.”

“That’s a good question,” Professor Lachica acknowledged. “Since you’ve collaborated with these students/participants in the past, you should make your research project more collaborative. This will allow you to place an emphasis on the collaborative, dialogic process between those whom you are working with and yourself. You know, you might consider critical collaborative ethnography, which is heavily grounded in and informed by critical ethnography. Bhattacharya (2008) defines critical collaborative ethnography as a practice of ethnography that is invested in questioning the boundaries and power relations between the researcher and researched for the specific purpose of bringing about social action and social change (p. 306). In this way, research becomes reciprocal and thereafter beneficiary for both parties, so to speak. This collaborative approach also directly challenges the problem of speaking for others (Alcoff, 1991).”

Alberto asked intently, “what are some key elements?”

“From what I remember, critical collaborative ethnography is politically motivated and emphasizes the need to affect social change,” Professor Lachica stated. “It often involves more than a single researcher, that is, the subjects of the study are actively involved; but, even when there is only one researcher, that researcher works in multiple nonacademic settings. Lastly, a critical collaborative ethnography links academic scholarship with ‘real world’ experiences and it must focus on researcher positionality and accountability” (Alcoff, 1991; Bhattacharya, 2008, p. 306).

Alberto carefully wrote down as much as he could, “I can see myself utilizing this methodology, for sure. I am committed to reciprocate labor and time. It will be a two-way street. During the data collection process, I will facilitate workshops and create presentations about issues related to MMAX students for ¡Poder Xicanx!. I will also mentor the participants not only through their own community-based research projects, but also through their research grant, graduate school, scholarship, and work applications.”

He shook his hand a few times to alleviate his hand cramp from writing so quickly and continued excitedly, “I’ll collaborate with participants to co-create and edit interview questions. I can ask them to describe themselves for me. I’ll let them read drafts of my dissertation chapters and provide feedback to ensure that my analysis of their perspectives and responses are accurately represented. Shoot, I’ll even ask them to choose their own fake names.”

“You mean pseudonyms?” CJ offered, facetiously.

“Yeah, whatever they’re called,” Alberto chuckled.

Professor Lachica smiled and looked at Alberto, “The use of critical collaborative ethnography will serve as an important foundation to ground the specific data collection methods that you will employ in your study. There’s no doubt in my mind that critical collaborative ethnography’s purpose coincides perfectly with how you’ll work with the students in your research.”

Counterstorytelling and testimonies to distribute findings

“I think you really got something special going on with this project. You finally cookin’ with some oil,” CJ told Alberto in a sincere tone.

“What can I say? ‘Been cookin’ with the sauce, Chef Curry with the pot, boy,’” Alberto sang, referring to Drake’s (Hernandez et al., 2014) verse in his song “0 to 100.”

“HA! I think your approach to research is very unique in that you genuinely care about those who you are working with. To top that off, your research topic is very important. People need to know that race is one of most volatile and divisive issues in American higher education. It’s obvious that the racial situation at universities manifests itself in many ways, from incidents of prejudice on campus, to policy decisions concerning affirmative action, to debates on the introduction of multicultural elements in the curriculum. This racial mosaic in American higher education is complex (Altbach & Lomotey, 1991, p. 3). It’s too bad our folks back home won’t have access to your work,” CJ reminded Alberto.

“Yeah, they will!” Alberto replied, excitedly. “I will download the PDF file of my dissertation and I’ll post it on my online blog. This way anyone who wants it, can download it for FREE!”

CJ smirked. Still, she insisted, “I didn’t mean ‘accessible’ in a literal sense.”

Professor Lachica and Alberto stared at CJ, hoping she would explain herself.

“Your findings will expose the ugly truth about universities. But will your community back home even understand your project?” CJ probed Alberto.

“What do you mean?” Alberto rebutted, as he walked back to his seat.

“Well, I think that’s the beauty of CRT. In a tradition of social justice, CRT as framework challenges traditional educational research that has tended to undervalue the voices of Latinx students (Pizarro, 1998),” Professor Lachica addressed CJ’s important observation.

“But then the methodological predicament becomes finding a technique that best articulates the findings that were yielded through a CRT tradition,” CJ responded.

“Yes. Storytelling is the answer,” Professor Lachica stated. “Storytelling as a research method is very important because it disrupts seemingly true, but severely oppressive stories, narratives, conventions, and understandings that were established by empowered groups long ago (Delgado, 1993). Stories are a powerful way to provide information about how racism operates in society as well as the intricate ways in which People of Color challenge dominant narratives (Rodriguez, 2010, p. 493).”

“That’s true. I could see how storytelling is a useful tool for historically marginalized People of Color because stories invite the listener to suspend judgment, listen for the story’s point, and test it against his, her, their own version of reality (Delgado & & others, 1989, p. 2440). Truth be told, having a marginal status like a Xicano or a Black woman like myself allows for creating unique and different stories that are not often heard (Delgado & & others, 1989),” CJ stated.

Alberto added to the conversation, “Aside from that, one of the most significant benefits that arises from storytelling is that it humanizes the person telling the story, who is often neglected and forgotten from the get-go (Delgado & & others, 1989; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002b).”

“So,” CJ put her hand on Alberto’s shoulder. “You gonna do storytelling to describe your research findings?”

Alberto looked at Professor Lachica for his answer.

“It only makes sense. After all, storytelling is one of CRT’s tenets. If you’re going to employ CRT as a framework, you might as well do it correctly,” Professor Lachica encouraged Alberto.

“Right. People think they know stories about higher education, but really they have no idea. You’ll definitely be countering their assumptions about what it’s like to be a university study,” CJ stated.

“Like a counter punch in boxing?” Alberto teased, half-joking.

Professor Lachica laughed, “Something like that. Counterstorytelling in higher education is useful in that exposes, analyzes, and challenges, or in your words, punches back, the dominant stories of racial privilege with the potential of furthering the struggle for racial reform. In analyzing a university’s campus climate, the use of counterstories provides Faculty, Staff, and Students of Color a genre to tell their narratives involving marginalized experiences (Hiraldo, 2010; Yosso, 2006). Counterstorytelling does not simply reflect on the lived experiences of People of Color, but it does so in a way to raise critical consciousness about social and racial injustice (Yosso, 2006, p. 10).”

“Wouldn’t academics look at my research as ‘just a bunch of storytelling’ without any validity?” Alberto suggested.

“Probably, but they trippin’. Storytelling, whether in person or in research, raises awareness of issues affecting People of Color, and in your case, Students of Color. Through that awareness, it motivates a discussion of strategies that more effectively serve students from non-traditional backgrounds in various spaces and practices (Martinez, 2014a, p. 52). Stories can prompt universities to make interventions. When students voice their opinions, best believe there better be some programmatic changes to achieve access, retention, and success,” CJ exclaimed.

“Very true!” Professor Lachica conceded. “In addition, you won’t ‘just be telling stories’ for the heck of it. The stories you will tell are far from fictional. Counterstories illustrate real life experiences of marginalized People of Color. In fact, CRT counterstorytelling is grounded and informed by research, including the data gathered from the research process itself, the existing literature on the topics, your own professional and personal experiences, and so on (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a, p. 34).”

Alberto nodded and put his black pen behind his ear, “True! When you put it like that, counterstorytelling becomes an act of liberation (Ladson-Billings, 2003).”

“Alberto, I’m part of your research committee, and I’ll support your endeavor to use storytelling as a method,” Professor Lachica asserted empathetically. “Critical race counterstorytelling as a method challenges traditional forms of knowledge production (Baszile, 2015; Milner & Howard, 2013; Rodriguez, 2010; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a). Critical Race Theory points to the disconnect between theory and praxis.”

CJ interjected, “I think you should just do it. Obviously, critical race counterstorytelling holds the experiences of People of Color as sources of knowledge (Dixson & Rousseau, 2005, p. 10). It’s all about experiential knowledge.”

“But I will interview 20 people and facilitate a couple of pláticas, do I have to write a story for each interview and plática?” Alberto wondered aloud.

“Not necessarily,” Professor Lachica said. “You can always do composite stories and characters, which are basically created by using various forms of ‘data’ to recount the experiences of People of Color” (Cook & Dixson, 2013; Martinez, 2014a; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a).”

“But technically speaking, doesn’t ‘composite’ mean made up of various parts or elements,” CJ questioned Professor Lachica.

“And that’s why I said these stories are created by using ‘data,’” Professor Lachica clarified. “This ‘data’ can mean the data gathered from the research process itself like in-depth interviews, Snow City University’s student-run newspaper, the existing literature on the specific topics such as books or research articles on racism, and one’s own professional and personal experiences (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002a, p. 34). You have a lot to draw from. I know I assigned a lot of readings in my class.”

“Maybe I have too many readings,” Alberto joked.

Noticing that Professor Lachica didn’t laugh at his joke, Alberto continued in a serious tone, “But where can I find actual examples of counterstorytelling using composite characters? Like, are there books of scholars doing this type of work?”

“There are plenty out there!” Professor Lachica replied immediately. “There are certainly foundational, must-reads out there. To start off you have, The Rodrigo Chronicles (1995) and The Coming Race War by Richard Delgado (1996), and Faces At the Bottom of the Well (1992) and And We Will Not Be Saved (1989) by Derrick Bell, Counterstory: The Rhetoric and Writing of Critical Race Theory (2020) by Aja Martinez, and Critical Race Counterstories Along the Chicana/Chicano Educational Pipeline (2006) by Tara Yosso,” Professor Lachica listed while counting on her fingers.

“The last one sounds super familiar,” Alberto recalled. “¡Madres Por La Educación!” exclaimed.

“Yes. I assigned it for this class, but I forgot to include the front cover of the book in the PDF. Anyhow, that’s a good example of a composite story with composite characters. Re-read it and you’ll see for yourself. The story seems made up, but in reality, it is grounded in research and actual experiences and the readers can’t even tell,” Professor Lachica insisted.

Alberto was convinced, “Since counterstorytelling as a research method resonates strongly with testimonios, I should also include a testimonio as my dissertation introduction!”

“That’s a good idea,” Professor Lachica agreed. “If you start off with a testimonio, then you can provide a first-hand experience on why you became interested in your research. That will make for a great introduction.”

Alberto reacted excitedly, “Yeah. Last semester I read a book titled, Telling to Live: Latina Feminist Testimonios, in which Chicanas and Latinas make it clear that testimonio enables the creation of knowledge and theory through people’s experiences (Latina Feminist Group, 2001). As I read more research articles, it became obvious to me that because of the importance and power of narratives, testimonio is also utilized as a research strategy by researchers in various fields, especially in education (as cited in Pérez Huber, 2010).”

CJ took that class with Alberto, “Absolutely. I remember that book. Latinx and testimonio are almost synonymous. Testimonio in educational research is heavily informed by a Chicana feminist epistemology (Delgado Bernal, 1998), which has proved to show that researchers can re-center a foundation of knowledge in order to be more inclusive of various cultural intuitions brought by Chicanas and other People of Color. When you use counterstorytelling and testimonios in educational research, you can challenge traditional Eurocentric ways of knowing and notions of white supremacy in higher education (Delgado Bernal & Villalpando, 2002).”

“Let me make it clear to you, Alberto,” Professor Lachica inserted herself. “I want you to know that with this research method you’ll be walking on thin ice. In comparison to traditional research methods that seek out unbiased knowledge, testimonio challenges objectivity by situating the individual in communion with a collective experience marked by marginalization, oppression, or resistance (Delgado Bernal et al., 2012). BUT, it is important to point out that testimonios incorporate political, social, historical, and cultural histories that accompany one’s life experiences as a means to bring about change through consciousness-raising, ultimately eliciting social change (Delgado Bernal et al., 2012, p. 364).”

Alberto listened. After a long few seconds of serious contemplation, he responded, “Honestly, I want to do a project for my ’hood. I must be that witness who documents my journey in order to reveal the racial, classed, gendered, and nativist injustices MMAX students have suffered as a means of healing, empowerment and advocacy for a more humane present and future (Pérez Huber, 2010, p. 83).”

CJ smiled, “Listen to you. That Kalief Browder documentary really inspired you, huh?”

“It’s the only right thing to do,” Alberto replied, wholeheartedly. “Rather than taking a plea bargain to get less time for a crime he didn’t commit, Kalief spoke truth to power and exposed all the injustices in Rikers Island and the criminal legal system. Had Kalief not shared his side of the story, the ugly truth would not have been told. As they say, ‘Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter’ (Achebe, 1994). Let me tell you something, this lion finally learned to write,” Alberto said proudly, referring to himself.

Alberto’s passion for his research project caused silence in the room for a long minute.

He glanced over to Professor Lachica, “We went over more than what I came in with. What are your thoughts about my project?”

“I really like it!” Professor answered.

“‘Like it’ as in it is approved and I pass my defense?” Alberto speculated.

Professor Lachica drank the rest of her coffee and referred to CJ for her opinion.

“Get to work!” CJ hugged Alberto.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Martín Alberto Gonzalez

Martín Alberto Gonzalez, PhD is a Xicano raised in Oxnard, California. He is an Assistant Professor in the Chicano/Latino Studies program at Portland State University. His research utilizes collaborative research methods, Critical Race Theory (CRT), Latina/o Critical Theory (LatCrit), concepts such as community cultural wealth, and counterstorytelling to highlight asset-based explanations for Latinx student success. As a teacher-scholar-activist, he takes pride in telling stories that challenge stereotypes about his community and communities alike.

Notes

1 Both Department of Culture and Education (C&E) and Snow City University (SCU) are pseudonyms. I decided to use pseudonyms so that readers do not become fixated with a location or institution, and mistakenly think, “Oh, that only happens at X institution,” and dismiss the broader implications of this story, which is that traditional research methods courses could perpetuate harm through the lack of conversations about participant-oriented research approaches and methods.

2 All three names are pseudonyms.