Putting our bodies on the line: Corporeal ethnography and metamorphosis

Abstract

With notable exceptions, ethnographers engaging in observant participation have not reflected on what it means to become the object of inquiry. Very little scholarly engagement has focused on the longer-term implications for such becomings for the ethnographer. In the current article, we draw from field notes and broader reflections on our ethnographic experiences, as a cis gender male participating in mixed martial arts and as a cis gender female participating in correctional officer training, to theorize what metamorphosis means for our understandings of our respective fields and our day-to-day lives as academics. We analyze how metamorphosis is experienced differently for our respective genders, and the marks our ethnographic experiences have left on our selves and bodies. The current article is intentionally heuristic, pushing ethnographers to reflect on what ethnography means and the broader effects of ethnographic experiences on our bodies and on our selves.

Introduction

We take aim at the phenomena of corporeal metamorphosis that is elemental of conducting an immersive ethnographic study. We examine how our bodies are forever changed through our engagement with ethnographic practices as we participate in and extend our experiences beyond our ‘comfort zone’ to a greater research end. Recognizing we inscribe meanings on the worlds we analyze, attempt to know, and depict, we argue that inhabiting these worlds inscribes in us new ways of being that are difficult to grasp even when we are spatially ‘out’ of the field. Using reflections on corporeal metamorphosis, we probe the marks left on us by ethnographic experiences and how we changed as a result. We utilize our respective ethnographies – of initiation as a mixed martial artist and as a correctional officer – to reflect on our movement into these worlds and the metamorphosis engendered through becoming a player, albeit temporarily, in these fields.

With notable exceptions (Downey 2005; Wacquant 2006), ethnographers engaging in observant participation have not reflected on what it means to become the object of inquiry. Very little scholarly engagement has focused on the longer-term implications for such becomings for the ethnographer. We utilize field notes and broader reflections on our lives to theorize what metamorphosis means for our understandings of our respective fields and our daily lives as academics. We analyze how metamorphosis is experienced differently for our respective genders, one cis-gendered male and one cis-gender female. This article is intentionally heuristic, pushing ethnographers to reflect on what ethnography means and the longer-term effects of practice on our bodies and on our selves.

We structure this article in three main sections. First, we engage with the notion of corporeal metamorphosis and probe the phenomenon as a central aspect for understanding the transition from neophyte to player in ethnographic fields. We then offer a broad overview of our respective ethnographies and the fields we entered. The third section presents sustained reflections on three areas of the authors’ ethnographies – presentations of the body, learning body techniques, and pain – as sites that reveal the experiences of corporeal metamorphosis.

Bodies, metamorphosis, and ethnography

Herein we outline various approaches to corporeal metamorphosis, emphasizing the transition of one phase state to another. We analyze the processes of becoming that characterizes having a body and we do so to emphasize the in-between transitions from one form of embodiment to another (cf. Deleuze 1995). We elucidate how various scholars have engaged with corporeal metamorphosis and what they offer in terms of thinking of the in-between of processes of bodily metamorphosis.

An early reflection on metamorphosis can be found in the work of Roman poet Ovid (8/2005) in Metamorphoses. Written in 8 CE, Ovid focused on the theme of transformation from one form of another as, inter alia, a tool of divine retribution, renewal, perseverance, and frailty. For example, Metamorphoses explored the myth of Apollo’s, a god, unreciprocated love for Daphne, a nymph, where Apollo was struck by Eros’ arrow and fell in love with Daphne and Daphne is struck by a lead arrow that made her reject love. She rebuffed his advances and retreated to her father, a river god, who turned her into a Laurel tree. Apollo hugged the tree and wore the leaves of the tree as a crown. This myth and others in Ovid’s epic underscored the importance of change and consequence to the human condition. Here, metamorphosis is a consequence of moral actions and reflects an underlying precept but is nevertheless corporeal in nature.

Another important reflection on corporeal metamorphosis is found in the literary works of Franz Kafka (1919/2002), who has inspired reflections on the body up to the present day (Corngold and Wagner 2011; Curtis 1999; Deleuze 1986; Straus 1989). Kafka’s Metamorphosis is one of his better-known novellas and is a story of a traveling salesman changing into a monstrous insect. Gregor Samsa, the insect, is oft taken up as the main character of the story with very little consideration of any other characters. Only recently have literary critics began to turn attention to Grete Samsa, Gregor’s sister and caretaker. Grete Samsa presents another metamorphosis; specifically, her blossoming into a “beautiful and voluptuous young woman” (Kafka, 1919/2003: 51). She has transitioned into a woman and in the eyes of her parents, is ready for marriage and not merely caring for her monstrous brother. Her body reflects a transition in appearance and roles.

Feminist theorists have reflected most at length on becoming woman as a form of (continuous) corporeal metamorphosis that is determined by external cultural forces (Griggers, 1996), but also as generative of difference or differentiation (Braidotti 2003; Grosz 2011; Semetsky 2013). For Grosz (2011), modes of becoming fundamentally comprise natural, cultural, and political life. What has become is less interesting than the movements of becoming that pre-exists the change of one object to another. More empirical approaches to femininity and corporeal metamorphosis are studied in relation to the experience of pregnancy (Bridges 2011; Ivry 2009; Warren and Brewis, 2004). For example, in Bridges (2011) work, she demonstrates pregnancy is differentially experienced based on the race of the mother and has material consequences for racialized women receiving care. Whereas within this latter empirical literature there is some comprehension of the transformative aspects of pregnancy, most of this literature is focused on the broader cultural and structural forces that impinge on the experience of pregnancy. This leaves very little reflection on the in-between of pregnancy and the experience of the associated metamorphosis.

Within sociology there has been little consideration of the processes related to corporeal metamorphosis. While change is a central concept of sociology of the body, the sort of analysis of how bodies are socialized, the processes related to change in bodies, and the experience of metamorphosis is less covered. Pierre Bourdieu (1993) arrests taste and completely pulls it away from the body. In the “metamorphosis of tastes” he contends that the logic that determines the incessant processes of change in taste and style, in all fields of culture, are struggles between producers of culture. Any field of cultural activity is constituted by a struggle over symbolic capital. The metamorphosis of taste becomes external from the body and the experience of cultural products is absent.

Perhaps Chris Shilling is the social theorist most engaged with metamorphosis (Shilling, 2008, 2010). For Shilling (2008), contemporary consumer culture places great emphasis on bodily change and agents of bodily change. Corporeal metamorphosis through plastic surgery, tattooing, and exercise are a central preoccupation in this culture and the attendant industries that feed the preoccupation. Shilling (2008) demonstrates that bodies change throughout the life course, from the institutions that surround us, the relationships we enter, and the habits we develop, effecting our appearances, capacities, and the meanings associated with our bodies. He indicates that corporeal metamorphosis occurs as a “result of consciously formulated actions undertaken in situations of considerable autonomy, but it also happens frequently in circumstances over which individuals have little control. In these and in other situations, the ways in which bodily change occurs are related inextricably to people’s social actions as well as to the wider social structures in which they live” (Shilling 2008: 1). Through competing and surviving our bodies create and adapt over time.

Michel Serres (2009, 2012) has offered considerable insights into corporeal metamorphosis. Focusing on the senses and rock climbing, he avers that “the body in motion federates the senses and unifies them within itself. For this corporeal vision, this touch that, by a wondrous transubstantiation, changes the rock face into flesh, unceasingly enchanted, in the absence of language, by tacit music” (Serres, 2012: 10). Serres is not only interested in rock climbing; he is interested in how bodies are shaped and trained in particular ways. He explains metamorphosis as follows:

The in shape athlete, the trained gymnast, the active worker, the mountaineer at the apex of his exactingness, in the attentive precision of his relation to the ice, during the total engagement of their bodies – sweat, tension, breath, flexibility, adaptation – suddenly transform, rare, unexpectedly, into seraphim and benefit from the emotions felt by the angels who, themselves – transfigurations of champions – enjoy more-than-perfect bodies rather than flabby languor on some divan with clouds for cushions. Exercise the body as preparation for the ascent to heaven. Strong and sturdy legs are needed for the ascent of the wall on which the mystical festival of the Ascension is experienced (Serres, 2012: 17).

Here Serres reflects on the shift in bodies that takes place during athletic pursuits and different professions that require precision. The actor becomes something other than what they were before. They experience metamorphosis in the doing of their respective activities. Accompanying metamorphosis then is a change in emotion, a feeling that anyone that has engaged in vigorous physical activity has experienced.

From these various approaches - characterized by macro- and micro- analysis of metamorphosis – there are four main tenets of corporeal metamorphosis. First, metamorphosis is a change from one state to another; bodies are made anew through metamorphosis. Second, metamorphosis involves broader structures that promote and provoke metamorphosis that cannot be easily read off or predicted based on those structures. Third, metamorphosis can emerge from intentional actions that are aimed at particular life projects, be it through sport or various occupations. Lastly, it is important to examine the experience of corporeal metamorphosis from the point of view of the individual and the “in-between” of two states of embodiment; that is the becoming of this or that bodily state. In what remains we map through ethnographic immersion the in-between of becoming a MMA fighter and correctional officer. Both processes of becoming dovetail such that each person required a change in their corporeality to achieve their goal.

Our ethnographies

Van Maanen (1988: 2) wrote that ethnography requires some degree of “living with and living like those who are studied”. We participated in our respective fields, unpacking the experiences of becoming a MMA fighter and correctional officer. We were not covert in our participation—there was no deception—instead we openly partook in training with our multiple identities (e.g., recruit, fighter, student, professor). Our focus was always the identity at hand: that of those in training. We adhered to appreciative inquiry (Hammond 1998; Liebling 2001) to unpack our experience, learning processes and the motivations or rationale unpinning each. We observed fellow participants (Snow et al., 1986: 391), but in the current article we focus on our embodied experience and how we changed throughout our experiences. Like Browne and McBride (2015), we hung out, engaging in formal and informal aspects of our training while getting to know those around us and building trust. We engaged in new experiences unlike those we had participated in prior. We took field notes and reflected on our notes in the current article.

In terms of points of convergence, we were both observant participants (Wacquant 2006), with our own set of goals and ambitions within the respective fields, be it to pass a training course or to win various one-on-one fights. Both involved in deep immersion and considerable emotional investment in the fields. Our subject areas are filled with varying levels of violence and both ethnographic contexts are preparations for violence to come. We diverged in terms of our ‘fit’ in our respective fields. Both required physical, strenuous engagement in our fields, but [researcher 1] was more of a “natural” fit in his respective field than [researcher 2]. This is to say [researcher 1] was more comfortable in the field, because of his gender. We recognize that this ‘fit’ reflects broader problematic aspects of masculine fields and disproportionate levels of body capital that respective genders of the authors possess (Bourdieu, 1984, 2002). To be sure, doxa within the fields of MMA and corrections presumes that male bodies are a better fit, and as such, [research 2] felt, to an extent, unfit to do the work of corrections. That said, most salient is that both clearly involved metamorphosis that were marked by clear changes in their respective bodies, changes that must be understood in situ, rather than the end products as MMA fighter and correctional officer. Below we describe our respective fields.

MMA- Dale Spencer

While boxing had been understood in the West as the most violent and physically demanding of sports (Wacquant, 1995; 2006), in the early 1990’s a new sport emerged that challenges the positioning of boxing: the rise of mixed martial arts (herein referred to as MMA) competitions. Unlike boxing’s use of fists, these competitions feature competitors in a ring or in a caged-in area, inflicting pain on their opponents, inter alia, by punching, kicking, elbowing, and kneeing their opponents into submission. Countries across the world regularly host mixed martial arts competitions. The Ultimate Fighting Championship, the largest MMA organization in the world, draws crowds of up to 70,000 in addition to millions of televised viewers worldwide. Organizations bring trained mixed martial art fighters from all over the globe together, offering a spectacle sport that is nuanced and exciting.

The training regimens and techniques of MMA fighters are drawn from Western boxing, Muay Thai, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, freestyle wrestling, and sport Judo. The affinities lie not so much in the strict adherence to these styles (although these styles are incorporated into MMA), but because the styles and MMA are often practiced in live situations with a resisting opponent. Such practices are most often not the case in traditional martial arts that place emphasis on Kata, referring to technique forms that are more likened to a dance or dramatization of a battle with an invisible opponent. There is, however, emphasis on integrating techniques of multiple styles together into a fighter’s technical corpus and a concentration on only the most effective techniques. MMA matches are closest to real life, as fights are fought standing and on the ground.

In May 2006, I joined a mixed martial arts club in a major Canadian city. I first joined based on prior interest in multiple combat arts. My background in various styles provided me with a general feel for starting at the club, but after smoking cigarettes for 2 years my fitness level was so poor that making it through a workout was an extremely difficult endeavor. In June of the same year, I decided to convert what was initially a hobby into an ethnographic study. I attended classes and/or trained three to five times a week at the club, plus training sessions outside formal classes. ¹ The ethnography ended in March 2010.

I was part of a club with approximately 80 members with four fighters preparing for upcoming fight cards at any one time. The club space had two floors, both completely matted, with punching bags in the basement. It was open to members 6 days a week, in the evenings during weekdays and for 2 hours mid-day on Saturdays. The club focused on and had structured classes in two primary styles, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai, with additional semi-weekly freestyle wrestling classes. Brazilian Jitsu is primarily a ground fighting style focused on arm and leg submissions, chokes, and defending oneself while on one’s back. In Muay Thai, practitioners utilize their fists, shins, knees and elbows to strike their opponents. Clinching and delivering elbows and knees to an opponent is also a central feature of Muay Thai. Techniques of freestyle wrestling are used to take down an opponent to the ground and punch their opponent’s mid-section and head. Twice a week, trainers had arduous mixed martial art training sessions where each of the three styles was combined. These were primarily for serious fighters who are either training for an upcoming fight or to aid fighters to prepare for their fights.

Correctional services- Rosemary Ricciardelli

Training, at least in Canada, varies based on the correctional system, which includes 14 independent yet interconnected correctional services: one in each province and territory as well as the federal system. I participated in the three stages of the federal Correctional Training Program (CTP) delivered to train correctional officer recruits, referring to people who have undergone selection completed the first phases (i.e., psychological testing, interviews) of the recruitment processes with the exception of in-person training, working for Correctional Services of Canada. Stage I occurs online, and modules cover an extraordinary amount of material, from law and policy to Commissioner Directives, to applied practices. Stage II occurs prior to arriving at the National Training Academy and includes a series of written assignments that reflect material learned in Stage I. Stage III differs in that the training is in-person, at either the National Training Academy or a satellite site and involves 14-15 weeks of intensive training. Although there are currently five sites offering CTP but at the time when I participated in CTP there was only the National Training Academy and one satellite site in the Atlantic region. My training occurred in 2019, undertaken to provide perspective for another longitudinal study where I study how people change socially, psychologically, and physically during their correctional career. Ethically, my research was approved by the Health Research Ethics Board at my institution and funded by a grant from the Canadian Academy of Health Sciences. Access to do the research was negotiated with the Correctional Service of Canada.

During training, I lived in a dorm with my cohort of 24 other recruits who were all embarking on the process of becoming a correctional officer; cohorts of recruits must train together, both formal training and informal training (e.g., after class practicing, exercising). Recruits eat at least two meals a day, often three, together, march to the academy from the dorms as a collective, and trainers instruct us as a group but also provide individual instruction as required. The training is consuming in that the academy forms a society within itself, with all trainers and recruits dedicated to a shared goal: that of preparing individuals for a career in correctional services. At the National Training Academy, I found it quite easy to become lost in my focus on the training and learning, embedded in the dynamics of the academy, and to prioritize learning material. Although the focus in the current article is on the physical use of the body, the training is not overly militaristic and there is a focus on dynamic security and communications skills. However, the body focus is rooted in how, at the academy, mortality becomes very real, for lack of a better word. Recruits learn they may, although unlikely, be required in their work to take a life, they may also lose theirs. Thus, mortality in training informs why we learn self-defence, and arrest and control, as well as firearms. Mortality is also why we learn de-escalation skills and how to use our voice as protection, we learn what to do in hostage taking situations – if we are taken hostage – and self-protection aimed at the preservation of our life, those of staff, visitors, incarcerated people, and the public. The CO role is rehabilitative but always against the backdrop of preservation of life – thus security or care within custody (see Ricciardelli, 2019).

As such the body – staying alive – is central to the training. At the academy, recruits easily spend over 300 hours doing activities that are physical in nature, from fitness, to self-defence, to learning how to extract a prisoner from a cell, to how to intervene in altercations to how to arrest an incarcerated person, to shooting firearms (to reduce escapes and secure a perimeter, for example). The body is impacted in diverse ways by different training modules, for example chemical agents, like pepper spray, impact the body as does fire safety training, the prior is encompassing and painful and the other heavy and eventually tiring. The body feels the daily weight of the waist belt and holds equipment possible to be used in the course of days work in prisons (i.e., radio, handcuffs, flashlight). The body feels the restraint equipment manipulated (i.e., different forms of cuffing), and, at least for me, the discomfort of the steel-toed safety boots worn which are hot and pinch the feet.

In these ways, among others, training leaves an imprint on the recruit body as the structured living dictates eating and physical activity to be engaged in 40 minutes minimum a day beyond instructional classes. Food consumption and exercise is logged and witnessed (e.g., signed off) by a peer. During training, I changed my diet, exercise patterns, and schedule. The training encouraged embodied experiences that were not only new, but beyond my expertise, level of comfort, and, I often felt, abilities.

Two tales of experience

Presentation of the body

MMA

The training regimes that MMA fighters undergo take over their lives. Their diets, times of rest and practice, are strictly mapped out to maximize the fighter’s performance. In MMA, unlike many sports, there is not a single body type that typifies competitors. There is not an agreed upon set of masculine traits that fully represent the dominant masculinity within the sport. Such traits are agonistically contested. On the other hand, maintaining a lean, strong body that is not slowed down by fat is idealized. One of the more prominent aspects to being a male in MMA and performing masculinities was in reference to a form of asceticism with affinities to forms of asceticism common across various cultures (see Spencer, 2014). Within MMA there is a marked effort to align one’s diet with the activities in which an individual engages. This alignment involves a careful consideration for the equilibrium of the body, a sort of vigilance towards the body’s condition in relation to food intake with the goal of governing one’s health. The asceticism prominent in MMA focuses on particular masculinized notions of bodily management and consumption. Fighters characterized their commitment to their diets and training regimes, especially when coming up to their fights, as ‘religious’, following strict guidelines. For example, before a fight, participants take on an ascetic lifestyle cutting out alcohol and other foods seen as hindering weight loss. This sort of asceticism is customary among MMA athletes in relation to being a man, as having the fortitude to withstand the rigors of the lifestyle of a MMA fighter. As a form of asceticism, it relates to a perception of others in relation to their adherence to the strict training and dietary regimes of MMA.

My experience of this asceticism was riddled with a sort of confessionalism. Central to the club is a scale that students will track their weight daily as they prepare for fights or to ascertain how far they were off “fight weight”, even when there was no fight scheduled. The centrality of the scale in the gym makes weight a central preoccupation. In preparing for Brazilian Jiu Jitsu tournaments and amateur MMA fights, I was always asked, especially when I was “overweight” what I was eating. Over the course of the ethnography, I was told to eat clean. Eating clean, as I came to find out, requires consuming primarily protein-rich foods and fruits and vegetables, foods that are seen as necessary to the body’s recovery and efficient functioning of the body-engine. Conversely, fats, high carbohydrate and fried foods are seen as polluting the body-engine, acting as sludge, slowing the body’s recovery and overall performance (see Atkinson, 2007; Spencer, 2011; Zanker and Gard, 2008).

While training at the local club, elite clubs across the United States and Canada, and in Thailand, I was subject to the disciplinary gaze (Kerr, 2014; Rail and Harvey, 1995; Riatti and Thiel, 2024) of trainers and other fighters. While training and in the change room, fighters would comment on the fat levels of other fighters. I received both negative and positive reception, but this form of ‘body fascism’ had the effect of making me view food in terms of its function in relation to MMA. One common way I experienced this disciplinary element of life in the MMA club was the practice of removing one’s shirt while or after training. If I had fat (“flab”) around my waist, my fat would be grabbed and/or the subject of jokes. While training in Thailand, the trainers called me ‘Pompui’, meaning fat man, when I first arrived. Training with your shirt off and surrounded by mirrors, I became all too aware of my ‘imperfections’. By the time I left, I had lost 12 kg and was now in the acceptable range of weight for fighters my size. They then extended the title of ‘Pompui’ on another Western fighter coming into the camp. Similar to other sports and across genders (Baxter, 2021; Kong and Harris, 2015; Walseth and Tidslevold 2020), my sense of belonging in the martial arts world more generally is and was always tethered to this sense of an ideal weight which one must maintain and aspire to.

Correctional services

Recruits train in parade at the academy, and as parade skills become more ‘advanced’, my cohort of recruits was obliged to march (in uniform) between the academy and the residence in formation when on the property of the Correctional Services of Canada. The marching was practice, before and after class, for marching at the graduation ceremony and the ceremony of the prior graduating class. I recall a recruit who stood out, keen to demonstrate his knowledge and experience in parade. He was not unique in his experience, but unique in the energy in which he shared his eagerness. Parade was a late addition to the curriculum, with a history of being removed and later reintroduced. Parade functions by ensuring recruit commitment and effort; it is front and center at the graduation ceremony and the fact that parade is the medium through which recruits move on the property centralizes the embodied experience. There is something about the body being ‘on display’ that I had not anticipated. I recall being uncomfortable at the thought of parade, anxious in anticipation of starting to learn formation, and terrified about the actual synchronicity expected when marching. Parade became slightly easier, although I always felt like I was being watched and thus utterly uncomfortable. Doing parade publicly was most distressing, especially as tourists photographed us at the Kingston Penitentiary as we marched in formation. These tourists were touring the non-operational Kingston penitentiary, and we were parading there as part of another cohort of recruits’ graduation ceremony in which we had role. Clearly, the tourists believed we were somehow part of the tour – a sort of attraction – which I failed to appreciate or desire. The realization that as a public servant in uniform I was able to be recorded and photographed without my consent at any time resulted in feelings of potential violation and vulnerability for which I was unprepared. I learned a lot being in public in a uniform.

More trying was actual parade class (also referred to as “drill”) where my lack of coordination—compounded by the feeling of being watched—were overwhelming. Further, I knew that every error I made likely stood out given I was less practiced and coordinated than the others in my cohort. The body as a part of a uniformed, synchronized, and precise demonstration was something I had not experienced since my youth. As an adult the expectation to be able to perform felt dominant. The displayed body, not in the sense of being objectified (Wolf, 1991), was not something I was prepared for. As a recruit in uniform, the responsibility that came with the uniform, much tied to the surveillance the uniform allows, was daunting. Given the uniform is daily attire, it could slip one’s mind, but the sharp reminders exist. An embodied responsibility follows the uniform, that is perceived by the public and recognized through instruction. Recruits learn to uphold the standard of the organization in the presentation of the uniform and thus self.

The emphasis on appearance remains pronounced throughout CTP but begins immediately on day one, even before arriving, but specifically while being oriented. Recruits learn how to wear the uniform(s), drawing on Commissioner’s Directives, which we are encouraged to know well and to refer to for clarification and consistency in appearance. Appearance instructions start before arriving at the academy, when we receive a list of required items and instructions on which boots to purchase, to only wear single studs in our ears, and to remember our self-presentation represents the greater organization. At arrival, recruits learn how to shine boots, press our uniforms, and our uniforms are taken to a seamstress to modify for appropriate fit. We are to only to use the Correctional Service of Canada gym bag when going to and from the academy to the residences which completes our presentation of self, signifying the presentation of the Service, to the public, and at the academy.

Learning body techniques and processes of becoming

Habitus varies across groups, cultures, and societies, reflecting the accordant membership (Durkheim, [1913] 2008). They materialize into techniques that are the work of “collective and individual practical reason rather than, in the ordinary way, merely the soul and its repetitive faculties” (Mauss, [1934]1973:73). These corporeal schemas are body techniques (Mauss, [1934]1973) that are learned in and through imitation and repetition passed down through tradition. The accumulation of body techniques galvanizes into specific capacities and as such, forms a lived-through-structure-in-process (Crossley, 2001) that can, in some cases signify particular identities. These are processes of becoming that are reflected on bodies embedded within communities of practice. In the following section we analysis the learning of body techniques to both become a weapon and use a weapon.

MMA – Becoming weapon

MMA fighters continually aim to attain mastery over body techniques, but not just for the sake of it, as is often the case in traditional martial arts. Techniques are learned because of their perceived effectiveness in combat scenarios. Irrespective of style, body techniques are continually incorporated and combined with the fighter’s existing technical corpus and as such, the fighter’s habitus is continually formed and reformed. The fighter’s body is continually in a state of flux or metamorphosis (c.f. Braidotti, 2003). Irrespective of the stage of the fighter’s advancement, there is a continued vigilance to perfect weaknesses (Crossley, 2005). Here is an example of training in a body technique detailed in a field note:

Field note: George tells the students to gather around and asks Philip to assist him to show us a technique. Everyone gathers in a circle watching intently on what George is trying to show and tell everyone. George gets on his back and Philip enters his closed guard. “So we are going to practice arm bars. First grab the back of his collar on the same side as the arm that you are going to do the arm bar, with your palm up as close as you can to his neck, trying to keep your wrist straight [he demonstrates, grabbing the collar of his gi deep and firm]. Then grab on the end of the sleeve of the arm you are going to arm bar with your thumb out [he demonstrates, digging his fingers into the sleeve of the gi, gripping it firmly]. Then you put your foot on his hip, keeping your knee close to his arm and push off. While you are pushing off, slide your other leg across his back [he demonstrates, fluidly gliding his body across the mat and placing himself in position for the armbar]. Then you just grab with both hands firmly on the inside of his arm and submit him [pulls down on the arm and Philip taps to show that the arm bar has worked effectively]. Any questions?” No one responds and George exclaims, “Pick a partner and do the technique over and over”. I go with Gilles and we find a place on the mat to do the move. I start on my back and do ten repetitions of the arm bar on each arm and then we switch so Gilles can try the technique. When Gilles gets ten repetitions in on the left arm, George, who was walking along the mats inspecting everyone’s technique and answering questions, tells the class to stop and gather around again. “Look guys, you guys are thinking too much. Just do the technique. Some of you guys are asking me, ‘what if this happens or this’ or ‘this feels awkward’. Do you guys know what a parrot does?” Everyone in the class seems stunned and no one responds immediately. Not waiting for someone to respond, George answers his question: “A parrot repeats exactly what you say. It does not think, it just does it. Just do the move, don’t think. It will make sense to you later. Just do the technique over and over and when you are rolling later and it works you will see why I have you do the technique this specific way. Now keep doing the technique.”

As George states, the parrot does not reflect, it repeats. The act of becoming parrot does not involve thought, but the performance of an act repeatedly. As I came to learn and embody, is to take my body as a field of practice, to be worked on. When I practice a technique, I am thinking about how this weapon can be used and in what situations. The hope is forever and always that my body will intuitively react to their opponents based on the body techniques I have learned in training. My hope is that my body will sense what it is to do in a fight and react accordingly. Now many years of practice later and removed from this formal ethnography, I am left with a body that is a weapon. I continue to practice Brazilian Jiu Jitsu to this day and train MMA fighters in the art. Beyond the ability to apply the techniques described above, such a broader MMA hexis (Bourdieu, 1992) derived from my participation in MMA means I carry this martial habitus into all aspects of my life (see Spencer, 2009).

Correctional services: Using weapons

We, through seemingly endless hours of training on skills, tried to develop muscle memory for self-defence, arrest, and control, and most pronounced for me, in firearms training. Regarding the former, self-defence, arrest, and control, the body came to be viewed by some as a weapon, but that was far from my experience. Instead, my body was a vehicle for learning a seeming coordinated series of steps that I would have to present during testing, instead of learning how to use my body to protect and exert control over another person – entirely a result of my lack of physical strength and stature (i.e., I barely would have 100 pounds when I trained). If anything, my body was submissive to the learning of other recruits, who were able to manipulate my positioning, including throwing me when necessary. I felt the impact of my petite stature and body weight, as the effort the techniques learned involved at times felt insurmountable. Persistence and training helped to overcome the seeming boundaries around the degree of force I was able to exert. I recall with astonishment that the different techniques learned were effective despite size, ability, agility, and strength. Most pronounced in my corporeal experience was, however, firearms training, where I learned how to equip my body with a weapon.

Firearms bear an undeniable strength. There is a power inherent to the firearms that is intimidating but enticing, and a skill to their proper use that creates a degree of sport in the training that supersedes thoughts of their lethality. The act of firing any gun, regardless if it is for the first time or last, evokes some emotion or some degree of satisfaction or dissatisfaction with the outcome. There is a need to have control over the weapon, a need for confidence, and for awareness. The act of firing is inherently powerful. The force that the gun exerts is the source of recoil for the shooter. My black eye earned learning to use the shotgun was a direct consequence of recoil.

My emotions tied to firearms, included nervous anticipation, began weeks before trainers at the academy start the official firearm instruction during classes. ² Here, the reality of firearms training becomes most evident: as a CO, one may face a situation in which they must take a life to protect the safety and security of the institution, prisoners, and staff, as well as society. In this sense, my corporeality became tied to the firearm, its potentiality, and the experience of weaponization. Not everyone is comfortable with that reality, and I was privileged given I would never face such a situation, which helped me through the firearms training. I learned that even with my body equipped with a weapon, I do not believe I could take a life. I would never do a prisoner escort or work in a prison posted with a firearm. The more formal training in firearms begins early during CTP, within the first week or so, with recruits testing their “grip strength”, mine being “28” for both left and right. Consider the following field note:

Field note: The emphasis is not on use of force, it was safety, the components of the Carbine, ensuring that you were not left vulnerable, that bullets and guns were thoroughly checked. The instructors explain that 99% of the time de-escalation will prevail through dynamic security but there may be a need for the carbine and they must be prepared. The emphasis is on safety, 5-point safety checks which entail i) safe direction, ii) safety on, iii) remove the magazine; iv) look in (inspect) the chamber; iv) cant to the right, cock it two to three times, and lock it, (push in the cocking handle when locked), check the chamber again, then close it, and 7-point safety checks. I do this many times and saying the steps aloud …I spend much time doing “unload, prove safe, leave open and empty” which is how we check to ensure that the weapon is safe, doing “unload, prove safe and duty reload” as well as “squib load and hang fire”. After which much time was spent learning how to manage common stoppages, malfunctions and immediate actions. The emphasis is on safety, not use of force although the actions were around use of force the emphasis was safety, not force, and making decisions that justified use of force. We are instructed of verbal warnings, even just lifting the weapon to the ready would be a way to deter the force…. Much emphasis is also on ensuring clear warnings were given – “Inmate, drop the knife or I will shoot” so there can be no confusion about what the consequence would be if the prisoner did not adhere.

We spent hours practicing in the classrooms at the range in between shooting drills. I found my body became increasingly comfortable manipulating the firearm, but the lethality of the device was never forgotten, and the idea of accuracy and process was ingrained. The sport of shooting and working to improve accuracy was an enjoyable challenge.

Pain and suffering in ethnography

Pain and injury remind us of our bodies. When injured our bodies potentialities are limited. Beyond these factors, injury and failure grips our bodies and reminds us that bodies can be affected. In as much everyday discourse inscribes notions of bodily integrity and wholeness, injury reveals the vulnerability and breakdown of bodies. Here we examine our experiences of pain and suffering in both ethnographies.

MMA

Fighters continually add new body techniques to their technical corpus. The process involves continually practicing techniques, but injury can disrupt practice. A form of chronic pain, for me, the pain results in frustration and then leads to depression. The experience of depression is predicated on discrepancy between an ideal state of bodily performance and an actual injured state of being. The following field note entry was written, tears running down my face, at a coffee shop in a mall in Chiang Mai, Thailand the day after I was injured by a cut kick from my Thai opponent:

Field note: I find myself at an impasse; after my Muay Thai match last night I am bruised and battered. I re-injured my left knee at the end in the first round. I was forced to stop the match… I am very disappointed. I trained a long time for this fight and was dominating my opponent until he kicked the side of my left knee. How could this have happened? Now I will have to rehabilitate my knee and will lose all that I gained while in Thailand. Fuck. I feel impotent; my heart hurts. It is laborious to breathe.

Wrapped up in the ethnography, feeling the pain of injury, I can vividly recall the immense dread I was feeling after this event. I simultaneously felt robbed of opportunities (of future fights) and the glory that goes with winning. Set against prohibitions against public weeping amongst men and the maintenance of a stoic disposition (Bourdieu, 2002), weeping reveals the gravity of the loss and played a crucial function in reintegrating my self-concept after the traumatic event of a loss in a fight that unsettled my prior image as a fighter. Weeping acts worked to facilitate the changes in my self-concept as a fighter (see Barbalet, 2005). Years later, I realize that my sense of being was compromised from what I viewed at the time as an ideal state of embodiment. The ideal bodily state in the masculine order of MMA is a way of being-in-the-world, the maintenance of a body active in battle. In addition, when enjoyment is derived from the optimal level of performance in MMA, the denial of involvement, in my experience, lead to depression. I believed that some of the technique I worked to master and incorporate into my technical corpus is lost in my time off from training. The pursuit of the heroic life dominated by passion for MMA leads to continual injuries and a failure to allow the body to properly heal and overcome the trauma of injury.

Chronic injuries come to dominate the experience of activities related to everyday life. Being injured comes to be a way of being-in-the-world and a recurrent embodied experience (Leder, 1990; Scarry, 1988). Bodies and life trajectories are reoriented in the event of injury, that is, bodies take on a different character. Bodies’ reactions or intentionality, broadly speaking, can be transmogrified in less than ‘ideal’ ways (see Smith and Sparkes, 2002; Sparkes and Smith, 2002; Spencer, 2012). My case reveals missed futures and events of battle because of my injuries. I was never able to compete at that level again. Missed opportunities and the attendant re-positioning in the hierarchy of the sport that comes with success, can be the source of short- and long-term experiences of depression (Lichtenstein et al., 2019; Appaneal et al., 2009; Piussi et al., 2022). The less spectacular but equally meaningful participation in training is limited for me because of my injuries. As shown in my field note reflection, this relation to injury can be experienced as dreadful, where one experiences a form of pain and depression associated with a life that could have been.

Correctional services

In CTP, I never had to worry about injury affecting, or limiting, my future career. I witnessed injury affect other recruits, who The Correctional Service of Canada released for medical reasons and were unable to return until awarded a clean bill of health. I witnessed recruits nurse their injuries as they remained stoic and continue the program—fearful of needing to start anew the 14-week in-person program if sent home. The ramifications were multifaceted as persons would be delayed in starting their paid employment, careers, and need to redo the many strike-able tests and leave their families anew for the 14-week period. I did experience pain and suffering in ways I had not anticipated, primarily tied to being away for such a prolonged period of time from my family. The loneliness and distraction were a common obstacle to completing CTP, experienced by all to some degree. It was the solitude in the night that was most difficult, although I was often exhausted, which made the time pass.

Pain was a regular occurrence during CTP. In the first days after being informed about the daily physical exercise requirement, I “tried” running, fearfully, with a few in my cohort. The day after my first “run” (i.e., walk/jog/run combination), I was feeling surprisingly okay, manageably sore, until about 11:30am. When class broke for lunch, I first struggled to push out my chair because my legs shook like Jello, a struggle which continued as I was in agonizing ridiculous and unreasonable pain. Nevertheless, I still had to stand and engage in the required activities of academy living which left little room for such discomfort. Further my arms hurt from chin-ups, having never done one let alone nearly a dozen prior, my abs, my entire body – the most excruciating pain I had ever felt, clearly indicative of my terrible physical shape when I started training. Nonetheless, I tried to run (i.e., calling my activity running would be an exaggeration) again the next morning – the start of my 5 am runs during CTP. I enjoyed the intimacy of the morning run, and the ritual that developed as my running partner and I would add a short walk post run for coffee. The running, starting as a commitment to participating in CTP, specifically to meet the fitness requirement became a habitual and necessary part of my day-to-day. In the first weeks, fitness class and testing amplified the soreness. Fitness class was physically taxing, consisting of a vast number of exercises I had either never heard of prior or never had attempted. There was no time to heal the body, thus I had to push through the daily pain until after some weeks, my body was attuned to and could manage the exercise – I was becoming more physically fit. My field notes reveal that benchmark testing at the beginning and end of CTP included chin-ups and other strenuous movements. What was always notable was how the cohort supported each other in physical activities; cheering each other on until the very end.

During firearms, I used my body in ways I had never used it prior, for instance, my finger strength had never been relevant to my performative abilities. Firearms training is laced with tears, persons can be sent off the range by trainers for safety reasons and attitude. My body was exhausted during firearms training and the exhaustion only intensified when I had to set up targets and the apparatus necessary for shooting practice. The set up is exhausting as the equipment is heavy and awkward to carry. Given my experience of CTP was on the range during a remarkable heatwave, I found my body tired quickly. A firearms training day involved hours on your feet, hours of practice manipulations of the firearms, and hours on the range practicing shooting across positions. Revealed in the following field note, compounding the physicality of firearms training were the elements:

Field note: The weather is set to go up to 36° [Celsius], over 46 with humidity as the sign read driving back from the range. Our daily uniform is a black t-shirt, uniform short sleeve shirt, cargo pants, duty belt, black socks, boots with steel toes … The sun is pounding down, the double ear protection (ear plugs, plus heavy ear covers) is adding more heat. Sweat is dripping off the protecting eye wear and I am sweating through to my vest. The heat is intolerable. I look over at Dwight and Serena [pseudonyms] and despite the sunscreen their skin is burning, faces are red, likely from heat not sun given the degree of layers we had covering our faces. There is no breeze. As the sun and heat get the best of me, evidenced in the fact that despite the sweat and heat goosebumps and freezing hands, I retreat and have to be driven back to the dorms becoming suddenly ill.

Recalling the lack of breeze that day on the private range after set-up, I experienced heat stroke for the first time and had to leave the range to preserve safety. I recall a trainer driving me back to the dorm to recover and feeling as I had in some way failed – or, at minimum, that my body failed me. My body left me weak, feeling compromised, and unable to continue participating that day. ³

No matter the weapon trainers are instructing, the repetitive motions exhaust muscles. I pushed myself harder than I had since my youth to perform drills and demonstrate skills, to practice, and to maximize the learning experience on each range. I had to push myself to perform the day of drills and skills and it was rather grueling often for me. Practice did not prevent injury. During the carbine training my body experienced heatstroke and I found myself bruised, during the nine-millimetre pistol training my hands were cut open multiple times due to how I (erroneously) gripped the pistol—which I had to learn to fix— and during shotgun the recoil overtook my body strength and landed me with a black-eye. The toll on the body combines with the psychological and physical toll of stress tied to being successful (i.e., not earning strikes or being released) during the training. The stress is continuous over firearms testing.

The most painful experience I had during CTP was when a trainer sprayed me directly in the eyes with pepper spray, referred to as Oleoresin Capsicum Spray. Participation was my choice, a training component designed to inform how correctional officers use pepper spray in the institution. I quickly learned that beyond being sprayed is the awful decontamination process. Even the use of pepper spray by an officer requires that they too will have to decontaminate. Being sprayed teaches recruits that pepper spray is to be used with caution and not in excess. Here I reflect on the pain of being sprayed:

Field note: The spray feels like burning hot film covering my eyes and every place it touches on my face and body feels like it is burning off. Even my hair and scalp. I feel like I am going to be blind and never to see or open my eyes again—opening my eyes is excruciating. I didn’t want to open my eyes. It stings, it burns, it aches, it affected my breathing tremendously, trying to breath is difficult. I am desperately trying to get to the washrooms and showers which feels like miles away. I first go to the sink or shower, I’m not sure. I am sitting in the shower trying to open my eyes and rinse the pepper spray off. Wanting desperately to have my towel to get the film off first before more got in my eye but I am having a hard time locating where my towel is with the pain and burning. I rinse my eyes trying to control my breathing… I am suffocating. I am prying my eyes open with my fingers to try to rinse the spray out to, what felt like to no avail. In the shower, fully dressed, I just kept trying to open my eyes and get the spray out of my eyes. Then I moved to the sink, a recruit helps me, told me to stop trying to pour water into my eyes and instead to turn sideways and have the water running through my eye…

I will never forget how terribly unpleasant decontamination felt. The water made me feel disconnected from reality. The feeling that I could not breath, as well as the relief provided by the water in my eyes in front of the fan. The support from those in my cohort and the trainers was also incredible. After decontamination, I showered, reliving the pepper spray burn as it dripped off my hair all over my body, having so much adrenalin once I was decontaminated. I learned from the pain and was also impressed myself by how I handled the experience.

Concluding remarks

Herein we reflected on our interpretations to understand the new ways of being emergent from our field experience. Although different in nature and, arguably, relative success in our roles, we both took on processes of becoming. Dale Spencer, arguably, became an amateur MMA fighter and Rosemary Ricciardelli, however, only job shadowed as correctional officer in federal prisons, and refrains from claiming that she could hold the position of correctional officer for The Correctional Service of Canada. However, for both, the experience changed us. The experience changed our bodies. Spencer lost weight and Ricciardelli gained weight and physical fitness as well as muscle mass. Spencer remarked and witnessed the changes in Rosemary during the experience, knowing her well before and after. The most central change for both researchers was tied to an awareness of our living bodily, becoming more aware of our mortalities, the fragility of all life, and the temporal nature of living. For Rosemary, the embodied experience exposed how vulnerable life is, and the training reinforces that death is not uncommon in carceral spaces, nor is debilitating harm, and such realities can and will affect all. The awareness of her own mortality has changed how she experiences life moving forward.

With our bodies on display – it was not gaze of the spectator that was concerning, it was the fact that the uniform or, in Rosemary's case, the public event, made the body the object of said gaze. Here, privacy could be intruded upon—any person could take whatever photographs they desired, which resulted in a disconnection between the body and the self. Specifically, being ‘on stage’ required the real self to be pushed to the wayside or “backstage” as a means to live with the intrusion and to disconnect the self from its presentation. This is particularly important because how the uniform is interpreted in corrections is under-researched; but more so the image of the uniform may not be consistent with the desired self and perhaps consistent with a new self that which is becoming. Moreover, the fact that when in uniform, as a public servant, all are free to be recorded and observed is trying, removing privacy, and exerting a responsibility on the bearer that can leave one vulnerable.

Becoming weapon versus using weapons – both processes involved training for muscle memory to be prepared to use/be force. Here there is also the matter of the gendered divide of the researcher. Rosemary's gender likely affected her abilities and capabilities more negatively due to size and stature. Her gendered experiences are worthy of reflection, but such in-depth reflections are beyond scope of the current article. Future researchers may wish to explore the realities of gendered embodiment as felt prior, during, and post corporeal metamorphosis.

Our ethnographic experiences resonate and remain a unique time in our lives. To some extent the imprint on the body passes with time, as does the recall of how to perform many of the physical tasks learned, however the habits created during training remain. We learned the value of exercise, particularly running, not just for physical health, but on mental health. We developed healthier eating habits and tried foods we may not have if given the choice. The experience resonates.