ABSTRACT
My field notes from my first day cleaning a large house in West Newton describe this scene:
Mrs. Thomas and I were both cleaning in her large kitchen when her sixteen-year-old came in to make a sandwich for lunch. They talked openly as if I weren’t there—about where he had gone the night before, who he had seen and how angry his father was about his staying out too late. I was surprised at how much rather personal information they exposed. During their conversation, he asked her if cats took vitamins. (The family recently got a kitten.) She answered she didn’t know but she didn’t think so. Despite the fact that I knew there were vitamins for cats, I said nothing because I felt that that was what was expected of me. This situation was the most peculiar feeling of the day: being there and not being there. Unlike a third person who chose not to take part in a conversation, I knew I was not expected to take part. I wouldn’t speak and was related to as if I wouldn’t hear. Very peculiar.
