AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGIST

PUBLIC ANTHROPOLOGY

Laying the Body on the Line: Activist Anthropology and theDeportation of the Undocumented

Daniel M. Goldstein

Rutgers University

I awoke with the jitters on the morning of the protest. Ihad laid out my clothes the night before—the trick was todress warmly without bulk because anything too thick wouldmake it impossible to fit my arms into the tubes joining thedemonstrators together. I had a white thermal undershirt,long underwear, a fleece, and a windbreaker. I also wore ahat and some thin gloves so I would be able to manipulatethe ropes inside the tubes. I forced myself to eat somethingand drank only one cup of coffee, so I wouldn’t have to peeduring the event (someone had previously distributed adultdiapers, but I elected not to wear them). Then I got in mycar and drove through the dark to Elizabeth, New Jersey,obeying the speed limit the entire way. I was on my way todo activist anthropology, and I felt sick to my stomach.

Debates about the relationship between anthropol-ogy and the “real world” characterize the discipline’s pastand present, often framed in terms of “engagement” or“activism.”1 One important focus has been on the distinc-tion between “theory” and “action.” Charles Hale contrasts“cultural critique” with activist scholarship; he understandsthe former as contributing to the analysis of social inequal-ity and contemporary problems but as a form of “luxury”knowledge production circulated exclusively among schol-ars (Hale 2008:16). This he contrasts with activist research,“a method through which we affirm a political alignmentwith an organized group of people in struggle and allowdialogue with them to shape each phase of the process”(Hale 2006:97). Hale does not reject theory building, butfor him and many other activist scholars, theory must emergefrom action, born of political commitment and collabora-tion. More recently, Michal Osterweil has challenged thisopposition and the implied distinction between theory andaction. Osterweil contends that quotidian activism entailsdeveloping new understandings of the world and imagin-ing alternatives—precisely the kind of critical theoreticalwork that more dichotomous approaches would confine tothe arena of scholarship. From this perspective, critique andcomplexity do not oppose or paralyze action, they make itpossible by opening new ways of thinking and therefore ofacting in the world. “Reorienting our notions of what actionis,” says Osterweil, “enriches both our understanding of therole of the epistemic as a material terrain of struggle as well

AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGIST, Vol. 116, No. 4, pp. 839–849, ISSN 0002-7294, online ISSN 1548-1433. C© 2014 by the American Anthropological

Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/aman.12155

as the epistemic practices we might employ in opening upour own forms of political engagement” (2013:612).

These debates help us to think about the ways in whichanthropological research can remake the world through en-gaged political action. Both Hale and Osterweil seek toadvance an activist anthropology that contributes to socialtransformation even as it affects the material conditions ofanthropological knowledge production. These authors rec-ognize that the work of activists and social movements isa form of material political praxis: Osterweil (2013:606)describes activism as “a series of material practices of analy-ses, deliberation, contemplation, and research” to whichanthropologists can contribute in unique ways. Both recog-nize the research process itself as fundamentally material,though grounded in often-unequal distributions of wealth,access, and power: Hale (2008:23) highlights “the inequitiesof university-based knowledge production” that typicallyprivilege the researcher in dictating the framework and tra-jectory of fieldwork.

However, I would add that activist anthropology alsorepresents a fundamentally different way of being physicallyin the world and of doing fieldwork, of engaging with othersin the daily work of activism and scholarship. In addition tothe forms of materiality that Hale and Osterweil emphasize,I want to call attention to the often-embodied nature of ac-tivist anthropology, which, like activism itself, may entaila profoundly material engagement of the anthropologist’sbody in the research process, which is itself transformativeof both local realities and the research itself. Like those westudy, activist anthropology requires us to lay our bodieson the line, often quite literally—blurring, if not erasing,the divisions between research and activism and muddlingthe theory–action dichotomy.2 In what follows, I examinemy own activist research through attention to my bodilyengagement protesting the deportation of undocumentedLatino immigrants in New Jersey. This experience demon-strates how ideas—in this case, about immigration, protest,and the nature of solidarity—orient action yet are also trans-formed and lived through active, embodied engagement.

LAYING IT ON THE LINESince 2011, I have been doing activist research with a work-ers’ center and immigrant rights organization in central NewJersey. My research examines the securitization of immigra-tion in the United States; it focuses specifically on immigrant

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bodies and the particular kinds of vulnerabilities to whichthese are exposed. I examine such phenomena as work ac-cidents, wage theft, and detentions and deportations as sitesin which state policy acts on immigrant bodies to man-age, control, and deploy them in ways that are productivefor capitalism without entailing investment in or rights forimmigrant workers. Bodies, I contend, are key to under-standing the work of the undocumented and their seizure,administration, and deportation. Those bodies are markedby race and disfigured by violence—of their crossing, theirwork, their abuse. Immigrant bodies fall out of trees and offroofs and ladders. They wade into the poisonous muck leftbehind by Hurricane Sandy. They get caught in machinery,maimed by power tools, twisted into positions that no bodyshould assume for the sake of picking fruit or cleaning gut-ters. The bodies of citizens typically don’t do this kind oflabor and have more defenses against random searches andarrests.

While doing ethnography I have also done activist work,usually consisting of such mundane tasks as driving injuredworkers to physical therapy and helping immigrants to initi-ate legal complaints. In December of 2013, however, I joineda group in a civil disobedience action to protest the detentionand deportation of the undocumented. We planned to getarrested and, by doing so, to publicize the injustices of thedeportation regime. My motivations for joining this actionwere complex and included both research goals (gettingarrested seemed a great way to learn about the situation)and personal beliefs (a deep anger over the impacts of de-portation and a desire to doing something about it). In myordinary consciousness, the personal and the professionalwere inseparable.

The “action,” as we called it, was planned for December10, International Human Rights Day. We were to form ahuman chain to block the vans leaving the detention centerin Elizabeth, New Jersey, a privately run facility that holdsand transports undocumented immigrants to the Newarkairport. Vans leave every day at 8:00 a.m., packed withdeportees. Our group planned to be there at 7:00 and tomake it impossible for them to pull out by blocking the streetwith our bodies.

If detention and deportation is about management ofbodies, protest against it similarly involves the deploymentof human flesh. The body itself becomes the principal tool ofresistance. In our action, the bodies of the eight protestors—four male, four female, some white, some brown, someyoung, middle-aged, and old—would intervene in the un-just politics of the contemporary United States. With onlyeight bodies to deploy, however, our strategy had to be care-fully planned and executed. How would we use our bodies?Would we sit, stand, or lie down? Someone suggested thatwe put women on the ends of the line, so that the policewould treat them with a bit more delicacy. So, our protestentailed not just bodies but gendered bodies.

The detention center is run by the Corrections Cor-poration of America, which sounds like something out of a

dystopian future. It is housed in a one-story cement buildingwith barred windows on a dead-end street next to a ShopRite warehouse and a Fedex depot, not far from the airport.The street was wider than I had expected, and on arrivingI was suddenly nervous about our ability to blockade it ef-fectively. The support crowd, numbering about 60 people,gathered and made speeches, while the eight protestors pre-pared to take action. At a predetermined signal, we thrustour hands into tubes made from PVC pipes, linked togetherinside the tubes by ropes tied to our wrists, and quickly butcalmly walked to our places in the street (see Figure 1).

Suddenly we were there. The action had begun. Al-most immediately the crowd turned from speech making tomarching and chanting. Someone beat a conga drum and ledthe chants. “Not one more!” was the principal cry, and thoseof us in line chanted it over and over.

Very quickly my hands began to tingle from lack ofblood flow. We were stretched to the limit, and the ropescut into my wrists painfully. I had my hood on over my hat,which completely cut off my peripheral vision, and with nohands to take it off I began to feel claustrophobic, unable tosee what was going on around me. After about ten minutes,someone gave the signal to sit, and we all sat, which easedthe tension on our wrists. I began to feel more relaxed. Avolunteer came by, and I asked her to remove my hood,which also helped.

Almost the minute our line formed, the threatening skyopened up with flurries of snow. The flurries quickly becamea snowstorm, and within minutes our banner, spread out onthe ground in front of our line, was covered in white. Theground was already wet from previous storms, and my buttand legs were soon soaked. The street, which had seemedquiet before we started, now was full of cars. The drivershad no choice but to idle in the street before our barrier,their headlights dramatically illuminating the scene.

After maybe 15 minutes, the first police car arrived. Itcame racing in, screeching to a stop just feet from where wesat, lights flashing, siren going. Immediately, as planned, welaid back flat on the ground. Soon more patrol cars arrived.All the cops were white men. They tried to talk with us,to reason with us, to make friends—“You know you aregoing to get arrested, don’t you?”—but we only answeredby shouting “Not one more!”

This for me was the most intense and deeply personalpart of the action. Lying on my back in the middle of thestreet, arms spread wide and totally vulnerable, with thecrowd chanting and the cops yelling, car horns honkingand red lights flashing, I drifted into a place of unexpectedserenity. Whatever doubts I had dissipated into the snowblanketing the scene, and I lay there, mouth open, catchingflakes on my tongue like a little boy. I felt gratitude forthe crowds of people around us, chanting and supportingus, their very presence and strength protecting us from realabuse by the angry police. Also, I felt love—actual love—for my companeros, who now, through our shared action,were my brothers and sisters. I stared straight up into the

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FIGURE 1. Activists lie in the snow to protest immigrant detention and deportation. (Photo courtesy of Craig Eugene Phinnegan Phipps/Casa Esperanza)

FIGURE 2. Police and firefighters work to disconnect the tubes that link the demonstrators. (Photo courtesy of Craig Eugene Phinnegan Phipps/Casa

Esperanza)

gray snowing sky and discovered that the anger and agitationof the day had slipped away, had been replaced by calmquietude. I felt like I understood the meaning of solidarity.

I also understood, for the first time in a deeply physicalway, why some people hate cops. When their attempts to befriendly and winning failed, they resorted to force. Peeringdown the opening in one of the tubes, they discerned thatwe were connected by ropes, which they then determinedto cut. Twisting my left arm horribly behind me, bendingmy right arm forward, two cops tried to locate the ropeinside the tube. One had a knife and somehow stabbed mein the palm of my hand. They managed to detach the ropearound my right wrist and then started on the left, pullingas hard as they could. My hand went completely numb andpain shot up my arm to the shoulder. Now, for the firsttime since early morning, I got scared, my previous serenity

vanishing in the terror of the moment (Figure 2). At lastthey disconnected me from the tube and pulled me to myfeet. “See, it was all for nothing,” said a cop as they marchedme off, as though the arrest were somehow evidence of ourfailure rather than the object for which we had set out inthe first place. The cops fastened my hands behind me withflexi-cuffs and led me to a paddy wagon.

At the municipal lockup, they separated us by sex. Thefour men were put into a large holding cell with a bench anda metal toilet. One of the cops, especially chatty, wanted toengage me in conversation. To my companero Roberto—ashort, brown, Ecuadorian guy—the cop said, “No offense,”and then turned to me and said, “but you don’t look like youhave a criminal record.” Roberto turned red but managed tocontrol himself. “Why would you do something like this?”the cop asked me. So, to the cops, we were not just bodies

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but racialized bodies. I paraphrased Thoreau: sometimes,I said, when the government does things that are unjust,the citizen has to stand up and object. He seemed baffled.We were led away to be photographed and fingerprinted,biometrically entered into the state’s records, and locked insmaller cells to await our fate.

When at last the cell doors slid open, we collected ourbagged personal items and headed out to the lobby, whereabout 15 of our friends and comrades were waiting to greetus. They cheered and applauded, hugging us and thankingus.

A month later, with representation by a pro bono at-torney, we pleaded to a reduced charge—violation of amunicipal ordinance, technically listed as “loitering”—andafter paying a $50 fine plus court costs, we were ex-cused. The violation will not appear on our permanentrecords.

CONCLUSIONOsterweil urges anthropologists to move “beyond an intel-lectual recognition of the political nature of the relationshipbetween knowledge and action . . . to a more thorough andpractical understanding of the ways in which critical intel-lectual and theoretical work . . . are themselves materialand potentially politically powerful practices” (2013:599).To me, this entails a recognition of the embodied natureof political action, of activist anthropology as a form of po-litical action, and of the anthropologist himself or herselfas an engaged political actor. My participation in the aptlynamed “action” on International Human Rights Day forcedthis awareness upon me: it is difficult to quibble about theontologies of epistemic knowledge when an angry New Jer-sey cop is kneeling on your back and twisting your armin unnatural directions. This observation is important forunderstanding activist anthropology not just as an intellec-tual standpoint but, as Hale states, as a method: as activistsand anthropologists, we become physically engaged in theprocesses we study, motivated by forces that defy purelyintellectual assessment, and in the process we, our research,and those around us are transformed. As an activist, I cameto understand political action as embodied practice and ex-perienced in the flesh the feeling of collective effervescencethat Durkheimian social science long ago accepted as given.The meaning of solidarity—an emotional yet deeply politi-cal form of embodied knowledge and sociality—was driven

home to me while lying in the snow, chained to my comradesin struggle.

At the workers’ center a few days after the action, Isaw my friend Carlos, who had participated with me in theprotest in Elizabeth. He smiled at me with a new kind ofrecognition and gave me a big hug. “Never have I seen acollege professor do what you did,” he told me, smiling andlaughing. I felt proud but corrected him. “Maybe,” I said,“you just don’t know enough anthropologists.”

NOTES1. There is a broad and diverse spectrum of positions on this issue,

far too many to review in a short essay. Low and Merry (2010)provide an excellent summary of this now-extensive body ofliterature. See also my review in Goldstein (2012).

2. Here I build on work in the anthropology of the body, focusingon the body of the anthropologist itself. Again, space limits mefrom providing a review of this literature, but see Mascia-Lees(2011).

REFERENCES CITEDGoldstein, Daniel M.

2012 Outlawed: Between Security and Rights in a Bolivian City.The Cultures and Practice of Violence series. Durham: DukeUniversity Press.

Hale, Charles R.2006 Activist Research v. Cultural Critique: Indigenous Land

Rights and the Contradictions of Politically Engaged Anthro-pology. Cultural Anthropology 21(1):96–120.

2008 Introduction. In Engaging Contradictions: Theory, Politics,and Methods of Activist Scholarship. Charles R. Hale, ed. Pp.1–28. Global, Area, and International Archive series. Berke-ley: University of California Press.

Low, Setha M., and Sally Engle Merry2010 Engaged Anthropology: Diversity and Dilemmas—An In-

troduction to Supplement 2. Current Anthropology 51(Sup-plement 2):S203–S226.

Mascia-Lees, Frances E., ed.2011 A Companion to the Anthropology of the Body and Em-

bodiment. Blackwell Companions to Anthropology. London:Wiley-Blackwell.

Osterweil, Michal2013 Rethinking Public Anthropology through Epistemic Politics

and Theoretical Practice. Cultural Anthropology 28(4):598–620.

Public Anthropology 843

Public Archaeology in the National Park Service: A BriefOverview and Case StudyLinda F. Stine

University of North Carolina Greensboro, Anthropology Department

Roy S. Stine

University of North Carolina Greensboro, Geography Department

Archaeologists are integral in National Park Service (NPS)culture. Some archaeologists “wear the hat” and the author-itative uniform symbolizing the park service, yet non–parkservice archaeologists can work at the parks with researchpermits under the Archaeological Resource Protection Actof 1979 (ARPA permits [Neumann et al. 2010]) or with acultural resource contract award. Both endeavors provideinformation to help individual parks meet their managementand interpretative goals. An added benefit for these archae-ologists is working at some of the country’s most beautiful,always intriguing, and often endangered archaeological sites.NPS cultural resources range from southwestern pueblos toRevolutionary battlefields, urban historic sites, and coastallighthouses. Most national parks contain spaces and placeswith varied, large, and vocal constituencies, including ar-chaeologists. To promote, regulate, conserve, preserve, andcertify public enjoyment—these ideas reverberate a cen-tury after the park service’s founding and are detailed inits national strategies (Everhart 1983; NPS 2011). A briefreview of NPS history and of some of its leaders illustrateshow archaeologists influenced this often-romanticized pub-lic organization. An example of how interdisciplinary ar-chaeological research works at a national park follows thatdiscussion.

THE FORMATIVE YEARSThe first archaeological preserve was created in 1892 byPresident Harrison to protect Casa Grande pueblo ruins(Archaeological Institute of America 2006). In 1906, TeddyRoosevelt signed into law an act supported by the fledglingAmerican Anthropological Association. The Antiquities Actunderlined congressional support for setting aside lands forscience and preservation in the public’s interest and guidedthe creation of national monuments while protecting archae-ological sites and natural areas (Archaeological Institute ofAmerica 2006; Barrie 1998; Everhart 1983; Waldbauer andHutt 2006; Wirth 1980:42–43).

In 1916 Congress passed the Organic Act, which formedthe fledgling NPS. In part it was created to stop the lootingand destruction of sites, mainly southwestern pueblos,and six park properties were protected primarily for theircultural resources (Archaeological Institute of America2006; Barrie 1998; Everhart 1983; NPS 2014b; Rettie1995:47). The NPS was to be a regulatory federal agency

overseeing U.S. monuments, national parks, and tribalreservations, whose mission would be “to conserve thescenery and the natural and historic objects and thewild life therein . . . as will leave them unimpairedfor the enjoyment of future generations” (NPS 2011:front flyleaf).

The first park service director was philanthropist andbusinessman Stephen T. Mather, and he was assisted byHorace Albright (Everhart 1983; NPS 2014b). These twoenergetic men dominated the early decades of the NPS,setting its tone of self-sacrifice and service to the NPS(Wirth 1980). Both were adroit at garnering support inWashington and from varied scientists and national scientificassociations. Upon one early visit to Mesa Verde NationalPark, Albright was appalled at the site conditions, the roads,and frankly the quality of the park director who knew nothingof archaeology (Albright and Cahn 1985). He determinedthen that only specialists would work at and manage appro-priate sites, that the resources would be protected, and thatvisitors would be able to visit the parks safely (Albright andCahn 1985).

Jesse Nusbaum, who first worked at Mesa Verde archae-ological site under the direction of A. V. Kidder in 1907, wasan archaeologist, photographer, and materials specialist. Hedirected stabilization projects at Pecos and Mesa Verde. By1921 he replaced the “political hire” as the new director atMesa Verde (McManamon 2009; NPS 2014a: 1). Except forthe war years, Nusbaum held two alternating or combinedroles working for the NPS and the New Mexico Museum inSanta Fe, serving as the NPS official “departmental consultingarchaeologist” (DCA), a position and term created in 1927and in current use in Washington, D.C., headquarters. Inthat capacity, Nusbaum developed the permitting process forthe Antiquities Act, especially pertaining to the Southwest(McManamon 1990; McManamon 2009; NPS 2014a:2). Ar-tifacts could not be removed without a permit from oneof three regulating agencies—Interior, Agriculture, andWar—and then only for scientific purposes (King 2008;Waldbauer and Hutt 2006).

Polly Kaufman (2006) claims that the demand for a peri-patetic and often-rugged lifestyle was used as an excuse to ex-clude hiring women, yet many NPS wives served as volunteerguides or were themselves archaeologists (Lister 1997).Specific parks had their own policies: Morristown NationalHistorical Park hired women interpreters, historians, andarchaeologists as early as the 1930s (Kaufman 2006:123).Jean McWhirt Pinkley was employed by the NPS upon her1936 graduation from the University of Arizona. Mary AnnLevine (1994:34–35) writes that McWhirt Pinkley was

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promoted at Mesa Verde from museum assistant to headof interpretation, after which she led significant researchat Pecos Pueblo. Her contributions ranged from prag-matic considerations of archaeological reconstruction andpreservation materials to the archaeological investigation ofdomestication and pueblo and mission life.

The Historic Sites Act of 1935 added all historic prop-erties (prehistoric and historic) under federal control ofthe service, greatly expanding NPS’s jurisdiction, while atthe same time created the National Landmarks program(Barrie 1998; Carnett 1991; King 2008; Neumann et al.2010). After World War II, NPS director Conrad Wirth re-alized park visitation was up while the quality of facilities wasdown, in line with decreased congressional allocations. Heasked Congress for a ten-year commitment to refurbishing,rebuilding, and revitalizing the NPS. This “Mission 66,” hon-oring the park service’s golden anniversary, led directly tothe hiring of more managers, rangers, and scientists, includ-ing archaeologists, and to improved maintenance of archae-ological sites (Wirth 1980). Writer and naturalist FreemanTilden answered the NPS’s call to improve stagnant inter-pretive programs, sharing his six principles of interpretation(Tilden 2007:34–35).

GROWING NPS RESPONSIBILITIESIn 1966, the National Historic Sites Act (NHPA) was en-acted. This expanded the duties of the NPS to include cre-ation of a National Register of Historic Sites, the AdvisoryCouncil on Historic Preservation, and other cooperative andadministrative duties leading to the promulgation of numer-ous additions to the code of federal regulations (“CFRs”), plusspecial publications such as the National Register bulletin se-ries (Birnbaum 1994; Carnett 1991; King 2008; Neumannet al. 2010). This all-important act states that the “historicaland cultural foundations of the nation should be preserved asa living part of our community life and development in orderto give a sense of orientation” to U.S. citizens (National His-toric Preservation Act Section 1(b)(2); see Advisory Councilon Historic Preservation 2009). As such, it directs the NPSto construct a scaffold of cultural resource rules and con-sulting relationships with tribal, state, county, and otherpreservation groups.

The full definition of the expanded service’s terres-trial and marine authority is stated in Public Law 91–383(Wirth 1980). The addition of cultural resource manage-ment (CRM) duties pertaining to the parks, all federallands, and projects requiring federal permitting or fund-ing has greatly increased the scope of archaeology in theDepartment of the Interior (McManamon 1996). The chiefarchaeologist’s role is to advise the Department of the In-terior director on archaeological matters and to overseethe NPS’s diverse park and CRM archaeology programs.The structural relationship between parks and cultural re-source branches is occasionally adjusted (Everhart 1983:34;King et al. 1977:67; Wirth 1980:41). Over time, archae-

ologists’ duties grew with passage of additional laws re-lated to, for instance, environmental review (National En-vironmental Protection Act of 1970), protection of ar-chaeological resources on federal lands (Archaeological Re-source Protection Act of 1979; Executive Order 11593,signed May 13, 1971), and repatriation of sacred remainsto North American tribes (Native American Graves Pro-tection and Repatriation Act of 1990; see Carnett 1991;King 2008; King et al. 1977; NPS 2014b, 2014c; Neumannet al. 2010; Sprinkle 2011).

Today’s NPS archaeologists work in diverse roles,designing guidelines, interpreting cultural resource laws,and managing cultural resource programs; in curating,advocating, and advising regional centers such as theSoutheastern Archaeological Center (SEAC); and inactual parks and national landmarks (Birnbaum 1994;King 2008; McManamon 1996; NPS 2013). (For example,approximately 46 archaeologists at various achieve-ment levels staff SEAC, covering curation, NAGPRA,ARPA compliance, outreach, and research activities[NPS 2013]).

With increased park archaeology, the justification forthe park’s archaeologists has not been well articulated to thepublic, suggesting a need for improved outreach and publicsupport. The national parks have lost at least 62 propertiesdue to vandalism, erosion, neglect (lack of action or funds),and state-level political actions (Rettie 1995:244–249). DirkSpennemann (2011) sees a growing lack of interest in her-itage as one culprit in that “we have failed to express . . .that the past has relevance to the present . . . in a continuallychanging world (Spennemann 2011:7, emphasis in original).David Lowenthal (2005) views the notion of stewardship“for all time” as a hard sell to modern consumers of objectswith built-in obsolescence. The NPS’s current strategy plansto garner increased public support for park stewardship byexpanding the diversity of their park types and their inter-pretative programs (including archaeology) by bringing inurban residents through special programs and by increasingthe diversity of their “green corps” (Albright and Cahn 1985;NPS 2011).

These plans depend in part on funding, and theNPS circumvents funding cuts or delays by partneringwith universities and research institutes either in officialcooperative park study units or in loose affiliation (UnitedStates Committee on Improving the Science and Tech-nology Programs of the National Park Service, NationalResearch Council 1992). Outreach efforts illustrate thatthe hands-on excitement of archaeology draws a crowd,especially if research questions are made relevant to visitors(Shackel and Chambers 2004). Archaeologists know thatcommunity engagement means more than letting thepublic get their hands dirty. Through listening to questionsand sharing knowledge, individuals find areas of mutualinterest (Reeves 2004) and new levels of inquiry can beopened, even at a national park focusing on a single military

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event. This was the case during the partnership betweenthe University of North Carolina Greensboro, GuilfordCourthouse National Military Park, and the Guilford Court-house Battleground Company (the park support group,the GBC).

GUILFORD COURTHOUSE NATIONAL MILITARYPARK (GUCO)Interdisciplinary researchers at the University of NorthCarolina Greensboro (UNCG) partnered with the park’ssuperintendent to seek a NPS internal grant to applyremote sensing and archaeological techniques to locatepotential below-ground remains, including those indicatingthe location of the Guilford county courthouse. Thiscourthouse (and surrounding farmlands) was the site ofa Revolutionary War battle on March 15, 1781, and waslater the first national military park established by the NPS.It is located in the northern part of Greensboro, NorthCarolina, a city named after the revolutionary generalwho organized the resistance to the British, NathanielGreene.

To initiate the remote sensing and archaeologicalresearch, UNCG contributed monies through researchgrants and the use of equipment and facilities, funding partof the work with a field school. The park’s avocationalsupport group, the Guilford Battleground Company (GBC),matched the NPS dollar for dollar in the grant. To proceed,the UNCG researchers proposed a research agenda to bothGUCO staff and the regional archaeological NPS archae-ologists (SEAC) for approval. With some adjustments,UNCG’s principle investigator (P.I.) archaeologist receivedthe ARPA permit to proceed.

The mutual research goals were to find physical re-mains indicating the location of key actions taking placeduring the 18th-century Battle of Guilford Courthouse, es-pecially along the third and final major battle line (Stineet al. 2013). For some time, archaeologists, geographers,and historians have debated the location of the third line ofengagement and the courthouse (Babits and Howard 2009;Cornelison et al. 2007; Hatch 1970; Stine et al. 2013).Soldiers left harrowing accounts of the action, describingclashes in woodlands, fields, roads, and while crossing de-clivities. Guilford Courthouse, standing on a rise near anintersection, was a landscape reference point but had beenshoddily constructed and was eventually abandoned for anew courthouse in Greensboro, leaving little evidence of itslocation. Although the U.S. forces under General Greeneultimately lost the engagement, Cornwallis’s British troopswere left hungry and hurt and were forced to head southeastfor rest and supplies (Babits and Howard 2009; Cornelisonet al. 2007; Hatch 1970; Stine et al. 2013).

The two UNCG investigators sought to narrow thesearch area for significant features through use of interdis-ciplinary methods. Wielding remote sensing tools prior to

archaeological testing allows scholars to improve their judg-mental selection of excavation areas, a tactic pioneered inpart and strongly supported by the NPS (Geier et al. 2011;McCoy and Ladefoged 2009; National Center for Preser-vation Technology and Training 2013). Primary landscapefeatures were the location of Guilford Courthouse, the in-tersection of New Garden and the Retreat roads, and thedistribution of artifacts and rubble (Stine et al. 2013). UNCGresearchers reconciled, when feasible, their results with pre-vious projects by NPS SEAC archaeologists, plus a bicenten-nial effort by UNC–Chapel Hill contractors and a later shortstudy by William and Mary excavators (Coe and Ward 1974;Cornelison et al. 2007; Hatch 1970:56; Monroe 2004; Stineet al. 2013).

The remote sensing survey was undertaken using botha Bartington dual flux gradiometer (covering 4,605 squaremeters) and a ground penetrating radar (GPR model GSSISIR3000 with 400 MHz antenna; 2,714 square meters) toseek evidence for below-ground physical remains. Remotesensors recorded more than 120 anomalies. After examin-ing mapped results, the archaeologist and her field schoolstudents excavated six 2 × 2 meter units, one 4 × .5 metertrench, and 11 .5 × .5 meter shovel tests. A regional metaldetecting club aided the effort by systematically searching20 × 20 meter gridded squares adjacent to the main site andby sharing their extensive knowledge of military artifacts.UNCG students (Figure 3) were paired with the hobbyistswho taught students how to handle the machines, and in turnstudents taught the hobbyists systematic recording methods(Stine et al. 2013).

Close to 9,000 artifacts and discovered landscapefeatures (structures, possible roads, and pits) were recordedduring the UNCG project. Using remote sensing equipmentgreatly aided in those efforts and also helped to minimizethe damage caused by excavation, as less was needed. Theseresults intrigued daily public visitors, students, researchers,and park personnel. A wide range of interested personsrobustly debated possible historic, Revolutionary-erascenarios that had played across this significant nationalpark landscape. These discussions revealed common andcontrasting viewpoints between management personnel,including regional National Park Service (NPS) archaeol-ogists, research scholars, and advocates from outside NPSculture. In the subsequent final report, UNCG scholarshighlighted internal NPS, Babits and Howard’s (2009), andCoe and Ward’s (1974) varied viewpoints and prioritiesand centered on resolving them.

The GUCO project occurred in an urbanized, highlyvisited park used by the local public more for jogging thanfor learning about history, much to the dismay of staff.UNCG principal investigators were initially surprised at thelevel of visitation at the excavations and questions aboutthe remote sensing equipment from joggers, dog walkers,and some history buffs. Certain areas had to be roped off attimes so visitors’ cell phones would not affect the equipment

846 American Anthropologist • Vol. 116, No. 4 • December 2014

FIGURE 3. Metal detecting in the Guilford Courthouse National Military Park. (ARPA Permit GUCO 2011–001; courtesy National Park Service GUCO)

signals. Some visitors understood, others were amused, andone was appalled by a NPS sign stating “Science in Progress,”remarking “archaeology is history, not science!” The workfostered enough interest for local newspaper and televisioncoverage. The principal investigators were not encouragedto speak to reporters without going through channels, andindeed GUCO appointed a spokesperson for the durationof the investigations. However, from day 1 of the project,several well-known historians and archaeologists who hadlearned of the study showed up to see what UNCG uncov-ered. They proffered sound advice, although their presencewas a bit daunting for those used to working at isolatedprivate archaeological sites.

GUCO is on the National Register of Historic Places be-cause of the Revolutionary War. To interpret cultural assetsat the park, the NPS and GBC sought artifacts dating from

the war years, particularly military items. The reality is thatartifact manufacturing dates often spanned before, during,and after the revolution. People also held on to items be-yond their production date range. This led to some intriguingdiscussions about which artifacts could be classified as “rev-olutionary era” or not—or, in the case of lead shot or balls,military or citizen owned. Other items from the projectevoked interest in life “after the battle.” Guilford Courthousevillage residents were changed by war, as was the landscape,paralleling transformations in other war-torn Revolutionaryvillages. The UNCG work also aided park interpretationfor visitors and staff through reminders of the early ante-bellum town, Martinville, a planned village of GovernorMartin’s that encompassed the old courthouse and otherbattle-related features. The town faded after a new countycenter, Greensboro, was chosen in 1807 (Stine et al. 2013).

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FIGURE 4. Remote Sensing at GUCO, “Archeology Family Day.” (Courtesy of the National Park Service, GUCO)

GBC members visited the site and expected periodicupdates, lectures, and eventually creation of an archaeolog-ical exhibit depicting the work, including materials fromMartinville. They also worked with UNCG and the NPSto promote a public outreach day (Figure 4). In 2011, therevolutionary village as well as the postwar town remainspiqued the interest of many visitors, battleground mem-bers included. Between exposed features (possible road,walls, pits, and artifacts) and visualizing possible structuresthrough remote sensing, individuals could sense the pastlandscape. This helped NPS personnel, UNCG investiga-tors, battleground company sponsors, and visitors to discussfuture research questions and possible locations for futurefieldwork.

The careful excavation and survey techniques, alongwith remote sensing, illustrated that combined geophysicaland archaeology programs disturb fewer cultural resources,are educational, and can excite a new and diverse genera-tion with hands-on and visualization experiences. The 2011project conformed to the goals of the NPS at GUCO andSEAC and to the mission of the GBC. Incorporating a fieldschool, working with metal-detecting volunteers, holding afamily field day, and answering daily visitors’ questions en-

hanced education, understanding of archaeology, and knowl-edge about the park’s purpose and the historic events it com-memorates. The “After the Battle” exhibit was well receivedin the community and used to teach K–12 students and otherGUCO visitors. The importance of understanding the land-scape change over time, including the antebellum overlay ofMartinville on the battlefield, has been underlined throughUNCG’s work.

CONCLUDING REMARKSArchaeology has been sifted into the mission of the NPSin a number of ways, emerging from a somewhat-rockypast of mere preservation of cultural sites from looting anddestruction to the GUCO-quality work that leaves less ofa footprint on the landscape while appealing to the park, tothose deeply engaged in the park’s interpretive materials,and the general public. The work conducted by UNCGarchaeologists and geographers illustrates the importantrole that uncovering material remains can play in research,education, and community outreach. What began as aninquiry into the location of a ramshackle courthouse and abattle line became, eventually, a community event.

848 American Anthropologist • Vol. 116, No. 4 • December 2014

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