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Archaeology Is Anthropology

Susan D. Gillespie, University of FloridaRosemary A. Joyce, University of California, Berkeley

Deborah L. Nichols, Dartmouth College

Archaeology is anthropology? A difficulty that arisesfrom parsing this declaration is the polyvalencies

of both "archaeology" and "anthropology," as well asthe multiple possibilities for constructing a relation-ship among them. Most often this phrase has connotedthe meaning of archaeology as a subfiekl or specialty,one part of the multi-subfield discipline of anthropol-ogy. A related construal therefore derives more simplyfrom the resulting institutional arrangement: manyarchaeologists are housed in anthropology departmentsand hold advanced degrees in anthropology. However,the relationship has also historically been treated asarchaeology trying to be something it cannot or shouldnot be, another discipline with different objectives andmethods or, if not another discipline entirely, archaeol-ogy in a wholly dependent and inferior relationship withanthropology. Finally, there is an ideal of anthropologyas a field of study whose practitioners address ques-tions that touch on all aspects of humankind—culturaland biological, social and material, past and present—and thus must incorporate archaeology as an integralcomponent.

This last was the original vision of anthropology,perhaps always more a "worldview" than an operatingparadigm (Givens and Skomal 1993:1), and it is becom-ing increasingly unrealized, if, in fact, it ever existed(e.g., Borofsky 2002). Many who argue that archaeol-ogy is anthropology do so from this idealized positionand ask why we cannot work together on these "bigquestions" of human experience that are so crucial tounderstanding and ameliorating current conditions andparticipate in bringing about a better collective future.In contrast, those who argue for autonomy primarilyadvocate an institutional change affecting academicinfrastructures, so that archaeology can become a self-contained university department. They do not generallyfavor steering American archaeology away from its tra-ditional research foci, which are grounded within anthro-pology; indeed, some seem to argue that such autonomy

is necessary because the discipline of anthropology hasitself moved away from its founding principles, particu-larly the importance of recognizing the entirety of hu-man diversity, cross-cultural generalizations, long-termprocesses, and the role of materiality.

British archaeologist Chris Gosden (1999:2) said ofPhillips's famous declaration, "Not to define archaeol-ogy in its own terms appears intellectually lazy, badacademic politics and lacking in disciplinary self-confi-dence." But, he went on to note, on the contrary, it is nota question of giving up one's disciplinary identity oradmitting to some inferiority but of acknowledging thewider intellectual field of which archaeology is a part(Gosden 1999:2). Another way to interpret this statementis to recognize that anthropology is as completely exem-plified by archaeology as it is by any of the other sub-fields. In this sense, archaeology is anthropology as apeer of other subdisciplines. This was the perspective ofthe 1950s archaeology within which Phillips made hisstatement (e.g., Phillips 1955; Strong 1952; Taylor 1983[1948]; Willey and Phillips 1958), although too often inthe context of having to explain this point to unsympa-thetic or unconvinced colleagues.

Taking this view, we can look at the question side-ways and ask: What kind of anthropology is archaeol-ogy? We do not have to fall back upon the historicalroots of New World anthropology for an answer. Thathistory aside, archaeology is precisely the kind of an-thropology called for by contemporary social theory.Archaeology is an anthropology concerned with historyand the material world, both on a grand scale and in itsstudy of the way that individual practices are transformedinto structure (so that what we see archaeologically ispatterned, not chaotic). It is an anthropology intimatelyengaged with issues that matter in contemporary settings,such as the realization of identities at multiple scalesand the possibilities for integrating academic study andapplications with policy and practice (e.g., Meskell2002). In this sense, archaeology is a model for other

156 Susan D. Gillespie, Rosemary A. Joyce, and Deborah L. Nichols

branches of anthropology—a site where specific disci-plinary concerns become visible to the public and whereanthropologists can speak to the public about how tothink about culture, society, and their continuities anddisjunctions.

In the first part of this chapter we respond to theintellectual and practical factors raised in the Introduc-tion (Chapter 1) as arguments for the separation of ar-chaeology from anthropology, summarizing key pointsmade by the contributors. These views are supplementedwith additional perspectives as we attempt to assess—inthe conscious role of anthropologists—the larger issuesof institutional settings, societal imperatives, factionalconflicts, history, values, discourse, and action. We con-clude with a glimpse into our potential futures and askfor a greater commitment from archaeologists and otheranthropologists to work together to address these long-standing, complex, and critical concerns.

Intellectual Factors

The Historical Argument

The argument that archaeology became part of an-thropology only for historical reasons specific to theAmericas—and thus we should not remain bound to-gether simply for this reason—is often repeated, butit ignores several key facts. The first is that the linksbetween archaeology and anthropology were also oncestrong in British anthropology as well (Gosden 1999);the "uniqueness" of New World archaeology's histori-cal relationship to anthropology has too often been over-emphasized. Moreover, some British archaeologists haveexplicitly called for greater dialogue and cooperationbetween archaeology and anthropology to overcomethe absence in the United Kingdom of an institutionalacademic structure that places both fields in the samedepartment (e.g., Gosden 1999; Spriggs 1977; see alsoBritish social anthropologist lngold's [1992] remarksas editor of Man on the unity of archaeology, physicalanthropology, and social anthropology; see Fox, this vol-ume). According to Gosden (1999:8), "In Britain thereis currently a closeness between archaeology and anthro-pology which has not been seen since the later nineteenthcentury when the two disciplines were one, within anoverall evolutionary framework....In North America, byand large, the opposite has happened, especially as faras prehistoric archaeology is concerned." In other words,the chasm that now seems to loom large separating ar-chaeology from anthropology is as much a product ofour history as the closeness that we once felt (correctlyor not) to exist.

Second, Americanist anthropology ceased to be con-strained by the Boasian project quite some time ago, priorto the growth of most separate, four-field anthropologydepartments (e.g., Patterson 1999:163). Early archaeolo-gists and ethnographers divided their joint investigationsinto the culture history of non-Western societies betweenthose of the present and those of the past (e.g., Dixon1913:558; Steward 1942:341), creating a division of la-bor thereby (Gosden 1999:205). One of the products ofthese explorations, and the one perhaps most valued bythe public, has been culture historical knowledge. By theearly 1960s, however, ethnographers had mostly aban-doned historical reconstructions to functionalism, lead-ing Elman Service (1964:365) to note that archaeologistsalone would have to continue this important work. Al-though they could no longer obtain ethnographic infor-mation from their colleagues down the hall, they "couldgo to the library" (Service 1964:365). But already by thattime, Gordon Willey and Philip Phillips (1958) and theircontemporaries had broken with Boasian culture history,turning toward generalizations and evolutionary concerns(Gosden 1999:4). They sought to expand the scope ofarchaeological problems and issues from mere typologyas "history" to the examination of patterns, regularities,and evolutionary questions on a global scale (see alsoStrong 1952:321; Taylor 1983 [1948]). And LewisBinford (1962) had already published his call for a func-tional, anthropological archaeology in his "Archaeologyas Anthropology."

"History" has been a cornerstone of the on-again,off-again, relationship between archaeology and ethnog-raphy. When British archaeologist Grahame Clark(1957:25) declared that the aim of archaeology is to com-prehend "history in its broader evolutionary con-notation...which comprehends the whole story ofmankind in society," he was using the term history syn-onymously with anthropology as used by some Ameri-can archaeologists of that time, such as William DuncanStrong (1952:320) in his definition of anthropology as"the study of man and culture in time and space" (seealso Taylor 1983 [1948]:28). That is, the ultimate goalsof the archaeology-as-history and archaeology-as-anthro-pology adherents were not actually dissimilar. However,American anthropologists pursued a narrow view of "his-tory" as particularizing or ideographic, in opposition togeneralizing and nomothetic "science"—read "anthro-pology" (e.g., Kluckhohn 1940; Steward 1949; Taylor1983 [1948]). It was the presumed science-history di-chotomy, "a question that has vexed philosophers eversince the emergence of anthropology as a field of study,"that Phillips (1955:247) was addressing in his assertion

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that archaeology should consider itself as anthropologyrather than as the alternative, history, with "its ultimatepurpose [being] the discovery of regularities that are ina sense spaceless and timeless" (Phillips 1955:247). Henevertheless recognized that anthropology was "a hybrid-ization of science and history" (Phillips 1955:247), stand-ing with one foot in the sciences and one in history(Kroeber 1935:569; see also Terrell, this volume).

In explicitly declaring that archaeology should beanthropology, archaeologists of the mid-twentieth cen-tury therefore were not simply falling back on a muchearlier tradition of culture history's alignment of ethnog-raphy with archaeology; on the contrary, they were re-jecting it. But in the process archaeology moved in aparticular direction, one that would reinforce schismswithin archaeology itself and ultimately between archae-ology and the rest of anthropology in the United States—but not in the United Kingdom (Trigger 1989:316). Adichotomy between history and science is inevitably false(Trigger 1989:373), a construal that misrepresents bothby restricting them to extremely narrow semantic andexplanatory fields and one that, for example, disallowsthe existence of historical sciences (e.g., Dunnell 1982;Green 2000).

Despite a disciplinary history in which "science"once superceded "history," today many archaeologistsare now actively seeking to integrate history and archae-ology (e.g., Boyd et al. 2000) to attain a more holisticperspective of archaeology as "the anthropology of long-term history" (Green 2000:127, emphasis added); it isalso the contribution of the "long term" that cultural an-thropologist Thomas Barfield emphasizes in his chapterin this volume. Contemporary archaeological approachesto the past and to history have become fundamentallyanthropological (contra Leach 1977:167), advanced byour conscious awareness, as anthropologists, of how ourcontemporary Western attitudes and understandings biasour constructions of the past (e.g., Knapp 1996). Sig-nificantly, rather than being satisfied with documentingsequences of events, archaeologists (and not just thosetrained within anthropology) have tried to create newways to think about how different aspects of social ex-istence would have affected individuals and groups, con-straining some developments while enabling others (e.g.,Trigger 1991). It would be ironic indeed if, at the verymoment that archaeologists from more "historical" tra-ditions in other parts of the world are employing suchanthropological archaeological themes as the household(Allison 1999), archaeologists brought up in this tradi-tion—one that legitimizes such social issues—were toabandon it.

For their part, many contemporary sociocultural an-thropologists are utilizing historical data and employinghistorical approaches in their research (see Hill, this vol-ume), to the point that Maurice Bloch (2001:293) recentlydeclared "the old distinction between anthropology andhistory has by now completely disappeared." Historicalarchaeology is also contributing a great deal to this jointenterprise (Majewski, this volume). Again, given thesedevelopments it is ironic that some archaeologists con-tinue to argue for archaeology to separate itself fromanthropology because archaeology elsewhere is alliedinstead with the discipline of history. The "historical"argument for why American archaeology should leaveanthropology—as if this association reflects nothing morethan an adherence to an obsolete disciplinary legacy—does not correspond with the increasingly commonusage of anthropological perspectives by nonanthro-pologically trained archaeologists or of historical per-spectives by sociocultural anthropologists.

The Methodological Argument

Methodology has never been sufficient as a base foran academic discipline. Walter Taylor (1983 [1948]:44)famously declared that archaeology was an "autonomousdiscipline [that] consists of a method and a set of spe-cialized techniques for the gathering or 'production' ofcultural information." He went on to say, however, thatfor the interpretation of those data, the archaeologist must"become" something else—preferably an anthropologist.Barfield (this volume) reiterates this point when he statesthat an anthropological "archaeology is not primarily thestudy of excavated material remains, but the study ofhuman beings in the past by means of this material."

The methods, techniques, and equipment used byarchaeological researchers—drawn from cultural stud-ies and art history at one end of the spectrum and phys-ics and chemistry at the other—are significant only inthe service of specific research questions, and these comeout of the history of disciplinary debates concerning whatconstitutes explanation in a particular field of study (seeArmelagos, this volume). For example, the sheer dataobtained from chemical analysis of the skeletal remainsof a Classic Maya noblewoman serve very different endsif they are viewed as historical evidence of the life of anorganism or if they are part of a complex exploration ofvariation in human diet between classes or genders,within an elite group, or across a region. Furthermore,our sister subfields also share many of their specificmethods and techniques with other disciplines, includ-ing participant-observation, language elicitation, and

158 Susan D. Gillespie, Rosemary A. Joyce, and Deborah L. Nichols

molecular analysis of bone. They, too, must cope withthe same tensions as do archaeologists concerning wheretheir disciplinary identities and objectives are best served.This is not a problem unique to archaeology.

In asserting that our methodologies sufficientlyrender us distinct disciplines, this argument also pre-sumes that there is little methodological sharing acrossthe subfields, a presumption that is refuted by suchintradisciplinary endeavors as ethnoarchaeology andbioarchaeology. For example, the critical use of ethno-graphic analogy in archaeological interpretations has longbeen highlighted as an area where more communicationbetween archaeologists and ethnographers is needed, notless: "There has been such a strict division of labor be-tween archaeology and ethnology that undoubtedly eachhas been handicapped in many respects by isolation fromthe other" (Service 1964:364). It may more often seemto be the case that archaeologists are chided for their ig-norance of ethnology and ethnography (Barfield, Terrell,this volume); Edmund Leach's (1973, 1977) caustic re-marks to this effect were said to have "set back relationsbetween the disciplines considerably" (Gosden 1999:7).But by the same token archaeologists are rightfully waryof naive projections of ethnographic descriptions ontoarchaeological materials (e.g., Binford 1981; Deetz1972:114; Groube 1977:87; Renfrew 1978:94; Wobst1978; see Terrell, this volume).

If only archaeologists and sociocultural anthropolo-gists were more familiar with one another's methods,materials, and objectives, there could be much more pro-ductive and useful exchanges of information (which seemto be more frequent with our bioanthropological col-leagues). Commitment to shared goals should "witnessan end to a kind of intellectual apartheid that has charac-terized anthropology for so long" (Deetz 1988:22). Un-fortunately, the reality is that use of different methodsof analysis accounts for some of the incomprehension ofarchaeological work by sociocultural anthropologists inparticular, which is repeatedly cited as a source of ten-sion and as a spur to separation. As noted in the intro-ductory chapter, increasing specialization has definitelydiminished our ability to communicate across the disci-pline. It points to a need for archaeologists to educatecolleagues about the way methods unique to our field-work situation should be viewed and judged, and itrequires good faith efforts by non-archaeology anthro-pologists to accept that these involve as much subtletyand sophistication as participant-observation. There arereal differences in subdisciplinary culture that seem tobe differentially depreciated in such dismissive charac-terizations of archaeology as "stones and bones" or as

"data-poor" (the latter characterization ignoring the factthat archaeologists typically require large facilities tostore their "data"!).

Archaeologists have probably done a better job ofkeeping alive a sense of the actual work of ethnography,perhaps because the field has treated ethnography as thedefining practice for even the subaltern archaeologists.In that respect, it seems much more likely that archae-ologists will speak the language of sociocultural anthro-pology than the reverse. But here it should be admittedthat archaeologists may contribute to intradisciplinarytension by their own wariness about new ethnographicsites and subjects. Yet other diverse disciplines, notablypsychology (with its fundamental divide between clini-cal and experimental approaches), have been able to reacha position that accepts methodological diversity as astrength. Anthropology, especially reflexive anthropol-ogy, should be able to achieve as much (see Terrell, thisvolume), but it more often has the opposite effect.

The point to be made here is that the "holism" ofanthropology as characterized by the integration of dif-ferent subfields—each most significantly differentiatedby specific methods—was also once hailed as its strength,but it is now considered a fundamental problem and arationale for dispersal. Interestingly, arguments havebeen made that once separate departments of archaeol-ogy are created, the "potential for easy communicationwith anthropologists, classicists, art historians, and fac-ulty of other departments and programs will continue toexist. Indeed, it has been suggested that the ease of com-munication might even be enhanced, especially wheredisagreements about curriculum and programmatic aimshave developed into bitter professional hostilities"(Wiseman 2001:12).

In light of this last argument it is helpful to under-stand some of the rationale for the founding of the twobest known Departments of Archaeology—at CalgaryUniversity and Boston University—by Richard MacNeishand James Wiseman, respectively. Both men were moti-vated in part as a result of negative experiences they suf-fered as graduate students at the University of Chicagoin the 1940s and 1950s. At that time MacNeish andWiseman were strongly discouraged from taking coursesoutside of their respective departments (Anthropologyand Classics), a prohibition that they rightly viewed asdetrimental to their training as archaeologists; their de-partments expected them to become, respectively, ananthropologist and a classicist. The impact of this expe-rience was apparently instrumental in their later designsof academic departments where archaeologists couldmore legitimately obtain the methodological skills and

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knowledge needed for archaeological practice, insteadof, in MacNeish's words, being "forced to take coursesin linguistics, phonemics, and other useless subjects suchas Radcliffe-Brown's theory of kinship, all of which wererammed down my throat, none of which connected withanything I was interested in, and I wasn't at all sure thatany of that stuff was true" (in Ferrie 2001:719; seeWiseman 1983).

But we must ask, first, given this specific argumentfor why we need our own departments, whether the samesituation restricting graduate students from taking coursesin related fields applies today. It is still a problem in someuniversities (mentioned by Majewski, this volume), yetmany graduate departments actually require their studentsto pursue minors or take cognate courses from other de-partments. Second, if the major problem we are experi-encing now is our inability or unwillingness to talk tocolleagues within our own department, how is it goingto be any easier to talk to them when they are no longerin our department—when we do not constantly interactwith them on graduate and department committees or inplanning curricula (e.g., Lees 2002)?

The Theoretical Argument

For many archaeologists, whether archaeologyshould continue a relationship with anthropology hasdepended ultimately on the argument stated so succinctlyby Phillips (1955) that archaeologists should utilize an-thropological theory. If archaeologists and other anthro-pologists no longer share theoretical perspectives thatframe common research goals or bedrock concepts suchas "culture" (e.g., Flannery 1982; Watson 1995), thenthe rationale for being identified as members of the samediscipline disappears. We seem to be facing such a turn-ing point. A version of the science-history dichotomy isstill with us, rewritten as the older science-humanismpolarity (Anderson, Barfield, Clark, this volume) or moreoften now as science-antiscience (Clark, this volume).However, the tables have turned, and it is archaeologistswho are more often on the side of science against socio-cultural anthropology, as Geoffrey Clark (this volume)observes. This polarization has greatly impacted anthro-pology, but, as Barfield (this volume) notes, it is bio-logical anthropology that has most notably cleaved off(or in some cases has been cleaved off), most often tojoin existing biology or anatomy departments, so perhapstheir departure has not gained the attention that the moveto create new departments of archaeology has garnered.

Furthermore, this polarization has impacted theother social and human sciences, in that it is embed-

ded in the postmodern turn (Barfield, Clark, this vol-ume; Knapp 1996). Some archaeologists have arguedvociferously in favor of "archaeology as science" asa reason for archaeology to abandon an increasinglynonscience-oriented anthropology (e.g., Binford, inWiseman 2001:11) or at the very least to save archaeol-ogy from the fragmentation that other disciplines are ex-periencing (Clark, this volume). This stance dismayssimilarly autonomy-minded archaeologists trained in thehumanities, with whom they presumably would share asingle Department of Archaeology (e.g., Wiseman2001:11). Other archaeologists, however, take the po-sition that "a holistic knowledge of what has happenedto specific groups in the past is a matter of great hu-manistic as well as scientific interest" (Trigger1989:376). As Earle and Armelagos (this volume)observe, the postprocessual or antiprocessual critiquesprovide important correctives even to such overtly sci-entific fields as bioarchaeology. Clark (this volume), whoargues for a scientific archaeology, nevertheless openshis chapter with his own biases and discusses theemotive aspects of anthropology—how it touches onthe human psyche.

As noted in various chapters, the research of socio-cultural anthropologists engaged with hermeneutics, phe-nomenology, alterity, hegemony, discourse, and the likehas greatly diverged from the focus of the dominantprocessual archaeology. This was not a uniform split,however, and strong reciprocal relationships betweenarchaeology and sociocultural anthropology have con-tinued in some areas, as in economic anthropology (Earle,this volume), and emerged in others, such as the socialconstruction of landscape, ethnicity, colonialism, andgender (Majewski, this volume). Furthermore, while itmay be accurate to characterize contemporary sociocul-tural anthropology as largely nonmaterialist, anti-positivist, and antievolutionary—recognizing that notableexceptions exist in leading departments—it is surelyimpossible to include archaeological diversity in a singlematerialist, positivist, and evolutionist definition. Infact, attempts to do so would not only greatly limitarchaeology's potential (Anderson, this volume) butwould also contribute to further archaeological fragmen-tation (Graves 1994). It is therefore important to notethat the oft-mentioned division of Stanford's Anthropol-ogy Department into a Department of AnthropologicalSciences and a Department of Cultural and Social An-thropology did not separate the subfields; there arearchaeologists, sociocultural anthropologists, and lin-guistic anthropologists in both daughter departments (seeBarfield, this volume).

160 Susan D. Gillespie, Rosemary A. Joyce, and Deborah L Nichols

Timothy Earle (this volume), who favors a science-like archaeology, considers that the postmodern critiquein anthropology and archaeology has proven valuable, ifcontentious, and the appropriate response is not to aban-don anthropology; rather, archaeologists should see them-selves as central to the discipline. Archaeology is notonly essential to the comparative and historical perspec-tives that help define anthropology's distinctiveness,it is the only avenue to the study of the greatest di-versity of human cultural expressions, most of whichexisted only in the past. Anthropologists from the othersubfields—sociocultural (Barfield), biological (Arme-lagos), and linguistic (Hill)—echo this theme in theircontributions. All three argue for a stronger mutual rela-tionship between archaeology and their respective sub-disciplines.

Barfield reiterates how sociocultural anthropologyis a rich source of ethnographic description, theory, andmodel building for archaeologists, providing a nuancedexample from his and others' work among Afghan no-madic pastoralists. At the same time, both he and Hillpoint out that archaeology provides sociocultural an-thropology with the necessary time depth for expla-nations of change (see also Ortner 2001), which areessential to understanding not only the past but alsothe present.

This last point is well illustrated by George Arme-lagos (this volume), who shows how bioarchaeology andan evolutionary perspective contribute to understandingtwo major contemporary health issues: malnutrition anddisease. In succinctly making the case for the impor-tance of socioeconomic factors in human evolutionarydevelopment relating to diet, Armelagos provides an im-portant lesson: the "backward-looking" perspective oflong-term archaeology within a broad anthropologicalperspective provides a powerful tool for understandingthe present and future of human populations, "Us" aswell as the "Other."

John Terrell's chapter posits sociocultural anthro-pology and archaeology as "two sides of the same coin"—convergent rather than complementary disciplines. Heuses the example of how the "Lapita Cultural Complex"of Oceania has been interpreted by archaeologists—asboth an archaeological and a historical phenomenon—to highlight another key point of Phillips's (1955) origi-nal argument for archaeology as anthropology. Phillipsnoted that the work of archaeologists and ethnographerscan converge when they employ the same "intelligibleunits of comparative study"; yet, this remains a stum-bling block, as archaeologists are too often naive whenthey make ethnographic-like interpretations. Terrell re-

minds us of the obvious: "the past is (or was) a foreignplace." Testing ethnographic and historical analogiesremains an important method to counter the dangers of"commonsense" assertions unfortunately typical in ar-chaeology that risk ignoring how different the past mighthave been (see also Barfield, this volume).

The value of time depth for anthropology as a com-parative discipline is not measured on an absolute scalebut encompasses the more recent historical past, includ-ing industrial and postcolonial societies. Historical ar-chaeology has undergone significant change in the latetwentieth century, and its complementary use of histori-cal and other material records offers much to anthropol-ogy broadly, especially as sociocultural anthropologydevelops a more sophisticated approach to history. Notonly can historical archaeologists contribute to teachinghistory and historical methods in anthropology curricula,but also, as Teresita Majewski observes in her contribu-tion, historical archaeologists are familiar with puttinghistoric particulars within a regional or global system.The recent focus on colonialism, the expansion of capi-talism, and postcolonial societies in historical archaeol-ogy resonates with current interests in socioculturalanthropology. Given this congruence, it is troubling toMajewski that her graduate students "rarely connect theirbackground in general anthropology to their current in-terests." She argues that the potential of anthropologistsengaged with history in the different subdisciplines can-not be realized unless programs in anthropology trainstudents to be anthropologists first.

In all these ways archaeology makes contributionsto anthropological theory and knowledge, and this pointshould not be lost. Throughout much of our disciplinaryhistory, ethnology was the driving force; archaeologymerely reacted to whatever ethnographers were doing(Flannery 1967:119) and often only after a noticeablelag, whether it was compiling trait lists, assessing func-tion, measuring ecological variables, interpreting symbols,or evaluating agency. Theory in sociocultural anthropol-ogy is still believed to represent "anthropological" or"ethnological" theory, so if their theories diverge too farfrom our archaeological concerns, then the feeling is thatperhaps we should head for the door.

But we should ask ourselves why only one of thesubfields should continue—since Phillips's (1955)time—to set the theoretical agenda for the rest of us tofollow. Biological anthropologists have not abandonedevolution; nor should archaeologists, as "Geoffrey Clarkexplains in his contribution, and they would do muchbetter by first comprehending the profound differencesbetween biological and cultural theories of evolution.

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Archaeologists who employ evolutionary perspectivesshould therefore "shed their defensive behavior and theirinferiority complex" (Flannery 1983). Kent Flannery(1982:269), in his well-known "Golden Marshalltown"lecture, disclaimed the existence of "archaeologicaltheory" in favor of "anthropological theory," but he wenton to say, "If some ethnologists want to go their separateways...well, fine, they can call themselves somethingelse, and let us be the anthropologists" (Flannery1982:277).

It is archaeologists who have consistently assertedtheir link to anthropology, always in a context of contes-tation (e.g., in chronological order: Strong 1936; Taylor1948; Meggers 1955; Phillips 1955; Binford 1962;Flannery 1982; Deetz 1988; Watson 1995). Ethnogra-phers never have had to do so, taking for granted thatthey determined the direction of the discipline (and stilldo; e.g., Borofsky [2002:471 ]), but this is the issue raisedby Flannery: why should we define ourselves in terms ofwhat they do? As Richard Fox expresses in his commen-tary, once liberated from any such pronouncements ofallegiance (and the anticipation of their rebuttal), wecould get down to actual practice, and then we woulddiscover how integrated the different subfields really are(see also Hill, this volume).

One thing we would discover is that the old divisionof labor between research into the past (archaeology) andthe present (sociocultural anthropology) is itself becom-ing a thing of the past. As noted above, ethnology hasbecome more historical, and archaeology has turned itssights to the present. Historical archaeology has becomea bridge between past and present (Majewski, this vol-ume), and Majewski also cites the study of modern ma-terial culture, for example, Rathje's well-known GarbageProject, part of a trend that has actually blossomed morein the United Kingdom than in the United States (seeHill, Fox, this volume). Armelagos (this volume) detailsthe need to understand current health and nutritional sta-tuses as the product of long-term processes that began inthe past, and the same is being recognized in analyses ofcontemporary environmental problems (Anderson, thisvolume; van der Leeuw and Redman 2002).

There is still a negative balance between the use ofarchaeological knowledge by sociocultural anthropolo-gists and the use of ethnological theory and ethnographicanalogy by archaeologists, a reality noted by Barfieldand Terrell (this volume) and reiterated in the variouschapters that highlight Kirch and Sahlins's (1992)Anahulu as an exemplary study integrating archaeology,ethnography, and ethnohistory—exemplary in part be-cause it is still so exceptional. This situation has more

to say about contemporary sociocultural anthropol-ogy than about whether archaeology is, at heart, ananthropological discipline, and Hill (this volume) dis-cusses several areas where sociocultural and linguisticanthropology could benefit by paying more attention toarchaeology.

Contributing to anthropological theory (e.g., Binford1962) therefore does not require us to limit ourselves tothe theories employed by sociocultural anthropologists{contra Gumerman 2002), whose theoretical positionsare typically far more heterogenous than archaeologistsmay believe (e.g., Haselgrove 1977:92). Archaeologicaltheory and practice are also extraordinarily diverse, butare especially engaged in issues of long-term processes,cross-cultural comparisons, and the intersection of thesocial with the material world, as many of this volume'sauthors have observed (see also Hodder 2001). Thesemajor topics may not be central concerns in much currentsociocultural anthropology (Earle, Barfield, Hill, thisvolume), but that does not make them any less anthropo-logical. And there is nothing to stop archaeologists fromusing theories and perspectives drawn from other fieldsand utilizing them to frame anthropological researchquestions. For example, Gumerman (2002; also Gum-erman and Phillips 1978) contends that because broadpatterns of human behavior are also being investigatedby other fields, such as evolutionary biology, archaeolo-gists have been unnecessarily constrained by being partof the discipline of anthropology. However, van derLeeuw and Redman (2002:599) turn this argumentaround to give anthropology priority, stating that "ar-chaeology and anthropology are ideally suited tomake an invaluable contribution" to the investigationof long-term trends in human ecology and thereby "playan important role in the transformation of socio-naturalstudies" (van der Leeuw and Redman 2002:603). Theinterdisciplinarity and human-centered focus that are atthe core of anthropology are what give us an edge incontinuing to develop our discipline beyond its traditionalboundaries.

Even midlevel archaeological theory (e.g., site for-mation processes) can be seen as contributing thereforeto a diverse body of anthropological theory, althoughthere may be a need to consider balance in theorizinghere as well. Indeed, one of the leaders in the devel-opment of independent archaeological theory, MichaelSchiffer (2000:5), now believes that that process hasgone too far and archaeology is better off buildingbridges in social theory. In all of these endeavors, an-thropological archaeology can be a leader, rather than afollower. It can help the discipline to develop new lines

162 Susan D. Gillespie, Rosemary A. Joyce, and Deborah L. Nichols

of inquiry and to tackle issues of more immediate andpractical concern.

In sum, if the intellectual product that archaeologyseeks to provide is a systematic understanding of pastsocieties, then it is a social science (Deetz 1972; Trigger1989:19), albeit one that incorporates humanistic endeav-ors as well. Within the social and historical sciences, onlyanthropology opens itself to embrace the broadest spanof human experience, from remote antiquity to thepresent. And an anthropology that seeks explanationsinvolving "processes unfolding, intertwining, spreadingout, and dissipating over time," to quote the late EricWolf (1990:590), perforce needs archaeology, an archae-ology that is fundamentally anthropological. Understand-ing change and the cultural diversity that results fromchange is central to anthropology (Hill, this volume).Archaeologists are therefore "true anthropologists, theanthropologists who provide the time depth for humanexistence" (Barfield, this volume).

That this huge enterprise we call anthropology re-quires an intradisciplinary theoretical and methodologi-cal diversity that at times threatens to explode shouldnot be surprising. But resolving the discord that stemsfrom the inherent vastness of anthropology with a nar-rowed focus—separating into groups that independentlypursue one kind of explanation, one kind of methodol-ogy, or one kind of research question—is a solution thatsimply does not advance either archaeology or the restof anthropology.

Practical Factors

As profound as our substantive intellectual differ-ences may appear, they can sometimes seem far moremanageable than the more immediate practical and in-stitutional factors that are also driving a wedge betweenarchaeologists and fellow anthropologists. It remains toconsider how to surmount these difficulties.

Educational and Institutional Structures

Despite the presumed impending implosion of an-thropology, a four-field introductory course in anthro-pology is still not uncommon in the United States, andmany of us teach survey courses that introduce basicanthropological concepts that span the subfields. It maywell be that the holistic approach to anthropology is bet-ter represented in undergraduate than graduate curricula,although core courses that span the subfields are not un-usual even in the latter, but these efforts are often under-mined by the marginalization of undergraduate teaching

in some U.S. graduate departments. Ironically, anthro-pologists at community colleges and small liberal artscolleges may have greater freedom to engage the breadthof anthropology than do their more specialized counter-parts in large universities. Rather than view this situa-tion as one of an intellectual disjuncture in the state ofanthropology between research and teaching institutions,we suggest instead that smaller colleges may providemore exemplary models for intradisciplinary communi-cation and the building of a sense of "community" (fol-lowing Doelle, this volume) within the entire discipline(see below).

Indeed, far from creating divisions {contra Wiseman2001:12), teaching provides another arena where archae-ology and sociocultural anthropology have more in com-mon with one another than is frequently presumed. AsSusan Gillespie explains in her contribution, sociocul-tural anthropology is experiencing a significant ex-pansion in its practicing or applied dimension, just likearchaeology. In fact, some sociocultural anthropologistsare looking to the experience of archaeologists in publicpolicy, professional accreditation, and similar areas as amodel for the integration of academic and "real-world"training and practice, in the same way that archaeolo-gists can take lessons from their applied anthropologycolleagues (Doelle, this volume). Across the subdisci-plines at both the undergraduate and graduate levels,more in-depth discussion of the practice and ethics ofanthropology is needed. In their chapters, Anderson andGillespie challenge all anthropologists involved in edu-cation to act on their collective responsibility for thecurriculum, and Majewski, representing historical archae-ology, also extols the value of anthropological training.

Despite this potential for cross-subfield fertilizationand communication, however, it often seems that aca-demic structures are exacerbating other forces of frag-mentation, well out of proportion to their importance incomparison with substantive, theoretical, methodologi-cal, and pedagogical factors (Anderson, Majewski, thisvolume). Graduate students and faculty are recruited andgraduated or tenured according to criteria that more of-ten follow subfield rather than department-wide guide-lines, and it becomes increasingly difficult for thosewhose research interests crosscut the subfields to find aplace. Transactionalist anthropology would explain thissituation much like the operation of ethnicity—our co-presence in the same contexts foments an emphasis onthe construction of difference, obscuring "what we sharein common, which is too often taken for granted. But bythe same token, "there has been a subtle process of mu-tual definition over the last century or more" between

Archaeology Is Anthropology 163

archaeology and sociocultural anthropology, as each hasindelibly shaped the other (Gosden 1999:9-10).

Barfield and Hill (this volume) mince no words incharacterizing the segmentary factionalism that arises outof department demographics in which sociocultural an-thropologists are usually in the majority and have toooften come to use this fact to their own narrow subfieldadvantage, losing sight of the longer-term consequenceson the department and the discipline (because of theirpresentist and self-oriented tendencies, according toBarfield). Archaeologists who face the material effectsof marginalization within their own department on a near-daily basis will be more likely to question the feasibilityof the status quo. They do not necessarily want to getout of anthropology—that is, deny the benefit of theirown anthropological educations or cease to conduct an-thropologically influenced research—they mostly justwant to get out of anthropology departments.

One might conclude that conflictual departmentalpower politics and the interpersonal tensions that resultfrom them are simply being masked by an ideology thatcouches our differences in loftier terms of theoretical andmethodological divides. In our opinion, these factorsshould not drive the development of the field and areinsufficient justification to warrant reorganization of anentire discipline across the country. And as Barfield ob-served, new departments of archaeology would containthe seeds for their own segmentary factionalism. He notesthat a more common solution has been the creation ofsemiautonomous subfield-specific wings within depart-ments, which may alleviate some of the interpersonalproblems while still allowing for cooperation and shar-ing within the anthropological umbrella. Such a struc-ture should also be more flexible in accommodating theinevitable changes to our discipline. Wings can createwalls or they can serve merely as administrative conve-niences—it is up to the faculty who construct them todecide which.

Archaeology in Practice

The impact of the rapid growth of nonacademic or"practicing" (public, applied) archaeology—often over-abbreviated under the rubric of cultural resource man-agement—on both archaeology and anthropology as awhole cannot be downplayed. It introduced schismsamong archaeologists and within archaeology depart-ments (especially in the past, when most CRM work wasdone under university auspices) that remain with us to-day (see Clark, Anderson, Doelle, this volume). The po-larities do not fall simply along an academic/nonacademic

or theory/practice divide, however. Even within CRMarchaeology the feeling has been expressed that tkreal"archaeology has somehow been hijacked by a larger so-cietal move that values instead historic preservation (e.g.,Moore 2001). As Gillespie notes (this volume), the de-sire to better train archaeology students for nonacademicprofessions has introduced tensions within departmentsregarding curricular issues, to the point where a few (butnot the majority) archaeologists have used this factor topromote separate departments of archaeology.

However, seeing such curricular reform as a largelymethodological or business issue implies that CRM ar-chaeology has little to contribute to broad theoreticalunderstandings of the human past, a view against whichDavid Anderson and William Doelle (this volume)provide specific counterarguments. Indeed, the Anthro-pology Department at the University of Georgia, a de-partment that emphasizes ecological and environmentalanthropology, has taken the position that "the distinc-tion between basic and applied research and develop-ment should be abandoned" (http://anthro.dac.uga.edu/grad). Both academic and CRM archaeologists work inmultiple communities and must comply with federal,state, and tribal regulations (Doelle, Ferguson, this vol-ume). Clark (this volume) expresses the opinion ofmany academic archaeologists that the growing im-pact of nonacademic archaeology creates tensions thatare fostering fragmentation, but altogether these chap-ters argue that the relationship between academic andCRM archaeology need not be adversarial but should becomplementary.

Furthermore, the value of anthropological archaeol-ogy to the nonacademic side of the profession has notgone unnoticed by its practitioners, despite the claimsby some that archaeology students would be betteroff if trained in a department devoted to archaeology.Anderson, of the National Park Service, provides ahighly personal account of the value of anthropology toCRM archaeology based on his own biography. His un-abashedly proanthropology position is tempered by thesecond half of his chapter, which challenges the disci-pline of anthropology itself to reclaim its center and totackle the complex global issues of environmental changeand human welfare. These are issues to which archaeol-ogy can make direct contributions (see also van derLeeuw and Redman 2002). The utility of the range ofknowledge represented by the breadth of anthropologi-cal training in CRM is further echoed by Doelle, whotalks about the concept of community and the multiplecommunities of an archaeologist working in the privatesector. His chapter and those by Rosemary Joyce and T. J.

164 Susan D. Gillespie, Rosemary A. Joyce, and Deborah L. Nichols

Ferguson provide additional examples of the need forarchaeologists to be attentive to multiple voices.

The intersection of academic and public interests inarchaeology appears most prominently in museum andsite interpretation settings. Joyce draws on her experi-ence as a museum curator and administrator to arguefor the necessity for museum-based archaeologists tobe anthropologists in the broadest sense. The fact thatmuseums serve to interpret curated objects for diverseaudiences requires that museum archaeologists under-stand how various persons or groups may construct iden-tities and linkages among themselves via these objects,which are often seen as the material connection betweenthe present and the past. Training in anthropology is fun-damental to the ability to interact with the multiple stake-holders of the past.

Ferguson more specifically considers settings wherethe findings of archaeology are important to descendantcommunities. The relationship between such groups andarchaeologists (and other anthropologists) is uneasy;for some American Indians, archaeologists are little dif-ferent from pothunters. Other Native Americans, asFerguson discusses, have called for archaeologists to usetheir science to address contemporary needs and issuesof Indian communities. Ferguson refers to this as "recip-rocal archaeology," an archaeology based on a scientificapproach to research and work products that are broadlyanthropological and that consider the interests of NativeAmerican tribes and communities.

Ferguson's examples from Hopi and Zuni showhow a reciprocal archaeology can work in understand-ing traditional cultural places and cultural affiliation byincorporating an integrative anthropology and a scien-tific archaeology. His model addresses some of the con-cerns raised by Clark about the future of a science-likearchaeology given the growth of CRM in the privatesector and the current sociopolitics of archaeology. Un-fortunately, the Hopi and Zuni Tribes' relationship witharchaeology and archaeologists as described by Fergusonis more the exception than the rule. This situation maychange, however, as more tribes develop their own ar-chaeology programs and more Native Americans becomeinvolved in archaeology. Indeed, the increased practiceof archaeology by indigenous peoples worldwide maycontribute to a greater integration of archaeology andanthropology (e.g., Schmidt and Patterson 1996), andthese peoples are playing an active role in reconfiguringdisciplinary agendas.

In other words, there are solutions to all of the mani-fold problems that have been raised in this regard, whichrequire our diligence and effort to resolve them but which

will not be improved by the separation of archaeologyfrom anthropology. Instead, the practice of archaeologyitself would suffer from such a move.

Professional Affiliations

It is important to recognize that the open debate foror against autonomy is being conducted virtually exclu-sively among archaeologists. This is why the 2000 sym-posium "Archaeology Is Anthropology" was presentedat the Society for American Archaeology meeting; thefuture of archaeology is most obviously in the hands ofprofessional archaeologists. Moreover, this volume'smost immediate audience is the members of the Arche-ology Division of the American Anthropological Asso-ciation, archaeologists who are ostensibly most willingto visibly identify themselves with or as anthropologists.AD members have also committed themselves to work-ing within the larger association in which they are a mi-nority and in recent years have seen their efforts rewardedby increasing numbers of archaeological articles inAmerican Anthropologist, more archaeologists in AAAoffices and committees, and a continuing growth in ADmembership, especially among students.

However, it would be wrong to conclude from thisthat there is a division in this debate that conforms to themembership of our professional societies (see Chapter1), with the AAA-AD membership more likely to advo-cate continued affiliation with anthropology and the SAAmembership more likely to desire autonomy. After all,the current SAA president, Robert Kelly, has gone onrecord in support of maintaining archaeology within an-thropology departments (Kelly 2002a, 2002b); he hasalso served as an AAA-AD officer (and see the similaropinion expressed for the status of physical anthropol-ogy by Larsen [2002]). In addition, the archaeologist whohas most vigorously advocated autonomy over the years,James Wiseman (1980a, 1980b, 1983, 1998,2001,2002),founder of Boston University's Department of Archae-ology, is a Classical archaeologist, not among the "sci-entist" types whom Smith (2001) suggests compose theadvocates for separation (see Chapter 1).

As Clark (this volume) observes, the fact that somany archaeologists in this country were trained in an-thropology departments provides a powerful factor—because it is often emotive—in the reluctance of somearchaeologists to give up on anthropology. But it is there-fore also the case that the majority of archaeologists whoprefer to establish separate archaeology departments weretrained as anthropologists. It is unlikely that they intendthereby to abandon the anthropological aspects of their

Archaeology Is Anthropology 165

research and practice, which for many of us has becomeso backgrounded that we may give it little conscious at-tention. On the other hand, if they succeed, then futuregenerations of archaeologists may not be so fortunate.As imagined by Hill (this volume) and expressed byGosden (1999:9): "Archaeology would not be impossiblein the absence of anthropology, but it would be so radi-cally reconfigured that it is impossible to know what itwould look like. Slightly more surprisingly, the conversewould also be true." On the latter thought, Earle (thisvolume) is more explicit, stating, "anthropology with-out archaeology would be impoverished."

Furthermore, it is primarily academic archaeolo-gists who are calling for a "divorce" from anthropol-ogy and who will ultimately decide which directions totake, and their decisions will impact the training of fu-ture archaeologists for both academic and, increasingly,nonacademic jobs. Certainly the rest of academic anthro-pology (and deans and provosts as well) needs to be-come engaged in the discussion, but it will involve mostimmediately the academy-affiliated archaeologists. Ameaningful dialogue within archaeology and across thesubdisciplines is long overdue.

The Anthropology of Anthropology

More is at stake here than a metaphysical discussionof why and how archaeology should be a part of anthro-pology, and vice versa. We are more broadly tacklingthe unsettling issue of the state and future of anthropol-ogy departments in this country. Like those who arguefor "archaeology as archaeology," we agree that a "peace-ful coexistence model"—in which all the subdisciplinescontinue to live together as if residents of the same board-inghouse but do not actually interact—cannot continueto serve as the basis for our discipline.

In his commentary, Richard Fox challenges us torethink our penchant to overuse pronouncements, espe-cially the "or it is nothing" that is tacked onto declara-tions of what archaeology or anthropology should or mustbe. The research questions that face us today cannot beaddressed by subdisciplinary loyalties or by an oath ofallegiance to a four-, five-, or six-field anthropology. Formany anthropologists, this is what anthropological "ho-lism" represents—the mere co-presence of different sub-fields in departments or in "four-field" journals likeAmerican Anthropologist (Borofsky 2002). But a trulyholistic anthropology is inclusive and integrates schol-arship across the subdisciplines. Indeed, if a fundamen-tal value of an anthropological background is the abilityto work within diverse "communities" and to communi-

cate among groups and individuals with varying per-spectives and worldviews, as explicitly argued here byDoelle, Ferguson, and Joyce, then it should not be sodifficult for anthropologists representing the various sub-disciplines to maintain their own "community" withindepartments, across the academic/nonacademic divide,and across the profession as a whole. Anthropologistsneed to become better anthropologists within their owncommunities.

Instead of seeing holism and the methodological andtheoretical specialization that it entails as a problem, oras represented only by the presence of multiple subfieldsin a single department, a number of archaeologists andother anthropologists realize that holism is still the keyto anthropology's identity and its future when it is un-derstood as dealing with all of human experience (e.g.,Kelly 2002b: 13), with broad themes, issues, and inter-ests that crosscut the subdisciplines (e.g., Borofsky 2002).As expressed by Patty Jo Watson, a leading archaeolo-gist, in her Distinguished Lecture to the AAA-AD,"Anthropology is still the only human science all abouthumankind" (Watson 1995:690). It is best equipped todeal with the "big questions" raised also by Earle andClark—Where do we come from? Where are we going?—and by Anderson and Armelagos in more specific for-mulations—compelling global issues of racism, warfareand genocide, identity politics, environmental degrada-tion, climate change, population growth, poverty, nutri-tion and health, technological change, and landscapemodification. These are among the major problems weare having to cope with in the present, but they also ex-isted in the past. Our methodological and interpersonaldifferences are therefore of small import when we real-ize the potential for all the anthropological subfields totackle common research objectives, the "big questions"that require multifaceted approaches that only anthro-pology is geared to deal with (e.g., Gosden 1999:205;Haselgrove 1977:92; Kelly 2002b: 14; Lees 2002:11).

As for the future of multifield departments of anthro-pology, their days may well be numbered as an outdatedparadigm for which many of us maintain an emotionalattachment (Clark, this volume; Givens and Skomal1993) but one that (our anthropological training tells us)will eventually succumb to evolutionary changes in aca-demic structures and relationships. This prophecy wasalready made some years ago by Watson (1995:690),who, while regretting its likely realization, neverthelessproclaimed,

I cannot get too worked up over the disintegration pre-diction. Anthropologists have been worrying about thisfor at least 40 years.... In spite of episodic skeptical cri-

166 Susan D. Gillespie, Rosemary A. Joyce, and Deborah L. Nichols

ses within anthropology, and a chronic agoraphobiaabout where our center is and where our boundariesare, anthropology is still here...an undisciplined disci-pline, an unruly semi-aggregate, but one with researchmethods and research results of enormous global im-portance and great intrinsic interest.

Even if archaeologists do split off from anthropol-ogy departments, the fact remains that "[anthropologicalthought is infused into all strands of archaeology"(Gosden 1999:9), and there will always be anthropologyeven in autonomous archaeology departments. Indeed,given that archaeology has always seemed the most in-tegrative and holistic of all the subfields of anthropol-ogy (Kelly 2002b: 13), one can just as easily imaginedepartments of archaeology as the future of anthropol-ogy itself once all the subfields part their ways, becauseof its focus on integrating past and present, sciences andhumanities, social processes and their material correlates,nature and culture—the big questions of who we are,where we came from, how we got here, and where weare going. From this perspective—along with all the oth-ers that have been discussed in this volume—we can morefully understand that archaeology is anthropology.

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