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Chapter 6 “… and his wife Sally”: The Binford Legacy and Uncredited Work in Archaeology

Chapter 6 “… and his wife Sally”: The Binford Legacy and Uncredited Work in Archaeology IntroductionBinford is a name synonymous with the New Archaeology. It appears in articles, textbooks, lectures, symposia, Wikipedia pages, blog posts, and anywhere else archaeological theory is discussed. This name, however, belongs not just to one person. Though she acquired it later in life, and begrudgingly at that, Sally Rosen Binford owns the legacy of this name just as much as the man to whom she was married for a few short years. Sally once famously said, “I'm not here to cook, I'm here to dig” (Clinger 2005, 193), an oft‐repeated quote that highlights her independent spirit in the face of sexism in her discipline. However, as much as this quote embodies independence, it still allows us to feel that the marginalization and subjugation of Sally, and other archaeologists throughout the history of the field, has been somehow “resolved.” This is not the case.Before delving into Sally's fascinating life, her contributions to archaeology, and the way we can learn from her experiences, it is important to make a note regarding the goal of this chapter, my personal position as the author, and, last but not least, profanity. I am, at the time of writing, a postgraduate researcher. I was a toddler when Sally committed suicide in 1994, and in my last year of high school when ‘Lew,’ as he was known to friends and colleagues, passed away in 2011. I am also a historical and medieval archaeological scientist, with my only direct ties to either Binford being a former advisor who met both of them in New Mexico a few times. To echo Colleen Morgan, it would appear, at first glance, that I don't really have a dog in this fight (Morgan 2011). But in reality, the idea and spirit of Sally Binford has shaped my fledgling career almost more than any real‐life mentor I've had. This paper is a way for me to parse that influence while expressing my profound frustration at the fact that one of the editors of the influential 1968 book New Perspectives in Archaeology was elected to the National Academy of Sciences, had an obituary in the New York Times, and received the Society for American Archaeology's 2008 Lifetime Achievement Award, while the other is often relegated to a footnote in the life of her third husband.If the reactions to Alice Beck Kehoe's 2011 article “Lewis Binford and His Moral Majority” are any indication, there may be people upset by what I have to say in this paper. Kehoe, a pillar of the American archaeological community whose career has thus‐far spanned six decades, wrote an article (Kehoe 2011) that was described variously as “a vicious personal attack” and “deeply embarrassing for all involved” (Garrett 2011), an “emotional rant” (Smith 2011), and as a “…late life purge, desiring to get it all out before she is unable to…” (Moore 2011). What will commenters say about this chapter? My goal is neither to rant nor to attack. Instead, I wish to recognize that Sally Binford is an important figure in the development of American archaeology and use her experiences to highlight the legacy of murky influences, uncredited work, and open secrets that plague the discipline (a theme throughout this volume). Sally's frustratingly short career holds lessons for so‐called “early career researchers” of all kinds (in this volume, see Lee et al. [2023] Chapter 2, for a related discussion of graduate training and both Jones and Carey [2023] Chapter 3, and Kirakosian [2023] Chapter 5, for a discussion of uncredited women's work).Finally, it is important to make a note regarding profanity and quotations. Sally Binford was a woman who lived life unconstrained, and out of respect for that fact, I will not be censoring any profanity in direct quotations from her. Most direct quotations found in this chapter are from an excellent book titled Our Elders: Six Bay Area Life Stories by Janet Clinger (2005). Janet interviewed Sally in 1988, about five years before she (Sally) passed away, and the transcript of her interview is an invaluable resource for anyone wishing to learn about Sally in her own words. Having such a lengthy autobiographical interview is especially important in Sally's case, where her words have so many times been forgotten, misattributed, or omitted entirely from the record.Early Life: “I was supposed to be a Jewish princess but something went wrong.”Sally Rosen (Figure 6.1) was born in 1924 in Brooklyn, New York to Morris A. Rosen and Lillian D. Rosen (United States National Archives 2012). She was a Jewish girl growing up in the 1930s and 40s, and therefore had, as she put it, “a very keen awareness of what was happening” in the world (Clinger 2005, 217). Her experiences as a Jewish woman with strong moral principles and opinions regarding the treatment of minorities would factor heavily in both her work in anthropology and her later life of activism. Sally's first foray into academia was at Vassar College; however, she left her first undergraduate program after less than a year spent in Poughkeepsie–coincidentally, a life experience I share with Sally. After spending the early 1940s working in New York, “hanging around in the Jazz scene” (Clinger 2005, 188), and taking the occasional course in social sciences, Sally learned of the Classics‐influenced general education program being developed at the University of Chicago by Robert Hutchins. She sat the entrance test, was accepted to the Bachelor of Arts program, and moved to Chicago's South Side in 1945 (Clinger 2005). The late forties to mid‐fifties were a turbulent time for Sally characterized by divorce, single‐motherhood, a second marriage, unstable work, and an unsure future. She finally emerged on the other side in 1956, when she began graduate school at the age of thirty‐two, again attending the University of Chicago (Clinger 2005).6.1FigurePhotograph of Sally Binford (middle), her then‐partner Jan, and her poodle Jake. Circa 1980s. Photo courtesy of Honey Lee Cottrell, with permission of Susie Bright.Though she had encountered sexism in various ways prior to commencing her PhD studies, it was during this time that open hostility became a constant part of Sally's academic experience. The chair of the Anthropology Department at the time was, in her words, “a misogynistic little son‐of‐a‐bitch” (Clinger 2005, 191) and his open antagonism was mirrored by others in the department—for example, her advisor pulled her aside at the beginning of her studies and warned her that there was resentment and anger towards her because of her gender, her active social life, and her “tight sweaters and makeup” (Clinger 2005, 192).Sally, then publishing as Sally R. Schanfield, had shifted her academic focus to the ‘Old World,’ and she spent the years 1956 to 1962 developing her interest in the Paleolithic Transition (Clinger 2005). It was also at this time that Sally became friends and professional colleagues with François Bordes (Clinger 2005), working on Mousterian lithics in his laboratory at Bordeaux (Kehoe 2011; Wargo 2009), and often joining him and his wife, fellow archaeologist Denise de Sonneville‐Bordes, for dinner after frustrating days of working for her misogynistic and anti‐Semitic site director at Abri Pataud (Clinger 2005; Kehoe 2011). By the summer of 1962 Sally was putting the finishing touches on her dissertation, The Middle Pleistocene of the Western and Central Sahara (Schanfield 1962), and at the same time staving off the advances of a junior faculty member in the office down the hall from her.Autonomy, Ethics, and Early Career ResearchIt is nearly impossible to disentangle the lives and work of the two Binfords, during the period from the summer of 1962 to the summer of 1969. Though they were together less than a decade, the two archaeologists would have an immense impact on the field of archaeology, driving and developing the major theoretical approaches of their time. The other Binford was seven years younger than Sally, but at the time they first met, he was a faculty member at the University of Chicago, and she was still a student there. She resisted forming a romantic relationship with him, and it wasn't until the summer of 1963, after Sally returned from another field season in France and joined Lew at his dig in southern Illinois, that they reportedly became sexually involved (Clinger 2005). Concerning the Binfords’ marriage, it is important to distinguish amongst sexual, professional, and romantic relationships, as all evidence points towards one of convenience on both sides. Lew was seeking tenure at the University of Chicago and was concerned with how their relationship would look to the administration, and so asked Sally to marry him in August of 1963 (Clinger 2005). Sally agreed, but her feelings on the marriage are best summarized by a statement to Janet Clinger (2005, 200) regarding the situation, “I know myself well enough to know that marriage is not my thing.”Their academic partnership was an incredibly productive one, but one which ultimately benefited Lew more than Sally. This phenomenon was not uncommon in some academic marriages and is discussed in Margaret W. Rossiter's 1993 article “The Matthew/Matilda Effect in Science” in which she explores the distressing trend of uneven attribution in collaborative work between men and women (Rossiter 1993). The name of this effect comes from Robert K. Merton's 1968 description of the “Matthew Effect,” the self‐perpetuating success of “high standing” scientists, over their emerging junior colleagues (Merton 1968). Rossiter places her “Matilda Effect” in conversation with Merton's “Matthew Effect” to highlight the “systematically underrecognized” work of women in academically collaborative marriages, pointing specifically to three such instances. These were the hotly debated discussions of mathematician Mileva Marić‐Einstein's contributions to Albert Einstein's Annus Mirabilis papers (Gagnon 2016), biochemists Gerty and Carol Cori's shared 1947 Nobel Prize in Medicine, and the attribution of biochemist Ruth Hubbard's early independent work to her 1967 Nobel Prize‐winning husband George Wald (Rossiter 1993). The Matilda effect is not limited to those women in academically collaborative marriages, with numerous famous examples of women in science whose work was either directly or indirectly attributed to their male colleagues. Rosalind Franklin, Lise Meitner, and Jocelyn Bell are three of the most commonly cited women whose work was misattributed in their lifetimes (Grajales Abellán 2016). In fact, Merton's concept of the “Matthew Effect” was directly based on the doctoral dissertation work of sociologist Harriet Zuckerman (1965), a fact appropriately pointed out in an unpublished Masters‐level assignment by biochemist Diana Grajales Abellán (2016). Unlike Zuckerman, however, Abellán's contribution will not go uncited in this broader discussion of the Matthew and Matilda Effects in science.The history of archaeology as a discipline is full of these “helpful wives” (Carr 2012, see also Kirakosian [2023] this volume, Chapter 5), from its very earliest days up to now. Lady Hilda Petrie, Emily Wright, and Tamar Shiloh are only three of the eighteen women profiled by Norma Dever in her biographical article, “They Also Dug! Archaeologist's Wives and their Stories” (Dever 2004). These profiles were based on both her own experiences as an “archaeologist's wife,” as well as research and interviews with women working alongside their husbands in the field of Near East Archaeology (Dever 2004). Others have highlighted the work of women archaeologists like Tessa Verney Wheeler who worked alongside her husband Mortimer and, along with Kathleen Kenyon, helped revolutionize excavation techniques (Carr 2012). Denise de Sonneville‐Bordes, discussed above as a close friend of Sally's while working in France, was a Paleolithic archaeologist and paleoanthropologist in her own right—although she apparently still had to do the mediating work of the helpful wife, with at least one account of her having to physically restrain her hot‐tempered husband at an academic event (Lenoir and Straus 2008).Even as recently as 2021 women in archaeology have been done a severe disservice through attempts at media representation. The treatment of Margaret “Peggy” (Piggott) Guido in the recent Netflix film “The Dig” (Stone 2021), based on a fictionalized account of the Sutton Hoo excavations, is especially egregious. It relegated a woman who had a decades‐long career and had already been leading fieldwork by the time she joined Phillips’ excavation, to a “bumbling,” inexperienced girl who appeared to make one of the most significant discoveries of the film by sheer luck (Bridge 2021; Stone 2021; Wragg Sykes 2021). In many of these cases the distinction between professional archaeologist and “helpful wife” appears to be dependent on who you ask. What is certain is that most of these women were involved in archaeological work for quite some time, with the notable exception of Tessa Wheeler, whose life and career were tragically cut short at age fifty‐seven (Carr 2009).Sally Binford's archaeological career, however, only lasted thirteen years–fifteen if you count the two years she spent teaching Anthropology at Goddard College. However, in this short time she was instrumental in changing the way archaeology was practiced. Even a cursory review of Lewis Binford's writing in the “Sally Period,” and comparison to his earlier and later works, highlights the degree to which her presence was a factor in Binford's theoretical developments. Lew Binford said as much in the acknowledgments section of his 1964 PhD dissertation—a project which he had, according to colleagues and Sally, been struggling to finish for quite some time (Clinger 2005).There is a large share of credit and merit attributed to the work of any man that comes as a direct result of the confidence placed in him by those he loves. In my case I am grateful to my wife Sally for actual assistance in proofreading this manuscript but, more importantly, she was directly responsible for my aspirations to a higher education. (L.R. Binford 1964, n.p. acknowledgements section)Speculation and gossip about who exactly wrote how much of Lew's early “New Archaeology” work, and even later articles like “Willow Smoke and Dog Tails” (L.R. Binford 1980), crop up in informal spaces whenever Sally's academic career is mentioned (Borck 2019; Norton 2019; Riel‐Salvatore 2010; Wren 2019). Particularly the “Willow Smoke” paper, published a decade after Sally and Lew's last collaborations, is often singled out in such discussions. This may be a function of the paper being a synthesis of ideas which began with “The Predatory Revolution: A Consideration of Evidence for a New Subsistence Level” (L.R. Binford and S.R. Binford 1966). I will say that there is no way to definitively tell who wrote what without testimony from the individuals involved, and Sally never claimed to have been the outright author of any of Lew's articles. Sally maintained that her job in their academic collaborations was to “translate what Lew wrote into English” (Clinger 2005, 201), and this fact is attested to by peers and former colleagues alike (Kehoe 2011; Kleindienst 2015; Mackie 2010; NLN 2011; O'Farrell 2019; Riel‐Salvatore 2010). His writing outside of their marriage was unsubtle and unsophisticated, and, according to Sally, the younger Binford had a “distressing tendency to ‘improve’ data” (Clinger 2005, 201), manipulating information to best fit his ideas about Paleolithic culture.A major injustice in the Binford academic legacy surrounds the infamous Bordes‐Binford debate. Though the papers leading up to Lewis Binford's 1973 chapter “Inter‐Assemblage Variability: The Mousterian and the Functional Argument” were co‐authored by both Binfords (L.R. Binford and S.R. Binford 1966, 1968), it is Lew alone who takes credit for proposing that inter‐assemblage variability is not indicative of cultural differences but of functional ones (L.R. Binford 1973). Additionally, though this post‐Sally paper was on the exact subject the Binfords collaborated on, the writing style is drastically different: full of jargon, meandering explanations, and is something to “wade through” rather than read (Riel‐Salvatore 2010). Though some authors do mention Sally's role (Holdaway 1989; Jacobs 2000; Rigaud 2012) it is primarily Lew alone who is mentioned as the originator of the Bordes‐Binford debate (Chazan 2018; Clark 2011; DiPonio 2016; Leone 2011; Meltzer 2011; Renfrew 2011; The Telegraph 2011; Turcotte 2019; Wargo 2009; Yu, Schmader, and Enloe 2015). However, it was Sally who introduced Lew to Mousterian lithics, through her connection with Bordes, and it is their joint work that refuted Bordes’ characterizations of lithic typologies. It should be their joint work that is remembered—not just that of the Binford who yelled the loudest.Sally and her husband do not quite fit into the traditional professor‐student relationship (she technically finished her PhD before he did, though he was a faculty member while she was a graduate student), and, based on Sally's own observations, it seems far more credit than Lew Binford deserves to call him a “mentor.” However, Sally's experiences navigating the treacherous waters of early career publishing remain relevant today. She was an older, twice‐divorced, bisexual, Jewish woman when she completed her PhD; all things that did not lend her the same degree of privilege that Lewis enjoyed, especially not during the 1960s. The complex interplay of relative levels of privilege, power, and authority in their relationship mirrors situations that today's early career researchers and graduate students experience, especially those belonging to marginalized communities. More honest discussion is needed regarding the ethics of academic power. How and when are questions of attribution in anthropological or archaeological collaborations addressed? How broad is the advisory “duty of care” to research students? How does archaeology as a discipline reconcile the legacy of unattributed fieldwork and research that has bolstered its growth over the past century?Other disciplines have directly addressed the questions of collaborations that have an inherently unbalanced power dynamic, such as student and professor. The American Psychological Association has a Student Guide (2006, 2015) and the International Committee of Medical Journal Editors has a page on their website detailing the importance of authorship conversations (International Committee of Medical Journal Editors 2022). Debates over who “owns” research materials, products, and intellectual property rights have arisen in various disciplines (Ahmed and Monahan 2019; Anonymous 2015; CASRAI 2006; Hedges 2015; Hundley, Teijlingen, and Simkhada 2013; McGlynn 2016; McKiernan 2012; Oberlander and Spencer 2006; Salaz 2018), with some even calling for a reduction in the importance placed on authorship order (Kiser 2018). The “first author” question in traditional archaeological publications may be solved using alphabetical order if multiple individuals actually authored the paper. However, this practice remains biased towards those archaeologists with surnames at the beginning of the English alphabet and may give the impression that an individual researcher is more prolific than that person really is. The main question remains—as interdisciplinary labs and collaborative projects become more common, how do we acknowledge participation of graduate students, lab technicians, field archaeologists, historians, chemists, molecular biologists, and others? How do we ensure that the interests of precarious early career researchers, and especially graduate students, are protected when navigating discussions of authorship and acknowledgment?All archaeologists, especially those in the position to mentor and advise undergraduate and graduate students, must consider these questions. Resources must be made available within individual Archaeology and/or Anthropology departments, as well through professional organizations like the Society for American Archaeology (SAA), the Society for Historical Archaeology (SHA), the American Anthropological Association (AAA), and the Archaeological Institute of America (AIA). Table 1 summarizes such resources provided by academic departments in the United States (n = 24), United Kingdom (n = 10), and Canada (n = 8), all of which were selected based on their offer of either a PhD in Archaeology or in Anthropology with an archaeology focus This list is, of course, not exhaustive, but does provided an overview of programs and courses offered across the US, UK and Canada from which several conclusions can be drawn. Graduate student handbooks and student guides from these programs were reviewed for content discussing publication guidance and authorship determination. Only publicly available documents were reviewed—internally circulated materials may provide more information for enrolled students but are not accessible to prospective students or colleagues.6.1TableTable 6.1 lists 24 US schools, 10 UK schools, and 8 Canadian schools. Online materials were reviewed for publicly available information discussing authorship attribution and publication guidance. Entries with an asterisk (*) contain some information about publication guidance, but none specifically targeted at authorship determination.School NameCountryPublicly Available HandbookPublication GuidanceArizona State UniversityUSAYesNoneBoston UniversityUSAYesNoneBrown UniversityUSANoNoneColumbia UniversityUSANoNoneFlorida State UniversityUSAYesNoneHarvard UniversityUSAYesNoneNew York UniversityUSANoNonePrinceton UniversityUSANoNoneStanford UniversityUSAYesYes*SUNY AlbanyUSANoNoneSUNY BinghamtonUSANoNoneSUNY BuffaloUSAYesNoneWashington UniversityUSAYesNoneYale UniversityUSAYesNoneUniversity of ArizonaUSAYesNoneUniversity of ArkansasUSAYesNoneUniversity of California BerkeleyUSAYesYes*University of California Los AngelesUSAYesNoneUniversity of ChicagoUSAYesNoneUniversity of MichiganUSAYesNoneUniversity of New MexicoUSAYesNoneUniversity of North Carolina Chapel HillUSAYesNoneUniversity of PennsylvaniaUSAYesNoneUniversity of Texas AustinUSAYesNoneOxford UniversityEnglandNoNoneCambridge UniversityEnglandNoNoneUniversity College LondonEnglandNoNoneUniversity of ManchesterEnglandNoNoneUniversity of SouthamptonEnglandNoNoneDurham UniversityEnglandNoNoneUniversity of St. AndrewsScotlandNoNoneUniversity of YorkEnglandNoNoneUniversity of ReadingEnglandNoNoneUniversity of EdinburghScotlandNoNoneUniversity of TorontoCanadaYesNoneUniversity of British ColumbiaCanadaYesNoneUniversity of AlbertaCanadaNoNone*Simon Fraser UniversityCanadaYesNoneUniversité LavalCanadaYesNoneMemorial University NewfoundlandCanadaYesNoneUniversity of CalgaryCanadaNoNoneWestern UniversityCanadaNoNoneThis review of department graduate student handbooks and guides shows that there is almost no formal guidance for archaeology graduate students in matters of co‐authorship and joint research with faculty. Twenty‐three of the forty‐two reviewed departments had publicly available graduate student handbooks or guides, but none of the UK schools publicly provided department‐specific handbooks and only four US schools and one Canadian school have done so: Stanford, SUNY Buffalo, UC Berkeley, University of Arkansas, and University of Alberta. Stanford's anthropology department graduate student handbook provided hyperlinks to general University guidance and an external third‐party website for resources on authorship (Stanford University Department of Anthropology 2019; UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology 2018). Similarly, the University of Alberta in Canada's anthropology department page provides a link to a campus‐wide resource entitled “Guidelines for Ownership of Research Materials” (Faculty of Graduate Studies and Research 2020). There is a distinct lack of targeted resources for archaeology graduate students beginning to develop their own independent projects and publications. Such targeted resources for archaeology should include advice regarding collaboration with community groups and other research participants. Proper acknowledgment and attribution of work done by tribal elders, community leaders, local government officials, volunteers, laboratory technicians, and others is essential if archaeologists want to reconcile and address our colonial and exploitative legacy (a theme covered throughout this volume but especially in Jones and Carey [2023] Chapter 3, Rippee and Scott [2023] Chapter 12, Kirakosian [2023] Chapter 5, and Marek‐Martinez and Gonzalez [2023] Chapter 4). Institutional frameworks for authorship determination and publication guidance will ideally provide a clear pathway for citing the essential work and traditional knowledge of historically marginalized research participants, especially those from Black, Indigenous and other communities of color.A similar review of professional organization found that the SAA, SHA, AAA, and AIA all have extensive resources discussing graduate programs, publishing tips, and style guides, but none have any resources for graduate students on self‐advocacy or authorship negotiation. If we want archaeologists to feel supported in all aspects of their early academic and professional careers, then it is the duty of both professional organizations and individual university departments to provide institutional frameworks that ensure students and faculty can have these types of discussions early and often. Passive advising is not a viable course of action; the onus cannot always be placed on those operating within the lowest tiers of institutional power to seek out support and resources. When all mentorship and advising is passive, graduate students and early career researchers are not being given all the tools needed to succeed in the academy. Supervisors need to outline expectations for students and for themselves, with specific attention paid to how work is divided, attributed, and published. Departments who already have such policies in place are to be commended. Creating publicly available versions of these will help normalize essential discussions. Broader university policies on joint faculty‐student research can be interpreted and applied as appropriate. Professional organizations can draw from organizations like the APA, ICMJE, and the American Sociological Association, which already have such publicly available resources (American Psychological Association 2006, 2015; American Sociological Association 2021; International Committee of Medical Journal Editors 2022).Socially Responsible Archaeology: “I have a very low tolerance for bullshit and lies.”Sally Binford was once referred to as the “class troublemaker” by the former class president at her twenty‐fifth high school reunion (Clinger 2005, 186), and, while seemingly petty and juvenile, it does capture her penchant for disruption, action, activism, and resistance. Despite her initial disappointment with her PhD dissertation subject, Sally eventually saw it as an opportunity to combat the anti‐Blackness that was running rampant in evolutionary archaeology and paleoanthropology (Clinger 2005). Sally's navigation of her identity as a Jewish woman was a recurring theme in her life, from her resistance to the Jewish Princess stereotype her parents wanted for her, to her pro‐Palestinian activism, and her assertion of her own Jewishness in the face of blatant anti‐Semitism in academia. While working at UC Santa Barbara, Sally became aware of an unspoken pact against hiring Jewish academics at the school, and in response, she reasserted her Jewish identity by adopting the publishing name Sally Rosen Binford and speaking in Yiddish at faculty meetings (Clinger 2005). These acts of personal resistance were a continuation of her previous insistence on visibly articulating her femininity in the face of sexism at the University of Chicago (Clinger 2005) and are essential to understand her scholarship and identity.Sally did not just talk‐the‐talk, she walked‐the‐walk—quite literally at times. She traveled to Alabama to participate in the Third March at Selma in March of 1965 (Clinger 2005). When asked to contribute to recruitment lists for faculty at UC Santa Barbara, she made a point to submit only highly qualified academics of color (Clinger 2005), and, in 1973 she published a call to action in the AAA's newsletter, calling for donations to the American Indian Movement's defense fund for those indicted after the events at Wounded Knee (S.R. Binford 1973). She pointed out that every anthropologist in America had “profited directly or indirectly from the state of the American Indians” and challenged the discipline to take responsibility for this through monetary support (S.R. Binford 1973b; see Beisaw [2023] this volume, Chapter 10, and Witt [2023] this volume, Chapter 9, for discussion on archaeologists as Indian advocates). When Sally settled in San Francisco in 1980, her political activism only intensified. She was on the board of Community United Against Violence (CUAV), organized in reaction to hate crimes, and worked with the Grey Panthers on housing, medical care, and social services. She became involved in Bay Area political movements like Harvey Milk's Board of Supervisors campaign and lectured extensively on sex and aging throughout her later years (Clinger 2005).Sally's lifelong legacy of activism inspires an important question: what can privileged academics and field archaeologists do to emulate this type of socially responsible archaeology? We are fortunate in our ever‐evolving discipline to have many archaeological programs and individual researchers who make vocal commitments to increasing overall diversity, research participant and descendent community involvement, and highlighting underrepresented historical and archaeological narratives. However, what are we actually doing? Many archaeologists and academics in relative positions of power have an instant answer to this, and have CVs listing impressive achievements, events they organized, and projects they worked on—all relating to quite nebulous commitments to “diversity, equality, and inclusion.” This is, on the surface, a wonderful thing (see Lee et al. [2023] this volume, Chapter 2 for a discussion of diversity initiatives). However, many of these involvements tend to follow a pattern of benefitting one's own career while appearing socially responsible, as opposed to prioritizing social responsibility irrespective of the career implications (see also the concluding discussion in Witt [2023] this volume, Chapter 9). Many archaeologists and academics who are members of marginalized groups do not have this choice. For them, expressions of personal belief are seen as inherently political and instantly codified as “activism” whether that is the intention behind such actions or not (see Jones and Carey [2023] Chapter 3; Marek‐Martinez and Gonzalez [2023], Chapter 4; and Rippee and Scott [2023] Chapter 12, all this volume). Queer archaeologists; Black, Indigenous, and/or People of Color (BIPOC) archaeologists; disabled archaeologists—the list goes on—all archaeologists who do not benefit from the institutional privileges afforded to the majority of White, heterosexual, male academics, are not given the choice. I would argue, then, that those academics and archaeologists who do get to choose to “turn off” their activism, must make the conscious effort to inject socially responsible practices into all aspects of their work. Sally Rosen Binford was an outstanding example of these types of actions—she could have simply continued to publish under her married name, making no waves, quietly existing, and protecting herself from outright harassment and violent circumstances. Instead, she went above and beyond the duties required of her, and, in the process, created an example for us all.Conclusion: “Toujours soixant‐neuf!”On January 30, 1994, at the age of sixty‐nine, Sally Rosen Binford took her own life. She had hinted of her plans to friends (Bright 2012) and sent a goodbye letter to some, explaining her choice to “check out;” not because she was depressed, but because she desired to “end things well” (Bright 2012). Even in her 1988 interview with Janet Clinger, Sally mentions being uncomfortable with the idea of her body falling apart (Clinger 2005), and this fear of frailty was a major factor in her eventual decision to end things on her own terms. In the words of her close friend Susie Bright, “she died peacefully and exactly as she had designed” (Bright 2012). This self‐determination and desire to control her own narrative was another example of Sally's rebellion against normative expectations of society. She was a bisexual Jewish woman who pursued an academic subject traditionally dominated by men, in often anti‐Semitic, homophobic, and sexist environments, and through it all, she maintained her innate desire to fight for justice and equity. Because of the nature of her prolific activism, academic career, and wildly fantastic life, there is a great deal that did not make it into this paper—after all this was a woman who used contacts in Canada to secure graduate positions for students involved in the anti‐War protests of the Vietnam era, accidentally got locked in overnight at the Caves at Lascaux with her daughter Susan (Clinger 2005), and once borrowed an air hammer from a confused Israeli contractor to blast through some particularly stubborn breccia (S.R. Binford 1966).I would hope that the arguments I have made here resonate with a wide audience, and inspire not only my fellow archaeologists, but professional organizations and academic institutions, to consider how their actions (or lack thereof) impact our field. If we want to ensure the success of graduate students and early career researchers of all backgrounds and continue to strengthen our field by inspiring increasingly complex examinations of the archaeological record, then it is the duty of archaeologists in relative positions of power to highlight, center, and support those who are not. It is also the duty of those who actively advise and mentor students to take responsibility for beginning important discussions about joint research with their students as early as possible. By normalizing these discussions, professional organizations, faculty, and university administrators will not only provide the support graduate students sorely need but learn from the mistakes of our ancestors. This work directly addresses the “hidden curriculum” of higher education: the unspoken rules and practices of academia which serve to reinforce inequity among early career researchers (Apple and King 1977; Giroux and Purpel 1983; McCrory Calarco 2020). It is an unfortunate consequence of the charisma and popularity of her third husband that Sally Binford is often overshadowed, and even forgotten, in discussions of the archaeological theories and approaches she helped develop—some undergraduate students never even hear her name in their Introduction to Archaeology courses. It is my hope that this paper has done some of the work to rectify this grave oversight, and to highlight the “better half” of the Binford legacy.AcknowledgmentsI would like to acknowledge the ongoing support of my own mentors, supervisors, and colleagues who have in some way directly suported this work or my career to this point including (but not limited to): April Beisaw, Uzma Z. Rizvi, Kisha Supernant, Stephen A. Mrozowski, David Landon, Michelle M. Alexander, and David C. Orton. I would also like to thank the organizers of the original 2019 SAA Electronic Symposium "Sins of Our Ancestors", Katie Kirakosian, April Beisaw and Dave Witt for giving me the opportunity to develop this paper into its current form. Additionally, thanks to Ryan Wheeler for all of the support with editing and organizing the submission of this special volume. Special thanks to Susie Bright who offered some excellent insights into Sally's life post‐academia, and who gave permission for the use of Honey Lee Cottrell's photograph. Finally, thank you to Sally Rosen Binford, your life, work, and memory are most certainly a blessing.References CitedAhmed, Saeed, and Neil Monahan. 2019. “A Professor Is Accused of Stealing a Student's Invention to Make Millions.” CNN, March 2, 2019, sec. Health+. Accessed March 1, 2021. https://www.cnn.com/2019/03/01/health/professor‐accused‐of‐stealing‐invention‐lawsuit‐trnd/index.html.Apple, Michael W., and Nancy R. 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Chapter 6 “… and his wife Sally”: The Binford Legacy and Uncredited Work in Archaeology

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Abstract

IntroductionBinford is a name synonymous with the New Archaeology. It appears in articles, textbooks, lectures, symposia, Wikipedia pages, blog posts, and anywhere else archaeological theory is discussed. This name, however, belongs not just to one person. Though she acquired it later in life, and begrudgingly at that, Sally Rosen Binford owns the legacy of this name just as much as the man to whom she was married for a few short years. Sally once famously said, “I'm not here to cook, I'm here to dig” (Clinger 2005, 193), an oft‐repeated quote that highlights her independent spirit in the face of sexism in her discipline. However, as much as this quote embodies independence, it still allows us to feel that the marginalization and subjugation of Sally, and other archaeologists throughout the history of the field, has been somehow “resolved.” This is not the case.Before delving into Sally's fascinating life, her contributions to archaeology, and the way we can learn from her experiences, it is important to make a note regarding the goal of this chapter, my personal position as the author, and, last but not least, profanity. I am, at the time of writing, a postgraduate researcher. I was a toddler when Sally committed suicide in 1994, and in my last year of high school when ‘Lew,’ as he was known to friends and colleagues, passed away in 2011. I am also a historical and medieval archaeological scientist, with my only direct ties to either Binford being a former advisor who met both of them in New Mexico a few times. To echo Colleen Morgan, it would appear, at first glance, that I don't really have a dog in this fight (Morgan 2011). But in reality, the idea and spirit of Sally Binford has shaped my fledgling career almost more than any real‐life mentor I've had. This paper is a way for me to parse that influence while expressing my profound frustration at the fact that one of the editors of the influential 1968 book New Perspectives in Archaeology was elected to the National Academy of Sciences, had an obituary in the New York Times, and received the Society for American Archaeology's 2008 Lifetime Achievement Award, while the other is often relegated to a footnote in the life of her third husband.If the reactions to Alice Beck Kehoe's 2011 article “Lewis Binford and His Moral Majority” are any indication, there may be people upset by what I have to say in this paper. Kehoe, a pillar of the American archaeological community whose career has thus‐far spanned six decades, wrote an article (Kehoe 2011) that was described variously as “a vicious personal attack” and “deeply embarrassing for all involved” (Garrett 2011), an “emotional rant” (Smith 2011), and as a “…late life purge, desiring to get it all out before she is unable to…” (Moore 2011). What will commenters say about this chapter? My goal is neither to rant nor to attack. Instead, I wish to recognize that Sally Binford is an important figure in the development of American archaeology and use her experiences to highlight the legacy of murky influences, uncredited work, and open secrets that plague the discipline (a theme throughout this volume). Sally's frustratingly short career holds lessons for so‐called “early career researchers” of all kinds (in this volume, see Lee et al. [2023] Chapter 2, for a related discussion of graduate training and both Jones and Carey [2023] Chapter 3, and Kirakosian [2023] Chapter 5, for a discussion of uncredited women's work).Finally, it is important to make a note regarding profanity and quotations. Sally Binford was a woman who lived life unconstrained, and out of respect for that fact, I will not be censoring any profanity in direct quotations from her. Most direct quotations found in this chapter are from an excellent book titled Our Elders: Six Bay Area Life Stories by Janet Clinger (2005). Janet interviewed Sally in 1988, about five years before she (Sally) passed away, and the transcript of her interview is an invaluable resource for anyone wishing to learn about Sally in her own words. Having such a lengthy autobiographical interview is especially important in Sally's case, where her words have so many times been forgotten, misattributed, or omitted entirely from the record.Early Life: “I was supposed to be a Jewish princess but something went wrong.”Sally Rosen (Figure 6.1) was born in 1924 in Brooklyn, New York to Morris A. Rosen and Lillian D. Rosen (United States National Archives 2012). She was a Jewish girl growing up in the 1930s and 40s, and therefore had, as she put it, “a very keen awareness of what was happening” in the world (Clinger 2005, 217). Her experiences as a Jewish woman with strong moral principles and opinions regarding the treatment of minorities would factor heavily in both her work in anthropology and her later life of activism. Sally's first foray into academia was at Vassar College; however, she left her first undergraduate program after less than a year spent in Poughkeepsie–coincidentally, a life experience I share with Sally. After spending the early 1940s working in New York, “hanging around in the Jazz scene” (Clinger 2005, 188), and taking the occasional course in social sciences, Sally learned of the Classics‐influenced general education program being developed at the University of Chicago by Robert Hutchins. She sat the entrance test, was accepted to the Bachelor of Arts program, and moved to Chicago's South Side in 1945 (Clinger 2005). The late forties to mid‐fifties were a turbulent time for Sally characterized by divorce, single‐motherhood, a second marriage, unstable work, and an unsure future. She finally emerged on the other side in 1956, when she began graduate school at the age of thirty‐two, again attending the University of Chicago (Clinger 2005).6.1FigurePhotograph of Sally Binford (middle), her then‐partner Jan, and her poodle Jake. Circa 1980s. Photo courtesy of Honey Lee Cottrell, with permission of Susie Bright.Though she had encountered sexism in various ways prior to commencing her PhD studies, it was during this time that open hostility became a constant part of Sally's academic experience. The chair of the Anthropology Department at the time was, in her words, “a misogynistic little son‐of‐a‐bitch” (Clinger 2005, 191) and his open antagonism was mirrored by others in the department—for example, her advisor pulled her aside at the beginning of her studies and warned her that there was resentment and anger towards her because of her gender, her active social life, and her “tight sweaters and makeup” (Clinger 2005, 192).Sally, then publishing as Sally R. Schanfield, had shifted her academic focus to the ‘Old World,’ and she spent the years 1956 to 1962 developing her interest in the Paleolithic Transition (Clinger 2005). It was also at this time that Sally became friends and professional colleagues with François Bordes (Clinger 2005), working on Mousterian lithics in his laboratory at Bordeaux (Kehoe 2011; Wargo 2009), and often joining him and his wife, fellow archaeologist Denise de Sonneville‐Bordes, for dinner after frustrating days of working for her misogynistic and anti‐Semitic site director at Abri Pataud (Clinger 2005; Kehoe 2011). By the summer of 1962 Sally was putting the finishing touches on her dissertation, The Middle Pleistocene of the Western and Central Sahara (Schanfield 1962), and at the same time staving off the advances of a junior faculty member in the office down the hall from her.Autonomy, Ethics, and Early Career ResearchIt is nearly impossible to disentangle the lives and work of the two Binfords, during the period from the summer of 1962 to the summer of 1969. Though they were together less than a decade, the two archaeologists would have an immense impact on the field of archaeology, driving and developing the major theoretical approaches of their time. The other Binford was seven years younger than Sally, but at the time they first met, he was a faculty member at the University of Chicago, and she was still a student there. She resisted forming a romantic relationship with him, and it wasn't until the summer of 1963, after Sally returned from another field season in France and joined Lew at his dig in southern Illinois, that they reportedly became sexually involved (Clinger 2005). Concerning the Binfords’ marriage, it is important to distinguish amongst sexual, professional, and romantic relationships, as all evidence points towards one of convenience on both sides. Lew was seeking tenure at the University of Chicago and was concerned with how their relationship would look to the administration, and so asked Sally to marry him in August of 1963 (Clinger 2005). Sally agreed, but her feelings on the marriage are best summarized by a statement to Janet Clinger (2005, 200) regarding the situation, “I know myself well enough to know that marriage is not my thing.”Their academic partnership was an incredibly productive one, but one which ultimately benefited Lew more than Sally. This phenomenon was not uncommon in some academic marriages and is discussed in Margaret W. Rossiter's 1993 article “The Matthew/Matilda Effect in Science” in which she explores the distressing trend of uneven attribution in collaborative work between men and women (Rossiter 1993). The name of this effect comes from Robert K. Merton's 1968 description of the “Matthew Effect,” the self‐perpetuating success of “high standing” scientists, over their emerging junior colleagues (Merton 1968). Rossiter places her “Matilda Effect” in conversation with Merton's “Matthew Effect” to highlight the “systematically underrecognized” work of women in academically collaborative marriages, pointing specifically to three such instances. These were the hotly debated discussions of mathematician Mileva Marić‐Einstein's contributions to Albert Einstein's Annus Mirabilis papers (Gagnon 2016), biochemists Gerty and Carol Cori's shared 1947 Nobel Prize in Medicine, and the attribution of biochemist Ruth Hubbard's early independent work to her 1967 Nobel Prize‐winning husband George Wald (Rossiter 1993). The Matilda effect is not limited to those women in academically collaborative marriages, with numerous famous examples of women in science whose work was either directly or indirectly attributed to their male colleagues. Rosalind Franklin, Lise Meitner, and Jocelyn Bell are three of the most commonly cited women whose work was misattributed in their lifetimes (Grajales Abellán 2016). In fact, Merton's concept of the “Matthew Effect” was directly based on the doctoral dissertation work of sociologist Harriet Zuckerman (1965), a fact appropriately pointed out in an unpublished Masters‐level assignment by biochemist Diana Grajales Abellán (2016). Unlike Zuckerman, however, Abellán's contribution will not go uncited in this broader discussion of the Matthew and Matilda Effects in science.The history of archaeology as a discipline is full of these “helpful wives” (Carr 2012, see also Kirakosian [2023] this volume, Chapter 5), from its very earliest days up to now. Lady Hilda Petrie, Emily Wright, and Tamar Shiloh are only three of the eighteen women profiled by Norma Dever in her biographical article, “They Also Dug! Archaeologist's Wives and their Stories” (Dever 2004). These profiles were based on both her own experiences as an “archaeologist's wife,” as well as research and interviews with women working alongside their husbands in the field of Near East Archaeology (Dever 2004). Others have highlighted the work of women archaeologists like Tessa Verney Wheeler who worked alongside her husband Mortimer and, along with Kathleen Kenyon, helped revolutionize excavation techniques (Carr 2012). Denise de Sonneville‐Bordes, discussed above as a close friend of Sally's while working in France, was a Paleolithic archaeologist and paleoanthropologist in her own right—although she apparently still had to do the mediating work of the helpful wife, with at least one account of her having to physically restrain her hot‐tempered husband at an academic event (Lenoir and Straus 2008).Even as recently as 2021 women in archaeology have been done a severe disservice through attempts at media representation. The treatment of Margaret “Peggy” (Piggott) Guido in the recent Netflix film “The Dig” (Stone 2021), based on a fictionalized account of the Sutton Hoo excavations, is especially egregious. It relegated a woman who had a decades‐long career and had already been leading fieldwork by the time she joined Phillips’ excavation, to a “bumbling,” inexperienced girl who appeared to make one of the most significant discoveries of the film by sheer luck (Bridge 2021; Stone 2021; Wragg Sykes 2021). In many of these cases the distinction between professional archaeologist and “helpful wife” appears to be dependent on who you ask. What is certain is that most of these women were involved in archaeological work for quite some time, with the notable exception of Tessa Wheeler, whose life and career were tragically cut short at age fifty‐seven (Carr 2009).Sally Binford's archaeological career, however, only lasted thirteen years–fifteen if you count the two years she spent teaching Anthropology at Goddard College. However, in this short time she was instrumental in changing the way archaeology was practiced. Even a cursory review of Lewis Binford's writing in the “Sally Period,” and comparison to his earlier and later works, highlights the degree to which her presence was a factor in Binford's theoretical developments. Lew Binford said as much in the acknowledgments section of his 1964 PhD dissertation—a project which he had, according to colleagues and Sally, been struggling to finish for quite some time (Clinger 2005).There is a large share of credit and merit attributed to the work of any man that comes as a direct result of the confidence placed in him by those he loves. In my case I am grateful to my wife Sally for actual assistance in proofreading this manuscript but, more importantly, she was directly responsible for my aspirations to a higher education. (L.R. Binford 1964, n.p. acknowledgements section)Speculation and gossip about who exactly wrote how much of Lew's early “New Archaeology” work, and even later articles like “Willow Smoke and Dog Tails” (L.R. Binford 1980), crop up in informal spaces whenever Sally's academic career is mentioned (Borck 2019; Norton 2019; Riel‐Salvatore 2010; Wren 2019). Particularly the “Willow Smoke” paper, published a decade after Sally and Lew's last collaborations, is often singled out in such discussions. This may be a function of the paper being a synthesis of ideas which began with “The Predatory Revolution: A Consideration of Evidence for a New Subsistence Level” (L.R. Binford and S.R. Binford 1966). I will say that there is no way to definitively tell who wrote what without testimony from the individuals involved, and Sally never claimed to have been the outright author of any of Lew's articles. Sally maintained that her job in their academic collaborations was to “translate what Lew wrote into English” (Clinger 2005, 201), and this fact is attested to by peers and former colleagues alike (Kehoe 2011; Kleindienst 2015; Mackie 2010; NLN 2011; O'Farrell 2019; Riel‐Salvatore 2010). His writing outside of their marriage was unsubtle and unsophisticated, and, according to Sally, the younger Binford had a “distressing tendency to ‘improve’ data” (Clinger 2005, 201), manipulating information to best fit his ideas about Paleolithic culture.A major injustice in the Binford academic legacy surrounds the infamous Bordes‐Binford debate. Though the papers leading up to Lewis Binford's 1973 chapter “Inter‐Assemblage Variability: The Mousterian and the Functional Argument” were co‐authored by both Binfords (L.R. Binford and S.R. Binford 1966, 1968), it is Lew alone who takes credit for proposing that inter‐assemblage variability is not indicative of cultural differences but of functional ones (L.R. Binford 1973). Additionally, though this post‐Sally paper was on the exact subject the Binfords collaborated on, the writing style is drastically different: full of jargon, meandering explanations, and is something to “wade through” rather than read (Riel‐Salvatore 2010). Though some authors do mention Sally's role (Holdaway 1989; Jacobs 2000; Rigaud 2012) it is primarily Lew alone who is mentioned as the originator of the Bordes‐Binford debate (Chazan 2018; Clark 2011; DiPonio 2016; Leone 2011; Meltzer 2011; Renfrew 2011; The Telegraph 2011; Turcotte 2019; Wargo 2009; Yu, Schmader, and Enloe 2015). However, it was Sally who introduced Lew to Mousterian lithics, through her connection with Bordes, and it is their joint work that refuted Bordes’ characterizations of lithic typologies. It should be their joint work that is remembered—not just that of the Binford who yelled the loudest.Sally and her husband do not quite fit into the traditional professor‐student relationship (she technically finished her PhD before he did, though he was a faculty member while she was a graduate student), and, based on Sally's own observations, it seems far more credit than Lew Binford deserves to call him a “mentor.” However, Sally's experiences navigating the treacherous waters of early career publishing remain relevant today. She was an older, twice‐divorced, bisexual, Jewish woman when she completed her PhD; all things that did not lend her the same degree of privilege that Lewis enjoyed, especially not during the 1960s. The complex interplay of relative levels of privilege, power, and authority in their relationship mirrors situations that today's early career researchers and graduate students experience, especially those belonging to marginalized communities. More honest discussion is needed regarding the ethics of academic power. How and when are questions of attribution in anthropological or archaeological collaborations addressed? How broad is the advisory “duty of care” to research students? How does archaeology as a discipline reconcile the legacy of unattributed fieldwork and research that has bolstered its growth over the past century?Other disciplines have directly addressed the questions of collaborations that have an inherently unbalanced power dynamic, such as student and professor. The American Psychological Association has a Student Guide (2006, 2015) and the International Committee of Medical Journal Editors has a page on their website detailing the importance of authorship conversations (International Committee of Medical Journal Editors 2022). Debates over who “owns” research materials, products, and intellectual property rights have arisen in various disciplines (Ahmed and Monahan 2019; Anonymous 2015; CASRAI 2006; Hedges 2015; Hundley, Teijlingen, and Simkhada 2013; McGlynn 2016; McKiernan 2012; Oberlander and Spencer 2006; Salaz 2018), with some even calling for a reduction in the importance placed on authorship order (Kiser 2018). The “first author” question in traditional archaeological publications may be solved using alphabetical order if multiple individuals actually authored the paper. However, this practice remains biased towards those archaeologists with surnames at the beginning of the English alphabet and may give the impression that an individual researcher is more prolific than that person really is. The main question remains—as interdisciplinary labs and collaborative projects become more common, how do we acknowledge participation of graduate students, lab technicians, field archaeologists, historians, chemists, molecular biologists, and others? How do we ensure that the interests of precarious early career researchers, and especially graduate students, are protected when navigating discussions of authorship and acknowledgment?All archaeologists, especially those in the position to mentor and advise undergraduate and graduate students, must consider these questions. Resources must be made available within individual Archaeology and/or Anthropology departments, as well through professional organizations like the Society for American Archaeology (SAA), the Society for Historical Archaeology (SHA), the American Anthropological Association (AAA), and the Archaeological Institute of America (AIA). Table 1 summarizes such resources provided by academic departments in the United States (n = 24), United Kingdom (n = 10), and Canada (n = 8), all of which were selected based on their offer of either a PhD in Archaeology or in Anthropology with an archaeology focus This list is, of course, not exhaustive, but does provided an overview of programs and courses offered across the US, UK and Canada from which several conclusions can be drawn. Graduate student handbooks and student guides from these programs were reviewed for content discussing publication guidance and authorship determination. Only publicly available documents were reviewed—internally circulated materials may provide more information for enrolled students but are not accessible to prospective students or colleagues.6.1TableTable 6.1 lists 24 US schools, 10 UK schools, and 8 Canadian schools. Online materials were reviewed for publicly available information discussing authorship attribution and publication guidance. Entries with an asterisk (*) contain some information about publication guidance, but none specifically targeted at authorship determination.School NameCountryPublicly Available HandbookPublication GuidanceArizona State UniversityUSAYesNoneBoston UniversityUSAYesNoneBrown UniversityUSANoNoneColumbia UniversityUSANoNoneFlorida State UniversityUSAYesNoneHarvard UniversityUSAYesNoneNew York UniversityUSANoNonePrinceton UniversityUSANoNoneStanford UniversityUSAYesYes*SUNY AlbanyUSANoNoneSUNY BinghamtonUSANoNoneSUNY BuffaloUSAYesNoneWashington UniversityUSAYesNoneYale UniversityUSAYesNoneUniversity of ArizonaUSAYesNoneUniversity of ArkansasUSAYesNoneUniversity of California BerkeleyUSAYesYes*University of California Los AngelesUSAYesNoneUniversity of ChicagoUSAYesNoneUniversity of MichiganUSAYesNoneUniversity of New MexicoUSAYesNoneUniversity of North Carolina Chapel HillUSAYesNoneUniversity of PennsylvaniaUSAYesNoneUniversity of Texas AustinUSAYesNoneOxford UniversityEnglandNoNoneCambridge UniversityEnglandNoNoneUniversity College LondonEnglandNoNoneUniversity of ManchesterEnglandNoNoneUniversity of SouthamptonEnglandNoNoneDurham UniversityEnglandNoNoneUniversity of St. AndrewsScotlandNoNoneUniversity of YorkEnglandNoNoneUniversity of ReadingEnglandNoNoneUniversity of EdinburghScotlandNoNoneUniversity of TorontoCanadaYesNoneUniversity of British ColumbiaCanadaYesNoneUniversity of AlbertaCanadaNoNone*Simon Fraser UniversityCanadaYesNoneUniversité LavalCanadaYesNoneMemorial University NewfoundlandCanadaYesNoneUniversity of CalgaryCanadaNoNoneWestern UniversityCanadaNoNoneThis review of department graduate student handbooks and guides shows that there is almost no formal guidance for archaeology graduate students in matters of co‐authorship and joint research with faculty. Twenty‐three of the forty‐two reviewed departments had publicly available graduate student handbooks or guides, but none of the UK schools publicly provided department‐specific handbooks and only four US schools and one Canadian school have done so: Stanford, SUNY Buffalo, UC Berkeley, University of Arkansas, and University of Alberta. Stanford's anthropology department graduate student handbook provided hyperlinks to general University guidance and an external third‐party website for resources on authorship (Stanford University Department of Anthropology 2019; UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology 2018). Similarly, the University of Alberta in Canada's anthropology department page provides a link to a campus‐wide resource entitled “Guidelines for Ownership of Research Materials” (Faculty of Graduate Studies and Research 2020). There is a distinct lack of targeted resources for archaeology graduate students beginning to develop their own independent projects and publications. Such targeted resources for archaeology should include advice regarding collaboration with community groups and other research participants. Proper acknowledgment and attribution of work done by tribal elders, community leaders, local government officials, volunteers, laboratory technicians, and others is essential if archaeologists want to reconcile and address our colonial and exploitative legacy (a theme covered throughout this volume but especially in Jones and Carey [2023] Chapter 3, Rippee and Scott [2023] Chapter 12, Kirakosian [2023] Chapter 5, and Marek‐Martinez and Gonzalez [2023] Chapter 4). Institutional frameworks for authorship determination and publication guidance will ideally provide a clear pathway for citing the essential work and traditional knowledge of historically marginalized research participants, especially those from Black, Indigenous and other communities of color.A similar review of professional organization found that the SAA, SHA, AAA, and AIA all have extensive resources discussing graduate programs, publishing tips, and style guides, but none have any resources for graduate students on self‐advocacy or authorship negotiation. If we want archaeologists to feel supported in all aspects of their early academic and professional careers, then it is the duty of both professional organizations and individual university departments to provide institutional frameworks that ensure students and faculty can have these types of discussions early and often. Passive advising is not a viable course of action; the onus cannot always be placed on those operating within the lowest tiers of institutional power to seek out support and resources. When all mentorship and advising is passive, graduate students and early career researchers are not being given all the tools needed to succeed in the academy. Supervisors need to outline expectations for students and for themselves, with specific attention paid to how work is divided, attributed, and published. Departments who already have such policies in place are to be commended. Creating publicly available versions of these will help normalize essential discussions. Broader university policies on joint faculty‐student research can be interpreted and applied as appropriate. Professional organizations can draw from organizations like the APA, ICMJE, and the American Sociological Association, which already have such publicly available resources (American Psychological Association 2006, 2015; American Sociological Association 2021; International Committee of Medical Journal Editors 2022).Socially Responsible Archaeology: “I have a very low tolerance for bullshit and lies.”Sally Binford was once referred to as the “class troublemaker” by the former class president at her twenty‐fifth high school reunion (Clinger 2005, 186), and, while seemingly petty and juvenile, it does capture her penchant for disruption, action, activism, and resistance. Despite her initial disappointment with her PhD dissertation subject, Sally eventually saw it as an opportunity to combat the anti‐Blackness that was running rampant in evolutionary archaeology and paleoanthropology (Clinger 2005). Sally's navigation of her identity as a Jewish woman was a recurring theme in her life, from her resistance to the Jewish Princess stereotype her parents wanted for her, to her pro‐Palestinian activism, and her assertion of her own Jewishness in the face of blatant anti‐Semitism in academia. While working at UC Santa Barbara, Sally became aware of an unspoken pact against hiring Jewish academics at the school, and in response, she reasserted her Jewish identity by adopting the publishing name Sally Rosen Binford and speaking in Yiddish at faculty meetings (Clinger 2005). These acts of personal resistance were a continuation of her previous insistence on visibly articulating her femininity in the face of sexism at the University of Chicago (Clinger 2005) and are essential to understand her scholarship and identity.Sally did not just talk‐the‐talk, she walked‐the‐walk—quite literally at times. She traveled to Alabama to participate in the Third March at Selma in March of 1965 (Clinger 2005). When asked to contribute to recruitment lists for faculty at UC Santa Barbara, she made a point to submit only highly qualified academics of color (Clinger 2005), and, in 1973 she published a call to action in the AAA's newsletter, calling for donations to the American Indian Movement's defense fund for those indicted after the events at Wounded Knee (S.R. Binford 1973). She pointed out that every anthropologist in America had “profited directly or indirectly from the state of the American Indians” and challenged the discipline to take responsibility for this through monetary support (S.R. Binford 1973b; see Beisaw [2023] this volume, Chapter 10, and Witt [2023] this volume, Chapter 9, for discussion on archaeologists as Indian advocates). When Sally settled in San Francisco in 1980, her political activism only intensified. She was on the board of Community United Against Violence (CUAV), organized in reaction to hate crimes, and worked with the Grey Panthers on housing, medical care, and social services. She became involved in Bay Area political movements like Harvey Milk's Board of Supervisors campaign and lectured extensively on sex and aging throughout her later years (Clinger 2005).Sally's lifelong legacy of activism inspires an important question: what can privileged academics and field archaeologists do to emulate this type of socially responsible archaeology? We are fortunate in our ever‐evolving discipline to have many archaeological programs and individual researchers who make vocal commitments to increasing overall diversity, research participant and descendent community involvement, and highlighting underrepresented historical and archaeological narratives. However, what are we actually doing? Many archaeologists and academics in relative positions of power have an instant answer to this, and have CVs listing impressive achievements, events they organized, and projects they worked on—all relating to quite nebulous commitments to “diversity, equality, and inclusion.” This is, on the surface, a wonderful thing (see Lee et al. [2023] this volume, Chapter 2 for a discussion of diversity initiatives). However, many of these involvements tend to follow a pattern of benefitting one's own career while appearing socially responsible, as opposed to prioritizing social responsibility irrespective of the career implications (see also the concluding discussion in Witt [2023] this volume, Chapter 9). Many archaeologists and academics who are members of marginalized groups do not have this choice. For them, expressions of personal belief are seen as inherently political and instantly codified as “activism” whether that is the intention behind such actions or not (see Jones and Carey [2023] Chapter 3; Marek‐Martinez and Gonzalez [2023], Chapter 4; and Rippee and Scott [2023] Chapter 12, all this volume). Queer archaeologists; Black, Indigenous, and/or People of Color (BIPOC) archaeologists; disabled archaeologists—the list goes on—all archaeologists who do not benefit from the institutional privileges afforded to the majority of White, heterosexual, male academics, are not given the choice. I would argue, then, that those academics and archaeologists who do get to choose to “turn off” their activism, must make the conscious effort to inject socially responsible practices into all aspects of their work. Sally Rosen Binford was an outstanding example of these types of actions—she could have simply continued to publish under her married name, making no waves, quietly existing, and protecting herself from outright harassment and violent circumstances. Instead, she went above and beyond the duties required of her, and, in the process, created an example for us all.Conclusion: “Toujours soixant‐neuf!”On January 30, 1994, at the age of sixty‐nine, Sally Rosen Binford took her own life. She had hinted of her plans to friends (Bright 2012) and sent a goodbye letter to some, explaining her choice to “check out;” not because she was depressed, but because she desired to “end things well” (Bright 2012). Even in her 1988 interview with Janet Clinger, Sally mentions being uncomfortable with the idea of her body falling apart (Clinger 2005), and this fear of frailty was a major factor in her eventual decision to end things on her own terms. In the words of her close friend Susie Bright, “she died peacefully and exactly as she had designed” (Bright 2012). This self‐determination and desire to control her own narrative was another example of Sally's rebellion against normative expectations of society. She was a bisexual Jewish woman who pursued an academic subject traditionally dominated by men, in often anti‐Semitic, homophobic, and sexist environments, and through it all, she maintained her innate desire to fight for justice and equity. Because of the nature of her prolific activism, academic career, and wildly fantastic life, there is a great deal that did not make it into this paper—after all this was a woman who used contacts in Canada to secure graduate positions for students involved in the anti‐War protests of the Vietnam era, accidentally got locked in overnight at the Caves at Lascaux with her daughter Susan (Clinger 2005), and once borrowed an air hammer from a confused Israeli contractor to blast through some particularly stubborn breccia (S.R. Binford 1966).I would hope that the arguments I have made here resonate with a wide audience, and inspire not only my fellow archaeologists, but professional organizations and academic institutions, to consider how their actions (or lack thereof) impact our field. If we want to ensure the success of graduate students and early career researchers of all backgrounds and continue to strengthen our field by inspiring increasingly complex examinations of the archaeological record, then it is the duty of archaeologists in relative positions of power to highlight, center, and support those who are not. It is also the duty of those who actively advise and mentor students to take responsibility for beginning important discussions about joint research with their students as early as possible. By normalizing these discussions, professional organizations, faculty, and university administrators will not only provide the support graduate students sorely need but learn from the mistakes of our ancestors. This work directly addresses the “hidden curriculum” of higher education: the unspoken rules and practices of academia which serve to reinforce inequity among early career researchers (Apple and King 1977; Giroux and Purpel 1983; McCrory Calarco 2020). It is an unfortunate consequence of the charisma and popularity of her third husband that Sally Binford is often overshadowed, and even forgotten, in discussions of the archaeological theories and approaches she helped develop—some undergraduate students never even hear her name in their Introduction to Archaeology courses. It is my hope that this paper has done some of the work to rectify this grave oversight, and to highlight the “better half” of the Binford legacy.AcknowledgmentsI would like to acknowledge the ongoing support of my own mentors, supervisors, and colleagues who have in some way directly suported this work or my career to this point including (but not limited to): April Beisaw, Uzma Z. Rizvi, Kisha Supernant, Stephen A. Mrozowski, David Landon, Michelle M. Alexander, and David C. Orton. I would also like to thank the organizers of the original 2019 SAA Electronic Symposium "Sins of Our Ancestors", Katie Kirakosian, April Beisaw and Dave Witt for giving me the opportunity to develop this paper into its current form. Additionally, thanks to Ryan Wheeler for all of the support with editing and organizing the submission of this special volume. Special thanks to Susie Bright who offered some excellent insights into Sally's life post‐academia, and who gave permission for the use of Honey Lee Cottrell's photograph. Finally, thank you to Sally Rosen Binford, your life, work, and memory are most certainly a blessing.References CitedAhmed, Saeed, and Neil Monahan. 2019. “A Professor Is Accused of Stealing a Student's Invention to Make Millions.” CNN, March 2, 2019, sec. Health+. Accessed March 1, 2021. https://www.cnn.com/2019/03/01/health/professor‐accused‐of‐stealing‐invention‐lawsuit‐trnd/index.html.Apple, Michael W., and Nancy R. 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Journal

Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association – Wiley

Published: Jul 1, 2023

Keywords: history of archaeology; authorship; Sally Binford; feminist archaeology; mentorship

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