Hacker and maker represented not so much discrete categories as fluid identities that emerged by on mode of work, personal history, and comfort with cultural alignment. This cozy relationship troubles easy stereotypes of hacking as related to scientific rationality and making to felt experience. For example, as Lingel and Regan (2014) observe, the experiences of software developers can be both highly rational and deeply embodied, resulting in their thinking about coding as process, embodiment, and community. The thrill or pleasure of hacking being linked simply to transgression or satisfaction of completing a difficult job seems lacking (Taylor, 1999; Turkle, 1984). From the side of craft, Daniella Rosner (2012) draws a historic connection to the humble bookbindery as a material-workspace collaboration and site of personalized routines and encounters with tools that lead to complex collaborations. These ethnographies take into account passions and relative definitions of technology that are often neglected in organizational studies. Thus, these inroads to informal learning could be mutually informed by Leonardi's (2011) notion of imbrication, where material and individual agencies are negotiated through routines over time.

Third, the space acted as a recruitment tool for participants and served as a source of solidarity as members rallied around the space. This emphasis on actively inviting new members drew attention to the group's latent desire for open-access, a radical shift from the often insular nature of hacker culture.

Hacker and maker spaces are nearly universally defined within relatively affluent western cultures, raising obvious questions of economic privilege as well as more difficult ones of how spaces are defined by various cultural imaginaries. Mirroring previous work on collective organizations, HMS members' desire for an idealized space appears driven both by their exposure to a participatory democracy (Turner, 2013) and shortcomings they see in that model. Participatory culture, as an ideal, may be a utopian goal (Jenkins & Carpentier, 2013, p. 2; Turner, 2008), imagined here through material engagement.

For example, in the old space, visitors needed to obtain two signatures from two members to be approved for membership. This was seen by the directorship as a small barrier to entry and by female visitors as an unnerving time to be "judged" by uncertain criteria and leadership. In other words, what the two founders saw as a "weak" culture was interpreted as a "strong" one by women visitors. Querying the power dynamics of interactions takes us further towards unpacking when a cultural style can be inhibiting of participation, particularly geeks among who may embrace alternative masculinities (Kendall, 2002; McRobbie & Garber, 1976; Wilkins, 2008).

ad-hoc groups that form and just disband. They form again and disband. Then the individual ties between units in the group become stronger as part of this experience."

Projects were vital to linking personal interests to sharing and collaboration, with one member, echoing the overall pragmatism of the space, describing them as "education in disguise."

The "doing it together" instinct in HMSs may be one precipitated out around projects. Cognitive, classroom-based definitions of project-based learning tend to be formulaic (Blumenfeld et al., 1991). By comparison, the colloquial definition of project can be handily ambiguous about what is under construction. A project can be artistic, technical, or culinary (in the case of "food hacking"). It can be related to one's occupation, entirely recreational, or part of a movement from one to the other.

A physical workshop, then, helped reconcile often highly individualistic and introverted personalities to pursue collaborative learning together. The community nature of the space meant that it was easy to drop by, and relationships often developed between members. However, GeekSpace was initially populated by members often in technical professions and used as a "social club" to blow off steam, play foosball, and drink. The learning that occurred there was mainly self-education and listening to the occasional guest speaker. In retrospect, members, particularly those not coming from technical backgrounds, saw the failure of this space as the lack of collaborative work in the form of projects.

Quite to the contrary, members were self-regulating and saw tools and space as providing deterministic solutions (Jordan, 2008). The materialities of the space and tools allowed them to operate a democratic-meritocratic system focused on shared work with a minimum of hierarchy or rules. This spatio-materialistic perspective echoed a hacker reliance on "rough consensus and running code" that moved projects forward (Davies, Clark, & Legare, 1992, p. 543).

The most important shift in learning during this period was members' relationship to knowledge. GeekSpace attempted to democratize hacking and move towards a more inclusive model. This stands in contrast to Jean Burgess' observation that hacking "as an ideal, permits rational mastery ... but in reality, it is only the technical avant-garde (like computer scientists or hacker subcultures) who achieve this mastery" (Burgess, 2012, p. 30). Individualized encounters with software gave way to making and hardware tinkering where users learned by doing (Rosenberg, 1982). Collaborative work in the space took place in small groups clustered around a project, or the projects were passed from person to person to solve specific problems. The frustrations members had with the first phase of the space organically shifted to a set of practices based in materials, routines, and projects. "Collaboration on ideas and [their] physical manifestations," in the words of a GeekSpace director, is "how you tell somebody's part of the community."

Somewhat paradoxically, the group took advantage of their backgrounds in software even as they were careful to denote they weren't ''those kinds" of hackers. In correcting misunderstandings they both negotiated the stigma around hacking while retaining the term as central to their operations, albeit less so than before. Wayne, a director, would use the term in public because he knew people might question it. He saw this as a chance for redefinition, to get people to "realize that we're not just guys who read 2600 and try and make free long distance calls." Nancy similarly described it as a "word we 're trying to take back" from the media. Even as outwardly the organization shifted to being a maker space the word hacker continued to be a potent way they could mark the difference of their space as compared with other types of shared workshops.

Mike, the most involved director, described a conscious move towards maker culture and away from "being like a closed little nerd group that requires a prerequisite of being able to program in C." Software production was frequently used as a point of contrast to the current space. Making captured a notion of productivity and openness that the previous iteration lacked. Mark described the current version of GeekSpace as "more of a makerspace ... there's a lot of physical fabrication happening." The original members, by comparison, were "more software [oriented]... specifically, hardcore infosec [information security]," harkening back to the group's roots in local 2600 meetings and professional occupations.

Interviews were transcribed and color-coded using Microsoft Word, then categorized using Excel according to the central research questions of this study.

Recruitment was conducted in-person or over email. Interviews were conducted in-person, or if that option was not available, over Skype. The 13 interviews ranged from 25 to 63 minutes in length. No compensation was offered.

Henry Jenkins similarly noted that "do it yourself' is a diffuse notion that can be conflated to an individualistic perspective on creative and technical work, and thus he advocates for moving towards more "collective enterprises within networked publics" (Knobel & Lankshear, 2010, p. 232). Compared with hacking, making is more involved with creating objects within a lineage of craft or art. Rather than hacking's strategic to bring about differences (an outcome), making is more

Maker culture has been criticized for simply being a de-politicized version of hacker culture, naively unable to reconcile its own promises of a revolution (Morozov, 2014). While maker culture's connection with socio-economic change and hacker culture at larger is debatable, it seems more certain it comes with an attendant set of nested practices and attitudes. Lindtner and Li (2012) describe maker culture as ''technological and social practices of creative play, peer production, a commitment to open source principles, and a curiosity about the inner workings of technology" (p. 18). Chris Anderson (2012) claims that the maker movement has three characteristics: the use of digital tools for creating products, cultural norms of collaboration, and design file standards (p. 21 ). Hughes (2012) notes maker culture's emphasis on being open-source and posited that it ''ties together physical manufacturing skills with the higher end technical skills of hardware construction and software programming" (p. 3884).

Members of HMSs, driven by hacker and maker culture, infrastructure their own space and populate it with tools, effectively de-virtualizing materialities. Buildings and tools in HMSs are treated very much as code: malleable, changeable, and durable.

Compared with the contentious history of hacker culture, the history of making is comparatively unmapped. It can be most accurately described as a new craft movement (Rosner & Ryokai, 2009) that recalls relationships with materials through craft (Sennett, 2008) and hobbies (Gelber, 1999).

Jordan stipulates that the commonality of various perspectives on hacking (Himanen, 2001; Wark, 2004) is the hack, or the "ability to create new things, to make alterations, to produce differences" (Jordan, 2008, p. 7). These differences are linked with what Steven Levy (1984) called a "hands-on imperative" (p. 28) and enjoyment from deep concentration. By this line of thinking, the prerogative of hacking is that people should encounter technology not just to gain experience but for the enjoyment of pushing boundaries of what it was meant to do. Taylor (1999) describes the "kick" of hacking as "satisfying the technological urge of curiosity" (p. 17). This transgressing of the internal logic of systems lends a thrill that is difficult to pin down but is understood by those who have experienced it (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997). Tim Jordan's (2008) assertion that "hacking both demands and refutes technological determinism" (p. 133) gestures at a blending of material and social agencies in specific contexts. In other words, hackers see systems as malleable even as they rely on them to accomplish goals. Jordan saw this as paradoxical perhaps because technological determinism tends to be only viewed in the negative (Peters, 2011 ). Viewing his statements as a reflection on enabling and constraining (Giddens, 1986) engagements with materialities, rather than "determinism" per se, brings us towards a more productive theoretical framework for thinking about the connection of HMSs to informal learning.

For example, Leonardi's (2011) theory of imbrication, drawing on Latour, posits that individuals and technologies both have agency. Investigating the interplay between the two requires micro-interactionist investigations of everyday routines. The most prominent example of imbrication in HMSs comes from an influential presentation at the 2007 Chaos Computer Congress (CCC) where Haas, Ohlig & Weiler presented "design patterns" to create a hackerspace. This PowerPoint turned into a widely-circulated PDF describing socio-material "patterns" to bring about changes to routines for better sustainability, independence, regularity and conflict resolution (Haas, Ohlig & Weiler, 2007). Their invoking of design patterns recalls similar efforts in software (Gamma, Helm, Johnson & Vlissides, 1995) and architecture (Alexander, 1979) to combine social and material agencies to bring about a beneficial goal. The presenters were eager to stress that these were not blueprints, only practices that could be reflexively modified as needed. They were no determinists, but were utterly pragmatic in the sense of relying on implementation, failure, and modification to solve problems in a given system.

Depending on when you happened to drop by, you might conclude that it was a raucous party spot, infosec operations center, or hat manufacturer. The LOpht did not host a single group or set of activities. Rather, it served multiple purposes for the hacker community. The permanence of HMSs similarly serves as a magnet to attract interested members, enabling and constraining the wide variety of activities that occur therein.

served as third places (Oldenburg, 1997), or spaces for informal gathering and bonding outside of home and work. Touchstones for hacker and maker space members emerge time and again, such as German models imported to the United States via Noisebridge and Resistor NYC (Haas, Ohlig & Weiler, 2007). However their "true" origins will likely be always be subject to debate because, in addition to a lack of documentation, these spaces are both quotidian and encourage a plurality of uses.

The public nature of these gatherings was an advantage but also a source of frustration for "elite" members who grumbled about having to deal with "newbies." The publicness of these meetings ensured interplay between pseudo-anonymous bulletin-board systems (BBSs), longstanding members and genuinely interested newcomers.

Coleman (2010) asserts that previous literature such as Taylor's "fails to substantially address (and sometimes even barely acknowledge) is the existence and growing importance of face-to-face interactions" (p. 48). For example, Vichot (2009) notes how communities of hackers that coalesce online use "real space" to gain visibility needed to accomplish their collective political goals.

However, hacker and maker spaces are not synonymous with hacker culture at large. As previously discussed, since at least the mid-1990s, hackers have encompassed too wide an array of concerns and histories to safely be referred to as a unified group. Hacker and maker spaces, while a significant movement and informed by a more popular definition of "hacker," hardly define everyone who calls themselves a hacker.

Doug Thomas (2002) concluded that "hacker culture, in shifting away from the traditional norms of subculture formation, forces us to rethink the basic relationships between parent culture and subculture" (p. 171). Similarly, such a splintering of meanings draws into question how conveniently a lineage by generations can be identified (Coleman, 2012; Taylor, 2005). Hacker and maker space members draw on the "shared background of cultural references, values, and ideas" (Soderberg, 2013, p. 3) of a more accessible hacker culture that is social, everyday, and lived (Williams, 1995). The culture of HMSs is made visible through interactions as members draw on hacker and maker culture at large as an explanation for what it is that goes on there

This popularization is well captured by Brian Alleyne's (2011) observation that "we are all hackers now," a far cry from the insularity of the late 1980s (Meyer, 1989). The term hacker is freely applied to contexts as diverse as data-driven journalism (Lewis & Usher, 2013), urban exploration (Garrett, 2012), and creative use of IKEA products (Rosner & Bean, 2009). I frame hacking as "popular" to underscore its accessible, immediate, and participatory aspects (Jenkins, 2006), even if it is not popular in the same way as "fan cultures" (Jenkins, McPherson & Shattuc, 2002). Rather than media, the popular tum in hacking is linked to interactions with objects, platforms, and practices that invite participation and thereby increase the scope of who have typically considered themselves hackers in new and unforeseen ways.

By comparison, HMSs are collective organizations centered around maintaining a specific space. The current study's site of investigation is a single relatively bounded group (GeekSpace). Members are circumscribed by the built environment of the shared workshop and a shared repertoire of online communication tools (website, mailing lists, wikis).

this pragmatic attitude enable collaborations across ideological boundaries, it also facilitates partnerships" (p. 5), echoing William James' (1975) observation that pragmatism serves as a "method for settling metaphysical disputes that might otherwise be interminable" (p. 27). A pragmatic attitude from various iterations of

I retain hacker because hackers pace members draw upon hacker culture, broadly considered, even though the sites that identify as HMSs vary widely.

The grassroots nature of HMSs provides a contrast to the less popular FabLabs (Gershenfeld, 2005), which operate as franchises that require expensive tools, and Computer Clubhouses (Kaf ai, Peppler, & Chapman, 2009), which are extensions of schools. Hacker and maker space backers such as Mitch Altman claim that hands-on interactions with technology enable a more flexible and personalized learning experience than an institutionalized curriculum (Baichtal, 2011 ).

Scholars drawing on a constructivist line of scholarship (Papert, 1993) draw attention to the self-discovery that comes from encounters with objects (Cetina, 1997). This argument has been extended to technical learning, as free encounters with technical objects and systems are argued to encourage epistemological pluralism (Turkle & Papert, 1990). Experiential learning originates from Lewin, Piaget, and Dewey, and focuses on a continuous process of learning grounded in experiences that arise from an interplay between individual and environment (Kolb, 1984). The spatial nature of HMSs can be seen as a way to negotiate different learning styles

Matt Ratto (2011) defines "critical making" as a combination of critical thinking and material production. His contribution for the current discussion is: if critical makers can "reintegrate technical and social work and thereby innovate both" (p. 258). Design appears a fertile inroad for thinking about empowerment and politics, as particular genres of technology are created through complex social, economic, and cultural processes, leading to literacies that can be drawn on and reconfigured (Balsamo, 2011 ). DiSalvo's (2009) notion of critical making involves users in the design process through practices such as tracing and projection, resulting in the creation of new publics. This was later developed into "adversarial design" (DiSalvo, 2012), which confronts the politics of technologies of objects with an intent to encourage participation. Rafi Santo's (2011, 2013) "hacker literacies" similarly positions hacking as enabling critical thinking within a framework of media literacies.

Hacker and maker spaces arise from grassroots networks through a shared interest in maintaining a semi-permanent space for solo and collaborative work. They generally employ democratic and meritocratic conventions rather than ''top-down" organizational practices. These conventions evolve over time as they are reflexively modified by members through communication (McPhee & Zaug, 2009) and practices (Cox, 2005; Wenger, 1998) in and around physical space. This loose organizational structure and plurality of participant identities results in a tremendous variety of spaces that are best thought of as having a family resemblance (Wittgenstein, 1953) of organizational conventions and shared histories rather than consistency in interests or ideology. Some are firmly entrenched in information security (infosec) while others maintain a focus on artistic endeavors involving welding and woodwork. Several have arisen with an overtly feminist orientation and push back against the often male-dominant nature of these spaces.

Specifically, members encouraged learning and collaboration predominantly through a belief in materialities, particularly as GeekSpace's collective identity shifted from hacker to maker. Members altered the space to serve individual and collective goals rather than employing deliberation or strong organizational methods.

Hacker and maker spaces (HMSs) are open-access workshops devoted to creative and technical work. Their growing numbers (over 500 worldwide) make them a significant grassroots movement supporting informal learning. Scholars have found pedagogical benefits of tinkering and hacking, but the cultural contexts from which these practices arise remain under-studied.

hile hackers create these new worlds, we donot possess them. That which we create is mortgaged to others, and to the interests of others,to states and corporations who control the means for making worlds we alone discover. We donot own what we produce - it owns us.

And most people genetically need adults, because, again, this is cultural learning. You learn from other people, so it’s odd to learn by reading. Once you start interacting with a computer, you start wondering, what kind of initiative could the computer actually take? What kinds of the equivalent of knowledge could the computer actually deal with? [Computer scientist John] McCarthy got off on this before anybody. Papert was working with [Marvin] Minsky at MIT, so they had been already thinking about this when I started thinking about the Dynabook. My thought was, “Man, we have to have an AI inside of it,” because it’s the next logical step after a well-written essay.

This is equivalent to what Montessori was saying: If you want to live in the 21st century, you’d better embody it. You can’t teach it in a classroom. And so, Papert was saying, “Hey, this is math. It’s not just learning math. It’s an environment. It has all these things.”

So, in theory, you’re supposed to shake the iPhone and that means undo. Did you ever, did anybody ever tell you that? It’s not on the website. It turns out almost no app responds to a shake. And there’s no other provision. In fact, you can’t even find out how to use the iPhone on the iPhone. You ever notice that?

FC: But there could have been another way? AK: It’s been an idea in the ARPA/PARC community—which hasn’t been funded since 1980 or so, but a lot of us are still alive—one of the ideas was that in personal computing, what you really need is some form of mentor that’s an integral part of the user interface. FC: Something like a digital assistant? AK: It’s something just like the GUI, which I had a lot to do with designing. I did that, more or less, as a somewhat disappointed reaction to realizing [AI] is just a hard problem. We had some of the best AI people in the whole world at PARC, but the computers were really small for what AI needs.

I mean if you look at that first paper, besides the comment about touch-screen displays, there was a side comment saying that one of the first pieces of software that an individual will write on their personal computer will be something that will suppress advertising.

I mean if you look at that first paper, besides the comment abouttouch-screen displays, there was a side comment saying that one of the firstpieces of software that an individual will write on their personal computer will besomething that will suppress advertising

FC:But there could have been another way?AK:It’s been an idea in the ARPA/PARC community—which hasn’t beenfunded since 1980 or so, but a lot of us are still alive—one of the ideas was thatin personal computing, what you really need is some form of mentor that’s anintegral part of the user interface.FC: Something like a digital assistant?AK:It’s something just like the GUI, which I had a lot to do with designing. Idid that, more or less, as a somewhat disappointed reaction to realizing [AI] isjust a hard problem. We had some of the best AI people in the whole world atPARC, but the computers were really small for what AI needs.

And most people genetically need adults, because, again,this is cultural learning. You learn from other people, so it’s odd to learn byreading.Once you start interacting with a computer, you start wondering, what kind ofinitiative could the computer actually take? What kinds of the equivalent ofknowledge could the computer actually deal with? [Computer scientist John]McCarthy got off on this before anybody. Papert was working with [Marvin]Minsky at MIT, so they had been already thinking about this when I startedthinking about the Dynabook. My thought was, “Man, we have to have an AIinside of it,” because it’s the next logical step after a well-written essay.

So, in theory, you’re supposed to shake the iPhone and that means undo.Did you ever, did anybody ever tell you that? It’s not on the website. It turnsout almost no app responds to a shake. And there’s no other provision. In fact,you can’t even find out how to use the iPhone on the iPhone. You ever noticethat?

X closer examination of these myths nil1 reveal several interesting paradoxes. On the one hand, it is clear that we are in the midst of a cultural shift on a par with the great paradigm shifts in the history of science-our understandings of basic philosophical issues are changing. Tl'e can track shifts in our thinking about the nature of reality, the nature of knowledge and even the nature of the human being. On the other hand, there is e~idencc to suggest that not enough has changed in our thinking about certain philosophical issues, especially as these relate to the concept of 'information' and ideas about originality, privacy: citizen empowerment, democracy and community. I conclude with a list of questions that emerge from the transformation of one 'age' to another.

How might civic hackathons be improved? Balsamo does not deny contradictory influences exist in these spaces nor avoid engaging because they are “neoliberalist.” Rather, she suggests that sites of messy innovation are also potential sites of learning. Accordingly, my hope is that civic hackathons might be treated more seriously as moments for education and public engagement around the politics of technology. This can be a radical notion because culture, narratives, myths, rituals, expressions, and knowledge might still be reworked.

Civic hackathons are undeniably fraught. Our projections about civic futures are entangled with collective fantasies abouttechnology. This is a story at least as old as science fiction, yet never ultimately removed from our social realities. In some cases small tasks stimulated the civic imagination on larger public problems. In others, cultural reproduction led people to imagine technology that was already racialized, reflecting collective fears that rise to the top. Yet, I resist dismissing civic hackathons. Donna Haraway would certainly see the fallacy in demanding we return to the deliberation of Tocqueville’s town hall meetings. Plus, as anyone who has participated in local government can tell you, city council meetings are hardly a gold standard for civic participation. Mills reminds us that our rationalities are bounded and exist within a particular historic context. We might never get technology out of politics, or the politics out of technology. In a sense, civic technology may itself be a cyborg formed from our collective hopes and fears, one that we might better learn to live with.

This was their space, not ours. Later thatafternoon I found a cluster of neighborhood kids clustering around a young woman who was teaching them basics of programming. They were intently leaning on her shoulder to get a better view of her laptop. To my mind this image captures the gamble of civic innovation: participants sneaking community voices in and rallying around their concerns, hoping they won’t be just another wave of gentrification driven by technology rather than rising rents.

Put slightly differently, if we want civic hackathons to produce ideas that improve society, we need to more deeply and sincerely shape choices, thought processes, and activities that might make technology civic.

As a communication scholar I have been drawn to Winner’s thesis that confronting, working on, and talking about technology can make ethics visible and allow us to make different choices. It is a constant struggle of modernity to confront the idea that technology might be a quick fix. Civic hackathons are just such a site where technology is co-designed and choices made visible. Quite contrary to the idea that participants were unaware, awful ideas didn’t go unnoticed– in many cases they werevocally disputed.

A real-time crime tracking application is a prime example of cultural reproduction — how technological artifacts can be encoded in ways that reflect racist fears.

After we were done, pictures were taken of the group and distributed online to groups in other cities performing similar activities, contributing to the spectacle of the day.

The discussion of the rich social life of data behind the scenes stimulated a discussion for a spin-off project on aggregating geographic data about environmental issues in city. The apparently rote task of transcribing the presence of open data was an inroad to broader questions about how data was constructed behind the scenes and ways residents might add to it.

We failed to assemble a pitch because the civic imagination could not simply float alone. It needed a technological metaphor to give practices traction. Many of the pitched projects had the opposite problem. They started with an existing technology and grafted the goals of the city to it, essentially transposing a model of informed citizenship onto it. These technologies were not so much re-drawing government as increasing its utility.

An audience member yelled out, “what skills does a hack require?” Abhi shook his head. “Not much,” he replied, “you could solve a problem through marketing.” When asked, only around a third of the room raised their hands to identify as software developers.

In addition to moments of the expression of civic imagination, I am attentive to failure — times where conceptual roadblocks were encountered, spectacles failed, and cultural reproduction turned ugly. Being attentive to failure is necessary because civic hackathons tend to be universally celebrated as successes in popular literature. As Anne Balsamo noted in the case of Xerox PARC (p. 55), sites of technological production tend to also be involved in their own hype and myth-making (Also see: Balsamo, 1996). It is necessary to see what is entangled with the fiction.

Duncombe was frustrated by the liberal left’s insistence on using dry logic to make political arguments. He looked to the political right and far left as groups that fostered affective fantasies. To him, an “ethical spectacle” is participatory fantasy that is open-ended, transparent, and performative (Duncombe, 2007, p. 17). Duncombe saw ethical spectacles as directly democratic, breaking down hierarchies, fostering communities, and encouraging diversity. He held a strong form of participation, as participants in a spectacle “must also contribute to its construction” (Duncombe, 2007, p. 127). The civic

Material forms give coherence to the civic imagination. For example, Ross (2013) proposed that cultural practices of viewing the city “from above” in plans stimulated city planners’ civic imagination while they applied expertise in the planning process.

To Mills, the imagination was activated according to the structure of society, conceptualization of “the mechanics by which it is changing” (p. 6), and prevailing “varieties” of individuals of the period. Individuals have personal troubles that can be connected with issues of a public matter. The civic imagination has the potential to be activated around deep societal problems, which may involve institutional crises. The civic imagination is closely connected with participation. Castoriadis (1987)diverged from Marx by believing that not all futures were determined by history.Castoriadis believed that society’s future was collectively created and given traction through the imagination. That is, it was only “through the collective agency of the social imaginary that a society is created, given coherence and identity, and also subjected to auto-alterations” (Gaonkar, 2002, p. 7). To Appadurai (1996), the imagination was also intimately related to action because it was only in the service of fulfilling an as-yet unproven goal that we are driven to act.

Dunne and Raby’s (2013) notion of speculative design helps outline how future-oriented thought works at civic hackathons. They suggest that speculative design on “wicked problems” creates “spaces for discussion and debate about alternative ways of being, and to inspire and encourage people’s imaginations to flow freely” (Dunne & Raby, 2013, p. 2). They find merit in dreaming, as the future is an “aid imaginative thought” (p. 3). Materialities assist development of ideas and approaches to collectively thinking about possible futures. For them, critique has a place in design, particularly humor. Designers can “pull new technological developments into imaginary but believable everyday situations so that we can explore possible consequences before they happen” (p. 57). Speculative design is a helpful bridge to the civic imagination.

Balsamo's notion of technocultural innovation is quite appropriate for negotiating between critical and design positions on hackathons. First, she defines technologies asmessy combinations of practices, materialities, and affordances. They were never fully captured in artifacts to begin with, and she would simply not regard civic hackathons as their sole point of emergence. Second, although designers hold a particular role in technocultural innovation, Balsamo makes it clear that everyday people can interact with, talk about, act out, and pitch ideas, thereby co-constructing technologies. Many of the examples she provides, such as interactive museum exhibitions, are very hackathon-esque spectacles that bring people into contact with technologies in the process of being designed. Third, Balsamo provides concepts and vocabulary for describing moments of collective design. Cultural models of technology might be reproduced or made anew through the technocultural imagination. Balsamo does not treat the influence of corporations or mythologies of technology (Balsamo, 1996)as necessarily spoiling innovation. Individuals all draw on specific models of technology — practices, affordances, materialities — from everyday life, which must include those created by large companies. Participants can get space of their own, as in the case of Xerox PARC’s RED group, that provide autonomy. Yet, they do not exactly get outside of technology, a point that McKenzie Wark has similarly driven home (Wark, 2004).

Innovation always occurs against a larger social and cultural backdrop because "all participants [in collective design] bring gendered, racial, and class-based assumptions to the designing process" (p. 37). Diversity in collective design may helpindividuals imagine better together, as we all bring different assumptions about technology.

hackathons were also subjected to public parody, drawing attention to their elitism. The “Stupid Shit No One Needs & Terrible Ideas Hackathon” first ran in 2014.

At least since Doug Engelbart’s “mother of all demos” the introduction of new products has been accompanied by showmanship. Demonstrations are theater where possible uses for technology are presented (Smith, 2009). Hackathons have been argued to be the “front stage” for data and can be contrasted with the murky “back stage” of data production, munging, and interpretation (Gregg, 2014b). The difference with Balsamo might be that she does not put performance in scare quotes.

I do not believe she was necessarily re-treading the intractable sociological debate between "structure and agency." Rather, she was suggesting a sensory-oriented theory of collaborative design rooted in feminism and media studies.

“performance of innovation” (Balsamo, 2011) described how individuals collaboratively design technology in public settings. According to Balsamo, technology design emerges from a collaborative and cultural process that she terms "technoculture." Innovations are not objects, but like technology they are, “assemblages of practices, materialities, and affordances” (Balsamo, 2011, p. 8). Through performance and embodied action, technocultural innovation has a “dual logic”: the expression of the technological imagination and cultural reproduction.

A more diverse range of participants attended, as civic hackathons were more frequented by community organizers, activists, and students than seasoned software engineers. Those who turned up were also more diverse in ways other than occupation – racially, ethnically, and by gender. These events were largely run by Hack for LA with a wide range of partners. Rarely did sponsors emphasize working code

the civic hackathon violated the very conventions of hackathons. It had “no hacking” in the traditional sense of creating or modifying working software. This curious disappearing act of code in hackathons over the last several years was controversial among programmers. Thea Aldrich of Random Hacks of Kindness wondered aloud when I interviewed her in 2013, “don’t community organizers already have ways to engage politically?” To Thea “civic hacking” was a form of civic engagement particular to the technically adept.

that civic hackathons are highly fluid and contested spaces where power is negotiated. However, critical and design perspectives clearly differ on the theorized relationship between civic participation and technology. The imposed civic ideology perspective tells us high technology corporations force an essentially bogus ideology on the event. Participants

Simply diversifying participantion is no guarantee that outcomes benefit diverse communities, and declaring an event civically important does not make it so. After years of participating in and running civic hackathons I noticed a new turn. This new type of civic hackathon was intentionally run to foster performance, spectacle, and communicative activities around a loose shell of technology-oriented activities. Technology became more talked about than materially captured.

Citizens were asked to take over responsibilities that were previously handled by the state, and participants would “recognize problems only insofar as technology can operationalize and solve them.”

More staunch critics questioned if the White House was being duplicitous by inviting “civic hackers” under the guise of transparency while having the worst administrative record for prosecuting whistleblowers.

In Are Civic Hackathons Stupid? Emily Badger noted how government officials expected too much of civic hackathons, which rarely produced the expected technology that can be scaled to different sites. They required resources and labor to run, which could lead to burnout. Still, she was reluctant to entirely write them off. Some problems needed local solutions and civic hackathons could “bring officials and residents together in a context that has nothing to do with paying parking tickets or reporting potholes, and in a format that appeals to people who would never turn up for a public meeting.”

Initially at least, civic hackathons were initially positioned as a form of public outreach for civic hackers, a loose-knit community interested in applying technology for social good. James Crabtree (2007) defined “civic hacking” as “the development of applications to allow mutual aid among citizens rather than through the state.” In particular, he suggested an extra-institutional definition, thatcivic hacking filled in where e-democracy had failed. The meaning of “civic” at this stage leaned towards a libertarian perspective, which remains a persistent critique of hacking among critical studies scholars (Golumbia, 2013).

Civic hackathons are spaces where the technological imagination and civic imagination collide and jostle as people collectively envision future technologies. Finally, I suggest three lessons drawn from civic hackathons to demonstrate the contradictory and even treacherous ways civic innovation produces ideas. In the conclusion I consider how we might read civic hackathons alongside other modern political formations. After all, civic hackathons are just one part in a larger formation of “open government” that prioritizes direct participation and institutional collaboration as a pathway to reform.

civic hackathons in Los Angeles were rich spaces for observing communication about technology throughspeeches, group collaboration, and pitches.

The two perspectives are also not mutually exclusive — a participant might be frustrated at the rushed, corporatized nature of a certain civic hackathon and come to explore ideas about improving civic life.

Civic hackathons have been hotly debated in recent years. Critical studies scholars have lambasted civic hackathons for aligning with middle-class citizenship(Irani, 2015)and co-opting participant labor (Gregg, 2014a). Silicon Valley is often the fait accompliin these perspectives, bringing a flawed ideology that seduces organizers and participants into transposing technological language onto civic issues (Also see: Barbrook & Cameron, 1996; Morozov, 2013). In this paper I refer to this perspective as an “imposed civic ideology.” The second perspective comes from design scholars interested in material participation (Marres, 2012) as cohering publics to work on particular social issues. Lodato and DiSalvo (2016) suggested that civic hackathons served two purposes. First, they help people think through civic issues using props — “objects, services, and systems that engage with issues” (p. 16). Second, they cohere ephemeral proto-publics for short-term engagement on issues of public concern. As they summarized, "what is important is not the inventiveness of a particular prototype product or service, but rather, how the event fosters opportunities for collaborative or collective issue articulation" (p. 15). They drew attention to how outcomes of civic hackathons may more likely be social and cultural than functional material objects. I refer to this design perspective as an “emergent civic subjectivity.”

For these women, the values and practices of everyday life intertwine with technical labor. In the 1970s, theorists like Dick Hebdige, Henri LeFebvre, and Michel DeCertau took up everyday life as a site for radically re-imagining social life. The potency of domesticity and the social status of quotidian craftwork became a key precursor to contemporary Feminist thought. Today, it has reemerged in the work of modern-day hackers.By designing hackerspaces to serve domestic and familial needs, and by surfacing a new emotional style through failure, members of women-operated hackerspaces are

HackerMoms built on the language of hacking, and its emerging discourse of digital production, to define and legitimate women as hackers and, accordingly, relevant actors in high-tech-nology markets. To accomplish this, members accorded feminized emotional and craft-based skills the same respect as accorded to computer engineering competencies within more “traditional” (predominantly male) hacker collectives.

Showing and discussing their “hacks” became part of recognizing what Eva Illouz (2008: 20) would call a cultural resource, “a way for actors to devise strate-gies of action that help them implement certain definitions of the good life.”

By framing the work of women-operated hackerspace members as vital forms of hacking, they embraced the counterculture, but not the one most prevalent on the playa at Burning Man, home of the San Francisco Bay Area digerati. They instead embraced a personal counterculture, one based on their own family narratives—resurrecting a phrase widely celebrated within the 1970s Feminist movement: “the personal is political.”

In these situations, the audience is familiar and vulnerable along with participants. An important aspect of this type of fail-ure is the opportunity of eventual success it presents. FC participants enjoy the journey, so to speak, while seeking out hopeful destination points. The imposed failure, on the other hand, is unsolicited and offered in brief comments from (faceless) people outside the group. There is no reciprocity and little opportunity for mutual vulnerability or growth, as with the club. In this case, the ideal destination point is prescribing to others’ notions of what constitutes success.

a HackerMoms member remarked, “when you avoid using the word ‘hacker’ you lend credence to hack-ing being a negative thing; by using it, you begin claiming the word as your own and reworking it.” This logic of appropriation calls to mind Smith’s initial purpose for assum-ing the hacking category: underscoring connections between hacking and women’s work

At HackerMoms, many members like Renz used craft techniques to create objects and “hack” physical craft materials. From the perspective of those who saw HackerMoms as “anti-hackerspace,” celebrating craft and art making without computation rendered the concept of hacking ambiguous and insig-nificant. This concern often resonated with engineers and scientists like Renz’s husband, a physicist, who confessed to her he did not consider her work hacking (Interview with Daniela Rosner, 18 April, 2013).

The Underachievers Manifesto by English author Neil Gaiman that hung on the FC wall: “I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes then you are making new things [...].”

By embracing the kinds of failure performed at FC, emotional support and entre-prenuerial work became one and the same. When Renz was getting ready to open her store, HackerMoms members helped her paint the space, hang lamps, and make her first chalk mural. In exchange, she gave members the walls of the store as a gallery, offering them a 100% of their sales. Later that year, Renz held a “table building workshop” at her space to replace the newly purchased CB2 hackerspace furniture that members found “poorly made.” Renz built a prototype, coordinated the low-cost purchase of supplies, and showed members how to do the rest.

These were the kinds of projects Smith wanted members to realize—projects that have an emotional component and seemed to need social support. If it’s something members could do on their own, “don’t bother coming,” Smith declared.

The Hackermoms project examined here builds on the aforementioned feminist histories of craft to expose ideas of failure that contrast with productivist and masculine hacking pastimes. Specifically we examine the forms of hacking claimed by a group of mothers in the San Francisco Bay area to highlight the importance of personal failures and failures to rework hacker cultures.

Executing code entailed more than ‘menial’ labor, much like wrote domestic handi-work; to compute, female factory workers wove the core memory by hand — carefully moving long wires around rings — in what some termed the “little old lady method” (Wolfinger, 1994). Histories of craftwork have even shaped the computer itself. As his-torians of computing (Ensmenger 2010, Light 1999, Maly 2013) have suggested, pro-gramming has always been “women’s work.” Evidence includes the punch card mechanism Marie Joseph used in her Jacquard loom and Charles Babbage later fit to his analytic engine, the machine celebrated as the precursor of modern-day computers.

craftwork reappears in the technical imagination of the organization. Lucy Suchman and Randall Trigg (1993), for example, have equated the work of technology development with socially organized craftsmanship: “the craft-ing together of a complex machinery made of heterogeneous materials, mobilized in the service of developing a theory of mind” (p. 144). Here, they build on Latour’s (1986) concept of science as craftwork to describe the work of “crafting machines” that are capable of effectively engaging with humans and participating in social relations (Suchman and Trigg, 1993: 147). In particular, they identify “collaborative craftwork of hands, eyes, and signs” as the unit of analysis built into the organization of production and use.

By the end of World War I, however, technophilia took hold of the (male) modernist imagination, framing women as instruments and men as makers. The skilled artist/craftman had mastery of machines and women (Oldenziel, 1999: 146).

This rubric represents the legacy of two distinct gendered meanings built into the single word ‘craft’ by artisan communities (Adamson, 2010; Lippard, 2010 [1978]) and progressive era domestic DIY activity in the United States (Gelber, 1997). The first con-cerns feminized connotations positioning the quotidian as the place where power rela-tions can be voiced and contested. Feminist writing of the 1960s and 1970s exposed the historically gendered nature of craft and its ties to domesticity. According to art historian Glenn Adamson (2010), this scholarship reframed amateurism not as an acceptance of circumstance they needed to transcend but as a mechanism by which to judge the degree of gender prejudice. Feminist art historian Lucy Lippard (2010 [1978]) has argued that the category of craft even made possible the recognition of more female artists, expand-ing the realm of fine art to include quilts, textiles, and forms of material rehabilitation. Rehabilitation, Lippard claims, as a type of “inventive” patching (e.g. remaking clothes and recovering old furniture) becomes a mending of objects and public dignity.

But we soon saw that they applied the label ‘craft’ differently. Their definitions came out of a fervent interest in independent craft, or “indicraft,” signaling an effort to “preserve feminine heritage”

Craft figures strongly in these histories, which stress the role of homemaker as laborer (Adamson, 2010; Cowan, 1983; Strasser, 2000). By claiming this labor as part of hacking cultures, the hackerspace mem-bers we discuss locate women’s work at the center of new media industries.

Participants in these groups celebrate technical exper-tise over skills that resonate with mainstream practices and ideals (like advocacy). Drawing out similar relations, Ellen Ullman (2012) uses her personal account of writing assembly language to argue that work closer to the machine helps (often male) programmers main-tain a higher status in computing cultures. In her examination of the largely male free/libre open-source software (FLOSS) community, Dawn Nafus (2012) extends this argument to hacking discourse in what she terms a “pushyocracy.” FLOSS members’ open scrutiny and “highly masculinized, aggressive online talking” shaped the perceived worth of individual contributions to expose “both the material aspects of computing and the social identities that people create for themselves through engaging with programming [...as] cultures made by and for men” (p. 671).

While technology has loomed large in these accounts, several scholars argue that this shift toward participation extends important possibilities for posi-tively influencing daily life (Jenkins, 1992, 2006; Shirky, 2010). Others question the ability for a universal “participation” within new media cultures, suggesting people require adequate social and psychological resources, including time, for engagement (Irani, 2015; Turner, 2009).

we show how the work of failure began to destabilize an established ontology of hacking, making room for feminist legacies of craft.

“everyone who has been involved in organizing the space is a social justice activist, and that is often social justice outside of tech, so that is a little bit dif-ferent” (Wu, 2014: Interview with Sarah Fox and Rachel Rose Ulgado, 20 February). Organizers’ interests lay in serving their community, which was localized to the neighborhood.

“Co-working is about your living, your money-making life,” Smith explained. “And HackerMoms is about the rest of your life. Like all the other parts that get neglected when you’re trying to make money. And, for us, as mothers, the differentiation is not so clear anymore” (Smith and Cook, 2012).

During our visits, members paid US$60 for monthly dues, and the composition of the group tended toward White members (although active members included nonwhites; Smith, a first-generation Chinese-American, for example).3 The HackerMoms space sat at the border of Oakland and Berkeley where storage units and liquor stores once stood. Bakeries and gift stores now lined nearby streets, catering to a growing number of upper-middle-class residents, subtlety reproducing class posi-tions and exclusions.

The icebreaker for meetings became what they called craft aperitifs, small projects that kept their hands moving. These events invoked a particular idea of “craft” that we elaborate later, one that drew connec-tions between women’s contemporary milestones and feminist histories of handwork.

She knew she wasn’t going to join Noisebridge, finding it both messy (“completely offensive to all my design sensibilities,” she once remarked) and unapproachable (“I was into all the soft stuff and [Noisebridge] was into the hard stuff,” she explained).

Recent research has focused on hackerspaces as grassroots organizations for producing ad hoc, self-made tools (Toombs etal., 2014) and as homes for emerging technical entrepreneur-ship (Lindtner etal., 2014).Founder Sho Sho Smith built HackerMoms to identify with this ethos, what she called “true creativity”: making without a purpose or necessity, without people trying to elevate themselves or their career.2 Although she has admitted that she first associated hacking with criminal activity, she soon found it essential to the kind of life she desired

Finally, Rosner became an

Craft, according to Adamson, became “a strain of activity that responds to and conditions the putatively normative experience of modernity, in many and unpredictable ways” (Adamson, 2010: 5). It was not outside modernity “but a modern way of thinking otherwise.” In the writing that follows, we show how a logic of failure became a means for “thinking otherwise” about the hacking ethos.

Since the rise of early sites of computer hacking like the Chaos Computer Club, a German technology collective founded in the 1980s promoting open information infrastructure, the term hacking has fit aspirational ideals of technical cleverness and creativity perpetuated by engineer-ing cultures. Women-operated hackerspaces have opened an alternate view: enliven-ing connections between hacking and histories of women’s craftwork rooted in a feminist politics of fracture (Barad 2007; Haraway 1988).

Critiquing such claims as sensationalist, recent work identifies a problem of demarcation by which people control access to technical agency and who counts as innovative (Irani, 2015; Lindtner, 2015), illuminating differ-ent and multiple hacking histories. Gabriella Coleman (2011), for example, compares the protest movement Anonymous and the whistle-blowing project WikiLeaks to clarify the varying political sensibilities and practices from which hacking develops

Organizers promote cultural change using the tools of industry — taking up the masters’ tools to defeat the master. While organizers of repair events reject estab-lished modes of mass consumption, they posit device-level electronics repair as mecha-nisms for envisioning new people and societies.

Accounts of hacker cultures often highlight bug fixes (Coleman, 2011; Nafus, 2012), portraying failures as integral to the inventive, creative process of design and engineering (Petroski, 2006). Mothership HackerMoms began to address failure differently from these productivist tendencies. In addition to viewing failure as central to achievement, members identified personal failures and failures to transform hacker cultures, formulating failure as a moment for reflection. To make this argument, we examine two empirical contexts of failure: first, failure as members conceptualize it in the Failure Club project of narrativizing the self; and, second, failure as expressed from the outside through online “hate mail.” By tracing how members redefine failure we show how HackerMoms became a site of resistance: hacking the very ontology of hacking.

Unlike that of other hacker-spaces, members’ focus was not primarily hobbyist engineers. They built HackerMoms to serve mothers. Although as hobbyist engineers, writers, illustrators and artists these moth-ers could ostensibly join any other “traditional” hackerspace, members of HackerMoms claimed those sites became unaffordable or unmanageable without opportunities for childcare. The HackerMoms environment promised not only childcare but also a safer space to breastfeed and express milk, a sliding scale for membership dues, and access to a community of restless and curious moms.

By integrating feminist legacies of craftwork with the centrality of failure — exposing personal failures and failures to transform hacker cultures — members not only energize new modes of hacking activity but also hack the very ontology of hacking.

This model suggests three important research directions to analyze the role of appro-priation in technology evolution. The first would explore conditions that permit and encourage appropriation, ranging from technology architecture (e.g. technology openness) to legal and policy regimes governing how users are allowed to modify and apply technol-ogy in ways not intended by producers. The second direction would further examine appro-priation practices. Particularly fruitful would be further articulation of user/producer power negotiations that unfold during the appropriation stage and of the resulting innovation modalities. A third research direction would investigate how innovations that emerge from appropriation are later incorporated or blocked by producers through the repossession stage. Together, these three axes will further articulate the user/producer dynamics at work through appropriation, leading to a better understanding of the innovation process.

Teenagers in Sao Paolo’s favelas, who cannot afford airtime, use their device as a “media locker,” passing them on to friends after once loaded with recorded songs and video (Bar etal., 2011). Similarly in India, Bluetooth is used to load and exchange music, completely avoiding download expenses (Kumar and Parikh, 2013).

The emergence of text messaging abbreviations and languages is another form of creolization—in this case the literal creation of a creole (Castells etal., 2009).

Open source smartphone operating systems (including Android, Tizen, or Firefox OS) open up greater potential for creolization practices.

Creolization, however, does not seek or avoid conflict but aims to transform tech-nology or come up with new practices so that the technical systems better serves user needs. Creolization draws on bricolage practices (Lévi-Strauss, 1966), identifying the components of the technology that can be re-used, modified, or recombined to create something new. Creolization finds users more deeply involved in transforming technol-ogy than baroquization.

In these and many other examples, users appropriate technology by personalizing mobile phones as allowed by providers, using their mobile “as intended.” Their actions do not conflict with the interests of technology providers but generate revenue for device manufacturers, service providers, and third parties. User actions do, however, go beyond mere adoption and constitute active modification of devices or services. Taken together, these actions add up to a rich layering of modifications using customizable spaces cre-ated by the supplier in a process reminiscent of “baroque infiltration.”

Today for US$25 a month, a smartphone user can acquire a realistic “invisible boyfriend” whose messages are crowdsourced from hundreds of thousands micro-task workers, who customize their responses to the users’ preferences (Dewey, 2015). More substantive examples include the multiple mobile virtual network operators (MVNOs) that customize the generic service from the main mobile carriers to fit particular lifestyles.

Upon closer examination of the appropriation phase, we distinguish three modes of tech-nology appropriation: baroquization, creolization, and cannibalism, by analogy with cul-tural appropriation. Baroquization is the filling-in of technological spaces that providers intentionally leave blank for users to personalize devices and applications; creolizationis bricolage, the recombination of the technology’s components to create something new; and cannibalism is creative destruction, an innovative act that requires breaking down the existing to invent something new.These three forms of appropriation correspond to increasingly confrontational stances users take vis-à-vis technology providers, within a context of asymmetric power. Baroquization is docile, where users follow an appropriation script laid out for them by the provider. Creolization is playful and unpredictable, where users re-mix the providers’ script with their own, in ways that may clash with providers’ interests. At the extreme, cannibalism is deliberately hostile to the providers’ interests. These various appropria-tion modes correspond to progressively deeper user involvement with technology, requir-ing increasingly sophisticated technical skills. All three modes represent creative ways for users to assert greater control over technology, mold it to fit their lives, and make it their own.

First, the range of possibilities explored depends on the latitude for experimentation afforded by the technology. Second, the intensity with which innovations are explored reflects the

In fact, the manner in which providers negotiate this transition (how they handle the power shift) matters to the future success of technology and to the likelihood that users will further adopt and experiment.At the end of the repossession stage, a new or modified technology becomes availa-ble, upon which new rounds of adoption, appropriation, and repossession take place

User practices that create new uses represent forms of technology appropriation: whereas during the adoption stage, users simply used technology as it was given to them, here they modify technology to make it their own and invent practices around its possi-bilities. In doing so, users re-negotiate the relationship tying them to technology provid-ers: claiming technology as their own, they strive for greater control, with results that may not necessarily be congruent with the provider’s interest

Users do new things in new ways. Users explore new possibilities, including some beyond what motivated initial adoption. For instance, users personalize devices and applications to integrate them within their practices. Some users will re-arrange devices in ways that reflect their personalities

Initially, user practices do not change fundamentally: users do old things in new ways. For example, users make calls on a mobile phone instead of a wired phone or a public phone, but they carry out similar conversations, with the same people. New technology may allow existing practices to become more efficient—cheaper, faster, less place-bound—but not fundamentally different.

Our three-stage cycle of technology evolution begins when users adopt a technology and employ it to support their social or business activities. In a second stage, users appropri-ate technology: they experiment, try possibilities, and shape technology to fit their needs. In the third stage, providers take back control and repossess technology to re-configure it, reacting to the changes introduced through user appropriation. A new technology results, entering a new cycle as users adopt, appropriate anew, and prompt further repos-session, and so on (Bar, 1990).

First, we view technology evolution as a three-stage cyclical process of adoption, appropriation, and repossession. Users drive adoption. Users and providers alternatively drive appropriation and repossession, as users lead appropriation, while providers react when reclaiming the resulting innova-tions. Second, we identify three appropriation modes—baroquize, creolize, and canni-balize—that represent increasing degrees of power contestation by users. And third, we identify three repossession modes—co-opt, combine, and block—that represent increas-ingly antagonistic reactions by providers and mirror users’ appropriation strategies.

for analytic purposes we next order them from the less confrontational baroque to the more radical cannibalism, with creolization somewhere “in-between” (Santiago, 2001). While they are second nature for Latin Americans, we observe them throughout the world. Together, these modes offer a powerful taxonomy to understand innovation through mul-tiple appropriation strategies.

Born in the Plantation, the Hacienda, the Latifundio, and the Mine, creolization is now “scattered in those sheet plates and concrete mazes where our common becoming is adventuring itself, in favellas and mega-cities” (Glissant, 1995: 87). Alive and well, cre-olization can be found where Latin Americans live, in the spaces where they are exposed to new technologies. Born of avoidance (like Internet Protocol (IP) packets that find a route around obstacles) and mixing (like mashups and re-mix), creolization fits the realm of ICTs.

Latin Americans often resort to mixing and re-mixing in a process of “creolization.” The Americas are the con-tinent of mestisaje and hybridization. A reality that implies a process, hybridization can become an identity and the basis for appropriation.

The baroque succeeded because it expressed something all Latin American people (Indians, Africans, mestizos, and even sons and daughters of Spaniards born on the con-tinent) had in common: the rejection of the domineering and distant center. Carpentier (1995) explains that to understand “Why is Latin America the chosen territory of the baroque?” we must look at the people and processes that allowed them to finally own the continent: “Because all symbiosis, all mestisaje engenders the baroque. The American baroque develops [...] with the self-awareness of the American man [...] the awareness of being Other, of being new, of being symbiotic, of being a criollo” (p

They tried to preserve some of their world within the interstices left by conquerors. Direct confrontation was seldom successful, but infiltra-tion could be practiced in everyday life, in many aspects of cultural production. Power was always at stake.The baroque practice originated in Europe, where it was encouraged by Rome within a Counter-Reform strategy in which movement, dance, and popular art were used to counteract protestant rigor. In the Americas, the baroque took on a new life as it infil-trated spaces intentionally left vacant by the Iberian conquerors (Zamora and Kaup, 2010) and created an opportunity for the oppressed to state their presence, insert their messages, and suggest their views of the universe.

Gil, who later became Brazil’s Minister of Culture, described tropicalismo as “No longer a mere submission to the forces of economic imperialism, but a cannibalistic response of swallowing what they gave us, processing it, and making it something new and different” (Dibbell, 1989: 78). Within this historical perspective, Gil’s ministry support for Open Source and Free Software takes on its full meaning.

Three strategies deserve particular attention for their symbolic value: cannibalism, baroque, and creolization. Cannibalism is appropriation trough dismembering, absorption, and chemical transformation. Baroque—an infiltration strategy—is the artistic appropria-tion of spaces through filling and layering. In-between, creolization is appropriatio

Throughout history, Latin American populations have had extensive experience with the appropriation of objects, people, and ideas from abroad, most often in unfavorably asymmetric situations. This tradition continues to pro-duce a culture of its own, born from multiple resistance and appropriation strategies.

Likewise, the interplay between economic, cultural, and political tensions remains largely unexplored.

Surman and Reilly (2003) focus on appropriation of networked technologies in a strategically, politically, and creatively innovative manner oriented toward social change. In this context of advocacy, effective technology appropriation includes strategic Internet use for collaboration, publishing, mobilization, and observation. Here, the delineation between the use and appropriation occurs when technology is adapted to reflect goals and culture. Camacho (2001) describes appropriation by civil society organizations at the pinnacle of a technology use ladder. In the middle of the ladder, organizations focus on adoption of conventional technology. Toward the bottom, organizations and individuals with constrained access or slow adoption rates lag behind and seek access to technology. At the pinnacle, however, pioneers and activists appropriate technology to promote causes, for instance, creating flash mobs through mass text messaging to instantaneously organize large groups of people for social protest

Appropriation considers both learn-ing-by-using and learning-by-doing as central to the development of new processes (Rosenberg, 1982). Learning-by-doing in particular assumes that knowledge emerges through bricolage—tinkering with and recombining technology elements, thus enhancing one’s understanding (Lévi-Strauss, 1966). For Tuomi (2002), learning through appropria-tion is a user-centered process whereby users meld culture with material resources to innovate.

The nexus of appropriation shifts away from user empowerment through technology to users as technology developers, echoing others who view users as designers and developers (Eglash, 2004). The design perspective fur-ther recognizes that not all appropriation is successful. Notably, technological appropria-tion fails when users decide not to explore capabilities or to evaluate a technology (Carroll etal., 2002).

Rogers (2003) defines diffusion as the process through which an innovation is communicated and spreads over time. Rogers theorized diffusion as a one-stage process, whereas appropriation adds a more detailed view of actual technology use (Fichman, 2000)

Users may modify a device, download, or program new applications, invent unintended uses, or develop new practices that leverage its possibilities. This experimentation constitutes a re-negotiation of the power relationships embedded in the technology. This creative re-negotiation is the core of appropriation, the process through which users take something external and make it their own.

Second, we posit that users adopt technology because it makes a difference to their lives. In the case of mobile telephony, the technology opens up new socio-economic opportunities by increasing connectedness to others. Usage, in turn, reveals the politics embedded within a technology’s configuration, disclosing who controls what

We first emphasize that technology is not neutral. The design of products, applications, and services embodies choices, largely made in early development stages by equipment producers and service providers, about how devices ought to be used, by whom and for what purpose. A technology’s architecture embodies power relationships between equipment makers, service providers, and users. Relationships between various stakeholders have social and economic implications

This article frames appropriation as a political process.

Users re-invent technology when they test features, tweak devices and applications to better fit their needs (Papa and Papa, 1992), invent new ways to use services, and develop novel social, economic, and political practices around technology’s possibilities (Venkatesh etal., 2012). As new practices develop, we need to better understand the dynamics of interaction between social, economic, and political influences

For a technology to evolve in accordance with users’ needs, aiding social and economic development, the focus must move beyond mere adoption. When users appropriate technology and make it their own, new uses and innovations emerge. The appropriation process is a contest for control over a technological system’s configuration, as users, designers, and manufacturers battle over who can use that technology, at what cost, under what conditions, for what purpose, and with what consequences. This confrontation, we argue, constitutes a powerful innovation mechanism.

Appropriation is the process through which technology users go beyond mere adoption to make technology their own and to embed it within their social, economic, and political practices. The appropriation process is a negotiation about power and control over the configuration of technology, its uses, and the distribution of its benefits. The negotiation surrounding technology appropriation echoes earlier creative tensions in the New World regarding the appropriation of cultural objects and ideas from abroad.

Yet de­spite my flaws as a pro­gram­mer, with Racket I’ve been able to ren­der big­ger ideas into pro­grams more quickly, and with fewer bugs, than any lan­guage I’ve used be­fore (and there have been many—Ba­sic, C, C++, Perl, Java, JavaScript, Python, and oth­ers). Since I haven’t got­ten a brain trans­plant re­cently, there must be some­thing spe­cial about Racket as a language.

I like to think of Pollen markup a way of capturing not just the text, but also my ideas about the text. Some of these are low-level ideas (“this text should be italicized”). Some are high-level ideas (“this text is the topic of the page”). Some are just notes to myself. In short, everything I know about the text becomes part of the text.In so doing, Pollen markup becomes the source code of the book.

The nicest thing we could say about XML is that its intentions are good. It’s pointed toward the right goals. But its benefits are buried under atrocious ergonomics.

In conclusion, these articles highlight elements of a broader story of increasing democ-ratization of hacking and making. This plurality will likely continue to grow and confront global, structural, and technological challenges worldwide.

François Bar, Matthew Weber, and Francis Pisani advocate for a cul-tural model of technological appropriation drawn from Latin America. Appropriation draws attention to how users interpret, manipulate, and repurpose technology in creative and unexpected ways. Their cycle of evolution suggests cultural mechanisms of appro-priation: baroquization, creolization, and cannibalism. This new vocabulary to understand technological appropriation un-moors the notion of “hacking” from Western modernity. It encourages us to think about how users and cultures are central to a technology’s life-cycle. Beyond just signaling difference, Bar, Weber, and Pisani suggest that innovation on the periphery is a powerful process that merits consideration.

Richardson argues that “open design” in the maker movement encourages diversity and collective participation in the production process. Being “pre-hacked” provides an alternative way to think about participation in technological produc-tion. The maker movement tenuously embraces open design, even if they have less success in considering how these practices might scale.

“Civic hackers” are a diverse range of individuals who improve community life by creating and modifying digital infrastructure. Policy-makers optimistically describe them as driving new economies using government data. Critical scholars note how they precariously labor for waning institutions. Yet, we may misunderstand civic hackers because they transgress established political categories of libertarianism and liberalism, and adversary and unitary democracy. Andrew Schrock charts a middle ground by argu-ing that civic hacking—and its fraught, even contradictory politics—partly emerged from a history of progressive informational practices. In the shift from “information” to “data,” the original goals of these practices became muted, even as new possibilities for civic engagement emerged. “Data activism and advocacy” describes a fraught but diverse range of political tactics of amateur experts working for change, often within the political system. He argues these remediated practices carry the impulses of political reform, even as they are often tied up with conflicting imperatives.

Hacker and maker spaces are community workshops that promote notions of open-access and equal participation. Yet, they tend to embrace a contradiction. Their egalitar-ian goals paradoxically reflect a masculine geek identity anchored by an exclusionary “meritocracy.” Addressing democratization requires questioning how power and identity in hacker and maker spaces can be reconnected and re-programmed. Daniela K. Rosner and Sarah Fox illuminate just such a rich counter-narrative in the feminist hackerspace Mothership Hackermoms. Rosner and Fox argue feminist hackerspaces emerged from legacies of craft, engineering culture, and emotional style through failure. They argue that histories of craft and domesticity don’t just undergird engineering cultures—they provide concepts for women to re-imagine maker spaces in a feminist mold.

Critiques have emerged over how these prototypes are rarely effective or adopted in addressing the very problems they inspire. Thomas Lodato and Carl DiSalvo suggest that this disillusionment stems from a misunderstanding of the process and outcomes of hackathons. They argue that issue-oriented hackathons create “props”—material tools for thinking through issues—and cohere “proto-publics” through material participation. These implicit outcomes appear almost in spite of their explicit format and goals. Hackathons therefore provide the ability to articulate issues of shared concern and col-lectively work towards alleviating social issues.

democracy requires space for collective action. As technologies and their communities of practice changed, new spaces were needed that reached beyond established collectivities of group, community, and organization. Hackathons and hackerspaces are two such genres of collectivity that encourage participation and collaboration towards explicitly egalitarian goals

Inconsistencies in ideological perspective are not uncommon in activities which attempt to balance individualism and communalism. These very frictions might belie possibilities for a greater imagination or shared experience. However, we argue that it is only in the disputes and frictions between pluralities of publics that democratization emerges. Dissensus across making and hacking communities allows people to experiment, eventu-ally finding communities and processes in which they feel comfortable and can identify. These very migrations, connected by fluid narratives and practices, drive the capacity of communities to develop and innovate.

Many movements have become somewhat unsta-ble and decentralized. This instability allows for fluidity and moments where cultures become complicit in neoliberalism and globalization. This complicit exploitation is espe-cially visible when we consider the relationship between maker publics and technolo-gies. In buying, creating, and re-purposing technologies, hacker and maker groups engage capitalist enterprises that span the globe.

The public has become aware of the popularization of hacking and making mostly through moments of emergency and scandal. Forgetting serves a function for the public, allowing them to get on with their own interests. Concurrently, this public forgetting allows hackers to regain their spaces of creativity and action. Maker culture, too, forgets in order to find a perpetual sense of novelty in their very existence. Forgetting, an important social and cultural project, is also part of the democratic project. Democracies forget to put aside old tensions and re-form in order for the public to sup-port them.

We have framed the theme of this issue as “The Democratization of Hacking and Making” to draw attention to the relationships between action, knowledge, and power. Particularly, hacking and making are about how practices of creation and transforma-tion generate knowledge and influence institutions. These acts concentrate and distrib-ute power through publics and counterpublics. Yet, the very mutability of hacker and maker relations makes them a challenge to identify and research. Hacking and making collectives have proven capable of constituting and reconstituting themselves in physi-cal and virtual spaces. They integrate across infrastructures, collaborative systems, socio-economic divides, and international boundaries.

.Theopendatadefinitionthatemergedfocusedoneightqualitiesofdata:completeness,pri-macy,timeliness,easeofphysicalandelectronicaccess,machinereadability,non-discrimination,useofcommonlyownedstandards,licensing,permanence,andusagecosts.

civic hackers often act as the “slow food movement” of digital political action, embracing local sourcing, ethical consumption, and pleasure of community work. Civic hackers are hardly responding to a new narrative of technological change.

The more pressing threat is that a fear of solution-ism and neoliberal connotations of “open data” together might dissuade political par-ticipation. Systemic social disparities are often intractable. The route to alleviate them has never been detachment or abandonment. Looking forward, we should pay attention to how data activism and advocacy might result in meaningful systematic change beyond the usual claims of “transparency.” To fulfill the possibilities for meaningful social change hinted at in their history, civic hackers might have to coordinate around specific mechanisms for change and articulate a deeper sense of democracy than the language of technology provides.

To put Giddens in conversation with Morozov, the threat of civic hackers is not that they naively employ “solution-ism.” Quite to the contrary, they debate ethics of technology design, seek collabora-tions with local organizations, and attempt to re-think how government services might be more sensitive to resident needs.

Might “utopian realist” be applicable to the practices of civic hackers, intertwined with particular repertoires, technologies, and affective publics? McKenzie Wark (2014) sug-gests that the relationship between utopian and realist might be mutually constitutive rather than dialectical. He re-frames utopia as a realizable fragment or diagram that re-imagines relations. From this perspective, civic hacking gets traction not because they were ever intended to be the sole “solution” to a problem, but they are ways of acting and creating that are immediately apprehensible. Prototypes capture the imagination because they are shards of a possible future and can be created, modified, and argued about (Coleman, 2009).

Civic hackers might be most appropriately described as utopian realists (Giddens, 1990: 154), a term Giddens employed to capture how assuaging negative consequences in a risk society required retaining Marx’s concern of connecting social change to insti-tutional possibilities while leaving behind his formulation of history as determining and reliance on the proletariat as change agents. He positioned utopian realists as sensitive to social change, capable of creating positive models of society, and connecting with life politics.

civic hackers seek to ease societal suffering by bringing the hidden workings of abstract systems to light and improve their functioning. Part of the academic discomfort with recognizing civic hacking might stem from their activities cutting across political categories that have traditionally been passionately defended: unitary and adversary, citizen and consumer, horizontalist and institutionalized, and prefigurative and strategic.

Contesting refers to the creation of crowdsourced data or prototypes for not yet existent uses for data. It is similar to modeling but with an oppositional rather than persuasive tone.

That “hackers” can model beneficial process disrupts the often presumed subversive nature of hacking as much as it does easy assumptions about a Foucaultian notion of governmentality. Prototypes act as working evidence to lobby for changing government process, particularly those that improve digital infrastructure or direct communication with citizens. The capa-bility of code to act as a persuasive argument has long been noted, and modeling can produce charged debates about the very meaning of “civic.”

The most popular apps to date have been highly instrumental ways to request services to fix city infrastructure, such as SeeClickFix, a platform that lets residents take pictures of issues that need repair, that are delivered to the appropriate city department as an actionable item. We might think of this as a base-level civic act similar to picking litter off the ground or paint-ing over graffiti. Other activities are thicker modes of participation by generating data or metadata. The primary effort of the 2014 CodeAcross effort was to map exist-ing sources of open data. The leader of the event, D.W. Ferrell, described “our role as citizens is to complement” efforts by the government and organizations such as CfA. Contributing to data repositories served purposes for multiple stakeholders:

dis-putes over community as a particular category threatens to distract from a general focus on solidarity by activating “social bases of discursive publics that engage peo-ple across lines of basic difference in collective identities” (p. 374). A mutable, popu-larized hacker identity may have this potential, capable of processing and interpreting abstract systems of regulation.

He proposes that “monitorial citizens” act as a watchdog for specific issues, ready to take action. From this perspective, civic hack-ers could be considered a monitorial elite, watching data streams and processes of algorithmic regulation for injustices and engaging directly with local politics. “The local” operates as a point of collaboration (Dunbar-Hester, 2013) and point of entry for geeks to engage with neighborhood issues

After all, “government transparency cannot be defined as only the information that governments deign to share

Civic hackers widely view machine-readable data as more useful because it drives a wider variety of potential uses, even as the shift from informational uses raises the bar to the literacies required to interpret it. In civic hackathons, knowledge of government operations was as useful as technical knowledge.

Data activism and advocacy ranges from civic engagement (Putnam, 2001) to more oppositional activism (Jordan, 2001). In this sense, it is a spe-cific association of technologically mediated participation with particular political goals (Lievrouw, 2011) resulting in a wide range of tactics. Although open government data is still evolving and is constrained by predictions for economic growth and self-regulation, I argue it enables civic hackers to participate in civic data politics. This is particularly important because data-driven environment is often distanced from pro-viding individuals a sense of agency to change their conditions (Couldry and Powell, 2014). Data activism and advocacy can take place through organizing on related top-ics, online through mediated data repositories such as Github, and in-person events such as hackathons.

Obama appointed Aneesh Chopra as the first chief technology officer (CTO) of the United States and released executive orders defining open government in 2009 as entailing transparency (“conduct its work more openly and publish its information online”), participation (in decision-making), and collaboration (both internal and external). In 2013, he emphasized machine-readable data as a “default for govern-ment.”

Open data, like open information before it, promised fixes for bureaucratic problems and leveling power asymmetries (Fenster, 2012). Municipal governments strapped for funds and in dire need of more efficient frameworks have, of course, welcomed the message that open government data can alleviate time-consuming FOIA requests, make services easier for residents to use, and drive hack-athons as a form of public outreach.

Swartz objected because transparency for transparency’s sake shifted labor from government entities to eve-ryday citizens, and the connection of transparency to accountability had been irrevo-cably altered: “the pipeline of leak to investigation to revelation to report to reform has broken down.” In their opinion, flows of information became detached from their uses to gain leverage against corruption.

Crowdsourcing is often used as a metaphor for open data initiatives with emergent and vaguely defined goals of collaboration rather than specific ones (Brabham, 2013). Open data came increasinly referred to an ecosystem of production rather than accountability. In The New Ambiguity of Open Government, Harlan Yu and David Robinson (2012) note that open data signals a movement toward “politically neutral public sector disclosures that are easy to reuse, even if they have nothing to do with public accountability” (p. 178).

The emphasis on innovation is also vis-ible in Tim O’Reilly’s (2010) influential notion of “government as platform,” which positioned systems of governance as being similar to technical systems, subject to con-stant observation and tweaking to improve inefficiencies. He applied a biological model to government, where “information produced by and on behalf of citizens is the lifeblood of the economy and the nation” (O’Reilly, 2010: 14).

The computational shift of open government data refers to the move from governments fulfilling information requests to automatically releasing data to fulfill a range of more speculative uses. While promises about the Internet (Morozov, 2013b) encouraged this move, so too did notions of open government from previous decades. For example, David Osborne’s notion of “reinventing government” involved hallmarks familiar to open data initiatives: “catalytic” public–private relationships, connecting with communi-ties, and decentralized collaboration (Osborne and Gaebler, 1992)

On the level of municipal governments in particular, the movement from information to data focused on new uses that emphasized collaboration and utility over accountability (Yu and Robinson, 2012), signaling what I term the computational shift of openness.

The open data definition drafted at Sebastopol describes data’s completeness, primacy, timeliness, ease of physical and electronic access, machine readability, non-discrimination, use of commonly owned standards, licensing, permanence, and usage costs. This description made it clear what the proper-ties of data were, even as outcomes, fitting with an open-source model, were more

His stance was not cyberlibertarian (Barbrook and Cameron, 1996). As his successive refutation of transparency in this shift toward open data indicates (Lessig, 2009), he was quite concerned about efforts with software becoming distanced from tangible outcomes. Lessig might regarded as a hacker in the mold of Tim Jordan (2008), taking a progressive perspective on how we might regulate technologies—alongside laws, norms, and markets—that affect behavior.

In the early 1990s, govern-ment transparency became something of a fad, spawning similar legislation overseas. Leading transparency activists started to view the potential of the Internet for increasing accessibility as a natural extension of this freedom of information movement. The efforts of Carl Malamud and the Sunlight Foundation applied right to information principles to the Internet, facilitating public access to vital information on law and government before individuals requested it. They took a more overtly ecological perspective on openness where information could be integrated into as-yet unforeseen processes

First, FOIA provided accessible tools to put abstract ideas into practice. Everyday citizens started to attach various political notions to these activities. Second, information flowed into a journalistic ecosystem that was prepared to process and interpret it for everyday citizens. Information obtained through FOIA was being interpreted in stories that changed public opinion (Leff etal., 1986). Third, ability for individuals to request information led to alternate uses for activ-ists, public interest groups, and non-profit organizations.

FOIA was only strengthened after Nixon’s resignation in 1974 when it was amended over Ford’s veto. Even afterward, it didn’t match with the complete vision of ASNE. At times requests to comply stretched well beyond 10days and requests are still frequently denied. Despite claiming to embrace openness, Obama’s presidency has been notoriously secretive, with record numbers of whistle-blower cases and FOIA requests being denied or censored.

Harold L. Cross to write The People’s Right to Know. Cross concluded that “there is no enforceable legal right in public or press to inspect any federal non-judicial record.” This text was published in 1953 and circulated mostly at the federal level, promoting the idea of freedom of infor-mation within and outside of journalist circles as being beneficial to the public good. Congressman John Moss’ commission then garnered the attention for President Johnson to sign FOIA into law on 4 July 1966.

The replacement of FOIA requests by open data is still touted by data platforms such as Socrata as a savings of labor and money (Quigg, 2014). Participants in civic data hackathons conceptually connect open data with accountability, to “keep city hall honest” as one participant put it.

Journalism historians Stoker and Rawlins (2005) extended Brandeis’ metaphor of light to describe this as a move from “searchlight to flashlight”—a narrower and less powerful beam that only illuminated what corpora-tions wanted. Yet they also critiqued progressive beliefs that publicity was synonymous with purification and backers such as Adams for placing “too much faith in information’s power to produce public action” (p. 186)

In 1902’s What is Publicity? political professor Henry Adams described publicity as “an essential agency for the control of trusts” (p. 895).

Open government data therefore provides a specific lineage to compare and contrast with the multitude of “open” concepts in circulation, including open standards (Russell, 2014), open source (Coleman, 2012a), and open systems (Kelty, 2008: Chapter 5). While the open government data movement in the United States is kin to these other lineages, it is conceptually and historically distinct. It also bears mention that this history is con-fined to the United States. Practices with openness have been differently interpreted by grassroots participants across the world, from Asia (Lindtner, 2012) to the global South (Chan, 2013).

Yet, the natural equating of “openness” or government transparency (Hood and Heald, 2006) with accountability increasingly became dubious (Tkacz, 2012). The move to “open data” was often an imperative that didn’t make clear where the levers were for social change that benefited citizens (Lessig, 2009). Still, I argue that civic hackers are often uniquely positioned to act on issues of public concern; they are in touch with local communities, with technical skills and, in many cases, institutional and legal literacies. I conclude by connecting the open data movement with a specific set of political tactics—requesting, digesting, contributing, modeling, and contesting data.

Coleman suggested scholars consider the diverse range of ways individuals organize, mobilize, and act politically. This move toward how political notions evolve within specific collectives can also be seen in Nathanael Bassett’s (2013) writing on activist hackathons and Molly Sauter’s (2014) work with online civil disobedience. Their mode of inquiry, and the one I follow here, focuses on a specific collective with a specific and traceable history with attendant tools, practices, and tactics.

In each case data was framed as repressive of notions of civil society or enforcing an impoverished or constrictive notion of citizenship. The perspectives of Tufekci and Cheney-Lippold provide valuable insight into how algorithms and data are powerful shapers of modern life. Yet, they leave little room for a different form of algorithmic citizenship that might emerge where indi-viduals desire to reform technology and data-driven processes. As Couldry and Powell (2014) note, models of algorithmic power (Beer, 2009; Lash, 2007) tend to downplay questions of individual agency. They suggest a need to “highlight not just the risks of creating and sharing data, but the opportunities as well” (p. 5). We should be attentive to moments where meaningful change can occur, even if those changes are fraught with forces of neoliberalism and tinged with technocracy.