Photo Documentation While Brown: Fear and Data Collection in (white male) USA

Prologue

In a graduate theories course, we were discussing one of my own articles that utilized social disorganization theory. As part of that conversation, we discussed the project I was about to embark on, and I mentioned that I would be travelling to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (the UP).

A conversation ensued as to how safe it would be for me, a visibly Brown ⁴ woman, to travel to certain parts of the UP by myself. This conversation set the backdrop as I planned the trip.

*****

Day 1 started early on Friday morning. I asked a friend to come with me because some of my students warned me that I shouldn’t go to parts of the UP by myself. As I waited for her to arrive, I double-checked I had packed up everything into my car: suitcase; cooler; iPad and laptop; and, most importantly, camera. We left around 8:30 am on what would be a 3-day data collection trip. Thus began a 20-day, two-state journey to take photographs of probation and parole offices.

Chapter 1: Setting the Frame

While I jokingly refer to my research as “walking around and taking pictures,” such a description does not illustrate the realities of what it means to collect data for a photo documentary project. Indeed, conducting such a project requires careful planning to navigate the logistical difficulties and ensure it encompasses the rigor and empirical advantages of qualitative work broadly. More traditional qualitative methods require immersing oneself in the research environment for a significant amount of time. Because of the nature of the spaces I was documenting, I had to carefully time my immersion. As these were active probation and parole offices, I was cognizant of the need to avoid photographing those working at and visiting the office without their consent. More importantly, I did not want to participate in unintentionally surveilling an already heavily surveilled group of individuals. As such, I limited my outings to times when the offices were closed: weekends and evenings.

The reality of research funding also impacted my timing. I had to wait until the funding period began and had to complete the data collection process within the award amount. This was less of a concern for Michigan as living in the state allowed me to use my own car and the location of some offices limited the need for overnight trips. California, however, posed a challenge. I had to consider renting a car, hotel costs, and access to food and water in more rural parts of the state along with ensuring the time needed to visit and photograph roughly 30 offices. After mapping the offices, possible cities in which I could safely find a place to stay for the night, and access to grocery stores for food that would travel well (particularly in locations without access to fast food or other usual travel stops), I managed to compress the travel into 13 days and 12 nights. Such a timeline, however, meant my planning had to be immaculate.

Capturing the images posed other challenges. While cell phone cameras have improved dramatically over the years, they still do not provide the options that a traditional camera does. As such, I used my Nikon D90 (DSLR) camera for the data collection process. Effectively using a camera and understanding how to frame photographs to gather the appropriate data is not a skill one is taught in most graduate programs. I was fortunate in that I became interested in photography over a decade prior and had experience with headshots, portraiture, event photography, and travel photography. Thus, I had the benefit of honing my technical and aesthetic skills long before this endeavor. I knew that photographing the buildings in which the offices are located required the ability to capture both breadth (overall scope of the building) and depth (details such as the use of surveillance cameras). The best way to do so is with an all-in-one zoom. Hence, I used my 18 to 270 mm lens, which allowed me to photograph the offices at a wide-angle and from a distance while also being able to zoom in for finer details and everything in between without constantly swapping lenses.

The distance also created a conundrum. On the one hand, the distance made it less likely for passersby to question what I was photographing. On the other hand, by virtue of being a Brown woman standing around with a longer lens, I unintentionally and unwillingly made it easier for others to view me as a threat regardless of where I stood or what I was doing. It was a case of suspicion if I do and suspicion if I don’t. Another issue with photography from a distance related to my perceptions of the criminal legal system. ⁵ While I have been fortunate in that my experience with the system has been limited and not nearly as brutal as others, my knowledge of how the system views and treats people of Color created a keen desire to avoid interactions when possible. Thus, from the start of this project, safety was a paramount concern.

Chapter 2: I See Racism

Asking a person of Color if they experience racism is like asking them if they breathe. The answer is always yes. And yet, I have never had a conversation about the possible racism that my colleagues of Color or I might face while conducting research. Correction. I’ve never had a formal conversation. We talk about this informally amongst ourselves, but “official” conversations (e.g., in the classroom; in methods books) remain centered on the assumption of the white researcher studying the “Other.” Since racism isn’t an issue for them, why would we need to talk about it?

But some of my strongest memories from this research trip have to do with racism I either encountered or feared I would encounter. This racism included microaggressions, such as the time a little white girl riding her bike saw me sitting in my car and stared at me with a “What are you?” expression. Or the time a couple was walking toward me on the sidewalk as I was packing up my car and the woman grabbed the man’s arm, and they both turned their heads away from me just as I was about to say good morning. At the time, I couldn’t decide if it was racism or people not wanting to be social, so I decided it was probably both. And then there was the time I was taking the luggage dolly back to the hotel lobby and an older white man asked how long I had worked at the hotel even though I was wearing cargo pants and a University of Georgia t-shirt, and the staff (mostly people of Color) wore blue aprons.

The racism also included the ever-present macroaggression of confederate flags. While I saw several, one occasion in southwestern Michigan stands out. I was at an office located inside a sheriff’s office in a suburban neighborhood that was undergoing major road work. While gathering my photographs, I noticed the construction made it difficult to find a clear way out of the area. I almost walked into the sheriff’s office to ask for directions but decided against it (a decision itself based on fears of how the sheriffs would respond to me walking in the door). After collecting my data, I often sat in my car writing up my field notes, but I didn’t want to loiter in front of the random house where I parked, so I went in search of a more suitable locale. And that’s when I saw it. It was a flicker at first, and I wasn’t sure what I saw. I was driving slowly because I was lost, and the road was rough. So, when the wind blew again, I saw that it was definitely a confederate flag, but it looked odd. Was it a US flag on one side and a confederate flag on the other? The wind blew again, and I realized it was half and half! My heart started racing so I turned toward the main street as fast as possible. I hit a road closed sign, but I needed to get out, so I went through the intersection anyway. This was a block away from where I was taking pictures. What if these “neighbors” had seen me? Or what if one of the sheriffs had seen my frantic attempt to leave the neighborhood? What would have happened? After leaving the neighborhood, I pulled into a Pizza Hut parking lot and sat in my car to write up my field notes. I also looked up the flag to confirm what I had seen and, sure enough, I was right. My original plans were to stay the night in that city, and all I could think of was how glad I was I couldn’t find an Airbnb there.

Slightly less terrifying but no less stressful was a stop in California. I had a 6-hour drive to the next office and the route took me through some incredibly remote parts of the state with a plethora of national forests and more than a few “State of Jefferson” flags. ⁶ All I saw for miles upon miles was desert-like areas and ranches. I needed to take a break, but the rest areas were so far apart that I missed one every time I switched state routes. Eventually, I figured I’d just find a public restroom or restaurant at my destination. Boy, was I wrong. When I arrived, all I saw was the sheriff’s office, a saloon type place, a few small shops, the post office, and a gas station—none of which felt particularly safe or welcoming and all of which created a sense of an “Old West” town with nary a person of Color to be found. I then spotted the library, but even that became the wrong choice. It was only open on certain days, and naturally I did not arrive on one of those days. Next, I tried to look up any fast food restaurants that might be nearby. Nothing. I reconsidered the other options and decided the gas station was worth a try. It was called “White’s Sierra Station,” and I couldn’t decide if they were Jim Crow hold outs or if they named the place after their surname. They also had a “State of Jefferson” flag, which did not address my questions—or concerns. Thankfully, all went well, but I felt so Brown in that moment.

Chapter 3: Racism, Sexism, and Fear! Oh, My!

While my Brownness was in the foreground in certain moments, it was always present in the background. While planning for the trip, I tried to ensure that my travel plans would encounter as few hiccups as possible. I checked my provider’s cell phone coverage map so I would be aware of where I might lose reception. I mapped specific gas stations and planned stops along the routes to guarantee I would not end up stranded. I planned photography outings for specific times in part to avoid photographing agents or those under supervision, but also to avoid awkward conversations about what I was doing. When taking photographs, I attempted to stay out of the range of surveillance cameras surrounding the buildings. And yet, the data collection phase felt risky. I had no idea how anyone would react if they saw me and asked what I was doing. I didn’t know how they would react if or when they saw me on the surveillance videos. Even with my precautions, there is a good chance I was recorded on as many as 60 different office surveillance cameras taking photographs. If there was coordination across offices, it would look even more suspicious. And what then? Perhaps that fear was irrational. After all, I was not engaging in anything illegal, I had business cards with me, and I had a good explanation. But given how easily people assume all Brown people are terrorists (Dutt-Ballerstadt, 2021; Finn, 2011; Kumar, 2016; Patel, 2012; Poolokasingham et al., 2014), I didn’t want to find out one way or the other.

And yet, there were a few moments I nearly faced that fear. At the very first office, I ran into a sheriff while taking photographs at the back of the building. Thankfully, it was a beautiful historic courthouse and the sheriff was used to people stopping to take pictures. At another location, I think a parole agent saw me as I was wrapping up. I had stopped to check the pictures I’d taken and didn’t see him coming up the road. I looked up and he had slowed down, poked his head out of his window, and looked at me before turning into the parking lot. I was so grateful I did not walk to the back of the office to take photographs because that could have placed me in an even more precarious position if he saw me there. I walked back to my car and left as quickly as possible. Every few seconds, I checked my mirrors to make sure I was not being followed. My only hope was that he just thought it was weird and let it go. I didn’t see surveillance cameras, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t any there or in the surrounding buildings. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Maybe not. Knowing I was almost confronted by a parole agent, however, meant rushing through my final checks and once again delaying my field notes.

As deliberate as I was in my planning, I could not account for everything (Lisiak & Krzyżowski, 2018). For instance, several of the offices were in spaces that were far from the regular road and had several cars or people in the area. I became fearful for my safety because of the isolated locations and because of how probation and parole agents might react if they saw a random person taking photographs. In response, I opted to take photographs even further away than the usual. Specifically, I photographed what was visible from the cross-street. These were the only photographs taken with a cell phone as that process was faster than using my DSLR. This meant a few offices could not be analyzed in as much depth as others. I did not, however, discuss my fear as the reason for this lack of depth. If I had, it may have enhanced my analytical argument, but I worried doing so would reduce the legitimacy of the study.

Sometimes, the fear was related to my gender (not my race) and did not surface until later. While photographing an office near where I live, a passerby asked if I did photography for events (church event in this case). I said I did and, not thinking it through, gave him my cell number to arrange a possible photography job. I never heard from him about the event, but I did periodically receive flirtatious messages. Initially, I just rolled my eyes and deleted the texts. As they kept coming, however, I felt a growing sense of unease at the periodic intrusions in my life and wondered if the texts were the only oversteps I would face. After over a year of not responding, I finally told him to stop texting, which he of course ignored. I worried the harassment would escalate to something worse (e.g., in person stalking), so I blocked him and took steps to ensure other means of contacting or finding me were not easily accessible to him. ⁷

Chapter 4: Safety for Thee, But Not for Me

While qualitative researchers are encouraged to “check-in” with themselves to ensure their own biases or expectations are not impacting the study, we are rarely, if ever, encouraged to check-in with our own emotions. In my case, fear for my safety became a key driver in the data collection process, though I did not always realize that was the case. Such detailed planning as asking a white friend to accompany me and act as a protector on certain parts of the trip to mapping gas station locations to making decisions about the depth of data collection at specific locations were all undertaken to ensure my Brownness and femaleness would not place me in dangerous positions. Even my decision to avoid people at the offices I photographed was partially based on concerns for my own safety along with concerns for those under supervision who might accidentally be photographed.

While it is possible that white male researchers face similar fears, the risk they take is often celebrated. As Huang (2016) notes, “Within the academic version of celebrity, the risk-taking, intrepid, normatively white and male ethnographer is star” (p. Online). For others, like me, such risk-taking not only comes with fears about our safety, but also fears about our reputation. In my own notes, I comment that the fear impacting my data collection wasn’t good fieldwork and I was aware of the trade-offs of risking neutrality and depth for safety. In hindsight, I know I made the right decisions. In the moment, however, I worried I was being a “bad” researcher, highlighting how I had internalized the danger fixation and the fear that other scholars would view my study as invalid should such decisions become known (Hanson & Richards, 2017).

As several studies indicate (Hanson & Richards, 2017, 2019; Huang, 2016; Sharabi, 2022), sexual violence against researchers is common, but such incidents are rarely discussed publicly and scholars who disclose these experiences are often met with victim-blaming or are otherwise dismissed. Within criminology specifically, Stanko (1992) found unwanted sexual attention and sexual harassment was a common experience for female criminologists in their graduate training and fieldwork. In general, there seems to be an expectation of silence around harassment or assault. Indeed, this is the first I have spoken of the unwanted male attention. I naively assumed—hoped—that my professional credentials offered a degree of protection, and that my status as a researcher would push “my other identities into the background” (Grenier, 2021, p. 16; see also Ball, 2021). As such, it did not occur to me that I would be viewed as a sexualized body by others, which placed me in a position to make such a mistake. I remained silent in large part because I blamed myself (Hanson & Richards, 2017, 2019) and worried about receiving negative, rather than supportive, reactions from colleagues (see, for example, Hanson & Richards, 2017, 2019; Huang, 2016; Sharabi, 2022). It was not until I reviewed the literature I mention here that I realized my silence was part of a larger pattern. Given the phenomenal work feminist and queer criminologists are doing in areas of rape and sexual assault, and growing conversations about the use of Title IX and the impact of the #MeToo movement, qualitative criminological research is at a key moment to include these conversations in the research process.

Indeed, had I known such experiences of sexual harassment and assault (and racism) were common and had we more openly discussed the personal and emotional aspect of qualitative research in more formal settings, perhaps I would have been better prepared. I certainly would not have blamed myself for the unwanted attention and likely would have known to be more aware of the possibility of such situations and avoided it altogether. More importantly, if I had a more complete toolkit for navigating these situations (Reyes, 2020)—a toolkit that is again inadequately discussed in formal conversations about qualitative criminological research (Grenier, 2021)—I would have accepted that my safety during the process is more important than taking a million photographs rather than reassuring myself after the fact.

Chapter 5: Happily Ever After?

While I focus on the fixation of danger, the fixations of solitude and intimacy also played a role in this project. The goal of avoiding people increased solitude, but also potentially increased risks. ⁸ Indeed, asking a friend to join me for part of the trip, and wishing I had a friend with me on other parts of the trip, were attempts at reducing solitude in exchange for greater protection (e.g., safety in numbers and whiteness). On the other hand, as other studies find, the expectation of intimacy increases risk for some fieldworkers as “[t]hese relationships themselves mediate, mitigate and accentuate risk” (Johansson, 2015, p. 55). Thus, embracing and even privileging safety allows for a “more complete telling of the field” (Hanson & Richards, 2017, p. 606) and provides an avenue to interrogate the other two fixations within qualitative criminological research.

A focus on safety comes only if we—qualitative methodologists—take seriously the ways in which race, gender, and other identities play a role in the research process (Ball, 2021; Douglas-Jones et al., 2020a; Grenier, 2021; Hanson & Richards, 2017, 2019; Schilt & Williams, 2008). There need to be far more formal discussions in classroom settings, between advisor/advisees and mentor/mentees, and in publications on how social capital impacts the processes of gaining access to participants, data collection, and data analysis, and how assumptions about identities can hinder these processes (Douglas-Jones et al., 2020a; Robertson, 2002). To date, criminology still largely presents the researcher as neutral, nonsexual or asexual, and undesirable. Such an assumption fails to prepare researchers—particularly novice researchers—adequately for fieldwork, resulting in scholars “finding themselves in vulnerable or even dangerous situations” (Grenier, 2021, p. 8). Reflexivity that moves beyond discussions of bias and neutrality will also highlight “variation in access to people and their lives” (Reyes, 2020, p. 222; see also Ball, 2021). In other words, such conversations and publications provide a more honest reflection of what it means to “do” qualitative research.

Third, these conversations must specifically include a discussion of the risks one is willing to take. Qualitative researchers should have frank conversations with themselves and those they mentor or advise on what possible risks might arise during a study, whether such a risk is worth the potential outcomes, and how to mitigate risks as much as possible. It is one thing to know such risks are happening to others. It is quite another to consider them happening to oneself. Reflecting on these potential risks may lead to necessary changes to the study to ensure the researcher’s safety. In addition, critical reflexive practices such as invading ethnography (Adjepong, 2019) and embodying ethnography (Hanson, 2019) can provide insights into how researcher’s bodies shape qualitative knowledge. Many of these methods and practices are utilized widely in other fields but have been slow to be adapted by criminologists and may be helpful in assessing the risks one may be taking.

Finally, scholars should be encouraged to develop networks of care (Lisiak & Krzyżowski, 2018; Sharabi, 2022). Such networks can help researchers prepare for and process incidents before, during, and after data collection. For instance, after worrying that a parole agent had seen me and eyed me with suspicion, I texted a frolleague (my portmanteau of friend and colleague) about my fear. She responded that I should leave if I didn’t feel safe. While that was my plan already, it was reassuring to know I was making the right decision and that it was okay to put my own safety first. While many researchers develop these networks of care organically, acknowledging the need to have such networks may encourage novice researchers to develop their own networks sooner rather than later. Additional changes at the institutional level could include revamping ethics reviews and tenure and promotion procedures to include an ethic of care for researchers, ensuring academic mentors and supervisors can respond to disclosures compassionately and effectively, and adjusting university systems and structures to allow researchers to report issues and obtain support while conducting their research (Donald, 2020; Douglas-Jones et al., 2020b).

In order to achieve a greater focus on the ways in which social identities impact the research process, larger changes within the field of criminology, in particular, and academia, as a whole, will also need to occur. While the above recommendations are centered on individual academics and universities, they all stem from a lack of diversity and inclusion within criminology and academia. The following recommendations are aimed at addressing some of these issues. I recognize the changes proposed will require more work than individual efforts but failing to discuss—let alone acknowledge—the need for these changes would be a disservice to other marginalized scholars. Taking these recommendations seriously will make the individual efforts easier to achieve. In other words, we must take a both/and approach to addressing issues of safety within visual and qualitative criminological methods.

First, textbooks need to move beyond the assumption of the white, male, cis-hetero, able-bodied researcher as the standard (Douglas-Jones et al., 2020b; Hanson & Richards, 2019) and incorporate discussions of intersectional reflexivity (Reyes, 2020). The publication of such textbooks, however, requires diversifying their writers. More broadly, the field of criminology needs to tackle the ways in which white logics (Zuberi & Bonilla-Silva, 2008) are embedded in criminological studies (Henne & Shah, 2015; León, 2021). The undoing of these white logics (Zuberi & Bonilla-Silva, 2008) can begin by acknowledging that criminology as a field began as a colonial endeavor (Agozino, 2003; Choak, 2020) and confronting how that history continues to impact assumptions about who conducts research and who is researched (Earle, 2017; King, 2017; Moore, 2020). Understanding the legacies of this history would allow us to question the idea that the white scholars who began and continue to overrepresent the field are neutral. This process would then enable the inclusion of emerging methodologies that specifically center culturally specific inquiry, such as endarkened narrative inquiry (McClish-Boyd & Bhattacharya, 2021; Toliver, 2022), methods that center Black women (e.g., Evans-Winters, 2021), and decolonial methods (e.g., Blagg & Anthony, 2019; the journal Decolonization of Criminology and Justice).

Second, one of the largest barriers to discussions of addressing the safety concerns of marginalized visual and qualitative methodologists is the way research from such scholars is perceived and supported in the field. This lack of support begins with critiques of scholars conducting what is derisively known as “mesearch.” Rather than being viewed as advancing the field, scholars with a close tie to the research context are critiqued as navel gazing, being biased, or less rigorous than other scholarship, and thus not worthy of pursuit (Gardner et al., 2017; Harris, 2021; Peguero, 2018; Walker et al., 2021). Graduate students are often told explicitly not to pursue such research (Raphael et al., 2019). As several publications argue, however, this kind of research has the “potential for challenging conventional criminological knowledge and exposing new developments at the organic level within the dynamics being examined by the academy” (Tietjen, 2019, p. 108-109; see also: Gardner et al., 2017; Harris, 2021). By expanding the definition of “good” qualitative research, we will automatically expand who is doing such research, which will, in turn, require an expansion of conversations about how we do research, an expansion that will benefit us all.

Third, there will need to be changes in academic culture and assumptions about research ethics providing protection only for those participating in studies (Donald, 2020; Douglas-Jones et al., 2020b; Huang, 2016; Schneider, 2020). By relying on the convention of the neutral white male researcher and the fixations of solitude, danger, and intimacy (Ball, 2021; Hanson & Richards, 2017, 2019), ethics reviews often reinforce the notion that research that does not harm participates but is considered “dangerous” for the researcher is celebrated. If qualitative researchers—and visual researchers, in particular—wish to challenge assumptions about power and the purpose and focus of criminological research, they can no longer afford to focus on such a narrow view of ethical scholarship. Support from academic communities, including universities, departments, and IRBs in charge of research expectations, must encourage researchers to recognize that considerations of safety and risk are more important than reputation (Donald, 2020; Johansson, 2015) and should prepare scholars to adjust the data collection process as needed to ensure one’s safety.

Unfortunately, it is unlikely the changes recommended so far will gain much traction if criminology remains institutionally white and male (Brunson & Stewart, 2021; Cory Lowe & Fagan, 2019; Crow & Smykla, 2015; Greene et al., 2018; León, 2021; Phillips et al., 2020). As such, the field needs to expand who is allowed into the “Criminology Club.” The challenges Black scholars face in criminology are widespread, ranging from casual racism to outright tokenism and exclusion (e.g., Greene et al., 2018; Hawkins, 2021; Mitchell, 2021). Criminologists of Color from other racialized backgrounds have also faced racism and pushback (e.g., Daly & Shah, 2022; Peguero, 2018). The lack of inclusion of historically marginalized scholars has also impacted publishing with women less likely to publish than men and scholars of Color less likely to publish than white ones (Potter et al., 2011), and an overrepresentation of men on the editorial boards of prominent criminological journals (Cory Lowe & Fagan, 2019). And, of course, all of this stems from a lack of diversity in who is admitted to PhD programs, completing their PhD, and entering the field in the first place (Cooper et al., 2019; Updegrove et al., 2018). The gatekeeping of who is able to join and be viewed as a valuable and legitimate part of the academy and who is able to publish in prestigious journals helps maintain criminology as a white male dominated field which, in turn, limits the kinds of conversations we are able to have about what it means to “do” qualitative and visual projects. In other words, shifting the discussion around qualitative (and thus visual) methods to center safety, particularly for marginalized scholars, will not happen unless and until criminology is a more inclusive and welcoming field.

Epilogue

While at a criminological conference, I attended a panel on ethnography in criminology. The audience members were a mix of scholars—including scholars of Color, gender diverse and queer scholars, and scholars at various stages of their career—but the panel, itself, was all white-presenting and almost entirely made up of men. At one point, the conversation turned to navigating care and protection of collaborators alongside care for the researcher and our obligations as scholars. After several members of the audience raised their concerns, a prominent senior white male scholar encouraged all of us to “put our privilege in our pockets,” thus echoing the danger fixation (Hanson & Richards, 2017, 2019) and embodying the “risk-taking, intrepid” white male star (Huang, 2016, p. Online). This statement raised serious questions about whose privilege he was referring to and how that privilege operated. The anger in the room was palpable, and it was clear several of us wondered exactly how we were to hide some of our identities. Once again, certain assumptions were being made about who counts as a researcher and what experiences were required, or should be ignored, for a study to be considered “good.”

That is not to say that we should not be having conversations about the privileges and powers we as scholars have or even the privileges and powers our research participants (particularly gatekeepers) have. Even in retelling these stories, I recognize that my own privileges greatly impacted what did or did not happen on the trip. Had I been darker skinned or did not present as a cisgender, heterosexual woman or was conducting this research after COVID and the rise of even more anti-Asian hate, it is entirely plausible that the racism and sexism I experienced would have been worse. Moreover, my institution provided the course release and funding necessary to conduct these travels, and I was financially able to afford my own DSLR camera. It is not lost on me that those privileges allowed me not only to conduct this study and write this article, but also to navigate academia in a way that other scholars cannot. On the other hand, my marginalized identities were precisely the reasons the data collection process felt risky (dangerous), why I avoided connecting with people (thus avoiding intimacy), and why I was concerned about traveling solo (solitude). It is the balancing of these privileges and marginalizations that I navigate each time I am conducting research. It is this balancing that needs to be addressed more clearly in conversations about “doing” qualitative research. We can no longer afford to focus solely on reflexivity and positionality as a means of checking biases. We need to also focus on what our various identities mean for how we can also be impacted by the project, the risks we are willing to take, and the ways we can support and protect each other.