Abstract
Janice Irvine’s article on the stigmatisation of sexuality research in institutional spaces is a timely and much needed contribution in the field of sexuality studies. Sexuality researchers have long been treated as marginal subjects in the academe – tolerated but reviled and acknowledged, but deemed unimportant. This is why Irvine’s intriguing paper on whether sexuality research is in fact ‘dirty work’ is ground-breaking. Having been expressly informed by respected colleagues and friends that my doctoral study on the African men who engage in same-sex relations would be trivial, and that it would make very little contribution towards the national development plan for my home country, South Africa, I read with resonance many of the arguments advanced in Irvine’s paper.
The arguments and evidence advanced in the paper are both convincing and thought-provoking, demonstrating clearly the changing but still restrictive space for studies on sexuality within the academe. Yet, as Irvine herself concedes at the end of her essay, the paper raises many more questions than it provides answers. In particular, the question of whether geographic contextual variations exist in relation to stigma associated with doing ‘dirty work’ is pivotal given the pressures presented by the McDonaldisation of higher education (Ritzer, 2009). Due to my positionality as a black South African scholar in the field of sexuality education, I wish to offer a more geographically grounded response to Irvine’s essay, informed also by my experiences from the African context. Mainly, I respond by asking: Does doing sexuality research in developing contexts such as South Africa necessarily result in the same stigmas which produce ‘dirty work’ and ‘dirty workers’ in contexts such as the US? I refer to some of the arguments advanced in Irvine’s paper and assess their relevance and application based on my experiences as a researcher in South Africa.
Irvine draws on data from a variety of sources to demonstrate the marginal space of sexuality studies in historical and contemporary research across a spectrum of disciplinary areas. An argument that sexuality research is institutionally produced as ‘dirty work’ through a variety of means is advanced. These means include limited training opportunities for planned development of sexuality studies as an area of scholastic interest, control and limited opportunities in relation to publication avenues, draconian responses by Institutional Review Boards to work on sexualities, as well as coercive funding strategies that sway interest away from sexuality studies. Irvine points out that all of this occurs through cognitive and affective bias which, through culture, find direct expression in the workplace.
These arguments are compelling. However, does the ‘dirty work’ presented in the article find expression in similar ways in other contexts, such as South Africa, as it does in the US? The response to this question is complex, much like the nature of ‘dirty work’ itself. While there is a growing body of knowledge in the area of sexuality studies in Africa, not least due to the rampant spread of HIV/AIDS, I submit that the systemic production mechanisms that give rise to research on sexualities have been less informed by the academe and its reaction to sexuality scholarship than by the powerful external forces in the form of donor agencies and their mother states. Hence Sylvia Tamale’s claim that sexuality studies are motivated by ideological, political and/or social agendas, and that ‘in Africa, the majority of these studies have been… donor driven’ (Tamale, 2011: 14). Unlike the US therefore, where ‘dirty work’ is produced through institutional techniques involving powerful individuals with institutional authority, in many African contexts, the production of ‘dirty work’ is very much informed by hegemony, mainly through the authoritative voice and influence of external forces.
I suggest perhaps that contrary to practices in the US where evidence of ‘dirty work’ is apparent through the exploration of university practices, in Africa understanding the nature of ‘dirty work’, or whether such characterisation exists, requires the exploration of how at a macro, international level donor agencies inform the practices at a micro institutional level. For instance, the power of the pharmaceutical industry, together with the force of the biomedical field, have produced a discourse, at a micro institutional level, of sexualities research as not only sexy, but also very financially rewarding. For instance the international community has poured billions of dollars into the ‘fight’ against HIV/AIDS in Africa, therefore contributing to a substantially increased number of academics pursuing sexualities research. It is estimated that more than $15 billion was committed by the conservative Bush administration between 2003 and 2008 to Africa for HIV/AIDS. While much of this money was spent on medication, care and prevention, a significant portion also funded education initiatives and research, particularly the advocacy of the ABC campaign. 1
While one cannot underestimate the effect of HIV and AIDS on the African continent, it is without doubt that the pumping of financial resources to Africa has come with a certain castration of critical sexuality studies that Irvine’s paper refers to. It is for this reason that Reddy, Sandfort and Rispel (2009) in their collection of sexuality essays mainly from South Africa argue that the ‘conservative influence of funding for large behavioural sciences research projects and the epidemiology of the AIDS epidemic in South Africa’ have had a skewed impact on sexuality research, with heterosexual biomedical studies dominating. This suggests that ‘dirty work’ is only ‘dirty’ if it fails to conform to the conservative, heterosexual frame. Certainly, the cries about limited funding opportunities highlighted in Irvine’s paper are just as pronounced, if not more, in African contexts where scholars pursue ‘real’ ‘dirty’ work. The ‘speaker’s benefit’ is therefore only afforded when one speaks what funders and conservative majoritarian society want to hear.
Having said the above, it is important to further concede that another layer exists in relation to the international funding of sexuality research in Africa. This layer often comes from what I term ‘liberationist evangelic’ discourse on same-sex desire in Africa; this relates to funders who seek to liberate the uncivilised continent from its barbaric ideas on same-sex sexuality. Determined to rid Africa of its homophobia, these funders have dictated the course of sexuality and sexuality research in the continent, arguing that Africa needs to be like the West, the very context which Irvine ironically finds deficient for its lack of advocacy for work on sexuality. The liberationist evangelic discourse has a tendency to ignore the progressive works of scholars such as Limakatso Kendall and Marc Epprecht, who have shown the African continent to not only have been historically tolerant of same-sex desire, but to have rejected homophobia too. The mix of liberationist evangelism together with conservative religious evangelism in African contexts presents a dangerous concoction, affecting the institutional practices variously at a micro level.
First, what Irvine characterises as the ‘speakers burden’ becomes more emphasised. Scholars who pursue sexuality studies become outsiders, with questions around their sexualities abounding. I have been recently told by a student that young men shy away from coming to my office for the fear of being characterised as ‘gay’ as it is assumed that all men who walk into my office are gay. Further, a perception that one is doing this work for Western money persists. Sylvia Tamale (2003) has, for instance, written about how she received a text message from a friend congratulating her on her journey to becoming a millionaire. This was after she had spoken in support of individuals who engage in same-sex relations in Uganda, and had received death threats and calls for her lynching. Such perceptions abound and are linked to the virulent homophobic laws we’ve seen lately in contexts such as Nigeria and Uganda.
Second, once sexuality scholars are outsiders, sexuality work then becomes ‘dirty work’. For instance, much of the research conducted by leading scholars on same-sex issues in African institutions has been conducted mainly in relation to HIV and AIDS. Leaving aside the stigmatisation resultant from this, the narrative that gets created is that one is only successful if one conforms to socially accepted practices, even within academia.
Once sexuality is reduced to ‘dirty work’, it then conforms to many of the aspects Irvine highlights as marginalising for sexuality studies and scholars. While almost every research-driven university across South Africa has, for example, a thriving HIV/AIDS research centre, very few programmes currently exist which exclusively focus on sexuality in its wider configuration. Indeed, programmes focusing on gender and violence abound. However, programmes focused on ‘dirty work’ either exist under the guise of gender, or exist as singular modules which do not give students and staff opportunities to develop in the area. Apart from the University of the Free State, where a centre for sexualities studies is currently being built, there is no other programme, to my knowledge, which offers studies exclusively focused on same-sex issues.
In addition to the lack of relevant developed programmes and training opportunities, research on ‘dirty work’ is limited. Knowledge production is heavily influenced by notions of work that is worthwhile for the development of the nation. A prominent scholar was once told to stop doing ‘gay’ work as there were other pressing issues in the country. The overall effect is that very little gets submitted in the form of journal articles to advance sexuality research.
Beyond the contextualisation matter, I was intrigued by the similarities between the US experience and my experiences in South Africa on what Irvine refers to as ‘Institutional Review Boards’, who, in the context of where I am employed, have christened themselves as saviours of ‘vulnerable’ groups. This involves blocking any research they deem controversial or sensitive. After the appointment of a new Ethical Clearance Chair for Social Sciences and the Humanities, all students and staff doing sexuality research have had their work classified as ‘red’, deeming such work risky and in need of discussion by the full Committee. It is interesting that the classification occurs simply as a result of the area of work being pursued, not as a result of the justifications given for doing this work.
However, it is important to point out that ethical clearance committees (Institutional Review Boards) are only as good as the individuals, granted institutional authority, who sit on them. For example, the problematic characterisation of all sexualities research proposals as ‘red’ is only a recent occurrence. Prior to this, a chair who was both sympathetic and understanding of sexuality matters was in charge, and these challenges were hardly experienced. What this suggests is that particular institutional cultures (as Irvine confirms) as well as personalities in positions of authority matter in the making of ‘dirty work’. This is why the very good policies that exist in South Africa are often left unimplemented: individuals and their feelings carry tremendous sway.
While I found Irvine’s arguments truly convincing, and mostly relevant for the context from which this response is written, I wish, however, to trouble the conclusions reached on the point about the dissemination of knowledge. Although I do not contest the claim that sexuality work is marginalised in mainstream journals, I found the evidence presented for this argument thin. A mere count of the total number of articles published in mainstream journals about sexuality during a particular period of time does little to tell us about the marginalisation of the field. As researchers we constantly write papers; some are accepted, some have to be resubmitted, while others are rejected outright. In order for one to conclude on marginalisation, one ought to look at the full picture, i.e. explore the total number of papers received and published on sexuality studies in the surveyed journals, including those that get rejected. In fact an argument can even be advanced that exploring those articles that are rejected in mainstream journals would give a more meaningful analysis of whether bias against sexualities research exists in mainstream journals. My hunch, and indeed much of the data presented in Irvine’s paper, suggests that scholars of sexuality may actually prefer to publish their works in relevant journals, focused on sexuality, and not in mainstream sociology journals. Publishing in relevant journals allows researchers an opportunity to have their work read by colleagues already working in the field. This in part would explain Irvine’s own decision to publish this very paper in the Sexualities journal.
On the whole, I found this to be a thought-provoking paper, which has wide-ranging implications for sexuality studies researchers not only in the US but also in other contexts around the world. It leaves readers with several questions, many of which Irvine herself throws, for further contemplation. As a concluding remark, I wonder if sexuality scholars would want to relinquish their position of being ‘dirty workers’. It is after all this positioning which makes sexuality studies worth pursuing. Sex is sexy because it’s ‘dirty’; the moment sex becomes mainstream is the moment when the fun of sex will be diminished.