Abstract
This article considers the influence of sexuality and desire in qualitative research. Feminist researchers promote critical reflexivity in response to traditional social science methodological approaches, which advocate objectivity and neutrality. While reflexivity has become part and parcel of feminist research, an aspect of the subjective experience of doing research requiring more attention is how desire, intimacy and/or sexuality inform the research process. This paper draws on previous studies as well as recent research experiences to argue that desire is a powerful form of communication that can be productive and insightful for our analyses and knowledge production.
What we research is our relation with the researched. (Rose, 1997)
Queer reflexivity requires drawing attention to the erotics of knowledge production. (Rooke, 2009)
Introduction
In this article I consider the influence of sexuality and desire in qualitative research. I focus on the dynamics within interviews done as part of a study with queer women and individuals on the relation between body image, exercise and gender identity. My decision to write this article comes from two places of reflection; one involving an invitation for friendship from a participant involved in a previous research project, and the other stems from my emotional reactions while engaged in my current research. Feminist researchers challenge traditional social science methodological approaches, which advocate objectivity and neutrality within the research process, including the relations between researcher and participants (England, 1994; Haraway, 1991; Harding, 1987; Moss, 2002; Oakley, 1981; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002; Rose, 1997). Central to their critique has been engaging in critical reflexivity, which involves recognizing how power relations inform not only research relationships but also how research is approached and framed, what forms of knowledge are produced and how research gets used (e.g. Mauthner and Doucet, 2003). While reflexivity has become part and parcel of feminist research, an aspect of the subjective experience of doing research worthy of more exploration is how desire, intimacy and/or sexuality are embedded within our research relations as well as how they shape our approach and analysis (Cupples, 2002; Finlay, 2002; Nash and Bain, 2006; Robinson et al., 2007; Rooke, 2009). I begin by offering two reflections that motivated me to examine questions of intimacy and desire within my research and research relationships. From there, I provide an overview of some debates within feminist methodology around questions of power and the various ways theorists have attempted to address the impact of social context on research dynamics. I then examine some studies by researchers who have taken up questions of sexuality and/or desire as well as consider shifting constructions of the self as researcher and participant within ‘fieldwork’. I close by offering some examples from my own recent research experiences, in support of my argument for the importance and value of recognizing sexuality and desire in knowledge production. This paper contributes to literature within feminist methodology on the ‘erotics of knowledge production’ by expanding how we understand desire and its importance for visibility and identity within queer community (Rooke, 2009). Drawing on Dean’s recognition of the connection between appearance, visibility as queer and expression of queer desire, I contend that desire within research is productive for examining the layers of meaning that inform participants’ narratives; in simple terms, flirtation is not only about flirtation, it is about identity and community (Dean, 2005).
Reflecting on research experiences
My previous research project focused on the relationship between women’s body practices, such as exercise, clothing and eating, and the construction of gendered subjectivity. I asked women about their daily/monthly bodily routines, what informed them as well as how they have changed/continue to change. After an interview, one of the women emailed and asked if we could go for coffee sometime in the hopes of becoming friends. While some feminist researchers would see this as an ideal, if not desired outcome of the research relationship, I felt more complicated about this request. As I will get into further on, the notion that as researchers we can and should establish friendships or sustained relationships with participants is potentially exploitative. In this instance, if I had accepted this woman’s invitation and met for coffee it would not have been out of a genuine desire to become friends, but rather out of a sense of duty or obligation because she had given me her time. Reflecting on my interview with this woman, she was one of the few queer women who participated and spoke about her struggle to be open about her sexuality. I have wondered since if her desire may have been for more than friendship; perhaps it wasn’t. But supposing it was, how could her desire have informed her participation in the research, including her answers to questions as well as my reading of our interaction and analysis of her interview? Given her shyness and that she had not talked about her sexuality with many people, I wanted to be supportive but was also cognizant of my relationship with her; I was a researcher, not a friend.
The second reflection that informs this article comes from the strong reaction I experienced at the start of my most recent research project, which involves interviews with queer women and individuals in Toronto, Vancouver and Regina. 1 I sought participants by emailing queer women’s sports teams and queer community centres as well as through personal friendship networks. 2 I am using queer as an umbrella term to include individuals who identify as lesbian, gay, gaie, genderqueer, two-spirited, bisexual, intersex and trans. However, I am aware that using queer in this way can minimize or homogenize the different forms of sexual and gender identity and expression (Sullivan, 2003). My intention in using queer is to be more inclusive, to encourage the participation of a diversity of non-heterosexual women and gender diverse individuals, and within the research, I refer to individuals as they self-identify. Participants’ identities were diverse, which is why I use ‘queer women and individuals’, however, while using ‘individuals’ can offer a positive form of ambiguity, it is also of importance to acknowledge that no gay men participated in the project. It is noteworthy that several sports teams in Toronto and Vancouver that identify as ‘women’s’ teams are negotiating trans and genderqueer inclusivity, so although my recruitment call was sent to ‘women’s’ teams, participants involved reflect these changing social spaces.
Currently living in a small Canadian city, returning to Toronto for a research trip I found myself re-immersed into the queer community I had left 18 months earlier. After the first few interviews, I reflected on my elation to be among queer folk again and wondered how my personal context was affecting the interviews. How was I being read by participants – was I being read as queer, as an insider or outsider? My desire to be recognized both for my sexuality/sexual identity and as an insider (even if at a distance) of the queer community, as well as my delight in having queer coffee dates across the city are critical to the research process.
These two reflections have led me to wonder about how desire and sexuality inform our research and what acknowledging their presence in the research process might contribute to the knowledge we produce as well as to our sense of ourselves as researchers.
Feminist methodology and reflexivity
Feminist methodology developed in response to traditional neopositivist approaches to research that promote objectivity, impartiality and neutrality (England, 1994; Haraway, 1991; Harding, 1987; Reinharz, 1992; Rose, 1997; Valentine, 2002), which were (and still are to some) thought to ‘prevent the researcher from contaminating the data’ (England, 1994: 81). Feminist researchers have been critical of these approaches to research because they have largely silenced and/or ignored lives and experiences of marginalized groups, and/or have produced knowledge about them in such a way as to reinforce dominant social relations of inequity (Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002; Reinharz, 1992). Attempting to rectify these omissions and challenge social inequalities – the focus of much feminist research – has necessitated being reflexive about one’s research: questioning social dynamics within research settings as well as how power informs the research process. This involves reflecting on and incorporating subjective experiences and personal beliefs or assumptions in research, which many believe increases the validity of the research and provides new insights into one’s topic and findings (England, 1994; Falconer Al-Hindi and Kawbata, 2002; Haraway, 1991; Harding, 1987; Reinharz, 1992; Rooke, 2009). Feminist researchers argue that reflexivity provides a new way to understand the relationship between objectivity and subjectivity. Harding (1987) suggests that bringing in subjectivity into the research, such as personal beliefs and bias, actually strengthens the objectivity of the research. In a similar vein, Reinharz (1992) argues that we re-conceptualize subjectivity/objectivity as working together, rather than as opposing elements within research. Acknowledging positionality means that the researcher’s beliefs and practices are part of the relevant ‘evidence’ being examined (Harding, 1987), and provide a means through which to build trust with participants as well as with the potential readers (Reinharz, 1992). Through this re-articulation, objectivity is understood as and grounded in a ‘particular and specific embodiment’, enabling greater accountability and responsibility for the actions and opinions of the researcher (Haraway, 1991: 190).
Critical reflexivity is a central component of feminist research, and while there is no one accepted meaning or understanding of how to apply it, there are common agreed upon characteristics (Cupples, 2002; Finlay, 2002; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002). Several theorists argue that reflexivity is often misinterpreted as ‘mere navel gazing’, personal confessions, or ‘solitary reflection done at a distance’ (England, 1994: 82; Falconer Al-Hindi and Kawbata, 2002: 109--110; Finlay, 2002: 532), but for most feminist researchers, it involves a combination of critical self-reflection as a researcher as well as analysis of the social dynamics informing the research process (England, 1994; Finlay, 2002; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002). The context within which the research is done, including the experiences and personal bias of the researcher, inform the whole research process from what topic is chosen, how one approaches the research and what assumptions a researcher has about potential findings (Harding, 1987; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002; Reinharz, 1992; Ryan-Flood and Rooke, 2009). As such, reflexivity involves a shift ‘in understanding of data collection from something objective […] to recognizing how we actively construct our knowledge’ (Finlay, 2002: 532). Inherent in this process is examination of power relations between researcher and participants, specifically in terms of assumptions about relations of sameness and difference (Falconer Al-Hindi and Kawbata, 2002; Harding, 1987; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002; Valentine, 2002). Part of the discussion of reflexivity necessarily involves the context of the research and specific power relations at play within research spaces. For example, in his study of masculinities in the field. Vanderbeck (2005) argues that we need to recognize the inherent power differentials among researchers in our push for increased researcher vulnerability, via reflexivity. Throughout his article, Vanderbeck (2005) is quite reflexive about his resistance to and inability to embody hegemonic masculinity and the impact on his engagement with research participants and ultimately his research. However, he concludes the article with feelings of apprehension about ‘the implications of reflexive writing for those who do not conform to hegemonic gender ideals’ (Vanderbeck, 2005: 398). For some researchers, reflexivity may serve to reinforce dominant social positions, whereas for others, it may further expose them, making them more vulnerable. These possibilities must be considered, and I would argue, incorporated into researcher reflexivity; how might dominant gender, racial or sexual identities be reproduced within or by acknowledgement of subjective elements or behaviours tied to research?
One recommendation for how to rectify power imbalances in research was the promotion of a more conversational style to interviews, with the ultimate goal of establishing friendships with participants as a means to avoid exploiting women by taking their personal stories for individual professional gain (Harding, 1987; McDowell, 1999; Oakley, 1981; Reinharz, 1992). Building ‘rapport’ between researcher and participant has been identified as critical to feminist methodology as a way to engage in non-exploitative research (Reinharz, 1992). Reinharz states that the importance of establishing ‘intimate relations’ with women involved in research is based on the assumption that as women, there will be ‘positive relations and shared interests’ (1992: 265). I am using the notion of intimacy to reflect the interpersonal relations that develop between the researcher and people who participate in research. Intimacy involves the disclosing of personal information, such as particular life experiences, and corresponding expression of feelings (Reisman, 1990). Intimacy is a process through which a person feels ‘understood, validated, respected and cared for’ (Reisman, 1990: 65) and involves interactions whereby people share, negotiate and/or co-create meaning (Weingarten, 1991). Several feminists have since documented their attempts to adhere to this ethic of doing research – of establishing intimate relations – only to find inherent contradictions, challenges and for some, increased risk of exploitation (Bloom, 1998; Browne, 2003; Rooke, 2009; Stacey, 1988; Valentine, 2002). In particular, Stacey (1988) found that precisely because qualitative research is dependent on personal and intimate interactions, there is a greater risk of abusing or exploiting participants. In her study, Stacey relayed mixed feelings about very personal events and information participants shared with her; on the one hand, these events and information would add weight to her research but on the other, this was not simply data she was working with, it was people’s lives. Another example can be found in England’s (1994) decision not to pursue a particular research project because of her positionality in relation to potential research subjects. As a straight white woman interested in researching queer women, she was concerned about exploiting participants by being an ‘academic voyeur’ (1994: 82) into the lives and daily struggles of a diverse and marginalized community. For some, the ‘requirement’ of rapport is potentially dangerous or exploitative, and promoting a ‘burdensome, and sometimes, inappropriate form of emotion work’ (Reinharz, 1992: 267). For others, the ‘emotional labour’ of establishing rapport is necessary in order to build relations of trust between the researcher and participants (Rooke, 2009).
Critiques of the conversational or friendship model have also challenged the seeming erasure or denial of differences between the researcher and participants due to the assumption that a commonality of interest around the research topic or singular aspect of identity, such as gender, was paramount and could override other differences (Bloom, 1998; Skeggs, 1997). The notion that, for example, as women or as members of queer community there would be a shared commonality of experience or perspective on a topic has been strongly challenged by anti-racist, queer and postcolonial theorists, and has led to increasing recognition of intersectionality and multiplicity of identities (Crenshaw, 1991; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002; Razack, 1999; Skeggs, 1997).
Being reflexive about our assumptions with respect to relations of sameness and difference within research settings can foster greater openness and awareness of how our personal bias may be affecting our research (Valentine, 2002). Valentine suggests that assumptions about commonality or sameness, rather than enabling more in-depth interviews may actually ‘serve to close down the expression of diverse views as both [parties] seek to (re)produce the illusion of sameness’ (2002: 123). She discusses several occasions where superficial relations of sameness or difference proved false within the interview settings; on the one hand, she experienced feelings of commonality with a homophobic straight couple and, on the other, she struggled to find things in common with a fellow queer woman in another interview (Valentine, 2002). These moments, she argues, illustrate the interactive nature of research as identities shift in relation to each other and the research context. Both Rooke (2009) and Browne (2003) mention the importance of their identities for participants’ willingness to participate; being open about their similarities as lesbian and non-heterosexual women allowed them access to and increased disclosure from participants. However, they also argue that an assumed commonality or equality beyond this base level is inaccurate and ‘should be contested’ (Browne, 2003: 135). For example, Rooke’s (2009) conceptualization of her sexual identity changed throughout the research process, leading to the dilemma of whether to disclose this change to participants and risk isolating them at a crucial moment in their own process of identifying their sexualities. In Browne’s study (2003: 133) with non-heterosexual women on ‘power relations in everyday life’, her participants were friends or were recruited through friendship networks and thus were a part of her everyday life. Browne (2003) explores the complexities of her insider/outsider relationship with the non-heterosexual women involved in her study; as a friend and fellow non-heterosexual woman she was positioned as an insider, but her status as a researcher marked her, simultaneously, as an outsider. She reflects that her non-heterosexual identity and familiarity with participants gave her access to individuals and the community that heterosexual women or men would perhaps not have been granted. At the same time, she states that despite being friends with participants, she was still an outsider with respect to many aspects of their lives, including in their relationships (Browne, 2003: 135). Browne’s (2003) account marks an important contribution to the literature on reflexivity through her illustration of the ‘messiness’ of research dynamics; being friends with participants promotes more egalitarian and trusting relationships, but it should not be forced nor assumed to transcend differences or take precedence over other elements informing the relationship. Therefore, awareness of assumptions about relations of sameness and difference are critical to the research process; while similarities may enhance research relationships, ‘common experiences of exclusion do not necessarily lead to shared identities’ (Browne, 2003: 133).
Further, many argue that the research process is one of joint production as both the researcher and participant feed off of each other not only in relation to the topic but also to how each person is read by the other (England, 1994; Ryan-Flood and Rooke, 2009; Valentine, 2002). Therefore, as researchers we cannot assume in advance how research relationships will play out, we can only be aware of and recognize that research is an inherently messy, complicated, and unstable process which interweaves emotion, subjectivity and power (Browne, 2003; Ryan-Flood and Rooke, 2009; Valentine, 2002). Tied to this is the recognition of the intimacy of doing research, particularly as with most interviews, ‘conversation delves into topics and experiences that we do not often talk about – particularly with strangers’ (Valentine, 2002: 125). Additionally, intimacy or rapport within research is undoubtedly tied to the research topic. While I am not suggesting that people cannot bond or develop relations based on their involvement in research on, for example, public transit (for many, a deeply personal and political topic), I believe some topics promote or foster greater intimacy. For example, my own research on body image, and gender identities with a marginalized community, delved into deeply personal issues and required a high level of consensual participant vulnerability. The necessity of making myself vulnerable and accountable within the research – acknowledging my relationship to the topic, queer community and gender/sexual identity – was paramount to the negotiation of intimacy with participants.
In addition, the researcher and participant/s will experience this intimacy differently. In my introduction, I referred to an interview from my doctoral research which was somewhat challenging for me, in part because the participant seemed somewhat disengaged and emotionless in her answers. However, in her request for friendship after our meeting, she expressed that the interview had been a space where she felt supported and could open up about her sexuality, revealing that the interview was a more intimate experience for her. As an out queer woman who was outside of this woman’s personal networks, perhaps my interview with her provided a critical context for her to speak more freely about her sexuality – despite appearing more reserved to me.
These debates and developments within feminist methodology signal efforts to recognize and address how power informs the research process. Critical reflexivity concerning what it means to be a researcher within different social and political contexts, analysis of relations with participants, and how one’s beliefs and attitudes influence knowledge production are core elements of feminist research. While there is a strong commitment by feminists to be reflexive there are some areas that are deserving of more attention, such as how sexuality, desire and intimacy figure throughout the research process. For example, undoubtedly part of the reason I decided to undertake my current study was to stay connected to queer communities – and in particular the community in Toronto of which I had recently been a part. This project was also a fitting extension from my doctoral research, and a practical pilot study as I had contacts to draw upon. But it is important to consider what it means to reflect on feelings of desire or intimacy within our research experiences, and why the silence or resistance to examining what is without question a powerful influence on how we (learn to) know ourselves and on our relationships with others.
Queers tell all
There are a few examples I found of researchers who have taken up this issue, and interestingly enough, the majority of them involve queer researchers (Brown, 2008; Browne, 2003; Nash and Bain, 2006; Newton, 1993; Rooke, 2009; Valentine, 2002; Vanderbeck, 2005; notable exceptions are Robinson et al., 2007 and Cupples, 2002 studies on hetero(sex)uality in research). Newton found this to be the case as well, arguing that, ‘it was predictable that women and gays, for whom matters of sexuality and gender can never be unproblematic, have begun to address these issues’ (1993: 8). I am now going to discuss some examples from other researchers in order to advocate for the inclusion of sexuality, desire and intimacy in feminist methodology before turning to my own recent experiences (Nash and Bain, 2006; Newton, 1993; Rooke, 2009). This paper contributes to this literature by highlighting the role of desire and intimacy in efforts to find and build community. Desire or flirtation expressed or felt in research may not be about sexual desire per se (or only about sexual desire); it may communicate desire to belong and efforts to suss out if the other person is an insider or plays for the same team.
To begin, Cupples (2002) identifies three reasons why sexuality needs to be acknowledged by researchers. First, she argues, we cannot escape our sexuality and therefore it needs to be addressed (Cupples, 2002). In addition, doing research and being out in the field ‘can have a seductive quality’, which if indulged, can ‘provide more powerful insights’ (Cupples, 2002: 383). Finally, she points out that even if we, as researchers, attempt to deny our sexuality/ies and their influence on our research, ‘we will be sexually positioned by those whom we research’ (Cupples, 2002: 383). This final point reiterates that reflexivity is not simply about the researchers’ feelings or reflections but also how we/they are seen by the people we/they do research with (Cupples, 2002; Falconer-Al Hindi and Kawbata, 2002). For my current project, I am doing interviews with members of a community with whom the basis of our rapport and/or assumed shared interest is our sexual identities – and perhaps our desire to disrupt gender and sexual norms. To not disclose or reveal my sexual identity or connection to the community would not only have hindered my research as participants would be less likely to talk or be open with me, it could arguably also have been unethical (for similar discussion, see Rooke, 2009; Brown, 2008; and Browne, 2003). Had participants not known that I was queer, they may have felt or suspected that I was ‘queer curious’, or as England suggested, an ‘academic voyeur […] trying to get on some cheap package tour of lesbianism in the hopes of gaining some fleeting understanding of […] the “other”’ (1994: 84). However, with respect to Cupples’ points, I think it is vital to consider both the context of research as well as the identities of those involved before universally advocating that researchers disclose their sexuality; whether in the ‘field’/with participants or in reflexive accounts. I agree with Cupples that we cannot escape our sexuality and that, even if we try to hide or deny our sexual identities as researchers, our participants will still ‘sexually position’ us. I discuss above some of the reasons why I felt it was important to disclose my sexual identity to participants, but there are circumstances where it may be unsafe or too vulnerable for a researcher to be open about their sexuality within the research context. Vanderbeck’s (2005) discussion of his inability to embody hegemonic masculinity provides a valuable example of a context where disclosing might not have been ethical or safe. Within the research setting, homophobic slurs and derogatory comments were directed at him/his masculinity, putting him in a vulnerable relationship at times with participants and potentially with readers of his research. Being reflexive throughout the research process is a means of doing and producing more ethical, ‘valid’ and accountable research but the academy, and society more broadly, remains an unsafe place for many scholars of marginalized identities, and so perhaps this point needs to be more thoughtfully considered in our promotion of reflexive accounts and/or self-disclosure about our sexual (or other) identities.
Newton’s article (1993), now over 20 years old, provides an important foundation for analyses that recognize the influence of sexuality, desire and intimacy within research. Critically, she states that ‘research should be about enabling conversations over societal lines [… and] (t)he erotic dimension intersects with those lines’ (1993: 16). In outlining the erotic dimension of research, Newton states that like her heterosexual counterparts, some participants in her research were also potential sexual partners (1993: 10). People involved in her research were often ‘more to me than an expedient way of getting information and something different from just friends’ (Newton, 1993: 10). Her comments highlight the continuum of research relations, as well as the complexities of doing research. As researchers, we experience connections and/or have particular reactions (both positive, negative and somewhere in between) to people involved with our research. These emotions and relations are productive for knowledge production as they point to ideas or beliefs that may be reinforced or contested based on assumptions around sameness or difference (Valentine, 2002). In Newton’s case, she found that ‘the most intense attractions have generated the most creative energy, as if the work were a form of courting and seduction’ (1993: 15). Her desire for and intimate relationship with a key informant was central to her research on the gay and lesbian community of Cherry Grove (Newton, 1993). Her informant, Kay, was a central figure in the community and therefore she provided connections to members of the community and rich narratives of her own history in the neighbourhood. Newton does discuss their differing social locations (in particular class and status within the community) and what each of them gained, which provided important context for the significance and ethical concerns around their relationship. Kay’s bodily presence had a powerful and emotional impact on Newton, which affected not only her relationship with Kay, but also her insights into Cherry Grove, its history and its significance to queer history (1993: 14). The impact of bodily presence is something I experienced in my recent trip to Toronto. While Newton’s experience was focused on one individual, the energy and emotion it provided is comparable to my own reflections on being in the bodily, everyday presence of a sizable queer community again. As I will get into further on, this reflection highlighted my assumptions about commonality and identification of queer identities and community – something Rooke (2009), and Nash and Bain (2006) also discuss.
Nash and Bain’s (2006) article on doing research in sexualized spaces, specifically the Toronto Women’s Bathhouse Pussy Palace, draws attention to the complexities of negotiating bodies, sexualities and the role of researcher ‘in the field’. Their discussion about their decision not to engage in the sexual activities of the bathhouse provides insight into and strengthens their analysis. This decision was informed by feminist ethic not to exploit power differentials between researcher and participant, as well as their own personal commitments and comfort levels (Nash and Bain, 2006). Analysing their decision, they realized they had a different definition or understanding of what it means to be ‘lesbian’ versus notions of being ‘queer’ fostered by the bathhouse organizers. They also reflected that by not participating in the bathhouse their ‘credibility as researchers’ might have been impacted as they moved across the boundaries of bathhouse attendee/observer/researcher (Nash and Bain, 2006: 104).
On several occasions, Nash and Bain comment on their discomfort within the sexualized space of the bathhouse. For example, they refer to each other as symbolic chaperones, choose a spot to observe where they could not be approached unnoticed, deliberate on appropriate clothing, and discuss the tension between ‘ethnography and voyeurism’ (Nash and Bain, 2006: 103). Critically, they found that their role as researcher allowed them to temporarily ignore some of the emotional risks associated with being in such a sexualized space: sensitivities about the size, form and texture of [their] bodies and their visibility to others; [their] potential attraction to other women; and whether [they] might be considered attractive or of interest to other participants. (Nash and Bain, 2006: 103)
Reflecting on their research experiences, in particular on the impact of doing research in a sexualized space and having their sexual selves/identities brought to the forefront, Nash and Bain provide two examples that provide support for the importance of including desire and sexuality in research. One instance they describe concerns how the bathhouse organizers read them and their bodies. As mentioned, by not participating in bathhouse activities, they wondered if they had lost credibility in their role as ‘researchers’ or if they were now perceived as ‘less honest’ in their research (Nash and Bain, 2006: 104). By not taking part, they felt their commitment to their research as well as the bathhouse and its purpose (to queer sexuality and what are considered ‘normal’ sexual activities), was potentially questioned by the organizers. Many researchers would perhaps not want to include this reflection for fear that it would make them appear like a ‘bad’ or insecure researcher. However, I feel these types of admissions – of discomfort and insecurity – make the research more rich and valid, and are indicative of engaged and critical researchers. The openness and vulnerability expressed in their accounts enabled a better understanding of the research dynamics (such as how they were potentially being read by participants) as well as provided some valuable food for thought on how to navigate the messy terrain of ‘the field’. In listening to interviews, there are moments when I am uncomfortable hearing myself, in particular how I ask or respond to questions, or moments when I am unsure how I am being read as well as how attraction or desire are playing into our mutual readings. But when I reflect on these moments of discomfort, they often shed light a particular reaction I am having to what the participant is saying or signal something going on in the interview that I need to spend some more time on. Working with and through discomfort – perhaps due to failed probing, lack of connection and/or intimacy – often leads to greater insight into the person, dynamic, and/or topic being researched. And this was the case for Nash and Bain. Their discomfort and decision not to participate led to reflections on their sexual identities and sexual identity categories. The goal of the Pussy Palace bathhouse is to challenge normative sexuality and sexual practices by promoting ‘new sexual practices and behaviours among lesbian women that in turn initiates the formation of queer rather than merely lesbian identities’ (Nash and Bain, 2006: 100). Within this space, Nash and Bain’s (2006: 105) sexual identities were challenged, making them realize their expectation of assumed commonalities in terms of being lesbians at the outset of the research. They questioned whether they could adopt the category ‘queer’ as opposed to a singular notion of ‘lesbian’ without engaging in the bathhouse activities. As their research continued, they became more accustomed and comfortable with ‘expectations and performances’ of the bathhouse while at the same time, resisting the ‘disciplinary power of queer space’ to give in to pressure to participate in their own use of the space (Nash and Bain, 2006: 105). Nash and Bain’s (2006: 101) struggles with self-identity within the research process are directly related to their project’s focus on how spaces articulated as liberatory can simultaneously be experienced as disciplinary in terms of gender and sexual identities.
Research reflections
Desiring community
In my own experience, going into ‘the field’ meant going back to a community that my partner and I were immersed in a year and a half ago. My partner had played on several queer women’s sports teams, we had taken the dykes planning tykes parenting course, and had gone to numerous queer dance nights and various events in the city over the years. Moving to a much smaller city, Regina, I missed the queer visibility that a larger city offers as well as the resources and events that come with it. Over brunch on our first weekend in Toronto, we were invited to a family dance at the local queer community centre, The 519 – and I was struck instantly with how much I missed the simplicity and ease of being part of a large and diverse queer community. In contrast, when my partner and I bought our house in Regina and were told that we were moving next door to another queer couple we cheered; we were told that this couple ‘high fived’ each other when they heard the news. Ironically, when I was seeking a research assistant, it was my neighbour Krista Baliko, who was most qualified. Our developing friendship enhanced our research as we both brought different insights to the table; mine more focused on body and gender, Krista on community and space. In addition, we both brought expertise vital to the project that shifted the traditional imbalance of power between researcher and research assistant. While I was the principal investigator – and therefore ‘in charge’, Krista’s wealth of knowledge about queer life in Saskatchewan and extensive network in the queer and university community contributed to her being an excellent co-researcher. Doing research on cities we are intimately connected with has enriched our research and simultaneously provided us with opportunities to share our stories and see our queer histories in new light.
Setting out to do my first few interviews in Toronto, I was excited to be starting a new research project, to be among queer folk again and to hear their stories. Part of this excitement also involved a desire to belong and be accepted into a space I had previously inhabited; in this way, the field had a powerful, seductive quality for me (Cupples, 2002). Rooke (2009: 152) talks about the importance of ‘communicating some shared understanding’ of what it means to be a lesbian to her participants’ willingness to open up to her and tell their stories. I was open about identifying as queer, I would reference sports teams or queer events to illustrate my familiarity with the community, and would share in and/or affirm moments in their stories that I could relate to when it seemed appropriate, such as the first pride they attended and/or changing nature of the queer community. Thinking about these moments later on they seem to have multiple effects; they do help to establish rapport with the people I interviewed, but they also reveal my desire to still be a part of this community – an insider, rather than a visitor. This sense of longing and of loss informed my conversations and undoubtedly was part of the reason I did more interviews than I had originally intended. My reactions to the ‘seductiveness of the field’ also led to richer insights about how desire and sexuality feature in research and ultimately to this article being written.
Looking queer: Visibility, desirability and community
Part of my desire to be a part of the community again was also brought to my attention as a result of one of the women’s lengthy comments about how she endeavours to dress or look queer in particular spaces. Walking back after that interview, I thought about what I was wearing and wondered how queer I looked. While I don’t usually spend time trying to look or dress ‘queer’, I do like to present myself in a way that might beg the question or disrupt a straight/forward reading. After this interview however, I thought about my look more; being a new mother and still not quite fitting into many of my favourite clothes I wasn’t sure how I was coming across, and that was discomforting. Thinking about my appearance was of course also tied to the fact that I was having coffees with women all over the city – something that could, for example, be misread as a first date. Would my interactions with women have been different if I had not been in a serious, monogamous relationship? Would I have accepted invitations I received to come out to events (if I didn’t have to look after my one year old child)? Would I have read this invitation differently?
Dean (2005) has articulated the importance of appearance for lesbian women in terms of their visibility as lesbians and acceptance into lesbian and/or queer communities. Recounting her own coming out, she reflected on whether her appearance – long hair and full-length skirts – was a barrier to her visibility as a lesbian and/or had functioned to disqualify her as a member of lesbian community (Dean, 2005: 464). Dean makes a crucial connection between appearance, visibility, desire and community that relates to several of my own research experiences. ‘Looking like a lesbian is supposed to look’ was a means of communicating not only her status as a lesbian but also her desire for other women; critically, visibility is ‘related as much to desire as it is to identity’ (Dean, 2005: 465). In turn, expressions of sexual desire then also function to assert one’s sexual identity and desire to be recognized as a member of lesbian – or in my case queer community. Probyn (1995: 14) reminds us, however, that while recognition and/or visibility as a lesbian is important it does not always or only confer desirability (as all lesbians do not desire all lesbians); visibility goes further. Similarly, Dean (2005: 465) argues that appearance, and the visibility it is geared towards, symbolizes both a resistance to heteronormativity and a pride in one’s sexual difference.
In my current research on queer women’s and individuals’ body image, the relation of appearance and identity are becoming more complex, in part due to the increasing heterornormative representations of queer women in popular culture, in, for example, The L Word (see, e.g. Burns and Davies, 2009), but also as a result of the ongoing reimagining of gender and sexual identities beyond the definable or easily identifiable. Notions of visibility, desire, identity and community were threaded throughout the interviews I did in Toronto and Vancouver. As I have already alluded to, my desire for queer community was ever-present in the interviews and I believe led to my being more open with participants than I had been when doing other research projects. This sentiment was confirmed by Krista, my research assistant, who told me after listening to the interviews, ‘I know a lot more about you and your partner now’. But issues of appearance and desire were also important to the individuals who participated, both in terms of what was and was not said. In one of the first interviews in Toronto, one participant, Jasmine, 3 and I engaged in quite a jovial conversation, sharing laughs and occasional self-mockery. But amidst our easy conversation were several flirtatious comments she made, such as telling me I look younger than my age and that she would need to be on her best behaviour when I mentioned that I might attend an upcoming queer women’s basketball game. How does her flirtation influence the interview and research relationship as a whole? Can I simply dismiss it as friendly flirtation amongst two queer women? Or do her comments offer insight into her interview and aspects of herself that are useful for my analysis. For example, they might reflect a more general desire to please others or a way to negotiate awkwardness, given that the above comments were made at the start and finish of the interview, which are both times of transition from stranger, to intimate conversation, to stranger again. I am inclined to the latter and believe that these expressions of desire make evident Rooke’s claim that the ‘erotics of the field’ provide ‘a useful source of […] knowledgemaking’ (2009: 154). Like Nash and Bain (2006: 101), doing research ‘informed by a feminist ethic’ and in a committed relationship, I had no intention of getting involved with participants, but the question of attraction and desire remain influential on how I read and was read by the people I interviewed. Revisiting the connection made by Dean concerning appearance, desire and identity, there is another way to read Jasmine’s flirtatious banter. During the interview, Jasmine told me that she had not been ‘out’ very long and was still, in many ways, living two lives; her ‘out’ life with her partner in central Toronto, and her non-out life at home in a Toronto suburb. She talked enthusiastically about being on a queer women’s basketball team, of seeing so many queer women in one place, and in particular fellow queer women of colour. Being out in public, at a coffee shop and flirting – jovially – with another woman could be interpreted as a negotiation and assertion of her newly emerging sexual identity. The desire communicated was not for a particular person, but rather for a sense of identity and belonging, and the flirtation a means for making that desire visible and recognizable.
Another example comes from an email response to my recruitment message from Sam, a woman from Vancouver who remarked that my study was a ‘great way to meet fit queer women’, thus making a direct correlation between research, sexuality and desire. During our interview, Sam talked about the challenges of meeting people and becoming a part of the queer community in Vancouver; something expressed by a few other participants. Sam’s efforts to find community led her to sign up for a local queer sports team, but she felt frustrated when she went to try out because the focus seemed to be on appearance versus playing sports: It was such a blinding light. I was like, ‘These are not my people!’ And I keep trying, and I feel like, as much as I wanna play sport, I’m somewhat hitting my head against the wall because I’m disappointed at the end of the day that I can’t really connect, I’m not interested in what you look like, I’m interested in how you think and what you have to say. (Sam, Vancouver 2013)
While attention to appearance, as already discussed, is important as a signifier of sexual identity and desire for many queers, for Sam, it took away from what she perceived to be more meaningful connection and potential community building. Her response to my recruitment email and what involvement in my research appeared to offer provides valuable insight into her narrative; her desire ‘to meet queer fit women’ reflects more than a humorous response, it speaks to her desire for intimacy, critical discussion and engagement.
I also had my sense of queer identity challenged during numerous interviews and had to acknowledge my particular conceptualizations of and investments in queer identity; again, something other researchers have experienced (Nash and Bain, 2006; Rooke, 2009). For example, there has been debate within the past few years in Toronto, which is, and should be, ongoing, over meaning of pride within the queer community. The decision by Pride Toronto (pressured by City of Toronto officials) to ban the group Queers against Israeli Apartheid from pride march not only had spin-off effects (such as a boycott of the official Pride Toronto’s dyke march and creation of the event Take Back the Dyke), but it also brought to the surface tensions around the meaning of pride: is it a celebration and/or a political event (see Burgess, 2011; and Kates and Belk, 2001)? Reflecting on my interviews, I realized that my own notion of what it means to be queer/member of community was challenged. I felt frustrated and disappointed by the lack of critical analysis concerning fat phobia and the adoption of heteronormative femininity within the queer community, the white and at times trans and biphobic nature of some community spaces (e.g. sports teams), and the corporate/consumerist approach to acceptance of queers within broader society. These experiences made evident, once again, that there is no singular queer identity and highlighted my desire for commonality, which needed to be disrupted. Echoing Valentine, in one interview, I experienced discomfort trying not to challenge one woman’s seeming fat phobia but later bonded with her over dilemmas of choosing a donor and efforts at getting pregnant (Valentine, 2002).
Conclusion
Feminist methodology involves the commitment to and promotion of critical self-reflection in the hopes of producing more valid and ethical research (Harding, 1987; Ramazanoglu with Holland, 2002; Reinharz, 1992; Skeggs, 1997). Inherent in this process is examination of researcher bias as well as power relations within research settings. It also supports the recognition of qualitative research as an affective process, involving as it does ‘human connection, closeness, understanding, and personal engagement’ (Rooke, 2009: 151). Analysing the affective nature of research with respect to sexuality and desire has often been lacking or marginalized within these considerations (Cupples, 2002; Rooke, 2009). The silence concerning desire within intimate relations of research is understandable, for to confess experiences of desire can make one vulnerable and be risky given the tradition of keeping researcher emotions out of research. This article came out of my own realization of the insightful nature of desire on research relationships and knowledge production. The decision to write it was to encourage further dialogue as well as to illustrate the benefit of critical reflections on desire for our research. Desire in research is a powerful form of communication and is not solely reflective of sexual desire for a person or persons. Rather, in my study, expressions of desire were revealing of individuals’ negotiations with and assertions of their sexual identities, as well as what it means to be queer and part of queer community.
Acknowledging some of my desires and discomforts helped inform and prepare me for the next round of interviews for my study. Heightened awareness of the secondary role the research was providing on a personal level – the need for community – enabled me to focus on the primary task; listening to what individuals were telling me about their bodies. In addition, having my sense of ‘queer’ community challenged was productive as notions of community politics and identity were central themes in many of the interviews in Vancouver. In Toronto, I felt myself shift from insider to outsider, researcher to fellow queer, highlighting the unstable and fluid nature of being researcher. The multiple motivations informing my research, reflections on moments of flirtation, discomfort and collegiality, and consideration of why people participated as well as how they engaged with me and the topic, made clear the influence of sexuality and desire on my research. In closing, it is noteworthy that in both Toronto and Vancouver I received double the requests to participate than I needed within one day of my recruitment message going out; thus, perhaps there is something to the suggestion that the study could be seen as ‘a great way to meet fit queer women’!
Footnotes
Funding
Funding for this research was provided by several internal grants from the University of Regina.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all of the individuals who participated in this research project; your willingness to give your time and share your stories is greatly appreciated. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful and constructive feedback on an earlier draft of this article.