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Why I Am Committed To Fighting Oppression In Academia

Image Source: Rigers Rukaj

Image Source: Rigers Rukaj

“Facts about the Black vagina — the hardest working vagina in America.”

A few days ago, I watched in awe as activist and legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw read her poem, “The Black Vagina,” at a production of The Vagina Monologues in Harlem, NY.  Unfortunately, I did not actually observe from the audience in the infamous Apollo Theatre.  Rather, it was featured on V-Day: Until The Violence Stops – a documentary about productions of The Vagina Monologues and other activism to end violence against women around the world (see the trailer here).

Eve Ensler’s play-turned-global-movement impressed me.  But, observing Crenshaw – looking fierce in a beautiful red gown ready for some glamorous Hollywood awards show – speak truths to what so many Black women in America know, I went back to my usual place of self-doubt: what am I doing with my life?  Here was the scholar who developed the theoretical framework of intersectionality and, today, a scholar-activist at the forefront of #SayHerName movement to end violence against Black women.  And, without a hint of doubt, without a word of apology for her presence or explanation for why she wasn’t doing research instead of working in the community, there she was on that Apollo stage singing the praises of the Black vagina.

I spent the rest of the day deep in reflection.  “I’m not doing enough as an activist.  Why do I even call myself an activist, a scholar-activist, an intellectual activist?”  Unfortunately, the question — am I enough — is a commonly occurring one for me.  And, I realize not feeling [X] enough — skinny enough, pretty enough, smart enough, rich enough, popular enough, Black enough, gay enough, feminine enough — is not unique to me.  But, there is something unique about my sense of being inadequate as an activist — and it’s not just that I simultaneously worry that I’m too much of an activist, that the work that won’t count toward tenure may actually cost me tenure.

The work to which I am referring is this — this blog, the column on Inside Higher Ed, the talks I’ve given, panels I’ve served on and organized, the long-term effort to call attention to and eliminate injustice in academia.  Even as I write what sounds impressive, I feel as though I padded the previous sentence to silence the voice that once asked, “so, all you do is blog?”  My critics, largely contained in an anonymous wiki for cowardly trolls, accuse me of being overly dramatic, preachy, self-righteous, and whiny; worse, they suggest that my sense of injustice in academia is really just the product of mental illness or even mental disabilities (putting it politely relative to the more offensive language they use).  This is a form of gaslighting, and it has proven somewhat successful.  But, the trolls aren’t alone in leading me to question my academic justice work.  It doesn’t count for tenure (and, realistically, is potentially a liability); and, my graduate training served to “beat the activist out” of me because activism and academia supposedly don’t mix.

In other words, there are two powerful messages that come from my training, the expectations of me for tenure, and my critics.  The most obvious is that this work is risky.  And, the other is that there really isn’t a problem to address.  Academics ask, what injustice?  What discrimination?  What sexual harassment?  What motherhood penalty?  What exploitation of grad students and contingent faculty?  The latter message has successfully led me to doubt myself.  What’s that expression — that if you repeat something enough others will believe it’s true, especially if you talk loudly enough.  (It worked for a certain elected official with no political experience and ample experience as a bigot and rapist…)

This work, however, is too important to second-guess myself.  So, I’m planting my flag into the ground to declare that I am here to unapologetically fight for justice in the academy.  Below, I offer a few reasons why this work is important.

Why Working For Academic Justice Is Important

Because Academic Injustice Exists

Perhaps the most important reason to fight for justice in academia is, well, because there is pervasive injustice in academia.  Yes, to my surprise as a first-year graduate student, academia is not immune to systems of oppression.  Classism, ableism, fatphobia, xenophobia, racism, cissexism, sexism, heterosexism, and ageism — systems of oppression that are embedded in every social institution — have been at home in every college and university from their creation.  These manifest as everyday microaggressions, subtle and overt discrimination, disparities and leaky pipelines, rampant sexual violence, interpersonal and institutional barriers to accessibility for all people, prioritizing profit over justice, prioritizing academic freedom over academic justice, curricula that erase or tokenize or exotify oppressed communities, and so forth.  That oppression exists in academia should suffice as enough reason to fight it.

Because Academia Reproduces Social Inequality

Unfortunately, the academy does not merely reflect the aforementioned systems of oppression; it also reproduces them in the larger society.  There is ample evidence that education, the supposed “greater equalizer,” actually exacerbates inequality.  Think about who goes to college: who performed well enough to get in, who attended a high enough quality school to get in, who can afford to go, who has the cultural capital to know how to apply.  Among those who attend college, there are disparities between those who to go community colleges and four-year colleges, between those who go to state schools and those who go to private schools, between those who graduate and those who never do.  Even with a degree in hand, there are disparities by academic major, quality in the training received, and additional opportunities like studying abroad and internships.  There are some statistics that leave one to wonder what higher education is doing for oppressed groups, if anything positive.

And, it isn’t just at the undergraduate level.  It is also in graduate education, and among staff and faculty.  Let me highlight a few examples for faculty.  Take the gender and race wage gaps.  There are several manifestations of oppression in academia that contribute to these disparities: discrimination against people of color and women (especially those with kids) in hiring, tenure, promotion, and raises; harassment, which undermines a scholars’ productivity and well-being; disproportionate levels of undervalued (and usually unpaid) service, especially “diversity work“; the devaluing of gender studies, women’s studies, racial and ethnic studies, and cultural studies; racial and gender bias in publishing; racial and gender bias in course evaluations; the exclusion of women and people of color from high-status professional networks; the overrepresentation of women and people of color in poorly-paid, overburdened, temporary contingent faculty positions.  You know, just to name a few things that exacerbate the broader patterns of wage disadvantages for oppressed folks.

Because Inequality In Academia Compounds Social Inequality

Since scholars from marginalized backgrounds were already oppressed before pursuing an academic career, injustice in academia further compounds the oppression we experience, thereby making the problem worse.  Black academics, for example, cannot separate the racism they experience after they leave work from the racism they experienced at work.  It doesn’t matter the source, shit is shit, and it stinks all the same.

I study discrimination and health, so the compounding affect on a scholar’s health comes to mind first.  Discrimination is a stressful experience.  Even just agonizing over whether the negative outcome one has just experienced was the product of discrimination is stressful.  In giving privileged others the benefit of the doubt (because, counter to accusations of “crying wolf” or “playing the [fill in the blank marginalized identity] card”, no one wants to acknowledge that they were discriminated against), we only continue to stress over the event in question.  This kind of stress raises your blood pressure and heart rate, it impedes your immune system, and it hinders your ability to make healthy choices regarding food, alcohol, drugs, and sexual activity — basically, discrimination kills.  The stress of “teaching while Black” compounds the stress of “driving while Black,” and the worry for the safety of one’s Black teen-aged children innocently hanging out with their friends, and the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream or booze one uses to forget the day’s troubles, and the racial bias in the health care one receives, and the worry about what is to come of this country now that a known racist is running it, and on and on.

Together, this means that our oppressed scholars cannot do their best work, and it hurts them in getting hired and tenured and promoted.  It means we may be more likely to have to take medical leaves, or retire early, or find a new job, or leave academia all together, or even die earlier.  Besides illness and death, the consequences of discrimination and inequality in academia compound other outcomes of social inequality (e.g., wage disparities, discrimination in real estate and mortgage lending, the burden of caregiving and financially supporting relatives also impacted by discrimination, etc.)

Because Academic Injustice Hurts Science And Higher Learning

Addressing injustice in academia is important because, on the whole, we are not doing our best work.  Academic injustice is a threat to science and higher learning.  Certain voices and perspectives are excluded from conference panels, works cited, journals, and course syllabi due to rampant bias.  Entire fields like queer/LGBT/sexuality studies, gender studies, women’s studies, Black studies, Latinx studies, Indigenous studies, fat studies, and disability studies are underresourced, underfunded, and understaffed on college campuses because they make central oppressed communities.  As noted above, discrimination and harassment undermine oppressed scholars’ ability to do their best work, to put their work to use, to be taken seriously by their colleagues.

I imagine we routinely experience a brain drain in academia owing to the 50 percent drop-out rate among grad students, and perhaps many oppressed scholars with PhDs who eventually leave academia for the sake of their well-being or because of shitty wages as an adjunct.  Diversity in academia is not merely some liberal political project; it is how science advances.  Actively excluding oppressed scholars, or failing to prevent such exclusion, is a political project — it’s called white supremacy, misogyny, queerphobia, class oppression, fatphobia, ableism, and ageism.

Because Academic Injustice Undermines Our Ability To Fight For Broader Social Justice

A related reason is that leaving injustice in our ranks unaddressed undermines our ability to address injustice beyond the ivory tower.  First of all, we’re hypocrites to pursue research that is critical of the rest of society, including other social institutions like law, the government, medicine, military, the labor market, religion, the and family, while oppression manifests in academic institutions.  Yet, somehow, we have the rest of society convinced we’re all a bunch of liberals promoting various social justice agendas; we successfully convince prospective grad students who want to make a difference in the world that academia is the right profession for them.

We are not doing our best work as teachers, mentors, artists, scientists, advocates, and analysts. We uphold tenure-track jobs at Research I universities as the ideal path for every PhD despite the adjunctification of higher education, riding that sinking ship on its way to the bottom of the ocean.  We could work in and with the community and partner with organizations outside of the ivory tower to reestablish our importance to society as a whole. Acknowledging my optimism here, I wonder whether that would help to reverse the pattern of drying up government funding for higher education and, in turn, the trend of replacing tenure-track positions with temporary adjunct positions.

Because — Oh, Fuck! — Trump Was Elected President (Fuck!)

Finally, now more than ever before, there is an urgent need for the academy to stand up to bigotry, violence, xenophobia, bullying, surveillance, and other social problems that threaten to get worse under the incoming presidential regime.  Academic isolationism is a foolish strategy — just look where it has gotten us thus far (read: declining state and federal funding, adjunctification, exploding student debt, irrelevance to the rest of society).  We are perhaps complicit in political rise of a racist rapist with no political experience.

But, it is not too late.  We can stop clinging to the myths of meritocracy and objectivity that only serve to distract us to the rampant inequality within our ranks.  We can stop prioritizing academic freedom, which merely tolerates academics’ controversial work while also enabling bigoted scholars oppressive antics; instead, we can bravely prioritize academic justice — an intentional effort to use academic work to promote justice.

I hope that I have convinced some readers why we can no longer delude ourselves into thinking inequality in academia isn’t that bad, or perhaps that addressing it is no better than “navel-gazing.”  Even if not, I find myself more firm in my commitment to fight academic injustice and to promote academic justice.  We’re wasting our time here if we continue to allow oppression to manifest in our profession.

Intellectual Violence In Academia

Image source: Wikipedia

Image source: Wikipedia

For over a year now, I have been seeing a therapist to work through the trauma that was my graduate training. I have a knack for discussing personal troubles publicly, so I have been writing about the recovery process over the past year, as well. I figure, since the structure and culture of the academy is complicit in the trauma, why should I continue to suffer silently? Others like me (Black, queer, non-binary, fat, activist) and not like me have probably been traumatized, too.

Since going public about my story – grad school as “little T” trauma (not as bad as “big T” traumas like rape, child abuse, or war) – I have been privy to other marginalized academics’ trauma narratives. Most of these folks have not said a word, but their reactions to my story say a great deal. I have become more adept at recognizing trauma in other academics: retelling the same painful stories of oppression and injustice over and over; consciously or unconsciously seeking validation from others – “please believe how awful this was”; continuing to give power to those who traumatized them, at least as “air time” in their thoughts, nightmares, and stories. I recognize it because I was doing it and still do at times, albeit to a lesser extent with the help of therapy.

As others have actually named their own trauma and shared those stories with me, I have not only found confirmation that 1) I am not alone in being traumatized by my graduate school experiences and 2) the forces that lead to trauma for marginalized students and scholars is likely far worse than I imagined. Academe and its graduate education is not merely out of touch with the needs of the world beyond the ivory tower. It is not simply a matter of academics having their heads up their butts while job security remains a luxury for the few and exploitative labor conditions in academe have become the new normal for PhDs.

There is a longstanding, widespread phenomenon that I fear too few of us recognize, and even fewer of us are willing to name: intellectual violence. In the name of job prospects, tenurability, professional status, grant funding options, journal homes, citation rates, impact factors, and so forth, many (privileged) academics promote the erasure, stereotyping, disempowerment, objectification, exotification, and silencing of oppressed communities. The status quo of the larger racist, sexist, cissexist, heterosexist, classist, xenophobic, ableist, and fatphobic society is upheld by the academy; worse, academe maintains a reputation for social justice, diversity and inclusion, and critical investigation of the status quo.

I suspect many academics are aware of the ways in which science has been used to advance oppressive causes. We must credit early white men scientists, many of whom were obsessed with creating a taxonomy of humans especially on the basis of race and sexuality, for their influence in oppressive ideologies and policies. (But, let’s not be too optimistic in thinking scientific racism or scientific homophobia are historical artifacts. Think Jason Richwine and Mark Regnerus, among others.)

But, far fewer academics seem to be openly acknowledging the ways in which academic research and teaching (unintentionally) enact violence against oppressed communities through academic norms and values. Where money and resources go says a great deal about an institution’s priorities. So, we can infer from the relatively small number of gender and/or women’s studies, racial and/or ethnic studies, Black and African American studies, Latinx studies, LGBT and queer studies, Asian and Asian American studies, Native American/American Indian/Indigenous studies, and disability studies programs that these areas of academic study, curricula, and, arguably, communities of study, are unimportant in the academy. Where these programs exist, they are underfunded, underresourced, and understaffed.

Most insulting is making marginalized scholars complicit in this violence by making their own job security and professional success dependent upon it. Though naïve about the academy as I graduated college and headed to grad school, I was at least aware that a PhD in sociology would open far greater doors than one in gender or sexuality studies. But, I had no idea that trading off the joy I felt in my gender and sexuality studies courses in college for job prospects in academe was the first of a series of compromises and concessions. I regularly conformed, repeatedly passing up opportunities to pursue gender and sexuality studies for a more mainstream path. This explains why my most recent work falls in the realm of medical sociology, despite being recognized as a sexuality researcher on all counts but my actual training.

On some level, perhaps mostly unconscious, six years of training that implied to me that queer and trans people, women, people of color – and especially people at the intersections of these identities – are unimportant led me to agree with the devaluing of research and teaching on and advocacy with oppressed communities. It led me to agree that these communities themselves hold little value relative to cis hetero middle-class white America. No one held a gun to my head to force me to make the decisions that I made. However, I actually think the intellectual nature of this kind of violence was actually far more damaging than physical violence would ever be. The intentional resocialization of grad school changed how I view the world, how I think of myself as a scholar and an activist, and altered how I relate to my own communities.

Like many victims of oppression, I have also internalized the voice that leads me to doubt the severity of my own marginalization. As I write this, I want to concede that I am being a bit dramatic by using the word violence to describe my training, that I am insulting real victims of trauma (“big T” trauma). But, I keep coming back to the word violence when I think about what I have had to do to recover. On the health front, I have been spending a great deal of time and money on acupuncture, massages, fitness training, and therapy, plus taking a yoga class and Lexapro for the anxiety, to deal with the psychological, emotional, and physical symptoms of the trauma. I have given up a decent chuck of my research leave trying to get healthy – all the while feeling guilty for prioritizing self-care and resentful that privileged colleagues on leave can churn out books because there is little to no trauma from which to recover.

Professionally, I have had to unlearn much of my graduate training in order to heal, to move forward with my research trajectory, to sustain myself, and to feel that my work is aligned with my values as an activist. I have to relearn how to love my communities and myself, and to trust that my gut and spirit are leading me in the right direction, even if that means straying from mainstream academic norms. I will never be free if I let institutional and professional norms define me as a person, if I take my value and worth as a person and scholar from any institution.

Defining what it means to be a scholar on my own terms is scary because I lack role models, and I lack a path-well-taken that assures me that I am headed in the right direction. And, such self-definition is not without its risks. But, for the sake of my health, longevity, and well-being, I can no longer be complicit in the intellectual violence against my communities and me. I will never be free by appeasing institutions that are set on maintaining the status quo.

“Objectivity” And Oppression In Academia

@grollman: Objectivity is a myth afforded to the privileged. (Source: Twitter)

@grollman: Objectivity is a myth afforded to the privileged. (Source: Twitter)

Objectivity — a scholar’s supposed ability to remain impartial about the subjects she studies — is a myth. Like the myths of meritocracy and color-blindness, objectivity sounds good in theory, but it is impossible to use it in practice. Simply put, researchers are not immune to bias. While in many instances such bias can be dangerous, bias is not bad, per se.

Objectivity Precludes Certain Areas Of Inquiry

I am a sociologist in training, perspective, and practice. (Un)fortunately, in the process of recovering from the trauma of my graduate training, my consciousness about my discipline has grown, as well. It recently hit me that it would be more accurate to say that my degree is in “white sociology” or “Eurocentric sociology,” not sociology. The training I received pushed objective research as the only true form of research. But, being detached was not enough; it was not enough to naively attempt to leave my anti-racist politics and Black racial identity at home when I left for school.

Rather, objectivity also implied that research on race — more specifically, research that made central the lives of Black people — was inferior to more mainstream areas. I was told that a true sociologist takes on a subfield — typically a social institution like education or medicine — and, in the process, she might just happen to focus on a particular (marginalized) population. But, no one should be a sociologist of race, and certainly not an anti-racist sociologist. Sadly, for me, “just happens to study [X population]” did not extend to LGBTQ people. In my case, to be objective meant to move away from studying the very community I went to grad school to study. It has taken a couple of years post-grad school to finally return to topics I wanted to pursue back in 2007.

As a powerful and seductive ideology, objectivity serves as a tool for (privileged) gatekeepers of the discipline to devalue research on oppression and oppressed communities. To be objective, one cannot be too eager to study trans people, or Latino fathers, or women with disabilities. To study these populations whom the academy finds suspect or, at worse, unimportant, is to compromise one’s credibility as a true researcher.

Objectivity Is A Privilege

Early in grad school, a fellow student criticized my interest in the intersections among racism, heterosexism, sexism, and classism as “narrow.” In the years since, others have implied or explicitly said that my research constitutes “me-search.” That is, my scholarship is suspect because I am a fat Black queer non-binary sociologist who does research on multiply disadvantaged individuals (e.g., queer people of color), trans people, queer people, people of color, and fat people. In my case, this suspicion is heightened because my anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-cissexist, and anti-heterosexist activism is visible and publicly accessible. Mind you, my research is quantitative, rarely includes “I” or other first person references, speaks to mainstream sociology audiences, is published in mainstream sociology journals, and probably appeases the demand of objective research. My sins, however, are being fat Black queer and non-binary, and caring about the communities that I study.

My white cisgender heterosexual “normal weight” men colleagues are not suspected of bias. They are seen as the gold standard of objectivity. Their interest in topics that seem most interesting to other white dudes is somehow devoid of the influence of their social location. Their uncritical or, on rare occasion, critical perspective on a topic is seen as expertise, not bias. Even when these privileged scholars study marginal topics and/or marginalized communities, their work is taken seriously and remains unquestioned. I have yet to see a privileged scholar accused of having “narrow” interests or doing “me-search.” That is because objectivity serves as a device to police, devalue, and exclude the research of marginalized scholars.

I believe that the privilege of objectivity also includes the freedom from any sense of obligation to do work that matters, to do work that will liberate one’s people. “One could not be a calm, cool, and detached scientist while Negroes were lynched, murdered and starved,” DuBois remarked in his 1940 autobiography, Dusk of Dawn. Like DuBois, I wrestle so frequently with feeling that my publications that lie behind paywalls, only to be read by a handful of people in my subfield, are a complete waste of time while Black trans and cis people are being murdered by the dozens. Our privileged colleagues are not faced with the urgency of death, oppression, violence, invisibility, illness, and poverty of their people, so I can only imagine how much easier it is for them to (pretend to?) be objective, detached, and removed – experts on problems of the world, not of or in them.

Objectivity Perpetuates The Erasure Of Marginalized Scholars

Though my grad school coursework included 3 semesters of professional seminars, I have subsequently found it is neither enough professional development nor relevant to the primary concerns of many marginalized scholars. Instead of talking about how to select a qualifying exam area, I would have benefited from a reflexive discussion about the myth of objectivity in our discipline. Perhaps a less critical, and thus more palpable, topic would be “debates in the profession.” Indeed, whether objectivity exists and — to the extent that it exists — whether it is a good thing has been debated from the very start of the discipline of sociology. So, too, is whether sociologists should concern themselves exclusively with empiricism or also with making a difference in the world, or at least one’s communities.

To further raise my consciousness about my profession, I have started reading pieces by respected sociologists that have long been raising the concerns I have been struggling with privately. For example, Dr. Joe Feagin devoted his American Sociological Association presidential address (2001) to “Social Justice and Sociology.” Feagin raised a point that floored me. The rise of objective research by white men sociologists coincided with the erasure of the work and contributions of sociologists like Anna Julia Cooper, W. E. B. DuBois, Jane Addams — women and people of color in the discipline. Due to racist and sexist discrimination, these scholars’ work was already devalued; but, the shift toward “value-free” sociology further undermined their contributions in the discipline. Recovering their work, which in objective terms is simply a matter of good science, is an inherently anti-racist and feminist act.

Each instance of embracing objectivity, then, reinforces the erasure of women scholars and scholars of color. Each time I have taught the obligatory theory section in my introductory sociology courses, focusing on “the big three” — Weber, Marx, and Durkheim — I have been complicit in the erasure of W.E.B. DuBois, Harriet Martineau, and Patricia Hill Collins, and others who are not dead white men. The professor of my grad school theory course is complicit, too, by excluding any discussion of critical race theory, Black feminist theory, or queer theory; we focused, instead, on “classical” sociological theory. Each time I unquestioningly cited the (W. I.) Thomas theorem — what people perceive to be real is real in its consequences — I was complicit in the erasure of Dorothy Swaine Thomas, who was a co-author on the text from which this theorem comes.

To question whose perspective and scholarship is respected as central to the discipline would be suspected as activism; and, it requires additional work to learn and advance the perspectives and scholarship of marginalized scholars that one was denied in one’s own training. But, to consume and teach classical and mainstream sociological material without question is to reinforce the racist and sexist status quo.

I conclude by asking that scholars be brave enough to reject the myth of objectivity, and be willing to own subjective and scholar-activist work. But, a revolution of sorts in academe is necessary for this to happen. We must stop celebrating and so fiercely defending “objectivity” in graduate training, in publications, in grants, and in tenure and promotion. We do society and ourselves a disservice by standing on the political sidelines, complicit in our own irrelevance.

Co-Authorships: Lessons Learned From The Dark Side of Publishing

Photo credit: Sam Churchill

Photo credit: Sam Churchill

Last week, I went on a bit of a Twitter rant in revealing the backstory of my forthcoming article, “Sexual Orientation Differences in Attitudes about Sexuality, Race, and Gender” (Social Science Research). I am taking Dr. Jessie Daniel’s advice to turn those tweets into this blog post, though I doubt this would make for a peer-reviewed article.  (But, never say never.)

From Master’s Thesis to Journal Article (2007-2017)

Let me begin by retelling the ten-year saga that led to the publication of the aforementioned article. I entered graduate school intending to study the lives of LGBTQ people. I made this research interest, and the broader interest in challenging anti-LGBTQ oppression, quite clear to the graduate schools to which I applied.  However, I wasn’t aware that graduate schools might not be as transparent as me.  I chose to study sociology at Indiana University, which boasted strength in sexualities, including two professors who specialize in the area.  I wasn’t aware that one of those professor would leave almost as soon as I got there, and that the other remained on the periphery of the department (partly because of a reputation for sexual harassment, and partly because sexualities was a marginalized subfield).  I wasn’t aware that my admission into the program came with the intention to mold my marginal, radical interests into something acceptable to mainstream sociology.  I realize, now basically in 2017, that Indiana sociology was a poor fit for me, perhaps explaining the ongoing anxiety and complex trauma from which I suffer.

When it came time to propose a topic for my master’s thesis early in my first-year of grad school, I let my passion do the talking.  I proposed an ethnographic study of racism in the local community — Bloomington, Indiana. (That warrants its own blog post: hearing, “I’m not usually into Black guys”; being asked, “why would you tell anyone you’re Black since no one can tell?”; repeatedly being asked, “what are you?” at the lone gay club; assumed to be a “top” with a huge penis and a tendency for sexual aggression simply because I’m Black; a Black friend being called a nigger when he turned down an ugly white guy’s advances in the gay club’s bathroom; etc.)  I was gently steered away from the subject because of concerns about the amount of time it would take to conduct a qualitative project.  Instead, I was guided to do something that could be quickly and easily done with existing survey data.  So, I settled on comparing heterosexuals’ and sexual minorities’ race and gender attitudes using data from the General Social Survey.

I made acceptable progress on my new thesis topic. But, at one point, I proposed doing an alternative thesis wherein I would compare white heterosexuals’ and white sexual minorities’ race attitudes; my passion and curiosity remained fixated on the problem of racism in queer communities.  Without even reading a draft of that paper into which I had put so much time and energy, my main advisor dismissed it, again citing concerns about data (in this case, sample size).  So, I carried on with the topic that was somewhat related to my passion.  I finished the thesis on time, successfully earning my master’s degree at the close of my second year.

My main advisor offered to collaborate on an expanded version of the thesis project, implicitly using the offer as an incentive to finish the thesis on time.  I recognized his respected status in the field and his commendable research record, so I jumped at the chance.  I had already begun to worry about publishing, so the thought of publishing a piece on sexualities, perhaps in the top journal in sociology, excited me beyond words.

Oh, the paper certainly expanded.  Investigating a few racial attitudes and a few gender attitudes expanded to every item in the General Social Survey — a behemoth of a survey that covers every social and political domain imaginable.  I had 280 outcomes to analyze, yet he instructed me to add a second dataset — the American National Election Survey — which added an additional 60 items.  As typical of our field, I had to predict multiple models: sexual orientation on every sociopolitical outcome, then its effects net of the effects of other identities like race and gender on those attitudes, and then its effect net of possible mechanisms linking sexual orientation to attitudes.  Though these findings seemed interesting and solid on their own, he instructed me to also pay attention to how race, gender, and education affected sociopolitical attitudes.  That means I had to collect coefficients for four variables across three models for 340 outcomes; that is 4,080 coefficients for which to account.  To keep track of it all, I had to record these coefficients in Excel and devise formulas (through a lot of trial and error — with more errors than I care to recall) to identify patterns.  It’s no wonder this paper became the most reliable trigger of my newly developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  Messing up one code or formula forced me to do everything over again, and usually left me feeling I would vomit right on the computer keyboard.

I once complained about the amount of work involved to my advisor-turned-coauthor.  Regarding analyses, it seemed his role was simply to give orders.  If he didn’t like the results I produced, he’d send me back to redo them.  Oh, did I mention that we had several supplemental analyses of all of the above?  So, 4,080 coefficients was probably closer to 25,000.  His solution, besides doing more analyses, was to bring on another co-author to help me.  Without any passive aggression in that suggestion, it seems like a well-intentioned suggestion.  But, with it, it sounded as though he was implying I couldn’t handle it.  I predictably responded to his implication, replying “of course, not!”  So, I continued on, only to myself and friends complaining about the amount of work I was doing while he had never even seen the raw data.

I wrote a full draft of the expanded paper at the end of my third year. And, several more revised drafts in my fourth year, updating the paper each time the analyses were changed. And, there were multiple revisions of the seventh iteration of this paper in my last two years of grad school. As the years went on with an evolving but unpublished paper, eventually the only thing that was changing was redoing the analyses over from scratch as new waves of the data were released.  I first had to start over by adding 2010 data, and then again with 2012 data.  It was a pain, made more painful by the fact that the results were not changing.  We almost got scooped a couple of times as scholars in other fields began to take seriously sexual orientation’s effect on individuals’ attitudes and political behaviors.  But, my co-author never wrote a single word on the paper.  Ever.  Some of my emails to pester him about it went ignored; to others, he apologized for being busy and promised to get to the paper next month (which never happened).  I fumed as projects he started well after ours began were published within a year or two.  It was clear I was not a priority for him.

Once I graduated and began my current tenure-track position, my impatience with my co-author (and the anxiety I experienced about this paper) grew to an unforgivable level.  The decision, for me, became letting the paper go for the sake of a continued connection to my former advisor or letting the relationship go and publishing the paper on my own. Which was more important: finally publishing this fucking paper, or having him as a potential letter writer and continued mentor?  In my mind, this was an either/or situation because surely he’d retaliate if I published the paper without him.  I had witnessed other students’ careers impacted by his efforts to blackball them behind the scenes.  I was aware of his power in the department and discipline, and his reputation for using it without consequence.

He and other advisors never supported my decision to take my current position (at a liberal arts college), and, when I saw them at conferences, would find a way to stir up my doubts about taking it.  As the 2014 wave of the General Social Survey became available, I had to make the hard decision.  I refused to redo the analyses from scratch.  So, I emailed him to kick him off of the paper.  I was shocked when he responded that I couldn’t do so; he had contributed too much to the paper (I suppose not in words or analyses, but in ideas [read: instructions to me]) to be denied authorship credit.  But, he promised to work on it.  Another promise broken.  Later, I sent him an eight-page handwritten letter expressing how frustrating and triggering this project had been, and how hurt I was that I felt our relationship was undermined by this ordeal.  Another promise to work on it, another promise broken.

I eventually decided to squash the project, also killing every possible follow-up project.  It felt like the only possible way to free myself from it and his control over it.  He could have it if he dared to touch the data that plagued me for years.  I emailed him on March 2015 notifying him of my decision, thanking him for his work over the years.  He never responded, though I later saw he removed it from his CV, so I knew he got the message.  The unspoken message was that I was effectively cutting ties with him, as well.  I’m now a few years out from grad school, so I’d need letters that are more current than what he could offer.  And, I finally accepted that he never had my best interest at heart, and he never supported the career I defined for myself.  So, what good was his letter anyhow?

After a few months, I felt very dispassionate about what was left of my research.  Cutting off the line of research on sexualities — the very topic that drew me to the academy — felt like cutting off a limb.  I felt I was hurting myself more than anyone else by killing that project.  So, I revived it, starting by returning to my master’s thesis.  Starting over felt hard, but it also felt right.  I am pleased to say that the new paper was accepted at the first journal to which I submitted it.  On my own, of course.  I didn’t have to include comparisons to race, gender, and education, which always felt like throwing women and Black people under the bus in order to elevate sexual minorities.  I begrudgingly acknowledged him and other advisors for their support on the paper.  But, from here on out, this line of research is all me, all my passion, all my ideas.  I’ve already submitted the first follow up paper to a journal, and will be submitting the second one in a few weeks.  And, these papers are very me (i.e., with a heavy emphasis on intersectionality).  I’m back!

Photo credit: Sebastien Wiertz

Photo credit: Sebastien Wiertz

Lessons Learned The Hard Way

It’s only in this essay that I have ever articulated a sense that attending my graduate program was perhaps a mistake.  I assured myself that transferring to another program wouldn’t solve my problems, as the shaming, marginalization, and the disregard for my goals would be found in almost every sociology program.  And, dropping out, even with the MA, didn’t hold other viable options.  So, I haven’t dwelled on the decision to go to Indiana, or even stay there for that matter.

But, I have spent some time beating myself up for naively (and perhaps greedily) agreeing to co-author with my former advisor.  I had already given up an ethnographic project on racism in queer communities to, instead, use a quantitative approach to compare heterosexuals and sexual minorities’ attitudes.  I conceded again and again when he became a co-author, adding comparisons to other identities that I felt were problematic.  By the end, I had to kill the entire project to remove myself from his control.

What would I say — now at 31 with just a short time left before filing for tenure — to my 24-year-old self at the cusp of earning my MA degree?

IT’S A TRAP!  And, other lessons I have learned the hard way…

First, don’t publish with anyone who has control over your professional (or personal) fate.  (See my Vitae essay on this.)  In a power-imbalanced relationship, navigating the potential minefields of co-authorships and the publication process can prove disastrous.  I was lead author on the paper, but he called the shots.  I didn’t even have the power to kick him off of the paper despite years of neglecting it; yet, ironically, he was quick to kick off a former student coauthor of one of his major projects when she wasn’t pulling her weight.  I know some believe in this model, especially the “apprentice” model wherein the senior scholar/professor is the lead author.  But, I think it is most beneficial for grad students and junior scholars to publish on their own.  That way, there is no question about what the contributed to a project.  If co-authorships are desired, I recommend limiting them to peers.

A related concern about collaborations is to avoid letting existing relationships tempt you to co-author.  Co-authorships can get messy.  The aforementioned one threatened to cost me a relationship with my advisor, and eventually did when I no longer felt I needed him.  I lost two friends over another paper; sadly, my name is nowhere on it, so, in the end, I had neither a paper nor their friendship.  I’ve gotten into a fight with another co-author and friend over the authorship order once I felt I had done much more for the paper.  I’m currently in a collaboration that proves to be successful for many years; we started out as co-authors and a friendship has developed in the process.  I’m not saying don’t publish with friends, lovers, relatives, professors, senior colleagues, etc.  (Well, yes I am.)  But, if you must, don’t let your existing relationship be the reason you decide to work together.  How we are as co-authors maybe quite different from how we are as friends.

Third, treat potential collaborations like you would a relationship.  If you’re open to a quick, one-time “hook-up,” go for it.  (Though someone often gets less out of it.)  But, if you plan to be deeply involved in a project, and perhaps pursue a long-term collaboration, open communication is crucial to decide upon division of labor, authorship credit, goals for the project(s), working styles, availability, and your politics about publishing.  No matter the level of involvement and potential longevity of the collaboration, I believe it is crucial to be upfront with one another about your expectations for the project(s).  I was burned by being opportunistic about the publication with my former advisor, and I paid the price for being greedy.  I feel strongly that the open communication necessary for a healthy collaboration is nearly impossible when one co-author holds power over the other; but, if the more senior person isn’t inclined to abuse their power (though you sometimes don’t know whether they would until they do for the first time), and is able to separate problems with a co-authorship from evaluating you in other domains, maybe it’s OK to pursue such a partnership.

A related piece of advice is to do your homework before you jump into a collaboration.  If you have ready access to their past or current co-authors, ask how they are as a partner in research.  Maybe even ask your potential co-author how past collaborations have gone; if you see a pattern of conflict, they may be the common denominator.  Look at their CV to see if anything stands out.  For example, are they consistently the lead author?  That could be because it was all from their own data, or maybe they are unwilling to play a secondary role.  Do they ever publish on their own (if that is common in your field)?  Maybe they are coasting on co-authorships to get published.  Of course, you should inquire about any patterns that seem off to you.  If I had done my homework, I might have been suspicious that my advisor almost exclusively collaborates, and with people who are former students and mentees.  (Is this about a commitment to mentorship?  Or, is this because these subordinates are easier to control?)  My critical eye might have noticed that few people of color have worked with him as a co-author, and sexualities was never a topic he studied until after we started working together.  Red flags are red for a reason.

Fifth, consider having a line of work or series of papers that are safe for collaboration, while maintaining some that are just for you.  I made the mistake of putting all of my eggs in one basket, so when the co-authored project was stalled, I had to rush to find another project to pursue.  As that sexualities paper was held up for nearly six years, I became frustrated that my primary interest was not reflected in my publications.  Now, it is, while my work on discrimination has become collaborative; the latter benefits me by reigniting an interest that was starting to wane after years of studying it.  Since co-authorships can get held up in ways that solo-authored work doesn’t, it seems worth considering having both to ensure something is moving to print.

Sixth, consider finding other pathways toward advancement that you may feel is exclusive to collaborations.  Being more specific, if it seems a co-author has something you lack — status, expertise, funding or other resources, networks — you could give yourself the time to gain access to it eventually, thus ensuring that the project is independent.  I readily agreed to collaborate with my former advisor because I felt he could easily get us into one of the top journals in our discipline.  But, I could have done that on my own.  Maybe it would not have happened with the first paper; but, I am confident that I could have eventually built up to a big project worthy of a top-tier journal, first publishing a series of smaller papers.  Of course, I do believe science advances by collaborating with those who have something we lack; I see such complementary relationships as beneficial to research.  I just want to be cautious about the opportunism that leads us to get something out quickly that may not be worth the risk of conflict with co-authors.  If something gets held up because of such conflict, that scientific advancement might have been better off being pushed in a solo-authored project.

Seventh, avoid collaborating with anyone who undermines, rather than advances, your passion and ideas.  Compromise and communication are central to a successful collaboration.  But, you should feel as though your voice and interests are reflected in your work.  With your name listed as an author, you are responsible for an article’s contents, conclusions, and implications.  You had better believe in every word that is written!  And, you should feel good about it.  Publishing for publication sake may not prove useful if some opportunistic lines on your CV do not clearly advance your independent research program.

Eighth, take the long-view with publishing.  Beware of quickly agreeing to collaborate on something because you had a great conversation over drinks with a stranger at a conference, or because a friend got you excited about their paper they can’t seem to get published after four tries, or because someone has data they’re just sitting on (but want to get published).  The peer-review process is long, so you should take some time to think on an invitation to collaborate before jumping to say yes.  How does this paper fit into your research agenda?  Will it take time, energy, and funding away from your other work?  If it gets held up, will you have other papers moving through the pipeline to ensure success toward graduation/hiring/tenure/promotion?  You might even want to make a list of all of your ongoing projects, with some sense of a timeline, to see whether (or not) this new project fits, keeping in mind that it may require more work and take longer than publish than you anticipate (as is the case for any publication).

Ninth, be self-reflective.  Take the time to clearly identify a research program, your short-term and long-term research goals, your working style, your schedule and availability, and your strengths and weaknesses.  No one is perfect, so it’s worth assessing whether you might be a potentially bad co-author.  I know I tend to be impulsive, so a similarly impulsive co-author and I may bite off more than we can chew, while a more cautious co-author can reign me in but will make me feel constrained. Generally, it feels much easier to work alone with this in mind; but, this awareness has made my most recent collaborations all the more smooth, peaceful, and efficient.

Finally, forgive yourself for bad decisions you made in the past.  You can recover from them.  And, it may not be fair to you to blame yourself for making decisions out of naivete or ignorance, or that at least seemed beneficial for you at the time.  Learn from the mistake, impart the wisdom you gain to others, and move forward.  If you have had a bad experience with research, consider sharing it publicly so others can learn to avoid your mistakes, or maybe even feel validated that they are not alone in making that mistake.

Thanks for reading.

(Marginalized) Professors Were Already Being Watched

Photo credit: Intel Free Press

Photo credit: Intel Free Press

“I always feel like somebody’s watching me //
and I have no privacy.”
~Rockwell, “Somebody’s Watching Me

Thanks to the growth and increased visibility of this blog, we simply have too many posts in line to be published to devote any time to fleeting current events. That’s why you haven’t seen any posts about reactions to the election of a known sexual predator, misogynist, racist, xenophobic bigot. And, for the same reason, I held off writing about that damn Professor Watchlist. But, then I read George Yancy’s New York Times op-ed, “I Am A Dangerous Professor,” and another NYT article on how this list threatens academic freedom. As many scholars – particularly scholars of marginalized backgrounds – know, this list is nothing new; or, maybe it’s just a new, more organized way of continuing to watch us.

That’s right – we were already being watched, damn it.

In case you’ve missed news of this new surveillance effort, let me provide a brief overview. The new Turning Point USA project aims to “expose and document college professors who discriminate against conservative students and advance leftist propaganda in the classroom.” The organization claims to “fight for free speech and the right for professors to say whatever they wish.” But, they continue, “students, parents, and alumni deserve to know the specific incidents and names of professors that advance a radical agenda in lecture halls.” These individuals are invited to submit a tip (as though reporting a crime), but the site appears to be revised to focus just on “incidents” of anti-conservative bias and radicalism that make it to news headlines.

I have so many thoughts. Where to begin? Perhaps something more articulate than, “the fuck?”

First, let me continue my point that this isn’t new. Organizations like Turning Point USA and sites like Professor Watchlist are becoming a dime a dozen these days. Two conservative student news sites, SoCawlege.com and CampusReform.com, have been attempting to expose the supposed liberal bias across US college campuses for some time. The latter is a project of the Leadership Institute – another organization that sets out to train the next crop of conservative activists; it has ties with the Heritage Foundation – a hate group disguised as a conservative think tank. I’m sure if I had more time, I would find other troubling links, and probably other well-funded and well-organized conservative organizations set on infiltrating politics and higher education.

On the surface, what seems like concerned students and concern for students is actually a front for a calculated effort to silence, threaten, terrorize, and eliminate seemingly liberal academics. I’ve written about this formula before. Take one conservative white man student reporter who aims to expose “liberal bias and abuses at Texas colleges.” Have him write an article criticizing a Black woman pre-tenure professor at a different university, located in a different state. Then, he can take to Twitter to try to make her “a thing,” stirring up conservative (read: racist and sexist) rage with an appropriate Twitter hashtag thread. If successful, he will have initiated a conservative media assault on the professor, her reputation, her scholarship, her politics, her identities, and her menstrual cycle. And, he will have kick-started an internal process at her university that could ultimately lead to her termination – yes, simply by tweeting the president of her university.

Zandria F. Robinson. Saida Grundy. Steven Salaita. Shannon Gibney. Larycia Hawkins. Anthea Butler. Brittney Cooper. Perhaps others whose names I don’t know because the conservative assault launched against them did not reach national news. But, that’s why we have the watchlist now, right?

A second point that I want to make is that this attack on presumably liberal and radical professors is particularly targeted at those who speak and teach about and do research on Islamophobia, xenophobia, racism, and sexism, and perhaps other systems of oppression. By extension, that means that scholars of color, women scholars, Muslim scholars, and immigrant scholars are particularly vulnerable to this surveillance. Of course, there is the issue of numbers; marginalized scholars are overrepresented in fields that study oppression and marginalization. But, conservative scrutiny appears to be heightened when you have, for example, a Black woman scholar speaking openly about racism and sexism relative to what her white man colleague would experience.

The external “watching” by conservative activists, working through conservative students, is actually secondary to surveillance that occurs within the academy. Every instructor does their work in public, so to speak, under the gaze of their students, their colleagues, and their administrators. We (including our presumed political leanings) are regularly evaluated by students through course evaluations. Students also take to sites like RateMyProfessor.com, which already offered a form of “watch list” for instructors of color, women instructors, Muslim instructors, LGBTQ instructors, and others assumed to be promoting a radical agenda. Our departmental colleagues and university administration evaluate our teaching, scholarship, grant activity, and service, in turn making decisions about pay-raises, tenure, and promotion. These supposedly meritocratic forms of evaluation severely disadvantage marginalized scholars, especially those who do critical or radical work on oppression. Implicitly, they serve as a way of watching us to ensure that we are conforming to standards that arguably reinforce the status quo in academe and beyond.

The site’s implied goal – I assume to be to create McCarthy-era fear among academics – will likely be achieved for many in the profession. But, a substantial number of us were already living in fear. We have had little reason to assume these racist, sexist, heterosexist, Islamophobic, cissexist, and xenophobic sentiments disguised as anti-intellectualism disguised as anti-liberalism do not exist inside of the Ivory Tower, too. So, they have created another website. Am I in any less danger than I was a month ago? It’s not a new problem, just a new manifestation of the ongoing problem.

Finally, in case it isn’t obvious, what these conservative activists are framing as bias against conservative students is the cry of the dominant group as its privilege is threatened. For example, I can count on a reliable one-third of my introductory sociology students to accuse me of being biased or at least spending too much time on sex and gender, sexuality, and race. These classes of students who are overwhelmingly wealthy, white, cisgender, and heterosexual are not used to critical discussions of racism, heterosexism, cissexism, classism, and sexism. The students complain of feeling uncomfortable. They feel a pinch of discomfort – a mere 75 minutes of not hearing about themselves for a change – and complain of a calculated assault against them and their interests. Conservative activists have successfully advanced a zero-sum game framework for conceiving of diversity and inclusion in higher education; any minor advancement for oppressed students is described as a full-out assault on privileged students.  The dismantling of oppressive ideologies in the classroom is deemed discrimination against individual conservative students.

Similarly, there is a not-so-subtle anti-science rhetoric underneath the accusations of the advancement of a radical agenda. Teaching, for example, on race as a social (rather than biological) fact and racism as a fundamental organizing principle of society is characterized as an anti-white agenda. The decades, if not centuries, of critical race scholarship upon which these ideas are founded are dismissed as nothing more than an ideological, or perhaps political, agenda. With this, the battle has moved into an arena wherein laypeople are deciding what constitutes knowledge and what doesn’t. This would explain why every one of my lectures on race feels like a defense, often spilling into a plea for my own life. (Black Lives Matter, please believe me my precious 18-year-old white students!)

I have made this point before, but I’ll conclude with it here again: academic institutions are complicit in this surveillance and assaults on individual (marginalized) professors. We have armed students with evaluation instruments in order to participate in our surveillance. But, that’s not enough, so they’ve created websites and rely on word-of-mouth to discredit certain professors deemed too radical. We buckle to alumni and donors’ threats to withhold money if a certain undesirable (read: radical scholar of color) is not terminated immediately. We treat academic freedom policies as a pesky obligation to tolerate what our colleagues do and say, yet still don’t go far enough to protect them from public backlash. We delude ourselves into believing meritocracy is law despite consistent evidence of disparities in tenure, promotion, pay, grants, publications, student evaluations, and admissions. We worship objectivity as the ultimate scientific paradigm, which simply treats privileged scholars’ work as truth and marginalized scholars’ work as “me-search,” opinion, or political agenda.

Yes, I am arguing that we have allowed conservatives to feel empowered enough to up their surveillance efforts. Every time a university took seriously a challenge to one of its faculty members’ work, we gave more and more power to outsiders to dictate what we can do as scholars. And now that the country has elected a racist rapist who leads like a petty toddler with no self-control, I imagine we will only continue to lose the battle against outside surveillance.

Fuck you, and fuck your stupid watch list.