Adam Russell

Accepting Subjectivity in the Research Process

I liked Mike Calou’s use of the term “voyeur” to describe the role of the ethnographer and the subsequent guilt they feel for reducing their subjects to objects within a study.  “Voyeur” is an especially apt word because it perfectly connotes Bonnie S. Sunstein’s experience with the research process.  In her article, she writes that she feels “quiet guilt each time [her] informants speak [. . .] and [she] enters their written words into [her] computer” (177).  She also writes about the space her subjects occupy within her notes, computer, and how that data is interpreted by the reader.  In my previous post, I wrote that people will always be objectified to a subject in some way as long as they are represented in a study.  Now that I reflect back on my commentary, I inadvertently gave a rather pessimistic look at the ethnographic process.  My general thoughts were similar to Sunstein’s observations when she writes that “lives are not transcriptions of events, they are artful and enduring symbolic constitutions which demand our engagement and identification, they are to be perceived and understood as wholes” (179).  I like the consciousness she has of her subjects, but I realize that there is no way that we can accurately transmit the dynamics of people’s lives into any study.  As long as there is a study being conducted, we will always be placed in the position of giving only a voyeuristic snapshot, albeit an intimate snapshot, but a contextual picture nonetheless.

Sunstein guilt has its positives because it keeps her in check: she is forced to consider the multi-faceted perspectives of her subjects by understanding the personal and cultural backgrounds of all included.  By being conscientious of the fact that we represent human lives when conducting ethnographic research, we are forced to consider all external issues when we put pencil to paper.  However, a level of objectification is unavoidable because, by the nature of the research, our subjects exist in a reality separate from their own familiarity and in the context of the study.  The best we can do is, as James suggested, “make the text bleed” with as much information possible so that the organic nature of the people we write about aligns with our report (and that the text breathes alongside them).  With all of this considered however, how does one achieve true liminality in the process?

When I did the paired observation with James, we both viewed the same video from the Kirkwood ski resort website.  When we did the write-up, my account was rather dry: I reflected on the scope of the video in context of the website and resort.  When I read James’ observation, however, he took into account his own background, our location, the lighthearted and poignant comments made by both of us, and the events that happened after the observation that involved his family.  When I read his post, I realized that James experienced the liminality of the process by embracing his own subjectivity.  I tried to do just the opposite; I did my best to create an objective report; in other words, I did my best to take my experience out of the equation.  I realize now that I did the complete opposite of what ethnographic research is all about.  Like the trap that Meyerhoff fell into when she conducted her research on the elderly Jewish community, I tried to achieve “greater objectivity [. . .] by ignoring an important part of the [. . .] story, namely, [my] performance as a participant in the culture” (182).  But that culture is not limited to the ski resort, it also involves the external circumstances of the observation which James took into account, and I ignored.  Although there will always be a certain level of voyeurism when conducting research, as long as we consider our own subjectivity in the process, then we push closer to achieving Sunstein’s definition of liminality by “forcing ourselves into a consciousness that assumes three perspectives at once—the researcher’s the informants’, and the reader’s” (197).