How Discomfort Can Shape Method

What is research? Where is research needed or even allowed? How can we build (inclusive and communal) knowledge relationally and remain relevant? Where to be considered relevant is, in fact, relevant nowadays? Since the beginning of my research, I have been trying to find a way to talk with people and to learn from them without necessarily taking from them. “How do we develop an ethics for research that differentiates between power—which deserves a denuding, indeed petrifying scrutiny—and people?” (Tuck, 2013, p. 233). This journey has been one of the most challenging parts of my dissertation. It seems that it is not enough to know what I want to do and how I want to do it. I must find names, definitions and theories that accommodate my instincts. Pursuing that helped me understand what bothers me about standard social science research. However, it was a specific moment that made me realize the type of oppression I was unwilling to reproduce.

A while ago, a researcher asked me to participate in their enquiry by answering questions in their (very structured) interview. They sent me the study's subject, and the episode they were asking about did not occur within the time window they were researching. Simply, I was not the right person to participate because the matter in question did not happen to me at all. I explained that. The researcher said this was unimportant, and my participation was necessary anyway. I said “OK,” as scholars should all help each other with our research.

The interview was long—much longer than one hour. The worst part was not the length but the nature of the questions. It was the kind of question I was not expecting, like “What criteria do you use to choose your sexual positions?” I was not prepared to answer this. For some of the questions, I tried to “ditch the bullet” and make my discomfort clear. The interviewer gave me some time and asked the same embarrassing question again. They repeated some questions two or three times until I provided the answer they expected. This posture ignores the fact that refusal and silence are integral to feminist research.

Most importantly, I felt I was kept in the dark and trapped in the “research process” chosen by the person in charge. I felt violated. I felt stripped of my dignity and my right to privacy. By the end of the interview, I was exhausted, hurt, and lost. I was also furious because someone in my field forced me to endure such a cruel and morally violent experience. At that moment, I decided, “No interviews!” I didn't know how to define the kind of interaction I envisioned for my research, but I was sure I would not replicate the same psychological violence so often legitimized and institutionalized without any critique.

Holding a position of power, such as an interviewer's, can be intoxicating for most of us. Additionally, writing any research piece represents a moment of vulnerability, making it appealing to feel fully in charge of some aspect of the process. This is me, striving to be compassionate even after the interpersonal violence I endured. However, as I format my own methodology now, I prioritize real connection with all the practical and potential partners who share this doctoral journey with me– professors, colleagues, family, my students, and, of course, those who will co-laborate directly on my dissertation's content, whether by authoring books and theories I am reading or engaging in direct dialogue with me, joining their voices with mine in a polyvocal and never homogenizing manner. More than simply obtaining or extracting information from others, this work aims to think with these authors and thinkers. So, considering my research question, how is this doable? What procedures are closest to a non-extractive way to build knowledge together? Within an academic framework, is it possible to take at least a few steps toward a knowledge-building method that could also effectively build community? Well, in this chapter, I tried.