jkircho’s blog

This blog response will have less to do with the readings and more about over-arching questions I have not only about feminist research methodology, but research methodologies in general. As I was reading through the introduction of Rhetorica in Motion, I was struck by some of the bulleted lists the editors refer to: Mary Fonow and Judith Cook’s five main principles of feminist social science research (7-8) and Gesa Kirsch’s seven principles of feminist research (9). These lists are very helpful to a rookie when it comes to feminist research; for me, it helps give me a sense of the what field is all about–it helps me understand some of the principles that characterizes feminist research. But at the same time, these lists seem to act as a menu for feminist research methodologies. It becomes very easy for someone like me to read through the characteristics of feminist research and check mark the principles I agree with and find useful and ignore the other principles listed. And, as I was proceeding through the list (particularly the one from Kirsh) and check-marking principles that I found myself agreeing with, I started wondering if a person could be considered a feminist researcher if s/he only practiced some of the principles instead of all the principles. I wonder this because it seems like this field–as with many other fields–it is very fluid (that is, there is no concrete mission statement that proclaims the tenets of feminist research); because of this, is it possible to say “I analyze how the researchers’ identity and theoretical framework influence research and I collaborate with participants as much as possible, so therefore I practice feminist research methodology.” Are there certain principles on Kirsh’s list that hold more weight than others? Do all principles need to be adhered to? It seems silly to say I practice only two principles of feminist research and therefore I am a feminist researcher–but at the same time, they are, according to many, feminist research principles. I’m guessing this is why many researchers say they draw on multiple kinds of methodologies in their research. It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out in my own qualitative research. Am I allowed to practice more than one methodology? Or do I stick to one? So many questions–and I feel silly for asking them because they seem absurdly simple and it seems that I should know the answers. But after writing my narrative self reflection, I’m determined to ask questions when I don’t know the answer.

**note: I’m not saying I only like, practice, or am drawn to only two feminist research principles.

The introduction of the Addison and McGee text, Feminist Empirical Research: Emerging Perspectives on Qualitative Research, reinforces many of the ideas we’ve read earlier this semester. Familiar themes that I read in the intro include a) acknowledging–and embracing–the notion that empirical research is inherently subjective and thus never neutral b) feminist empirical research is an agent of social and individual change and b) participants in feminist empirical research have a voice; that is, research is done for (and with!) participants (note the use of this noun, as opposed to subjects) (3). It was comforting to read this, as the authors continue to further my understanding of some of the many methods employed under the feminist empirical research umbrella.

After reading through the introduction and the three subsequent narratives (Latta, Forbes, and Holmsten), I started thinking about the notion of voice and how there is a great opportunity to learn about voice through reading these articles. Specifically, several of the texts we’ve read thus far this semester (and I know this is a relatively small sampling) have talked about the notion of finding and/or re-claiming voice (I’m thinking specifically of the Bloom piece and more recently, the Latta piece). Voice, not surprisingly, seems to be a rather subjective term. Victoria Holmsten tells readers that after conducting some research with students, she listed the entire class as co-authors (44). To many, this would seem like Holmsten compromised her authority as the researcher and hence compromised her voice. However, the pieces we read for this week–Latta and Holmsten in particular–seem to embrace the idea of collaboration as part of the way to re-establish voice. Latta walks us through her research, described as a hybrid; however, this hybrid is definitely concerned with giving her participants/collaborators voice. She describes on page 18 how she and two participants presented at a conference on this research together. This again demonstrates a shared voice, but we can see through Latta’s narrative that this entire process–including collaboration–aided in finding her voice again. Yet traditional researchers might see this collaboration as a weakness–as a giving up of authoritative voice. I’d be interested to further examine how collaboration can indeed further help find someone’s voice. This seems very much so rooted in writing center theory, where collaboration and tutor being on the same “level” as tutee is absolutely key. But I think it might go beyond that. How does collaborating and giving up some control in the research help solidify a voice, as it does for Latta? In short, I’m intrigued by what I’ve read since it defies traditional research ideas; I can think of some of my former colleagues at UWFV who would sneer at those who include “mere research subjects” as co-authors of a text. This seems like a tragic mistake.

Action research embodies many of the principles of Feminist research methods, as outlined in “Beyond the Personal: Theorizing a Politics of Location in Composition research” (Kirsch and Ritchie, 1995) and “Epistemology, Feminist Methodology, and the Politics of Method” (found in Naples’s Feminism and Method, 2003). McNiff and Whitehead emphasize that undertaking an action research project means asking questions about what we are doing (reflection), have a willingness and an ability to adapt/modify the research plan (i.e. embrace the messiness of research), and realize/accept that “Making sense of what happens when things do not go according to plan is just as much part of an action enquiry as when they do […] the learning is in the practice” (71).

These ideas fall right in line with both Kirsch/Ritchie and Naples. Kirsch and Ritchie claim that a politics of location in feminist research “allows us to claim the legitimacy of our experience, but it must be accompanied by a rigorously reflexive self examination of ourselves as researchers that is as careful as our observation of the object of our inquiry” (9, emphasis mine); later, they posit that feminist researchers “move forward with a willingness to pursue the difficulties inherent in a politics of location accompanied by an equal willingness to be unrelentingly self-reflective” (10, emphasis mine). Similarly, Naples suggests that a commitment to self reflection can bring the dilemmas of ethnographic research to the surface and more importantly, “become part of the ethnographic story” (26).

It seems, then, that both feminist research and action research encourage the researcher to embrace self reflection to not only understand that research is messy, but also that the messiness can be a location of learning. This is more clearly seen in the case study of Siobhán Ní Mhurchú (McNiff w/Whitehead 73-84). Throughout Mhurchú’s research, there is a recurring theme of reflection; Mhurchú describes how “we encountered a huge difficulty [in the study] in that students found it hard to reflect on and evaluate their own work” (76). Rather than ignore this problem, Mhurchú changed the plan a bit, and “decided [to] establish a set of criteria to help the children review their work and analyse its merits” (77). Additionally, Kirsch and Ritchie tell the story of Ann Oakley, who changed her research methodology in response to participants’ response; they write, “When Oakley encountered women who asked her about prenatal care or other medical information […] she found that she could not follow traditional interview procedures […] Instead, Oakley decided that she had a moral obligation to assist these women in their question for information” (14). What both of these stories have in common is a) a willingness to change b) the change that takes place is brought about by self reflection and c) a degree of caring for the participants [this last point, though, would lead into a longer response, so I will cut off here. My apologies].

I have included all three necessary components, but this is much more informal than a conference proposal; in fact, it looks nothing like a conference proposal. And I think I went over the word count. Here it is:

In the first four chapters of Action Research: Principles and Practice, Jean McNiff (with Jack Whitehead) examine several aspects of action research, with their main concern being “the form of theory used to describe and explain action research processes, the whole business of whether we regard human enquiry as an objective phenomenon which we observe from a distance or as a living process of which we are part” (5-6). In order to discuss this, the authors develop Chomsky’s notion of E-language and I-language and apply the same principles to identify what they call E-theory and I-theory. For them, an “E-theory exists as a form of theory external to its creator and which is generated from study of the properties of external objects” while “[a]n I-theory is a dialectical form of theory, a property of an individual’s belief system, and is diachronic” (22). Throughout the first four chapters, McNiff (with Whitehead) posit that action research leads to I-theories of knowledge. Action research, then, should not be conducted from afar–it means the researcher needs to be open and honest with all the participants and should include some form of self reflection. However, they argue that action research is messy and uncertain–that is, action research has no concrete steps and no set process. As McNiff writes “I have become certain of the need for uncertainty” (5). Thus, they look to move away from models of action research that are formulaic (models such as Kemmis, Elliott, McKernan, etc.).

The emphasis on self reflection and evaluation, the recursive nature of action research, and a willingness to act (and not only observe) are all tenets of action research that seem appealing. However, I find it difficult to view any kind of research as process-less. While McNiff does not see “process as sequential or necessarily rational” I tend to think of process as structured–a sort of agenda setter, if you will. Thus, I found myself drawn to the model of Stephen Kemmis (planning-acting-observing-reflecting) and the flexibility of John Elliott (who argues the general idea should be allowed to shift). However, I have not engaged in any form of action research. If I wanted to truly see how action research worked–and to truly determine which model worked best for me–I would embark on a number of studies; perhaps one study would draw heavily on the ideas of Kemmis and Elliott and the other study I would embraces the messiness that McNiff encourages. Additionally, I could further research Kemmis and Elliott and determine if I truly do agree with their ideas (since McNiff only presents a kind of greatest hits).

As a neophyte to the field of feminist research methodologies and pedagogy, I’m going to riff on a couple of strands that struck me as particularly insightful and new (at least to me).

Sandra Harding proposes that “the best feminist analysis” has “the inquirer her/himself be placed in the same critical plane as the overt subject matter, thereby recovering the entire research process for scrutiny in the results of research” (9). Patricia Sullivan notes the “radical” (quotes being my own) nature of this idea, saying “and those of us who conduct empirical research assume that we must control for our personal biases and cultural situatedness in order to be objective, to paint an accurate and reliable picture of the reality we observe” (51). I have not yet taken a course on research methodologies–my MA did not require it–and am only familiar, then, with the methods of scholars I’ve happened to read. More often than not, the method used in empirical studies I’ve read is the “traditional” approach. Thus, the idea of placing the researcher on the same critical plane seems somewhat new.

I have minimal experience with empirical research, though I am very interested in it. A colleague of mine at St. Cloud State University and I conducted a short empirical study on the effects of tutor appearance on writing tutorials a few years ago; when we did this study, we tried very hard to remove ourselves from the subjects being observed. They knew who we were, but knew nothing our belief systems or behavior tendencies. Thus, I suppose, this was a more “traditional study.” But last year, I engaged in a very small empirical study–conducting a handful of interviews–and was very open in the interviews. I’d like to think I put myself on the same critical plane, though I probably did distance myself a little bit from the subjects (again, trying to model the methods I’ve read about). Certainly, though, I did not approach the actual analysis from the first two characteristics that Harding details (succinctly summarized in the Sullivan piece, page 51).

It seems to me a benefit of using this feminist methodology is that it makes the researcher more humane–perhaps it makes the project seem more real not only to the researcher but to the subjects being studied. However, I also wonder how biases enter in to the study then. For example, did the people I interview last year feel compelled to answer a certain way after learning some of my values and assumptions? I suppose this is an instance where a follow-up interview would be most beneficial.

Aside from the Harding piece, I was fascinated with the Nel Noddings piece. I really like the idea of caring being action based, and appreciated the discussion about the fictional Mr. Smith “caring” for his mother; and, though this has no real bearing on this reaction, the discussion of cats and birds (13) was awesome, particularly the conclusion that “The point lies in trying to discern the kinds of things I must think about when I am in a conflict of caring. When my caring is directed to living things, I must consider their nautres, ways of life, needs, and desires” (14). I then started wondering how Noddings’ notion of “caring” would (or could) play a role in the Stephen North example that Sullivan details (pg. 47)? Did North care about the student? Does North even say he cares about the student? How could someone care when they appropriate a student’s voice by calling it a “persona”? Sullivan suggests that North was trying to diagnose a perceived problem and that the student provided nothing more than symptoms. This seems to against the kind of care that Noddings advocates; it seems North overlooks a great deal in this particular situation.

To that end, how should we implement caring into our own pedagogical and research methodological stances? Along the lines of research methodologies, does caring about our subjects/research mean putting ourselves on the same plane, which Harding and Sullivan propose? I don’t necessarily have answers to these questions, but they are items I’ll be thinking about throughout this semester.

This blog is serving as a response journal for English 7800: Feminist Research Methodologies and Pedagogy. Look for posts on a weekly basis.