This summer, as well as this Summer Institute, is flying by. It seems only yesterday I was teaching my last class in Everett, MA and packing for San Francisco. As a community health educator, I seek to bridge the space between research and practice.
Inevitably when meeting someone, I am asked, “what do you do?” and often my condensed answer is “I teach sex ed.” The range of responses I’ve received have been from the bewildered – “How can you do THAT?” – to joyous – “I’m so glad YOU’RE the one teaching them” and everywhere in between. Sexuality, as well as the teaching of anything sex-related, evokes a strong emotional response. I wonder, if chefs receive the same questioning: “How many years of ‘training’ – wink wink – did you have to get?” and “Do you teach Kindergarteners how to put on condoms?” Food, like sex, is a natural, human need. Studying sexuality, in my mind, is similar to studying food or sleep. Yet unlike our sociocultural relationship to food, sex has become taboo, almost a fetish.Explaining my role to people working on sexual and reproductive health involves some jargon: “I direct a DPH-funded, evidence-based, school-based, teen pregnancy prevention program combining class discussions with service learning.” What does this mean? To parse that sentence: I’m the only one working on this program I lead, our funding is dependant largely on forces outside my control, we use a curriculum that’s been tested and shown to be effective at reducing teen pregnancy, that I have to follow school rules – my favorite to subvert is having students call me by my first name -, the program focuses on teen pregnancy prevention – not sexual pleasure or sexuality throughout the lifetime -, my students have a chance to express their opinions in class, and we work on projects that they choose. Phew! My students are research subjects, - participating in focus groups and surveys -, yet they also create knowledge alongside me by organizing service learning projects that address issues within their communities.
Leaving all of that behind – or so I thought until I needed to email grades at 7 am on Monday - , I came to San Francisco for the Summer Institute in Sexuality. In the past week, I’ve been struck by the emerging popularity of studying in-between spaces. Liminality, rooted in the Latin word meaning “a threshold,” was brought up by Héctor Carrillo in the context of sexual migration and identity. My history with the concept of liminality stems from my experience as an immigrant, and subsequent thinking around liminal language learning. Several classmates have brought up the interplay and divergence between their multiple identities, whether linguistic, national, racial, gendered, etc. I am curious about how we live in in-between spaces, in liminality.
On Tuesday, Lisa Diamond described the unease we feel – as researchers, as people within a Western society – with unclear boundaries, malleable categories, and multi-directional movement. Of course it is more difficult to study a phenomenon that is constantly changing. Past sexuality research has built a foundation for studying “normative” behavior, yet the research itself – Kinsey, Masters and Johnson, Klein – often omitted/downplayed the nuances of human experience. Complex and ever-changing as we are, creating any fixed label seems a futile endeavor. Multiple stories and perspectives are ever-present, in each situation being studied, as well as each research subject.
As a Psychology undergrad, I heard a debate about Psychology being an art or a science. I believe sexuality research is at a similar impasse. Social sciences have emulated mathematics and hard sciences in a quest for perfection in research, in numbers and quantifiable data. Yet such an approach denies the humanity of sexuality. Despite my training in research methods, I do not trust statistics. I trust stories.
The recent passing of Michael Jackson has brought the notion of passing and liminality to the forefront of my mind. A classmate relayed a story: as a child looking at a magazine cover, Michael Jackson appeared to be a white woman. The public realm in which we observed Michael Jackson’s transformation allowed critique – both of the academic and grocery-checkout kind – of his performance of gender, race, and sexual orientation. Entering into the summer of Michael Jackson music, I am looking forward to hearing the discussions his life brings up. Perhaps this is our chance to discuss the transience of all socially fixed points, not only in the ivory tower of academia, but amongst our friends, sitting in Dolores Park or riding the J Church. Until we can bridge theory with practice, and explain our jargon-filled theories in lay-terms, I believe no real change can occur. This September, I plan to add “don’t complain unless you’re willing to create change” to my classroom ground rules.
