Cheek, J. (2010). Human Rights, Social Justice, and Qualitative Research: Questions and Hesitations about What We Say about What We Do. In Denzin, N.K., & Giardina, M.D. (eds), Qualitative Inquiry and Human Rights (100-111). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press.

Qualitative inquiry often regards human rights and social justice as important components of research. However, Cheek wonders if we think that our research alone works to advance human rights and social justice. What assumptions do we make about how our research works alongside human rights and social justice? Cheek explores hesitations she has about the connections between research and human rights and social justice. Her two points of hesitation are: Involvement and participation does not necessarily equal advancing social justice or human rights, and an alternate reading of a research program raises questions about what the doing actually does. Regarding the first point of hesitation, there is the assumption of a linear process that takes information from research to practice. Cheek addresses that we in qualitative research often hope to address some kind of sociological issue and use our research toward finding a solution. She then points out how we often come from an outside view: Who decided that researching a certain sociological topic was necessary? Who decided who would be involved in the research? In other words, are we restricting qualitative research to an ultimately conservative result, limiting progress of human rights and social justice in the process? Regarding the second point of hesitation, Cheek points out that the funding of specific research projects excludes other research projects from funding. After all, funding bodies tend to determine what and whom are researched, as well as how they are researched. Social justice and human rights are advanced, but this takes place within relatively conservative, certainly constructed parameters.

Cheek came from 10-plus years in a research program contributing to citizenship and social sustainability, in regard to care and services for older people. In other words, she has spent more than a decade in the field of research, which adds to her ethos. While my research will involve neither discussion with others nor funding, I am considering my research more carefully in regard to whose artifacts are included in the research, to why certain artifacts are privileged. In fact, I might need to change certain aspects of my proposal… again.

Erickson, F. (2010). Affirming Human Dignity in Qualitative Inquiry: Walking the Walk. In Denzin, N.K., & Giardina, M.D. (eds), Qualitative Inquiry and Human Rights (112-122). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press.

Erickson points out that, in the best circumstances, “qualitative social research advances human rights and affirms human dignity by seeking and telling the truth about what particular people do in their everyday lives and about what their actions mean to them” (113). As such, we understand the stereotyping of subalterns (i.e., black slaves being happy and content in their oppression, commercializing people native to Hawaii for tourist purposes, etc.) as violations of human rights. Qualitative research, ideally, treats subjects with honor and respect, but much inquiry of a qualitative nature ultimately amounted to Foucauldian panoptical surveillance. After all, qualitative researchers conventionally boast more power than the qualitatively researched; such privilege can (and often does) prevent researchers from seeing limits and important differences. There’s also the issue of pursuing “a definite truth,” when we have come to understand such a thing as contextualized truth(s).

Erickson goes on to review previous and contemporary methods of qualitative research, highlighting worthy goals and the difficulties in achieving them. These methods include: ethnography, critical ethnography, autoethnography, participatory action research (or collaborative action research), and arts-based qualitative research and performance ethnography. Ethnography simply refers to accounts of how people go about their everyday lives; this research usually focuses on some kind of subaltern. While the intentions are noble (usually), those who exist outside of the studied subaltern group often find difficulty in relating to the group of people they are studying. Critical ethnography examines oppression, including that of a subaltern group against itself. While this sort of inquiry can teach us, how do we communicate with oppressors within a subaltern group honestly about our research? Autoethnography sees someone within a group conducting research on that group. This inquiry avoids more readily than ethnography and critical ethnography. However, researchers might fail to see what’s right in front of them, and they might be blind to their own privilege, too. Participatory action research involves the researchers and the researched collaborating and working toward a change for the better, rather than enacting a traditional researcher-researched relationship. Arts-based qualitative research and performance ethnography see researchers shunning the notion of objectivity in their work, and conveying their research in more vivid, literary ways. Still, the researchers must check their bias(es), and not every researcher can convey their work and findings through more personal styles of writing.

Erickson concludes that we must question the good our research can do. We should continue to conduct qualitative research, but we should keep ourselves in check more than qualitative researchers of previous generations did.

Erickson’s research interests include the study of social interaction as a learning environment, the anthropology of education, and (obviously) ethnographic research methods. His interests make him an appropriate researcher for this topic. As for how this will function in my own research, I must again reiterate that I will not converse with others for my research in this course. In the end, my (thesis) research will work toward observing online activity – queer subversion, more specifically – though this specific project will focus on finding relevant artifacts. Still, it is important that I do not contribute to the panoptical surveillance perpetuated by former qualitative studies, here or in my broader research. Rather, I should resist any temptations to sensationalize or marginalize, and additionally raise questions regarding if such temptations arise in the first place. I believe that my being a part of the subaltern group focused on in my research will help me in this regard.

Hocks, M. (2003). Understanding Visual Rhetoric in Digital Writing Environments. College Composition and Communication, 54, 629-656.

Hocks – whose fields of expertise are digital rhetoric, visual rhetorics, and computers and composition studies – points out that new media and their visual and interactive nature amplify the importance of visual rhetoric. “Interactive digital texts can blend words and visuals, talk and text, and authors and audiences in ways that are recognizably postmodern” (629-630). The rhetorical features of interactive digital media can help us understand visual rhetoric. Hocks uses the terms audience stance, transparency, and hybridity to describe the visual rhetoric we find in digital writing environments. Audience stance refers to how online documents do or do not encourage participation. Transparency refers to an artifact’s resemblance to previous modes of communication (print documents, etc.) Hybridity refers to the construction and combination of visual and verbal designs. Hocks examines two scholarly hypertexts: A. Wysocki’s (1998) “Monitoring Order” and C. Boese’s (1998) “The Ballad of the Internet Nutball.” Wysocki points out that we based our interpretation of Web pages on that of books. In other words, we expect a similar format based on our own cultural assumptions. She asks how design might reinforce or reshape our concept(s) of order. Wysocki encourages audience participation through transparency, but she also asks how design might reinforce or reshape or concept(s) or order, and plays around with cultural expectations. Boese’s work studies an implicit lesbian subplot on Xena: Warrior Princess and, more broadly, fandom. Through hybridity, she encourages audience participation for those who would likely identify as Xena fans. However, the multidimensional structure takes away from its transparency.

Hocks’ research will benefit my research since she focuses on visual representations in digital spaces. Her simple but poignant work will be useful in setting up a framework for my thesis. As for my related research project in this class, Hocks’ research should. It should also be a good addition to my lit review.

Schroeder, J.E. (2007). Critical visual analysis. In R.W. Belk (ed.), Handbook of Qualitative Research Methods in Marketing (303-321). Northampton, Massachusetts: Edward Elgar Publishing.

Schroeder, who specializes in psychology and has published on visual rhetoric, relays qualitative methods for researching images. He “show[s] how cultural codes and representational conventions inform contemporary marketing images, infusing them with visual, historical and rhetorical presence and power” (303). Managers and consumers produce their own meanings of advertisements, but neither group has complete control over them, as cultural codes work toward determining meaning(s).

Schroeder looks at the following as “key variables for critical visual analysis: description, subject matter, form, medium, style, genre and comparison” (304). Naturally, the first step in critical visual analysis is to describe the image, reminiscent of R. Barthes’ denoted image. Then, we move on to subject matter – what we see beyond the surface, reminiscent of Barthes’ connoted image. After that, we explore form, or the presentation of the subject matter. Then comes the medium, the method through which we observe the artifact (canvas, television, computer screen, etc.). We move to style, which recalls artifacts’ resemblance to each other (e.g. Woody Allen made Interiors in the style of Ingmar Bergman). Genre, which refers to type or category, comes next. Further, we can compare similar visual artifacts; Schroeder seems to imply that this regards artifacts of the same kind (photos with photos, films with films, etc.). He then discusses a CK One ad for Calvin Klein through lenses of gender, race, and class.

While Schroeder looks specifically at an ad and speaks mostly to ads, his research is relevant to mine, as it focuses on creating solid methods of visual analysis. Additionally, this might help me discover why so little scholarship has been devoted to smileys and emojis.

Levy, D.K. & Johnson, C.W. (2011). What does the Q mean? Including queer voices in qualitative research. Qualitative Social Work, 11, 130-140.

Levy and Johnson briefly describe the history of the word “queer” – from being oppressive to being reclaimed by GSMs (gender sex minorities). But since queer theory is quick to deconstruct, to dismiss the notion of fixed meanings, Levy and Johnson, whose backgrounds are in social work and in women’s studies and qualitative research, respectively, aim to figure out how to incorporate queer voices into their qualitative research. Queer denotes a bigger political movement – and a bigger field of study and categorization – than “gay and lesbian”; to queer something is to trouble and question its foundation(s). Levy and Johnson examine several different studies to see how queerness was incorporated into their frameworks.

Levy’s research includes queer participants and examining Christian upbringing and queer/lesbian/gay identities – often seen as opposing each other. Participants – three of the 15 identifying as queer – essentially “queer” their religious views and their sexual identities. Johnson’s research sought to figure out how college-age queer, transgender, bisexual, lesbian, and gay individuals used their high-school experiences to make meaning of and forge their sexual identity/ies. Five of the 11 participants designated themselves as queer. The word “queer” surprised many on the outside, like school personnel and student’s colleagues, but not anyone involved with the study itself, as it has become a very political term. One student even expressed disinterest in LGB campus events since they fail to directly recognize queer people.

Multiple methodological considerations for queer research make their way into the framework, of course, through clear benefits. Among the benefits is the obvious: Queer research amplifies queer voices. Additionally, this research challenges the sexual and gender-related binaries that still persist in society. Of course, we must also consider the challenges that queer research might bring. Perhaps the most obvious hurdle is the non-definition of the all-important word, “queer.” Researchers must be prepared for anything, given the fluidity of people who identify as queer. Recruiting participants can be difficult, too, as queer people are under-represented. Social institutions like universities and communities are comfortable keeping heterosexist norms alive in our culture; consequently, they might not jump at the opportunity to support queer research. Some people still see the non-defined “queer” as an offensive word.

In light of these benefits and challenges, Levy and Johnson offer six recommendations for queer research. We should be comfortable with fluidity – it is qualitative research, after all, and people and groups of people change all the time, often at the drop of a hat. We must also pay attention to identity politics. Being prepared for the unknown will help us, so we should think of possible scenarios before conducting research. We should also be prepared for questions, as the concept of “queer” as queer studies and queer theory (don’t?) frame it is complicated. We also need to be sensitive in approaching this subject – and especially in approaching research participants. Last and not least but perhaps obvious, we should be advocates for GSMs.

Levy and Johnson’s research will be helpful for my own project, as they address issues in working with the concept of “queer.” Queer theory is such an oddly intangible thing to have its own theory, but Levy and Johnson seem to be pointing me in the right direction.

Wall, S. (2006). An Autoethnography on Learning About Autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 5, 146-160.

As the title suggests, Wall uses the process of autoethnography to describe the process of learning autoethnography. Like many (such as myself), she grew up to believe that “‘real’ science is quantitative,” thanks to the positivist perspective (147). Postmodern philosophy leads to Wall’s having a different constitution of knowing – objectivity is a myth, and inquiry is a welcomed, necessary learning process. We’ve seen such thinking set the foundation for feminist theory and feminist research; other theories aiming to examine power imbalances (can) draw from postmodern thinking, too. Wall sees much promise in undertaking autoethnography “[a]s a woman in a man’s world, a nurse in a
doctors‟ world, and a qualitative researcher coming from a positivist discipline (health services research)” (148). Coming from postmodern thinking, we should avoid simply relegating reflexivity to nothing more than a paragraph in our work. Where is the political and cultural representation? Who are the voices? Are we not the best choices to describe our experience(s) with our own research? People have presented the use of self as heuristic inquiry, which sets up a nontraditional study of self-engagement. They have also presented the use of self as autobiography – more closely related to what we regard as autoethnography – which places the person and her emotions alongside social sciences. People have additionally presented the use of self as personal narrative, intended “to fuse the form with the content and the literary with the scientific” (151). Wall worries that autoethnography was too abstract a concept, based on what she’s read, but she’s able to find a few examples that provide strong insight into the process. She cites works published by Sparkes (1996), Holt (2001), Duncan (2004), and Pelias (2003), as well as Paulette’s “A Choice for K’aila” (1993). The social sanctioning of expert knowledge presents a few stumbling blocks to taking autoethnography seriously. Regarding trust in autoethnography, Wall ultimately falls somewhere in the middle – she recognizes that we cannot separate ourselves from our research, but she additionally believes “that some things are right and some are wrong” (156). While she enjoys the autoethnographies she’s encountered, she wonders whether they’re research.

Initially, the title of this article grabbed me, but Wall’s stance “[a]s a woman in a man’s world, a nurse in a doctors‟ world, and a qualitative researcher coming from a positivist discipline (health services research)” also worked in making her a strong choice for my research (148). Her ultimate challenging of autoethnography as research fascinated me – did she not use autoethnography to construct this apparently publishable research? (Does the award for the ultimate paradox go to Wall?) While I see value in challenging what we see before us (society, theory/ies, people’s words, etc.), I see in her research an ultimate adherence to everything she once believed – or, rather, everything she still believes. Longstanding beliefs can be tough to shake.

Farmer, B. (2005). The Fabulous Sublimity of Gay Diva Worship. Camera Obscura, 20, 165-195.

Farmer, who wrote the book Spectacular Passions: Cinema, Fantasy, Gay Male Spectatorships, begins by asserting that his childhood adoration for Julie Andrews – for which his classmates mocked him – helped him resist the banal heteronormativity that surrounded him. Such mobilization of women stars as vehicles for queer transcendence is hardly new, and functions as a practice of “queer sublimity: the transcendence of a limiting heteronormative materiality and the sublime reconstruction, at least in fantasy, of a more capacious, kinder, queerer world” (170). Diva worship allows queer people to find sublimity and disrupts cultural distinctions. Predicating diva worship on hetero-oriented desire undermines the existence of gay men. Such anchoring additionally aims to deem diva worship an outdated activity for gay men, and while gay liberation has changed many aspects of queer culture, such a claim ignores contemporary instances of diva worship and attempts to disrupt continuities in gay history. Diva worship remains” an exercise in queer empowerment” (173).

Farmer addresses critiques of a(n in)famous scene in Jonathan Demme’s Philadelphia (1993), in which Tom Hanks’ (gay) character translates an aria performed by opera diva Maria Callas for Denzel Washington’s (straight) character. He then proceeds to interpret the scene as a translation between Hanks and the diva. Hanks transitions from a conversation with Washington about the aria, to a translation of the aria. This melodramatic cinematic moment exemplifies the rapture found in gay men’s worship of divas; the scene additionally challenges normative gendered codings, with its collocation of a female voice (Callas) with a male body (Hanks). The hysterical excess of the depicted diva worship transcends “the constraints of sexual, social, and textual normativity” and temporarily opens space” (180).

Farmer’s work will prove helpful for my research, since the community on ATRL and, more specifically, their use of Gay Cat continue the tradition of queer adoration of current divas (Beyoncé, Rihanna, Taylor Swift, etc.).

Alexander, J. (2005). “Straightboyz4Nsync”: Queer Theory and the Composition of Heterosexuality. JAC, 25, 371-395.

Alexander, whose work focuses on constructing meaning through technologies, wonders if classes incorporating “queerness” into their framework are actually making progress. He then seeks to disrupt the assumption of straightness by “querying” it. He constructs a hoax website called Straightboyz4Nsync – pretending to be a boy named “Dax” – to explore our reading of straightness, to answer the question, “[w]hat would happen if students were confronted with a ‘straightboy’ [sic] with a ‘secret’?” (378). He had students in three of his courses examine the website and then openly discuss it on Blackboard. A poor design and the students’ overall negative response to it prove that medium determines how people view content. (Marshall McLuhan called.) Overall, though, students’ opinions on the website greatly vary. Students’ responses to Straightboyz4Nsync led to classroom discussions about the sexist policing of gender performativity and of sexual orientation. Naturally, some student responses fit right into this construct: the students often regard hints of homophobia as signaling potential hidden queerness. Perhaps surprisingly, it is Dax’s labeling of himself as straight – not his admiration for Justin Timberlake’s career starter – that calls his sexual orientation into question for many students. “[S]traightness depends in part on a silenced queerness for its existence as an identification” (388). The website allowed Alexander and his students to contemplate such performativity/es.

Alexander’s work should prove helpful for my own research, since it challenges assumptions that we often make – straight until revealed to be queer, cis until proven to be trans, etc.

Reyes, A., Rosso, P., & Buscaldi D. (2012). From Humor Recognition to Irony Detection: The Figurative Language of Social Media. Data & Knowledge Engineering, 74, 1-12.

Figurative language creates complex problems for Natural Language Processing (NLP), as it suggests information beyond the present syntax and semantics. Reyes, et al. aim to find uses of figurative language in social media that invoke humor and irony, to analyze how the linguistic components work toward invoking humor and irony. We can describe the complex yet common concept of humor as allowing for emotional release, but since we cannot pinpoint what might make all people laugh, the properties of humor are difficult to gauge. More specific is irony, a form of humor in which linguistic components really mean the opposite of what is directly stated. There are several different ways we can interpret figurative language: phonological and semantic relations, one-liners, and phonological oppositions, and semantic humor triggers like negative orientation, human-centric vocabulary, and professional communities. Also playing into our perceptions of humor and irony are ambiguities in structure, morphosyntactic tendencies, and semantics, polarity, unexpectedness, and emotional scenarios; these characteristics are incorporated into a data-mining study that consisted of 50,000 texts grabbed from Twitter, and was conducted by Reyes, et al. The social implications of the study are less than surprising: each studies feature seemed to be important in creating humor in social media.

Much to my surprise, Reyes, et al.’s research proved to be of little help to my thesis. I initially read the article to help shape my literature review in its regard to Internet rhetoric. However, it proved to be a more quantitative study than I’d expected. Still, Reyes, et al. might point to research that bears more relevance to my research.

Jacobson, B. & Donatone, B. (2009). Homoflexibles, Omnisexuals, and Genderqueers: Group Work with Queer Youth in Cyberspace and Face-to-Face. Group, 33, 223-234.

Queer youth identify themselves in myriad ways. Jacobson and Donatone, who come from the fields of medicine and psychotherapy/psychoanalysis, respectively, aim to discover and describe how exactly these youth are different and how clinicians might better reach these youth through digital means. Groups offer LGB youth a chance to see that others face similar challenges, but as the ability to connect with other LGB youth has grown recently, they are more focused on their own identities and how to become fulfilled individuals. Groups also offer LGB youth a chance to reflect on the developmental lags brought on by the norm of heterosexism, but such “delayed adolescence” has decreased in recent years; clinicians might rather address issues of gender identity, sexual practice (monogamy vs. polyandry), and the desire to have children. Of course, developmental lags can still be influenced by religion, nationality, and ethnicity. LGB youth are beginning to challenge the gender binary, too.

In order to reach the LGB youth in their groups, group therapists need to be sensitive – be diverse but also specific to achieve certain goals, to address certain needs and issues. Therapists should also look into virtual media as a means of meeting clients (where they are), such as chat rooms, which provides a safe space for students questioning gender and sexuality to discuss these issues with therapists. Of course, therapists should stay abreast of in-person communication, too. While therapists might be reluctant to enter this space, it could very well help them reach their clients in a new way.

Mills, R. (2006). Queer is Here? Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Histories and Public Culture. History Workshop Journal, 62, 253-263.

While British laws have made being openly LGBT easier, Britain has made efforts to incorporate LGBT history into its public discourse (remembrances, etc.). Still, academic historians should engage in a critical dialogue with such frameworks to give them a sense of purpose, “to have a role in shaping and transforming them” (255). Mills, a lecturer whose focus is positively medieval and was working on a study of medieval devotion’s same-sex intimacy at the time of publication, looks at how “queer” discourse has made its way into the public (and “straight”) sphere. LGBT public cultures often adopt coming-out narratives and, similarly, the repressive hypothesis – which suggests that Western homophobia suddenly began to unravel in the 1960s – but J. Howard resists such simplistic notions of queer discourse. To address the aforementioned issues, Mills looks specifically at “Queer is Here,” a small display in the Museum of London that addresses LGBT progress in Britain. The display expresses the repressive hypothesis, which hinders its ability to address “multiple temporalities of sex and gender within a single moment” (256). It also comes as no surprise that “queer” discourse often marginalizes transgender narratives – and transgender people, in general. A. Sinfield proposes historical identities that make clear distinctions “between gender identity (desire to be) and sexual orientation (desire for)” (257). Queer discourse can also marginalize intersections with race and class. According to Mills, possible solution is to direct attention to actual sexual practices of queer people. Another solution might be to challenge the linearity of the traditional museum-display model. We might also solve the problem by focusing on identity as a strategy.

Walther, J.B. & D’Addario, K.P. (2001). The Impacts of Emoticons on Message Interpretation in Computer-Mediated Communication. Social Science and Computer Review, 19, 324-347.

Walther and D’Addario point out the prevalence of communication via e-mail in computer-mediated communication (CMC), and notice how nonverbal cues from face-to-face (FTF) interactions might get lost in translation. They point out that people incorporate emoticons, textual symbols that resemble facial expressions, into their textual communication to make up for the lost nonverbal cues. Walther and D’Addario attempt to discover the effects that emoticons might have in e-mail exchanges. While people use CMC for both business and personal purposes, they often have to spend more time and effort to fully comprehend each other, since the nonverbal cues limit these messages’ potential scope. Research cited by Walther and D’Addario points out that, before the emoticon, people had difficulty in detecting and relaying subtle humor. CMC has become a playful medium thanks to emoticons; everyday CMC exchanges now include emoticons. At the time of this article’s publishing, Walther and D’Addario could only find two studies on emoticon use. One study found that people’s use of emoticons increased over time; they were more accustomed to this form of communication. Another study showed that emoticons had varied effects on textual “flaming” (read: insulting) messages. Walther and D’Addario conclude that they have yet to figure out emoticons’ exact effect(s) on CMC, as research on nonverbal cues’ impact on FtF interactions greatly varied. They then point out emoticons may not have the same connotations as their physical “equivalents,” that our faces in FtF interactions are clearly less calculated and controlled than emoticons in our CMC. “[T]he affective dimension of the language in verbal messages makes a bigger difference than the differences among alternative emoticons do in the way readers interpret the overall message” (330). Of course, Walther and D’Addario flip that around to suggest that emoticons may have the same effects as FtF nonverbal cues, since they act as stand-ins for them. Mixed messages (happy emoticon with sad textual message – or vice versa) may be intentionally difficult to interpret – or maybe they’re sarcastic in nature. Emoticons that resemble winks suggest irony more so than smiley-face emoticons and sad-face emoticons; these almost always imply a double meaning in the textual message(s).

Walther and D’Addario conducted an experiment that “comprised a 2 x 4 between-subjects design, with eight stimulus combinations” (332). The two-level variable was positive or negative textual messages; the four-level variable was the following emoticons – :-), :-(, 😉 – and the control condition of no emoticon. Participants in the experiment were directed to a website that presented these variations as exchanges in mock e-mail correspondence. Participants were gathered from two sources – those in a demonstration for a first-year communication course, and those seeking credit in psychology courses. The textual messages examined were as follows: “That econ class you asked me about, it’s a joy. I wish all my classes were just like it” and “That econ class you asked me about, it’s hell. I wish I never have another class like it”; each was followed by either nothing or one of the three emoticons. Walther and D’Addario ultimately concluded that emoticons had little impact on how people interpret textual messages in CMC.

While the results of Walther and D’Addario’s study surprised me, such a study might lead into an interesting, relevant discussion of A. Wysocki’s “Impossibly indistinct: On form/content and word/image in two pieces of computer-based interactive multimedia.”

Herek, G.M. (2010). Sexual Orientation Differences as Deficits: Science and Stigma in the History of American Psychology. Perspectives on Psychological Science, 5, 693-699.

Herek points out how American psychology once deemed “departures from heterosexuality [as] psychological deficits” (693). Heterosexism, or structural sexual stigma, gives less power to nonheterosexuals, since it assumes that all people are heterosexual and express themselves heterosexually. Put differently, queer people are invisible – or they are subject to “ostracism, harassment, discrimination, and violence” (694).

Herek highlights that sexual orientation, at least as we know it, is a relatively recent social construct. In the early 1800s, people regarded marriage as an institution for economic gain and security, not a commitment based on love. Only procreative sexual acts were deemed appropriate; religious and legal institutions regarded as animalistic any sexual acts not intended for procreation. Sexual desire and love were seen as opposing feelings. Toward the end of the 1800s, people began to define themselves through their sexual orientations; in the early 1900s, such thinking made its way into the psychiatric discourse. With these developments, people began to see love and sexual desire as innately related. In the 1940s, American psychoanalysis claimed that people were naturally heterosexual, and that fear of the other sex led to homosexuality; homosexuality is an illness. During the waning years of World War II, antihomosexual stances were heavily enforced in the military; queer civilians could be arrested at public settings, gay bars, and even at private gatherings, and could lose employment.

Many psychiatrists and physicians tried to make homosexuals “straight,” or heterosexual with techniques like psychotherapy, hormone treatments, and castration, which proved to be ineffectual in altering orientation. Many homosexuals took their own lives as a result of these failed “cures.” But many in psychiatry were not quick to believe the assumption of heterosexuality. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, studies from Alfred Kinsey and Ford and Beach contradicted the assumption of heterosexuality. Additionally, Evelyn Hooker’s 1957 study “concluded that homosexuality did not constitute a clinical entity and was not inherently associated with pathology” (695). Despite the lack of empirical data in the illness model, sexual stigma ensured its dominance in psychiatry for quite some time, though we can also attribute its dominance to weak theory and methods, like circular logic. Homosexuality was removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in 1973, as a result of empirical evidence and gays and lesbians’ protesting of the diagnosis.

Even though the field has progressed since then by abandoning its previous defense of heterosexism, many in American society still conceive of sexual differences as deficits; conservative groups still skew results of research – and even fail to account for certain factors – in an attempt to keep nonheterosexuals from keeping their children or having them in the first place. Herek concludes that the “nonrhetorical” sciences often reflect cultural values and norms, and consequently marginalize already-disenfranchised people groups; we should continue to challenge the idea that differences are deficits. Herek, who earned a Ph.D. in social psychology in 1983, has published a myriad of articles on heterosexuals’ prejudice against queer people. This article illustrates how American society has marginalized queer people – and often still does, and sets up a context for queer people to identify themselves in digital spaces.

Hillier, L., Mitchell, K.J., & Ybarra, M.L. (2012). The Internet As a Safety Net: Findings from a Series of Online Focus Groups with LGB and Non-LGB Young People in the United States. Journal of LGBT Youth, 9, 225-246.

This article looks at how queer youths use the Internet for networking – more specifically, “in regard to social support, trusting friendships, romantic relationships, and the opportunity to be out with others” (227). The study examines the differences between LGB and non-LGB youth’s use of the Internet in finding friendship and support. Queer people often face prejudice in their everyday lives; they often find more support in online friends than in people they know from their offline lives. LGB adolescents might even use the Internet to find romantic relationships, due to either the larger pool of potential partner or the ease of secrecy.

Hillier, et al. gathered three focus groups – two LGB, one non-LGB. The LGB group was examined to determine the benefits and threats of their Internet interactions; the non-LGB group’s experiences were juxtaposed with those of the LGB group. Over the course of three days, participants dropped in on a discussion board two to three times each day; they posted responses both to questions posted by a moderator and to comments made by others. The questions were grouped according to the following three categories: “(1) history of use and current use; (2) use of the Internet for sexuality and friendships; and (3) risks and strategies for safety and activism” (229).

Users’ history with and current use of the Internet tended to be similar, but the similarities seem to end there. For instance, 80 percent of the LGB youth had exclusively online friends, as opposed to only 20 percent of the non-LGB youth, who were alarmed at the idea. Non-LGB youth seemed to have an easier time finding like-minded people in their offline communities, while LGB youth were less concerned about stigmas attached to their sexual orientations when discussing them with people online. Additionally, non-LGB youth were afraid of online interactions, while LGB youth expressed fear of offline interactions, due to the risk of physical violence and, more importantly, losing social relationships. LGB youth tended to find more social support in online relationships than in offline interactions, while non-LGB youth expressed the opposite sentiments. It’s concerning, but perhaps not surprising, that LGB youth ventured out and met online friends in offline settings, and even found romantic relationships through online interactions; non-LGB youth were overwhelmingly negative in both regards. Hillier, et al. conclude with their research that LGB youth might use the Internet to seek out understanding and meaningful relationships, since social stigmas tend to restrict or prohibit such expressions in offline interactions; and that non-LGB youth are more reluctant to seek online friendships and relationships.

Hillier comes from a background in psychology and sexuality; Mitchell researches crimes against children; and Ybarra studies “technology-related health issues for young people.” They all seemed to play a vital part in carrying out this study, as each specializes in different fields that are relevant to this study.

Instructions: Research Journal: 1 robust annotated bibliography entry

1. Lugowski, David M. “Queering the (New) Deal: Lesbian and Gay Representation and the Depression-Era Cultural Politics of Hollywood’s Production Code.” Cinema Journal 38.2 (1999): 3-35. Web. 4 Feb. 2015.

As cinematic language developed, it included gender roles that were crucial to films made in Hollywood. But with the Great Depression, it can be argued, came a shift from “manly” production to “feminized” consumerism; men questioned their own masculinity. Such questioning lessened the laughter found in humor based on queer characters.
Lugowski situates “queer” imagery for his research as behavior that is cross-gendered according to social norms. He attempts to reframe the homophobic goal of erasing queer images, to show that these images are in fact read as queer. People may have laughed at these stereotypical images, but some may have found traces of themselves in them. Lugowski looks at the images survived and passed through the Production Code – more specifically, those images in films outside of the often-examined gangster and “woman’s” genres. Hollywood seems to be at its gayest from early 1932 to mid-1934, with these characters becoming more sexualized in 1933 and 1934. The two broad categories of queer men found in Depression-Era films are the asexual sissy and the flamboyant pansy. But with the need to establish an acceptable masculinity came more traditionally masculine images later in the decade. Filmmakers switched out one kind of “unacceptable” material for another. Masculinity feared the difference, and the advent of sound introduced more difference than there had been before.

Rarer was the representation of lesbians, though such representations were broader in scope. Lesbian representation arguably undermines heterocentricity more than the representation of gay men – “the feminizing of a man seems to require the masculinizing of a woman, and vice versa” (17). Potentially queer representations of women came across more as shrews in need of taming than anything else. Queer-sexuality discourses in the Depression Era focus more on sexism against women and not homophobia against men; the power of femininity is being censored and policed.

As the Depression Era came to an end, there seemed to be a conflict in the approval and censorship of these queer images – offend few, entertain many. While attitudes toward queer identification have obviously changed since the Depression Era, some of these early queer images do resist homophobia, while others fall into it.

Lugowski’s areas of expertise are gender, sexuality, and representation, and U.S. film. In this article, he draws on concepts in Vito Russo’s The Celluloid Closet to great effect, to show how films reflect culture and vice versa. Such an article might help those writing about queer representation to frame their arguments.