David Woodhead reflects on his past research experience and explores the relationship between activist and researcher identities, priorities, and possibilities
I became a researcher because I was curious. But more than this, I became a researcher because I was an activist. I wanted to know stuff, for sure, but I also wanted to change the world. I was, and remain, dedicated to building knowledge about the worlds I care about – notably, but not exclusively, those of people who we now describe as identifying as LGBTQ+- and contribute to broader efforts to right the wrongs they routinely face.
How did it start?
My activist sensibilities were smelted in the foundry of the 1980s in the UK. Thatcher’s assault on the working class and public services, the striking miners, and women’s peace camps at Greenham Common air base, were the raw materials from which my politics were cast. The inspiration I drew from my socialist grandparents breathed oxygen into the consciousness of this lonely teenager who attended a small Catholic school and lived with his mum and younger sister in financial hardship in a repressed seaside town in the depressed north of England.
None of these challenges were eased by what was, at the time, the terrifying and loathsome realisation that I was gay at a time when hate for gay men, especially those dying of AIDS, was a national, media-fuelled preoccupation. And as I sweated to get the grades to get me to university in London, a desire to make the world a better place, or at least a fairer place, was at the forefront of my mind.
Becoming a researcher
Let us dial forward rapidly, through the tumultuous times of Section 28 that banned the so-called promotion of homosexuality in schools, the multiple encouragements by my teachers at university to read about post modernism and post structuralism, my burgeoning network of queer friends and lovers, as well the pervasive presence of AIDS that hung over us all.
In the early nineties, I finished my undergraduate degree and received an ESRC grant – a moment of joy – which opened the sturdy doors of academia to me by studying for a PhD about the social and psychological impacts of the AIDS epidemic on HIV negative gay men. This was a qualitative study – with my identity as a gay man right at its heart – underpinned by a desire to tell stories that were seldom heard.
Studying for my doctorate gave grist to my mill. Inspired by feminist writers, and cultural geographers, notably Judith Butler and Gillian Rose, I became ever more convinced that research can be disruptive and radical and that individuals with shared lived experiences can have a deep empathy for those grappling with similar issues. There was a trust born of mutual understanding and shared linguistic tropes and cultural referents, and a confidence that the other knows what is being alluded to without explanation, creating opportunities for radical and disruptive stories to be told.
We were enjoined, in the act of research, in something potentially liberatory, a small act in a broader movement for deep societal change. The empathy that I had helped foster an environment of trust and openness, which was essential when undertaking meaningful research in domains such as sex and death which are replete with sensitivities and potential harms. My approach led to deep insights and rich interpretations.
The thesis that emerged, four years later, included a long and heartfelt reflection on my motivations, frustrations, and hopes. It also celebrated the moments of connection I felt with interviewees and acknowledged the safe interaction I was able to create for them to share their experiences and their feelings, free from negative judgement. Talking to each other took on a significance far beyond anything I could have imagined.
In the decades that followed, numerous challenges and opportunities came my way: a long-term struggle with depression and anxiety; substance misuse; having HIV; and the death of both my parents. Each brought isolation and stigma and strong feelings of loss, shame and, on occasion, deep despair. And as my life moved forward, and my experiences broadened, so did my personal motivations to bring about change through research. I am now similarly motivated to mobilise my experiences to collaborate in research with people with poor mental health, for example.
Three critical moments
Overwhelmed by the pressures of doing too much and yet always feeling as though I wasn’t doing anywhere near enough, I have participated in psychodynamic therapy – which explores the unconscious mind to understand current behaviour – and learnt about myself and my motivations, as well as, somewhat surprisingly, my research practice.
I have come to understand how harnessing my research practice in the service of my beliefs and passions might introduce unconscious biases and defences into the research process as I put my internal conflicts, and past experiences, trauma and pain, into the people I am working with in – sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant – ways and my ability to hear what they are saying is clouded by own perspectives, and unconscious projections of unresolved internal conflicts or recollections.
This not only threatens to weaken my ability to see beyond my own prejudices but can also mean that I miss the nuances and specifics of what is being said to me, as opposed to what I am choosing to hear. These processes might be imperceptible to me, and to the participants, but nonetheless they can have significant impacts on the research. Crucially, they might detract from the overriding goal of amplifying participants’ stories, rather than simply concretising or bringing meaning to mine.
I also realised that in embarking on my thesis, the real questions I sought to address, beneath the surface, were those deep within me, and not just, in the external world.
The second shift came as result of a coffee chat with a friend – now professor of sociology in Australia – and her suggestion that I might read the work of Deleuze and Guattari. For them, using one’s own lived experience as a part of research practice can be critiqued for potentially limiting the multiplicity and fluidity of thought. They emphasise the importance of creating new lines of flight, which means breaking away from fixed identities and established norms.
I realised that relying so heavily on my personal identity and lived experience might risk anchoring what we think to specific, supposedly knowable identities, rather than allowing for exploration of broader, more dynamic assemblages – networks of interconnected, evolving elements and relationships.
Reading their work led me consider that it might well be, somewhat odds with what I first thought, that using my identity as a warrant in my research could inadvertently reinforce static notions of who we are, rather than embracing the fluid, interconnected nature of our existence.
Most recently, whilst collaborating with colleagues at the Centre for Mental Health, I have begun to understand more deeply than ever before how racism and white supremacy fit into the picture, how my assumptions are laden with prejudices, how my insensitivity can be harmful, and how my silences serve to censor and quash difference.
I have learnt that while personal narratives offer valuable insights into the intersections of race, gender, and sexuality, they can also risk essentialising complex identities – attributing fixed traits to groups of diverse people. Simply put, there is no reason to believe that I’m immune from the deep critiques of the privileges of being white any more than I am for being a man.
Relying so heavily on my identity and my experiences, I realise, might inadvertently reinforce a singular narrative, overshadowing the diverse experiences within Black queer communities. My approaches could also risk privileging certain voices over others – notably my white, male voice – potentially marginalising those with different or less visible experiences. This outcome is the exact opposite of what I have always wanted to achieve.
I am a thousand miles from where I began with an abiding and painful realisation. Whilst once I thought I was part of a radical solution to oppression, as a middle aged white gay man, right here and right now, I realise that I am actually part of the problem.
Where do I go next?
Those impulses from my early teens are still with me, still feeding me, still driving me to do research with marginalised communities. At heart, I am still that teenage socialist, angry and hungry, propelled forward by a desire to make big changes.
What I have learnt doesn’t lead me to ditch what I do, or to turn my back on the potential of research to influence societal change. Far from it. But I mustn’t rest on old laurels. I need to take responsibility for the possible harmful impacts of my research practice on the very communities I wish to support.
I need to find allies and create spaces in which I can develop a new theoretical lens for reflection, build my skills in confident and meaningful implementation of it, and – more than anything else – be humble and willing to change course.
About the author
David Woodhead is Associate Director of Research at Centre for Mental Health and Honorary Fellow in Medical Humanities, Durham University. You can follow David on Twitter/X at @davestanpat.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Alethea Joshi and Hilary Woodhead for commenting on an earlier draft.
References
Butler, Judith. 2006. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge.
Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. 2013. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Translated by Brian Massumi. London: Bloomsbury.
Gevisser, Mark. 2020. The Pink Line: Journeys Across the World’s Queer Frontiers. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
Rose, Gillian. 1993. Feminism and Geography: The Limits of Geographical Knowledge. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
