Ashley Rubin
Introduction
Mark Massoud’s “The Power of Positionality” is a beautifully written introductory chapter to Out of Place. Besides articulating the book’s main arguments, the need for a book on positionality in law and society research, and an overview of subsequent chapters, Massoud also gives us a primer for thinking about positionality. This primer is careful, acknowledging the complexity and nuances of the issue, ultimately “balancing positionality’s costs and benefits” (23). My goal in this response is to identify a few of Massoud’s key points, highlight a few things that I particularly wish to echo, and push back on a few areas where I suspect greater debate or a different view would be valuable or generative.
Understanding Positionality
So, what is positionality? Massoud defines positionality as a scholar’s “attention to positioning their self-identifications, experiences of marginalization, or professional privileges”; more generally, he describes it as a way of “opening up one’s self-identifications – rather than only one’s ideas – to criticism” (3). In doing so, he defines positionality as mostly interchangeable with “reflexivity” and “standpoint” (3). Given the focus of the collection as not simply on positionality, but especially on the varied experiences of marginalization or generally people feeling “out of place,” [1] this definition makes sense. Indeed, Massoud argues that out-of-place scholars are generally more inclined to think of their positionality, explaining “Being or feeling different from the majority in a research site or an academic field can compel out-of-place scholars to think carefully about how their personal backgrounds and experiences shape their research” (2). And later, based on an analysis of articles in two leading socio-legal studies journals, Massoud demonstrates that women and people of colour are most likely to include positionality statements in their published research.
Why does positionality matter? First and foremost, positionality is part of good methodology. We are facing an era of replication crises in quantitative research and deep scepticism about qualitative research, leading some to advocate for publishing our raw data—interview transcripts, fieldnotes, and primary sources—into databases for verification and perhaps future replication efforts. While some of these course corrections can be overdone, [2] good data and methods sections in articles or appendices in books should contain enough information so that a reader can understand how the research was conducted or that another researcher could (at least theoretically) attempt to replicate the research. Massoud stakes an important claim for positionality in that process: “Explaining one’s positionality allows a reader to understand how data were gathered, who agreed to talk to the researcher, and why they did so” (8). I could not agree more.
However, Massoud offers us other potential benefits of taking positionality seriously beyond narrowly empirical considerations. For example, Massoud discusses positionality’s role in aiding researchers’ self-discovery and their personal and collective liberation from oppression (e.g., pp. 9-13). This is a particularly timely contribution. Research methods are experiencing something of an expansion in recent years, with new or previously marginalised methodologies (e.g., participant action research, photovoice, empirical poetry) making their way into mainstream academic research. But more than the methodologies themselves, researchers are increasingly paying attention to new and previously marginalised considerations over what research they conduct and how they conduct it.
Previously, the single most important factor—in some circumstances, the only relevant factor—has been how the research methods we choose to advance our ability to answer our research questions or more generally our ability to generate empirical and theoretical insights. Research ethics operated as an important, but secondary, issue. More recently, however, scholars are thinking beyond our individual studies and their empirical needs, turning instead to normative questions, including the broader consequences of our projects, from our future relationships with our research subjects and communities to future researchers’ abilities to conduct research on previously studied communities, to broader consequences for other researchers and academics generally. It is considerations of this kind that play a significant role in Massoud’s chapter as he takes seriously the hierarchies and marginalizations that happen within and beyond academia. Ultimately, Massoud sets out “to give hope to a rising generation of law and society scholars who may be different from the field’s founders in fundamental ways” (4-5).
Positionality is a Complicated Thing
I will be honest: I am actually not a big fan of positionality statements. As noted above, I fully agree they are necessary for good methodology—every relevant aspect of the research collection and analysis process should be documented in published research, and positionality is often relevant in qualitative research. But I also think there is so much confusion over positionality that the majority of these statements are rather disappointing in reality. [3]
Most positionality statements I have come across feel like a kind of “symbolic compliance” in which scholars make their statements because they know they should; however, because they do not understand the significance or reasoning for these statements, their statements fall short. In some cases, scholars point to superficial similarities, especially shared marginalised (racialised or gendered) statuses, leaving unacknowledged and unanalysed any differences, without attending to how any of these characteristics actually shaped data collection (or analysis). In other cases, scholars point to superficial differences, usually along the lines of (class and race) privilege, more often in acknowledgement of the uncomfortable optics of “studying down” rather than, again, discussing the consequences of the study’s empirics. I think the reasons for such hollow rituals are two-fold: first, too often scholars treat positionality as limited to one’s categorical demographics (especially race and gender) and some murky “privilege” (usually class and educational status); second, there is frequent confusion over the distinction between positionality and reflexivity. I discuss each of these in turn.
Beyond Categorical Identity
Something I particularly appreciate about Massoud’s chapter is his appreciation for the complexity not only of positionality statements (when done well) but also of identity. Massoud repeatedly refuses to essentialise people into one of their demographic categories, and justifiably so. We know by now that no group is homogenous. Why should we think that a research participant of x race and y gender is more likely to talk to a researcher of the same race and gender—unless we are assuming race or gender are the most important identities to a research participant? Going back decades, qualitative scholars have talked about how race and gender categories are often not the most salient identities to their participants. My favourite example of this is Maxine Baca Zinn’s discussion of how the Latina women she studied saw her not so much as one of them (same gender and ethnicity), nor as a privileged outsider (academic researcher), but as a child-woman who hadn’t mastered the basic necessities of life, like sewing.
Likewise, Massoud reminds us that positionality is dynamic: it may “change across places and times. A scholar’s ethnic identity may be minoritized in some contexts but not in others, or a working-class immigrant kid may grow up to become a celebrated intellectual employed by a wealthy university” (4). Likewise, even things like insider/outsider status do not have a uniform impact on our data collection process. Massoud demonstrates how perceived insider status can make respondents feel safe and open up (e.g., Gustafson's example, p. 11), while perceived outsider status can likewise encourage people to open up (e.g., Chua's example, p. 12-13). Positionality is highly context-dependent. Importantly, it is not reducible to what others may think is the researcher’s most salient category (most often a signifier of marginalised status, especially race and gender) and it’s complicated—more complicated than simply flashing one’s demographic categories and calling it a day. Massoud tells us, “People express and understand positionality through particular historical, legal, social, and political contexts. We may not ever be fully coherent intellectually, politically, psychologically, or emotionally at any one point in our lives, or across the sweep of our lives, which makes positionality unstable” (22).
But despite Massoud’s appreciation for this dynamism and complexity, even he at times falls into the trap of primarily defining positionality by reference to identity categories. For example, in his review of positionality statements in leading socio-legal journals, he searches for scholars’ mention of their gender identity, sexuality, race or ethnicity, disability, and class (14). In doing so, he absolutely reflects what I suspect constitutes the majority of positionality statements—often grounded in identity, and especially categories of identity, and more generally privilege. But is categorical identity or privilege really the most important determinant of who has access, who feels comfortable, and how well two people can bond, share an experience, and talk freely? Again, reflecting Massoud’s careful analysis, he raises a number of critiques and cautions from critical traditions about how positionality could be abused or reify power hierarchies and inappropriate categorisations of people (17-22). But he also emphasises privilege and vulnerability as key factors of positionality. But I suspect there are more important factors than haves and have not.
This may be an entirely silly illustration, but it’s one I think about a lot when I think about positionality. I live in a demographically and economically diverse neighbourhood on the windward side of Oahu, Hawai‘i (not the touristy side and very close to “the country”). Residents are comprised of homeowners, renters, and people living in their cars. They are predominantly Native Hawaiians, other Pacific Islanders, and people of East and Southeast Asian ancestry, followed by White people and then by Black People and Hispanic people. My neighbours are employed in a range of occupations (or are retired), although the modal occupation is probably military. They have a range of education levels (from less than high school to a limited number with graduate degrees). They also have a variety of political affiliations, including both Republicans and Democrats (which in Hawaii can mean about a dozen different things) and other parties. Among coupled neighbours, most are straight, but some are gay. Some neighbours have kids—babies, grammar-school age kids, high schoolers, or beyond—and some have grandkids, and others do not have children. Some live in multi-generational households, others in nuclear households, and others in single-parent households. Some neighbours have physical, cognitive, and mental health conditions—most are ambulatory, but some use wheelchairs or other assistance to get around. Unlike when I lived in the South, religion has rarely come up, so I don’t know the religious composition of my neighbourhood. I suspect among those who affiliate with a religion, various branches of Christianity are likely the most common (I live not far from a major Mormon enclave) and a few are ethnically Jewish, but whether they are religious, I could not say. I am an ambulatory White female professor with moderate political preferences and no religion (although people often think I’m Jewish, I was raised Catholic) living with my husband and our two dogs. The number-one factor that determines how much social contact I have with my neighbours, and the quality of that contact, is whether they have a dog and whether they walk it (or only leave it in the house or yard). That point of commonality, that most salient source of connection, is not the type of characteristic discussed in positionality statements that limit their focus to race, gender, and privilege. It is that deeper aspect of identity, which enables connection but is overlooked when we emphasize privilege and vulnerability, often defined in superficial categories, as the primary gateways or obstacles to qualitative research.
Taking Seriously Positionality as a Tool of Reflexivity
As noted above, Massoud treats positionality as fairly interchangeable with reflexivity. While I agree that positionality and reflexivity are similar and closely linked, I do see positionality somewhat differently and I think it’s important to treat positionality as separate from reflexivity. I would define positionality as your position vis-a-vis your research subjects, participants, or data and how others may react to your presence; whereas I would define reflexivity as seriously reflecting on your own reactions, thoughts, and behaviour. Elsewhere, I have explained that I think of reflexivity as:
“deep awareness of how you are the instrument of your data collection, and therefore you cannot be separated from the process of data collection. You can be reflexive about your positionality—that is, about how your position affects your data collection—but also about many other things unrelated to positionality. . . [including] how [your] own perceptions, histories, personalities, and training shape [your] data collection and analyses.”
I have argued that reflexivity is a crucial step for all qualitative researchers, but I also see reflexivity as far bigger than the reflexivity over our positionality.
Why is this distinction between positionality and reflexivity important? As noted above, too often I see scholars—at conferences and workshops or in manuscripts and published articles—offering rote, even performative positionality statements without reflexivity. These positionality statements are typically disconnected from the data: at best, researchers speculate about the impact of their position on their data collection process; at worst, and more commonly in my experience, they simply rehearse their demographics or their privilege relative to their participants without thinking reflexively about how their positionality affected the research process. I suspect these rituals emerge because scholars understood that they are supposed to offer positionality statements, but fail to understand the reasons behind them—that positionality is not simply a symbolic statement whose rehearsal is sufficient, but one small part of the larger reflexivity process. If scholars assume simply rehearsing their positionality is reflexivity, they are unlikely to think through other forms of reflexivity that are part of good methods. Making clear that positionality and reflexivity are separate, but both necessary, steps are one way to avoid making positionality statements hollow and somewhat gross gestures. To be clear, Massoud understands these distinctions and advocates for reflexive positionality; he “encourag[es] law and society scholars of all backgrounds to adopt a ‘position sensibility’ by examining and explaining how their own self-identifications, privileges, or experiences shape and challenge research methods” (7). My critique is rather that if we treat reflexivity as a synonym of positionality, we risk unreflexive positionality statements and a generally unreflexive research process. I hope we can avoid that outcome by encouraging scholars to engage in reflexivity as its own practice that includes but is not limited to reflecting on one’s positionality.
Closing With Cautious Optimism
In the end, Massoud offers us a compelling portrait of positionality and a call for “collective and transparent self-reflection on positionality and, specifically, marginalization” (4). I concur with his call for greater reflexivity on how our personal experiences shape our research and to be more transparent about how this impacts the research process. Here, I have expressed some of my concerns about how these calls may be interpreted, given the various botched efforts at positionality statements I have seen. Now, I wish to close with two other notes of caution.
First, I appreciate Massoud’s point that, whether or not an author brings up their positionality, sometimes readers and audience members bring it up and may even fetishize it, paying greater attention to the scholar’s visible or perceived identity instead of their theoretical contributions (esp. pp. 19-20). As Massoud notes, positionality statements should not be associated solely with scholars from socially marginalized categories (e.g., based on gender, race, or disability). But I suggest this common goal is further motivation to decouple positionality from identity categories and to think through positionality at a deeper level of harder-to-identify characteristics like personality, personal preferences and tastes, sense of humour, comfort in social spaces, hopes and dreams, and other factors that can cut across artificial lines of race, gender, class, and so on. It is also a further incentive to emphasize that reflexivity generally, not just on positionality (which is too often associated with identity categories), should be a standard practice for all scholars as part of good research practice.
Second, I ask whether there are contexts when positionality statements are actually inappropriate. Within academic and activist circles, they are increasingly de rigueur, but to some of our research participants or to policymakers, as when reporting our findings, rehearsing our positionality may seem odd and off-putting. As academics, we have developed a series of norms and preferences and (increasingly) political beliefs that are fairly dissimilar from the general public. We talk in ways that we or advocates have analysed extensively and designed with an overt intent to be respectful (as with person-first language). But some of this discourse is confusing and sometimes even offensive to people in other circles (even those we are trying to respect), particularly when it is new to them. Positionality statements may be one of those phenomena. Just as we may not delve into the details of our regression model when revealing our findings of a quantitative study for a lay audience, so too may positionality statements be unnecessary—at least for some audiences. Ultimately, scholars should use their own reflexivity about the setting and audience to decide what would be appropriate.
End-Notes
[1] Although intentionally used in a few different ways in the chapter, Massoud generally uses this term to mean having an “outsider” status, especially being in settings where others do not “share our backgrounds” and therefore experiencing “social marginality” (p. 2). Although Massoud notes that law and society scholars are quintessential out-of-place scholars because we always felt like outsiders in our disciplines (5), he explains, “Out of place scholars are typically minorities – through their class background, ethnicity, gender, physical ability, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, and so on” (2).
[2] In the related field of criminology, data sharing is increasingly required; Bucerius and Copes have provided a useful explanation for why mandatory policies are problematic.
[3] I will add that, as an editor, I do worry about positionality statements’ impact on the peer review process. There is a tension between providing the reader with enough information to evaluate the study and revealing personal characteristics that might trigger conscious or subconscious biases on the part of reviewers (and editors). My preference would be to blind positionality statements during review, but include them in the published paper. I suspect that it is unlikely that a paper should be rejected for an insufficient positionality statement, but I continue to think they are necessary for the purpose of research documentation and possible replication.
Ashley T. Rubin is Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. She holds a PhD in Jurisprudence and Social Policy from UC Berkeley. Rubin's research examines the dynamics of penal change throughout US history. She is the author of The Deviant Prison (Cambridge University Press 2021) and Rocking Qualitative Social Science(Stanford University Press 2021). Rubin is currently co-editor of Law & Society Review.
Feature Image: Durba Sen, DreamTales.
This post is part of a book round-table on Out of Place: Fieldwork and Positionality in Law and Society (CUP 2024). Read the other posts here.