The Collection

and Interpretation

of Data

from Hidden

Populations

U. S. DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND HUMAN SERVICES • Public Health Service • Alcohol, Drug Abuse, and Mental Health Administration
The Collection and Interpretation

of Data from Hidden Populations

Editor:

Elizabeth Y. Lambert, M.S.

Division of Epidemiology and

Prevention Research

National Institute on Drug Abuse

NIDA Research Monograph 98

1990

U.S. DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND HUMAN SERVICES

Public Health Service

Alcohol, Drug Abuse, and Mental Health Administration

National Institute on Drug Abuse

5600 Fishers Lane

Rockville, MD 20857
For sale by the Superintendent of Documents, US Government Printing Office. Washington, DC 20402
The Collection and Interpretation

of Data from Hidden Populations
ACKNOWLEDGMENT

This monograph is based upon papers and discussion from a technical

review on the collection and interpretation of data from hidden populations

that took place on July 13 and 14, 1988, in Rockville, MD. The review

meeting was sponsored by the Division of Epidemiology and Prevention

Research, National Institute on Drug Abuse.

COPYRIGHT STATUS

The National Institute on Drug Abuse has obtained permission from the

copyright holders to reproduce certain previously published material as noted

in the text. Further reproduction of this copyrighted material is permitted

only as part of a reprinting of the entire publication or chapter. For any

other use, the copyright holder’s permission is required. All other material

in this volume except quoted passages from copyrighted sources is in the

public domain and may be used or reproduced without permission from the

Institute or the authors, Citation of the source is appreciated.

The U.S. Government does not endorse or favor any specific commercial

product or company. Trade, proprietary, or company names appearing in

this publication are used only because they are considered essential in the

context of the studies reported herein.

DHHS publication number (ADM)90-1678

Printed 1990

NIDA Research Monographs are indexed in the Index Medicus. They are

selectively included in the coverage of American Statistics Index,

BioSciences Information Service, Chemical Abstracts, Current Contents,

Psychological Abstracts, and Psychopharmacology Abstracts.

iv
Contents

Page

Introduction 1

Elizabeth Y. Lambert and W. Wayne Wiebel

Identifying and Gaining Access to Hidden Populations 4

W. Wayne Wiebel

The Role of Ethnography in Substance Abuse Research

and Public Policy: Historical Precedent and

Future Prospects 12

Harvey W. Feldman and Michael R. Aldrich

Methodological and Design Issues: Techniques for

Assessing the Representatives of Snowball Samples 31

Karl M. van Meter

Requirements for Inductive Analysis 44

Peter Adler

Computer Analysis of Qualitative Data 59

Richard B. Fritz

Ethnographic Field Stations 81

Paul J. Goldstein, Barry J. Spunt,

Thomas Miller, and Patricia Bellucci

Ethnographic Research on Hiddcn Populations:

Penetrating the Drug World 96

Patricia Adler

v
Page

Recovery From Opiate Addiction Without Treatment:

A Summary 113

Patrick Biernacki

Women and Addiction: Process, Treatment

and Outcome 120

Marsha Rosenbaum and Sheigla Murphy

Chicano Intravenous Drug Users 128

Reyes Ramos

The German Bridge: A Street Hookers’ Strip

in the Amsterdam Red Light District 146

Hans T. Verbraeck

List of NIDA Research Monographs 156

vi
Introduction

Elizabeth Y. Lambert and W. Wayne Wiebel

The relative merits of qualitative versus quantitative research designs have

long been debated in scientific literature. Each brings its own strengths and

weaknesses to the process of analyzing and understanding complex human

behavior. The National Institute on Drug Abuse publishes numerous documents, reports, and monographs about quantitative studies of drug abuse and

drug-related problems. This particular monograph is different because it

addresses qualitative approaches to the study of drug abuse, namely, ethnography and ethnographic research designs. The intent here is to examine

unique attributes of ethnographic research and review how these attributes

support efforts to understand issues often obscured by more quantitative

methods. Specific focus is on ethnographic methods and techniques designed to access the so-called “hidden populations.”

“Hidden populations” euphemistically refers to those who are disadvantaged

and disenfranchised: the homeless and transient, chronically mentally ill,

high school dropouts, criminal offenders, prostitutes, juvenile delinquents,

gang members, runaways, and other “street people”-those we are all aware

of to one degree or another, yet know so little about. These populations

are often omitted from nationally representative surveys, largely because

they have no fixed address or because they are less likely to be found at

home or to agree to an interview. Ironically, those who belong to hidden

populations are often at greater risk of drug abuse and drug-related morbidity than the general population. That is, the very individuals who might

benefit the most from drug abuse treatment and prevention efforts are the

least studied, the least understood, and the most elusive to epidemiologists,

clinicians, researchers, and others concerned with understanding and improving the public health of these populations.

Ethnographic research methods are appropriate for topics about which little

is known, primarily because ethnography is by its nature fundamental and

exploratory, preparing the way for more rigorous studies that strive for precision and quantification. An example is the advent of acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS) in the early 1980s, a mysterious disease that

challenged medical research and epidemiology throughout the world. Ethnography served to fill knowledge gaps and set the groundwork for further

scientific inquiry. Such efforts included, for example, studies of needle1
sharing behaviors and sexual practices, particularly among prostitutes. It is

at this exploratory, descriptive stage of research that ethnographic and qualitative methods can make significant contributions to the knowledge and

understanding of problems and to the formulation of subsequent questions

for quantitative research, including clinical studies, laboratory experiments,

and population-based surveys.

This monograph reviews ethnographic methods used to study drug abuse

and drug-related issues, then presents case studies that illustrate practical

applications of ethnography. The first paper, by Dr. Wayne Wiebel, sets

the tone for the entire monograph. It provides the rationale for the technical review meeting and gives an overview of issues related to ethnography

and qualitative science, then describes sources of drug abuse indicator data

and several well-known studies of drug abuse that were conducted using

ethnographic research methods. Dr. Harvey Feldman, author of the next

paper, provides an historical perspective on the use of ethnography in

substance abuse research by describing one of the first events ever recorded

(back in the 5th Century BC), moving through time to current applications

like the study of the AIDS epidemic, and projecting future uses of

ethnographic methods in efforts to prevent and treat drug abuse and AIDS.

The next set of papers focuses on methodological issues in ethnography.

Dr. Karl van Meter’s paper addresses snowball sampling, while Dr. Peter

Adler reviews the history, application, strengths, weaknesses, and current

status of the method of sociologic cthnography known as inductive analysis.

The paper by Dr. Richard Fritz is devoted to a thorough review of the

analytic needs of ethnographic researchers, including a survey of current

word-search and text-retrieval programs that can support the analysis of

qualitative data. Dr. Paul Goldstein’s contribution focuses on the ethnographic field station and includes descriptions of real-life situations and

experiences common to the conduct of substance abuse research from such

settings in New York City.

The next set of papers merges theory with actual case studies. The first, by

Dr. Patricia Adler, presents a candid review of practical considerations,

constraints, and experiences encountered while conducting ethnographic

research in the world of drug distributors and smugglers. The next, by

Dr. Patrick Biernacki, describes recovery from opiate addiction without

treatment and reviews findings from a study that used the chain referral

method to identify its sample and used the retrospective approach for data

collection. Dr. Marsha Rosenbaum and Ms. Sheigla Murphy discuss the

issue of addicted women and heroin abuse from the perspective of

ethnographic interviews with female drug abusers in California. Dr. Reyes

Ramos provides unique insights into the world of heroin abuse among

Chicano intravenous drug users, demonstrating the value of ethnography as

an approach for the discovery and exploration of relatively unknown or

poorly understood hidden populations. The final paper in this monograph,

2
by Dr. Hans Verbraeck, presents an ethnographic view of heterosexual

prostitution, drug use practices, and AIDS in Amsterdam.

We are grateful to the authors for their valuable contributions to the technical review meeting and to this monograph. It is our expectation that this

monograph will serve important educative functions in the years to come,

not only as a methodological guide for ethnographic research, but also as a

sourcebook for examining case studies and practical applications of ethnography in substance abuse research among hidden populations.

AUTHORS

Elizabeth Lambert, M.S.

Division of Epidemiology and

Statistical Analysis

National Institute on Drug Abuse

Parklawn Building, Room 11A-55

5600 Fishers Lane

Rockville, MD 20857

W. Wayne Wiebel, Ph.D.

AIDS Outreach Intervention Project

Epidemiology-Biometry Program

School of Public Health, MC925

University of Illinois at Chicago

2121. West Taylor Street, Room 555

Chicago, IL 60612

3
Identifying and Gaining Access to

Hidden Populations

W. Wayne Wiebel

INTRODUCTION

A number of convergent factors were instrumental in bringing about this

Technical Review at the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA). First

and perhaps foremost, the spotlight of applied research interests at the

Institute has once again focused on the types of drug users and patterns of

drug use that often prove elusive as targets of inquiry for more rigorous

survey research and experimental design methodologies. Second, since

NIDA’s last publication on ethnographic research methods (Akins and

Beschner 1980), there have been a number of technical advances in the

field, particularly the computer analysis of qualitative data, that deserve

review and discussion. Finally, in recognizing the more recent contributions

of ethnographic research in the substance abuse field, there have been a

number of studies noteworthy for their methodological as well as substantive advancements.

It is fortunate for the qualitatively oriented social scientist that the substance

abuse field offers such a fertile testing ground for qualitative methods and

research designs. This reality, however, seems to be quite independent of

developments or advances within the broader discipline of qualitative

research methods. Instead, the nature of substance abuse in our society,

together with applied research priorities, appears to be of greatest significance in maintaining a rich field of inquiry for exploratory and descriptive

scientific investigations.

Generally speaking, there appear to be two factors that contribute to the

importance of qualitative methodologies in the field of substance abuse

research. First, continually evolving patterns and trends of substance abuse

within our society foster a fluid situation in which emergent and novel

phenomena are integral facets of today’s drug scene. Whether it is the

appearance of a new psychoactive substance (as in the case of designer

drugs), the evolution of new combined drug-using patterns (as in the case of

“T’s & blues” (Talwin and pyrabenzamine)), or the emergence of new problems associated with the abuse of controlled substances, deviations from the

status quo are an ever-present feature of drug abuse.

4
What is true for researching drug abuse patterns in general becomes

particularly problematic for the study of novel and emergent trends. That

is, as a relatively rare and isolated phenomenon, the abuse of illicit substances poses a host of methodological constraints on the process of scientific inquiry. The options available for case identification and the

construction of practical sampling frames can rarely satisfy the requirements

of true representative sampling. Moreover, in attempting to further the

understanding of emergent phenomena, we must exercise caution in the

development of research questions and hypotheses. Inaccurate assumptions

about factors influencing a phenomenon or the relationships between

variables are likely to result in misleading findings. When attempting to

construct meaningful data collection instruments for drug-related research,

the researcher must gain sufficient a priori familiarity with the topic to

frame appropriate, meaningful questions. Such knowledge is the province

and product of qualitative methodology.

The second factor confirming the value of qualitative methods in the substance abuse field relates more to the types of information required of

research. That is, the need for substance abuse research, as well as the

resources and priorities allocated to it, is in large part driven by the

practical requirements of policymakers and professional interest groups.

Quite simply, policymakers who want to make good decisions concerning

complex social issues must have accurate, reliable information. As a consequence, the availability of funds for specific subjects of inquiry are most

often compatible with applied research vs. basic science orientations. The

“fundable value” of a research design is less likely to be based on its

potential for advancing a particular scientific paradigm than it is on its

promise for generating pragmatic evidence to inform decisionmaking.

Clearly, qualitative research is often the only appropriate means available

for gathering sensitive and valid data from otherwise elusive populations of

substance abusers.

Given the recognized strengths of qualitative methods in exploratory and

descriptive research designs, it would appear that applied substance abuse

research will continue to value the potential contributions of this methodological orientation. The remainder of this chapter will address the issues of

identifying and gaining access to hidden populations for purposes of

research and/or intervention.

IDENTIFYING HIDDEN POPULATlONS

Because the use of illicit intoxicants is largely a covert activity in our

society, it is not possible to enumerate all individuals who engage in such

behaviors. Representative sampling, irrespective of scientific merit, is quite

simply not possible in relation to the numerous varieties of phenomena at

issue. Accepted strategies to accommodate these realities differ among

methodological orientations. Survey researchers tend to focus on the larger,

5
more meaningful subpopulations that can be enumerated for the purpose of

random sampling. Qualitative researchers, on the other hand, tend to focus

their inquiry more narrowly to a smaller social unit of analysis for indepth

investigation. This discussion will address scientific issues in studying

“hidden populations” from a qualitative research orientation.

The term “hidden population” refers here to a subset of the general population whose membership is not readily distinguished or enumerated based

on existing knowledge and/or sampling capabilities. As previously noted,

this is often the case when research interests are directed toward emergent

drug trends and novel patterns of use. For the researcher schooled in

ethnographic methods, the task of selecting an appropriate sampling frame

first requires the identification of meaningful units of analysis. This often,

though not always, centers on distinguishing natural social units of analysis

that share a common set of attributes dictated by the topics of investigation.

Research questions to be addressed are of paramount importance in

determining available sources of information. For questions dealing with

specific varieties of drug users or types of drug use, a number of resources

are available to the researcher for exploration. First are secondary indicator

data sources; second are institutional and professional authorities; third are

indigenous informants.

Secondary indicator data offer a wealth of information to the substanceabuse researcher for defining an area of inquiry and identifying meaningful

analytic frames. Among the more common sources of secondary indicator

data are:

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

(5)

(6)

Drug Abuse Warning Network (DAWN) reports on substance abuserelated emergency room episodes and coroner reports;

law enforcement data on arrests, seizures, and laboratory analysis of

controlled substances;

treatment admissions for primary problems of drug dependence;

toxicology reports including urinalysis results for drugs among

admittees to treatment and arrestees, as in the case of the Drug Use

Forecasting (DUF) system of the National Institute of Justice;

prescription tracking systems for psychoactive pharmaceuticals; and

street drug analysis programs.

While by no means exhaustive, this list of potentially useful secondary

indicator data sources should offer the researcher fruitful territory for

preliminary investigation. In addition to secondary indicator resources,

6
existing research, including NIDA’s household survey and annual high

school senior survey, can yield valuable information to the researcher. The

nature of the problem to be studied will help determine the promise of any

given informational source.

In dealing with particularly toxic drugs or drug combinations, emergency

room mentions and coroner reports are likely to be more helpful than in the

case of less toxic substances. Likewise, drugs leading to the more rapid

development of problem dependence are likely to appear in treatment

admission statistics before drugs less often associated with chronic patterns

of abuse. In any case, secondary indicators offer only an indirect reflection

of actual drug-using patterns. Also, there are inherent time lags between

the actual change in a pattern of substance abuse and its appearance in

these reporting systems. Researchers can therefore rarely rely exclusively

on secondary data sources.

Institutional and professional information sources are likely to offer the

researcher an opportunity to approach research interests on a more familiar

basis. Sometimes these sources may supply the investigator with a meaningful and appropriate population from which to sample. Such was the case

in an earlier study that required an ethnographic analysis of a PCP-using

group in Chicago (Wiebel 1979).

As part of a planned four-city comparative ethnographic study of PCP users

(Feldman et al. 1979). I was assigned to identify and select a local PCPusing social network as part of the larger study. While my previous

research with multiple drug-using adolescents brought me into contact with

numerous individuals who used this intoxicant, I did not know of any

groups that had adopted PCP as a primary drug of abuse. Through a

number of inquiries to local treatment facilities, I found that Northwest

Youth Outreach (NYO) had regular contact with a number of high school

drug-using networks that favored this particular drug. Through the

introductions of NYO outreach staff, I was able to evaluate these potential

research groups and select one that met the criteria established for inclusion

in the larger study.

In another instance, I was solicited to conduct an exploratory study of new

heroin users in Chicago (Wiebel, in press). Operationally defined as

individuals who had begun using heroin for the first time in the preceding

year, a major intent of the research on new heroin users was to determine

whether recent inductees to the drug might be different from earlier cohorts

of users. Given the apparent difficulty of identifying a social network of

recent heroin initiates, a different sampling frame was pursued in this study.

Institutional contacts and professional acquaintances were requested to

identify qualifying candidates. Over a period of a few weeks, I was able to

identify 20 independent subjects representing a remarkably diverse

demographic and drug-use history profile. Specific sources of sampled

7
subjects included methadone detoxification programs, drug abuse counselors,

the county jail, a criminal justice diversion program (TASC), and indigenous

street informants.

Indigenous informants are a final and most valuable source of information

to the researcher attempting to identify difficult-to-reach populations.

Without question, street contacts cultivated over years of ethnographic

investigations among Chicago’s drug users comprise my greatest resource

for identifying emergent phenomena and the otherwise hidden populations

associated with relatively rare or novel behaviors. Of course, the ability to

tap such resources is dependent upon developing networks of established

relations among active drug users. Time and dedication are necessary

prerequisites to the effective use of indigenous informants but-as many

ethnographers recently introduced to the field of street drug research can

attest—the task is rarely as imposing as appears initially.

GAINING ACCESS TO HIDDEN POPULATIONS

Having assessed available sampling frames and meaningful units of analysis,

the investigator is left with the task of gaining access to these subjects for

purposes of research and/or intervention. Assuming a qualitative research

orientation and a focus of inquiry on social networks, an independent

ethnographer has few options other than immersion in the social scene in

order to develop rapport with members of the target population. For a

successful research relationship to evolve, ethnographers must establish

legitimacy both for their presence and for their intentions.

In previous work with drug-using groups in the natural setting (Hughes

1977; Shick et al. 1978; Wiebel 1979; Shick and Wicbel 1981; Wiebel

(1988), research activities focused on the congregation areas frequented by

drug users during the course of their daily activities. Most often such sites

have included drug-copping areas, shooting galleries, pool halls, bars,

restaurants, prostitution strolls, and public parks. When preliminary

fieldwork is initiated in such an area, introductions through known and

trusted confidants are solicited whenever possible. In those instances in

which introductions are not possible, “hanging out” at public congregation

sites proceeds in a friendly yet nonintrusive manner. Frequently, it is

important to find something to do that legitimizes the researcher’s presence

(playing pool at a pool hall, ordering a meal at a restaurant).

Preliminary field observations should concentrate on defining the social

structure of the target group as well as the roles played by various group

members. As researchers prepare to establish more direct rapport with the

target population, it is important to have some general sense of the status

attributed to the individuals they have begun to recognize. While relations

generally should be friendly with all subjects, it is the higher status network

members who should be singled out for development of more close

8
alliances. Securing an approving relationship with high-status individuals is

likely to facilitate rapport with all group members. By way of contrast,

establishing close preliminary ties to a marginal, low-status group member,

such as a police informant, may irreparably compromise the researcher’s

ability to develop a meaningful research relationship with the core group.

Much of our research in the substance abuse field in Chicago over the past

two decades has utilized a multimethod design combining medical epidemiology and community ethnography. Originally conceived as an innovation

both to further understanding and to intervene in neighborhood outbreaks of

heroin addiction (Hughes 1973 what has become known as the “Chicago

Model” has more recently shifted its focus to address AIDS research and

intervention (Wiebel 1988). In both our earlier and current work, the

employment of indigenous field staff has been a key component of our

research and intervention programming.

Specifically, individuals indigenous to and intimately familiar with targeted

populations are hired to assist in data collection or intervention service

delivery. General qualifications for such positions include high status

among targeted networks, superior communication skills, reliability, and

expressed interest in performing job responsibilities. The experience to date

of those who developed the Chicago Model and those working on the AIDS

Intervention Project in utilizing indigenous field staff covering a wide array

of different projects would highly recommend their consideration for

research studies focusing upon hidden populations. Among the more

noteworthy advantages to be realized through the employment of indigenous

staff are the facilitation of entree and establishment of rapport with target

groups, enhancement of project legitimacy, as well as improved capabilities

to both gather and validate fieldwork evidence.

One of the more impressive demonstrations of the effectiveness of indigenous staff in gaining access to otherwise difficult-to-reach populations comes

from our current work with groups at high risk for contracting AIDS. One

such population, the sexual partners of active intravenous drug users

(IVDUs), presented the greatest challenge in attempts to both effectively

identify and gain access to appropriate research/intervention subjects. In the

beginning months of the project, substantial links with networks of active

IVDUs were established. At the same time, there was little initial success

in trying to encourage these individuals to identify or bring in their nonIVDU sex partners. As time went by, however, and the trust between

outreach workers and subjects solidified, this situation changed considerably.

By the second year of the project, we were readily able to fulfill sampling

requirements for our non-IVDU sex partner cohort.

9
CONCLUSION

As a final note in discussing means for enhancing access to hidden populations, two additional factors may be particularly helpful. First, the

establishment of community-based field stations has proven to be extremely

valuable in both providing convenient access to and maintaining regular

contact with otherwise difficult-to-reach research populations. Further, like

the hiring of indigenous staff, the rental of a storefront facility in a

neighborhood frequented by target groups is often interpreted as an

investment in the community. By headquartering research operations in the

community and employing staff from the community, targeted populations

are much less likely to define the project as a fly-by-night or fair-weatherfriend operation.

Second, the payment of subject fees is a near-impemtive prerequisite to

obtaining cooperation and meaningful data from community-based research

samples. Payment of subject fees both indicates the value of the data being

collected and acknowledges the worth of the time subjects are expected to

dedicate in cooperating with the research protocol. I have little doubt that

the combined influence of the trusting relationships established between

fieldworkers and subjects and the convenience of community-based field

stations, together with the provision of subject fees for data collection, has

helped us approach an 80 percent followup rate for 6-month followup

interviews in our prospective study of active IVDUs and their sex partners

in the community setting.

REFERENCES

Akins, C., and Beschner, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for

Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug

Abuse Monograph. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, D.C.,

Supt. of Docs., Govt. Print Off., 1980.

Feldman, H.; Agar, M.; and Beschner, G., eds. Angel Dust: An Ethnographic Study of PCP Users. Lexington, MA: D.C. Heath & Co., 1979.

Hughes, P. Behind the Wall of Respect: Community Experiments in

Heroin Addiction Control. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977.

Shick, J.; Dorus, W.; and Hughes, P. Adolescent drug using groups in

Chicago parks. Drug Alcohol Depend 3:199-210, 1978.

Shick, J., and Wiebel, W. Congregation sites for youthful multiple drug

abusers: Locations for epidemiological research and intervention. Drug

Alcohol Depend 7:63-79, 1981.

Wiebel, W.W. Burning out on the Northwest side: PCP use in Chicago.

In: Feldman, H.; Agar, M.; and Beschner, G., eds. Angel Dust: An

Ethnographic Study of PCP Users. Lexington, MA: D.C. Heath. 1979.

10
Wiebel. W.W. Combining ethnographic and epidemiologic methods for

targeted AIDS interventions: The Chicago model. In: Battjes, R.J., and

Pickens, R.W., eds. Needle-Sharing Among Intravenous Drug Abusers:

National and International Perspective. National Institute on Drug

Abuse Research Monograph 80. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)88-1567.

Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1988.

Wiebel, W.W. Factors influencing personal decisions to use heroin. In:

Forster, B., and Salloway, J., eds. The Socio-Cultural Matrix of Alcohol

and Drug Use: A Sourcebook of Patterns. Lewiston, NY: Edwin

Mellen Press, in press.

AUTHOR

W. Wayne Wiebel, Ph.D.

Principal Investigator

AIDS Outreach Intervention Project

Epidemiology-Biometry Program

School of Public Health, MC925

University of Illinois at Chicago

2121 West Taylor Street, Room 555

Chicago, IL 60612

11
The Role of Ethnography in Substance Abuse Research and Public

Policy: Historical Precedent and

Future Prospects

Harvey W. Feldman and Michael R. Aldrich

INTRODUCTION

Perhaps the best way to begin is to answer the question: What is

ethnography? One of the earliest definitions of ethnography was provided

by A.H. Beatty in 1896, who wrote, “Ethnography is purely descriptive,

dealing with characteristic social and political conditions of people,

irrespective of their possible physical relations or affinities” (Wiseman and

Aron 1970, p. 238). The definition sounds old fashioned formal, and

somewhat unclear, but it serves as a starting point.

James Spradley, who died in 1982, was an ethnographcr affiliated with the

University of Washington in Seattle and the author of You Owe Yourself a

Drunk: An Ethnography of Urban Nomads (Spradley 1970). a landmark

study of the way alcoholics move through the criminal justice system. He

called cthnography “the science of cultural description” and claimed that

“through a painstaking process of participant observation one slowly comes

to apprehend the insider’s view of life” (Spradley 1977, p. 13).

Jennifer James defined ethnography as “the study of cultures from within”

(James 1977, p. 180). James Walters, who worked the streets of

Philadelphia, called ethnography “an analytic description of behaviors that

characterize and distinguish cultures or sociocultural groups” (Walters 1980.

p. 17). Jacqueline Wiseman and Marcia Aron. in their book Field Projects

for Sociological Students (1970). said, “Ethnographic research is an

investigator’s application of his sociological methods and skills to a specific

scene in order to learn enough about its people, situations and human

relations to be able to present the reader with a slice of life” (Wiseman and

Aron 1970, p. 237). Finally, George Beschner, an adapted ethnographer

affiliated with the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA). once described

cthnography as “the study of a culture or social group from the perspective

of its members” (Feldman et al. 1979, p. 4).

12
To sum up these definitions, there are perhaps three essential features they

touch on. First, even though ethnography is a scientific method, it requires

an artist’s touch or even better, an artist’s soul, rather than being the simple

application of a technical approach to analyze human behavior.

Second, clearly the aim is to get an insider’s view of a culture or social

group, with emphasis on being authentic and on being accurate. To achieve

that, the ethnographer has to go where members of the culture or social

group carry out their activities and observe members by watching them

carefully, asking the right questions, and by listening.

Finally, like many others in scientific fields, it is the ethnographer’s task to

assemble data in a way that makes sense and that reflects actual phenomena. How detailed the final product will be is subject to debate. The old

view of ethnography as cultural description required that the product be

absolutely thorough. To achieve this completeness may have required several years of living among the populations under study, so that each piece

of the culture was understood in its relationship to all the others. As

ethnography moved more and more into the arena of applied sciences,

where its influence may have been determined by its ability to respond with

data in a timely fashion, completeness may have been sacrificed to significance

The more recent view, because of some developments in ethnography and

its use in government’s management of social and health problems, is that

the ethnographer must gain a quick but accurate understanding of a phenomenon in order to act on it. The use of ethnography for understanding the

spread of the human immunodeficicncy virus (HIV) within intravenous (IV)

drug-using populations is a recent example of the application of ethnographic research methods to a health problem with complex social implications;

it will be discussed later in this chapter. Ethnography is a useful device for

understanding a phenomenon quickly, so that findings can be converted into

public health policies and control measures. As ethnography grows in

importance as a tool for obtaining information quickly for policymakers, it

risks losing its reputation for completeness. Ronald Cohen, an

anthropologist, said in “The Logic of Generalization” that “scientific findings

and explanations arc always partial, and they always leave something out”

(Cohen 1970, p. 31).

Generally, ethnography is the term used to describe almost all qualitative

research, from strictly interviewing, which is its most limited form, to

extensive observation from some selected social role that allows an insider’s

view. Many ethnographers prefer fieldwork, which means spending time

where members of a group spend their time, seeing what goes on, and then

asking questions about the observations.

1 3
HERODOTUS: THE BEGINNINGS OF DRUG ETHNOGRAPHY

Where and when did ethnography’s connection to substance abuse begin?

Drug ethnography as a research method is a fairly recent development. The

first recorded example in Western literature is found in Herodotus in his

description of the Scythians, who were nomadic horsemen of Central Asia

somewhere around the fifth century DC. Briefly, Herodotus claimed that,

after the burial of a king, the Scythians purified themselves by fixing three

sticks in the ground, tied together at the top and tightly covered with felt.

Inside this little tent they put a dish with red-hot stones in it. Then they

took hemp seed, crept under the tent, and threw it on the red-hot stones.

And, to quote Herodotus:

It smolders at once and sends up such billows of smoke that no

Greek vapor-bath could surpass it. The Scythians howl with

joy in these vapor-baths, which serve them instead of bathing,

for they never wash their bodies with water (Aldrich translation).

Herodotus is often accused of making up wild tales, and, in his Histories,

(De Selincourt 1954) he often says he does not believe them himself. But

this account of bathing in marijuana vapors was verified in 1948 when a

Russian archaeologist (Rudenko 1970) dug up a Scythian tomb barrow in

Siberia and found, next to well-preserved corpses, six poles about 18 inches

high, a felt blanket, a copper cauldron with stones in it, and a leather

medicine bag containing hemp seeds, quickfrozen in ice since about the

fifth century BC. So Herodotus was verified in every particular, except that

there were six sticks instead of three. This demonstrates another point:

ethnographers have difficulty counting.

COLUMBUS AND PANE: THE DISCOVERY OF

DIMETHYLTRYPTAMINE (DMT)

The first ethnography in America came from Christopher Columbus and a

friar he hired on his second voyage (1493-1496). The friar’s name was

Ramon Pane, and his special task was to record native customs. Columbus

noticed the Tainos of Haiti sniffing a dust that made them “become like

drunken men” (Wassen 1967, p. 235). Pane investigated and found that this

powder, called cohoba by the natives, was snuffed by chiefs and shamans

to communicate with the spirits. Pane noted a bizarre outcome, which

today would be considered psychedelic: “Consider what a state their brains

are in, because they say the cabins seem to them to be turned upside down

and the men are walking with their feet in the air” (Wassen 1967, p. 238).

At first the Europeans thought cohoba was tobacco and dismissed the

visions Pane reported as heathen nonsense. Pane commented. “They speak

many things incoherently” (Wassen 1967, p. 238). The Tainos were

14
exterminated about 50 years later, and not until 1916 was a botanist able to

identify cohoba as a hallucinogenic drug made from the beans of a tree,

Anadenanthera peregrina (Safford 1916). The active ingredient was

identified in the 1950s as dimethyltryptamine or DMT. Not until 1972,

when Altschul reviewed ethnographic reports of surviving tribes who used

this snuff, did the meaning of the visions reported by Columbus and Pane

become clear:

the person, who is seated with his head turning to one side and

his arms around his knees, becomes at first unconscious, then

wakens and, with his face turned toward the ceiling, speaks

unintelligibly; the Indians say that the house in which the

powder is taken then appears to be upside down and they

themselves seem to be walking on air (Altschul 1972, p. 13).

So it took from 1496 to 1972 for the discovery of DMT to make sense.

The lesson from this for ethnography and ethnographers, as well as for all

scientists, is to keep pursuing analysis of the data; sooner or later, it will

begin to make sense.

VESPUCCI, CIEZA, AND ACOSTA: BUT WHY DO THEY DO IT?

In 1504, Amerigo Vespucci gave the first ethnographic report of coca

chewing, as he found it in 1499 on a little island off South America.

Watching the natives put coca and powdered lime in their mouths so “their

cheeks bulged with the leaves . . . which they chewed like cattle,” he

wondered why: “They did this frequently, a little at a time; and the thing

seemed wonderful, for we could not understand the secret, or with what

object they did it.” After asking for drinking water and being offered coca

instead, Vespucci guessed that “they kept this herb in their mouths to stave

off thirst” (Aldrich and Barker 1976, p. 3).

Fifty years later, Cieza de Leon, an ethnographer in South America during

the Spanish Conquest, asked directly: “When I asked some of these Indians

why they carried these leaves in their mouth . . . they replied that it

prevents them from feeling hungry, and gives them great vigor and

strength” (Aldrich and Barker 1976, p. 3). At first this notion was

dismissed as pure imagination, but when the Spaniards discovered that the

natives would not work the silver mines of Potosi without coca, they

allowed them to chew it. By 1570, Jose de Acosta said that the traffic in

coca at Potosi had exceeded a half million pesos a year (von Hagen 1959).

From these very early ethnographic reports of drug use, a lesson can be

learned that has modem application. Ethnography takes place in a cultural

context, affecting both the observer and the observed. Drug ethnography, in

particular, is a matter of one group with a certain viewpoint studying

another group with quite a different viewpoint. A value and a limitation of

15
ethnography is that it occurs in a specific place and time. This should

always be remembered while collecting and interpreting data from “hidden

populations” or populations whose behavior we might not like or find

socially undesirable.

DE QUINCEY: THE INDUSTRIAL CONTEXT

Depending on how strictly we want to hold to a definition of ethnography,

the modern era for drug ethnography probably began with Thomas De

Quincey in his 1822 Confessions of An English Opium-Eater. De Quinccy

was an ethnographer in many ways and was the first to consider opiate use

in the modem industrial context. At an early age, he ran away from home

and lived in the streets of London, mingling with thieves, prostitutes, and

other social outcasts. He wrote:

At no time in my life have I ever been a person to hold myself

polluted by the touch or approach of any creature that wore a

human shape. On the contrary, it has been my pride to converse familiarly . . . with all human beings . . . that chance

might fling my way, a practice which is friendly to the

knowledge of human nature (Ward 1966, p. 42).

This is a great quote for all ethnographers to remember. Having disdain for

social classes. particularly if those classes are the very subjects of study, is

the basis for bias that will distort and probably destroy objectivity. De

Quincey’s message is timely: ethnographers cannot present an accurate

portrait of a population whom they dislike, distrust, or look down on.

De Quincey began his study of opium users by observing men he noted

were distinguished for talent or eminent station. He preserved the anonymity of his contacts by leaving blanks for the names of famous addicts.

Later, in an 1856 revision of his Confessions, he revealed that they included

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the famed poet and critic and author of “The

Rime of the Ancient Mariner”; Sir William Wilberforce, the man most

responsible for abolishing slavery throughout the English Empire; and many

other prominent British figures. Following this, he began exploring opium

use among the lower classes, and, as a participant observer, he moved into

the real world of the opium system of the time—users, suppliers, their

bosses, and working conditions. Here he noted, among other things, that

one immediate reason for working-class opium abuse was “the lowness of

wages, which, at that time, would not allow them to indulge in ale or

spirits” (Ward 1966, p. 24-25). The result was an enlightening description

of opiate abuse in the context of the onrushing Industrial Revolution.

De Quinccy’s conclusion was that, in this context, opiate use cut across all

classes of society, which was also noted in America by Fitz Hugh Ludlow

(1867).

1 6
THE ETHNOBOTANISTS: PERILS OF PARTICIPANT

OBSERVATION

In the 19th century, many botanists were drug ethnographers. Richard

Spruce, who spent much of his life collecting plants in the Amazon, was

the “great granddaddy” of them all. In 1851 through 1852, he found himself in Brazil among a head-hunting tribe of the Rio Vaupes, who had

never seen a white man before. He asked about a drink called caapi that

their sorcerers used, and they urged him to try some. He managed to down

a cupful, and the tribal leaders, anxious to show him all their drugs, plied

him with manioc beer, a two-foot-long cigar (Spruce had never smoked

before) and a large bowl of palm wine. Overcome with a strong inclination

to vomit, he retired to a hammock, drank coffee, and passed out (Wallace

1908). Despite this negative experience, he was sufficiently impressed to

gather specimens of the vine from which the drink was made. He correctly

identified it as Banisteriopsis caapi, also called yage, which is now known

to contain the hallucinogen harmine. More than a century later, Schultes

subjected Spruce’s specimens to chemical analysis and found them

“comparable with freshly collected plant material” (Schultes and Hofmann

1980, p. 168). Another lesson for qualitative research: if possible, with the

permission of the respondents, collect evidence to verify observations.

More importantly, Spruce reminds us that “participant observation” can be a

contradiction in terms. The question is, how much does one participate in

order to be allowed to observe? In extreme cases, one’s life may depend

on the answer.

Other ethnobotanists who have conducted drug research in this century

include La Barre, whose book The Peyote Cult (La Barre 1938) is a key

reference on the Native American Church; Schultes (1937), whose early

work on peyotism among the Kiowa (Vestal and Schultes 1939) led to 40

years of studying Amazon drug plants; Wasson (1980), who discovered the

modem use of psilocybe mushrooms in Mexico, which led to a complete

revision of our understanding of native uses of such plants; and, more

recently, Davis (1985), whose fieldwork in Haiti revealed that the drug used

in voodoo to make men into zombies is from a West Indian puffer fish.

Understanding the use of each of these drugs within their respective cultures

was the contribution of ethnographers, in these cases, ethnobotanists.

In our urban milieu, ethnographers themselves must answer the question of

how deeply to participate in the activities of a social group or a culture.

Field researchers have always been warned about the dangers of “going

native.” Arthur Vidich (1955) stated that, in doing so, researchers lose their

objectivity. Vidich’s advice is sound: the development of mutually

beneficial research relationships should not depend on demonstrating to

respondents the researcher’s trustworthiness by becoming involved in

activities that are either personally repugnant, ethically questionable,

physically dangerous, or outright illegal. It is not necessary to share

1 7
needles with IV drug users to study needle sharing and the way that activity

may affect the acquired immunodeficicncy syndrome (AIDS) epidemic;

researchers’ credibility is at risk both within the scientific community and

with respondents if researchers do not clearly identify themselves as

nonparticipants in illegal activities. AS often as not, an invitation to share

drugs or commit a crime is a test of whether researchers are who they say

they are—researchers rather than agents of social control. These are, of

course, individual decisions that should always be made on the basis of

pursuing information, not from insecurity or for thrill seeking.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF MODERN DRUG ETHNOGRAPHY

Probably the first important drug ethnography for modem times in America

was carried out, appropriately enough, in Chicago, the home base for field

research in America. Being within the famed “Chicago School” of social

research, it was an extensive one-man study by Bingham Dai tilled simply

Opium Addiction in Chicago (Dai 1937). Dai’s study was a combination of

field research and the psychoanalytic approach. It is important because it

captured the evolving opiate scene between the latter nineteenth century,

when drugs were freely available in the United Stales, and the changes

brought about by the Harrison Act of 1914.

Dai divided his respondents, who were predominantly white, into two categories: those addicted to morphine through medical treatment, and those

addicted primarily due to the influences of other drug addicts and

“peddlers,” through what Dai called “pleasure parties,” or association with

pimps, prostitutes, pool rooms, gambling houses, and homosexuals. Dai’s

method was the indepth life history interview. Given his psychoanalytical

background, it was not surprising to find his observations cast in terms like

“infantile” personalities, excessive dependence on others, and a tendency to

withdraw or escape from social responsibility (Dai 1937). The fact that he

drew many of his cases from the Psychopathic Hospital in Chicago may

account for his tendency to identify psychopathology as the underpinning of

all drug abuse.

Alfred Lindesmith, who had helped Dai gather respondents, used qualitative

interviewing techniques to develop definitions of addiction-probably the

first in the world derived from ethnographic research-and published them

in 1947 in the landmark book called Opiate Addiction (Lindesmith 1947).

His work in the 1940s and 1950s changed the theoretical perspective toward

addicts. Based on his findings and conclusions, he argued against what he

believed were the severe limitations of the public policy of prohibition that

grew out of the Harrison Act. Lindesmith criticized and contradicted the

enforcement policy of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics at the time, which he

described in The Addict and the Law (Lindesmith 1965).

18
Lindesmith’s ethnographic work contributed to a scientific understanding of

the meaning of addiction and was used to juxtapose two views of the phenomenon: drug addiction as crime and drug addiction as disease. That

juxtaposition was, in fact, the title of a report, Drug Addiction: Crime or

Disease?, issued by a Joint Committee of the American Bar Association and

the American Medical Association (1961). The Federal Bureau of Narcotics

argued against the report before it was published, which resulted in the

publication of what had originally been only an internal report, and

Lindesmith’s research became the basis of public discussion about the

management of drug addiction in America for the next 30 years.

From the 1940s to the 1960s most of the ethnographic studies in the drug

field shifted the emphasis from asking why people used drugs to asking

how they went about getting involved in drug use and how they remained

involved. Rather than looking for underlying causes, ethnographers began

to find their search for etiological influences in the social world rather than

the internal world of experimenters. This period constituted the first major

shift away from psychoanalytic theory and a medical model of addiction to

a more sociological perspective. The concept of drug use as a “career”

became very useful. Building on the work of Everett Hughes (1984) who

introduced the study of occupations into sociology, Howard Becker (1963)

took the career model and applied it to deviant careers in general and drug

users specifically. This conceptual shift had broad implications and was the

basis for what came to be viewed as a new sociological movement called

“labeling theory.” When applied to the field of addiction, it provided a

different perspective that included an analysis of individual drug users and

of public policy, as well as a legal framework within which such activities

took place. In this way, Becker’s concepts helped structure the way drug

ethnographers began to collect and analyze data. This shift in concept was

evident in his own study, “Becoming a Marijuana User” (Becker 1953).

At approximately the same time, other small ethnographic studies of drug

users were in progress. One of these became most influential, namely

Harold Finestone’s (1957) study of black heroin addicts in Chicago entitled

“Cats, Kicks, and Color.” Many in the field of drug ethnography, while

impressed with the influence of this single study, were critical of it, because

it seemed less a description of heroin addicts than a description of lowincome street blacks in Chicago in general, whether or not they were

involved in heroin use. In carrying out interviews in an office rather than

spending time among heroin users in their natural settings, Finestone

apparently mistook a general black perspective as something peculiar to

heroin users. In noting that they employed a special argot of slang terms,

for example, the word “bread” for money, or because they had a preference

for “cool jazz” he attributed these characteristics to addicts when, in fact,

they were common among street blacks almost everywhere during the

1950s. Finestone’s fame will rest not so much on having carried out toplevel ethnography as it will on the use of his work by later sociologists

19
who, in scouring the literature for descriptions of drug users, found the drug

ethnography library of the period relatively barren except for Finestone’s

study.

In an attempt to develop a broad theory of delinquency, Richard Cloward

and Lloyd Ohlin (1960) aimed to unite the previously disparate theories of

structural functionalism and anomie as developed by Robert Merton (1957)

and Emile Durkheim (1951) with the tradition of differential association as

developed by Shaw and McKay (1942) and Sutherland (1947). In their

book Delinquency and Opportunity: A Theory of Delinquent Gangs,

Cloward and Ohlin attempted to portray several delinquent subcultures, one

of which was a “retreatist” subculture of addicts, which was based on a

theoretic category developed by Merton, Cloward’s mentor. The only

empirical study that provided actual descriptions of addict behavior and

supported this perspective was Finestone’s short description in “Cats, Kicks,

and Color.” It became the sole basis of support for a theory that was soon

to achieve national prominence. Had the work of Cloward and Ohlin

occurred a few years later, they would have had available to them numerous

studies to draw from, but, at the time, Finestone’s was one of few

descriptive studies of heroin addicts available. Because of the importance

of the Cloward and Ohlin opportunity theory and its use as the

underpinning of the Mobilization for Youth delinquency project in New

York City, the “trial balloon” for the 1960s antipoverty program, their

minitheory of addicts as double failures within a retreatist subculture

became a persistent theme.

Along with the explosion of drug use in the 1960s, primarily among youth

(Mandcl and Feldman 1988) and various populations throughout the United

States, there was also a rise in the funding for ethnographic research that

came principally from NIDA and its predecessor, the Center for Drug

Studies, under the National Institute of Mental Health, through a woman

most contemporary drug ethnographers look upon with great respect,

Eleanor Carroll. She was a strong advocate on behalf of ethnography and

field research and did much to advance the field.

The 1960s produced what has been referred to as the “era of iconoclasts” in

the drug field. This involved a shift away from the classic question that

Lindesmith posed about addiction as crime or disease. Several ethnographers, operating independently in different parts of the country, asked instead,

"How about neither?” Building on the career model and going directly into

the hangouts of drug users, these ethnographers moved away from trying to

understand drug use as a consequence of the physical and/or psychological

effects of drugs to exploring how the activity of drug use itself was viewed

within the community contexts where it took place. A consistent conclusion

was that drug use should be viewed not as a pathology so much as a

status-enhancing activity within certain communities where street action and

high-risk behavior were highly valued.

20
The Add Center Project Final Report: The World of Youthful Drug Use by

Herbert Blumer (1967), one of the old-timers of the Chicago School, was a

key document in the move toward a different view of drug use. Much of

the report was written by Alan Sutter, who mixed easily with street drug

users and was probably the first to note that drug use seemed less an issue

of pathology and more a means to acquire social status and reputation

within an environment that valued risk-taking behavior. This view was

supported by concurrent studies by Edward Preble (Preble and Casey 1969)

and Feldman (1968).

Almost all these developments in the 1960s were snapshots of special populations: Sutter (1966; Sutter 1969; Sutter 1972) with blacks in Oakland;

Polsky (1967) with pool hustlers; Feldman with Italians in Boston (Feldman

1973; Feldman 1974, Feldman 1977); Carey and Mandel (1968) with amphetamine use in the San Francisco Bay Area; and Preble and Casey (1969;

Preble 1980a) in New York City with Puerto Ricans and mixed white

ethnic heroin addicts. The rise in the number of ethnographic studies

continued into the 1970s: Sherri Cavan (1972) with hippies in the Haight;

Irving Soloway’s 1974 study of methadone clients (Soloway 1974); major

studies of marijuana use in Jamaica (Rubin and Comitas 1975) and Costa

Rica (Carter 1980); Patricia Cleckner’s work on cocaine users in Miami

(Cleckner 1976a; Cleckner 1976b; Clcckner 1977); Jennifer James’s ethnography of prostitutes in Seattle (James 1976; James 1977); Joan Moore’s

now classic study of Mexican-American “homeboys” in Los Angeles (Moore

1974); and the Feldman et al. (1979) study of phencyclidine (PCP) users.

The ethnographers in the PCP study worked in four cities: Wayne Wiebel

in Chicago, Jennifer James in Seattle, Patricia Cleckner in Miami, and

James Walters in Philadelphia. As ethnographers became intcrcstcd in

special populations, Marsha Rosenbaum and Shcigla Murphy conducted

research to improve the understanding of females who injected heroin

(Roscnbaum 1981), of women in methadone maintenance programs

(Rosenbaum and Murphy 1987; Murphy and Rosenbaum 1988), and, more

recently, of professionals who use methylenedioxymethamphetamine

(Rosenbaum and Morgan 1988).

Coming into the 1980s, there has been a dual research emphasis on street

dealing and drug trafficking and on the out-of-treatment drug user. Three

studies of drug dealing have added greatly to our understanding of that

illegitimate business: Allen Fields’s (1984; Fields 1986) study of young

street “weedslingers,” Bruce Johnson’s (1985) study of heroin dealers, and

Patricia Adler’s (1985) study of cocaine traffickers.

Two ethnographic works focused on addicts who have never been in

treatment: Life With Heroin (Hanson et al. 1985), and—important for

understanding how some addicts can move away from heroin use without

entering formal treatment programs—Patrick Biernacki’s Pathways from

21
Heroin Addiction (Biernacki 1986), which won the Charles Cooley award

offered by the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interactionism last year.

The tendency of 1970s ethnographic work was to shift away from a focus

on ethnicity and culture to studies that were largely drug specific. During

this period, there was a growing concern over the emergence of new drugs.

It was widely believed that each drug had its own special subculture; and it

was the contribution of ethnographers that revealed the clear existence of

polydrug users and the way they sifted and sorted through a variety of drug

options. What came out of the 1970s ethnographic research, however, was

a clearer picture of social subgroups, not by drug of preference necessarily,

but in demographic configurations based on age, sex, race, ethnicity, and

neighborhood affiliation. Collectively, many of these studies challenged the

notion of the existence of “drug subcultures” and showed that a better

understanding of drug-using behavior might be achieved by studying drug

users within particular community contexts where such behaviors occur.

FUTURE ETHNOGRAPHY IN DRUG/AIDS INTERVENTION AND

PREVENTION

What emerged from these studies was an accumulation of information that

supplemented and improved national data collections on drug abuse. For

example, in the PCP study (Feldman et al. 1979), surveys that the Federal

government sponsored were examined and compared to data collected from

young people in natural social groups in four cities. It was possible to

identify in those four cities certain patterns of PCP use. For example, there

was an interest in identifying as precisely as possible when the fad of PCP

began and when momentum developed such that youth in a wide variety of

social settings in different parts of the United States began to experiment

with PCP. It was possible to establish the year 1973 as the date of entry

in all four cities, with a clear rise in use in 1974 and a leveling off in

1975. When the national survey data were examined, especially the surveys

of high school seniors, it was found that, for those peak years of

experimentation in 1973 and 1975, there was no mention of PCP use among

young drug users. In other words, the PCP phenomenon entered the world

of youth and diminished without the national data system ever identifying it.

What became obvious to many researchers in the 1970s was that

ethnography was a useful supplement and, in many ways, a far sharper

instrument for collecting information about emerging drug patterns and the

ways drug users adapted to them than had previously been thought.

The discovery that ethnography might well be useful as a method for identifying new drug use trends gave rise to serious discussions about employing

ethnographic field stations (Feldman 1980; Preble 1980b). There were two

important conferences held to develop this idea, which resulted in two

publications: the book, Street Ethnography: Selected Studies of Crime and

Drug Use in Natural Settings (Weppner 1977). which has Ed Preble’s pro22
phetic article, “Methadone, Wine and Welfare,” and the NIDA monograph,

Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol

Fields (Akins and Beschner 1980).

These publications evolved from two meetings sponsored by NIDA, which

were held to discuss the utility of funding ethnographic field stations: the

first, in 1976, in Key Biscayne, and the second, in Chicago, on ethnography

as the basis for State and local planning in the drug and alcohol fields.

The first meeting was cosponsored by the Drug Enforcement Administration

(DEA). There was general agreement that ethnographic methods would be

extremely useful in identifying new drug trends. There was similar agreement that the connection of ethnography with the DEA might be problematic, and many of the ethnographers in attendance were reluctant to have a

close association with that agency while collecting data from populations

involved in illegal activities. As a result, several ethnographers in attendance opposed common research undertakings; and the idea of ethnographic

field stations was shelved for the time.

At the Chicago meeting of 1979, which was sponsored solely by NIDA, the

concept of ethnographic field stations was reexamined and endorsed as a

unique method for collecting data to be utilized for planning and policymaking purposes. It was not supported by government funding sources

through the 1950s, however, until the emergence of the AIDS epidemic.

From the exchange of ideas between ethnographcrs and policymakers during

these national meetings and from ethnographic studies themselves, some

new prevention and education strategies began to emerge. For example,

most of the publicity on the dangers of PCP use came through the national

media, with such television news shows as “60 Minutes” and others, which

emphasized the connection between PCP use and violence and/or psychotic

behavior. Howevcr, research on the violence associated with PCP use

indicated that there were few such incidents of violence, other than panic

reactions to hospital personnel or police attempting to employ physical

constraints. Instead, it appeared that any drug-associated violence was not

precipitated by ingesting the drug necessarily but by medical personnel and

police who were ill-informed on how to manage adverse reactions. What

emerged quite clearly from this study was that PCP was a powerful drug

and that youth knew it to be a powerful drug. In fact, its very reputation,

reinforced by the national media, was the motivation that prompted users to

take it in the first place. The drug did have adverse effects; but these

effects, according to the users themselves, were not the ones the media

publicized. Rather than the dramatic incidents of violence, the condition

young people identified as most problematic was called “burning out,” a

state of cloudiness and forgetfulness resulting from prolonged consumption

of the drug, which was basically an anesthetic. It was this condition of

“burning out” that eventually led to a lessening of interest in PCP use

among most youth throughout the country.

23
Probably the most important use of ethnography in the drug field is now in

progress. With the development of the AIDS epidemic among IV drug

users, there is an urgency to mobilize our finest scientific resources to

address what has the potential of becoming a national crisis and has become

one already in New York City and northern New Jersey. If the Surgeon

General is correct in saying that he does not anticipate a cure for AIDS and

that a vaccine is in the distant future, then the urgency must be to keep

new infections to a bare minimum. In San Francisco and Chicago, where

ethnography has been something of a tradition, it has been found that the

most effective approach to carrying the prevention-education message to IV

drug users and their sexual partners has been through an aggressive strategy

of outreach based on ethnography.

Right now, IV drug users arc truly members of a hidden population whose

behaviors must be understood by those responsible for managing the HIV

epidemic in order to mount an effective intervention. One response has

been to support ethnographers to develop studies that can quickly grasp

relationships between needle sharing and the epidemic in ways that

traditional research methods cannot (Feldman et al. 1984; Feldman and

Biernacki 1988; Wiebel 1988).

In addition to providing street-based intervention with a conceptual basis for

managing the AIDS epidemic among IV drug users and their sexual partners, ethnography can make continuing contributions to drug research in

general. One area of interest is that of the heroin addict and his or her

resistance to change. Ethnography and the experience of street-based

interventions have accumulated evidence that the notion that IV drug users

are hard to reach and resistant to change may be in serious error. The

experience of street-based efforts in San Francisco, Chicago, and now

several other cities has demonstrated that addicts are receptive and

responsive to educational campaigns and will change certain behaviors as

long as the necessary changes do not require alterations of customs, values,

and lifestyles that are essential to their identities and cultural associations.

While this may run counter to the conventional wisdom regarding addict

behavior, it suggests a wider universality that can be applied to other social

groups and cultures. Through ethnography, it is possible to apply this

finding to IV drug users and the HIV epidemic. In San Francisco, Chicago,

and the other cities where an ethnographic approach has been employed.

there has been success in changing needle-sharing and needle-cleaning

behaviors in a relatively short period of time (Watters 1987; Watters

et al. 1988). The strategy of employing ethnography as the forerunner to

aggressive outreach to IV drug users at risk for HIV infection has now been

expanded to 27 major American cities.

As these ethnographically based projects develop, one result may be the

creation of a structure for the delivery of health care, early intervention, and

social services to inner-city communities that is new and more closely

24
tailored to the needs of urban populations. Ethnographically oriented

outreach AIDS prevention projects may be a model for a variety of health

and social services in the future.

CONCLUSION

In summary, ethnography has made significant contributions to the substance

abuse field. History has shown that ethnography has successfully penetrated

a wide variety of drug-using populations from the time of Herodotus to our

present day. Invariably, ethnographers have presented “different” views of

drug users, some which have contradicted popular conceptions. These

analytic descriptions may be closer to the way drug users are seen and

responded to within their own sociocultural context than to the portrait

painted by some health professionals. In this sense, ethnography has

challenged theories of etiology and provided new concepts that are practical

and utilitarian. Similarly, ethnography has identified problems in maintaining accurate updates on patterns of drug use and the emergence of drug

fads by noting limitations of current national data systems; it has suggested

ways to modify and augment the present arrangements. Finally,

ethnography has demonstrated and continues to demonstrate its usefulness in

applied research. With the emergence of the HIV epidemic as a problem of

potentially catastrophic proportions, ethnography has the flexibility for use

in short-term exploratory research efforts and in day-to-day outreach

intervention by trained health educators, among populations that have been

viewed as difficult, if not impossible, to access and change.

The challenge for drug ethnographers will be to fulfill the promise of their

potential by addressing the major social and health problems of the day.

For now, management of the AIDS epidemic should hold the highest

priority. If success in that effort is achieved, thousands of drug users, their

families, and their neighbors may never experience the epidemic, helped by

a delivery of health services that will benefit nondrug users as well as the

“hidden populations” who are the subjects of present concern.

REFERENCES

Adler, P.A. Wheeling and Dealing: An Ethnography of an Upper-Level

Drug Dealing and Smuggling Community. New York: Columbia

University Press, 1985.

Akins, C., and Beschner, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for

Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug

Abuse Services Research Branch. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946.

Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1980.

Aldrich, M.R., and Barker, R.W. Historical aspects of cocaine use and

abuse. In: Mule’, S.J., ed. Cocaine: Chemical, Biological, Clinical,

Social and Treatment Aspects. Cleveland: CRC Press, 1976. pp. 3-11.

25
Altschul, S.V.R. The Genus Anadenanthera in Amerindian Cultures.

Cambridge: Botanical Museum, Harvard University, 1972.

Becker, H.S. Becoming a marijuana user. Am J Social 59:235-242, 1953.

Becker, H.S. Outsiders: Studies in the Sociology of Deviance. Glencoe,

IL: Free Press, 1963.

Biemacki, P. Pathways from Heroin Addiction: Recovery Without

Treatment. Philadelphia: Temple University, 1986.

Blumer, H.; Sutter, A.; Ahmed, S.; and Smith, Ii. Add Center Project

Final Report: The World of Youthful Drug Use. Berkeley, CA:

University of California, 1967.

Carter, W.E., ed. Cannabis in Costa Rica: A Study of Chronic Marihuana

Use. Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1980.

Carey, J.T., and Mandel, J. A San Francisco Bay Area speed scene. J

Health Soc Behav 9:164-174, 1968.

Cavan, S. Hippies of the Haight. St. Louis: New Critics Press, 1972.

Cleckner, P.J. Blowing some lines: Intracultural variations among Miami

cocaine users. J Psychedelic Drugs 8:37-42, 1976a.

Cleckner, P.J. Dope is to get high: A preliminary analysis of intracultural

variation in drug categories among heavy users and dealers. Addict Dis

2:537-552, 1976b.

Cleckner, P.J. Cognitive and ritual aspects of drug use among young black

urban males. In: DuToit, B.M., ed. Drugs, Rituals and Altered States

of Consciousness. Rotterdam: A.A. Balkema, 1977. pp. 149-168.

Cloward, R.A., and Ohlin, L.E. Delinquency and Opportunity: A Theory

of Delinquent Gangs. Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1960.

Cohen, R. The logic of generalization: Generalizations in ethnology. In:

Naroll, R., and Cohen, R., eds. A Handbook of Method in Cultural

Anthropology. New York: Columbia University Press. 1970. pp. 31-50.

Dai, B. Opium Addiction in Chicago. Shanghai: Commercial Press, 1937.

(Reprint, Montclair, NJ: Patterson Smith, 1970.)

Davis, W. The Serpent and the Rainbow. New York: Simon and

Schuster, 1985.

De Selincourt, A. Herodotus: The Histories. Harmondsworth, England:

Penguin, 1954.

Durkheim, E. Suicide: A Study of Sociology. Glencoe, IL,: Free Press,

1951.

Feldman, H.W. Ideological supports to becoming and remaining a heroin

addict. J Health Soc Behav 9(2):131-139, 1968.

Feldman, H.W. Street status and drug users. Trans/Soc 10(4):32-38, 1973.

Feldman, H.W. Street status and the drug researcher: Issues in participant

observation. Washington, DC: Drug Abuse Council, 1974.

Feldman, H.W. A neighborhood history of drug switching. In: Weppner,

R.S., ed. Street Ethnography: Selected Studies of Crime and Drug Use in

Natural Settings. Beverly Hills: Sage, 1977. pp. 249-278.

26
Feldman, H.W. Introduction: Background and purpose of the ethnographers’ policymakers’ symposium. In: Akins, C., and Beschner, G., eds.

Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol

Fields. National Institute on Drug Abuse Services Research Branch.

DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S.

Govt. Print. Off., 1980. pp. 1-7.

Feldman, H.W.; Agar, M.H.; and Beschner, G.. Angel Dust: An Ethnographic Study of PCP Users. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1979.

Feldman, H.W., and Bicrnacki, P. The ethnography of needle sharing

among intravenous drug users and implications for public policies and

intervention strategies. In: Battjes, R.J., and Pickcns, R.W., eds.

Needle-Sharing Among Intravenous Drug Abusers: National and

International Perspectives. National Institute on Drug Abuse Research

Monograph 80. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)88-1567. Washington, DC:

Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1988. pp. 28-39.

Feldman, H.W.; Mandel, J.; and Fields, A. In the neighborhood: A

strategy for delivering early intervention services to young drug users in

their natural environments. In: Friedman, A.S., and Beschner, G.M., eds.

Treatment Services for Adolescent Substance Abusers. National Institute

on Drug Abuse Research Monograph Series. DHHS Pub. No.

(ADM)84-1342. Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off.,

1984. pp. 112-128.

Fields, A.B. “Slinging weed”: The social organization of street-comer

marijuana sales. Urban Life 13(2-3):274-280, 1984.

Fields, A.B. Weedslingers: Young black marijuana dealers. In:

Beschner, G., and Friedman, A.S., eds. Teen Drug Use. Lexington, MA:

Lexington Books, 1986. pp. 85-104.

Finestone, H. Cats, kicks, and color. Soc Prob 5(7):3-13, 1957.

Hanson, B.; Beschner, G.M.; Walters, J.M.; and Bovelle, E. Life with

Heroin: Voices From the Inner City. Lexington. MA: Lexington Books,

1985.

Hughes, E.C. The study of occupations (1959). The Sociological Eye:

Selected Papers. New Brunswick, N.J: Transaction Books, 1984. pp.

283-297.

James, J. Prostitution and addiction: An interdisciplinary approach. Addict

Dis 2:601-618, 1976.

James, J. Ethnography and social problems. In: Weppner, R.S., ed.

Street Ethnography: Selected Studies of Crime and Drug Use in Natural

Settings. Beverly Hills: Sage, 1977. pp. 179-200.

Johnson, B.D.; Goldstein. P.J.; Preble, E.; Schmeidler, J.; Lipton, D.S.;

Spunt, B.; and Miller, T. Taking Care of Business: The Economics of

Crime by Heroin Abusers. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1985.

Joint Committee of the American Bar Association and the American

Medical Association on Narcotic Drugs. Drug Addiction: Crime or

Disease? Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 1961.

La Barre, W. The Peyote Cult. New Haven: Yale, 1938. (2nd ed. New

York: Schocken, 1969.)

27
Lindesmith, A.R. Opiate Addiction. Bloomington, IN: Principia Press,

1947. (2nd ed. Addiction and Opiates. Chicago. II,: Aldine, 1968.)

Lindesmith, A.R. The Addict and the Law. Bloomington, IN: Indiana

University, 1965.

Ludlow, F.H. What shall they do to be saved? Harper’s Magazine

35:377-387, 1867.

Mandel, J., and Feldman, H.W. The social history of teenage drug use.

In: Beschner, G., and Friedmann, A.S., eds. Teen Drug Use.

Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1986. pp. 19-42.

Merton, R.K. Social Theory and Social Structure. Glencoe, IL: Free

Press, 1957.

Moore, J.; Cerea, L.; Garcia, C.; Garcia, R.; and Valcncia, F. Homeboys.

Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1974.

Murphy, S., and Rosenbaum, M. Money for methadone. II: Unintended

consequences of limited-duration methadone maintenance. J Psychoactive

Drugs 20(4):397-402, 1988.

Polsky, N. Hustlers, Beats, and Others. Chicago: Aldine, 1967.

Preble, E. Problems utilizing ethnography in a single state agency. In:

Akins, C., and Beschncr, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for

Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug

Abuse Services Research Report. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946.

Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1980a.

pp. 90-100.

Preble, E. What an ethnographic field station looks like. In: Akins, C.,

and Beschner, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policymakers

in the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug Abuse Services

Research Report. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, DC:

Supt. of Docs.. U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1980b. pp. 64-71.

Preble, E., and Casey, J.J. Taking care of business: The heroin user’s life

on the streets. Int J Addict 4(1):1-24, 1969.

Rosenbaum. M. Women on Heroin New Brunswick. NJ: Rutgers

University Press, 1981.

Rosenbaum, M. Surrender to Control: Women on Methadone. Final

report to the National Institute on Drug Abuse, unpublished manuscript.

Rosenbaum, M., and Morgan, P. Ecstasy use among professionals: An

ethnography. Presented at the meeting of the American Society of

Criminology, November 1988.

Rosenbaum, M., and Murphy, S. Not the picture of health: Women on

methadone. J Psychoactive Drugs 19(2):217-226, 1987.

Rubin, V., and Comitas, L. Ganja in Jamaica: A Medical Anthropological

Study of Chronic Marihuana Use. Scotch Plains, NJ: Mouton/

MacFarland. 1975.

Rudenko, S.I. Frozen Tombs of Siberia: The Pazyryk Burials of Iron-Age

Norsemen. Berkeley: University of California, 1970.

Safford, W.E. Identity of cohoba, the narcotic snuff of ancient Haiti. J

Wash Acad Sci 6:548-562, 1916.

28
Schultes, R.E. Peyote and the American Indian. Nature 30(3):155-157,

1937.

Schultes. R.E., and Hofmann, A. The Botany and Chemistry of

Hallucinogens. 2nd ed. Springfield, II,: Charles C Thomas, 1980.

Shaw, C.R., and McKay, H.D. Juvenile Delinquency and Urban Areas.

Chicago: University of Chicago, 1942.

Soloway, I.H. Methadone and the culture of addiction. J Psychedelic

Drugs 6:1-99, 1974.

Spradlcy, J.P. You Owe Yourself A Drunk: An Ethnography of Urban

Nomads. Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1970.

Spradley, J.P. Foreword. In: Weppner, R.S., cd. Street Ethnography:

Selectcd Studies of Crime and Drug Use in Natural Settings. Beverly

Hills: Sage, 1977. pp/ 13-16.

Sutherland, E.H. Principles of Criminology. 4th cd. Philadelphia:

J.P. Lippincott, 1947.

Suttcr, A.G. The world of the righteous dope fiend. Issues in Criminology

2(2):177-222, 1966.

Suttcr, A.G. Worlds of drug use on the street scene. In: Cressey, D., and

Ward. D.A., eds. Delinquency, Crime and Social Process. New York:

Harper and Row, 1969.

Suttcr, A.G. Playing a cold game: Phases of a ghetto carter. Urban Life

and Culture 1(1):77-91, 1972.

Vestal, P.A., and Schultes, R.E. The Economic Botany of the Kiowa

Indians as It Relates to the History of the Tribe. Cambridge, MA:

Botanical Museum, 1939.

Vidich, A.J. Participant observation and the collection and interpretation of

data. Am J Social 60(4):354-360, 1955.

Von Hagen, V.W. The Incas of Pedro de Cieza de Leon. Norman, OK:

University of Oklahoma, 1959.

Wallace, A.R. Richard Spruce: Notes of an Ethnobotanist on the Amazon

and Andes. London: Macmillan, 1908. (Reprint, New York: Johnson

Reprint, 1970.)

Walters, J. What is ethnography? In: Akins, C., and Beschner, G., eds.

Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol

Fields. National Institute on Drug Abuse Services Research Branch.

DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S.

Govt. Print. Off., 1980. pp. 15-20.

Ward, A. Confessions of An English Opium-Eater, by Thomas De Quincey.

New York: Signet, 1966.

Wassen, S.H. Anthropological survey of the use of South American snuffs.

In: Efron, D.H.; Holmstcdt, B.; and Kline, N.S., eds. Ethnopharmacologic Search for Psychoactive Drugs. National Institute of Mental Health.

PHS Pub. No. 1965. Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print.

Off., 1967. pp. 233-289.

Wasson, R.G. The Wondrous Mushroom: Mycolatry in Mesoamerica.

New York: McGraw-Hill. 1980.

2 9
Watters, J.K. Preventing human immunodeficiency virus contagion among

intravenous drug users: The impact of street-based education on risk

behavior. Presented at the Third International Conference on AIDS,

Washington, DC, 1987.

Watters, J.K.; Cheng, Y.-T.; Lewis, D.; Jang, M.; and Carlson, J. Drug-use

profile, risk participation, and HIV exposure among intravenous drug

users in San Francisco. Presented at the Fourth International Conference

on AIDS, Stockholm, June 1988.

Weppner, R.S., ed. Street Ethnography: Selected Studies of Crime and

Drug Use in Natural Settings. Beverly Hills: Sage, 1977.

Wiebel, W.W. Combining ethnognphic and epidemiologic methods in

targeted AIDS interventions: The Chicago model. In: Battjes, R.J., and

Pickens, R.W., eds. Needle-Sharing Among Intravenous Drug Abusers:

National and International Perspectives. National Institute on Drug

Abuse Research Monograph 80. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)88-1567.

Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1988.

pp. 137-150.

Wiseman, J., and Aron, M. Field Projects for Sociological Students.

Cambridge, MA: Schenkman, 1970.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This work was supported in part by U.S. Public Health Service grants 1

R18 DA 05879-01 and 1 R01 DA 05015-01 from the National Institute on

Drug Abuse. Patrick Biernacki and Jerry Mandel reviewed various portions

of this paper.

AUTHORS

Harvey W. Feldman, Ph.D.

Michael R. Aldrich. Ph.D.

Youth Environment Study, Inc., and

The MidCity Consortium to Combat AIDS

1779 Haight Street

San Francisco, CA 94117

30
Methodological and Design Issues:

Techniques for Assessing the

Representatives of Snowball

Samples

Karl M. van Meter

INTRODUCTION

The difficulty of studying hidden populations with traditional sociological

research methods reveals a distinction between ascending methodologies

adapted to the study of small or local populations and descending methodologies adapted to general populations. Snowball sampling and hierarchically

ascending (HA) classification analysis and its more advanced form of crossclassification analysis together form a coherent and rigorous ascending

methodology for studying hidden populations. This methodology’s problems

with the calculation of general population estimates and the explanation of

variance have been the subject of recent research. Through the combined

application of ascending and descending methodologies, recent work has

largely resolved these problems and provided both a formal and operational

tie between the two methodologies.

ASCENDING AND DESCENDING METHODOLOGIES

Explicit to the theme of this chapter is an association between the problem

of studying social groups or types of social behavior that are not accessible

by established means of sociological research (“hidden populations”), on the

one hand, and, on the other, the use of research methodologies based on

intensive, detailed data-collection strategies and their associated methods of

analysis (“qualitative research designs”). Implicitly, this identifies

established means of sociological research with large-scale representative

surveys (“quantitative research”) and opposes them to “qualitative” counterparts. Though the problem of studying hidden populations is real, as is the

adequacy of intensive data collection strategies, such as snowball sampling,

for studying hidden populations, the opposition of qualitative vs. quantitative

is far more a social product of institutional conflict than a formalized

mathematical reality (Combessie 1985; Wilson 1986). Indeed, most social

researchers have abandoned this opposition, while acknowledging and

3 1
adapting the complementary nature of these different methodologies

(Combessie 1986).

Thc difficulty of studying hidden populations does reveal an opposition

between extensive survey methodologies and intensive data collection

methodologies. This opposition distinguishes between what has been called

descending methodology and ascending methodology (Van Meter 1985;

Department of Social Psychiatry 1986; Kaplan et al. 1987). This opposition

can be found in both data collection and methods of statistical analysis.

Descending methodology involves strategies elaborated and executed at the

level of general populations. It, therefore, necessitates highly standardized

questionnaires and rigorous population samples and, for historic and

economic reasons more than methodological considerations, usually involves

traditional statistical analysis. This methodology typically has been used by

national governments to make statistical inferences and to decide future

social policy. The strict scientific rigor of this methodology, even in its

most exemplary use, can be easily criticized (Guttman 1984) but this does

not reduce the usefulness of its results. However. there are problems with

descending methodologies, particularly when data are needed on or from

hidden populations.

Ascending methodologies involve research strategies elaborated at a

community or local level and specifically adapted to the study of selected

social groups; for example, a hidden population. To be efficient, the means

of data collection are usually selective and intensive. Snowball sampling,

life histories. and ethnographic monographs are typical forms of data

collection in ascending methodology. Methods of analysis in this type of

methodology must also be adapted to the specific form of data furnished

and also to the specific objectives of the research. Typical forms of

ascending data analysis arc social network analysis and classification

analysis, often called “cluster” analysis.

However, the specific adaptation of ascending methodology is not obtained

without the loss of easy generalizability. In exchange. descending

methodology cannot reach hidden populations without specific adaptations.

Indeed, that is exactly what the President’s Commission on Organized

Crime (1986) was proposing when it recommended over-sampling high

school dropouts and people without residence in the National Institute on

Drug Abuse High School Senior Survey and Household Survey on Drug

Abuse. Similarly, ascending methodology, such as network analysis, can be

employed in the study of large populations, though at great material cost

and rigorous standardization. The best example is Joel H. Levine’s “Atlas

of Corporate Interlocks” that covers the entire world population of

corporations (Levine 1984).

32
CLASSIFICATION ANALYSIS

In the case of classification analysis, there is a very clear distinction

between ascending and descending methods. The latter construct classes (or

clusters) by starting with the entire population and successively dividing it

in order to obtain a descending hierarchy of classifications: the first level

will have the entire population included in one single class; the second level

will have the population divided into two (or possibly more) classes; and

the third and following levels will each have at least one new division

resulting in a new class. This process continues until it reaches an

optimum classification or the zero level, with each individual in its own

unique class. Inversely, HA classification starts at the zero level (each

individual in its own unique class) and constructs successive levels of

classification by grouping similar individuals into the same class (Lerman

1981).

The classes obtained by HA classification are called polythetic classes, as

opposed to monothetic classes (Lerman 1981). A class of individuals is

defined as monothctic if it is characterized by one and only one

characteristic. This means that an individual belongs to the class if and

only if that individual has the given characteristic. A class G is defined as

polythetic if and only if each individual belonging to G has an important

(but not fixed) proportion of a certain subset B of characteristics, and if

each characteristic belonging to B is present in an important (but not fixed)

proportion of the individuals in G. A corollary to this definition is that an

individual with many characteristics in B is not necessarily a member of G,

and there may be members of G that have an important proportion of

characteristics not in B. This formal definition of a polythetic class is the

generalization of a Weberian ideal type and that given by the World Health

Organization for a syndrome in the context of drug and alcohol abuse (Van

Meter et al. 1987; World Health Organization 1981).

Those methods of classification analysis that are HA formally construct

polythetic classes. HA, in this case, means that resemblance between

individuals is used to form classes. Therefore, the first classes formed are

composed of those individuals who resemble each other the most. The later

the class is formed, that is, the higher in the hierarchy, the less its members

will resemble each other. This also means that for HA methods, each level

in a tree of classifications corresponds to a particular and distinct

classification of the entire population under investigation with successively

fewer but larger classes of individuals. The final classification or level in

the hierarchy, of course, is composed of one unique class including the

entire population.

A specific type of HA classification analysis called automatic classification

(Lerman 1981) allows the application of minimal criteria, which provide a

formal systematic means of reducing or summarizing the often considerable

33
list of variables or dimensions involved in typical ascending strategies of

data collection. In automatic classification analysis, proximity between

individuals or entities is measured by a similarity index calculated over all

variables taken into consideration (Prod’homme et al. 1983). It allows us to

construct classes based on the “maximum likelihood of association”

(“vraisemblance de lien”) between two individuals that emphasizes the

resemblance between two classes more than the distance that separates each

of them from nearby large classes of individuals (SAS Institute 1985).

The classifications based on interindividual resemblance are then arranged in

an ordered hierarchy or tree by this method that also establishes, for each

level of the hierarchy. the statistical probability or likelihood of the

occurrence of that particular classification, given the original null hypothesis

that all characteristics arc normally distributed. The evolution of this local

statistic, associated with each level of the hierarchy of classifications or

classification tree, permits the identification of local minima where

improbable, and, therefore, significant classifications are situated. By this

means, one can identify within successive classifications the more significant

groups of subjects or nodes that by their construction form polythetic

classes. Moreover, this same process reveals the development and evolution

of such significant groups throughout the hierarchical tree of classifications,

starting with the first and most detailed classification (each individual

constitutes his or her own class) and extending all the way to the final and

roughest classification (everyone in one single class).

Cross-classification analysis is the Cartesian crossing of two automatic

classification analyses of the same data. It reorganizes a two-dimensional

data set (individuals by variables) by projecting onto the set the results of

an automatic classification analysis of the individuals (or rows of figures)

and of the descriptive variables (or columns of figures). In this manner, all

initial data can be directly presented along with the organization of that data

due to the cross-classification analysis, thus permitting comparative or

critical analysis of the same data. This method was employed to find the

significant nodes or polythetic classes mentioned above and to extend, in an

unlimited fashion, the application of classification analysis to any finite

population, no matter how large (Faugeron and Van Meter 1987).

This latter result is significant due to the fact that classification analysis of

large data sets has been inhibited until now by its large requirements of

computer time and memory capacity. Furthermore, the groups of units of

individuals and variables found by cross-classification analysis meet the

same criteria as the blocks obtained by block-modeling methods in social

network analysis (Van Meter 1986). Cross-classification analysis was used.

for example, as the methodological basis for a sociological survey of

cocaine use in Europe (Kaplan ct al. 1985).

34
APPLICATIONS OF CLASSIFICATION ANALYSIS

These groups of individuals and variables are of course polythetic classes

and are rather stable units of analysis. This stability allows the construction

of classification grids that characterize the most pertinent subset of variables

for each group. This stability also permits the use of these groups in

further cross-classification analyses, where the initial results concerning a

“state” of behavior (the initial blocks of individuals and variables) are then

submitted to a cross-classification analysis over a certain period in time.

Thus, one cm construct a polythetic class corresponding to a “syndrome,”

which would be a stable block generaled by the cross-classification analysis

of individual states crossed in chronological time. In turn, the individual

states will have resulted from an initial cross-classification analysis of

individuals crossed with descriptive variables. This particular adaptation of

cross-classification analysis, along with the experience sampling technique of

gathering repeated measurements of behavior and mental state at randomly

selected moments in the daily life of an individual, form the ascending

methodology of a current research project on anxiety and drug abuse at the

University of Maastricht in Holland (Van Meter et al. 1987).

As with all methods of analysis, care must be taken in the application of

classification analysis. Very evocative counter-examples exist of unclear

results obtained by classification analysis, but they can become much more

comprehensible when compared with results of another method of analysis

of the same data. In this context, the complementariness of descending

methods of analysis is quite useful. Often such classification results are the

artifact of the algorithm of class construction, such as the chain effect due

to the use of the lexicographic algorithm (Lerman 1981). In other cases,

this algorithm is particularly well adapted to distinguishing the different

classes in a data set, particularly when they have complex nonlinear forms

(SAS Institute 1985).

The simultaneous use of classification analysis and a descending method,

factorial correspondence analysis, has clarified certain problems of proximity

in both sociological research (Le Guen and Jaffeux 1988) and in

anthropology (Menk 1980). In the latter case, problems concerning

differing proximities between various human populations were resolved by

superposing an HA classification analysis upon a two-dimensional factorial

diagram.

In terms of ascending methodology, not only are cross-classification and

snowball sampling compatible, they arc also theoretically integrated: one

collects intensive data in a context of social contacts and seeks to establish

the different types of individuals or behavior that are represented, and the

other requires extensive descriptive data to calculate similarity, according to

all variables, and to establish pertinent blocks of individuals and variables.

35
Kaplan et al. (1987) presented this clearly, while tying it to the historical

development of snowball sampling and network analysis.

DRUG ABUSE AND THE ANALYSIS OF HIDDEN POPULATIONS

In an important review article on the analysis of drug abuse, Kozel and

Adams (1986) present a critique of traditional medical epidemiology models,

showing the unadapted nature of such descending methodology, though the

authors do not use the term. Similarly, without using the terms polythetic

or monothetic classes, they criticized the “attempt to classify drug-using

behavior into one of two apparently distinct categories.” (Kozel and Adams

1986, p. 970) while noting that current research tends to study “patterns of

abuse.” Although the usefulness of surveys for monitoring trends and

prevalence of drug use is clearly indicated, they concluded with the statement that “drug epidemics often are localized and involve specific subpopulations that make surveillance based on national data systems difficult”

(Kozel and Adams 1986, p. 970). This is an explicit indication that

descending methodologies have encountered serious problems that ascending

methodologies may be able to resolve.

Although these authors present the NIDA National Household Survey on

Drug Abuse as the “single most important measure of drug abuse in our

general population” (Kozel and Adams 1986, p. 971). they openly admit its

limitations due to sample bias: transient and nonresidential populations are

not included. The PCOC has noted this as well, stating that the Household

Survey and the High School Senior Survey “have been criticized because

they not include information from those populations that are frequently

involved with drugs, high school dropouts and people without residence”

(Resident’s Commission on Organized Crime 1986, p. 340). As we

mentioned above, the PCOC also proposed a solution, “oversampling,”

which implies an ascending methodology. The PCOC recognized that

“surveys of cocaine users demonstrated there is no ‘typical’ cocaine user”

(President’s Commission on Organized Crime 1986, p. 25). They have also

recognized that the necessary level of study, prevention, and treatment is the

community (President’s Commission on Organized Crime 1986).

The PCOC’s specific criticisms of descending methodology include a lack

of data on the prices and amounts of drugs purchased and on funding and

resources for acquiring such information and the unreliable nature of

“analysis by negotiation,” with final estimates of drug use “resulting from a

bargaining process among member agencies” involved in estimations

(President’s Commission on Organized Crime 1986, p. 343). As described

by Hall (1988), these are the very lacunae that community epidemiology

attempts to fill by focusing on the consequences of drug abuse rather than

on the prevalence of use.

36
For local purposes, it is often more useful to determine answers

to the questions, “who” and “where,” rather than “how many” so

that limited resources may be most effectively applied to provide

the greatest benefit. (President’s Commission on Organized

Crime 1986, p. 2)

"The snowball methodology for tracking drug abusers is ideal because of its

intensive results and the ability to present findings rapidly” (President’s

Commission on Organized Crime 1986, p. 3). This may also be the

specific methodology needed for monitoring the heterosexual spread of

AIDS in the general population, since it is now recognized that AIDS as an

“epidemic will be long and drawn out as it spreads through the different atrisk groups and in different localities over the coming decades” (Anderson

1987, p. 570).

SNOWBALL SAMPLING AND DRUG ABUSE IN ROTTERDAM

AND MUNICH

In a recent study (Avico et al. 1988), snowball sampling was found to be

economical, efficient, and effective in the study of cocaine incidence in

three European cities: Rotterdam, Munich, and Rome. In the context of

this study, Emile Durkheim’s concept of social “milieu,” instead of “social

strata,” imposed itself as the means of describing other drug users (Avico et

al. 1988, p. III-7). Plotting the incidence curves of cocaine use (year of

first use) in Munich and Rotterdam for the last 15 years indicated that

cocaine is not at all a new drug in these two cities. Further, the Munich

data suggested that the supposed threat of a European cocaine epidemic, in

this case, is the result of discrepancies between endemic cocaine use and

changes in police strategies of seizure and arrest data. Similar discrepancies

can be found in some of the official U.S. Government data.

lncidence curves of Rotterdam and Munich further suggest a certain

convergence of the cocaine consumption situation in these two cities, with

current levels tending toward a level of 15 to 20 percent of the total user

population. However, the snowball-sampling data show that the history of

cocaine consumption is rather different. The first real cocaine epidemic in

Rotterdam took place in the early 1970s when Munich had no noticeable

consumption. As the epidemic in Rotterdam subsided, an epidemic in

Munich began. Another such cycle followed before arriving at the current

situation.

This study produced clear estimates of the prevalence and distribution of

certain patterns of drug use. Analyzed according to job milieu, the data

revealed some interesting similarities and differences. Although Munich is

recognized as a cocaine “glamour” city, the prevalence among artists and

actors in Rotterdam at 29 percent is slightly higher than in Munich at

25 percent, though this difference is not likely to be statistically significant.

37
Nonetheless, a quarter of cocaine users are artists, even in a workers’ city

such as Rotterdam. an interesting phenomenon for further research.

Common patterns were also found in the pimp and prostitute milieu (about

5 percent), the campus milieu (about 15 to 18 percent), and the blue-collarworker milieu (about 20 percent). The latter is particularly interesting, in

that it proves that cocaine is not only a luxury, high-status drug. As in the

United States, cocaine use has spread to youth and working and lower

classes, becoming more evenly distributed throughout the entire society in

these two cities.

The differences between the two cities are also of interest. Munich, being

an entertainment and “yuppie” city, has a much higher prevalence of drug

abuse in the restaurant and cafe milieu (15 percent) and the white-collar

milieu (20 percent) than Rotterdam (4 and 7 percent, respectively). This is

further supported by the high prevalence of unemployed users in Rotterdam

(18 percent), a category that does not even appear in the Munich data. In

Rotterdam, use among working and lower classes is indeed at least as

prevalent as among those in the “glamour” class. This is consistent with

the image of Rotterdam as a hard-working city.

One of the specific omissions mentioned by the President’s Commission on

Organized Crime in general survey data is filled by “cost per gram”

information (given here in Dutch guilders). In Rotterdam, 75 percent of the

sample pay less than DFL 200, while in Munich the proportion is merely

2 percent. Most Munich users pay between DFL 200 and DFL 250 per

gram, while only 11 percent of Rotterdam users pay that equivalent price.

This pattern continues beyond the DIT 250 level. The explanation of this

price differential is complex, but it probably has to do with the different

“character” of each city’s work force and the relatively lower demand in

Rotterdam in terms of lower absolute numbers of active cocaine users.

Both cities have a pattern of problems engendered by cocaine use. The

majority of users in both cities report some kind of problem. Most of these

were restricted to private difficulties in social life and at work. However,

the prevalence of nonproblematic use is higher in Rotterdam (39 percent)

than in Munich (25 percent). An interesting phenomenon to explore would

be whether problem usage is related to job milieu and cost factors.

PROBLEMS OF EXTRAPOLATION AND CURRENT RESEARCII

Questions of bias are always present in any data collection strategy and are

particularly acute in the study of hidden populations. Random error or

sampling error, sample bias, and response bias are major sources of

inaccuracy in data collection. The first is usually dealt with by increasing

the sample size: in accordance with well-known statistical formulas, the

larger the sample, the smaller the random-sampling error. But this may

vary with types of data collection. Response bias is also dealt with through

38
traditional means such as split samples, rearrangements of items within the

same questionnaire, or indepth interviews. Sample bias is often considered

a more serious problem. Indeed, much of the criticism mentioned above

concerning the High School Senior Survey and the Household Survey

concerns sample bias. Descending strategies of data collection can often

miss whole hidden populations, rendering accurate estimations of drug use

extremely difficult.

If ascending strategies, particularly snowball sampling, offer a solution to

the problem of data collection among hidden populations, the formalization

of their sample biases seems to be beyond the reach of current statistics,

although admirable attempts have been made (Rapoport 1979; Frank 1979;

Frank 1981). But these formal treatments of the question usually require

further general information on the population such as the mean number of

ties between individuals and the distribution of ties throughout the

population, including the number of triads and the number of diads. Once

again, the solution being proposed is to revert to better descending strategies

of data collection instead of addressing directly what has been called “the

limitations of this technique [snowball sampling] involve an uncontrollable

selection bias that limits the external validity of the sample” (Kaplan

et al. 1985, p. 3).

In snowball sampling, selection can be modeled as a stochastic process that

permits the calculation of sample weights that arc inversely proportional to

the probabilities of selection and can generate unbiased estimates (Avico

et al. 1988). Sample selection bias formulated in this manner offers a

reliable sampling frame, particularly when data from initial respondents,

other than selections of other respondents, are not recorded and subsequent

respondents are selected at random (Kaplan et al. 1987). Another

complementary manner of selection is to select respondents according to a

quota system of sampling, thus assuring an unbiased coverage of a hidden

population according to the structure of the parent or general population.

This strategy was used in recent research on the spread of AIDS in the

male homosexual population in France (Pollak and Schiltz 1988).

Moreover, this snowball sample (n=300) was used as a control for a general

survey of male homosexuals (n=1,557) who read gay periodicals. The

snowball sample respected standard quotas for age, class, and size of town

of residence corresponding to the French male population from 18 to 55

years of age. The only significant difference found was that readers of

homosexual literature changed their sexual behavior due to the threat of

AIDS earlier than nonreaders by an average of 6 months. The same

authors have published other works in this field using combinations of

descending and ascending methodologies (Pollak and Schiltz 1987a; Pollak

and Schiltz 1987b); in this specific case, a general typology of male

homosexuals and their attitudes toward AIDS, a typology based on HA

classification analysis and factorial correspondence analysis, was

complemented by numerous indepth, extensive, scmidirective interviews.

39
Another problem often associated with ascending methodologies is

calculating variance. Biernacki and Waldorf (1981) have addressed the

problems of basic procedures of snowball sampling and called for further

research on such questions as variance adequacy, explicitly stating that

contributions from both qualitative and quantitative methodologies are

necessary (Avico et al. 1988). If these qualifiers are changed to ascending

and descending methodologies, there is thorough agreement between these

researchers (Biemacki and Waldorf 1981; Avico et all. 1988) and some

indications of recent research developments in the very direction they have

indicated can be offered. Le Guen and Jaffeux (1988) have completed a

survey of small and medium-size French businesses quoted on the stock

market. They used not only automatic classification analysis to establish

distinct classes of businesses, but also confirmed this analysis through the

use of factorial correspondence analysis. Using these classes, they then

plotted the means for each class, permitting a decomposition of the means

and variance according to specific classes that had been constructed in an

ascending manner based on similarity. This is indeed quite different from

the traditional descending manner of decomposing variance over an entire

population. Moreover, this complementary association of ascending and

descending methodologies offers a reliable way of situating specific portions

of the variance in distinct classes or hidden populations, while permitting

the calculation of general population estimates. This seems to be a

particularly happy marriage of ascending and descending methodologies.

CONCLUSION

Although the distinction between qualitative and quantitative methodologies

is not as clear as it once was, the difficulty of studying hidden populations

reveals a distinction between ascending and descending methodologies. If

the former are well adapted to the study of hidden populations, as is the

case with snowball sampling and cross-classification analysis, problems have

been found with their handling of sample bias, of estimates at the level of

the general population, and of variance explanation. Examples of recent

research employing complementary combinations of ascending and

descending methodologies show ways of resolving these problems and

suggest interesting new perspectives in an integrated methodological

approach to social science research.

REFERENCES

Anderson, A. President’s new AIDS commission in turmoil. Nature

329:6140, 1987.

Avico, U.; Kaplan, C.D.; Korczak, D.; and Van Meter, K.M. Cocaine epidemiology in three European community cities: A pilot study using a

snowball sampling methodology. Research Report of the Cocaine Steering Group, Health Directorate Commission of the Europcan Communities,

Brussels, Belgium, February 1988. 110 pp.

40
Biernacki, P., and Waldorf, D. Snowball sampling: Problems and

techniques of chain referral sampling. Soc Methods Res 2:141-163, 1981.

Combessie, J.-C. Oubli et paradoxes. Bull Methodologie Social 6:29-38,

1985.

Combessie, J.-C. A propos de méthodes: Effects d’optique, heuristiques et

objectivation. Bull Methodologie Social 10:4-24, 1986.

Department of Social Psychiatry. Cross-classification analysis. Presented at

the Experience Sampling Symposium, University of Maastricht, 1986.

13 pp.

Faugeron, C., and Van Meter, K.M. Analysis of deviance and of social

classes: The impact of methodological research. Presented at the Annual

Meeting of the American Sociological Association, Chicago, IL, August

17-20, 1987. 15 pp.

Frank, O. Estimation of population totals by use of snowball samples. In:

Holland, P.W., and Leinhardt, S.L., eds. Perspectives on Social Network

Research. New York: Academic, 1979. 319-347 pp.

Frank, O. A survey of statistical methods for graph analysis. In:

Leinhardt, S.L., ed. Sociological Methodology. London: Jossey-Boss,

1981. 110-155 pp.

Guttman, L. What is not what in statistics. Statistical inference

revisited—1984. Bull Methodologie Social 4:3-35, 1984.

Hall, J.N. The community-based drug epidemiology network. Brussels,

Belgium: Health Directorate of the Commission of the European

Communities, 1988. 23 pp.

Kaplan, C.D.; Korf, D.; and Sterk, C. Temporal and social contexts of

heroin-using populations: An illustration of the snowball sampling

technique. J Nerv Ment Dis 175(9):566-574, 1987.

Kaplan, C.D.; Van Meter, K.M.; and Kornak, D. Estimating cocaine prevalence and incidence in three European community cities. Luxembourg:

Commission of the European Communities, 1985. 12 pp.

Kozel, N.J., and Adams, E. H. Epidemiology of drug abuse: An overview.

Science 234:970-974, 1986.

Le Guen, M., and Jaffeux, C. Le conjunction analyse de donées et

statistique inferentielle pour conduire à une meilleure perception visuelle.

France: University of Orléans 1988. 26 pp.

Lerman, I.C. Classification et Analyse Ordinale des Données. Paris:

Dunod, 1981. 350 pp.

Levine, J.H. Atlas of Corporate Interlock. Hanover, NH: Worldnet, 1984.

Levine, J.H. The methodology of the Atlas of Corporate Interlocks. Bull

Methodologie Sociol 17:20-58. 1988.

Menk, R. L’analyse des clusters en anthropologic physique. Une nouvelle

methode: Les dendogrammes tridimensionnels. Archives Suisses

d’Anthropologie Generale 44(1):51-59, 1980.

Pollak, M., and Schiltz, M.-A. Une Epidémie Autogéréé: Les Homosexuelles Face au SIDA. Tome 1. Paris: EHESS, 1987a. 119 pp.

Pollak, M., and Schiltz, M.-A. Annexes Techniques et Statistiques. Tome

2. Paris: EHESS. 1987b. 152 pp.

4 1
Pollak, M., and Schiltz, M.-A. Does voluntary testing matter? How it

influences homosexual safer sex. Presented at the Fourth International

Conference on AIDS, Stockholm, Sweden, June 13, 1988. 14 pp.

Prod’homme, A.; Breton, L.; and Guenneguez, L. Note méthodologique sur

l’utilisation de l’algorithme de vraisemblance des liens en sciences

humaines. In: Actes des Journées de Classification. Brussels: Société

francophone de Classification, 1983. 367-383 pp.

President’s Commission on Organized Crime. Report to the President and

the Attorney General. America’s Drug Habit: Drug Abuse, Drug

Trafficking, and Organized Crime. Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs.,

U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1986.

Rapport, A. A probabilistic approach to networks. Soc Netw 2(1):1-18,

1979.

SAS Institute. User’s Guide: Statistics. Version 5 ed. Cary: SAS

Institute, 1985.

Van Meter, K.M. Block-modclling and cross-classification techniques for

estimating population parameters from network data. Workshop on the

Methodology of Applied Drug Research, European Community Health

Directorate, Luxembourg, 1985.

Van Meter, K.M. Basic typology and multimethod analysis in the social

sciences. Presented at the Eleventh World Congress of the International

Sociological Association, New Delhi, August 18-22, 1986.

Van Meter, K.M.; De Vries, M.W.; Kaplan, C.D.; and Dijkman, C.I.M.

States, syndromes, and polythetic classes: The operationalization of crossclassification analysis in behavioral science research. Bull Methodologie

Social 15:22-35, 1987.

World Health Organization. Nomenclature and classification of drug and

alcohol related problems: A WHO memorandum. Bull WHO 59(2):225-

242, 1981.

Wilson, T.P. Qualitative ‘versus’ quantitative methods in social research.

Bull Methodologie Social 10:25-51, 1986.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dr. Marc Morival, Chairman of the Cocaine Steering Group of the Health

Directorate of the Commission of the European Communities is

acknowledged for initiating and directing many of the research projects

mentioned in this chapter. Professor Charles D. Kaplan of the Erasmus

University of Rotterdam is acknowledged for recognizing the contribution

that new methodologies have to offer in the study of drug use and for

getting the author directly involved in research in this field.

42
AUTHOR

Karl M. van Meter

Secretary of the Research Committee on

Logic and Methodology

International Sociology Association

54 boulevard Raspail

75006 Paris

FRANCE

43
Requirements for Inductive

Analysis

Peter Adler

INTRODUCTION

Sociological ethnography is currently experiencing a renaissance. For the

first time in decades, epistemological and methodological issues are being

addressed that will shape the way ethnography is practiced and applied.

This chapter will look at the concept of “induction,” tracing its history and

use in the social sciences, outlining some of the major tenets and presuppositions that an inductive methodology must employ. assessing how the

concept of induction has been either changed or misunderstood over the last

several decades, and exploring how induction will shape social scientific

methodology in coming decades.

Analytic induction as an epistemological underpinning of sociological

methodology can be credited to students from the University of Chicago,

where the method of participant observation first took hold and the theory

of symbolic interaction was formulated. The midtwentieth century saw a

great number of masters’ and doctoral theses generated by students of

Everett Hughes and Herbert Blumer, two of the major proponents of naturalistic inquiry. These men helped to create the richly textured “portrait of

the people” that good cthnography represents. Covering a wide variety of

subjects, mainly community, race and ethnic relations, deviance and criminology, sociology of work, and indepth looks at the growing subcultures in

American society, these researchers helped to define early American empirical sociology. As per Blumer’s (1969) edict, students entered the everyday

world and found out about the subjective meanings, perspectives, understandings, and salient issues in urban Chicago.

Trying to find their niche in a discipline dominated by Columbia, Harvard,

and Wisconsin (Vidich and Lyman 1985). these midcentury ethnographers

battled against the tide of positivism and quantification. It is not surprising

that induction, a philosophy and technique rooted in a “scientistic” nomenclature and procedure, was wedded to the emerging. but largely unaccepted,

method of participant observation. To gain any acceptance, practitioners of

participant observation needed to speak the language of their positivistic

colleagues, while following a subjective, naturalistic methodology.

44
Most scholars today emphasize induction’s subjective, impressionistic, and

“grounded” features. Although it was formulated in direct opposition to the

objective, positivistic, deductive methodologies, it adhered strongly to the

canons and principles of the scientific method. Not until recently has

induction come to represent the subjective, dynamic process most people

now associate with it.

DEFINITIONS

There is no easy, simply stated definition of analytic induction. Perhaps

because it is rarely practiced and is associated with philosophical, rather

than methodological issues, several definitions have emerged.

Manning stated that “analytical induction is a nonexperimental qualitative

sociological method that employs an exhaustive examination of cases in

order to prove universal, causal generalization” (Manning 1982, p. 280).

Katz suggested:

. . . the fundamentals of analytic induction can be stated

simply. The researcher is committed to form a perfect relation

between data and explanation. When encountering a “negative

case"—evidence contradicting the current explanation--the researcher must transform it into a confirming case by revising

the definition of either the explaining or the explained phenomenon. The researcher is enjoined to seek negative cases and

the resulting opportunity to modify the explanation. (Katz

1983, p. 130)

Strauss claimed that:

. . . induction refers to the actions that lead to discovery of an

hypothesis-that is, having a hunch or an idea, then converting

it into an hypothesis and assessing whether it might provisionally work as at least a partial condition for a type of

event, act, relationship, strategy, etc. (Strauss 1987, pp. 11-12)

Emerson, in probably the clearest summary statement, stated that proponents

of analytic induction:

. . . begin with a rough formulation of the phenomenon to be

explained and an initial hypothesis explaining the phenomenon,

then go to a small number of cases (even a single case) to see

if the hypothesis fits that case. If not, either the hypothesis or

the phenomenon to be explained is reformulated so that the

case is accounted for. The procedure then continues, with the

researcher examining cases and producing reformulations of

45
these sorts whenever negative cases are encountered, until all

cases can be explained. (Emerson 1983, p. 97)

In every definition, the researcher is asked to create generalizations that

apply to all instances of the problem. Unlike multivariate analysis, in

which generalizations apply to most of the cases (statistical significance),

induction requires that all instances of the phenomenon be explained. It is

assumed that any scientifically grounded proposition must be stated as a

universal (Denzin 1970). Necessarily, then, it is critical that every single

case be examined and fit into the developing theory. If not, the theory

must be revised to incorporate even the single negative case. Thus, analytic

induction promises perfect correlations and universal explanations, instead of

probabilistic findings (Katz 1983).

Induction begins with a hypothesis to be tested. Much qualitative research

that passes as induction claims that research should not start with a proposition or hypothesis to test. According to its early proponents, however,

analytic induction requires an originating hypothesis, which can be revised

as data are analyzed, providing induction with an openness that other

methods do not have. “In practice, one does not begin with an hypothesis

and then encounter exceptions one by one. Instead, one begins with multiple hypotheses and is confronted with a mass of hostile evidence” (Katz

1983, p. 132). The strength of the method is its ability to consider many

alternatives and then evolve dynamically as opposing or corroborating

evidence appears.

HISTORY

In the social sciences, most methods textbooks or discussions of epistemology devote little coverage to analytic induction. It is either completely

ignored or briefly addressed before it is discarded in favor of hypotheticodeductive models of reasoning. Justification for an inductive form of

analysis dates back to Hume, and it has held considerable sway in philosophical debates on epistemology for many centuries (Kaplan 1964). It was

not until Florian Znaniecki’s work, however, first in his article, “Social

Research in Criminology” (1928), and later in the more recognized source,

Method of Sociology (1934), that the first systematic statement of analytic

induction in the social sciences appeared. By this time, the sociology

department at the University of Chicago was committed to a study of

human life that emphasized subjective elements either by studying people

in situ, or by closely examining human documents (i.e., diaries, letters,

autobiographies, newspaper files). In line with the research done by

Znaniecki and his collaborator, W.I. Thomas, in their five-volumes The

Polish Peasant in Europe and America and in Thomas’ work, The

Unadjusted Girl (1923), analytic induction sought to correct failures of

46
earlier methods in dealing with subjective, concrete, and experimental

dimensions of personal and group life (Manning 1982).

Others at the University of Chicago debated a case history/human

documents approach vs. a statistical/enumerative approach. In the late

twenties and early thirties, several innovators attempted to combine the

approaches, using case history and personal documents to give life to the

antiseptic statistics they were collecting. In the area of delinquency,

Frederick Thrasher’s (1927) study of delinquent gangs, Clifford Shaw’s

(1930; Shaw 1931; Shaw 1938) series of works on delinquent boys, and

Walter Reckless’ (1929) Six Boys in Trouble used both forms of analysis.

Ernest Burgess, a key figure at Chicago, used both in his study of marriage

(Burgess and Cottrell 1939; Burgess and Locke 1945), although he clearly

preferred the case history. Samuel Stouffer, later to become a proponent of

statistical sociology, asked students to write autobiographies, which he used

in his dissertation. Stouffer found, however, that the analysis of life

histories was a time-consuming task and, in his opinion, did not contribute

much to the statistical sampling he was developing. Given its advantages in

time and energy and the perception that life histories were tedious and

relatively unproductive, the statistical/enumerative method took stronger hold

on American social scientists, while the case history method continued, but

without the force of the twenties (Manning 1982).

From the time Znaniecki’s book appeared in 1934 until the early 1950s,

induction received little attention in the sociological literature on

methodology. The only major study to use this technique was Robert

Cooley Angell’s The Family Encounters the Depression (1936), until three

important, now classic, works appeared: Alfred Lindesmith’s Opiate

Addiction (1947), Donald Cressey’s Other People’s Money (1953), and

Howard Becker’s ‘Becoming a Marijuana User” (1953). At about the same

time, several sociologists began to debate the relative strengths and

weaknesses of induction. Spurred by W.S. Robinson’s (1951) article, “The

Logical Structure of Analytic Induction,” arguments debating the utility and

limitations of this method followed as comments and rejoinders to

Robinson’s propositions (Turner 1953; Lindesmith et al. 1952; Angell and

Turner 1954). Despite their publication in a major sociology journal, not

much came of these debates. Recently, Martin Bulmer (1979) mentioned

induction, Peter Manning (1982) wrote a comprehensive statement on the

subject, and Jack Katz (1982) attempted a revision of induction in his book,

Poor People’s Lawyers in Transition, and, in an amended version, in Robert

Emerson’s Contemporary Field Research (1983). Still, as Katz stated,

“Since Turner’s (1953) review of the handful of studies then recognized as

examples of induction, there has been virtually no explicit discussion of the

method” (Katz 1983, p. 132).

Grounded theory, first proposed in 1967 by Barney Glaser and Anselm

Strauss, claims many similarities with analytical induction; the two are often

47
considered the same. Reacting to overemphasis on statistical measures,

Glaser and Strauss developed a theory of methods that allowed the

researcher to continuously modify propositions as they fit the data. Both

induction and grounded theory use the logic of discovery rather than the

logic of justification, proceed from the data collected to provide a social

theory, and believe in studying people in their natural environments as

much as possible. Differences exist:

Analytic induction seeks to produce a total explanation of the

phenomena observed in a way that responds to the requirements of verification, [w]hereas grounded theory separates the

processes of explanation and verification in theory in order to

pursue the former more intensely. (Emerson 1983, p. 99).

Strauss recently stated:

Many people mistakenly refer to grounded theory as “inductive

theory” in order to contrast it with the theories of Parsons or

Blau. But as we have indicated, all three aspects of inquiry

(induction, deduction, and verification) are absolutely essential.

(Strauss 1987, p. 12)

Thus, grounded theory has been misunderstood and equated with induction,

although grounded theory originally viewed induction as only a subset of a

larger methodological strategy.

The history of induction shows that it has been underused, misunderstood,

confused with other qualitative approaches, and unfavorably compared with

more positivistic, deductive methods. Most sociologists who teach methods

courses incorrectly use the term induction for all forms of qualitative,

naturalistic, and/or participant-observation research. In its original form, the

tenets and suppositions of induction are more rigorous and encompassing

than acknowledged today. In fact, its goals are stricter than those of most

statistical measurements.

STEPS REQUIRED TO PERFORM ANALYTIC INDUCTION

The requirements of analytic induction follow the procedures used by

Cressey (1953).

(1) A rough definition of the phenomenon to be explained is formulated.

(2) A hypothetical explanation of that phenomenon is formulated.

(3) One case is studied in light of the hypothesis, with the object of

determining whether or not the hypothesis fits the facts in that case.

48
(4) If the hypothesis does not fit the facts, either the hypothesis is

reformulated or the phenomenon to be explained is redefined so that

the case is excluded.

(5) Practical certainty may be attained after a small number of cases

have been examined, but the discovery of negative cases disproves

the explanation and requires a reformulation.

(6) The process of examining cases, then redefining and reformulating

hypotheses is continued until a universal relationship is established,

each negative case calling for redefinition or reformulation.

Lindesmith’s (1947) study of opiate addiction illustrates these points.

Lindesmith began with the hypothesis that if an individual did not know

what drug he or she was receiving, he or she would not become addicted.

When Lindesmith found a case in which a doctor received morphine for

several weeks in full cognizance, but remained unaddicted, the initial

hypothesis had to be reformulated. The subsequent hypothesis stated:

Persons become addicts when they recognize or perceive the

significance of withdrawal symptoms which they are experiencing, and if they do not recognize withdrawal distress they

do not become addicts regardless of any other considerations.

(Lindesmith 1947, p. 8)

This reformulation, while more salient than the original, also proved to be

inadequate to explain all cases. More cases appeared in which people

experienced mild withdrawal and understood it to be withdrawal distress,

but did not use the drug to alleviate it and never became addicts. Finally,

Lindesmith’s hypothesis was changed to include people who had knowingly

taken the drug, recognized the withdrawal symptoms as a product of the

drug’s absence, and defined the drug as the means of alleviating the

distress. In this example, each reformulation of the hypothesis was

predicated on the earlier ones, redefining the previous attempts until the

theory fit all of the cases Lindesmith observed. By searching for negative

cases, these procedures offer us a theory that is capable of universal

applicability and an accuracy that even the most sophisticated statistical test

cannot match.

ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES

Many authors have recognized that analytic induction represents a unique

process for testing and generating theory. While it has not yet become a

dominant form of inquiry in the social sciences, it provides many advantages over other approaches.

49
Advantages

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

(5)

A broad advantage is that analytic induction makes it possible to test

theories by juxtaposing one against another, For example, while

attempting to test for the sociological significance of causality, one

might also test other theories from other disciplines that are currently

in vogue.

Analytic induction provides a method by which established theories

can be revised and incorporated into new theories as negative evidence is presented. The refinement of theory from one hypothesis to

the next allows the researcher greater latitude than do deductive

methods.

Since the method emphasizes the negative case, there must be a close

relationship between observation and theory. To find and test all

cases, the researcher must be intimately familiar with case characteristics and conditions or events from which cases can be identified.

While many other methods stress a “double-blind” type of relationship between the researcher and subjects (i.e., the researcher is

deliberately not informed as to whether a subject is considered a

“case” or “not a case”), analytic induction requires that the researcher

be thoroughly immersed in case characteristics and subjects of study,

thus, as Cicourel (1964) would argue, eliminating the potential for

artificial constraints between the researcher and study subjects.

Analytic induction allows the researcher to move from substantive, or

middle-range theories, to formal theories. For example, given the

close attention to negative cases, generalizations can more easily be

made from the substantive area under study to other similar areas

(i.e., from drugs to alcohol or from embezzlers to other kinds of

criminals).

Analytic induction leads to dynamic theories, as opposed to the static

theories generated by most hypothetico-deductive methodology.

Sequencing, temporality, and logical order are typical of a theory of

process rather than a simple cause-effect model. For example,

Cressey discovered a process that one must go through to legitimize

embezzling, a sequence of events that would not have been

discovered otherwise.

Manning has summarized the advantages as follows:

Many of the strengths of qualitative methods characterize

analytic induction as well-they both seek to capture the

nature of the empirical world firsthand, often through the

subject’s perspective, and seek to minimize the significance of

50
preconceived stances toward the world in the form of

previously sanctioned concepts, models, axiomatic approaches,

and hypotheses. (Manning 1982, p. 290)

Disadvantages

Opponents of analytic induction have pointed to several major deficiencies:

(1) Analytic induction is unable to predict. Ralph Turner (1953), in the

most important critique of this method, has argued that induction

does not allow us to know which individuals will engage in a

particular behavior. In assessing both Lindesmith’s and Cressey’s

work, Turner claimed that there is no way to predict who will

become an addict or a trust violator. It is nearly impossible, using

inductive techniques, to establish causality.

(2)

(3)

Analytic induction is too simplistic. By focusing heavily on negative

examples and universals, it eliminates the complexity and gray areas

of human social life. There are no partial answers, there are no degrees, since the theory must fit all cases. Common sense tells of

exceptions to the rules, minor perturbations, and other deviant cases,

which do not necessarily mean that the general theory is not applicable. By speaking in general and probabilistic terms, statistical tests

of significance allow for a greater diversity and plurality of

behaviors.

Analytic induction is a somewhat inefficient method. Like most

qualitative data collection and analysis, the level of involvement and

difficulty and the time required by firsthand immersion in the social

worlds of the subjects are consuming and exhausting. The search for

negative cases and the involvement this requires are incompatible

with a publish or perish society. Analytic induction is not a quick

and easy method; therefore, many people are discouraged from using

it. Despite the relatively few cases usually studied by inductionists,

the time it takes to analyze the data is greater than that needed for

an experiment or survey.

(4) Analytic induction makes generalizations from relatively small

samples. Unlike survey research, in which thousands of cases can be

studied, only a few (i.e., Lindesmith studied 50 to 60 people, Cressey

studied 133, and Becker about 50) are used in inductive analysis.

Those methodologists who are not comfortable with sample sizes of

this order claim that the theories generated are spurious, because

universal statements cannot be based on a small number of cases.

Several features of analytic induction, therefore, make it unattractive to

many. Given the time it takes and the problems associated with any study

5 1
based on a few dozen people, the inability to produce definitive causal

definitions or propositions makes it risky. In a discipline dominated by

positivists who favor close adherence to scientific canons, these risks may

not be worth the effort, since one can expect to encounter more difficulty

publishing this sort of research than more traditional forms.

ANALYTIC INDUCTION TODAY

Despite the paucity of studies that have used analytic induction as it was

originally proposed, most qualitatively oriented social scientists still give lip

service to its primary tenets. As mentioned, it is often used synonymously

with the terms qualitative methodology, grounded theory, symbolic interactionism, ethnography, and participant observation. Since they do not begin

with preconceived notions or hypotheses, many proponents of naturalistic

inquiry err when they claim to use induction as the epistemological underpinning of their research. Nevertheless, although they have stretched the

premises proposed by Znaniecki, Robinson, Cressey, and Lindesmith,

researchers who refer to the new form have much in common with their

ancestors.

As Katz has pointed out, there are few, if any, perfect explanations of

anything.

The test is not whether a final state of perfect explanation has

been achieved but the distance that has been traveled over

negative cases and through consequent qualifications from an

initial state of knowledge. Analytic induction’s quest for

perfect explanation, or “universals,” should be understood as a

strategy for research rather than as an ultimate measure of the

method. (Katz 1983, p. 133)

In other words, if we can borrow some of the rigor of Znaniecki’s

approach, adhering to his doctrine of close attention to personal documents

and naturally occurring events, without being fanatically concerned with all

negative cases and perfect adherence to theory, a more humanistic, reliable,

and valid social science will emerge.

Most teachers of field methods today suggest that their students remain

open and sensitive to members’ perspectives. Rather than recommending

the procedures of orthodox analytic induction, these professors ask their

students to remain open to concepts, before forming any hypotheses. The

researcher is instructed to go out into the field, responsive but without

preconceived notions beyond their own cultural biases and understandings

(Bogdan and Taylor 1975; Hammersley and Atkinson 1983; Lofland and

Lofland 1984; Schatzman and Strauss 1973). This form of “retroduction,” a

more descriptive term than induction, portrays field method epistemology as

a “double-fitting” or alternating shaping of observation and explanation

52
rather than an ex post facto discovery of explanatory ideas (Baldamus

1972). Instead of beginning with a hypothesis or research problem, fieldworkers retroactively develop ideas, concepts, or hypotheses after spending

time in the setting. As researchers are immersed in the setting, they

develop ideas. Insights, hunches, and generative questions come from both

observations and the researcher’s personal experiences and knowledge of the

social world (Douglas 1976). From personal experiences come the ideas

that eventually become hypotheses. Modern-day “retroductionists” have

accepted subjective experiences, biases, personal history, and close involvement with subjects as beneficial to the process of research (Adler and Adler

1987). Theories are generated from these personal involvements and

personal histories, which inform who is studied, how they are studied, and

what is seen. This is probably true of all social scientists, although more

objectivist practitioners may be reluctant to admit it.

Given the subjective nature of the data collected, how is the credibility of

the data assessed? First, it is the very closeness to the data, the intimate

knowledge of the scene, that gives the ethnographer an ability to make

judgments about the people, behavior, and events observed (Bittner 1983).

Second, both Douglas (1976) and Wiseman (1970) have suggested various

forms of “interaction effectiveness,” whereby the researcher’s accounts can

be verified by others trying to pass as members of the group under study.

Third, as Rochford (1985) did in his study of Hare Krishnas, some

researchers take their findings to the members for verification. This “member validation” (Gould et al. 1974) serves as a cheek on the researcher’s

bias. Ultimately, however, given the requirements of this type of research,

in which the researcher attempts to get as close as possible to those studied,

the ultimate assessment comes from the researcher’s conveying accurately

what was observed and allowing the social scientific community to judge

the work on those grounds.

Recently, new forms of ethnography have emphasized the personal and subjective aspects of the research process, placing less emphasis on scientific

constructs or on objective data. Termed “opportunistic research” (Riemer

1977), “auto-ethnography” (Hayano 1979), “systematic introspection” (Ellis

1987), or “post-modem” ethnography (Denzin 1989), all of the new forms

of retroduction emphasize feelings, emotions, personal insights, and

reflective analysis.

What are the requirements for this sort of research? Close personal experience and involvement with the subject population are important. These

guided the work of the early inductionists, and it is no coincidence that

most of their studies were of “hidden populations.” No other methodology

could examine a group that is primarily unknown, with considerable risk

attached to the researcher-researched relationship, small numbers of available

people, and members that are, more often than not, highly suspicious of

outsiders. To do this research, we must approximate, as much as possible,

53
the natural attitude and position of the members. Studies that do not, but

remain distanced from the people being studied, will not yield the dynamic

data characteristic of an inductive analysis. Rich data of this sort, as

Emerson (1983) has argued, are the product of long periods of time in the

setting, a multiplicity of observations and analyses, and many different

procedures. Such data have been subjected to literally thousands of

everyday life tests, as the fieldworker is immersed in the setting.

As I have argued elsewhere (Adler and Adler 1987), the subjective nature

of our methodology should be the primary requirement for doing retroductive analysis. With the help of new social researchers (Douglas 1976;

Johnson 1975; Wax 1971), ethnographers are coming of age and revealing

more than ever before. As Robert Emerson so forcefully and astutely

argued in the introduction to his Contemporary Field Research in 1983,

ethnographers must become more self-conscious for us to grow and learn.

In the last 5 years, many researchers have allowed us to feel, emote, and

reflect with them, giving a deeper and more realistic image of life in the

field. Krieger’s (1985) admission of her lesbianism, Forrest’s (1986)

sensitive analysis of studying psychics, Horowitz’s (1986) experiences with

Chicano gang members, Peshkin’s (1984) abhorrence for the fundamentalists

he studied, and Rochford’s (1985) techniques for studying Hare Krishnas,

are examples of this new self-honesty. If this trend continues, field

research will continue to grow; future ethnographers will be sensitive to

their positions in the field; and fieldwork accounts and natural histories will

reflect the truly subjective research produced. Rather than being

embarrassed by this, we can extol the uniqueness of our social scientific

method and know that, while others pay lip service to objectivity, our

version of objectivity can only come from honestly appraising ourselves.

Long ago, C. Wright Mills implored us to exploit our own biographies, to

reflect upon ourselves, to be better social scientists, stating:

. . . you must learn to use your life experiences in your

intellectual work: continually to examine and interpret it. In

this sense craftsmanship is the center of yourself and you are

personally involved in every intellectual product upon which

you may work. (Mills 1959, p. 196)

CONCLUSION

The ethnographer of the 1980s has begun to attain the goals of the

“sociological imagination” that our colleagues have ignored. We are on the

verge of being creative and imaginative enough to go beyond speaking

merely of data, subjects, and other distant scientific constructs and talk

about the ethnographic voice, the ego of the author, and the way that we

relate to both our audiences and the members of the worlds we study (Van

Maanen 1988; Decker 1985; Clifford and Marcus 1986).

54
Norman Denzin has recently argued that recent trends indicate a new type

of ethnography, a postmodern one. It is a form of ethnography that goes

beyond the scientific method, qualitative data collection and analysis, and

the search for generic principles. Its concern is with experience; the

observer is no longer a passive, objective recorder of experience, but is part

of the experience. Denzin states:

Terms like observer role, role relations, going native, role

disengagement, cultural shock, gaining acceptance, coding,

problem selection, domain of analysis, and data gathering are

no longer operative. These are modernist, positivist,

structuralist concepts. They belie a commitment to the grand

narratives of the past which held that objective truths about

human societies could be written. The postmodernist abandons

this project . . . The texts that are now brought before the

reader are interpreted as accounts of experience, and, as such,

are seen as having the qualities of fiction, native literature,

autobiography, and folklore. These personal experiences and

self stories from and of the field are judged to be meaningful

within the narratives that contain them . . . The ethnographic

experience can no longer be separated from the life of the

author. (Denzin 1989, p. 92)

To reach this new plane, ethnography must become seriously existential.

We must be able to be, feel, sense, hear, and emote with the researchers.

To do anything less would be tantamount to presenting falsehoods. To try

to cover up would only hurt the entire research enterprise. The more

reflexive, existential, and conscious we can be, the more our readers will

learn about, experience, and relate to the worlds we study.

Induction in its present form allows us to call upon our experiences, utilize

our feelings, and be a part of the research instrument while evolving and

formulating theory that is grounded in the experiences of ourselves and the

people we study. By remaining open and flexible, with a close eye and ear

to behavior in natural settings, induction (or retroduction), is the only

epistemology that addresses the subjective nature of human life, while

generating theories that respect the everyday realities of its members.

REFERENCES

Adler, P.A., and Adler, P. Membership Roles in Field Research. Newbury

Park, CA: Sage Publications, Inc., 1987.

Angell, R.C. The Family Encounters the Depression. New York:

Scribner’s, 1936.

Angell, R.C., and Turner, R.H. Comment and reply on discussions of the

analytic induction method. Am Soc Rev 19:476-478, 1954.

55
Baldamus, W. The role of discoveries in social science. In: Shanin, T.,

ed. The Rules of the Game: Cross-Disciplinary Essays on Models in

Scholarly Thought. London: Tavistock, 1972. pp. 276-302.

Becker, H.S. Becoming a marijuana user. Am J Soc 59:235-242, 1953.

Becker, H.S. Writing for Social Scientists. Chicago: University of

Chicago Press, 1985.

Bittner, E. Realism in field research. In: Emerson, R.M., ed.

Contemporary Field Research. Boston: Little, Brown, 1983.

pp. 149-155.

Blumer, H. Symbolic Interactionism. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall,

1969.

Bogdan, R., and Taylor, S. Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods.

New York: Wiley, 1975. 266 pp.

Bulmer, M. Concepts in the analysis of qualitative data: A symposium.

Soc Rev 27:651-677, 1979.

Burgess, E.W., and Cottrell, L.S. Predicting Success or Failure in

Marriage. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1939.

Burgess, E.W., and Locke, H. The Family: From Institution to

Companionship. New York: American Book Co., 1945.

Cicourel, A. Method and Measurement in Sociology. New York: Free

Press, 1964. 247 pp.

Clifford, J., and Marcus, G., eds. Writing Culture. Berkeley, CA:

University of California Press, 1986.

Cressey, D. Other People’s Money. New York: Free Press, 1953.

Denzin, N.K. The Research Act. Chicago: Aldine, 1970. 368 pp.

Denzin, N.K. Review symposium on field methods. J Cont Ethnography,

18:89-100, 1989.

Douglas, J.D. Investigative Social Research. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage,

1976.

Ellis, C.S. Systematic sociological introspection. Paper presented at the

American Sociological Association annual meeting, 1987.

Emerson, R.M., ed. Contemporary Field Research. Boston: Little, Brown,

1983. 335 pp.

Forrest, B. Apprentice-participation: Methodology and the study of

subjective reality. Urban Life 14:431-453, 1986.

Glaser, B., and Strauss, A. The Discovery of Grounded Theory. Chicago:

Aldine, 1967.

Gould, L.; Walker, A.L.; Crane, L.E.; and Lidz, C.W. Connections: Notes

from the Heroin World. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1974.

Hammersley, M., and Atkinson, P. Ethnography: Principles in Practice.

New York: Tavistock, 1983. 273 pp.

Hayano, D.M. Auto-ethnography: Paradigms, problems, and prospects.

Human Org 38:99-104, 1979.

Horowitz, R. Remaining an outsider: Membership as a threat to research

rapport. Urban Life 14:409-430, 1986.

Johnson, J.M. Doing Field Research. New York: Free Press, 1975.

56
Kaplan, A. The Conduct of Inquiry. Scranton, PA: Chandler, 1964.

428 pp.

Katz, J. Poor People’s Lawyers in Transition. New Brunswick, NJ:

Rutgers University Press, 1982.

Katz, J. A theory of qualitative methodology: The social system of

analytic fieldwork. In: Emerson, R.M., ed. Contemporary Field

Research. Boston: Little, Brown, 1983. pp. 127-148.

Krieger, S. Beyond subjectivity: The use of the self in social science.

Qual Soc 8:309-324, 1985.

Lindesmith, A. Opiate Addiction. Bloomington, IN: Principia Press, 1947.

Lindesmith, A.; Weinberg, S.K.; and Robinson, W.S. Two comments and

rejoinder to ‘The Logic of Analytic Induction.’ Am Soc Rev 17:492-494,

1952.

Lofland, J., and Lofland, L.H. Analyzing Social Settings. 2nd ed.

Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1984. 186 pp.

Manning, P.K. Analytic induction. In: Smith, R.B., and Manning, P.K.,

eds. A Handbook of Social Science Methods: Qualitative Methods.

Vol. II. Cambridge, MA: Ballinger, 1982. pp. 273-302.

Mills, C.W. The Sociological Imagination. New York: Oxford University

Press, 1959.

Peshkin, A. Odd man out: The participant observer in an absolutist

setting. Soc Ed 57:254-264, 1984.

Reckless, W.C. Six Boys in Trouble. Ann Arbor, MI: University of

Michigan Press, 1929.

Riemer, J.W. Varieties of opportunistic research. Urban Life 5(4):467-477,

1977.

Robinson, W.S. The logical structure of analytic induction. Am Soc Rev

16:812-818, 1951.

Rochford, E.B. Hare Krishna in America. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers

University Press, 1985.

Schatzman, L., and Strauss, A. Field Research: Strategies for a Natural

Sociology. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1973.

Shaw, C.R. The Jack Roller. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930.

Shaw, C.R. The Natural History of a Delinquent Career. Chicago:

University of Chicago Press, 1931.

Shaw, C.R. Brothers in Crime. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,

1938.

Strauss, A. Qualitative Analysis for Social Scientists. New York:

Cambridge University Press, 1987. 319 pp.

Thomas, W.I. The Unadjusted Girl. Boston: Little, Brown, 1923.

Thomas, W.I., and Znaniecki, F. The Polish Peasant in Europe and

America (5 vols.). Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1918-1920.

Thrasher, F. The Gang. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927.

Turner, R.H. The quest for universals in sociological research. Am Soc

Rev 18:604-611, 1953.

Van Maanen, J. Tales of the Field. Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1988.

57
Vidich, A., and Lyman, S.L. American Sociology. New Haven, CT: Yale

University Press, 1985. 380 pp.

Wax, R.M. Doing Fieldwork. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,

1971.

Wiseman, J.P. Stations of the Lost. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall,

1970.

Znaniecki, F. Social research in criminology. Sociology and Soc Res

12:307-322, 1928.

Znaniecki, F. The Method of Sociology. New York: Farrar and Rinehart,

1934.

AUTHOR

Peter Adler, Ph.D.

Department of Sociology

University of Denver

Denver, Co 80208-0209

58
Computer Analysis of Qualitative

Data

Richard B. Fritz

INTRODUCTION

The advent of the personal computer affords new opportunities to compile

and manage massive quantities of textual data. Given sufficient administrative and secretarial support for word processing, transcription, and file

management, an experienced researcher can now assemble virtually limitless

volumes of field notes, personal observations, indepth interviews, research

reports, letters and formal correspondences, archival documents, organizational records, interdepartmental memoranda, and other communications. In

the past, the task of analyzing and interpreting such mountainous files may

have intimidated even the most seasoned researcher. However, recent developments in text search-and-retrieval programs have lent a much needed

boost to the analysis of large bodies of qualitative data. The researcher

with access to these programs can now explore hundreds or even thousands

of documents within moments.

The purpose of this chapter is to examine some global objectives of qualitative data analysis and to survey several word-search and text-retrieval

programs that can assist in the data analysis process. Although persons

engaging in other forms of qualitative research and data analysis may also

find this presentation useful, the primary focus is on the analytic needs of

the ethnographic researcher.

Ethnography, among other things, provides a powerful means for explaining

and understanding normative structures, belief systems, values, and forms of

social organization. These insights are gained, however, only through

exhaustive effort, great patience, and personal participation in field

situations. As many ethnographers have observed, there is no replacement

for hard work, perseverance, and experience. But all scientific endeavors,

including ethnography, may benefit from technological advances that speed

the research process and expand productive capacities. Most social

scientists are familiar, for example, with recent well-publicized improvements in survey methodologies and computerized statistical programs.

These advances have not necessarily made “quantitative” social scientists

“better” researchers. They have, however, provided new tools to forge a

59
better understanding of social structures, social dynamics, population

parameters, sample estimates, and public opinion. Although there have been

few comparable advancements in the “tools” or technologies exclusively

devoted to ethnographic research, there are still many computer applications

that can lighten the ethnographer’s workload.

Before proceeding further, it should be noted that this chapter does not

intend to catalog all contemporary programs that show promise as aids to

ethnographic analysis. Neither will it detail the specific features of all

useful software packages. Instead, it will review some of the core objectives and strategies of ethnographic analysis and will discuss how the

current generation of text search-and-retrieval programs can help the

ethnographer achieve these objectives.

Rather than rehash formal definitions of ethnography, this chapter will

discuss four basic ethnographic activities that contemporary computer

software packages may enhance or facilitate: exploring topics, developing

ethnographic lexicons, conducting inductive and deductive analysis, and

checking the reliability and validity of qualitative data. If there is an

overarching point to be made, it is this: the selection of research tools

should be guided by analytic needs rather than by rigid attachments to the

traditional “tried and true” methods of the past or, conversely, by fleeting

attractions to technological fads.

EXPLORATION OF TOPICS

One of the more fundamental objectives of qualitative data analysis is to

explore new topics and issue areas. A current concern in the field of drug

abuse research, for example, is the relationship between intravenous drug

user (IVDU) needle-sharing rituals and the spread of the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), the virus that causes the acquired immunodeficicncy

syndrome (AIDS). This single topic touches on numerous related issues

and raises a variety of questions requiring exploration in the field and

during analysis: What are the behavioral and normative components of

needle-sharing rituals? Do IVDUs share their works with friends, with

acquaintances, or with strangers? How many people do they share with and

how often? Do they disinfect their needles and syringes before reusing

them or passing them on to another user, and if so, what are their sterilization procedures? What is the current level of knowledge about AIDS

among IVDUs, and is their information accurate? What are their beliefs or

myths about AIDS prevention programs? What behavioral changes are

IVDUs willing to make to reduce their risk of HIV infection?

Researchers new to the world of intravenous (IV) drug use (or any other

internally coherent social reality for that matter) must adopt an open-minded

exploratory approach to data collection if they hope to understand the

meanings and motives of the groups and individuals under study.

60
Consequently, field exploration of new topics is often a free-wheeling, wideranging, and sometimes even serendipitous process. An off-the-cuff remark

in the street may set off a chain of inquiry that generates new ideas and

opens fresh areas of study. Ethnographic exploration may also take a variety of forms. At different stages of activity, the ethnographer may look for

new ideas to study, investigate new variations on old themes (for example,

the idiosyncracies of different groups using the same drugs), probe the

nuances of well-known behaviors (such as the specific details of needlesharing rituals), or examine changes in familiar field situations. At all

stages of exploration, the ethnographer must remain open and receptive to

new phenomena. An awareness of emergent patterns in the data in turn

often suggests working hypotheses that guide and focus future field

explorations.

The exploration of topics is thus intrinsically tied to the process of data

analysis. Whether sitting at a computer terminal or talking to a “street

source,” the ethnographer is always “working with the data”; that is,

thinking and wondering about meanings, relationships, and explanations. By

continually constructing and testing working hypotheses, the ethnographic

analyst maintains an intimate familiarity with the data, generates new interpretations of field evidence, and plots new directions for further field

exploration. As Schwartz and Jacobs observe, “the judicious combination of

facts with the restless mind of an analyst, suitably fertilized, . . . yields

patterns and problems” that often serve as leads for new areas of inquiry

(Schwartz and Jacobs 1979, p. 291).

Throughout the entire exploration process, then, the ethnographer engages in

activities requiring insight, intellect, interpretive training, and a thorough

grounding in the research scene. But, as most ethnographers readily admit,

the bulk of their time is often spent in routine, laborious data management

tasks. Although it is unfair and misleading to label any part of the research

process as “time lost,” it is nevertheless sometimes frustrating and even

disheartening to return from a stimulating day in the field only to be confronted with mundane tasks of transcribing interviews, organizing and

managing piles of documents, thumbing through volumes of notes and

papers to look for new ideas or confirm old ones, or plowing through reams

of paper to track down that one “perfect quote” to illustrate a key point.

Fortunately, there are a number of widely available software programs that

can make exploring and analyzing computerized ethnographic data easier,

faster, and even more fun. Probably the simplest and most readily available

“computer aids” to qualitative analysis are standard word processing

programs. WordPerfect, Word Star, Microsoft Word, MultiMate, PFS.Write,

and others share a number of basic features that make text management a

much more manageable task. More important, the advanced versions of

many word processors offer basic text search-and-retrieval facilities. Such

capabilities help boost the speed of data exploration and analysis. Although

61
processing and interpreting qualitative data will always require trained

analysts, the ability to instantaneously locate a specific word or “string” of

text accelerates the “mundane” operations that have historically hindered the

more creative aspects of qualitative analysis. Thus, access to an

inexpensive personal computer with basic word processing capabilities can

facilitate the analytic stages even for an ethnographer working alone on

unfunded research.

Despite their efficiency at managing text, word processors have limited

utility as analytic tools. Although they allow the researcher to search for

particular words or strings of words, most do not permit Boolean operators

(for example, “and,” “or,” “near,” or “within”) that make relational searches

possible. Moreover, most also restrict their searches to the single document

that is being processed—a limitation that is extremely problematic and

inhibiting for the researcher with thousands of pages of field notes and

interview transcripts scattered across different directories. In today’s

research office, it is not uncommon for personal computers to sport 20- or

30-megabyte hard disks. Computer manufacturers have recently begun

offering models with hard disks ranging from 50 to 120 megabytes, thus

making it increasingly difficult to locate specific individual bits of data

without software assistance. Yet finding a particular word or locating all

occurrences of a phrase may be exactly what is needed to open up a new

line of inquiry or to finish a paper. Clearly, the researcher desiring to

explore and analyze research topics thoroughly requires a more powerful

program that can reach across documents and files, and can even read from

one subdirectory to another.

A thorough, but relatively slow search-and-retrieval facility is currently

offered by Norton Utilities, a general utilities package. Among other things,

Norton Utilities allows the user to “unerase” documents, optimize disk

space, edit directory information, and search files and directories for

selected text. The search program in Norton Utilities searches through each

sector of a disk and displays highlighted text strings in the context of

surrounding text and in their order of location. The user may request identifying information on the cluster number, sector number, file name, and

directory name for each “found” text string. Norton does not allow the user

to edit text, but it will write text to a new file that can later be loaded into

a word processing program.

Norton Utilities is inexpensive, readily available, and offers several

additional utilities besides the search feature. But those needing speedier

word searches and greater versatility in specifying the criteria for

customized searches, and who can afford the price, should consider

“dedicated” text-retrieval packages.

To date, the best of these appears to be a program called ZyIndex. This

program Literally indexes each content word while ignoring noise words

62
such as “a,” “an,” “the,” and “it.” As do all other “index-based” programs,

ZyIndex “tags” the location of all meaningful words. The most expensive

version of ZyIndex currently costs about $700 but can be networked among

six IBM-compatible personal computers. It will index up to 15,000 files of

approximately 200 pages each. Files may be initially located in different

directories, but copies of the indexed files are stored within ZyIndex’s own

subdirectory after indexing. (This procedure uses extra memory but speeds

the search process). Once indexed, the files are treated as a structured data

base: each word is given an “address” that can be located almost instantaneously. “Found” words are highlighted and shown in context and are

presented in their order of location. The user can cut and paste any designated section of text to a new file that can later be edited on a word

processor. ZyIndex employs Boolean delimiters to specify search criteria,

thus allowing relational searches for word combinations that may be

separated by one or more intervening words.

The main advantage of ZyIndex is speed. Once the indexing procedure is

completed, the search program can literally race through several megabytes

tracking down the desired text. It should be noted, however, that while the

search program is exceptionally fast and comprehensive, the indexing

procedure itself is relatively slow. For example, a test run on an IBM

compatible XT Turbo took 12 minutes to index 18 documents averaging 22

pages each. These same 18 documents took 6 minutes to index on an AT

Turbo model. A researcher-with several hundred files to index might want

to consider catching up on journal articles while waiting for the indexing

program to finish. Once indexed, however, be ready to fly through the

data.

Another fast indexing program is Search Express. This program indexes

files and then lets the user specify search criteria. One appealing feature

allows the user to title and number each file and then employ these

identifiers as “guides” in the search procedure. Thus, for example, one can

instruct the program to “search file 99.” Search Express also has a “zoom

feature”: pressing the F3 function key takes you to a document with a

found word; pressing it again takes you to the relevant paragraph; pressing

F3 a third time takes you to the sentence with the found words. Search

Express is fast, but not as fast as ZyIndex. Its main advantage lies in its

scope of reach; the manufacturers claim that Search Express will index and

read up to 1 million short documents.

There are also a number of nonindex-based text-retrieval programs that offer

a variety of useful features. A program called Gofer, for example, allows

the user to customize search specifications using up to eight Boolean

operators and to specify the scope of the search (within files, subdirectories,

or disks). It also accepts upper and lower case distinctions and can search

alphabetically, by date, or by extension. Another nonindexing program,

Text Collector, is considerably more limited in its ability to customize

63
relational searches but offers a phonetic search capability that tracks down

text even if it is misspelled. Text Collector also searches for wild cards

and will accept hyphenated words. A third nonindex-based program,

Dragnet, allows the user to specify searches for groups of words under a

single rubric. For example, a search for heroin, cocaine, amphetamines,

codeine, and other drugs can be grouped as “drugs.” Dragnet will also

print documents directly without accessing a word processor or DOS.

Dragnet only operates under MicroSoft Windows, however, a restriction that

may limit its applicability.

Another important element of the data exploration process is “browsing”’ an

activity analogous to thumbing through old books or casually perusing one’s

own old field notes and interviews. Browsing may play a significant role

in data analysis at a variety of stages. For example, ethnographers who are

in the early stages of analyzing their data may have only fuzzy images of

broader or more abstract patterns and relationships, especially if they are

still immersed in the concrete realities of the field setting and have not had

time to step back from the data. In such situations, it is beneficial to scan

one’s data at leisure, letting the mind wander from one idea to the next

without imposing any constraints on the creative process. In the later stages

of analysis, on the other hand’ the researcher may want a fresh outlook or

approach to familiar territory. A relaxed, informal hour or two spent

browsing through one’s computer files may in fact educe previously overlooked patterns and connections or rekindle the creative fires.

One software package that seems ideal for browsing is Apple’s HyperCard.

This program stores data on “notecards” that can hold text, numbers,

pictures, or musical scores. HyperCard files are organized into “stacks” of

notecards that can be shifted and sorted according to a user’s needs. An

important feature is HyperCard’s use of “buttons” to link data. Buttons are

user-selected symbols that connect a notecard to all other notecards sharing

the same buttons. The user can assign several such buttons to each

notecard. When selected, a button calls up another notecard bearing the

same symbol.

The key to HyperCard is its ability to jump to related ideas, regardless of

their location within the file structure. Rather than read from front to end,

HyperCard springs to the new notecards with the same button. Since movement between cards is not sequential, the researcher may spot new connections that might be overlooked in a “straight line” search that plods

remorselessly from one file to the next. (Many veteran researchers who

once used McBee cards will readily acknowledge that some of their most

creative insights occurred when “the cards got out of order.”) The fact that

a card may have several buttons, moreover, allows a “browser” to explore

new relationships or search for new connections between superficially

unrelated concepts simply by shifting buttons during the course of a search.

HyperCard thus has great potential as an analytic tool. It does, however,

64
suffer from two noteworthy drawbacks: first, text must be organized

according to the program’s formatting specifications before transcription; and

second, the program is only available for Apple computers.

Another readily available hypertext program is Owl International’s Guide.

Like HyperCard, Guide uses buttons to link data. Unlike HyperCard’s filestack-notecard structure, Guide organizes data into files consisting of a

single document. In fact, one of the drawbacks of the current version of

Guide is that it links data only within a single document. However, Guide

does operate in MS.DOS under Windows, thus making it accessible to PC

users.

Guide’s buttons offer several useful features. For example, the user can

write detailed notes on a passage of text, place them in a separate location,

and link the notes to the original text with a “note button.” The notes are

easily accessed by selecting the button when it is encountered in the text.

Guide also offers a button that links text to references, as well as a

replacement button that substitutes new passages for old text. Although

Guide is somewhat more limited than HyperCard as a browsing tool’ it does

provide an inexpensive means of exploring related ideas within existing

documents.

Contemporary hypertext programs and text-retrieval packages thus come

with a wide variety of features. The speed, convenience, and collective

versatility of these applications makes the topic-exploration process more

productive and even more enjoyable. Researchers who relish the investigative aspects of data analysis often find it easier to spot “clues” to relationships when zipping through highlighted files at their own optimal pace

rather than plowing through stacks of undifferentiated documents. The task

of analyzing large quantities of qualitative data will always take time and

careful attention to detail. But some of the drudgery of analysis can be

reduced if not eliminated by research tools that are readily available to

researchers with limited budgets.

LEXICON DEVELOPMENT

Another important step in the path toward ethnographic understanding of a

sociocultural group is the development of a dictionary or lexicon of meanings. Among the many formal and informal definitions of ethnography,

Giddens’ (1976) observation that it is a process that “mediates frames of

meaning” most directly taps the complex, multifaceted character of the

methodology. Human social realities are subjective and socially constructed.

The meanings shared among contemporaries and across generations are the

products of collective “frames of reference” generated by wmmon experiences and reinforced by language, custom, and beliefs.

65
Ethnography attempts to comprehend and catalog the complex elements of

group culture (including language), unravel the subjective meanings shared

by a collectivity, and reconcile or resolve any seeming discrepancies or

breakdowns that might confuse or befuddle the outside observer (Agar 1982;

Agar 1986). Agar (1982), in fact, goes so far as to argue that the purpose

of ethnography is not to use an insider’s meanings to define subjective

reality to outsiders, nor to explain another culture to outsiders in terms that

comply with their own frame of reference, but rather to employ an

interpretive tradition that mediates the disjunctions between sociocultural

groups and the audience. In effect, messages are meaningless unless the

symbols and codes employed convey the researcher’s meanings to the audience. The researcher’s interpretations, however, must be grounded in the

realities of the research setting, thus requiring an intimate familiarity with

the shared meanings of the group under study.

Some of the fundamental building blocks of shared meanings are often

found in the words and phrases peculiar to the local culture of a group. To

paraphrase Schutz (1970), language is a treasure house of stored meanings

that, when invoked in the routine interactions of everyday life, help an actor

express his acts and intentions and also help the observer make coherent

sense of those acts and intentions.

From Schutz’s perspective, language is used to make generalizations about

the typical motives and activities of others, thus providing a sense of

stability, predictability, and comprehensibility. Words and phrases, the

building blocks of language, embrace traditions and conventions that

transcend the background, schemes, and purposes of any individual actor.

From the observer’s perspective, the words used to express and describe

motives are treated as if they also explain behaviors and intentions. In

effect, one understands the subjective realities of others as long as one has

a universalistic knowledge structure (or linguistic skeleton) on which to

hang one’s perceptions of the typical goals or intentions underlying a

particular act. Interpretations of another’s motives and meanings are thus

shaped, homogenized, and standardized through language. Unique events

are more difficult to comprehend than everyday acts; therefore, language is

employed to routinize the unusual and level the differences between the

ordinary and the extraordinary. For the ethnographer, it is essential to

examine and comprehend the nuances of everyday language, including the

formal expressions of polite discourse and the informal jargon of the street.

In the field of drug abuse research, for instance, it is often important to

know the broad and varied street terms used to identify various drugs or

drug-related activities. The experienced observer knows that “smack” and

“horse” are standard street names for heroin and that “China white,” “tar

baby,” and “Mexican mud” represent different grades of quality. But street

language is fluid and volatile. Drug terminology varies according to time

and place, with users introducing new terms to veil the nature of their

66
activities or simply to use a more graphic and colorful imagery. For

example, in the early 1970s, a group of white Appalachian male IVDUs on

Chicago’s North Side briefly eluded the scrutiny of police informants by

referring to heroin as “chicken feed.” This not only reflected their rural

background (by associating needle tracks with chicken tracks; and heroin as

the feed for the chicken (needle), but also threw listeners off the scent. As

one police informant stated, “Gee, all that talk about chicken feed. I

thought they were talking about their pay checks.”

Needless to say, a dictionary of local meanings often facilitates communication with study populations. There are, in fact, a number of ways in

which current computer software programs can aid in the development of an

ethnographic lexicon. The simplest procedure would be to write a customized glossary and/or thesaurus straight into a standard word processing

file. This strategy suffers from a number of limitations, chief among them

being that the user would be forced to start the dictionary from scratch and

thus replicate much of the effort that went into the creation of readily

available general-purpose dictionaries. Another strategy is to build on the

thesaurus subprograms offered by standard word processing programs.

Those who feel comfortable with reprogramming the basic features of their

word processor or who have access to a competent computer programmer

can add a supplementary thesaurus and dictionary to their word processing

program. This procedure might be beyond the expertise of the average user

and may exceed the memory capacity of the typical word processing

program.

A more parsimonious approach to lexicon development is to take advantage

of the thesaurus subprograms available as optional features with text searchand-retrieval programs. ZyIndex, for example, offers an optional package

called ZyFeatures that includes, among other things, a thesaurus capability.

ZyFeature’s thesaurus is ideal for developing an ethnographic lexicon,

because it allows the user to enter new words and then build sets of

synonyms. Thus, the user could establish the general category “drugs” and

then enter specific related meanings such as heroin, speed, coke, uppers,

downers, and so on. Or the user could enter a more particularistic category, such as “heroin,” and include slang equivalencies such as “horse,”

“smack,” “H,” “mud,” and “tar.” The researcher is thus able to build a

customized thesaurus that may in turn be used in text searches. Searches

themselves may be customized, with the user specifying a search that calls

up all instances of the word “drugs” as well as all of the synonyms specified in the thesaurus. These word searches can of course take advantage of

the other standard search capabilities, such as Boolean operators and

multiple file searches. But more to the point, the analyst can use the speed

and flexibility of this computer “tool” to chart the linguistic structure and

track the meanings of key words and concepts of a soicocultural group.

67
INDUCTIVE AND DEDUCTIVE RESEARCH

One of the strengths of ethnographic training is that it discourages the

tendency to prejudge sensitive issues and instead encourages ethnographic

researchers to approach wmplex, multifaceted topics such as the

AIDS/IVDU nexus with an open, inquiring mind. As Schwartz and Jacobs

point out, the job of the ethnographer is to “make a set of integrated

observations on a given topic and place them in an analytic framework”

(Schwartz and Jacobs 1979, p. 289). There are, of course, different

research philosophies and methodological preferences that influence the

ethnographer’s orientation toward the development of theories and the

utilization of analytic schemes.

Ethnographers who feel at home with the deductive, a priori approach that

remains predominant within the social sciences often prefer a structured

program of theory construction and hypothesis testing. The tendency within

this school of thought is to generate a prefabricated “analytic framework,”

the validity of which is tested, and subsequently supported or refuted,

through empirical observation and objective analysis. Kerlinger (1973)

describes logico-deductive hypothesis construction and the advantages that

derive from it as follows:

After intellectualizing a problem, after turning back on experience

for possible solutions, after observing relevant phenomena, the

scientist may formulate a hypothesis. A hypothesis is a conjectural

statement, a tentative proposition, about the relation between two or

more phenomena or variables. Our scientist will say, “If such-andsuch occurs, then so-and-so results.” [The next step involves the

activities of reasoning and deduction] . . . The scientist now deduces

the consequences of the hypothesis he has formulated . . . Here is

where experience, knowledge, and perspicuity are important. Often

the scientist, when deducing the consequences of a hypothesis he

has formulated, will arrive at a problem quite different from the one

he started with. On the other hand, he may find that his deductions

lead him to believe that the problem cannot be solved with the

present technical tools. [Thus], reasoning can help lead to wider,

more basic, and thus more significant problems, as well as provide

operational (testable) implications of the original hypothesis

(Kerlinger 1973, pp. 12-13).

From this perspective, the deductive process does, in fact, rely on prior

knowledge and past experiences as a basis for proposing explanations and

predictions of probable relationships. Despite its rootedness in the past,

deduction remains primarily a future-oriented undertaking. Propositions are

made and then rejected or not rejected on the basis of the “goodness of fit”

between the observed and expected results. Deductive research thus operates within a fairly rigid, well-defined system of rules and procedures that

68
channel and constrain data collection activities, theory construction, and data

analysis.

A growing number of contemporary ethnographers prefer a more freewheeling inductive approach to data collection and analysis. For them,

hypotheses, theories, facts, and findings emerge from the data. An “analytic

framework” is not imposed as a preconceived model but is instead treated

either as a way station in the path to understanding or as an outcome of the

research itself. Within this a posteriori orientation, naturalistic observations

are “integrated” into a fluid, everchanging “analytic description of the

behaviors that characterize and distinguish cultures or sociocultural groups .

. . and the knowledge and beliefs that generate and interpret those

behaviors” (Walters 1980, p. 17).

In effect, the inductive approach treats data as a catalyst for generating

theories that summarize and explain the normative structures, collective

belief systems, and shared social realities of unfamiliar groups. This

“discovery of theory from data,” according to Glaser and Strauss (1967),

results in grounded theories. Such data-based theories ate verifiable in that

their conceptual components may be dismantled and tested through further

observation. More important, the very fact that such theories arise from the

data increases the likelihood that they will present crisp, accurate portrayals

of social reality. Their intimate linkage to the data moreover ensures that

grounded theories are open to modification and reformulation. A good

theory, from the inductive perspective, is one that fits the facts; a better

theory is one that has been reshaped to more accurately describe those facts

and revised to more clearly articulate the subjective, elusive nature of social

reality.

Although many researchers tend to subscribe to either inductive or deductive

strategies exclusively, each approach has its own strengths and weaknesses.

Deductive research, for example, lends itself to the specification of causal

relationships and formal hypothesis testing, especially in controlled settings.

Most ethnographic research, however, is conducted in “real life” situations

that minimize the researcher’s control and cloud the nature of causality.

Viewed in the context of its a priori nature, deductive methodology tends to

force blinders on the analyst: by defining the social world in terms of a

favored hypothesis and its plausible competitors, the researcher limits the

scope of inquiry and focuses attention on a narrow range of possibilities.

Inductive research, on the other hand, is generally more broadminded, wideranging, and a posteriori in its outlook. Consequently, it benefits from the

advantages of open-minded hindsight: self-correction and adaptability. The

inductive approach is therefore remarkably effective in the detection and

identification of social patterns (Walters 1980), especially in cases where

those patterns contradict the rational predictions of logiw-deductive

reasoning. The method of natural observation that is so closely linked with

69
this style of research clearly operates most effectively in those real life

situations that thwart and frustrate the efforts of the deductive, a priori

researcher.

Strauss (1987), in fact, argues that three elements of scientific inquiry—

induction, deduction, and verification-are mutually interdependent and

vitally essential to the research process. According to Strauss:

deduction without verification . . . of an hypothesis or set of

hypotheses is truncated inquiry. Obviously, too, verification cannot

occur without deduction: Hypotheses for data collection without

reference to implications of theoretical hypotheses are useless. And

how can there be hypotheses without either thinking through the

implications of data or through “data in the head” . . . that

eventuates in so-called hunches, insights, and very provisional

formulations of hypotheses? (Strauss 1987, p. 12).

In short, ethnographic inquiry, as with all forms of qualitative research, is

most likely to contribute to our knowledge of social phenomena when it

incorporates informed inductions and deductions that are verifiable through

rigorous scientific observation and analysis.

The purpose of this chapter is not to debate the relative merits of inductive

and deductive strategies, nor even to argue for a marriage of these divergent

approaches (although that would be the author’s preference), but rather to

explore the advantages offered the ethnographic researcher by computerized

text-management programs. As in the earlier discussion of topic exploration, there are programs that lend themselves more to one form of analysis

than another. However, such distinctions often prove artificial. An analytic

aid such as a text-retrieval program may alternately function as “deductive

tool” or an “inductive device” depending on the stage of analysis and the

researcher’s personal research style.

Ethnographers conducting deductive research should consider using

HyperCard’s button system as an instrument for verifying observations

and/or testing hypotheses. In effect, HyperCard buttons serve as a precoding scheme. As a result, the researcher is all but forced to prestructure the

data and thus engage in a rudimentary form of preanalysis. Quite simply,

in order to code or button a passage on a notecard the ethnographer must

first have some preconceived notion of a classification scheme that places

concepts into appropriate categories. Buttons are thus, in some ways,

analogous to anticipatory analytic categories.

Accordingly, the analyst can perform preliminary tests for conceptual

linkages simply by following a particular button selection path in

HyperCard. When testing a hypothesis or examining a relationship derived

by deduction, this procedure can provide a means for tracking evidence to

70
support or refute propositions. For example, if field observations suggest

the proposition that heroin addicts often use alcohol to maintain their high,

one would expect notecards buttoned for heroin-related data to consistently

show linkages to mentions of alcohol, beer, wine, and drinks.

For the rare ethnographer who wishes to extract numerical findings from

qualitative data sets, hypertext and text-retrieval programs also provide a

means for quantification, albeit at a rudimentary level. For example,

ZyIndex counts the frequency of every indexed word within a document,

thus supplying a rough data base for content analysis. Moreover, the

researcher can count the number of times a word, event, or phenomenon

appears in conjunction with another concept, thereby producing a crude but

nonetheless potentially useful cross-classification of categorical data. These

simple operations can be performed either by using relational searches in

text-retrieval packages or button links in hypertext programs. Although

some ethnographers may be disinclined to look for quantification in their

data, an occasional descriptive table may, in fact, present a richer, more

global picture of the social realities under study.

A relatively new software package that promises to serve as an inexpensive

but powerful research tool is The Ethnograph. As its name implies, this

program was developed explicitly for ethnographic analysis. The Ethnograph offers the ability to code and number every line of text in a document and then to search and retrieve text according to line numbers and

coding categories. Although the program accepts text from most standard

word processors (for example, Wordstar or WordPerfect), it also requires

some simple preliminary reformatting.

Briefly, The Ethnograph permits only 40 columns of data per line; the

remaining columns are reserved for codes, user identifications, and line

numbers. The researcher can create and use an unlimited number of codes

per document, but no more than eight codes per line. Actual codes must

be 10 letters or less, a restriction that occasionally proves somewhat

limiting. The Ethnograph allows up to 9,999 lines per transcript and will

conduct relational searches using up to 8 Boolean operators. Unlike other

text search-and-retrieval packages, The Ethnograph does not conduct its

searches within the main body of text but instead searches through the

codes in the margins. The program will sort by document, extension, or

subdirectory and will search through as many documents as exist in The

Ethnograph format. It also offers a global search-and-replace feature for

codes but will not alter text. Once a transcript has been completed, The

Ethnograph will print out code lists, count the number of times each code

was used, and the number of times each speaker “spoke.” It will also write

selected output to disk where it can be edited and printed.

Although The Ethnograph can be used for preliminary data exploration or

browsing, its real power is as an analytic tool. For one thing, The

71
Ethnograph’s search procedures compel the analyst to grapple with classifications and meanings even before engaging in activities that might

formally be described as inductive analysis. In effect, The Ethnograph’s

code search, in contrast to the text searches of indexing programs, requires

not only an intimate familiarity with the data but also a good deal of

a priori classification that is more frequently associated with deductive

research. Once the analyst has completed coding, the program is extremely

helpful in conducting the free-flowing, data-based a posteriori analysis

associated with induction. Global search-and-replace functions allow the

researcher to change codes during the course of analysis, thus moderating

some of the rigidity of a priori classification and supplying the flexibility to

revise and update the elements of analysis. Furthermore, the fact that code

searches take place among conceptual categories constructed by the

researcher means that the analytic process will always be grounded in the

researcher’s own emergent understanding of the data, facilitating an optimal

linkage between theory and data at each stage of analysis.

The Ethnograph thus offers a variety of features that blur the distinctions

between inductive and deductive research but, nevertheless, speed and

simplify all facets of the ethnographic enterprise. Other programs that are

considerably more circumscribed in their scope as analytic tools may also

offer a great deal of utility within their sphere of applicability.

For example, dedicated text search-and-retrieval programs such as ZyIndex

and Search Express are extremely useful in conducting general inductive

research. For one thing, these programs do not involve the initial data

preparation required by The Ethnograph, thus reducing some of the time

demands that frequently plague the ethnographer’s schedule. For another,

they provide complete freedom in the text-search process. This can be

extremely important for researchers who have reached a dead end using

their own coding schemes and want a fresh start with the data. At an even

more fundamental level, not all researchers will have access to multiple

software packages and must therefore make use of the programs at hand.

For those who have them, text-retrieval programs provide an excellent

analytic tool for inductive research. Their speed and flexibility allow the

researcher to identify and trace linkages between concepts quickly and to

cultivate a broader perspective that is so often conducive to theory

construction.

Another advantage of computer-assisted qualitative research is that it

provides an opportunity to examine and understand the context surrounding

the issues and events under investigation. For lack of an existing term, this

subset of inductive research can be called “contextual analysis.”

The social context surrounding a phenomenon or event is important, because

it reflects and articulates the exogenous factors influencing social realities,

human behaviors, and collective actions. Analysis of the social context may

72
sometimes provide meaningful and helpful insights into those factors that

shape and define the external reality within which human actors act. For

example, preliminary data on IVDUs’ attitudes toward AIDS may indicate a

variety of social contexts operating in different groups. Briefly, some

IVDU social networks may appear to react with complete denial, others

might respond with fear, some with mistrust of public health authorities,

while others may show indifference and apathy. Clearly, these responses to

the epidemic would, in and of themselves, be regarded as important findings. But, for the individual living and acting within the world of the

IVDU, a social context of denial may encourage different behavioral

responses and risk-reduction decisions than one of generalized fear or one

of apathy. In turn, these social contexts have implications for public health

intervention efforts. Public health agencies confronted with IVDUs who

continue to share unsterilized needles because of generalized denial of their

infectability must consider different intervention strategies from agencies that

are flooded with requests for help from IVDUs coming from a social

context of fear and anxiety.

Once again, text retrieval programs such as ZyIndex and Gofer offer the

capability to analyze large bodies of data in relatively short periods of time.

ZyIndex, for example, displays “found” words within the context of the surrounding page. Since the found word is highlighted, it is a simple matter

to scan the adjacent lines for their content. Recurring patterns, if they

exist, frequently become readily apparent. For instance, patterns of fear,

denial, and apathy emerged during a ZyIndex search through interviews with

IVDUs in three different cities. It quickly became apparent that each group

manifested a distinctive collective reaction to the threat of AIDS: within

one group, members spoke of fears and anxieties generated by the death of

friends and acquaintances; in another group, members claimed immunity to

AIDS. These findings do not constitute a relationship or association in the

statistical sense. In other words, there is no apparent correlation between

the category of “watching a friend die from AIDS” and “fear of AIDS,” although such an association may in fact exist. Instead, they suggest

variations in the general climate pervading different groups.

In the above example, computer analysis of social contexts indicated that,

although each group may internally experience multiple emotional reactions

to the AIDS epidemic, there is a tendency toward a predominant collective

response such as fear or denial. The immediate social environment of a

group exerts its own subtle influences on the perceptions and actions of the

individual actor. In later stages of analysis, a working knowledge of social

contexts and variations between groups may help to explain differences in

behavioral responses to AIDS (for example, why one group cleans its works

with bleach, while another continues to share unsterilized needles among its

members).

73
The point here is that, although this type of analysis may be conducted with

or without the aid of computers, rapid text-search software facilitates the

analytic process. At minimum, the speed of computer text searches allows

the inductive researcher to reach into data and quickly extract the data being

sought. More important, the speed of the search process may itself act as a

catalyst to conceptualization. Just as the motion picture presents a different

and in some ways richer and more comprehensive view of the world than

the still photograph, the rapid motion and flow of computer-assisted

qualitative analysis may reveal a gestalt pattern that is not visible at a

slower pace.

RELIABILITY AND VALIDITY

In any research study, the analyst eventually runs into the thorny issues of

reliability and validity. At the simplest level, reliability deals with questions

of consistency, stability, and accuracy of measurement, while validity refers

to whether or not the researcher is actually measuring the property

purportedly being measured.

An ongoing awareness of the need for reliability and validity checks is

important to the research process for several reasons. It raises tough but

necessary questions about the quality and accuracy of one’s data collection

instruments and measurement techniques. It also focuses attention on the

quality and dependability of the data itself. Moreover, it forces the

researcher to grapple with the meanings and the measurability of the

concepts under study.

Kerlinger (1973) argues that reliability is characterized by three properties:

consistency, accuracy, and degree of error. Briefly, the consistency

component answers the question: Will repeated measures with the same

instrument consistently get the same results? Accuracy refers to whether or

not the measuring instrument calibrates the true underlying units of the

phenomenon or property being studied. The third component, error of

measurement, addresses the question: Does the measurement instrument

itself contain flaws that generate random errors? (Or more precisely, given

the imperfect nature of all measurement instruments, how much error does a

given instrument produce?)

Validity, on the other hand, deals with the question: Are we measuring

what we think we are measuring? (Kerlinger 1973). The three types of validity in Kerlinger’s scheme are content validity, criterion-related validity,

and construct validity. Content validity refers to “the representativeness or

sampling adequacy of the content-the substance, the matter, the topics—of

a measuring instrument” (Kerlinger 1973, p. 458). Criterion-related validity

is determined by comparing one’s own results with external measures or

criteria presumed to measure the attribute under study. Construct validity is

74
a somewhat elusive idea: Has the researcher adequately identified, defined,

and isolated the property, attribute, or concept that is being measured?

The focus of construct validity is on the concept rather than on the

measurement instrument. To use a physical example, the concept of

velocity (or speed) can be understood independent of the measuring devices

(speedometers) employed to measure and express the concept. The concept

“miles per hour” is easiest to visualize in terms of a dashboard speedometer.

But “miles per hour” can be measured without ever referring to a speedometer simply by clocking passage over a known distance with a stopwatch.

The core concept or construct remains the same even though the measurement instrument varies. (This procedure would also help establish criterion

validity.) The central question remains, Have we actually tapped the concept of velocity? If velocity means the rate of travel (distance traversed per

unit of time), then the central construct has been tapped.

Historically, the preponderance of theoretical and methodological concern

with reliability and validity issues has been generated by quantitative

researchers, especially in the areas of psychology, physics, chemistry, and

biology. In a recent monograph, Kirk and Miller (1986) address the issues

of reliability and validity specifically in relation to qualitative research.

The point of conducting qualitative social research, to loosely paraphrase

Kirk and Miller’s argument, is to accumulate knowledge about people by

“watching [them] in their own territory and interacting with them in their

own language” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 9), and to acquire and present

these observations in an “objectively” verifiable manner. The search for

objectivity, in their view, is an important element of all scientific inquiry

(including qualitative studies), because it eschews biased viewpoints, including doctrines claiming a belief in or a monopoly on a “final, absolute

truth,” and instead encourages the rigor, determination, and discipline to

perceive the social realities operating in the external world. Objectivity

represents “taking an intellectual risk-the risk of being demonstrably

wrong” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 10), but it also means that false

assumptions, inaccurate observations, and flawed theories will be ultimately

exposed and eventually discarded rather than retained as erroneous and

misleading “truths.”

Qualitative research that maintains the rigorous standards of objective

inquiry is thus just as valid and scientific as any other form of research.

Qualitative research tools and methods may include informal questions and

field observations instead of calibrated instruments and controlled laboratory

experiments, but the findings and conclusions of qualitative studies are open

to the same scrutiny and subject to the same objective standards of all

sciences. Consequently, Kirk and Miller argue that objectivity plays a

fundamental role in the qualitative scientific research process.

75
Objectivity, according to Kirk and Miller, can itself be partitioned into two

components: reliability and validity. These concepts in turn reflect the

qualitative researcher’s need and obligation to control and ensure the quality

of one’s data collection instruments and measurement procedures and to

firmly understand the meaning of one’s theoretical constructs (Kirk and

Miller 1986). Kirk and Miller argue that the reliability of qualitative data

depends primarily on the researcher’s methods. Consequently, there are as

many forms of reliability as there are methods or research approaches.

Kirk and Miller, however, discuss three basic forms: quixotic, diachronic,

and synchronic.

Quixotic reliability occurs when “a single method of observation continually

yields an unvarying measurement” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 41). The

unvarying measurement may, of course, be reliable or unreliable, depending

on the nature of the method. For example, asking IVDUs the question,

“How often do you inject drugs?” could reliably (consistently) elicit the

highly inaccurate and erroneous answer “Never.” Diachronic (or temporal)

reliability refers to “the stability of an observation through time” (Kirk and

Miller 1986, p. 42). The observation that IVDUs reduce the number of

needle-sharing partners after hearing about AIDS would be diachronically

reliable if the same observations are made over a period of several months.

Synchronic or concurrent reliability reflects the “similarity of observations

within the same time period” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 42). This concept

is especially useful when there are two or more observers measuring similar

events or phenomena, or when the same observer is employing two or more

different research methods. For example, the observation that IVDUs start

to clean their works more frequently after hearing about the threat of AIDS

would be considered synchronically reliable, or at least more reliable, if

independently made by two ethnographers. Similarly, a single researcher

who obtains the same results using questionnaires, unstructured interviews,

and field observations could reliably conclude that the data are

synchronically reliable.

Validity, according to Kirk and Miller is “the degree to which a finding is

interpreted in a correct way” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 20). The emphasis

here is on the researcher’s perception and comprehension of the concepts

underlying the data, rather than on the substantive properties of the data

itself. Kirk and Miller distinguish between three types of validity:

apparent, instrumental, and theoretical.

Apparent validity or face validity represents an obvious linkage between a

measuring instrument and the phenomenon under observation, for example,

when an observer presumes that track marks on a subject’s arms indicate a

history of IV drug use. Instrumental validity or criterion validity occurs

when “the observations match those generated by an alternative procedure

that is itself accepted as valid” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 22). For instance,

track marks may be regarded as a valid indicator of IV drug abuse if an

76
independently administered known instrument, such as urinalysis, produces

the same results. Finally, theoretical validity or construct validity exists if

there is “substantial evidence that the theoretical paradigm rightly corresponds to the observations” (Kirk and Miller 1986, p. 22). For example, the

theoretical construct “drug-induced psychosis” gains validity or may be

represented as valid if its component elements (psychotomimetic episodes

occurring within a specified period after the ingestion of certain drugs)

conform with empirical observations.

Despite their abstract and elusive qualities, validity and reliability are

extremely important to the practicing researcher. Reliable data are accurate,

consistent, and dependable. Valid data are comprehensible, comparable to

data compiled through other known measures, and representative of the properties being measured. Given the time-consuming and sometimes tedious

nature of the ethnographic data collection process, it could prove extremely

frustrating to end up with data that are worthless or unreliable because they

represent measures of the wrong concept. It would be similarly disheartening to waste one’s efforts generating data that are invalid or impaired

because they fail to tap, exemplify, or substantiate a central theoretical

construct. To avoid these frustrations, it behooves the ethnographer to

(1) continually check the appropriateness and accuracy of data collection

techniques, procedures, and instruments; and (2) constantly reassess notions

of the meanings and representative characteristics or properties of central

theoretical constructs.

Although it would be impossible to review every means of checking for

reliability and validity, there are nevertheless several central operations that

warrant discussion. For example, an important data-cleaning function is to

isolate and account for the effects of leading questions, confusing or poorly

worded questions, inconsistent questioning procedures, or glaring stylistic

differences among interviewers’ techniques. Such improprieties might bias

or contaminate answers and thus impair the reliability of one’s data.

Similarly, it is often important to examine interview passages containing

references to key theoretical constructs to determine what correspondence, if

any, exists between those constructs and the world of observable reality.

This procedure provides a means of checking the validity of the conceptual

framework the researcher has elicited from or imposed on the data.

For the individual ethnographer working alone, or even for the small

ethnographic research team, the process of checking the validity and

reliability of qualitative data undoubtedly presents a monumental and

foreboding task. Yet computerized text management programs can greatly

accelerate many of the steps involved in checking data, instruments, and

procedures. In fact, any of the several text-retrieval and hypertext programs

previously discussed would at minimum help the analyst skim through

fieldnotes and interview transcripts looking for sources of unreliability and

threats to validity.

77
When checking the quality of data, the ethnographic researcher may once

again want to consider using text-retrieval programs such as ZyIndex,

Search Express, or Gofer as a tool for establishing reliability and validity,

or conversely, uncovering unreliability and invalidity. These programs can

help search the text for evidence of factors that might impair the reliability

and jeopardize the validity of qualitative data. For instance, are the questions being asked consistently measuring the thing purportedly being

measured? Are the same questions eliciting the same answers time after

time? Are those answers accurate reports of real events and activities, or

do they represent lip service to the researcher’s expectations? Do different

researchers get similar answers to the same questions time after time? By

specifying appropriate search combinations, the analyst may exploit the

speed and flexibility of text-retrieval programs to quickly reveal inconsistencies between answers; expose methodological errors, such as vague or

leading questions, that may bias responses; and uncover patterned response

sets in which the respondent gives the preferred answer rather than the real

one.

An ideal program for checking the validity of coding schemes and

theoretical constructs is The Ethnograph. By summoning up the codes

presumed to tap or represent key theoretical constructs, the ethnographer

may begin to examine their degree of correspondence to the data in the

text. A simple (albeit time-consuming) procedure for cross-checking the

reliability and validity of analytic codes would be to have a second analyst

generate independent codes for interview transcripts or other documents and

then compare the degree of correspondence between coding schemes. Since

specific codes may be nested in broader or more abstract concepts, the

researcher may also engage in conceptual analysis at a variety of levels.

For example, the concept of “denial” in a study of IVDU attitudes towards

AIDS may include components of “unrealism,” “misinformation,” and

“macho self-concept,” each of which may be coded as an independent

subcategory of the more general concept. Nested codes thus share a good

deal of commonality. By conducting a continuing and intensive

comparative analysis of the relationships among analytic codes and between

analytic codes and the data, the researcher may make use of The

Ethnograph’s search facilities as a tool for tapping this commonality and

testing the validity of constructs, data, and measurement instruments.

CONCLUSION

For the ethnographer who already employs the computer to store and manage qualitative data, contemporary text-retrieval and hypertext programs

provide a much-needed additional tool that can be invaluable in the data

analysis process. Several text-retrieval programs have the ability to race

through innumerable files looking for specific words or character strings.

Others enable the researcher to browse through diverse files, exploring

linkages between seemingly unconnected elements, In either case, the end

78
result is a heightened capacity to probe questions, make connections,

generate and test working hypotheses, and follow the flow of ideas in an

organized, firmly grounded manner. These technological developments are

an important resource that can help lighten the often overwhelming workload of the dedicated researcher.

REFERENCES

Agar, M. Toward an ethnographic language. Am Anthropol 84:779-795,

1982.

Agar, M. Speaking of Ethnography. Beverly Hills: Sage Publications,

1986. 78 pp.

Giddens, A. New Rules of Sociological Method. New York: Basic Hooks,

1976.

Glaser, B., and Strauss, A. The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies

for Qualitative Research. Chicago: Aldine Publishing, 1967. 271 pp.

Kerlinger, F. Foundations of Behavioral Research. 2nd ed. New York:

Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1973. 741 pp.

Kirk, J., and Miller, M. Reliability and Validity in Qualitative Research.

Beverly Hills: Sage Publications, 1986. 87 pp.

Schwartz, H., and Jacobs, J. Qualitative Sociology: A Method to the

Madness. New York: The Free Press, 1979. 458 pp.

Schutz, A. On Phenomenology and Social Relations. Chicago: University

of Chicago Press, 1970.

Strauss, A. Qualitative Analysis for Social Science. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1987. 319 pp.

Walters, J. What is ethnography? In: Akins, C., and Beschner, G., eds.

Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policymakers in the Drug & Alcohol

Fields. National Institute on Drug Abuse Monograph. DHHS Pub. No.

(ADM)80-946. Washington, DC: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off.,

1980. pp. 15-20.

AUTHOR

Richard B. Fritz, Ph.D.

Research Director

Comprehensive AIDS Prevention and

Education Program

Chicago Department of Health

Daley Center

50 W. Washington Street

Chicago, IL 60602

79
Ethnographic Field Stations

Paul J. Goldstein, Barry J. Spuny, Thomas Miller, and

Patricia Bellucci

INTRODUCTION

Varieties of field reseanch exist on a continuum of styles of observation.

At one end of the continuum is total participant observation, in which the

researcher takes on the attitudes, behaviors, norms, and values of a studied

population. Such researchers live the lives of their subjects. At the other

end of the observational continuum is the researcher who remains completely separate from the studied population. These researchers observe from

afar. For example, Cohen (1980) reported studying street prostitution in

New York City by sitting in his parked car night after night and observing

how prostitutes went about their business.

Somewhere toward the middle of this continuum of observational styles lies

the ethnographic field station. This chapter will describe the nature, functions, strengths, and weaknesses of this particular style of field research.

The experiences to be discussed come from three research projects that utilized four different ethnographic field stations to collect data about drug

users. The Economic Behavior of Street Opiate Users project used three

different field sites in the East Harlem area of New York City between

1978 and 1982. The Drug Related Involvement in Violent Episodes

(DRIVE) project and the Female Drug Related Involvement in Violent

Episodes (FEMDRIVE) project both operated out of the same field site on

the Lower East Side of Manhattan between 1984 and 1987. Either directly

or indirectly, all the authors were influenced by Ed Preble (1980a; 1980b)

in their approach to field work.

WHAT IS AN ETHNOGRAPHIC FIELD STATION?

Ethnographic field stations may be described both in terms of their function

and in terms of their appearance. Functionally, an ethnographic field station

is a research “outpost” in a community of interest to the researchers. It is

a place where data are collected. It serves as a base of operations for the

research staff, providing an environment in which research subjects and

research staff may interact over an extended period of time.

80
In appearance, field sites may look quite different. The three that were

used for the Economic Behavior study were all storefronts on tenement

blocks. The first was on 95th Street between First and Second Avenues.

The second was on 105th Street between First and Second Avenues. The

third was on 117th Street between Second and Third Avenues.

The block that housed the 95th Street storefront has since become an object

lesson in the rapidity of change in New York City. This block has been

absorbed by the expansion of the fashionable Upper East Side. Abandoned

buildings and tenements have been renovated into high-priced condos. A

sidewalk cafe now flourishes where drug dealers used to cluster on the

stoops of abandoned buildings.

The 105th Street location was one of the most active blocks for drug sellers

in East Harlem at the time of our research. It contained both occupied and

abandoned tenement buildings. Directly across the street from our storefront was an abandoned school building guarded by monstrously beautiful

gargoyles. The copper roof of the school had been stripped all around the

upstairs windows by heroin users seeking the copper for resale. One person

leaned too far out of one of the windows and fell to his death in the courtyard below. Though not as dangerous as copper collecting, data collecting

in the 105th Street site was rather difficult.

Plaster fell from the ceiling. The toilet would not flush, and

there was seldom any heat in winter. Recording data was a

problem because of the cold. If the interviewer sat without

gloves for any length of time, his hands would be too numb to

hold a pen or pencil. The alternative was wearing gloves,

which made it difficult to write. Completed interview schedules

often bordered on the illegible. Interviewers finally developed a

system of taking off their gloves, recording interview data for

about 5 minutes, rubbing their hands vigorously and perhaps

putting gloves back on for a minute or two while chatting with

subjects, and then returning to the formal interview. Between

interviews they would walk around outside, if there was any

sun, to warm up a bit. (Johnson et al. 1985, p. 204)

The third storefront, a former bodega on 117th Street, was owned by a

plumbing contractor, which boded well for heat in the winter. This site

was much larger than our previous ones, had two working toilets, and was

well lit. In fact, our major environmental problem was the 5-year-old who

lived directly above the site. He and his friends enjoyed playing in their

bathtub and would frequently let the tub overflow until the water gushed

through the ceiling.

Research staff maintained a congenial atmosphere in the 117th Street

storefront. Coffee was available to all. Subjects often brought their

81
children with them, and at least one baby took her first steps there.

Neighborhood residents, some of whom were former subjects, used the field

site as a place to stop in, sit, have a cool drink or snack, and trade yarns

and the latest neighborhood gossip.

The DRIVE and FEMDRIVE field site, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, consisted of three rooms in an old, dilapidated building owned by the

City of New York and administered by a community organization as a

neighborhood center. Other organizations occupying space in this building

included two dance companies, a Hispanic cabaret group, the Third World

Women’s Archives, the Women’s Health Collective (a source of primary

health care for lesbians offered by lesbians), a cadet corps, and a carpentry

workshop. The building was covered with graffiti, both inside and out.

Our bathroom was functional for about 6 months of the nearly 4-year

research project. Staff members would vie for the privilege of picking up

lunch for everybody at a nearby delicatessen because of the opportunity it

afforded to void a swollen bladder. Those with spastic colons received

special consideration.

On a more positive note, the building, which was formerly the Church of

All Nations, contained a chapel with lovely stained glass windows. Meetings of the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA)-sponsored Community

Epidemiology Work Group were held in this chapel in 1986. There was

also a large room in the building that featured a gymnasium floor with a

full basketball court and a stage at one end. Staff members and research

subjects would occasionally shoot baskets in the gym. The gym was also

used for avant-garde art shows, plays, dance recitals, and community

meetings.

The “suite of offices” occupied by DRIVE and FEMDRIVE was in relatively good shape because it had been fixed up by the former occupant, a

Cornell University nutritional project. A large entry room served as a

waiting area and a place for “rap sessions.” Hot coffee and crackers were

generally available. A small room served as the project office. A mediumsized room in the back was partitioned into three cubicles for interviewing.

The field site was staffed on a daily basis (excluding weekends) by at least

three project staff.

FINDING THE FIELD SITE

The research process really begins with the search for a field site. During

this time researchers begin to establish a street presence in an area. It is an

opportunity to develop street contacts and to informally discuss issues to be

studied. Potential research subjects may be screened for general veracity,

cooperativeness, and so on.

82
A description of 1 day in search of a field site was extracted from the

DRIVE and FEMDRIVE Principal Investigator’s field log. It conveys a

sense of the neighborhood and of the interrelationships between store

owners, landlords, police, drug users, and the social researchers who study

them.

Field Log, 8/84. I was looking for a storefront in which to do DRIVE

research. I wandered the streets of the Lower East Side looking for “store

for rent” signs and jotting down phone numbers listed on signs. I used the

search for a field site as an opportunity to meet some of the neighborhood

people. I frequently stopped into stores and asked persons if they knew of

any places for rent. This often led to conversations and new information

on the current state of the Lower East Side. In one small tobacco store,

for example, I met Brian, who managed the store for the owner. We have

had several nice chats. He echoed the statements of others about how

gentrification has driven the rents very high and is driving many of the

small store owners out of business or forcing them onto less desirable

blocks. Since I am looking for a place on a less desirable block I am now

in competition with these store owners; hence, even the rents on less

desirable blocks are going higher. I wound up buying a pewter Sherlock

Holmes chess set from Brian.

One example of the storefronts that I found on Essex Street was a single

large room, about 20 feet by 24 feet. It was in pretty good condition.

Lots of rubble on the floors but a pretty solid ceiling and floor. Two of

the walls were brick. Very nice. The electricity was “broken” and it

would be my responsibility to fix it. Likewise the plumbing. The landlord

said the heat would be very weak in winter and I should plan to invest in

gas heaters. The tenant in the store next door on the same pipes said there

was no heat in the winter. The rent was $800 a month. Expenses would

include fixing the electricity and plumbing, buying heaters, and partitioning

the room in order that confidential interviews could be done.

A landlord showed me three storefronts on Ridge Street. The first was

about 29 feet by 22 feet. It was unheated. Apparently, many years ago,

the storefront had a glass front but the glass had long since vanished.

Pieces of wood and rusty metal were haphazardly nailed to the front.

There were many gaps that the wind whistled through. The ceiling was

peeling badly and looked like large pieces might fall down at any time. It

was badly in need of painting. There was a john, but it was not working.

The rent was $700 a month. It had formerly been a shoe store, and many

pairs of shoes were lying about. The landlord examined the shoes while I

examined the place. He took a pair when we left.

The second storefront on Ridge was too small, about 12 feet by 15 feet. A

strong smell of urine permeated the place. There was no heat, and the

plumbing did not work. It too had wood and metal nailed to the front that

83
did little to protect the interior from the elements. The rent was $400 a

month.

The third storefront on Ridge Street was long and narrow, about 10 feet by

40 feet. There was no heat, and the front was again nailed up with rusty

metal. However, the toilet did work. The rent was $400. The storefront

was located on the ground level of a tenement that appeared about 50 percent abandoned. This place was a possibility, but the extreme narrowness

of the place presented problems. Also, significant expense would have been

involved in heating the area and repairing the front. It used to be a social

club, and there was a hidden room behind a steel wall. The landlord professed not to know what went on in the hidden room.

The landlord was a character. In his late fifties, he exuded lecherousness

and unscrupulousness. He was wearing a pink shirt, dark grey pants, and a

black hat and had a 3-day growth when we met. His favorite expression

was “You pay for everything, I pay for nothing.” The following incident

took place at the third storefront. While he was showing me the place, two

tough-looking Hispanic street women, one looking very stoned, appeared.

They were trying to talk to him about money. He did not appear to want

the conversation to take place in my presence. He kept trying to get them

to wait until I left. However, they appeared too stoned to understand and

kept bringing up the subject of money. They had come down from upstairs

in the tenement. They appeared to be in their early twenties. One put her

arms around the landlord’s neck and rubbed her body against him. He

grinned appreciatively. She knocked his hat off his head to the floor. He

laughed and said, “You got to show more respect.” The girl replied, “Oh,

we respect you.” I left soon afterwards. The landlord was still talking to

the girls.

Later that day I was walking the streets of the Lower East Side with Barry

and Marietta. We were on Houston Street between Ludlow and Essex. A

police van with three officers pulled up alongside. Two cops were in the

front and one was in the back. One called to us. The following dialogue

ensued:

Cop: Hey you!

Paul: Who me?

Cop: I don’t see anybody else. We’ve been watching you three. You

were on Avenue A. You were on B, C, and D. What are you doing in

the neighborhood?

Paul: Research.

Cop: Well, I’m stupid. I don’t know what that means. Explain it to me.

84
Paul: We work for Narcotic and Drug Research, Inc., which is a not-forprofit affiliate of the New York State Division of Substance Abuse Services.

We’re doing research into the drug problem on the Lower East Side. We

are looking for a storefront. We were just up on Ridge Street looking at

one.

Cop: What number on Ridge Street?

Paul: (Number deleted for reasons of confidentiality.)

Cop: Oh, you don’t want to rent from that guy. He’s got a real record.

We bust him regularly. We got him for selling needles to an 11-year-old

girl. He rents mainIy to drug addicts. We bust his place all the time. It

would be real embarrassing to you to rent from him. Why don’t you stop

by the station house and the sergeant will tell you where there are good

places to rent.

Paul: Thanks. We’ll probably do that.

Cop in front seat: Why don’t you go to 6th Street and ask Jimmy Carter if

he has space? (NOTE: Former President Jimmy Carter was at that time

on the Lower East Side working with the Habitat group repairing tenement

apartments to create housing for poor people.)

Paul: I was with him a few weeks ago in Atlanta. Maybe I will ask him.

Cop: Well, thank you for your time, sir.

Paul: Take care. End Field Log, 8/84.

CONDUCTING THE RESEARCH

Overview

Each of the research projects that are reported on herein as utilizing ethnographic field stations were attempts to combine qualitative and quantitative

techniques. These studies sought to retain the richness and depth of ethnographic understanding, while recording specific behaviors of individuals over

time in a quantified way. In the Harlem research, our focus was on economic behavior, so we carefully documented all income and expenditures of

drug users over a specified time period (33 days). In the Lower East Side

research, our focus was on violence, so we documented all instances of

violent victimization and perpetration over a specified time period (56 days).

The basic approach in all the studies was to have particular respondents

reporting to a field site on a routine basis for interviews. Reporting

85
schedules were on a weekly basis for the most part. Interview questions

were both open-ended, e.g., a complete description of a violent encounter,

and closed, e.g., specification of types and amounts of drugs purchased and

consumed on a daily basis.

The routine weekly interviews constituted the critical core of our data

collection. However, other forms of data collection were also used. All

subjects received a life-history interview. Staff members spent time with

subjects on the streets, in their apartments, and in bars and restaurants and

recorded their observations. Informal rap sessions took place constantly in

the field site. Special taped interviews were done about topics of interest to

the research staff, e.g., the workings of a specific drug-dealing hierarchy,

life in shelters for the homeless.

Sampling and Recruitment

The existence of a permanent, fixed-location field station greatly simplifies

the process of recruiting research subjects. Subjects may be recruited from

field contacts established while searching for a field site. Snowballsampling techniques may be employed as initial subjects refer friends,

family, or other associates. Researchers may contact other local organizations, e.g., methadone maintenance treatment programs, and recruit subjects

from their client populations. News of the project circulates on the street

grapevine. The important factor here is that the fixed location of the field

site means that potential subjects always know where they can go to find

the researchers.

The DRIVE/FEMDRIVE field site happened to be located two blocks from

the Third Street Men’s Shelter (a central processing point for homeless

males in New York City), about five blocks from a main womens’ shelter,

and very near to a number of Bowery flophouse hotels. Word of the project spread rapidly among the homeless of the area, and subjects were also

recruited from this population.

Novice field researchers, or inexperienced outsiders, usually ask how it is

possible to get strangers to talk about deviant and/or criminal activities. In

fact, this has never proven to be a problem. Subjects are paid an interview

fee as compensation for their time. In the late 1970s, interview fees were

$5 for an interview of 1 hour or less. In the 1980s, these fees have risen

to $10 for an interview of similar length. Preble commented as follows

about the practice of paying subjects for interviews.

Money is usually the sole motive for participants at the beginning, and this is often the cause for professional skepticism

about the validity of research findings based upon such a

foundation. But if money is a mean motive for those we

recruit, it is the same for us who do the recruiting; and so we

86
are even. The fact is that one can work with this motive and

parlay it into honest, thoughtful participation. (Preble

1980a, p. 69)

Carefully constructed sampling plans have a tendency to go awry in the

field. For example, on the DRIVE project, initial plans to engage in quota

sampling based upon subjects’ use and/or distribution of heroin and cocaine

proved to be unworkable. The $10 interview fee offered to subjects was a

real incentive to participate in the project. Unfortunately, this incentive was

also sufficient to motivate potential subjects to claim they were engaged in

heroin and cocaine use or distribution and qualify for the sample, when in

fact they were not involved in these behaviors.

The interests of reliability and validity of DRIVE data appeared best served

by limiting, to the greatest extent possible, any incentives for subjects to he

or exaggerate. Therefore, subjects were told that we were interested in talking with users and distributors of all sorts of drugs, and also that we

wanted a “control” sample of nonusers and nondistributors. By opening up

the DRIVE sample to everybody, we removed the desire to be included as

an instrumental reason for “conning” the researchers. DRIVE staff felt

more confident about the veracity of subjects’ claims to be using or distributing specific drugs because the pecuniary motivation to make fraudulent

claims had been eliminated.

Demographic characteristics provided vivid confirmation of the tendency for

subjects to try to con their way into the sample. For example, at one point

our sample was skewed toward older subjects. Field staff were instructed

to recruit younger persons. As soon as this became common knowledge,

aspiring respondents in their forties or fifties presented themselves at the

field site claiming to be in their early twenties. Such persons were rejected.

An even more difficult and amusing situation occurred because of the temporal overlap between the DRIVE (male) and FEMDRIVE (female) projects.

The DRIVE sample included a number of gay subjects, some of whom

were transvestites. Toward the end of DRIVE data collection, no new male

subjects were being accepted. However, we were accepting new female

subjects for the FEMDRIVE project. Several persons who were obviously

transvestites claimed to be female, hence eligible for inclusion in the

FEMDRIVE sample. These persons were rejected. In a few other cases,

staff were not sure if an aspirant for FEMDRIVE was, in fact, a female.

In such cases, different staff members conducted interviews and then

reached consensus as to whether the respondent should be kept in the

sample or terminated.

These situations illustrate a basic reality of field research: the problem is

seldom how to recruit subjects, but how to reject those who, for one reason

or another, do not meet criteria for participation. Rejections must be done

87
politely but firmly. Those who are rejected may become angry, create a

scene in the field site, and even threaten staff members.

Various techniques may be employed to reject potential subjects without

creating a violent scene. One way, not recommended, is to tell the person

that all recruitment is handled by a specific staff member, who is not

present. The ploy may work well at the time, but is really rather cruel. If

the potential subject returns on repeated occasions looking for that staff

member and not finding him or her, the situation becomes frustrating for

all. If the potential subject does find the sought-after staff member, a

somewhat sticky situation may develop, which is generally resolved by the

staff member telling the person that he or she is no longer responsible for

recruitment of subjects and that a different staff member (not present, of

course) must now be seen.

Better ways to reject subjects include telling the potential subject that the

study is “full up” right now, but that he or she should come back in a

month or two. Potential subjects who have telephones may be asked to

leave their number at the field site and “don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

Such persons may also be told that scientific processes of randomized

sampling are being employed, and that if their number comes up they will

be called.

Key Informants

Over time, ethnographic projects should develop key informants. Key

informants are trusted and respected members of the population under study.

They may be current or former drug abusers. These individuals are utilized

as neighborhood guides, showing research staff the principal copping (drug

distribution or drug dealing) areas, gaining access to specific population

segments (e.g., ethnic groups, dealing hierarchies), and explaining peculiarities of events and subcultures to research staff. Utilization of key

informants widens a project’s network of contacts and adds to its credibility

and legitimacy on the streets. Key informants may also play a critical role

in the recruitment of research subjects. This is especially true when a

particular sort of person, e.g., burglar, female cocaine dealer, is sought for

the project.

An account of a visit to a nearby “shooting gallery” was extracted from the

principal investigator’s field log. The guide involved, code-named Ragtime,

had completed his regular reporting cycle at this time, but continued to

hang around the field site. A good rapport had developed between him and

project staff. He was perceived as worthy of trust.

Field log, 11/85. Ragtime asked me if I wanted to visit a shooting gallery

with him. I said OK. We walked around the Lower East Side, Ragtime

crossed the street real crazy. Kept going against the light, dodging cars. I

88
waited until it was safe and was always trying to catch up with him. He

said I didn’t cross like a New Yorker. I said I was practicing my Jersey

guy look. I told him I knew now why bags marked “death wish” sold so

well. He laughed.

Ragtime didn’t like the looks of the street that the shooting gallery was

located on. He pointed out people that he said were junkies and said that

they all seemed to be dispersing away from the gallery. He indicated about

five different people. To him this indicated that there was some sort of

trouble there, perhaps police. He said that he would take me to a different

shooting gallery.

As we walked, he discussed how he would introduce me. He wanted to

introduce me as a guy from Jersey. I wanted to be introduced as exactly

what I was, the director of a research project. Ragtime said that it was too

soon to be honest with people like that. I said that I was uncomfortable

lying and that it was possible that other subjects who knew me would see

me at the gallery and say something about who I was. Ragtime agreed that

this was a possibility. The issue remained unresolved as we neared the

gallery.

The gallery was near Avenue B. Ragtime said that if a motorcycle was

parked outside, that meant that the gallery was open. The motorcycle was

there. The entrance was through a hole in a chain link fence near a gas

station. A parked van provided a screen (intentional?) so that people going

through could not be readily seen from the street. We went through the

fence and were in a rubble-strewn backyard. Ragtime left a shopping bag

that he was carrying in the yard by the fence. An entrance into the building had been cemented up, and a hole had been smashed in the cement.

We crawled through. We were in a totally dark room. It took a while for

my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all

collapsing. I had the feeling that giant rats were lurking all over the place.

There were some big holes in the floor covered with boards, like little

bridges, so that you wouldn’t fall through. I had no idea how far one

could fall.

Ragtime reached under a slab of concrete and pulled out a brown paper

bag. He told me that it was the works that he and his friend shared. I

looked at them. There were two needles and syringes and a soda bottle cap

wrapped in a paper towel. I asked him how he would know if anybody

else had used them while he was away. He said that he didn’t know.

I began picking up some empty dope bags that the floor was littered with.

I could barely see in the dark so I stuffed a few into my pocket and

examined them when I got outside later. They were stamped The Titanic

and Jaguar.

89
Another man, a thirtyish Hispanic, crawled into the room through the hole.

Ragtime said hello. The man looked surprised to find anybody there. He

unzipped his fly and pretended to pee against the wall. I could see that

nothing was coming out. He was just pretending that was the reason for

his coming into the building. He soon left. He returned a few minutes

later with three other guys. Ragtime said heilo to one of them, who was

named Angel. Ragtime had previously told me that his friend who ran the

gallery, and with whom he shared works, was named Angel. I guessed

correctly that this was the guy. Ragtime made no move to introduce me. I

said nothing, which Ragtime later told me was the right thing to have done.

Angel asked Ragtime to go and wait outside. He said that he had some

business to conduct. Ragtime said OK, that we would go and get a beer.

We left.

Ragtime said that he had gotten nervous when the four had come in. He

thought that he might have to fight his way out, with me behind him. He

said that Angel carried a gun and was a little crazy. He said we could

have gotten decapitated. I was pleased to be on Houston Street at that

point.

I asked Ragtime a few questions about the gallery. He said that it was

only for people getting off with needles. Nobody went in there just to

smoke reefer or drink wine or do pills. He said that heroin users could

stay as long as they wanted, but that coke users had to leave as soon as

they had gotten off because “nobody wants to listen to them talk all day

long.” End Field Log, 11/85.

Theft and Violence

Theft and violence are two issues that must be dealt with when trying to

operate an ethnographic field station. Tape recorders, jackets, cash, tools,

coffeemakers, and a clock have been stolen from field sites. Thefts are

typically difficult for staff members to accept and are often perceived as a

violation of the trust between subjects and field researchers. Sometimes

staff members interpret a theft as meaning that they have personally failed

as researchers, that they are outsiders and “marks,” and that their feelings of

being accepted by subjects were just illusions. Victimized staff members

may need informal therapy lest feelings of resentment and suspicion color

their interactions with subjects and render them less effective. Thefts that

involve items that belong to the project, e.g., a tape recorder, are typically

easier to accept than theft of personal items, e.g., a leather jacket saved for

from months of paychecks.

Theft may affect not only staff members, but also subjects and the research.

Subjects who steal from the project tend to feel guilty about it and may

fear punishment. Having stolen, they probably will not return as subjects.

9 0
The project and its staff thus may lose not only a valued item, but also a

valued subject.

Staff members are told that most thefts that occur at field sites arc cooperative ventures. The person who left a valuable tape recorder sitting

unattended on a desk is as responsible for the theft of that tape recorder as

the person who picked it up. The person who flashed a wad of cash is as

responsible for an ensuing robbery as the person who was tempted by that

wad. Some simple precautions may prevent the theft.

Staff members may be holding several hundred dollars of both interview

and personal money at any given time. An account of an unavoidable

robbery in one of the Harlem storefronts follows, showing how the loss was

limited by the researcher’s carrying two separate bundles.

I was in the storefront one day with K. There was a knock on

the door and I went to open it. A research subject stood there.

He asked me for some money for carfare. I gave him a few

dollars. He wanted more. I said I didn’t have any more. I

closed the door and went back to talking to K. A few minutes

later, another knock, same research subject only this time he

was with two others. They were standing off to the side where

I couldn’t see them. I opened the door a little annoyed and

then I saw the other two. I thought to myself, this didn’t look

too good. One guy had his hand inside his jacket. The other

had his hand in his pocket. The research subject had his foot

in the door. He said, “Tom, I want money.” I knew what he

meant. I had a few hundred dollars in one pocket and less

than a hundred in the other pocket. I tried to stall to remember

which pocket had the most money in it. I said to him, “What

do you want to do this for? Don’t you always get carfare

here? Don’t we always give you money to go to your program

or see your P.O.?” His answer was “I’m doing it because I’m

a junkie and I need money.” I wasn’t sure which pocket held

the larger amount, because I was kind of scared, but I knew I

couldn’t stall much longer. I reached into a pocket and gave

him the money. It was the right one. He got about $68.

Before I gave up the money I was thinking about slamming the

door on his foot, but I didn’t know what the guy with his hand

in his belt was holding. If I was sure he was only holding a

knife I would have slammed the door. After I gave them the

money and they left, my knees started to shake. They were

shaking for 10 or 15 minutes. But the main thing is . . .

nobody got hurt.

91
A violent episode at the Lower Fast Side field site occurred when a staff

member was mugged by a research subject and two others in March 1985.

Following is an account of the mugging from his diary:

I had arrived at the site a few minutes early, after going to the

bank to get interview money. “Singer” (a subject I had interviewed three or four times previously) was sitting in front of

the building with two males. Singer said they were friends

who wanted to get involved in the project. While we were

making small talk, Dave, who was also hoping to get interviewed, joined the group. I felt comfortable with the situation

and decided to go upstairs to schedule appointments. Upstairs,

the two friends were really pushing to get interviewed immediately; I tried to be nice and said that we would do our best.

As I turned around to make coffee, Singer’s friend came at me

from behind, picked me up, and slammed me to the floor. One

covered my mouth with his hand, the other held my arm behind

my back. They went through my pockets, where they found

the interview money and my wallet. They asked if I had any

more money. I said, “No.” The three of them ran down the

stairs and disappeared. Dave sat there and did nothing. I don’t

think he was in on it but I’m not sure. The whole thing happened in 10 to 15 seconds. I ran out of the building and saw

Tommy (DRIVE staff member) walking toward the building. I

told him what happened. He asked if I was hurt. I said, “NO.”

He said, “That’s all that matters.” At that time, Paul arrived.

We all went back upstairs.

The field site was closed for the day. The staff member experienced a

certain amount of self-blame and even some hostility toward fellow staff for

not being present at the time (even though he had arrived early). The event

was reported to the police, and the staff member went to the local precinct

to examine mug shots (Singer and his friends were not spotted). Security

procedures at the site were strengthened; from then on staff met at a local

diner and went to the field site together.

Partly for security, trusted subjects who had completed the interview cycle

were encouraged to hang out at the field site. Some were put on a retainer

to act as “security,” general “go-fors,” and traffic monitors, e.g., making

sure that interviewees were interviewed in the proper order. A total of five

subjects served in this capacity at the Lower East Side field site, never

more than one at any given time.

92
CONCLUSION

Strengths of Field Sites

The major strength of ethnographic field stations is that they facilitate the

rigorous collection of longitudinal data from reasonably large samples.

Field researchers who do not have a field site to work from must contend

with such difficulties as finding quiet and private places in which to do

interviews and being able to make time and space connections with subjects. In the latter regard, I have spent hours in various cities being taken

about by fellow ethnographers. Frequently, street comer hangouts that I am

taken to are deserted. Bars where certain types of persons hang out are

empty. My colleagues shake their heads in dismay and ask, “Where is

everybody today?”

I have been similarly embarrassed in New York, but not since I began operating out of ethnographic field stations. The field site provides a point

where subjects and researchers comfortably congregate. The field site

allows a more effective use of researcher time: less time is spent seeking

subjects out, or waiting for people to show up in a bar or on a street

comer, and time is spent in direct interaction and data gathering.

The relationship between a field site and traditional ethnographic street work

may be seen as analogous to the relationship between the health clinic and

the physician’s house call. The field site/health clinic model allows the

maximum number of people to be seen in a day, allows needed resources

and equipment (in the case of research, tape recorders, interview instruments, and so on) to be stored where they are used, and provides a team

environment in which staff members may help each other out and watch

each other’s backs.

The field site provides an important stability and continuity to researchersubject relationships. Subjects know that they are welcome to stop in for a

cup of coffee and a chat. Much interesting and relevant information is

collected during the course of these informal conversations and through

sharing discussions between subjects.

Study participants who have been out of circulation for some time (e.g., due

to hospitalization or incarceration) find it a simple matter to reestablish

contact with the project. Subjects who need a safe haven find it at the

field site, and staff may become privy to accounts that they might not have.

Also, having the field site means that project staff have “a place” in the

neighborhood. It engenders a feeling of rootedness and belonging in the

study area. It serves to negate the perception of staff as strangers and

facilitates interaction with neighborhood residents. The project becomes

accepted as belonging to the local community.

93
Weaknesses of Field Sites

The ethnographic field station model contains a number of weaknesses.

One is the cost. Rent, utilities, renovation, furnishings, coffee, coffee cups,

cream, sugar, napkins, crackers, mop, broom, cleaners, and so on, add up to

significant monthly expenditures. A major strength of ethnographic

research, that it can be done by concerned and knowledgeable researchers

on a shoestring, disappears. Funding becomes necessary.

Another weakness is the potential for inertia. The ethnographic field station

tends to breed complacency. One’s expectations for getting out into the

street become blunted over time. Too much time is spent sitting around the

field site, not enough time is spent with subjects in their milieus, e.g.,

apartments, schoolyards, bars, and so on. In this regard, the field site is,

after all, an environment manufactured by the research team and does not

constitute a “natural” setting.

Use of an ethnographic field station tends to create a “9-to-5” mentality.

There are times when the field site is open, and times when it is closed.

Staff members tend to prefer something akin to a 5-day week from 9 to 5.

This is usually a preference endorsed by family and loved ones. But good

ethnography is not a 5-day, 9-to-5 undertaking. Important goings-on tend to

occur at night or on the weekend. If the researcher is not present at these

times, he or she can only hear accounts of these events. Potential subjects

who are themselves employed during normal working hours have no

opportunity to participate in the research.

The quality of subjects attracted by ethnographic field stations tends to

deteriorate over time. Those most in need of shelter during the winter, a

free cup of coffee, a safe place to sit, will increasingly congregate at the

field site and, perhaps, deter more successful subjects from coming in. The

“moochers” become increasingly annoying. These are the persons who

come by solely for “carfare.” They may come by every day, and they can

tolerate an enormous amount of discouragement.

The health clinic analogy that was made in the discussion of strengths also

illustrates one of the weaknesses of ethnographic field stations. The health

clinic is more bureaucratized than the personal physician. When an interviewer tells a client who has been “spilling his guts” that he or she will not

be in next week but, “Not to worry, you can talk to someone else,” then

something of the personal connection between field researcher and subject

is lost.

SUMMARY

Ethnographic field stations are not a substitute for traditional ethnography,

because they provide an “unnatural” setting for research interaction and

94
observation to take place. However, they do provide perhaps the optimal

setting for qualitative and quantitative methodologies to be undertaken in a

single research effort. In this sense, they are critically important for

advancing our knowledge about drug abusers and their behaviors.

REFERENCES

Cohen, B. Deviant Street Networks: Prostitution in New York City.

Lexington: Lexington Books, 1980.

Johnson, B.D., and Lipton, D.S. Creative tensions: Issues in utilizing

ethnographic research within a single State agency. In: Akins, C., and

Beschner, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policy Makers in

the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug Abuse

Monograph. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, DC: Supt. of

Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1980.

Johnson, B.D.; Goldstein, P.J.; Preble, E.; Schmeidler, J.; Lipton, D.S.;

Spunt, B.; and Miller, T. Taking Care of Business: The Economics of

Crime by Heroin Abusers. Lexington: Lexington Books, 1985.

Preble, E. What an ethnographic field station looks like. In: Akins, C.,

and Beschner, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for Policy

Makers in the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug Abuse

Monograph. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, DC: Supt. of

Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1980a.

Preble, E. Problems utilizing ethnography in a single State agency. In:

Akins, C., and Beschner, G., eds. Ethnography: A Research Tool for

Policy Makers in the Drug & Alcohol Fields. National Institute on Drug

Abuse Monograph. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)80-946. Washington, DC:

Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1980b.

AUTHORS

Paul J. Goldstein, Ph.D.

Barry J. Spunt, Ph.D.

Thomas Miller

Patricia Belucci, M.A.

Narcotic and Drug Research, Inc.

11 Beach Street

New York, NY 10013

95
Ethnographic Research on Hidden

Populations: Penetrating the Drug

World

Patricia Adler

INTRODUCTION

Ethnographic research methods have, for many years, followed principles

elaborated by members of the Chicago School. Building on the guidance of

University of Chicago sociologists Robert Park, Ernest Burgess, and W.I.

Thomas, a spate of now classic studies were conducted. These studies

focused primarily on the areas of community and deviance (Anderson 1923;

Cressey 1932; Thrasher 1927; Landesco 1929). The naturalistic research

methods of these fieldworkers served as inspiration for the scholars who

comprised the department in the 1940s and 1950s faculty members such as

Herbert Blumer, Everett Hughes, William Lloyd Warner, Anselm Strauss,

and David Riesman. While the fieldworkers of the earlier era had practiced

a wide range of research strategies, they had not written any accounts of

their methods or delineated strategies and principles for ethnographic

research. Scholars and their students produced early methodological works

in the 1950s and 1960s, which articulated the principles, practices, and

problems of the newly named “participant observation” (Becker 1967;

Becker and Geer 1960; Gold 1958; Junker 1960; McCall and Simmons

1969; Miller 1952; Schwartz and Schwartz 1955; Vidich 1955).

The Chicago School tradition of field research urged its practitioners to gain

an understanding of the empirical world by seeking out the members’ perspectives (Blumer 1962; Schutz 1962; Schutz 1967), observing human group

life naturalistically (Denzin 1970; Schatzman and Strauss 1973), and being

in situ (Hughes 1971). Researchers were told to enter the setting and

acquire the trust of members by being straightforward, honest, and cooperative. The overt role, in which the researcher’s intentions and identity are

revealed to the subjects, was preferred over the covert role. In conducting

their research, individuals were advised to tread a fine line between subjectivity and involvement on the one hand, and objectivity and detachment on

the other (Becker and Geer 1960; Blumer 1969; Burgess 1982; Gans 1982;

Gold 1958; Hammersley and Atkinson 1983; Junker 1960 Lofland 1971;

Miller 1952; Pollner and Emerson 1983; Schatzman and Strauss 1973;

96
Willis 1977). Too much of the latter could fail to yield an accurate and

insightful account of the scene and its members, while too much of the

former could bias the researcher into adopting the members’ point of view

and interfere with analytic objectivity. If one had to err, however, it would

be best to maintain detachment. This was based on the fear of “going

native,” a situation in which the researcher becomes a member of the scene,

uncritically adopts its perspectives, and fails to return to the scientific

community to present findings. The Chicago School advocated marginal

roles for researchers in field settings, poised between familiarity and

strangeness (Powdermaker 1966), between being a stranger and a friend

(Everhart 1977), to observe the essence of ongoing activity while inconspicuously fading into the background (Bogdan and Taylor 1975; Bruyn 1966;

Burgess 1982; Gans 1968; Hammersley and Atkinson 1983; Jarvie 1969;

Junker 1960; Paul 1953; Pollner and Emerson 1983; Powdermaker 1966;

Trice 1956; Vidich 1955; Williams 1967).

The desirability of the Chicago School guidelines for field research in the

1980s has weakened because of changes in thinking about epistemology

since the 1950s and 1960s. Some field researchers have questioned the

emphasis on objectivity and detachment, as found in quantitative research

methods; they believed that fieldwork should build on its strength as a

subjective approach to data gathering (Douglas 1970; Douglas 1976;

Douglas and Johnson 1977; Feyerabend 1972; Johnson 1975; Mehan and

Wood 1975; Phillips 1974). The value of fieldwork lies not in how the

researchers maintained distance from the data, but rather in how close they

came to the phenomena. In the 1970s, it was suggested that the more

deeply a researcher penetrated the scene, the more accurate and valid were

the data. Contemporary fieldwork epistemologies, such as existential

sociology’s investigative paradigm and early ethnomethodology’s advocacy

of becoming the phenomenon, urge researchers to “cast off the shackles” of

the classical approach and strive for subjectivity and involvement. The

human side of researchers gives field research its great advantage: empathy

with those studied by immersion in the subjects’ empirical world. Instead

of hanging back lest they influence the setting, researchers should realize

that there is no such thing as a fieldworker not influencing the setting

(Jarvie 1969). By drawing close to the phenomenon, the feelings and

insights that researchers develop can be utilized as data. Active participation should be done both to penetrate the scene and to understand it.

RESEARCH STYLES AND HIDDEN POPULATIONS

When studying hidden populations, the issue of research approaches becomes even more germane. Deviants are more difficult to locate, befriend,

and investigate than other subject populations. Special techniques apply to

participant observation with these groups. First, being forthright and

friendly is not enough to gain entry; more calculated strategies may be

necessary for these secretive and suspicious groups. Exclusive reliance on

97
the overt role is unrealistic. Covert roles, used alone or in concert with

overt roles, may yield insights that the exclusively overt approach would

miss. Second, understanding the multiple layers and hidden realities

submerged within secret worlds may be facilitated by a team field research

approach (Douglas 1976). A team comprised of different genders, ages, and

backgrounds gives the advantage of multiple perspectives into the

complexity of the empirical world (Warren and Rasmussen 1977). This is

especially useful in deviant worlds, fraught as they are with inner

contradictions. Third, adopting an investigative approach, in which the

researcher probes beneath the surface, often produces results more quickly

and effectively. This is not to suggest that researchers abandon social

norms of interpersonal tact, which would be deleterious to their field

research relationships, but rather that they keep in mind that things are often

not as simple or innocent as they seem.

Membership Roles

These new ideas in field research epistemology press ethnographers to take

membership roles (Adler and Adler 1987) in their researches. They need

not assume full-time, complete involvement in the scene, but they should

establish a role that is more than marginal. Three types of membership

roles are possible: peripheral, active, and complete. The peripheral

membership role is the most marginal and least committed to the world

under study. Researchers taking this posture would assume an insider’s

position by interacting closely, frequently, and significantly with members of

the group under study. They would not assume the position of a central

member and would refrain from participating directly in activities that stand

at the core of group membership and identification. As a result, they

generally do not assume functional roles within the group, although they are

often members of the group’s social world.

The active membership role moves researchers away from the marginally

involved role of the traditional participant observer into a more central

position in the setting. They do more than participate in the social

activities of group members; they take part in the core activities of the

group. In so doing, they generally assume functional roles, thus interacting

as colleagues or coparticipants with members.

The complete membership role entails the greatest commitment on the part

of the researcher. Beyond merely participating, complete-member

researchers immerse themselves fully in the group as “natives.” They and

their subjects relate to each other as status equals, sharing a common set of

experiences, feelings, and goals. Inevitably, they come closest of all

researchers to approximating the emotional stance of the people they study.

In conducting their research, then, they often adopt an overt role (i.e., they

are open about their work to those they are studying). While becoming the

phenomenon is one way to achieve the complete membership role, it is

98
more common, in studying hidden populations, for the converse to occur.

That is, members of the group become researchers and take advantage of

their personal history to “opportunistically” (Riemer 1977) exploit their

biography. Thus, they turn a scene in which they are current or former

members into a research setting. Much of the best work on deviance, in

both pure and applied research, is currently being done by former members

of these subcultures (Brown 1988).

The advantage of membership roles over other forms of research lies in

members’ recognition of the researcher as a fellow member. This

recognition by the group allows the researcher to participate in the routine

practices of members and, as one of them, to experience the members’

world. Membership roles force researchers to take on the obligations and

liabilities of members. In repeatedly dealing with the practical problems

members face, researchers ultimately organize their behavior and thinking

about the setting’s everyday reality in much the same ways as do members,

providing, it is hoped, a deeper and more accurate understanding of the

hidden populations that they study.

MEMBERSHIP IN PRACTICE: RESEARCHING DEALERS AND

SMUGGLERS

From 1974 to 1980, my research partner (my husband) and I engaged in

daily participant observation with members of a drug-dealing and smuggling

community (Adler 1985). These operators constituted the drug world’s

upper echelons, as they imported and distributed tons of marijuana and

dozens of kilos of cocaine at a time. The extremely illegal nature of their

trafficking activities made these individuals cluster together for both

business and social relations, forming a deviant subculture that reflected

their common norms and values.

The methods we used to study this group were direct and personal.

Although we did not deal ourselves, we participated in many of their

activities, attending social gatherings, traveling with them, and watching

them plan and execute their business activities. We came to know members

of this subculture and formed close friendships with several of them. In

addition to observing and conversing casually with these dealers and

smugglers, we conducted indepth, taped interviews and cross-checked our

observations and their accounts against other sources of data whenever

possible. After leaving the field, we continued to conduct followup

interviews during periodic visits to the community until 1983. The methods

we used reflect the membership-role epistemological philosophy.

The highly illegal nature of the occupation makes drug dealers and

smugglers secretive, deceitful, mistrustful, and paranoid. To insulate

themselves from the straight world, they construct multiple false fronts,

offer lies and misinformation, and withdraw into their group. Detailed,

99
scientific information about upper-level drug dealers and smugglers is

lacking because of the difficulty sociological researchers have had in

penetrating such groups. The only way we could get close enough to these

individuals was to take a membership role in the setting. Although our

different values and goals precluded our adopting complete membership in

the subculture, and our fears prevented our becoming actively involved in

their trafficking activities, we were able to assume peripheral membership

roles. We became members of the dealers’ and smugglers’ social world

and participated in their daily activities on that basis.

Strategies and Tactics

Getting In. Our discovery of the research setting happened quite

accidentally. After moving into a new area, we began to get acquainted

with the neighbors. Several were in their late twenties to early thirties and,

judging by their clothing and automobiles, appeared to be rather wealthy.

We began to notice some unusual behavior patterns: people entered and

left their houses at all hours, parties sometimes continued for days, yet they

seemed to have no visible means of financial support. In most places, this

would have invoked community suspicion, but few people in this area held

traditional jobs, so we overlooked this phenomenon and continued to

develop neighborly relations. Gradually, we developed friendships with a

few individuals, whom we saw as frequently as our academic schedules

permitted. Their behavior began to seem increasingly odd; although we

inquired mildly about their occupations and social sphere, we received no

satisfying answers. We began to suspect that we might be living amidst a

group of drug dealers. This piqued our sociological interest, and we

continued to build friendly relations by doing, quite naturally, what Becker

(1963), Polsky (1969), and Douglas (1972) advocated for the early stages of

field research: giving them a chance to know us and form judgments about

our trustworthiness by jointly pursuing common interests and activities.

One day, while at Ben’s house (our closest neighbor), we were introduced

to two of his friends from out of town. They started talking about a

smuggling run they had just completed for Ben. Ben told them to button

their lips, but they thought he was joking, that anybody as close to Ben as

we seemed undoubtedly knew the nature of his business. After the story

was revealed, Ben discussed with us the nature of his occupation. He said

that he knew he could trust us, but that it was his practice to say as little

as possible about his activities to outsiders. We thus became admitted into

his inner circle, informally introduced to the members of his smuggling

family, and formally apprised of what their roles were within his

organization.

Once we realized the scope of the activities, we saw the enormous research

potential. This scene was different from any analysis of drug trafficking

that we had read in the sociological literature, because of the quantities in

100
which they were dealing and the fact that they were importing it themselves. We decided that, if it was at all possible, we would like to capitalize on this situation, to “opportunistically” (Riemer 1977) take advantage

of our prior expertise in the field of drugs (Cummins et al. 1972) and of

the rapport we had already developed with key people. We therefore discussed with our closest friends from among the group the idea of doing a

study of the general subculture. After being assured of the anonymity,

confidentiality, and innocuousness of our work, they were happy to reciprocate our friendship by being of help to our professional careers. In fact,

they basked in the subsequent interest and attention we gave their lives.

Use of Key Informants. We began by turning group-member friends into

key informants and collecting their life histories in detail. We conducted a

series of taped, indepth interviews using an unstructured, open-ended format.

Topics we addressed included: their backgrounds; their recruitment into the

occupation; the stages of their dealing careers; their relations with others;

motivations; lifestyle; and their general impressions about the community as

a whole. Our relationship as friends took on an extra dimension: the

research relationship. As Douglas (1976), Henslin (1972). and Wax (1952)

have noted, research relationships involve some form of exchange between

the parties involved. In our case, we offered everything friendship entails:

routine favors in the course of our everyday lives; insights and advice from

the perspective of our more “respectable” position; letters on their behalf to

the authorities; testimony as character witnesses at nondrug-related trials;

prison visits; loans; and, on one occasion, shelter in our house. We thus

lived through the experiences of their lives in intimate detail.

We continued to do taped interviews with our key informants throughout

the next 6 years. After that, we occasionally updated our data. Followup

interviews focused on ongoing events and probed into specific areas such as

dealing networks, types of dealers, secrecy, trust, paranoia, reputation, the

law, occupational mobility, and occupational stratification. Taped interviews

with each key informant ranged from 10 to 30 hours of discussion.

In addition to these interviews, we engaged in intensive participant observation with group members. We socialized with them on a near-daily basis,

especially during the early years, even crossing paths during vacation travel.

We worked in their legitimate businesses, attended their weddings, and

cared for their children. Over the course of their relationship with us,

several participants adopted the researchers’ perspective and began to seek

instances of behavior that would fill holes in the conceptual scheme we

were developing. This methodological strategy was particularly discouraged

by Gold (1958), who cautioned against overly close friendship or intimacy

with informants lest they lose their ability to act as informants by becoming

too much of an observer. Whyte (1953, in contrast, recommended the use

of informants as research aides, not for helping in conceptualizing the data,

but for their assistance in locating data that supports, contradicts, or fills in

101
the researcher’s analysis of the setting. One person became so intrigued by

our conceptual dilemmas that he undertook a “natural experiment” entirely

on his own, offering an unlimited supply of drugs to a lower level dealer to

see if that dealer could work up to higher levels of dealing and what

factors would enhance or impinge upon his upward mobility.

Besides helping us by relating their own experiences, our key informants

widened our circle of contacts. They let us know when someone we might

be interested in was planning on dropping by, vouching for our reliability as

friends who could be included in business conversations. Often, nighttime

phone calls woke us, saying that someone had dropped by for a visit,

should we want to drop over “casually” too. Of course we went. We thus

were able to “snowball,” through the active efforts of our key informants,

into an expanded study population (Henslin 1972; Douglas 1976). This was

supplemented by our own efforts to cast a research net and befriend other

dealers, moving from contact to contact slowly and carefully.

The Covert Role. The illegal nature of the activity and the degree of suspiciousness found among dealers made the adoption of an overt research

role problematic. Our key informants agreed that we should be extremely

cautious, screening individuals carefully before admitting to studying them.

We thus took a covert posture in the general research setting. As nonparticipants in the business that bound members together, it was difficult to

be accepted as equals. We therefore strove for peripheral, social membership, to be accepted as “wise” (Goffman 1963), and granted a courtesy

membership. This was easier, since we already had this relationship with

our key informants. In this wise rather than overt role, we were able to

observe and interact with people who would otherwise have avoided us.

Adopting a courtesy membership caused us to bear a courtesy stigma as

well, however, and we suffered associated rejection from lay outsiders and

academicians. Kirby and Corzine (1981), Birenbaum (1970), and Henslin

(1972) provide more detailed discussions of the nature, problems, and

strategies for dealing with the courtesy stigma.

In our covert posture, we showed interest in dealers’ activities, encouraged

discussion about them (within limits, so as to avoid acting like narcs), and

wrote field notes at home. This role gave access to unapproachable people

and avoided research effects (i.e., alterations in observed phenomena as a

consequence of the observer’s presence), but it prevented us from asking

probing, indepth questions or tape-recording conversations. Secret tapings,

aside from the ethical problems involved, seemed too dangerous. Therefore,

we sought continually to change to the overt role, by working to build trust.

Developing Trust. Just as when initially entering the group, developing

trust with members of unorganized deviant groups can be slow and difficult.

In the absence of a formal structure separating members from outsiders,

102
each individual must form his or her own judgment about whether new persons can be admitted into their confidence. No gatekeeper existed to

smooth our path, although our key informants helped by providing introductions and references. Another result of the group’s unorganized nature was

that we met people at different times and were constantly at different levels

in our developing relationships with them. We were thus trusted more by

some people than by others, in part because of their greater familiarity with

us. But as Douglas (1976) notes, knowing someone or even liking them

does not automatically guarantee that trust will be extended to them.

We actively tried to cultivate the trust of our respondents by tying them to

us with favors. Small things, like providing the use of our phone, were

followed by bigger favors, like providing the use of our car, and finally

really meaningful favors, like providing the use of our home. Here we

often trod a thin line, trying to ensure our personal safety while putting

ourselves in enough of a risk position, along with our research subjects, to

encourage trust. As one act followed another, we tried to build a “web of

trust” (Douglas 1976). As hard as we worked at this, we found that gaining trust was not a simple feat in the drug world. Johnson (1975) points

out that trust is not a one-time phenomenon, but an ongoing developmental

process. Our experiences show that it cannot be assumed to be a regular or

reliable process either, for it can be diminished, withdrawn, reinstated to

varying degrees, and requestioned at any point. Carey (1972) and Douglas

(1972) have remarked on this waxing and waning, which may be influenced

by the psychological volatility induced by using large amounts of cocaine

over an extended period of time. We thus lived through a series of ups

and downs with people we were trying to cultivate as research informants.

The Overt Role. After a period of friendly, covert interaction, we began

to feel that some members trusted us. When we assumed an overt role, we

used direct and indirect means of informing members that we were involved

in a study of dealing and smuggling. In some cases, our key informants

approached their friends or connections, vouched for our trustworthiness,

and convinced them to talk to us. In other instances, we approached people

ourselves, asking for their help with our project. With these secondary

contacts, we discussed the dealing scene first, and then moved to taped lifehistory interviews. Some people reacted well, but others were skittish, making appointments for taped interviews only to break them and alternating

honesty with falsity about their dealing activities. For some, this varied

with varying involvement in the business. When they renounced dealing,

they would tell us about their present and past activities, but when they

became active again, they would withdraw. Like us, our research subjects

combined overt and covert roles.

This progression of roles generated a few tactical difficulties. The first was

the problem of coming on too fast and blowing it. Early in the research

we had a dealer’s “old lady” ready for a direct approach. She knew we

103
knew many dealers in common and we had discussed tangential subjects

without actually mentioning dealing. When we asked to do a taped interview of her bohemian lifestyle, she acquiesced without hesitation. But

when the interview began, and she found out why we were interested in her

bohemian lifestyle, she balked, gave us a lot of incoherent jumble, and

ended the session as quickly as possible. Even though she only lived three

houses away we never saw her again. We learned to move more slowly

after that.

A second problem involved juggling overt and covert roles with different

people, with the danger of blowing cover (Henslin 1972). It became confusing and difficult to separate the people who knew about our study from

those who did not. Our informants would make veiled references, especially when loosened by intoxicants, that made us extremely uncomfortable.

We also worried that our snooping and inquisitiveness might be mistaken

for police tactics, so that we became casualty statistics.

Cross-Checking the Data. The hidden nature of the drug-dealing world

increased the concern about the reliability of our data. Therefore, all of the

major conclusions were based on independent sources that were carefully

verified. We adopted an attitude of suspicion, assuming people did more

than they would originally admit, and we were generally right. First we

checked information against our own observations, since we were involved

with many of the principals on a daily basis and knew exactly what they

were doing. Secondly, we cross-checked our data against alternative

independent accounts. We were fortunate in locating several sources who

had known various respondents at different times during their lives and

were able to corroborate key bits of information about these people. We

even managed to utilize outside sources to verify information about people

we had never interviewed directly. Finally, wherever possible, we checked

accounts against other types of information: newspaper and magazine

reports; arrest records; material possessions; and visible evidence (Douglas

1976).

After 4 or 5 years of active and intense participant observation, we began

to diminish our involvement. We did, however, maintain close ties with

research informants with whom we were overt, seeing them regularly and

doing followup interviews periodically.

PROBLEMS AND ISSUES

Effect of Drugs on Data Gathering

Carey (1972) has elaborated on some of the problems he encountered when

trying to interview respondents who were using amphetamines, while Wax

(1952; Wax 1957) mentions the difficulty of trying to record field notes

while getting drunk on sake. In our research, marijuana and cocaine were

104
found to have nearly opposite effects, one helping the interview process,

while the other hindered it. Attempting to interview respondents who were

stoned on pot did not prove highly effective for a number of reasons. The

effects of the drug provided the first obstacle, as people became either

confused, sleepy, or involved in eating. The most exaggerated symptoms

were displayed by people seeking to circumvent the interview. They

simulated overreactions to marijuana to avoid divulging information.

Cocaine, in contrast, proved to be a research aid, The drug’s influence

diminished respondents’ inhibitions and increased their enthusiasm for both

the interview experience and us. The comments of one respondent

illustrated this effect:

I’ve been thinking a lot about this taping and I woke up at

three today and I started going, “Oh Bruce, let’s cancel it,”

and I started getting really paranoid. Then all of a

sudden—I don’t know what it is about cocaine that makes

people so loose, but it’s typical. This has really been fun.

Risks of Field Research

A second area deserving consideration is the problem of assuming risks

while doing research. Dangerous situations are endemic to research on

deviant behavior. These dangers can come from various sources. One danger was from the research subjects themselves. As Carey (1972), Henslin

(1972), and Whyte (1955) have noted, members of deviant groups can turn

on a researcher if they believe some wrong is being committed. This can

stem from blowing cover or from a simple misunderstanding. In this setting, the research subjects proved to be particularly volatile, capable of

becoming malicious toward each other or us with little warning. This was

stimulated not only by their drug consumption, but by the constant risks

from police and other dealers. They vacillated between trusting friendliness

and angered hostility.

Respondents’ anger was directed toward either our research tapes or ourselves. We received several threats to our collection of tapes from interviewees. Since we had taken great pains to acquire them and felt strongly

about maintaining the confidences entrusted in us by our informants, we

shifted the tapes between different hiding places and finally transferred the

tapes into an uninvolved person’s possession.

Anger from the respondents toward ourselves was more unnerving. Some

of the individuals we were studying were violent and erratic; others worked

as enforcers and enjoyed inflicting injury. Some would read offense into a

communication when none was intended. On a couple of occasions we

were caught in the crossfire of arguments or misunderstandings between

group members and were forced to flee from our house.

105
The other general source of danger was the police. We worried about local

police or drug agents discovering the nature of our study and confiscating

or subpoenaing our tapes and field notes. Sociologists have no privileged

relationship with their subjects that would enable us to legally withhold

evidence from the authorities should they subpoena it (Brajuha and

Hallowell 1986). For this reason, we avoided any publicity and refrained

from publishing articles in scholarly journals until we were ready to move

out. We voluntarily forfeited obtaining a multiperspective view on the

scene by studying police efforts to stop dealing, although several opportunities were offered. The closest we came to public exposure as drug

researchers came when a former sociology graduate student (turned dealer,

we had heard from inside sources) was arrested at the scene of a cocaine

deal. His lawyer wanted us to testify about the dangers inherent in drugrelated research, since he was using the research role as his defense.

Fortunately, the crisis was averted when he settled out of court before the

trial began. Had we been exposed, however, our key subjects would have

acquired guilt by association through their friendship with us.

Our fear of the police was rooted not only in our concern for protecting our

research subjects, but in the real danger of arrest ourselves. Many sociologists (Polsky 1969; Becker 1963; Whyte 1955; Carey 1972) have remarked

that field researchers studying deviance must inevitably break the law in

order to acquire valid participant observation data. This occurs in its most

innocuous form from having “guilty knowledge”: information about crimes

that are committed. Our awareness of major dealing and smuggling operations made us an accessory to their commission, since we failed to notify

the police. We broke the same law through our “guilty observations,” by

being present at the scene of a crime and witnessing its occurrence (Carey

1972). We knew it was possible to get caught when others were arrested,

yet dealing behavior was so pervasive that to leave every time it occurred

would have been unnatural and highly suspicious. Some kind of illegal

action was also found to be a necessary or helpful component of the

research by Whyte (1955), Polsky (1969) Becker (1963), Carey (1972), and

Johnson (1975).

Cultural Differences Between Researcher and Subject

Another methodological issue arose out of the cultural clash between us and

our research subjects. While other sociologists have alluded to these kinds

of differences (Humphreys 1970; Whyte 1955), few have discussed how the

research relationships affected them. Relationships with research subjects

are unique, because they involve a bond of intimacy between persons who

might not ordinarily associate, or who might otherwise be no more than

casual friends. But when a field researcher undertakes a major study, he

commits himself to a long-term relationship with whatever key informants

he can develop. As the researcher probes his subjects’ experiences and

motivations to understand causality and human nature, he will necessarily

106
encounter fundamental differences between them and himself in character,

values, and attitudes. We were confronted by differences in present vs.

future orientations, desire for thrill seeking and risk vs. security, and

upholding or breaking self-imposed rules. These differences often caused us

great frustration. When we saw dealers act in ways they denied doing,

setting themselves up for repeated failure, we wrestled with the desire to

offer advice, pulled between our observer role (not to influence the natural

setting) and our participant role (to offer friendly help in whatever way

possible). Henslin (1972) and Douglas (1972; Douglas 1976) discuss this

dilemma and various solutions to it. Struggling to cope with the effects on

ourselves of these cultural differences led to increased self-understanding.

Ethical Issues of Participant Research

Various ethical problems were engendered by this research. Most sociologists who engage in participant observation fieldwork encounter ethical

dilemmas during the course of their research experiences (Carey 1972;

Klockars 1977; Klockars 1979; Humphreys 1970; Johnson 1975; Douglas

1976). Fieldwork raises ethical questions, because researchers never fully

throw their allegiance in with their subjects, but maintain their commitment

to the scientific community. Ethical dilemmas are directly related to the

amount of deception undertaken in gathering the data and the degree to

which the deception has been accepted as necessary by the researcher.

Guarding secrets told during taped interviews was not always easy or pleasant. Dealers occasionally revealed things about themselves or others that

we had to pretend not to know. Guarding these confidences often required

lying or building elaborate stories to cover what some people did not want

others to know. Their fronts became our fronts; we had to weave our own

web of deception to guard their performances. Even during the writing of

the research report, we were tom by conflicts between utilizing details to

enrich the data and glossing over descriptions to guard confidences, a problem that has been faced by previous researchers (Polsky 1969; Rainwater

and Pittman 1967; Humphreys 1970).

Furthermore, use of the covert research role generated feelings of guilt,

despite its necessity for maintaining relationships with our key informants.

Their experiences with living covertly were more deeply entrenched than

ours, being a part of their daily coexistence with the nondrug world. Some

of our subjects had used the covert role with us, trying to convince us they

had quit trafficking. Despite the universality of covert behavior in this

setting, we still felt like traitors every time we ran home to make research

notes on observations we had made under the guise of innocent participants.

There was also some guilt from efforts to manipulate people. Although not

major manipulations, they involved courting people to procure information

about them. Manipulation has immediate and long-term effects on the

107
researcher. During it, we felt awkward and phony; over the long run, we

thought friends might later look back and feel exploited. Douglas echoes

similar feelings, although based on a less trusting research relationship:

We liked Jon, regardless of the lack of trust . . . It was our

liking for him that made us feel badly, not only betrayal,

since he never entrusted us with anything and since field

research is inevitably a partly traitorous activity we had

accepted as necessary. (Douglas 1976, p. 139)

Ironically, one other problem was the feeling of “whoring” for data. Often,

we felt that we were being exploited by others, that we were putting more

into the relationship than they, that they were taking us for granted or using

us. Subjects were allowed to lie to us, borrow money and not repay it, and

take advantage of us, but we were expected to behave honorably. This was

an effect of our research strategy of allowing people to take our favors for

little return. Nonetheless, it made us feel as if we were selling ourselves.

CONCLUSIONS

The aggressive research strategy employed was vital to this study. Our

modem, pluralistic society is filled with subcultures whose interests compete

or conflict with each other; each subculture has a set of knowledge reserved

exclusively for insiders. To survive, members do not ordinarily share this

knowledge with those outside the group. To obtain the information we

needed, we had to become like the members in certain ways. Because they

dealt only with people they knew and trusted, we had to become so before

we could reveal our research interests. Confronted with secrecy, hidden

alliances, misrepresentations, and unpredictable changes of intent, we had to

use a delicate combination of overt and covert roles. Throughout, our

deliberate practice of reciprocal exchange enabled us to trade friendship for

knowledge, rather than waiting for the unlikely event that information would

be delivered into our laps. We built a web of research contacts, used them

to obtain highly sensitive data, and carefully checked to ensure validity.

Throughout, I profited from having my husband serve as partner in this

project. It would have been impossible to examine this world as an

unattached female without falling prey to sex role stereotyping, which

excluded women from business dealings. Acting as a couple allowed us to

relate in different ways to both men and women. We protected each other

when we entered the homes of dangerous characters, buoyed each others’

courage, and helped each other keep the conversation going. Conceptually,

we helped each other remain detached and analytical, and we corroborated,

clarified, or (most revealingly) contradicted each others’ observations and

conclusions.

108
Finally, to ensure accuracy, research on deviant groups must be conducted

in the settings where it naturally occurs. As Polsky has forcefully asserted:

This means—there is no getting away from it-the study of career

criminals au natural, in the field, the study of such criminals as they

normally go about their work and play, the study of “uncaught”

criminals and the study of others who in the past have been caught

but are not caught at the time you study them . . . Obviously we

can no longer afford the convenient fiction that in studying criminals

in their natural habitat, we would discover nothing really important

that could not be discovered from criminals behind bars. (Polsky

1969, pp. 155-156)

Studying criminals in their natural habitat shows them in the complexity of

their surrounding subculture, rather than within the artificial environment of

a prison. Otherwise inaccessible dimensions of their lives can be observed

and analyzed firsthand, including the nature of their social organization,

social stratification, lifestyle, and motivation.

REFERENCES

Adler, P.A. Wheeling and Dealing. New York: Columbia University

Press, 1985.

Adler, P.A., and Adler, P. Membership Roles in Field Research. Newbury

Park, CA: Sage Publications, Inc., 1987. 95 pp.

Anderson, N. The Hobo. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1923.

Becker, H. Outsiders. New York: Free Press, 1963.

Becker, H. Whose side are we on. Soc Prob 14:239-247, 1967.

Becker, H., and Geer, B. Participant observation: The analysis of

qualitative field data. In: Adams, R.N., and Preiss, J.J., eds. Human

Organization Research: Field Relations and Techniques. Homewood, IL:

Dorsey, 1960. pp. 267-289.

Birenbaum, A. On managing a courtesy stigma. J Health Soc Behav

11:196-206, 1970.

Blumer, H. Society as symbolic interaction. In: Rose, A., ed. Human

Behavior and Social Processes. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962.

pp. 179-192.

Blumer, H. Symbolic Interaction. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall,

1969.

Bogdan, R., and Taylor, S.J. Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods.

New York: John Wiley, 1975.

Brajuha, M., and Hallowell, L. Legal intrusion and the politics of fieldwork: The impact of the Brajuha case. Urban Life 14(4):454-478, 1986.

Brown, J.D. Toward a revision of labeling theory: The deviant career of

alcoholics—from patient to healer. Unpublished master’s thesis,

University of Denver, 1988.

109
Bruyn, S.T. The Human Perspective in Sociology: The Methodology of

Participant Observation. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1966.

Burgess, R.G. Some role problems in field research. In: Burgess, R.G.,

ed. Field Research: A Sourcebook and Field Manual. London: George

Allen & Unwin, 1982. pp. 45-49.

Carey, J.T. Problems of access and risk in observing drug scenes. In:

Douglas, J.D., ed. Research on Deviance. New York: Random House,

1972. pp. 71-92.

Cressey, P.G. The Taxi Dance Hall. Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1932.

Cummins, M. Report of the Student Task Force on Heroin Use in

Metropolitan Saint Louis. Saint Louis: Washington University Social

Science Institute, 1972.

Denzin, N.K. The Research Act. Chicago: Aldine, 1970.

Douglas, J.D. Understanding everyday life. In: Douglas, J.D., ed.

Understanding Everyday Life. Chicago: Aldine, 1970. pp. 3-44.

Douglas, J.D. Observing deviance. In: Douglas, J.D., ed. Research on

Deviance. New York: Random House, 1972. pp. 3-34.

Douglas, J.D. Investigative Social Research. Newbury Park, CA: Sage

Publications, Inc., 1976.

Douglas, J.D., and Johnson, J.M., eds. Existential Sociology. New York:

Cambridge University Press, 1977.

Everhart, R.B. Between stranger and friend: Some consequences of “long

term” fieldwork in schools. Am Ed Res J 14:1-15, 1977.

Feyerabend, P.F. Against Method. London: New Left Books, 1972.

Gans, H.J. The Urban Villagers. New York: Free Press, 1982.

Goffman, E. Behavior in Public Places. Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1963.

Gold, R.L. Roles in sociological field observations. Soc Forces 36:217-

223, 1958.

Hammersley, M., and Atkinson, P. Ethnography: Principles in Practice.

New York: Tavistock, 1983.

Henslin, J.M. Studying deviance in four settings: Research experiences

with cabbies, suicides, drug users and abortionees. In: Douglas, J.D., ed.

Research on Deviance. New York: Random House, 1972. pp. 35-70.

Hughes, E.C. The Sociological Eye. Chicago: Aldine, 1971.

Humphreys, L. Tearoom Trade. Chicago: Aldine, 1970.

Jarvie, I.C. The problem of ethical integrity in participant observation.

Current Anthro 10:505-508, 1969.

Johnson, J.M. Doing Field Research. New York: Free Press, 1975.

Junker, B.H. Field Work: An Introduction to the Social Sciences.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960.

Kirby, R., and Corzine, J. The contagion of stigma. Qual Soc 4(1):3-20,

1981.

Klockars, C.B. Field ethics for the life history. In: Weppner, R., ed.

Street Ethnography. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage, 1977. pp. 201-226.

110
Klockars, C.B. Dirty hands and deviant subjects. In: Klockars, C.B., and

O’Connor, F.W., eds. Deviance and Decency. Beverly HiIls, CA: Sage,

1979. pp. 261-282.

Landesco, J. Organized Crime in Chicago. Chicago: Illinois Association

for Criminal Justice, 1929.

Lofland, J. Analyzing Social Settings. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1971.

McCall, G.J., and Simmons, J.L., eds. Issues in Participant Observation.

Reading, MA: Addison Wesley, 1969.

Mehan, H., and Wood, H. The Reality of Ethnomethodology. New York:

John Wiley, 1975.

Miller, S.M. The participant observer and “over-rapport.” Am Soc Rev

17:97-99, 1952.

Phillips, D. Epistemology and the sociology of knowledge. Theory and

Society 1:59-88, 1974.

Pollner, M., and Emerson, R.M. The dynamics of inclusion and distance in

fieldwork relations. In: Emerson, R.M., ed. Contemporary Field

Research. Boston: Little, Brown, 1983. pp. 235-252.

Polsky, N. Research method, morality and criminology. In: Hustlers,

Beats and Others. New York: Doubleday, 1969. pp. 109-143.

Powdermaker, H. Stranger and Friend: The Way of an Anthropologist.

New York: Norton, 1966.

Rainwater, R.L., and Pittman, D.J. Ethical problems in studying a politically sensitive and deviant community. Soc Prob 14:357-366, 1967.

Riemer, J. Varieties of opportunistic research. Urban Life 5(4):467-477,

1977.

Schatzman, L., and Strauss, A.L. Field Research: Strategies for a Natural

Sociology. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1973.

Schutz, A. In: Natanson, M., ed. Collected Papers I: The Problem of

Social Reality. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1962.

Schutz, A. The Phenomenology of the Social World. Evanston, IL:

Northwestern University Press, 1967.

Schwartz, M.S., and Schwartz, C.G. Problems in participant observation.

Am J Soc 60:343-353, 1955.

Thrasher, F.M. The Gang. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927.

Trite, H.M. The “outsider’s” role in field study. Soc and Soc Res 41:27-

32, 1956.

Vidich, A.J. Participant observation and the collection and interpretation of

data. Am J Soc 60:354-360, 1955.

Warren, C.A.B., and Rasmussen, P.K. Sex and gender in field research.

Urban Life 6(3):349-369, 1977.

Wax, R. Reciprocity as a field technique. Human Org 11:34-37, 1952.

Whyte, W.F. Street Corner Society. Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1955.

Williams, T.R. Field Methods in the Study of Culture. New York: Holt,

Rinehart & Winston, 1967.

Willis, P. Learning to Labour: How Working Class Kids Get Working

Class Jobs. New York: Columbia University Press, 1977.

111
AUTHOR

Patricia Adler, Ph.D.

Department of Sociology, Box 327

University of Colorado at Boulder

Boulder, CO 80309-0327

112
Recovery From Opiate Addiction

Without Treatment: A Summary1

Patrick Biernacki

INTRODUCTION

For decades, the conventional wisdom has held the notion of “once an

opiate addict, always an addict.” Correspondingly, national policy about

illicit drugs encouraged abstinence, promoted methadone maintenance, and

exercised extreme measures of drug control. This view of the addict and

existing social policy go hand-in-hand. If opiate use is seen as an intractable condition resulting in inevitable addiction and other consequent

unwanted behaviors, then a policy of abstinence and control would appear

to some policymakers to be a logical approach to the situation. However,

this view of opiate use and addiction may not be fully supported by

scientific evidence.

More than 25 years ago, Charles Winick (1962), in his “maturing out”

hypothesis, suggested that addiction might be a “self-limiting” phenomenon

and that addicts might be able to recover on their own. Winick offered a

psychodynamic explanation of the reasons why some addicts quit using after

early adulthood. He argued that young adults become addicted as a way to

cope with problems encountered during that point of the life cycle. As the

problems are resolved and young people pass into adulthood, they learn to

meet ongoing challenges and responsibilities of life without undue stress and

emotion; thus, the shrouding effects of opiate drugs are no longer desired.

Consequently, young adults can stop their use of addictive drugs without

therapeutic intervention.

Later, Lee Robins (1973), in her classic studies of Vietnam veterans,

showed that people who were addicted to opiates during the war could stop

using without professional intervention after they returned from overseas.

Although these and other studies documented that some individuals were

1

This paper summarizes the major findings and analyses that are presented

in greater detail in Biemacki, P. Pathways From Heroin Addiction:

Recovery Without Treatment. Philadelphia: Temple University Press,

1986.

113
capable of self-initiated recovery, they did not address social and

psychological processes that may result in natural recovery.

STUDY SAMPLE

To develop a better understanding of opiate addiction, a qualitative life

history study was conducted of 101 addicts who recovered on their own,

without the help of any formal treatment programs. To qualify for the

research, each respondent had to have been addicted for at least 1 year and

then abstinent for at least 2 years. Addiction was defined as having

experienced uncomfortable physical symptoms when withdrawing from an

opiate drug, for example, chills, cramps, nausea, headaches, or muscle pain.

The average reported years of addiction were 5.69, and the average length

of nonaddiction was 6.91 years.

The study found that the so-called process of “spontaneous remission” may

be neither “spontaneous” nor, strictly speaking, a “remission” to some prior

state. Rather, it appears to be a rich social and psychological process that

brings about dramatic life changes. There is a sequence to the changes, but

they are not necessarily stages, because many were found to occur simultaneously. However, for analytic and explicative purposes, the process of

natural recovery will be described as a sequence of events.

FORMING A RESOLVE

For a drug addict, a life of addiction is an arduous one, providing ample

reasons to want to stop using drugs and change one’s lifestyle. The

consequences and risks from drug addiction are amplified today with the

second wave of the acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS) epidemic

spreading through intravenous-drug-using communities.

Surprisingly, some of the people in the study stopped their opiate use

without developing a strong resolve to do so. Usually, these people never

were deeply immersed in the social world of heroin and were addicted more

through the actions of another person than through their own. For example,

a spouse or lover would hustle and obtain the needed drug for them. When

that person was removed from the scene, possibly as a result of death or

imprisonment, the other found himself or herself associating with another

social world unrelated to drug abuse without making a conscious, explicit

decision to do so.

In other instances, however, resolutions to stop abusing drugs were rooted

in dramatic life crises emanating from the drug world itself. Common to

these cases were fundamental reorientations in frame of reference and

perspective. With these reorientations, alternatives to continued drug use

emerged. In many instances, the resolve to quit had a rational quality, in

which the person carefully weighed alternatives and decided to put his drug

114
use behind him after considering the dangers continued use would entail.

In still other cases, resolutions to stop were rooted in a dramatic and

emotionally charged life crisis. The often-discussed “rock bottom”

phenomenon and existential crisis, in which suicide is thought of or

attempted, illustrate the latter.

BECOMING ABSTINENT

As any cigarette smoker can testify, making a decision to stop smoking

does not necessarily mean that corresponding actions to do so will be taken,

nor does it mean temporary abstinence can be maintained. A myriad of

obstacles lie in the path of addicts who decide to quit and to change their

lives. First, it is common for addicts themselves to believe the conventional

wisdom of “once an addict, always an addict,” often expressed by them as

having an “addictive personality,” or being a “hope-to-die dope fiend.”

Such beliefs work to undermine users’ decisions to stop and weaken their

ability to resist relapse.

A second obstacle to addicts who are trying to end their drug abuse is the

absence of any role model or subcultural folklore to give them insight into

how they might implement their resolution. The reason for this lack of

information about successful, self-initiated termination is that addicts who

are able to maintain their abstinence without having utilized some form of

treatment generally cease to associate with those who remain addicted.

Consequently, successfully abstaining ex-addicts who remove themselves

from the drug scene are believed to have failed in their resolve and,

perhaps, are assumed to be readdicted in another city, imprisoned, or dead.

CREATING AN ALTERNATIVE

Although some form of treatment was reported to be available to the great

majority of people in the study, more than 90 percent rejected it as a

possible alternative to their situations. Most rejected treatment because they

thought they could manage the situation themselves. Others did not believe

treatment would help them. Still others reported that they feared further

stigmatization or that they did not wish to be humiliated or degraded.

These reports are not unusual. Surveys of addicts in San Francisco show

that even if treatment slots were available, many would not volunteer to

take them, because they are not interested in treatment or because they view

treatment programs as too intrusive, controlling, and regimented (Walters et

al. 1986).

When addicts desire to give up their drug use and change their lives, they

frequently are confused about what they should do instead. This confusion

is especially dramatic for those who have been deeply immersed in the

world of addiction for long periods of time. They may see themselves as

having nowhere to turn, having burned their bridges with family and

115
ordinary friends. For such people, life alternatives may present themselves

in a fortuitous manner and have the quality of conversion experiences. For

example, recovering addicts may discover political or religious movements

and completely immerse themselves in these social worlds, much as they

had in the drug world when they were addicted.

In contrast, addicts who have not submerged themselves in a world of

addiction may have an easier time sustaining their resolve to change, by

turning to a relationship that has not been destroyed or by rebuilding a

bridge to one that has not been damaged beyond repair. In either case, the

first step in breaking away from addiction is a literal or symbolic move

away from the drug and the drug world. Following the initial period of

withdrawal, addicts face an existential problem of filling time in their lives

that previously was occupied by hustling, buying, and using drugs.

Regardless of which activities fill the void—religion, family, work,

politics—they may become the exclusive focus of the person’s life. During

this period, which usually lasts about a year, a moratorium takes place on

what might be considered an “ordinary” round of life. The individual rarely

moves beyond the confines of the group and activities with which he has

recently become involved. Simultaneously, other changes are taking place

that can help the abstaining addict maintain his resolve. First, the drug

scene may change. Old friends, dealers, and running partners may leave

the area, go to jail or into treatment, or some may die. These changes may

make it more difficult, but not impossible, for abstainers to obtain the drug

should they be tempted to do so. Second, while staying abstinent, exaddicts undergo experiences that they can and do share with nonaddicts.

With time, these experiences lay the foundation for a commonality of

discourse that helps abstaining addicts to conquer fears that they cannot get

along with or be accepted by nonusers. With the development of ordinary

relationships, the abstaining addict can construct a nonaddict lifestyle that he

becomes committed to and may not wish to jeopardize.

THE CRAVING PROBLEM

Becoming abstinent is one thing, staying clean is another. The relapse of

abstaining addicts is something that has perplexed drug researchers and

addicts themselves. The cycle of abstinence and then the renewal of drug

use commonly has been attributed to something called the craving

phenomenon-jarring, uninvited memories and feelings of past drug use.

In this research, two broad categories of cravings were reported. One

resulted from associations made with withdrawal distress or sickness, and

the second emanated from associations with past instances of using the drug

and experiencing its effects. Each type of craving is triggered by

environmental cues related to drug use or withdrawal. The ex-addicts in

this study reported using two strategies to manage opiate cravings,

116
especially in the initial year of opiate abstinence. The first was to

substitute some other, nonopiate drug-marijuana, alcohol, and tranquilizers

(diazepam, in particular) were the most popular. The second strategy

involved a more complex cognitive and behavioral process of negative

contexting and supplanting. That is, when the abstaining individuals

experienced drug cravings, they reinterpreted their thoughts about using

drugs by placing them in a negative context and supplanted them by

thinking about and doing other things. Important here is that the basis for

this process is provided by the new relationships, identities, and

corresponding perspectives of the abstaining individuals. For example, if

the initial break from addiction involved a religious conversion, the

abstaining person might impose a negative context on an emerging drug

craving by defining it as a temptation of Satan and supplant the thought

with prayer. Each time the abstaining person succeeds and is able to

manage and overcome cravings and engage in behavior unrelated to drugs

he is more likely to maintain his new identity.

With time, the frequency with which cravings occur and the intensity with

which they are experienced diminish. Gradually, as the abstaining addict

becomes more extensively and deeply involved in social worlds that are not

related to illicit drugs, the various cues associated with drug abuse are

reinterpreted and lose their strength to evoke drug cravings. This usually

occurs after about 1 year of abstinence. Finally, those cues no longer

represent harbingers for potential relapse.

BECOMING ORDINARY

The courses that people’s lives take when they stop abusing opiate drugs

without the aid of professional intervention are closely related to the degree

to which, as addicts, they were involved in the world of addiction to the

exclusion of activities in other, more ordinary social worlds, and to the

extent that they had ruined conventional social relationships and spoiled

identities in them.

The way to an identity transformation hinges considerably on the general

lifestyle an addict has maintained, especially the commitments to and

involvements in conventional aspects of life. Major problems faced by exaddicts who have stopped the use of opiate drugs, beyond problems

associated with the craving phenomenon and its management, spring from

societal stigmatization of addiction. Social stigmas present a formidable

barrier that must be overcome if abstaining addicts are successfully to stop

drug use and transform their lives. Difficulties in this transformation may

be compounded if the stigmas of addiction are coupled with other stigmas

(e.g., those associated with race, sex, and class).

In spite of problems facing people who are attempting to break addiction to

drugs, addicts can and do recover without treatment. They can successfully

117
transform their identities and come to be treated as “ordinary” people. They

can do this by reverting to an earlier identity that has not been damaged too

badly as a result of the addiction. Or they can extend an identity that was

present during the addiction and that has somehow remained intact. Or

they can engage an emergent identity that was not present before or during

the addiction. A successful transformation from an identity with opiate use

requires the availability of identity materials from which the “new” identity

can be fashioned. Identity materials are those aspects of social settings and

relationships (e.g., social roles, vocabularies) that can provide the basis to

construct a nonaddict identity and a positive sense of self. In part, the

availability of such materials is related to the stigma associated with

addiction.

Those addicts wishing to change their identities may first have to overcome

the fear and suspicion of nonaddicts before they will be accepted and

responded to in ways that will confirm their new status. Gaining recognition and acceptance from the nonaddict world often is a long and difficult

process. Eventually, acceptance may be gained by the ex-addicts’ behaving

in conventionally expected ways. Following “normal” pursuits, remaining

gainfully employed, meeting social obligations, and possessing some

material things will often enable nonaddicts to trust the abstainer and, over

time, to accept him and respond to him in “ordinary” ways. At the same

time, addicts’ feelings of uncertainty and doubt will lessen as they more

fully accept the new nonaddict life. Ultimately, the identity and perspective

of an addict can become so deemphasized and distant that cravings for the

addictive drug become virtually nonexistent. For all practical purposes, the

addict can be said to have recovered.

CONCLUSION

Obviously, as is common with most research, this work raises a series of

additional questions. The study was modest in that it was done in

retrospect among a relatively small sample of people located through a

chain-referral method. The work represents only a beginning in understanding the natural recovery process, a process that is important enough to

warrant further research.

All the data used in the analysis were gathered subsequent to the events in

question. The use of retrospective materials, although it has certain advantages, also has drawbacks. Problems stem from the vulnerability of human

memory, including the inevitable reconstruction of past events on the basis

of new experiences and vocabularies. Consequently, it is recommended that

longitudinal studies be conducted of addicts as they move through a course

of natural recovery. These should be ethnographic studies done “up close”

that focus on the problems addicts face when they attempt to abstain and on

how such problems are or are not overcome. Especially important would

118
be observations of how the various reactions of nonaddicts to the recovering

addict either facilitate or stymie the recovery process.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The research that provided the materials for this analysis was supported by

U.S. Public Health Service grant #1 H81 DA 01988 from the National

Institute on Drug Abuse.

REFERENCES

Robins, L.N. The Vietnam Drug User Returns. Washington, DC: Supt. of

Docs., U.S. Gov. Print. Off., 1973.

Watters, J.K.; Newmeyer, J.A.; and Cheng, Y. HIV infection and risk

factors among intravenous drug users in San Francisco. Paper presented

at the American Public Health Association Meeting, Las Vegas, NV,

October 1986.

Winick, C. Maturing out of narcotic addiction. Bull Narc 14:1-7, 1962.

AUTHOR

Patrick Biemacki, Ph.D.

Youth Environment Study

1779 Haight Street

San Francisco, CA 94117

119
Women and Addiction: Process,

Treatment, and Outcome

Marsha Rosenbaum and Sheigla Murphy

INTRODUCTION

Women opiate addicts have received little attention in drug abuse research

since the Harrison Act of 1914, which marked the beginning of the criminalization of the use of narcotics. The words “woman addict” often produce

a stereotypic image of an addict who is also a prostitute, a “woman of the

streets,” who has frequent encounters with the criminal justice system.

The field of drug abuse, including drug abuse research, has until approximately a decade ago largely ignored women. This may be because it was

commonly believed there were few women addicts. In addition, women

addicts were not recognized as having unique characteristics and problems

and were, therefore, not distinguished from male addicts in analytic research

on drug abuse.

The scant attention given to women addicts began to change in the early

1970s at the time of the women’s liberation movement and the Nixon

administration. Richard Nixon’s “war on drugs” heightened awareness of

the drug epidemic and resulted in a large investment in drug abuse

treatment and research. The thousands of addicts who entered new

treatment facilities validated the severity of the drug abuse epidemic.

Simultaneously, the women’s movement brought attention to the possibility

that women had drug experiences and problems that, as in some other facets

of life, may be unique from those of men. Consequently, by 1976, the

National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA), became formally interested in

drug abuse research and treatment for women drug addicts. Among

NIDA’s solicitations were proposals for ethnographic “street” studies of

women addicts. At that time, the focus was on women, with crime as a

concomitant concern, in contrast to today’s focus on women, drugs, and the

acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS).

We began work on “The Career of the Woman Addict” in 1977. It was to

be an ethnography that included 100 indepth interviews with unincarcerated,

not-in-treatment women addicts in the San Francisco Bay area. The

objective of the study was to explore the careers of women heroin addicts

120
from the theoretical perspective of symbolic interactionism and from the

philosophy of phenomenology. The snowball, or chain referral method, was

used to locate respondents initially. We were closely affiliated with the

Prisoners’ Union, an organization of convicts, ex-convicts, and others who

were committed to ensuring the civil rights of the incarcerated. The chain

referrals were begun through the girlfriend of an ex-prisoner. We also

posted notices about our research in high-drug-abusing areas of the city. In

this way, we were able to do fieldwork while simultaneously publicizing the

study: two women (both pregnant) posting signs that read “Women addicts

needed to participate in a research project . . . . .” were not ordinarily seen

in the community at that time (now, with AIDS outreach, such scenes are

mote commonplace). Since people wanted to know what we were doing,

we spent time talking with addicts in the streets while posting signs. We

were sensitive to appropriate locations for reaching women, such as

laundromats, supermarkets, and hospital clinic waiting rooms. Near the end

of the study, after it appeared that the pool of subjects from “street”

categories had been exhausted, interviews were begun with women addicts

in treatment programs (n=10) and in jails (n=10). The interviews generally

lasted 2 1/2 to 3 hours and consisted of a tape-recorded, open-ended “life

history” and a short closed-ended quantitative component. Some of the

topics explored were early childhood, drug use, family, relationships, work,

and criminality.

While conducting interviews with women addicts, we learned that drug

abuse treatment was not separate from, but rather integral to, the heroin

world. Addicts routinely went into treatment, just as they went to jail

(Rosenbaum and Murphy 1981). Methadone maintenance in particular had

become a phenomenon to be reckoned with, and women in methadone treatment appeared to have special, distinctive problems. NIDA supported

research in this area, with a grant awarded for the study of women on

methadone. The project involved additional indepth interviews with 100

women who were currently enrolled in methadone programs. Using an

interview format based on addiction as a progressive development, we

interviewed each of the women about their initial and subsequent drug

abuse behaviors.

This chapter begins with a discussion of our major research findings on

women addicts and heroin abuse and then moves to a discussion of women

on methadone. It closes with a brief examination of outcomes associated

with women and addiction and a discussion of women, drugs, and AIDS.

WOMEN AND HEROIN: A CAREER OF FUNNELING OPTIONS

Women enter the heroin world for a number of reasons, among them a perception that it provides an expansion of life options. They are attracted to

heroin, because they want to be part of a social scene complete with the

appearance (and sometimes the reality) of money, excitement, and the

121
euphoric properties of drugs. Heroin has a reputation as the “hardest drug,”

and, as such, its users take on an outsider or outlaw status, which is sometimes appealing to young women. These attractions may add a new dimension to women’s lives: lives that they often describe as boring, alienated,

and without money. Occasionally, women are introduced to heroin through

a boyfriend or spouse, but this research found that this does not occur as

often as the literature suggests (Get-skin et al. 1977; Rosenbaum 1981a;

Waldorf 1973). Some of the middle class women (a minority among

addicts) who were interviewed began using heroin as an attempt to alleviate

physical pain (sometimes connected with menstruation). They began with

legal prescriptions (e.g., pain killers such as codiene) and in time purchased

street drugs and eventually heroin when their prescriptions ran out or were

withdrawn by physicians (Prather and Fidell 1978; James 1975).

Initially, women addicts enjoy the beginnings of a heroin career. But the

reality of life as a “junkie” quickly turns out to be different from life in the

initial or honeymoon phase. In the addicted stage, women become locked

in, and the earlier illusion of a possible expansion of options transforms into

a funneling or reduction of life options. Gifts of heroin that are common

for beginning and women addicts begin to dwindle. Male heroin addicts

often claim women addicts have an easier life, because they can resort to

prostitution with comparative ease. Support of one’s life is a major issue

for most people, but, for the female heroin addict, the problem is compounded by the need to acquire and use drugs. The heroin world is a

chaotic one, nothing is predictable. Finding a consistent source of good

street drugs occupies most of an addict’s time. Holding down a legitimate

job is nearly impossible. Legal employment available to an unskilled,

undereducated woman rarely pays enough to support an addict’s habit.

Most women resort to illegitimate jobs with better pay and more flexible

hours.

Upon entering the world of illegal work, women addicts’ lives become full

of risk and chaos. Such work is often sex-role related: prostitution,

forgery, and shoplifting, i.e., the guise of innocence allows women to pass

bad checks and shoplift without being noticed and suspected as often as

men are (Lemert 1951). Encounters with or entry into the criminal justice

system escalate the funneling of life options out of the conventional world.

Criminal records are acquired. Involvement in criminal activities further

serves to lock women into deviant lifestyles.

Women may suffer physically more than men, which can present problems

concerning presentation of self. Daily drug use often causes premature

aging. Women appear older and worn out, while their male counterparts

seem to recuperate more easily. One woman told us, “Heroin preserves

men and tears women down.” Scarring from “track” or injection marks

(sites on the skin where addicts inject) are often seen as remnants of a wild

youth on men. On women, they represent marks of a “fallen woman.”

122
Ultimately, most women addicts want to change their lives, and this appears

to be for four main reasons. The first is inundation in the heroin life.

Because women addicts have no time for anything but heroin acquisition

and use, children tend to be neglected, jobs get lost, and numerous health

problems, including a gnawing, constant withdrawal, result. Second, women

addicts desire recovery when they become pregnant. Birth control is not

common; many women addicts cease menstruation and consequently believe

they are incapable of becoming pregnant while addicted. When they

discover they have become pregnant (often not until they begin to “show,”

because a missed period is meaningless), they are usually compelled to seek

treatment for their addictions to avoid having an addicted baby. Third,

when women reach 30, they may experience “burnout,” coupled with panic,

often asking themselves, “Is this who I want to be forever?” Finally, the

recognition of a funneling of life options is a major factor that motivates

recovery from heroin addiction: losing children through neglect and/or

social service agencies’ interventions, either not having had children or

becoming pregnant while addicted, and loss of ties with the conventional

world (Rosenbaum 1981b).

Since the proliferation of heroin treatment in the late 1960s and early

1970s, women (and men) who want to end their addictions frequently turn

to treatment programs for help. The largest single treatment modality

available for heroin addiction is methadone maintenance. As primary

caregivers for children, women find that methadone maintenance is often

their only option. Therapeutic communities usually do not accept children.

It is only within the last few years that a small number of programs have

begun to meet the needs of chemically dependent women and their children

(Reed 1987).

SURRENDER TO CONTROL: WOMEN ON METHADONE

The initial phase on methadone maintenance can be characterized by surrender to control. Methadone replaces the chaos of the heroin world with a

structured routine: mandatory clinic attendance, payment of fees, urinalysis,

and counseling. There is often a sense of relief: the daily job of getting

money is gone; women have more time; and, best of all, they are not sick

from heroin withdrawal every day. For pregnant addicts, methadone provides stability. Some programs even have a special component for pregnant

addicts, in which they are given support and education about childbirth and

child-rearing. There is an initial appreciation of the control exerted by the

clinic and its accompanying structure. The unspoken posture is, “Help me.”

In the next phase, often termed “stabilization” (some refer to it as “addiction”), an enduring relationship to methadone is established. This phase

indicates successful adjustment, at a correct dosage, to methadone as a drug:

the effects of heroin are blocked, and withdrawal is prevented. Clients may

begin to earn take-home doses of methadone and begin to assert some con123
trol over their lives. This is a critical stage in the client’s recovery. There

are clinic “successes,” who are able to break from the deviant world and

use methadone while attempting to reenter conventional life. There are also

clinic “failures,” who continue to see themselves as part of the heroin world

(often they have tried but failed to reenter conventional life) and use

methadone as a fallback drug and lifestyle.

Finally, there is a phase of disillusionment, when initial surrender to control

becomes resentment of control. Resentment develops toward mandatory

reporting to the clinic, the methadone dose, commuting and travel problems,

health concerns, parenting problems (e.g., attempting to be a good role

model while on methadone), and issues of identity. Identity problems

center on being a “half-junkie” and on aging. Women complain that they

are in a sort of limbo-no longer a junkie but still an addict. While

attempting to function in the conventional world, these women feel they

must conceal their status as methadone clients; hence, they continue to bear

the stigma of addiction within themselves, although they have technically

exited from the heroin world.

The strength of the stigma attached to opiate abuse is illustrated by the

following. One of our respondents was a postoperative transsexual and

had been living as a woman for 4 or 5 years at the time of interview. The

respondent had a good job at a bank and was most anxious that no one at

the bank find out about her methadone use or her transsexual background.

The interviewer asked, “If you were at the office Christmas party and

somehow a fellow employee found out about one of your secrets, which

would be worse?” The respondent answered without any hesitation, “I’d

much rather they knew I used to be a man. If they knew I was on

methadone, they’d no longer trust me and then they would start watching

their purses. I’d probably lose my job.” The stigma of an addict’s identity

remains, even for clients receiving methadone maintenance treatment.

Aging plays an important role in disillusionment with methadone, just as it

did with heroin. As most of us do, these women take stock of themselves

and wonder if methadone is what they will be doing for and with the rest

of their lives. Most do not want to be on methadone indefinitely

(Rosenbaum 1982).

Obstacles to methadone detoxification, however, are numerous. There are

few visible formulas for success or role models who have been detoxified

without returning to drug or alcohol abuse. Successful detachment from

methadone means staying away from the clinic. Methadone counselors have

told us that, if they see a detoxified client visiting the clinic with frequency,

they assume the client is not doing well. Such a client is likely to be

either looking for heroin or trying to buy someone’s take-home dose of

methadone. Therefore, for the most part, there are few if any successful

ex-methadone patients at clinics that can act as role models. Paradoxically,

124
achieving success as a methadone patient can impede detachment from

methadone. Women on methadone who are adjusting successfully to the

conventional world, often holding down jobs and raising children, cannot

afford to go through an unsuccessful detoxification. It would require that

they endure the sickness of withdrawal for an indeterminate period of time,

possibly jeopardizing the order of their lives. Through methadone, women

addicts can achieve a delicate balance in their lives, and detoxification from

methadone could threaten any gains made. Additionally, clinic successes

are reinforced by staff, and losing this positive feedback can be difficult.

Perhaps the most pervasive obstacle to ending use of methadone is fear.

As one clinic counselor told us, “With detoxing, what you hear is what you

get.” Negative descriptions about detoxification circulate around the clinic.

Patients are concerned about long-term withdrawal symptoms, emotional

vulnerability, and a lack of social life (clinic attendance and going out for

coffee with other clients become a mainstay of some women’s social lives)

as problematic aspects of attempts to detoxify. An experienced clinic

counselor told us, “It’s like asking you to visit hell for awhile.” As a

result, only a small percentage of women successfully detoxify from

methadone and remain street-drug free (Rosenbaum 1985).

OUTCOMES OF WOMEN’S ADDICTION AND TREATMENT

Outcomes of women’s addiction and treatment are linked to social class.

For those who enter addiction through the working and lower classes, life

options are limited from forces both outside and inside the deviant world.

After addiction, it may be more difficult for women to readjust to the

conventional world than it is for men. Women addicts may believe they

carry a more negative stigma from their drug abuse than men, and, as a

consequence, they may find it more difficult to secure and keep jobs.

Within the “deviant” world, aging may make it more difficult for women to

compete in sex-role-linked activities such as prostitution. As a consequence,

working and lower-class women who become and remain heroin addicts

often live on government support and/or become permanently enrolled in

methadone maintenance programs. This may change if new fiscal policies

and fee-for-service treatment programs are adopted.

Women who have entered addiction through the middle class (e.g., “hippies”

and “medical” addicts) may have more options if they have not become too

immersed in the deviant world (e.g., too many incarcerations). It is

possible for them to readjust more readily, because they often possess the

resources necessary to start a new life. Perhaps more important, they

already have middle-class status and can detach from their addiction as a

phase rather than a career (Rosenbaum 1985).

For women addicts and their children, the prognosis is often grim. The

need for improved treatment opportunities has long since been recognized,

125
but the gap between what currently exists and meeting the need remains

large. In the midst of an AIDS epidemic among intravenous drug users

(IVDUs), women addicts and their children represent high-risk populations,

especially if women share their needles or engage in prostitution. In

California, short-duration methadone maintenance treatment is common, and

there are decreases in available treatment slots, both of which may lead to

higher recidivism among methadone treatment clients and a corresponding

increase in the risk of AIDS transmission.

CONCLUSION

In this era of AIDS, ethnographic information and available resources must

be applied to intervene in the spread of the AIDS virus. In many ways,

women IVDUs are the greatest challenge to outreach workers and treatment

personnel, because issues concerning sex roles and the stigma of addiction

make women addicts one of the more difficult to reach at-risk populations.

Cultural differences in women’s roles affect the outcome of drug abuse

treatment interventions. For example, in the Hispanic communities, women

seldom associate with others on the streets or outside their homes unless

accompanied by their husbands or boyfriends. Women trained in innovative

outreach methods are needed to help women addicts who may be relatively

isolated.

Efforts to recruit women addicts into treatment programs should take into

account their roles as primary caregivers for children. Providing services

for children, such as coupons for well-baby examinations or organizing play

groups for mothers and children in neighborhoods with chemically dependent populations, are likely to attract women into participation. Perhaps

most important, facilities for children should be a component of all

treatment programs that serve women.

Women addicts as well as men should feel encouraged to reenter the

conventional world without the burden of stigma. Most recovered addicts

assume new identities and/or resume viable old ones in order to make

successful transitions (Biemacki 1986). The old drug-using lifestyle must

be replaced by a new, conventional one. An organizing principle in many

women’s lifestyles today is the job outside the home. Efforts could be

made in the workplace to destigmatize addiction and provide positive

support to women who recover from drug abuse. In sum, ex-addict identities should be attainable, without shame or stigma, for women as well as

for men.

Finally, ethnographic research should be continued to identify special and

distinctive experiences, careers, and problems women have with drugs.

Data collection techniques that take into account women’s lifestyles and

field researchers who can appreciate women’s unique experiences are

126
essential. Of late, AIDS outreach programs have recognized the importance

of ethnography in locating subjects and in effective intervention to curb the

spread of the AIDS virus among drug addicts. Consistent with such programs, women ethnographers should become more involved in fieldwork to

reach this difficult but pivotal population.

REFERENCES

Biernacki, P. Pathways from Heroin Addiction: Recovery from Treatment.

Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1986.

Get-skin, D.; Judd, L.L.; and Rovner, S.A. Career dynamics of female

heroin addicts. Am J Drug Alcohol Abuse 6:1-23, 1977.

James, J. Female Addiction and Criminal Involvement. Presented at the

Pacific Sociological Association Meeting, Victoria, B.C., April, 1975.

Lemert, E. Social Pathology. New York: McGraw Hill, 1951.

Prather, J., and Fidell L.S. Drug use and abuse among women: An

overview. Int J Addict 13(6):863-885, 1978.

Reed, B. Developing women-sensitive drug dependence treatment services:

Why so difficult? J Psychoactive Drugs 19(2), 1987.

Rosenbaum, M. Sex roles among deviants: The woman addict. Int J

Addict 16:859-877, 1981a.

Rosenbaum, M. Women on Heroin. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers

University Press, 1981b.

Rosenbaum, M. Surrender to control: Women on methadone. Final

Report, Grant 1 R01 DA 02442. Rockville, MD: National Institute on

Drug Abuse, 1982.

Rosenbaum, M. Getting off methadone. Final Report, Grant R01 DA

02242. Rockville, MD: National Institute on Drug Abuse, 1985.

Rosenbaum, M., and Murphy, S. Getting the treatment: Recycling women

addicts. J Psychoactive Drugs 13(1):1-13, 1981.

Waldorf, D. Careers in Dope. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1973.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Research reported here was supported by U.S. Public Health Service grants

1 R01 DA 01793 and 1 R01 DA 02442 from the National Institute on Drug

Abuse.

AUTHORS

Marsha Rosenbaum, Ph.D.

Sheigla Murphy

Institute for Scientific Analysis

2235 Lombard Street

San Francisco, CA 94123

127
Chicano Intravenous Drug Users

Reyes Ramos

INTRODUCTION

Not long ago, I went to a shooting gallery. An outreach worker, an exaddict, had permission to take me and my research assistant there to give a

presentation on acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS) and intravenous (IV) drug abusers to the clientele of the gallery.

We spoke with 12 Chicano men, mostly in their twenties. The owner and

two others appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties.

During a question-and-answer period after our talk, an addict said:

This stuff is interesting. If you are going around doing this,

I’ll be your consultant. For a fee, of course. We can get the

wire out [i.e., the word out]. But, you understand, we need to

look into it.

The day after the meeting, the “consultant” and another individual from the

gallery came to our office. During the interview, the consultant told my

assistant that they had come to check us out. The consultant said that they

wanted to check out the relationship between the AIDS project and the host

agency, a drug treatment agency. As the consultant put it, “We want to see

if you people are independent from this place. We don’t trust some of the

people here.” He was referring to the host agency and staff.

The consultant, like other IV drug users, was trying to make sense of the

world in which he lives. Sometimes professionals forget this basic fact of

human nature and treat IV drug users as unidimensional people. Researchers, like social service people, may think of IV drug users as if they live in

a vacuum. They do not. IV drug users lead busy and complicated lives,

and they constantly assess who is doing what with whom and for what

reason. Thus, any effort to reduce the IV drug user’s chances of acquiring

AIDS must address the complex features of the addict’s life and how the

addict goes about making sense of his practical circumstances.

The purpose of this chapter is to describe the complex and dynamic world

of Chicano IV drug users and to describe one method we use to discover

128
this world. Ethnographic data are presented to illustrate various aspects of

the Chicano IV drug user’s world. Some of these data come from cities on

the U.S. and Mexican border where ethnographic work is now underway.

In addition, we show how the methodological aspects of the “Indigenous

Leader Outreach to IV Drug Abusers” model enriches the quality of ethnographic data that we obtain, data that we then use to influence behavioml

change among IV drug users at risk for acquiring the AIDS virus.

DRUG CULTURE

Much is said about IV drug users in general, but little is known about the

drug culture of the Chicano IV drug user (Aumann et. al. 1972; Bullington

1977; Jorquez 1984; Moore 1978; Moore and Mata 1982; Morales 1984).

What Chicano IV drug users themselves say about their culture and the

people who make up that culture is informative.

Chicano IV users claim that there are at least three aspects to their drug

culture. One aspect is the way Chicano IV users classify themselves.

Another aspect is linguistic, the language that Chicano IV users create and

use. The third aspect deals with the ways “helpers” hinder drug addicts.

Chicano IV Users’ Self-Classifications

Chicano IV drug users refer to themselves as “tecatos.” It is said that the

term tecato was applied to heroin users in Mexico in the 1940s. Then, it

was used to distinguish heroin users from other drug users. The other major drug of preference at that time was opium. Even though some tecatos

use cocaine today, the term is still used to refer to heroin users.

Tecatos stratify themselves into three groups: high class, medium class, and

cucarachos.

High Class. Individuals in this group are known as tecatos buenos, good

tecatos; they provide for themselves. They have money, and they do not

ask for credit. They go to the connection or drug source and buy what

they need. If they do not have the money for the drug, they do without.

If they are arrested and they have to “kick” (withdraw from the drug habit),

they kick quietly and do not complain about the pain.

The older and good tecatos see the young tecatos as crybabies. As some of

the good tecatos put it:

The guys today are spoiled. Or, rather, they have made themselves spoiled because, when they get arrested, they know that

they are going to get medicine in the county jail, and they start

to cry. They can’t take it like in the past. Then, you were

arrested and you knew that you were going to suffer and you

129
prepared yourself. It is bad to break [kick], but when you

break, like I tell you, you learn to take it and not to fear

breaking.

There is truth in what the older good tecatos say about some of today’s

Chicano addicts. Older good tecatos can talk a supposedly good young

tecato out of being sick for a while or into waiting for his fix. There is a

lesson to be learned here for AIDS prevention. For example, good tecatos

can train younger tecatos into waiting for their fix until they clean their

needle with bleach.

This account may serve to illustrate the point Mata and Jorquez make when

they write, “We found that controlled IV drug users tended to be older and

more experienced” (Mata and Jorquez 1987, p. 49). Mata and Jorquez go

on to say that these individuals “use various precautions, e.g., less frequent

drug use and less drugs used, and they are more careful about who they

share their drugs and IV injection works with” (Mata and Jorquez 1987, p.

49). This may be the case, but another explanation for controlled use may

be that older tecatos operate under the old drug culture norms of a good

tecato.

Other characteristics of good tecatos are that they dress well and act and

talk responsibly. It is also said that they are reliable. Moreover, they may

be employed at a “regular” job, or they may have a hustle (i.e., an illegal

activity that makes money for them). Finally, these individuals may be

married and appear to live ordinary lives.

Medium Class. (In Spanish, these individuals are called “medianos,” so the

label “middle class” does not translate into mediano.) These individuals are

also seen as good tecatos. They do not ask for credit or a handout. But,

they are different from tecatos buenos. While the good tecato is a leader or

inner-directed type of person, the tecato mediano is not motivated to go out

either to “connect” or to find a way to get money (i.e., steal). The tecato

mediano waits around for someone to invite him to do a job or to connect.

This person is a follower.

Cucarachos (Cockroaches). The cucaracho is an individual who hangs

around the connection. Usually, there are one or two cucarachos around a

connection. This individual always asks for a handout. The cucaracho

does not pay his own way. He depends on real tecatos. He just waits

around to see who will give him a “taste” or provide him with the drug.

Although the cucaracho behaves and talks as if he were a real tecato, this

individual is not seen as a teal tecato by other tecatos. It is said that these

individuals rarely get hooked. If they get any drug, it is what is left in the

cotton, or the cooker, or the syringe.

130
Cucarachos get a taste of heroin by doing favors or little jobs for the users

and the seller. The cucaracho may also get a taste for lending his works

(drug equipment) to a user who may not have his at the time of purchase.

Or, he may run an errand either for the buyer/user or seller. For example,

the cucaracho may go get cigarettes or syringes at the drug store, or do

little odd jobs, like clean the car or yard for the seller or user.

There are some exceptions to the above description of the cucaracho. There

are cases where a cucaracho lends or turns his home into a shooting

gallery. In these cases, the cucaracho gets more than a taste. The

cucaracho may get a large quantity of drugs because of the service he is

rendering and may therefore become addicted. In a recent case in El Paso,

TX, a cucaracho overdosed and died in this way.

A cucaracho plays a critical role in the life of IV users who shoot up when

they buy in the home of the connection. More often than not, the cucaracho provides the works. While waiting for a tecato to buy and use, the

cucaracho may spend time rinsing his works with water. Cucarachos could

be trained to use bleach for cleaning works. An outreach worker on our

project is helping cucarachos to develop a routine of rinsing injection

equipment with bleach to prevent the spread of AIDS.

Cucarachos have a negative side to them. They may “burn” some people.

It is said that cucarachos do not bum real tecatos, but that they may bum a

newcomer, a “narc” (a police informer) or an informer for a narc. An informer for a narc is said to wear a chaqueta de relaje, or jacket of shame.

Often, in a group of people, an individual may stare at another who is not

in his group and say, “He has a jacket” (trae chaqueta).

Informers will use a cucaracho to buy drugs from a connection, so that the

narc may locate the connection with the drug. In these cases, the cucaracho

will take the money and not come back with the drug. These people, narc

or narc informer, usually will not harm the cucaracho. An informer or

individual with the jacket of shame will not go after the cucaracho who

burned him. The informer cannot ask for the whereabouts of the cucaracho

because nobody will cooperate with him. People in the community tend to

know who is a narc informer.

A newcomer, either to the neighborhood or town or to drug use, who gets

burned by a cucaracho often does nothing, perhaps because the newcomer

does not know where to find the cucaracho or because he thinks he got

burned by a real tecato. As pointed out, cucarachos present themselves as

real tecatos.

Finally, the cucaracho depends on others for his support. He may be

married, but he rarely has a steady job. Often, his wife is on welfare, and

131
he lives off her check. Or, as pointed out above, he may go work for a tecato for a day. He may fix a car, clean a yard, or take trash to the dump.

Implications of Self-Classifications. Needle sharing is common in these

three groups of people. The high-class tecato bueno mostly shares with his

partner, who may be his wife, girlfriend, or male buddy. Prior to the AIDS

epidemic, these people only rinsed their works with water before passing it

on to the partner. Now, these people tend to use new needles or needles

rinsed with bleach if they are going to share with someone other than their

wife.

As noted, the tecato bueno tends to be more controlled in his drug use. He

or she will not share needles with anyone who is not in his group of

tecatos buenos. This norm is similar to the one dealing with money. The

tecato bueno will not buy drugs if he or she does not have the money.

Instead, they will wait until they have the money.

The tecato mediano, like the high-class tecato, shares with his drug-using

buddies. The cucaracho shares his needle with whoever gives him a taste

of the drug. As pointed out earlier, the cucaracho can play a significant

role in cleaning needles with bleach.

The status of a tecato may also be influenced by other factors. For

example, the tecato may be a connection, a pusher, or a consumer. Connections are seen as being higher in status than the pusher and consumer.

The pusher is higher in status than the consumer.

There is a behavior that may transcend these three classifications of tecatos.

In the southwest, some recent arrivals from prison are using drag queens.

If, in the past, an individual had one or several female prostitutes to provide

sex, drugs, and income, he now may have a drag queen in his stable of

prostitutes.

In some border cities, drag queens and gay prostitutes appear to make more

money than female prostitutes. An interesting aspect of this situation is that

these tecatos do not think of themselves as homosexual, and they are not

seen by others as homosexual. They are seen as tecatos with a good

hustle.

Tecatos and Language Use

In the emerging literature on AIDS prevention, AIDS researchers and social

services delivery people call for “culturally and linguistically” appropriate

prevention programs (Amaro 1987; Worth and Rodriguez 1986). These

suggestions look great, but most writers do not specify what they mean by

“cultural” and “linguistic” (Amaro 1987). They assume that the reader

knows what these terms mean. This section addresses the linguistic aspects

132
of these recommendations; another section of this chapter will address the

problems created when researchers do not define “culturally appropriate.”

The few writers who define “linguistically appropriate” do so in a limited

way (Amaro 1987). For example, the claim to have linguistically appropriate prevention programs only means that written materials and verbal interactions will be in Spanish and/or “spanglish.” The assumption made is that

the Spanish used is standard and that the spanglish is a mixture of Spanish

and English.

This basic notion of presenting materials either in the subject’s standard

native language or in some dialect is fine, as far as it goes. But it is

limited because it does not address how individuals use language, create and

use language codes, and do code switching. Moreover, it does not address

the contextual aspects of the social and physical environment that IV users

and sex partners use to make sense out of what they and others do (e.g.,

buy drugs, steal, fence stolen goods, and get and hold jobs).

Tecatos, like any other people, create words and word usage that make up a

language unique to them. The words that follow are used by tecatos as

codes in specific situations.

Algoda. Algoda comes from the word algodon, which means cotton in

standard Spanish. But, in the drug culture, cotton can mean any item that

the tecato uses to filter the drug after it is cooked. The “cotton” often is

the filter from a cigarette. Usage: Preste las algodas. (Lend me the

cottons.) Móchate con las algocias. (Share with me the cottons.) Mochate

is not often used in this way. The root word in standard Spanish is

mochar, which means to cut. With the use of the phrase, mochate con las

algodas, the individual reveals his status. It is said that only beginners and

cucarachos ask for the algodas/cottons.

Aliviane. Aliviane comes from the standard Spanish word alivianar, which

means to heal or cure. In slang, aliviane means to lighten up or get better.

Usage: Pasame un aliviane. (Pass me a cure or help me out for the

moment by giving me a fix or at the very least a few drops, or a cotton.)

Andaba malillia, pero ya me aliviane. (I was sick, but now I have gotten

healed or cured.) In other words, the individual is saying, “I was sick, but

I have just fixed.”

Apáre. Apáre comes from the Spanish word aparar, which means to stop.

Here it means armed robbery. Usage: Hacer un apáre (to do an armed

robbery).

Carga. Carga means load in Spanish. In the tecato world, it means

heroin. Usage: Traes carga? (Do you have heroin?)

133
Chafa. Chafa means cheap. Usage: Es tecato chafa. (He is a cheap or

not a serious/real tecato).

Chiva. Chiva means goat in Spanish and heroin in the tecato world.

Usage: La chiva esta buena. (The heroin is good.)

Cincho. Cincho comes from the Spanish word cincha and the English

word cinch. In the tecato world it means the same. Usage: De cincho la

puedo agarrar. (For sure, I can get it, in a cinch [easily].)

Clávte. Clávate comes from the Spanish word clavo, which means nail.

Clávate in the tecato world means to wait or hide. Usage: Clávate porque

hay ropa tendida. Literally translated, this means: Nail yourself because

clothes are on the clothesline. For the tecato, the sentence means “Wait,

don’t talk, because there are people listening.”

Cotorrear. Cotorrear comes from the Spanish word cotorra, which means

parrot. For the tecato, cotorrear is the back and forth head movement that

an addict engages in when he is fixed (i.e., following recent injection of the

drug). Usage: Estas cotorriando? (Are you fixed?) Being able to recognize this behavior is very useful to outreach workers and researchers.

Saying, “Estás cotorreando?” gives the workers credibility with addicts and

helps to establish rapport. As we have learned, the tecato opens up more

when he perceives that we are knowledgeable. We assume that this perception leads him to believe that we are members of his culture.

Cura. Cura comes from the word curar, which means to cure or heal. In

the tecato world, it has several meanings. Usages are given with the

definitions. It can mean “to fix” as in the expressions: Para la cura, o me

voy ir a curar. (For the cure, or I am going to cure myself.) Cura can

also mean to laugh at something or someone, as in: Es bien cura. (He is

funny.) It can also mean fun activities, like curadas, or indicate the

nodding behavior that addicts engage in after a fix.

Enjable. For the tecato, enjable means to break into a house or a business

to steal. Usage: Vamos enjablamos a esa casa or negocio. (Let’s go rob

a house or a business.)

Esquinear. Esquinear comes from the Spanish word meaning comer. In

the tecato world, the word means support. Usage: Esquinéame. (Give me

support, or give me a comer so that I may help myself.)

Fardear. For the tecato, fardear means to shoplift. Usage: Vamos a

fardear, o anda fardeando. (Let’s go shoplift, or he is shoplifting.)

134
Filerear. Filerear comes from the Spanish word filo, which means cutting

edge. For the tecato, it means to inject with a needle or syringe. Usage:

Se filereáron? (Did they inject themselves?)

Jále. Jále comes from the Spanish word jalar, which means to pull or haul.

For the tecato, jale means a job or employment. Usage: Vamos hacer éste

jále. This sentence can have two meanings. It can mean let’s go do this

job. Or, it can mean let’s go steal. Tecatos always talk about jáles or

jalesitos.

Jugar el Número. Jugar el número (play the number) means to play a

game or to develop a strategy/movida. Usage: The person assesses a

situation and determines whether it requires that he play a fool or appear

innocent or smart. He then plays el número or the part of a fool or an

innocent or smart person. A good interviewer who knows tecato life can

say to a tecato, “no me jueges el número.” In saying this, the interviewer

lets the respondent know that he or she knows the situation and that the

respondent needs to be “straight” with him or her.

La Muleta. Muleta means crutch. This is one of the important words in

the tecatos’ vocabulary. For the tecato, la muleta refers to something that

can become a problem. Usage: Me voy a quitarme esta muleta. This

means that I am going to take away something that is or can become a

problem. For example, I am going to a job that I don’t really want to do,

but I’m going to do it. Or, if I have a gun on me, I will go hide it

because if I don’t it can be a problem. The same thing applies to having

drugs on you. You need to hide them. Usage: Para no traér la muleta.

(So that I will not be carrying the problem.) An addict may say, “Mi

quiciera morir para quitarme esta muleta.” (I would like to die to be rid of

my problem of being an addict.)

Malilla. Malilla comes from the Spanish word mal, which means bad or

ill. The tecato may use the word to mean that he is sick in the “straight”

sense or that he needs a fix. Usage: Ando buti malilla. (I am very sick.)

(The word buti may be a word indigenous to El Paso, TX.)

Movida. Movida means strategy. Usage: Andar en una movida (having a

motive or being in a strategy).

Parchar. Parchar means to patch. For the tecato, the word means to have

sexual intercourse. Usage: Esta madre no se pega nomás parchando. Con

erres. (You can get this mother [the AIDS virus] in other ways besides

sexual intercourse. With works or rigs.) Some tecatos call condoms

bandaids, and they request them because they are going to parchar.

Piña. Piña means pineapple in Spanish. For the tecato, piña means story

or lie. Usage: Es piña? (Is it a story/lie?)

135
Ponle por la puerta. Literally, put it at the door, this phrase is used to

mean to confront the person. Usage: Sálele por la puerta, no me

descuentes. (Come out the door, don’t discount me.) The confrontation

may result in a physical fight. But, whatever may occur, the point is that,

at the start, the activity is face to face, not catching the other off guard or

coming at him from behind. If someone has pulled a movida (literally,

strategy) on you, and you meet him on the street, he knows that he pulled

a movida on you, so he may say, “Sálele por la puerta, no me descuentes.”

Rayarse. Rayarse means to get something. This word is an important

word in the tecato’s vocabulary. Usage: Te rayas con algo. (You came

out with something.) The something is usually money or an item that can

be exchanged for money or drug.

Rollo. Rollo means roll in Spanish. Rollo means talk/conversation or “rap”

for the tecato. Usage: Tirar rollo. (Give them a talk.) Our outreach

workers often say, “Les tiré el rollo de AIDS.” (I gave them the AIDS

talk.)

Soda. Soda means cocaine. Usage: Traen soda. (They have cocaine.)

Talonear. Talonear means to hustle. Usage: Vamos a talonear. (Let’s go

hustle.) Anda taloneando. (He is hustling.) Ese bato es muy talón. (This

guy is always looking for something to do, like a job, or something that he

can steal.)

Traer Cola. Literally, having a tail, traer cola means being on probation

or parole. It can also mean being followed or being searched for. Usage:

Traer cola de tres años. (I have a probation period of 3 years.)

To explain this term with a brief digression, there are some interesting

treatment aspects to the idea of having a tail or traer cola. A tecato on

parole or probation is not supposed to be on drugs during this period, but

many tecatos do use drugs. If they want to enroll in a treatment program

that requires payment, the tecato can’t go to his parole or probation officer

(PO) for help, even though the PO might be able to obtain financial help to

pay for the treatment program. The situation is a catch 22.

If the tecato admits to his PO that he is using again, he runs the risk of

having his parole or probation revoked. Thus, a tecato can only go to a

counselor in a treatment program whom he trusts.

A tecato may go to a counselor/friend and say, “Ando malilla, y también

ando buscando puetta para quitarme ésta muleta. Pero, traigo cola.” As

translated: “I’m strung out, and I am also looking for a way out to get this

thing off of me. But, I have a tail.”

136
If the counselor knows the PO and knows that he can work with him, the

counselor may approach the PO to tell him the actual situation. And, thus,

he may help the tecato.

In this situation, the tecato must have someone who can understand his

plight and language and can “front” for him. The advocate needs to know

the tecato’s language, to be able to esquinear/support the tecato.

Transa. Transa means transaction or deal. The concept of transa implies

that the deal should be “under the table” and that the items being exchanged

for the money are probably stolen. Usage: Vamos hacer esta transa. (We

are going to go make a deal.)

Toriquear. Toriquear means to lie. Usage: Me estas toriquiando? (Are

you lying to me?) As pointed out before, an outreach worker and

researcher may use this word like the other words listed here. In so doing,

he can communicate and establish or reveal that he has membership in the

tecato community.

Vaquita. Vaquita means little cow in Spanish. In the tecato world, it

means that two people share the price of a fix. Each person gets half of

the drug in the cooker, and these two people share the syringe. Usage:

Busco una vaquita. (I am looking for a little cow.) Tecatos with little

money practice the vaquita process. Many tecatos in the border cities of

Mexico do this.

The words given are codes. Tecatos use them to communicate with one

another and to make sense of what they are doing in specific situations.

These words convey meaning to the tecato in terms of the context in which

they are used by particular individuals.

For example, an individual can say to a friend, “Let’s go do a job.”

(Vamos hacer este jále.) A third person or listener to the verbal exchange

may want to know what job they are talking about. He may ask, “Qué

jále?’ Often the response is something like the following: “Un jále.” (A

job). In the drug culture, this response tells the person asking the question

that he is not going to be told. The response also lets the questioner know

that he should not probe. In the drug culture, people who probe engage in

unacceptable behavior. Membership in the culture is maintained by

knowing the norms of appropriate behavior.

Helpers and Hinderers

Tecatos play out their lives in particular contexts, which are populated by

significant others who help them and hinder them at times. People in

helping agencies like drug treatment centers and in private business are

137
often tempted by the inexpensive items that tecatos can provide for them.

Here I will point out how some helpers hinder the tecato.

Pharmacists, drug treatment center employees, policemen, and ordinary

community people, for example, are part of the drug culture. They help

perpetuate tecatos’ deviance by buying stolen goods from them. Worse,

these people give tecatos “shopping lists” of items that they need.

For instance, a methadone employee may “help” a tecato pay for his

methadone by buying from him or her stolen items that she, the employee,

ordered. Of course, a $70 dress will cost only $18. If the tecato

complains, he or she has trouble getting methadone. As an employee put it

to the tecatos, “I am the goddess, and you are to bring me gifts.”

Some policemen, the very people who arrest tecatos for their drug use, buy

goods from tecatos for their own use and to sell at a profit. As in the

above example, if the tecato doesn’t produce, he can get burned.

Housewives also may seek out tecatos to put in their orders. Some tecatos

do a thriving business selling clothing and meat to housewives.

There are two interesting aspects to the buying of stolen goods from

tecatos. One aspect is that tecatos develop a list of customers that he or

she supplies. The other aspect is that these “helpers” and “good” community people reinforce the tecato’s idea that everyone is a crook.

OUTREACH AND RESEARCH: A CASE STUDY

In AIDS prevention among IV drug users, much is said about the role of

research and outreach intervention practices. Often, the roles of research

and outreach are not clearly spelled out in prevention projects. Here, I present a descriptive account of how researchers and outreach workers of the

El Paso, TX, project of the University of Illinois at Chicago work together

to learn about the tecato’s actual situations, and to show how pushers who

run galleries can further the aims of the project by becoming prevention

advocates. They can become “informal staff’ because they do outreach in

their galleries. They continue our work by using bleach to rinse their

needles and by telling other tecatos who come to connect and/or shoot up

to use bleach and condoms to prevent getting the AIDS virus. It can be

said that these pushers in galleries represent an indigenous leadership

outreach. The ex-tecato or nontecato indigenous outreach workers and

researchers represent another important aspect of effective outreach

intervention.

The following material consists of our observations and taped recorded

interviews with tecatos. Some of the material is presented in Spanish. An

English translation follows the Spanish account. The material is presented

138
in both languages for two reasons. First, to show how some of the vocabulary presented above occurs in real life. Second, to remind the researcher

and the reader that being bilingual and sharing the tecato’s experiences by

sharing the language are important for ethnography and for effective

outreach.

Here we describe some of the ways we do our work. The cast of characters are the following people whose names have been changed, except for

the research assistant and the outreach worker:

Lorenza, research assistant

Pete, outreach worker, ex-tecato and old friend of Berta, Mono, and

Norberto

Berta and Mono, two 55-year-old tecatos/pushers and sex partners

Gloria, 36-year-old tecata lesbian

Dolores, 26-year-old tecata lesbian/bisexual and sex partner of Gloria

Norberto, 50-year-old tecato and shooting gallery proprietor

Bruno, 30-year-old tecato and shooting gallery proprietor

The context of the account will reveal the relationships we have established

with tecatos. An objective of our project is to work with IV drug users

who can influence others to change their behavior to reduce the risk of

getting and passing the AIDS virus. These gatekeepers or leaders often arc

the pushers and proprietors of galleries.

We established rapport through Pete, our outreach worker, and by helping

tecatos get housing and other basic necessities. We met Gloria through one

of her lesbian friends who asked if I could help get Gloria out of jail. We

met Dolores through Gloria. When Gloria got out of jail, she returned to

Dolores, her lover and shooting partner. Both women went back to using

and selling drugs to support their habit. Norberto and Bruno were acquaintances of Pete.

Lorenza:

I met Mono today, finally. I had heard so much about Mono for the

past 2 months that I wanted to meet him. I first heard about him

from Gloria. She said that she had talked with Mono and Berta, his

girlfriend, about coming for an interview. She thought that I would

like to interview them because they are interesting people. But they

refused.

Gloria:

It’s good for you to hear what they have to tell because they are

sharing needles. Berta and Mono are sharing needles, and they

should know more about AIDS and tecatos.

139
Lorenza:

Later, when I was inside the building, Pete asked me what Gloria

wanted. He thought that I had given her money. I told him I’d only

given her food stamps. Then, I asked him if he thought that they

would go buy groceries because of the little boy.

Pete:

No, andan con la Berta, y el Mono. Yo los conozco. Ahorita van ir

a conectar. Van a vender las estampías. (No, they are with Berta

and Mono. I know them. Right now they are going to connect.

They are going to go sell the stamps.)

Lorenza:

The third time I heard about Mono was when Gloria came to visit.

Apparently, she and Dolores had been staying off and on at Berta’s

house. She told me that Berta had some kind of income, either

social security or a widow’s pension, something like that. And that

income gave Berta a way to live. Gloria also said that Berta has a

nice home and that Mono lives with her. Gloria went on to tell me

that Berta never really needed to go out (to get drugs), because she

always had money and a good home. But, in the last year, Berta has

had to go out in the streets. Gloria reported that she had again

encouraged them to come for an interview with me and you [i.e.,

Ramos]. They said, “No, we already heard about what they are doing

there at the agency. El Pete nos invitó. Pero le dijimos que no.”

(Pete has invited us. But, we told him no.)

Today, el Mono came. Pete came and said, “There is this guy

outside. And, he came in for an interview. I didn’t expect him. No

lo esperaba, pero si no lo quieres entrevistár yo le digo que venga

otro día.” (I didn’t expect him, but if you do not want to interview

him, I’ll tell him to come some other day.)

As usual, my question was, “ES tecato?” I wanted to know if he was

a current user.

Pete:

Oooh, de los buenos. (Oooh, of the best.)

Lorenza:

Then, I asked him, “Who is it? Do you know him?”

140
Pete:

Yes, es el Mono. (Yes, it is Mono.)

Lorenza:

El Mono! Finally! I told him that I would be ready in 5 minutes.

Then I went to the lobby to meet him and to tell him that I would

interview him in 5 minutes.

During the interview, Mono was very open and cooperative. He was

very honest. I believed the influence was Pete’s, because Pete had

already talked with him about the program.

After the interview, he went to Pete’s cubicle, and Pete did a risk

assessment. That is, they explored ways of changing behavior that

could reduce the risk of getting the AIDS virus. I joined them and

listened.

As I said, he was very cooperative. But, this may be an exception.

During the interview, I asked him, rather than ask Pete later, where

he connected. He told me that he connected downtown. I said,

“Mono, I know where some of the connections are. And, you are not

divulging anything. I just want to know where it is that you find

your drugs best.”

Of course, I knew from Gloria that he sold drugs. So, perhaps Mono

didn’t need to go to the different areas that users go to. But I still

asked, “DO you buy it at Florencia, or Pugas, or the church, or San

Jose?”

Mono:

No, I buy it downtown.

Lorenza:

During the time he visited with Pete, he mentioned two places,

Bruno’s and Norberto’s. From the conversation, I learned that his

actual connection is Norberto’s and not downtown.

Norberto’s and Bruno’s names came up because Mono mentioned that

last night or early this morning Bruno, at San Jose, had gotten busted.

The police had not found anything except a marijuana cigarette. As

he said, “no más les encontraron un cachito de grifa.” He added,

“Ahorita estaba muy caliente la situation ahí, y que por un rato

141
nadien se íba acercar. El San Jose esta seco ahorita.” (Presently, the

situation there is very hot, and for a while nobody is going to get

near it. El San Jose is dry right now.)

I noticed how quickly drug users know the situation with connections.

Of course, if he knew, it was likely that many more knew by now.

They wouldn’t hang around San Jose because they would run the risk

of arrest.

Mono also mentioned that the cathedral (Norberto’s gallery) was

going to be next. “Porque ya la han estado cuidando desde la

ventana de la iglesia o San Pedro.” (Because they are already

observing the cathedral from San Pedro church.) I realized that

although Mono didn’t want to tell me where he connected, he knew

Norberto, or the cathedral, and he frequented the place. As the

conversation developed, Pete told him, “You can speak with her,

because she has been to Norberto’s. We have been there twice, and

they have accepted us. Also, we have shown them two videos.”

Mono:

Si ahoríta ya me estoy acordando que sí, porque Norberto carga una

botellita con cloro y ahí la tiene cerca de él. Y, también le he visto

unos papelitos que tiene por ahí de1 AIDS, y me lo ha enseñado. Y,

aparte que cuando entran y cuando se presentan-que porque no todos

se presentan para oír, él, Norberto, les platica del AIDS, y les platica

del cloro. (Yes, right now, I am remembering that, yes, you’ve been

there. Because, Norberto carries a small bottle of clorox, and he has

it near him. And, also I have seen several little papers on AIDS.

And, he has shown them to me. And, besides when people come and

present themselves-not everyone is open to listening-he talks to

them about AIDS, and he talks to them about clorox.)

Lorenza:

Then I asked him, “De verda, no piña. Verdad? (Really, it is not a

pineapple, i.e., you are not lying? The truth?)

Mono:

Porque le voy a decir piña? Y se rela. (Why am I going to say

pineapple, i.e., lie to you?)

Lorenza:

But what is going to happen? I asked Pete what is going to happen

to Norberto if they arrest them?

142
Pete:

No, they won’t arrest them. They won’t arrest him. In the past, they

have arrested him only twice, and they have only given him a ticket.

Lorenza:

Pete changed the subject of the conversation from Norberto to Berta.

He asked Mono, “Y la Berta?” (And, Berta?)

Mono:

Malilla, coma lo debes de saber. (Sick, as you must know.)

Lorenza:

Then, Mono told us why he had come for the interview. Mono came

for the $10. Because he and Berta have hit hard times, they needed

the $10. Berta was sick; they needed the money to buy Berta a fix.

While in Pete’s cubicle, Mono called Berta and told her that he was

on his way. Pete took the telephone and talked with Berta.

Pete:

Aguante como una soldada, que llegarán en un rato. De hoy en

adelante piensa venir nada más para platicar—a tirar un rollo. Para

ver si te podemos quitar esa muleta de encima. (Endure like a

soldier woman, they will arrive in a short while. From here on, think

about coming to do nothing else but talk-to rap. And to see if we

can help take away the problem that is upon you.)

Lorenza:

Mono waited for another person being interviewed. As he waited, he

continued talking with Pete, and he gave me and Pete information on

the drug scene in El Paso.

The information Mono gave Lorenza and Pete is typical of information that

we often turn into lines of inquiry to follow in the future. For example,

before he left, he told Pete that a tecato whom they knew had been cut off

by several connections (i.e., was no longer able to obtain drugs from usual

sources). They didn’t know, and Lorenza thought it would be interesting

for us to know, why a tecato gets cut off, the length of time a person is

cut off, how the tecato manages while cut off, and how the tecato eventually reestablishes himself with the connections.

143
CONCLUSION

Descriptive material on tecato culture and a list of vocabulary words are

evidence of the ways that tecatos, in relationship with others, create the

tecato culture. It is not simply the case that the culture determines how the

tecato copes with his practical circumstances. Yes, cultural norms do

influence behavior, but they do not explain totally how tecatos interpret the

norms and take into account other information that may not be part of the

tecato culture (Ramos 1979).

To prevent the spread of AIDS among Chicano IV drug users, we need to

discover what the tecato takes into account as he defines the many

situations that he creates to manage his life as a tecato. To this end, I

have some recommendations:

(1) AIDS researchers and service delivery people need to discover the

practical circumstances of the specific IV drug user and sex partner

under study.

(2) AIDS researchers and service delivery people need to discover what

the specific IV drug user and sex partner under study take into

account when they define, construct, and manage the situations they

create with others. Specifically, researchers should study:

how high-risk people define reality for themselves;

how high-risk people create and cope with the events in their

lives;

how high-risk people create and use language codes;

how high-risk individuals define help; and

how and where researchers and social services delivery may enter

into the lives of high-risk people.

REFERENCES

Amaro, H. Hispanic women and AIDS: Considerations for prevention and

research. Presented at the NIMH/NIDA Research Workshop on Women

and AIDS: Promoting Healthy Behaviors. September 28-29, 1987.

Aumann, B.; Hernandez, M.; Medina, M.; Stewart, C.; and Wherley, N.

The Chicano Addict: An Analysis of Factors Influencing Rehabilitation in

a Treatment and Prevention Program. Phoenix, AZ: Valle del Sol,

1972.

Bullington, B. Heroin Use in the Barrio. Lexington, MA: Lexington

Books, 1977.

144
Jorquez, J. Heroin use in the barrio: Solving the problem of relapse or

keeping the tecato gusano asleep. Am J Drug Alcohol Abuse 10(1):63-75,

1984.

Mata, A., and Jorquez, J. Mexican-American intravenous drug user’s

needle-sharing practices: Implications for AIDS prevention. In: Battjes,

R., and Pickens, R. eds. Needle Sharing Among Intravenous Drug

Abusers: National and International Perspectives. National Institute on

Drug Abuse Monograph 80. DHHS Pub. No. (ADM)88-1567.

Washington, D.C.: Supt. of Docs., U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1988. 189 pp.

Moore, J., and Mata, A. Women and Heroin in a Chicano Community.

A Final Report. Los Angeles: Chicano Pinto Research Project, 1982.

Morales, A. Substance abuse and Mexican American youth: An overview.

J Drug Issues 14(2):297-311, 1984.

Ramos, R. Movidas: The methodological and theoretical relevance of

interactional strategies. In: Denzin, N., ed. Studies in Symbolic

Interaction, Vol. 2. Greenwich: JAI Press, 1979. pp. 141-165.

Worth, D., and Rodriguez, R. Latina Women and AIDS. New York:

SIECUS. 1987.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Pete Estrada and Lorenza Mena, of the University of Illinois at Chicago

AIDS Demonstration Project in El Paso, TX, helped in data collection and

shared their knowledge of the tecato culture.

AUTHOR

Reyes Ramos, Ph.D.

PAHO

Suite 600

6006 N. Mesa

El Paso, TX 79912

145
The German Bridge: A Street

Hookers’ Strip in the Amsterdam

Red Light District

Hans T. Verbraeck

INTRODUCTION

In Amsterdam, as in every city in Western Europe, there are many kinds of

prostitution. There are women who work at home; there are escort services,

very chic and very cheap ones; and there are clubs, both exclusive and

sleazy ones. Amsterdam and some other Dutch cities are famous for the

phenomenon of the window girls, a very amorphous group. In Amsterdam,

there are windows outside the Red Light District: expensive and large

windows on well-known streets and canals, cheaper and smaller windows in

alleys. Finally, there are, of course, prostitutes who work in the streets.

This chapter focuses on heterosexual prostitution, but the same story could

be told about homosexual prostitution. There are, of course, many other

kinds of paid sex in Amsterdam (Belderbos and Visser 1987), but even the

subject of street prostitution in Amsterdam must be restricted. Based

especially on fieldwork done in the summer of 1987 in the Red Light

District in Amsterdam, this chapter discusses addicted female street

prostitutes in the Amsterdam Red Light District.

GEOGRAPHY OF PROSTITUTION IN AMSTERDAM

The street hookers’ strip in the Red Light District is not the only one in

town. Another group of addicted street prostitutes worked, until the end of

1986, at the de Ruyterkade. Until 1986, the policymakers at city hall had

allowed an area where street prostitution was allowed, a “gedoogzone.”

Translated, it is something like “permissive zone.” Prostitutes were allowed

to work there; working in other parts of town was prohibited. In January

1987, this gedoogzone was abolished following protests from area residents.

A few dozen addicted prostitutes stayed, moving just a couple hundred

yards, thus creating a new area behind the central station.

This street hookers’ strip resembles those seen in other European cities.

Clients cruise by in cars and are approached by the prostitutes; a price is

146
negotiated; and they depart to a cheap hotel, a parking lot, or the docks

nearby.

Although they no longer work in a gedoogzone, the street hookers behind

the central station still have facilities enjoyed by prostitutes working in

gedoogzones in other Dutch cities like Rotterdam, The Hague, and Utrecht.

A center has been established where the street hookers can get professional

drug help, stay and rest, drink coffee, eat, have a shower for a guilder

($0.50), obtain clean needles and condoms for $0.25, and receive

information on acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS) and general

information.

The strip behind the central station is not part of the Red Light District.

Indeed, it is one of the more depressing streets in Amsterdam, whereas the

Red Light District is not depressing at all, but one of the more vibrant

neighborhoods in town.

The Red Light District

The Oudezijds Voorburgwal, the Oudezijds Achterburgwal, the Geldersekade, and the alleys in between make up the Amsterdam Red Light District (figure 1). The area is crowded with sex shops, adult movie theatres,

live show theatres, and street and window prostitutes. One can find here

the oldest church in town, next to windows of prostitutes, and a souvenir

shop, next to one of many hashish coffee shops. In the same area, ordinary

Amsterdammers live their everyday lives. There are local cafes, shops,

supermarkets, and all the normal facilities found elsewhere in town.

Drug Practices

One can also find here perhaps the most notorious heroin copping (drug

distribution) street in Western Europe: the Zeedijk. Heroin and cocaine are

sold on this street in small sealed plastic bags 24 hours a day. Dealers

openly offer “grote en kleine bruin,” which are large and small doses of

heroin, for 40 guilders ($20) and 20 guilders ($10) a bag. They also offer

“grote en kleine wit,” which are large and small doses of cocaine, at the

same prices. Crack is not currently sold in Holland. On and near the

street may appear a junkie taking a shot in a doorway and many others

who are smoking heroin and cocaine by heating the drugs on aluminum foil

and sucking the smoke up through a straw. The junkies in Holland call

this way of using heroin and cocaine “chinezen,” to “Chinese,” or “chasing

the dragon.” It is important to know that a majority of the addicts in

Amsterdam are not intravenous (IV) drug users; instead, they smoke the

drugs. Only 37 percent of the Dutch drug users, 4 percent of the so-called

ethnic users (mainly from Surinam and Morocco), and 69 percent of the

foreign drug users are IV addicts. Moreover, since the AIDS epidemic, IV

drug users are switching from IV drug use to chasing the dragon.

147
Figure 1. Map of Amsterdam red light district, with asterisk indicating

the bridge

148
ENFORCEMENT POLICY AND ITS EFFECTS ON STREET

ADDICTS IN THE RED LIGHT DISTRICT

Over the past couple of years, policymakers in Amsterdam have developed

“ontmoedigingsbeleid,” a policy intended to discourage the hard-dope scenes

in town, to make the city safer and more pleasant for the local residents

and nonaddicted tourists visiting the city. Since the policy of discouragement has been implemented, many addicts have left the inner city and gone

to other neighborhoods and suburbs (Korf 1987).

The peak of the policy of discouragement was called Summerplan 1987.

Summerplan 1987 was an intensified scheme of uniformed surveillance and

actions by the detective force against fences, burglars, pickpockets, shoplifters, addicts, and dealers to create and consolidate an acceptable level of

order and safety.

In the Red Light District, this Summerplan 1987 was very tough. It meant

that more policemen were walking around in the area than in years before.

The police force in the area was assisted in the summer of 1987 by 55

“marechaussees,” or military policemen, and by police with dogs, mounted

police, and other backup. During the summer, six uniformed policemen

walked the Zeedijk 24 hours a day. Sixteen others walked other parts of

the area on and off during the day and night.

Most of the following observations are based on fieldwork done in the area

from April 1 to October 1, 1987, by the author and a colleague.

The policy of discouragement and Summerplan 1987 had some notable

effects on those working in the Red Light District.

When 6 policemen patrolled the Zeedijk 24 hours a day and 12 others

patrolled on and off in other parts of the area, the Amsterdam Red

Light District was no longer a dope fiend’s paradise.

Many junkies and addicted street hookers fled to other parts of

Amsterdam and to other cities in the country. Additionally, a lot of

junkie tourists were arrested and deported.

A hard core of 400 junkies and addicted street hookers stayed in the

Red Light District. This hard core was a special group. Mostly, they

stayed because they had no choice. Most of them had purchased or

copped heroin and cocaine in the area for years. Either they did not

know any dealers in other neighborhoods, or these dealers did not want

to sell to them. People of the hard core were arrested frequently,

detained for questioning, and only occasionally brought to trial. They

usually got short sentences, and they always returned to the Zeedijk in

the Red Light District. The hard core who stayed in the District

149
consisted of the “hard-core” levels of both the dope and prostitution

scenes in town. In the area, they were called the extreme problematic

drug addicts or “losers.”

Because of the large police force in the District, addicts and dealers

cannot hang out on the Zeedijk as they did a couple of years before.

The police force them to move on or arrest them. To avoid the police,

dealers and junkies must walk blocks through the entire neighborhood,

and they must avoid these policemen to survive. They go to the canal

of the window girls known as Oudezijds Achterburgwal; to the

Kloveniersburgwal; to the Oude Hoogstraat, where most of the pills in

town are sold; and to the Oude Doelenstraat en Damstraat, where street

dealers are trying to sell horse manure as hashish to young tourists

(Verbraeck 1988).

THE GERMAN BRIDGE: CHRONOLOGY AND PERSONNEL

Dealers and junkies also go to the Lange Niezel, the Liesdelsluis, and the

Korte Niezel, on the street hookers’ strip in the Red Light District. When

the heroin and cocaine dealers are forced off the Zeedijk, they go to the

street hookers’ strip. In fact, one can get heroin and cocaine on the strip

when all the street prostitutes are still asleep; early in the morning, there

are usually a few heroin and cocaine dealers hanging out on the street

hookers’ strip. Only early in the morning are drugs offered openly. During

the rest of the day, dealers are present, but deals are made on the Zeedijk

or in the alleys between the canals.

At 10 in the morning the alcoholic tramps arrive, having slept at the Salvation Armies or near the central station. They sit along the Liesdelsluis,

and, while the prostitutes are still asleep, open their first bottles of beer and

cheap wine, which they drink all day.

Toward the end of the morning, the first addicted street hookers arrive. Although some come from cheap hotels in the area, most have a room or an

apartment somewhere else in town. Before they go to work, the prostitutes

have breakfast in one of the many snack bars or coffee shops on the strip

and chase some dragons in the doorways of the Oudezijds Voorburgwal.

They wait for the men working in the center of town who visit the Red

Light District during rush hour at noon. The prostitutes wait in the doorways, in front of the windows of the Lange Niezel and the Korte Niezel,

lean against the rail of the bridge, or walk around on the strip.

It is not yet busy at noon on the street hookers’ strip. Never have more

than six prostitutes been seen working before 1 p.m. Although there are

many window girls-there are at least 200 windows in the District-no

more than 40 addicted street hookers work the strip, even during peak

hours.

150
During the afternoon, more and more prostitutes arrive and choose a spot

on the strip. The addicts and dealers of the Zeedijk have to leave now and

then, when they are chased by the police. When this happens, they head

for the street hookers’ bridge nearby. By midafternoon the bridge is

crowded with people. Many of these people are clients or potential clients

of the window girls and the street hookers. Every day the same groups of

elderly men loiter on the bridge. Many of these men are steady clients.

Some street hookers choose a place among the elderly men or accost people

who enter the Red Light District via the Lange Niezel.

Prostitutes’ Social Isolation

The street hookers on the strip in the Red Light District are a very loosely

knit group. The majority of the prostitutes work on their own. They arrive

in the area, choose a place on the strip, and go home at night without

having any contact with the other prostitutes.

The isolation of the prostitutes is intensified by the fact that the police

station in the area is in the Warmoesstraat, so that every policeman on his

way to the Zeedijk walks by way of the street hookers’ strip, scattering the

prostitutes in the process. The majority of the street hookers have contact

with the hard-dope scene on the Zeedijk only when they are copping or

purchasing their heroin and cocaine after some tricks (customers).

Some prostitutes have regular contact only with their steady clients. A few

live in a room of the house of a steady client and frequently come with this

client to the strip.

Some prostitutes have addicted boyfriends. Only a few of these boyfriends

are also protectors, or pimps. They keep an eye on who the prostitutes are

leaving with, follow them to the cheap hotels in the area, and, when the

prostitutes get into a car for a trick, they note the plates.

The traditional pimp who has a couple of prostitutes and who is a link

between them is completely unknown on the street hookers’ strip in the Red

Light District.

Usually, the boyfriends have their own hustle and their own place in the

hard-dope world of the Zeedijk. This is especially true when the boyfriend

is black, because most dealers on the Zeedijk are black. Having a dealer

boyfriend affords the prostitute a place in the world of the copping street.

But, as previously noted, the majority of those working on the street

hookers’ strip in the Red Light District operate in complete isolation in both

the drug and prostitution worlds.

151
Tourists

Tourism affects the life on the street hooker strip in the summer. One has

to realize that the Red Light District is without any doubt the biggest tourist

attraction in town, and the Lange Niezel is an important access route to the

district. Because the streets are narrow and so many tourists walk around,

only a few cars can cruise by. Some tourists are potential clients for the

street hookers and window girls but most of them are not. Many tour

operators in town organize sex and drug “safaris” in the Red Light District.

The street hookers and window girls complain about these sex and drug

safaris. A group of 50 tourists with a guide will have a quick walk

through the area but will not go to a pub, to clubs, or to prostitutes. Sex

and drug safaris do not provide any business at all in the Red Light

District.

Other tourists, those who come on their own or in small groups, definitely

are potential clients for the street hookers. Some of the prostitutes approach

every man who visits the Red Light District. Others mainly meet steady

clients in cafes, coffee shops, and snack bars on the strip. When a deal is

made, client and street hooker leave and go to one of the cheap hotels in

the Beursstraat, Warmoesstraat, or Damrak, or the client and prostitute walk

together to a car parked outside the district.

Drug Use

After every trick or after every two tricks, the prostitutes cop (purchase) a

grote or kleine bruin (heroin) or a grote or kleine wit (cocaine) from one of

the dealers on the bridge. Sometimes they go to the Zeedijk to cop or buy

their drugs.

The strip at the bridge is crowded until midnight. Sex and drug safaris

pass by, visitors of the Red Light District hang out on the bridge for a

while, and now and then waves of junkies and dealers come from the

Zeedijk. After midnight, it gets quiet on the street hookers’ strip. The

cafes, coffee shops, and snack bars, where the prostitutes meet their steady

clients, close down. After midnight, most visitors of the Red Light District

simply walk up and down the Oudezijds Achterburgwal, which is the canal

with the live show theatres and window girls.

Only a few addicted street hookers wait desperately for some last clients so

that they can cop (buy) their last bruin and wit for the night.

HARD-CORE POPULATION AND AIDS

As mentioned earlier, because of the policy of discouragement, the tough

Summerplan 1987, only a hard core of addicts and addicted prostitutes is

left in the Red Light District. This hard core represents the lowest social

class of both the hard-dope and prostitution worlds. Although this is the

152
lowest social class, there are still other, different classes or levels of

professionalism among prostitutes. Research recently published in Holland

shows that 50 percent of all the street hookers in town started as nonaddicted prostitutes; the other 50 percent were addicted before they turned to

prostitution. Of those who were addicted before they became prostitutes,

the “junkie” tourists, many from Germany, are considered the least professional. Many of the German prostitutes are heavily hooked; nearly all are

IV drug users; and most work at less cost, go home with nonsteady clients,

rob clients, and do not charge anything extra when a client does not want

to use a condom (van de Berg and Blom 1987).

All groups, including those who were prostitutes before they started using

hard dope, those who were addicted before they became prostitutes, and female junkie tourists, still work on the street hookers’ strip in the Red Light

District. A few years ago the bridge on the strip was called “die Deutsche

Brücke,” the German Bridge, because many German junkie tourists worked

there. After a few years of the policy of discouragement, one cannot accurately call the bridge in the Red Light District the German Bridge. Most

of the German street hookers, who are. considered the least professional,

have moved to other areas in Amsterdam or other cities in Holland, or they

have been sent back to Germany by the police.

Some Dutch prostitutes work unprofessionally too, of course. Nonetheless,

some prostitutes working the strip are quite professional. They have many

steady customers, meet most of them in cafes, coffee shops, and snack bars

on the street hookers’ strip; work for fixed prices; always work in cheap

hotels except for very steady customers; and never exclude the use of the

condom, not even when they are dope-sick.

When discussing addicted prostitutes, prostitutes who are sometimes IV drug

users, and those who sometimes work unprofessionally, some remarks about

the AIDS problem in Amsterdam are necessary.

There is not one square mile in Holland where condoms are so readily

available, and there probably is not a square mile in the world where one

can get as many clean needles as in the square mile of the Amsterdam Red

Light District.

The area is crowded with sex shops, and every sex shop sells condoms, of

course. If you simply ask sex shop owners for condoms, they smile. One

can get at least a hundred kinds of condoms in every sex shop in the area.

In the Warmoesstraat, where there are gay clubs and gay cafes, two women

recently opened an interesting shop called “Condomerie.” They sell only

condoms and anti-AIDS tee-shirts and posters. Free condoms and AIDS

information are also distributed by Stichting Regenboog, a drug-help

organization on de Oudezijds Achterburgwal in the heart of the Red Light

District.

153
This organization, Stichting Regenboog, also has a needle exchange program. There are extensive needle exchange programs in Holland. In or

near the Red Light District, there are other places from which addicts can

get clean needles. Main needle exchangers are the local health service,

which distributes needles as part of the methadone programs, and the

“Junkiebond.” The Junkiebond, or Junkie Union, is an organization that

works for the rights of junkies.

The most unusual place to obtain needles is a shop on the Zeedijk. Although one window is packed with pornography and another with typical

Dutch souvenirs, everybody in the area knows that the shop mainly sells,

not exchanges, works. Addicts can buy a clean disposable needle in the

shop for 2 guilders ($1), which is a ridiculously high price for a needle in

Holland. Also available in the store is a quarter of a lemon to dissolve

Turkish heroin, priced at a guilder, and a piece of aluminum foil and straw,

the works for addicts who are chasing the dragon, at a guilder each.

The local health service calculated that the official needle exchangers

distributed 800,000 clean needles among 2,400 IV drug users in 1987. That

means that every IV drug user used one clean needle nearly every day

(Buning 1987).

The local health service also found that of the 370 AIDS patients in

Holland in 1987, 16 (4.3 percent) were IV drug users. They also found

that one-third of all the IV drug users in town were seropositive (van den

Hoek et al. 1988).

Although not as alarming as the AIDS-prevalence figures in some other

European countries and in the United States, these figures are still

frightening. The statistics raise the question: What happened in Holland

during the extensive needle exchange programs? The following statements

summarize the possibilities.

Although 800,000 clean needles were distributed to IV drug users in

Amsterdam in 1987, only 400,000 were distributed in 1986; 100,000 in

1985; and 25,000 in 1984. It could be said that the extensive needle

exchange programs started too late to combat the AIDS epidemic in the

local drug scene. Besides, junkies can get new, clean needles only

during certain periods of the day; it is very hard to get a clean needle

between midnight and 10 a.m.

More than 50 percent of all the IV drug users in Amsterdam are

foreigners. Most of them were addicted before they came to

Amsterdam, although many people do not believe that. There are no

needle exchange programs outside Holland. Many foreigners already

were infected in their homelands before they came to Amsterdam.

154
Although every addict knows by now that there is an AIDS epidemic in

town, some still share needles, especially when they are dope-sick

during the night, when it is hard to get a clean one.

Addicted prostitutes still do not usually use condoms when they have

sex with their addicted boyfriends.

There are still clients of addicted prostitutes who do not want to use

condoms. Some clients wait until the prostitutes are dope-sick to

arrange a trick without a condom at a ridiculously low price.

In 1987, the first addicted prostitute who took drugs only by chasing the

dragon all her life got AIDS.

REFERENCES

Belderbos, F., and Visser, J.B. Beroep: Prostituee. (Profession:

Prostitute.) Utrecht: SWP, 1987. 231 pp.

Buning, E.C. De GG&GD en Het Drugprobleem in Cijfrs II. (The Public

Health Service and the drug problem in statistics.) Amsterdam:

GG&GD, 1987. 27 pp.

Korf, D.J. Heroïnetoerisme II: Resultaten van een Veldonderzoek Onder

382 Buitenlandse Dagelijkse Opiaatgebruikers in Amsterdam. (Heroin

tourism II: Results of a field research among 382 foreign daily opiate

users in Amsterdam.) Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press,

1987. 125 pp.

van de Berg, T., and Blom, M. Tippelen Voor Dope; Levensverhalen van

Vrouwen in de Heroineprostitutie. (On the strip for dope; life histories of

female heroin prostitutes.) Amsterdam: SUA, 1987. 159 pp.

van den Hoek, J.A.R.; van Haastrecht, H.J.A.; van Zadelhof, A.W.;

Goudsmit, J.; and Coutinho, R.A. HIV-infectie onder druggebruikers in

Amsterdam; prevalentie en risicofactoren. (HIV-infection among drug

users in Amsterdam; prevalence and risk factors.) Ned Tijdschr Geneeskd

132(16):723-728, 1988.

Verbracck, H.T. De Staart van de Zeedijk: Een Bliksemonderzoek Naar

Enkele Effecten van het Zomerplan 1987 in Het Wallengebied. (The trail

of the Zeedijk: A short-terms field research to the effects of the

“Summerplan 1987” in the red light district.) Amsterdam: University of

Amsterdam Press, 1988. 119 pp.

AUTHOR

Hans T. Verbraeck, Drs.

Freelance Ethnogmpher

University of Amsterdam

University of Utrecht

Erasmus University of Rotterdam

St. Janshovenstraat 192

3572 RC Utrecht

HOLLAND

155
monograph series

While limited supplies last, single copies of the monographs may be

obtained free of charge from the National Clearinghouse for Alcohol and

Drug Information (NCADI). Please contact NCADI also for information

about availability of coming issues and other publications of the National

Institute on Drug Abuse relevant to drug abuse research.

Additional copies may be purchased from the U.S. Government Printing

Office (GPO) and/or the National Technical Information Service (NTIS) as

indicated. NTIS prices are for paper copy; add $3.00 handling charge for

each order. Microfiche copies are also available from NTIS. Prices from

either source are subject to change.

Addresses are:

NCADI

National Clearinghouse for Alcohol and Drug Information

P.O. Box 2345

Rockville, MD 20852

GPO

Superintendent of Documents

U.S. Government Printing Office

Washington, DC 20402

NTIS

National Technical Information Service

U.S. Department of Commerce

Springfield, VA 22161

(703) 487-4650

For information on availability of National Institute on Drug Abuse

Research Monographs I through 24 (1975-1979) and others not listen

write to NIDA, Community and Professional Education Branch,

Room 10A-54, 5600 Fishers Lane, Rockville, MD 20857.

156
25 BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS AND TREATMENT OF SUBSTANCE

ABUSE. Norman A. Krasnegor, Ph.D., ed.

GPO out of stock NCADl out of stock

NTIS PB #80-112428/AS $31

26 THE BEHAVIORAL ASPECTS OF SMOKING. Norman A. Krasnegor,

Ph.D., ed. (Reprint from 1979 Surgeon General’s Report on Smoking and

Health.)

GPO out of stock NTIS PB #80-118755/AS $23

30 THEORIES ON DRUG ABUSE: SELECTED CONTEMPORARY

PERSPECTIVES. Dan J. Lettieri, Ph.D.; Mollie Sayers; and Helen W. Pearson,

eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-00997-1 NCADI out of stock

Not available from NTIS

31 MARIJUANA RESEARCH FINDINGS: 1980. Robert C. Petersen, Ph.D.,

ed.

GPO out of stock NTIS PB #80-215171/AS $31

32 GUMS ASSAYS FOR ABUSED DRUGS IN BODY FLUIDS. Rodger L.

Foltz, Ph.D.; Allison F. Fentiman, Jr., Ph.D.; and Ruth B. Foltz.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #81-133746/AS $31

36 NEW APPROACHES TO TREATMENT OF CHRONIC PAIN: A

REVIEW OF MULTIDISCIPLINARY PAIN CLINICS AND PAIN CENTERS.

Lorenz K.Y. Ng, M.D., ed.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #81-240913/AS $31

37 BEHAVIORAL PHARMACOLOGY OF HUMAN DRUG DEPENDENCE.

Travis Thompson, Ph.D., and Chris E. Johanson, Ph.D., eds.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #82-136961/AS $39

38 DRUG ABUSE AND THE AMERICAN ADOLESCENT. Dan J. Lettieri,

Ph.D., and Jacqueline P. Ludford, M.S., eds. A RAUS Review Report.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #82-148198/AS $23

40 ADOLESCENT MARIJUANA ABUSERS AND THEIR FAMILIES.

Herbert Hendin, M.D.; Ann Pollinger, Ph.D.; Richard Ulman, Ph.D.; and

Arthur Carr, Ph.D., eds.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #32-133117/AS $23

42 THE ANALYSIS OF CANNABINOIDS IN BIOLOGICAL FLUIDS.

Richard L. Hawks, Ph.D., ed.

GPO out of stock NTIS PB #83-136044/AS $23

157
44 MARIJUANA EFFECTS ON THE ENDOCRINE AND REPRODUCTIVE

SYSTEMS. Monique C. Braude, Ph.D., and Jacqueline P. Ludford, M.S., eds.

A RAUS Review Report.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #85-150563/AS $23

45 CONTEMPORARY RESEARCH IN PAIN AND ANALGESIA, 1983.

Roger M. Brown, Ph.D.; Theodore M. Pinkert M.D., J.D.; and Jacqueline P.

Ludford, M.S., eds. A RAUS Review Report.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #84-184670/AS $17

46 BEHAVIORAL INTERVENTION TECHNIQUES IN DRUG ABUSE

TREATMENT. John Grabowski, Ph.D.; Maxine L. Stitzer. Ph.D.; and Jack E.

Henningfield, Ph.D., eds.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #84-184688/AS $23

47 PREVENTING ADOLESCENT DRUG ABUSE: INTERVENTION

STRATEGIES. Thomas J. Glynn, Ph.D.; Carl G. Leukefeld, D.S.W.; and

Jacqueline P. Ludford, M.S.. eds. A RAUS Review Report.

GPO Stock #017-024-01180-l $5.50 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #85-159663/AS $31

48 MEASUREMENT IN THE ANALYSIS AND TREATMENT OF

SMOKING BEHAVIOR. John Grabowski, Ph.D., and Catherine Bell, M.S.,

eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01181-9 $4.50 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #84-145184/AS $23

50 COCAINE: PHARMACOLOGY, EFFECTS, AND TREATMENT OF

ABUSE. John Grabowski, Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01214-9 $4 NTIS PB #85-150381/AS $23

51 DRUG ABUSE TREATMENT EVALUATION: STRATEGIES.

PROGRESS, AND PROSPECTS. Frank M. Tims, Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01218-1 $4.50 NTIS PB #85-150365/AS $23

52 TESTING DRUGS FOR PHYSICAL DEPENDENCE POTENTIAL AND

ABUSE LIABILITY. Joseph V. Brady, Ph.D., and Scott E. Lukas, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01204-1 $4.25 NTIS PB #85150373/AS $23

53 PHARMACOLOGICAL ADJUNCTS IN SMOKING CESSATION.

John Grabowski, Ph.D., and Sharon M. Hall, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01266-1 $3.50 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #89-123186/AS $23

158
54 MECHANISMS OF TOLERANCE AND DEPENDENCE. Charles Wm.

Sharp, Ph.D., ed.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #89-103279/AS $39

55 PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, 1984: PROCEEDINGS OF

THE 46TH ANNUAL SCIENTIFIC MEETING, THE COMMITTEE ON

PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, INC. Louis. S. Harris, Ph. D., ed.

GPO out of stock NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #89-123194/AS $45

56 ETIOLOGY OF DRUG ABUSE: IMPLICATIONS FOR PREVENTION.

Coryl LaRue Jones, Ph.D., and Robert J. Battjes, D.S.W., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01250-5 $6.50 NTIS PB #89-123160/AS $31

57 SELF-REPORT METHODS OF ESTIMATING DRUG USE: MEETING

CURRENT CHALLENGES TO VALIDITY. Beatrice A. Rouse, Ph.D.;

Nicholas J. Kozel, M.S.; and Louise G. Richards, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01246-7 $4.25 NTIS PB #88-248083/AS $23

58 PROGRESS IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF COST-EFFECTIVE TREATMENT FOR DRUG ABUSERS. Rebecca S. Ashery, D.S.W., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01247-5 $4.25 NTIS PB #89-125017/AS $23

59 CURRENT RESEARCH ON THE CONSEQUENCES OF MATERNAL

DRUG ABUSE. Theodore M. Pinkert, M.D., J.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01249-1 $2.50 NTIS PB #39-125025/AS $23

60 PRENATAL DRUG EXPOSURE: KINETICS AND DYNAMICS.

C. Nora Chiang, Ph.D., and Charles C. Lee, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01257-2 $3.50 NTIS PB #89-124564/AS $23

61 COCAINE USE IN AMERICA: EPIDEMIOLOGIC AND CLINICAL

PERSPECTIVES. Nicholas J. Kozel, M.S., and Edgar H. Adams, M.S., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01258-1 $5 NTIS PB #39-131866/AS $31

62 NEUROSCIENCE METHODS IN DRUG ABUSE RESEARCH. Roger M.

Brown, Ph.D., and David P. Friedman, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01260-2 $3.50 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #89-130660/AS $23

63 PREVENTION RESEARCH: DETERRING DRUG ABUSE AMONG

CHILDREN AND ADOLESCENTS. Catherine S. Bell, M.S., and Robert J.

Battjes, D.S.W., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01263-7 $5.50 NTIS PB #89-103287/AS $31

64 PHENCYCLIDINE: AN UPDATE. Doris H. Clouet, Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01281-5 $6.50 NTIS PB #89-131858/AS $31

159
65 WOMEN AND DRUGS: A NEW ERA FOR RESEARCH. Barbara A.

Ray, Ph.D., and Monique C. Braude, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01283-1 $3.50 NTIS PB #89-130637/AS $23

66 GENETIC AND BIOLOGICAL MARKERS IN DRUG ABUSE AND

ALCOHOLISM. Monique C. Braude, Ph.D., and Helen M. Chao, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01291-2 $3.50 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #89-134423/AS $23

68 STRATEGIES FOR RESEARCH ON THE INTERACTIONS OF DRUGS

OF ABUSE. Monique C. Braude, Ph.D., and Harold M. Ginzburg. M.D., J.D.,

eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01296-3 $6.50 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #89-134936/AS $31

69 OPIOID PEPTIDES: MEDICINAL CHEMISTRY. Rao S. Rapaka, Ph.D.;

Gene Bamett, Ph.D.; and Richard L. Hawks, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-1297-1 $11 NTIS PB #89-158422/AS $39

70 OPIOID PEPTIDES: MOLECULAR PHARMACOLOGY, BIOSYNTHESIS, AND ANALYSIS. Rao S. Rapaka, Ph.D., and Richard L. Hawks, Ph.D.,

edS.

GPO Stock #017-024-1298-0 $12 NTIS PB #89-158430/AS $45

71 OPIATE RECEPTOR SUBTYPES AND BRAIN FUNCTION. Roger M.

Brown, Ph.D.; Doris H. CIouet, Ph.D.; and David P. Friedman, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01303-0 $6 NTIS PB #89-151955/AS $31

72 RELAPSE AND RECOVERY IN DRUG ABUSE. Frank M. Tims, Ph.D.,

and Carl G. Leukefeld, D.S.W., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01302-1 $6 NTIS PB #89-151963/AS $31

73 URINE TESTING FOR DRUGS OF ABUSE. Richard L. Hawks, Ph.D.,

and C. Nora Chiang, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01313-7 $3.75 NTIS PB #89-151971/AS $23

74 NEUROBIOLOGY OF BEHAVIORAL CONTROL IN DRUG ABUSE.

Stephen I. Szara, M.D., D.Sc.. ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-1314-5 $3.75 NTIS PB #39-151989/AS $23

75 PROGRESS IN OPIOID RESEARCH. PROCEEDINGS OF THE 1986

INTERNATIONAL NARCOTICS RESEARCH CONFERENCE. John W.

Holaday, Ph.D.; Ping-Yee Law. Ph.D.; and Albert Herz. M.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01315-3 $21 NCADI out of stock

Not available from NTIS

160
76 PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, 1986. PROCEEDINGS OF

THE 48TH ANNUAL SCIENTIFIC MEETING, THE COMMITTEE ON

PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, INC. Louis S. Harris, Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01316-1 $16 NCADI out of stock

NTIS PB #88-208111/AS $53

77 ADOLESCENT DRUG ABUSE: ANALYSES OF TREATMENT

RESEARCH. Elizabeth R. Rahdert, Ph.D., and John Grabowski, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01348-0 $4 NTIS PB #89-125488/AS $23

78 THE ROLE OF NEUROPLASTICITY IN THE RESPONSE TO DRUGS.

David P. Friedman, Ph.D., and Doris H. CIouet, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01330-7 $6 NTIS PB #88-245683/AS $31

79 STRUCI’URE-ACTIVITY RELATIONSHIPS OF THE CANNABINOIDS.

Rao S. Rapaka, Ph.D., and AIexandros Makriyannis, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01331-5 $6 NTIS PB #89-109201/AS $31

80 NEEDLE SHARING AMONG INTRAVENOUS DRUG ABUSERS:

NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL PERSPECTIVES. Robert J. Battjes,

D.S.W., and Roy W. Pickens, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01345-S $5.50 NTIS PB #88-236138/AS $31

81 PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, 1987. PROCEEDINGS OF

THE 49TH ANNIJAL SCIENTIFIC MEETING, THE COMMITTEE ON

PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, INC. Louis S. Harris, Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01354-4 $17 NTIS PB #89-109227/AS

Contact NTIS for price

82 OPIOIDS IN THE HIPPOCAMPUS. Jacqueline F. McGinty, Ph.D., and

David P. Friedman, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01344-7 $4.25 NTIS PB #88-245691/AS $23

83 HEALTH HAZARDS OF NITRITE INHALANTS. Harry W. Haverkos,

M.D., and John A. Dougherty, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01351-0 $3.25 NTIS PB #89-125496/AS $23

84 LEARNING FACTORS IN SUBSTANCE ABUSE. Barbara A. Ray,

Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01353-6 $6 NTIS PB #89-125504/AS $31

85 EPIDEMIOLOGY OF INHALANT ABUSE: AN UPDATE. Raquel A.

Crider, Ph.D., and Beatrice A. Rouse, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01360-9 $5.50 NTIS PB #39-123178/AS $31

86 COMPULSORY TREATMENT OF DRUG ABUSE: RESEARCH AND

CLINICAL PRACTICE. Carl G. Leukefeld, D.S.W., and Frank M. Tims,

Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01352-8 $7.50 NTIS PB #89-151997/AS $31

161
87 OPIOID PEPTIDES: AN UPDATE. Ran S. Rapaka, Ph.D., and Bhola N.

Dhawan, M.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01366-8 $7 NTIS PB #89-158430/AS $45

88 MECHANISMS OF COCAINE ABUSE AND TOXICITY. Doris H.

CIouet, Ph.D.; Khursheed Asghar, Ph.D.; and Roger M. Brown, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01359-5 $11 NTIS PB #89-125512/AS $39

89 BIOLOGICAL VULNERABILITY TO DRUG ABUSE. Roy W. Pickens,

Ph.D., and Dace S. Svikis, B.A., eds.

GPO Stock #017-022-01054-2 $5 NTIS PB #89-125520/AS $23

90 PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, 1988. PROCEEDINGS OF

THE 50TH ANNUAL SCIENTIFIC MEETING. THE COMMITTEE ON

PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, INC. Louis S. Harris, Ph.D., ed.

GPO Stock #017-024-01362-5 $17

91 DRUGS IN THE WORKPLACE: RESEARCH AND EVALUATION

DATA. Steven W. Gost, Ph.D., and J. Michael Walsh, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01384-6 $10 NTIS PB #90-147257/AS $39

92 TESTING FOR ABUSE LIABILITY OF DRUGS IN HUMANS.

Marian W. Fischman, Ph.D., and Nancy K. Mello, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01379-0 $12 NTIS PB #90-148933/AS $45

93 AIDS AND INTRAVENOUS DRUG USE: FUTURE DIRECTIONS FOR

COMMUNITY-BASED PREVENTION RESEARCH. C.G. Leukefeld, D.S.W.;

R.J. Battjes, D.S.W.; and Z. Amsel, Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01388-9 $10 NTIS PB #90-148941/AS $39

94 PHARMACOLOGY AND TOXICOLOGY OF AMPHETAMINE AND

RELATED DESIGNER DRUGS. Khursheed Asghar, Ph.D.; Errol De Souza,

Ph.D., eds.

GPO Stock #017-024-01386-2 $11

IN PRESS:

NTIS PB #90-148958/AS $39

95 PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, 1989. PROCEEDINGS OF

THE 51ST ANNUAL SCIENTIFIC MEETING. THE COMMITTEE ON

PROBLEMS OF DRUG DEPENDENCE, INC. Louis S. Harris, Ph.D., ed.

96 DRUGS OF ABUSE: CHEMISTRY, PHARMACOLOGY, IMMUNOL

OGY, AND AIDS. Phuong Thi Kim Pham, Ph.D., and Kenner Rice, Ph.D.,

eds.

97 NEUROBIOLOGY OF DRUG ABUSE: LEARNING AND MEMORY.

Lynda Erinoff, ed.

98 THE COLLECTION AND INTERPRETATION OF DATA FROM

HIDDEN POPULATIONS. Elizabeth Y. Lambert, M.S., ed.

162

U.S. GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE: 1990 0-0 270-493
DHHS Publication No. (ADM) 90-1678

Alcohol, Drug Abuse, and Mental Health Administration

Printed 1990