Processing Pain: Research, Lived-Experience, and Compassionate Pursuits

A significant portion of my academic research emerges from my personal experiences and reflections of my early years in Beltzhoover, my Pittsburgh neighborhood. In two publications, I discussed my formative sexual identity while critiquing the prevalent gender constructs perpetuated by family and community (Bey, 2011, 2014). In another, I attempted to validate oral histories and local archives, while using my neighborhood history as an example (Bey, 2013). I also explored the impact of visual phenomena (memorials/tattoos/graffiti) on the public memory of Beltzhoover, which lost a significant population of its youth through gang violence in the 1990s (Bey, 2012). After years of "successfully" using stories, myths, family members, and local figures (alive and deceased) as fodder for exploring my identity, framing concepts, and analyzing their implications to pedagogy, I was thrust into a situation, a few years ago, where I was forced to answer ethical questions about my research and methodology.While, from my perspective, I recovered histories, validated legacies, and was rightfully sharing my own lived history, it became apparCorrespondence ent that through my representations of people and events, I hurt someone, perhaps several people, along the way. While my exchange with a distraught community member presented several rich teachable moments, for the purpose of this commentary I would like to discuss ethical considerations for those ofus who write about painful or deeply personal issues.Like many doctoral students, while pursuing my degree I considered the potential of countless dissertation topics. Fortunately, I had professors who encouraged me to revisit and deconstruct my personal journey in the process. I found this approach rewarding and therapeutic, as it very much resembled the dialogues I evoke in the studio. I approached my lived history in order to make sense of it, to find my position, to gain perspective, and/or to find closure on countless issues. Like a visual artist, through my writing, I endeavored to explore the intersections of my identities.Transitioning from a teaching institution to a major research institution in 2009 suddenly afforded me previously unimaginable amounts of time and resources to support my research agenda. As my father would say, I was like "a kid in the candy store" and the "Publish or Perish" motto that subconsciously hangs over all junior faculty transformed my tenacity into opportunism. I made no provisions and had no further considerations regarding the implications or impact of my research beyond those expected by the Internal Review Board (IRB). I wanted to see my words in a major academic journal so I set my sights for Studies in Art Education. Presumptuously, I assumed that no one [from the neighborhood or my family] would care to or take the time to read my 5,000 words. I tenaciously pursued one intimate topic after the next, representing my impressions of people, places, and accounts, putting no stock in the impact of my articles on my family or community. It is important to note the impact of the increased accessibility of our research in this technological age. Once considered esoteric articles and book chapters, which collected dust in our offices and in university libraries are now readily available and possibly stumbled upon via the Internet through random word searches. While the increased visibility of research is promising it should demand increased sensitivity and accountability.Scholars Ballengee-Morris (2002), Slivka (2015), and Staikidis (2006) among others extensively discuss positions, ethical concerns, and strategies for de-centering ourselves while conducting interviews and ethnographies, but I didn't think these discussions applied to what I was doing. My study was an Autoethnography (Jones, 2008). I am from Beltzhoover and this was my pain and history, too. I was connected with and trusted by those whom I interviewed. I never considered the notion that I might be considered an outsider. …