Gay Voluntary Associations in New York. Moshe Shokeid

Actually, I noticed somebody standing nearby, but I thought he “couldn’t be gay,” since he was too conservative looking. Eventually, I approached him and asked if he had seen anyone else waiting. He was embarrassed to discover it was me he was waiting for. It became evident he expected me to come in somber (professorial) attire, just as I expected a more radical looking young man. In retrospect, it was partly an inability to disappear in the crowd that probably handicapped my guide’s own work.

      I was greatly surprised when we got to the synagogue to find a big crowd of many men and a smaller number of women who seemed to me so … ordinary! They looked very different from what I had expected. My encounter with the gay synagogue raised my doubts about the frequent portrayal of gay male society in the anthropological literature. Why only, or mostly, was their depiction in the field of anonymous sex? I thought that anthropologists who for many years refrained altogether from the study of a group that might have affected their own status in mainstream professional life had by default helped direct the belated interest in gay people to the restricted issues around sexual demeanor. They thereby also called public attention to a further stigmatizing type of behavior. The outbreak of AIDS undoubtedly strengthened the trend of research on issues of men’s sexual behavior. However, I do not blame anthropologists. I assume I would not have dared engage myself and “compromise” my reputation with the study of gay people had I been at an earlier stage of my career.

      On my return to New York in 1989, planning to conduct research at CBST, I did not intend to concentrate on issues of sexuality. Nevertheless, I expected some difficulties on entering the field of gay society. A dilemma I immediately confronted was, how do I go about introducing myself? I have already discussed this issue in my ethnography (2003 [1995]: 7–10); however, I should emphasize that the dilemma of the anthropologist’s role during fieldwork—the information he or she offers the subjects about the researcher’s identity and the goals of research—are not unique to fieldwork with sexual minorities. These issues are equally relevant to most other fields of study that are no longer conducted among “other” people, those who are visibly different from the researcher’s ethnic and social identity.

      I had faced a similar problem during my study of Israeli immigrants in New York (Shokeid 1988b). For many years they have been disparaged by their compatriots and nicknamed Yordim. Since I was not studying my fellow Israelis through the more formal techniques of survey and interviews, was I supposed, according to professional ethics, to inform any Israeli I spoke to that I was not a Yored and that I was planning to write about the Israelis in America? Actually, a previous research project initiated at Queens College to study the various immigrant groups in the Borough of Queens had failed with the Israelis. They refused to cooperate with the interviewers. Similarly, was I supposed to inform my new acquaintances at the gay synagogue, on first meeting each man and woman, of my sexual identity and that I might write about them?

      For nearly a hundred years, the position of Euro/American fieldworkers has been mostly visible and clear. They usually came from another continent or racial/ethnic group and retained the status of guests who only rarely could and did “go native.” But when an Israeli citizen comes to study other Israelis in America, or when an Israeli-Jewish anthropologist shows up at a gay synagogue, he/she is not immediately categorized in the role of alien observer. The “otherness,” a major characteristic of the anthropologist’s social encounter during fieldwork, as well as a theoretical mainstay in the ethnographic text, is thus immediately lost. The anthropologist’s own “otherness” is now far more subtle and a matter for gradual revelation and negotiation—for example, the “true” national identity of the Israeli ethnographer on a sabbatical stay in New York versus that of the Israeli immigrants (Yordim) in his study. Similarly, the assessment of the “true” sexual identity of the Israeli anthropologist, versus that of his gay American coreligionist congregants, is now a matter of gradual discovery rather than a clearly marked characteristic identified immediately on the ethnographer’s arrival.⁵

      Attending Sexual Activities

      I soon discovered that the gay synagogue was not a cruising site. Obviously, I had no need to consider Bolton’s strategy. I might even suggest that my unannounced sexual orientation was somewhat advantageous. I learned to be “physical” with friends, men and women, something foreign to the culture of Israelis of my generation, who do not habitually kiss and hug, a common habit in the United States and in gay society in particular. Still, I never had sex with a congregant. On one embarrassing occasion I learned how easily one can lose one’s position of sexual “otherness.” I decided to visit a gay sauna that was mentioned to me as one of the last surviving institutions of this type in Manhattan. I assumed that in the early afternoon hours I would not meet any of my acquaintances there. I was naturally embarrassed when one of the few attendees at this slow business hour told me I was familiar to him from his visits to services at CBST. It now became clear that I had not considered the possibility I was not the only academic in town free of a strict work schedule. In any case, it was not the problem of being discovered at that place but the anxiety of how to decline his advances without incurring personal offense.

      Later I learned that one could observe a site of sexual activity without necessarily engaging in the activity and without violating the participants’ privacy. Jeff, who was among my close friends at CBST (see Chapters 2 and 10), felt secure enough to share with me some details of his sexual adventures. The mutual exchange of feelings and information sustained our intimate relationship. He once told me that he was a member of the GSA (Golden Shower Association). I must admit, I was puzzled about the “obscene” pleasure he found in getting soaked in urine. What I had in mind was a very surrealistic image of that phenomenon. In a casual manner I told Jeff I was “curious” about that activity. As I later realized, my expression of curiosity left him with the impression I would like to see the scene for myself. I had forgotten all about it when, a few months later, Jeff suggested I join him at the next GSA monthly meeting. For a long time, he told me, he had hesitated to invite me, mostly because of the embarrassment of having me watch him during a sexual activity. But eventually, he concluded that at most, he would not enjoy for once the complete freedom to “do his thing.” He considered this a minor sacrifice.

      It was now my turn to hesitate and consider my forthcoming voyeuristic role in a notorious sexual activity. I decided to go along, and to my great relief, I soon discovered my presence was not as embarrassing as I had thought it would be. I was not obliged to strip but remained in jeans. Nor was I obliged to participate in the ongoing activities. Benefiting from the introduction by Jeff, I could stroll around and talk to friendly members. Also, contrary to my worry, the place did not smell of urine.⁶ Most important, I did not feel I was violating the privacy of the participants. I came as Jeff’s friend. Jeff could rely on my code of confidentiality and feel assured that my observations, if ever published, would not harm his friends.

      My visit to the Golden Shower event seemed to cement our friendship. As we all exited, relieved that all had gone well, Jeff told me that when the lights went out for a few seconds, he thought it was a police raid and was worried about my being caught in an embarrassing situation. He then told me another reason that had initially made him unwilling to take me along to the event: he did not wish to feel like an “organism under a microscope.” But since then he had read my CBST book and had no worries about my way of portraying the people I observed. He liked his own presentation in my narrative, although his identity remained disguised to anyone else.

      As for my mood about this event and my evaluation of my own behavior as “participant observer,” I felt that I had undergone one of the most daring experiences in my career. Not because I witnessed a Bruegel picture—a chaotic, fantastic, and in some way forbidden scene—but because I did not shy away from a social setting, one that prior to my participation seemed somewhat obscene and threatening to my reputation.

      I again experienced the difficult choices that confront the observer in this field when I was encouraged to join a group of men for the annual Bear Pride Convention in Chicago. This time I was fully aware that once I decided to participate it would be far more difficult to retreat into the “don’t touch me” position. I assumed that being away from my home