Social Problems across the Life Course

Social Problems across the life Course

Understanding Social Problems An SSSP Presidential Series Understanding Social Problems is a textbook series published in collaboration with the Society for the Study of Social Problems, under the direction of the SSSP Editorial and Publications Committee. The anthologies introduce students to the principles for assessing social problems and to exemplary research studies in the field. Articles selected from the society's leading journal, Social Problems, are chosen for their coverage, their relevance, and their accessibility to students. Introductions written by each book's editors situate the issues raised by the articles into a broader sociological perspective.

All royalties from this series go to support the SSSP and its activities. Social Problems across the Life Course Edited by Helena Z. Lopata and Judith A. Levy Drugs,Alcohol, and Social Problems Edited by James D. Orcutt and David R. Rudy Health and Health Care as Social Problems Edited by Peter Conrad and Valerie Leiter

Social Problems across the life Course EDITEDBY HELENA 2.LOPATAAND JUDITH A. LEVY

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD PUBLISHERS, I N C . Lanham Boulder N e w York Toronto Oxford

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD PUBLISHERS, INC. Published in the United States of America by Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowmanlittlefield.com

P.O. Box 317, Oxford OX2 9RU, United Kingdom Copyright 0 2003 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Social problems across the life course I Edited by Helena 2. Lopata and Judith A. Levy. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7425-2834-0 (cloth : alk. paper)-ISBN 0-7425-2835-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Social skills. 2. Life skills. 3. Social problems. HM69 1.S63 2003 30 1 -dc2 1 2003005193 Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

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Acknowledgments

PART I: INTRODUCTION

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1 The Construction of Social Problems across the Life Course

Helena Z. Lopata andjuditb A. Levy

PART II: SOCIAL PROBLEMS IN CHILDHOOD 2 Childhood and Public Life: Reaffirming Biographical Divisions

Spencer E. Cahill 3 Sexuality and Gender in Children’s Daily Worlds Barrie Tborne and Zella Luria

PART 111: SOCIALIZATIONAND EDUCATION

4 Getting Rid of Troublemakers: High School Disciplinary Procedures and the Production of Dropouts Christine Bowditch 5 Learning Collective Eminence: Harvard Law School and the Social Production of Elite Lawyers Robert Granfeld and Thomas Koenig

PART IV: ADOLESCENCE AND YOUNG ADULTHOOD 6 From Empty Nest to Crowded Nest: The Dynamics of Incompletely Launched Young Adults Allan Schnaiberg and Sheldon Goldenberg 7 Social Construction of HIV Transmission and Prevention among Heterosexual Young Adults Eleanor Maticka- Tyndale V

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31 49 53 73 93 97 119

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CONTENTS

PART V: MARRIAGE AND FAMILIES 8 Thinking about the Baby: Gender and Divisions of Infant Care Susan Walzer 9 Contributions to Children by Divorced Fathers Jay D. Teachman

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PART VI: CAREERS

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10 “Outsider within” the Station House: The Impact of Race and Gender on Black Women Police

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Susan E. Martin 11 Shifts and Oscillations in Deviant Careers: The Case of Upper-Level Drug Dealers and Smugglers Patricia A. Adler and Peter Adler

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PART VII: AGING AND DYING

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12 The Politics of Menopause: The “Discovery” of a Deficiency Disease Frances B. McCrea 13 Family Status and Poverty among Older Women: The Gendered Distribution of Retirement Income in the United States Madonna Harrington Meyer 14 Failing Health and the Desire for Independence: Two Conflicting Aspects of Health Care in Old Age David L. Morgan 15 Death and Personal History: Strategies of Identity Preservation David R. Unruh

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PART VIII: CONCLUSIONS

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16 Final Constructions: A Review of Differing Perspectives and Solutions Helena Z. Lopata andJudith A. Levy

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Source List

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Index

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About the Editors

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243 259 273

Acknowledgments

We are grateful to Jeannette Tandez, Tamara Lim, and Saima Chaudhry for their considerable help in bringing this volume to production. We also would like to thank the authors whose articles appear in this book for allowing us to reprint their work. A special thanks goes to Heather Armstrong and the staff at Rowman & Littlefield for their efficiency in producing this volume and for making the production process so enjoyable for us as the volume’s editors.

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Part I

INTRODUCTION

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CHAPTER 1

The Construction of Social Problems across the Life Course Helenu Z.Lopatu undJudith A. Levy

As C. Wright Mills (1959) stated many years ago, the structure and culture of a society, its history, and what happens within it at any time and place affect everyone

within it more or less directly. When personal troubles take on the status of mutually recognized and shared difficulties for a sufficient number of people, these exigencies may be perceived as social problems that require social action. In broad sociological terms, something becomes defined as a social problem through a process of social construction in which a situation or condition is collectively perceived as harmful to a sufficient number of people or society itself. The process of constructing a social problem entails gaining public attention and legitimacy for recognizing the troubling aspect of the situation or condition, proposing and obtaining acceptance for solutions, and implementing strategies for change. What is constructed as a social problem differs by society, historical time, place, and culture. Thus, the same condition may be defined as a social problem at one point in time or for one group of people, yet perceived as nonproblematic at other time periods or for different constituencies. The human life course is filled with and subject to a wide range of personal difficulties with the potential makings of a social problem, many of which are shared by others. Life events and processes, such as birth, childhood, training for and entering an occupation, marriage and procreation, growing older, and death and dying, are all subject to dilemmas, obstacles, barriers, and/or impediments. This volume examines some of the troubles that emerge in the individual American life course that have been collectively defined as social problems. As background to understanding how the life course and the construction of social problems intersect, we begin this volume with an overview of the theory and principles that inform both life course and social problems research and issues.

The Life Course as a Social Construction

Glen Elder (1974:4-5) notes that Overall the life course can be viewed as a multilevel phenomenon, ranging from structural pathways through social institutions and organizations to

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H E L E N A Z. LOPATA A N D J U D I T H A. LEVY the social trajectories of individuals and their developmental pathways. In concept, the life course generally refers to the interweave of age-graded trajectories, such as work careers and family pathways, that are subject to changing conditions and future options, and to short-term transitions . . . multiple. . . interdependent. . . pathways.

Central themes of the life course paradigm concern: 1. The interplay of human lives and historical times that give rise to “cohort effects’’

in which social change diferentiates the l;fepatterns of successive groups of people born within a socially dejhed and bounded period of years. The baby boomers (Americans born between 1946 and 1964) and generation X (Americans born between 1961 and

1981) represent two recent cohorts that have received much research attention and for whom considerable differences in life experiences have been found. 2. The social meaning of age, age-norms, and age-graded roles and events. In all societies, age-norms based on a system of age-grading assign people to various roles, rights, and obligations according to their biological age and the normative expectations that surround each age-interval. For example, entering college once was considered the prerogative of youth, and most students started college at age eighteen or nineteen. Such factors as World War I1 military service for men that delayed matriculation and changing roles for women that brought many of them into the college classroom to prepare for paid employment have helped to redefine that norm.

3. The timing, sequencing, and duration of llfe events including scheduling o f multiple trajectories and their synchrony or asynchrony. Age-norms specify by whom and when certain things can be done, and also for how long and in what order. For example, the values of mainstream middle-class American society specify that childbearing should occur after marriage and at a period of the life course when both the husband and wife are neither “too young nor too old.” What constitutes the margins of “the right age” is open to public debate and has changed somewhat over the last few decades. The television character Murphy Brown, for example, received vice presidential censure by conceiving and delivering her child without marrying first. Some critics also observed that having reached midlife, Brown may have been too old for the rigors and continued pressures of becoming a mother-particularly as her offspring would reach college age close to her own occupational retirement. As this example shows, the life course roles and events of individuals intersect and are expected to be appropriately coordinated with those of others in their social world. 4. The linking and interdependence of lives. Human lives typically are embedded in social relationships that involve kin, friends, neighbors, and others. The principle of living “linked lives” refers to the interactions that emerge from the social roles and events of one life intersecting with those of another. Some of these interstices may endure across significant portions of a person’s life span. For example, a divorced couple may continue to be socially linked to each other by the demands of mutual parenting long after their marriage has been legally dissolved. 5. The human agency in choice making. People are proactive about constructing their lives within the constraints of their social and physical world. For example, some

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university students plan their education with near certainty of attending graduate school while others intend to find jobs right out of college. Such diverging aspirations may stem solely from personal preference, or they can reflect differences in the range of opportunities perceived as being available. In sum, the life course involves the study of “the social patterns in the timing, duration, spacing, and order of events and roles of human life trajectories” (Elder and Rockwell 1979), recognizing that these elements are consequences of plans that people carry forth within the constraints of their social world. A person’s life course involves an intertwining of events, transitions, and turning points in his or her roles and relations in multiple societal institutions and endeavors. These include family, education, employment, the economy, religion, recreation, friendship, and whatever else with which a person may be involved. Life course theories and studies recognize that people experience a variety of events, passages, and turning points throughout their life course. Many of these are recorded or influenced by society’s institutionally enforced system of age-grading. Birth and death are officially recorded as are entrance into and passage through numerous checkpoints such as entering the school system, gaining a driver’s license, reaching the age of drinking, serving in the armed forces, marriage, divorce and widowhood, entering the labor force, and retirement. Of course, the life course of most persons does not form a neat package of anticipated and experienced events and turning points. Instead, it may include an array of unexpected events and circumstances. One’s own death can occur before procreating or experiencing certain career benchmarks. Children can be born at times that interfere with other plans, create much trouble as they grow, and prove stressful long after reaching maturity. Birth may be accompanied by biological problems, including the death of the mother. Despite societal norms for nurturing, parents are not always supportive, and some are abusive. School can prove a negative experience, leading to dropping out or other difficulties, and socialization into employment can be inadequate for getting or sustaining a satisfactory job. The nation’s high divorce rate also reminds us that marriages can be painful and full of complications. Retirement may be forced or result in isolation. Meanwhile, grief for lost times, friends, or significant others is an unpleasant passage that commonly occurs with age. Social scientists conceptualize and conduct research on the life course to better understand what can happen to people from birth to death. For example, Elder (1974) studied the effects of the economic “great depression” of 1930s America on that era’s youth and their later adulthood. Handel (1994) has studied events in the life histories of working-class men who grew up in one of the neighborhoods of New York. Hareven (1982) has focused on the interweaving of the timing, duration, and turning points of families working in an industrial town. Smith and Moen (1988) have conducted extensive studies of the complexities of passing through midlife in the life course of American women. The articles included throughout this volume represent additional work that directly addresses many of the problems that emerge as people live our their lives in close social interaction and bonds of interdependency with one another.

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Social Problems as Social Constructions As observed earlier, a social problem is a situation or a condition in a society that is constructed through human agency as something worthy of being perceived of as a social problem. The same phenomenon may be defined differently or even not considered as a social problem across and within societies and at different points in time. In this regard, Blumer (1971:301) cautions that Social problems are not the result of an intrinsic malfunctioning of a society, but are a result of a process of definition in which a given condition is picked and identified as a social problem. A social problem does not exist for a society unless it is recognized by that society to exist.

Lopata (1984250) extends this position by arguing that certain aspects or characteristics of any society are likely to be defined as “conditions” that can be constructed as social problems. In the history of a society, the same situation can be converted through claims-making activities by some members of that society into a social problem in many different ways with a variety of proposed “solutions” (Spector and Kirsuse 1987). Like the human life course, the process of constructing a social problem typically follows a “natural history.” Fuller and Myers (1941a), Blumer (1971), and Spector and Kitsuse (1987) propose five stages of this history. (1) A social problem begins when a number of persons or key authoritative persons organize claims-making activities to define the situation as harmful to individual or social life; (2) the legitimacy of these claims is accepted by official agencies, fear is communicated, and blame is assigned; (3) the condition becomes publicly recognized and defined as a social problem; (4) procedures to deal with the claims and competing solutions are suggested; and ( 5 ) solutions are implemented. Assignment of a label to a newly identified problem, such as the term “child abuse,” “divorce,” or “juvenile delinquency,” is common. Of course, many social problems are never resolved, only temporarily “solved,” or the condition reappears later as a different social problem. Social problems themselves can be seen as following a life course that typically includes their birth, maturation, solution, and possible premature demise. The process of constructing a social problem may be truncated before achieving full recognition or status, sustained inrerest may wane with time or be lost, or a specific problem may lose importance as others emerge and compete. For example, population experts, policy makers, and a segment of the American public in the late 1960s warned that too rapid and extensive world population growth would dangerously strip the earth’s resources. Even families in the United States enjoying relatively high standards of living were encouraged to limit their family size to no more than two children, thus helping the nation to achieve the goal of “population zero”-a term that denotes no change in overall population size. Today, this concept is rarely evoked among couples planning to begin their families. Indeed, rather than concern about contraception, one in six American contemporary couples seek treatment for infertility each year (Pearson, 1992).

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One difficulty in organizing efforts to change a condition that some people define as needing resolution lies in forging agreement as to what the problem is in a given situation. With most of today’s mothers employed in the workforce, the problem of how to ensure the well-being and protection of preschool children has been defined as a national concern. The problem as some see it is due to inadequate public funding and support for day care centers and other forms of safe child care that would better permit women to work without care-giving worries. Other Americans define the problem as women entering the workforce at a stage in their family life cycle when they should be staying home. How different groups define a problem also may yield competing solutions. The White House, for example, supported a “Just Say No” campaign during the Reagan years to reduce illicit substance use among teenage youth based on the belief that they needed social support and a moral message to take this stance. This premise and solution contrast sharply with educational programs and other methods of that period designed to provide the information and skills needed to resist such temptations (Sloboda 2000). Disagreement over who is to blame for generating a problem also hinders or complicates finding a solution. The congressional investigation of the Bill ClintonMonica Lewinsky relationship left some people criticizing Special Prosecutor Ken Starr for stirring up trouble through unnecessary muckraking. Others situated culpability with the president, while still others blamed Lewinsky. Differences of opinion concerning who was at fault led to much dissension over what should be done. Some social problems persist due to insufficient knowledge as to the factors contributing to the condition and its prevalence. Even when information is available, the definition of what constitutes the problem and its solution may go against the value systems of a segment of the society. Much is known about the demography of teenage pregnancy, for example. Yet, disagreement exists over what should be done. Condom distribution appears to be the answer to some, but this strategy directly conflicts with the moral codes of many Americans and the teachings of some religions. The latter are more likely to advocate celibacy than propose methods for safer sex. Some people and groups benefit from a situation that is defined as a social problem or the conditions that produce it. Such collective interests may obstruct or deflect attempts to change what is occurring. Children, for example, constituted a large segment of Americans employed in the textile mills, mines, and factories of the nineteenth century. Despite public campaigns to improve their lives and safety, it was not until changes in both economic conditions and methods of production reduced their value as workers that industry expelled them (see the chapter by Cahill in part I1 of this volume). This example also reminds us that, as Kohn (1976) observes, all social problems are interconnected, both in their underlying conditions and in their consequences. The same economic and productive forces that led to the expulsion of children from the workforce also restricted women’s participation. With a growing number of male workers at the turn of the century and too few jobs, public sentiment and newly enacted laws enforced the movement of women from the public workplace to the private spheres of home life where they were enjoined to productively engage in housewifery and watching their children. Later this solution, and recognition of the

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stress that it produced, reemerged in the 1960s as what Friedan (1963) called “the problem with no name” to become a central component of the contemporary women’s movement. Another major difficulty in resolving social problems can stem from a shortage of resources to address their solution, particularly when one problem competes with another. Hierarchies of seriousness appear in the value systems of different groups and the ranking of methods for best eradicating problems. Minority children, for example, constitute one segment of the United States population that increasingly and disproportionately lives in poverty. Costly medical technology, meanwhile, has extended medicine’s ability to prolong life among the nation’s seriously ill and older adults. “Generational equity” is a term that has become a rallying slogan for an ongoing policy debate over whether or not older Americans may be getting too big a share of public entitlements at the expense of the young. Some advocates of this latter position go so far as to suggest developing a system of rationing that would limit older persons’ resource consumption (Callahan 1994). A social problem may consist of many layers and involve multiple components. In this regard, Fuller and Myers (1941b325) note that at one level A social problem is a condition that is an actual or imagined deviation

from some social norm cherished by a considerable number of persons. The objective aspect or phase of a problem consists of a verifiable condition, situation or event. The subjective aspect consists of an awareness of definition of certain people that the condition, situation, or event is inimical to their best interests and a consciousness that something must be done about it.

These theorists (194 1b:27) go on to observe that the genesis of some problems transcends human action. For example, “a physical problem represents a condition which practically all people regard as a threat to their welfare, but value-judgments cannot be said to cause the condition itself.” Floods, earthquakes, and hurricanes fall into this category. While people may argue about how to resolve the consequences of such physical problems, they lack sufficient knowledge to prevent them, and the events are perceived as inevitable and beyond human control. For example, many epidemics were considered unavoidable in the past before adequate knowledge of prevention was available (Eitzen and Zinn 1992). In contrast, ameliorative problems represent conditions generally viewed as undesirable but potentially fixable through human effort. Such problems are constructed through value judgments that both create and possibly hinder their solution. Meanwhile, moral problems (Fuller and Myers 1941b:29) represent conditions not consistently viewed throughout society as being undesirable. Examples drawn from the labor force include shifting opinions about the desirability of child labor, employment of illegal migrants, uncontrolled competition, and unorganized wage labor. Of course, people are affected by many conditions with broad world implications. Most people, for example, consider wars a serious problem, but concerted efforts to stop a war vary by time and circumstance. One such collective effort occurred in America during the 196Os, with positive results-the American war with Vietnam was

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stopped, in part, due to mass public protest. Meanwhile, problems such as famine, unemployment, and ethnic genocide have brought numerous refugees from other countries to America. Migration, as a form of solution for these problems, has led to shortages of resources for schooling and medicine in certain localities and for certain groups. For instance, the rapid growth of global populations, especially in third world poverty regions, worries many scientists and politicians. Yet, it is mainly the long-time residents of California that feel the effect of illegal immigration from Mexico. Those of us interested in studying social problems need to attend to the time and society in which the problems are being addressed. Kohn (1976:99) observes that we should always ask, “What consequences does social structure have for the creation, exacerbation, or relief of social problems? . . . The fact that America is such a complex, large, heterogeneous society with many value systems and a movable but definite class structure contributes to the creation, exacerbation and difficulties with the solution of its social problems.” Gusfield (1989:432) also concludes that “modern societies, including the United States, display a culture of public problems. It is a part of how we think and how we interpret the world around us, that we perceive many conditions as not only deplorable but as capable of being relieved by [sic] and as requiring public action, most often by the state.” As a consequence of the complexity and diversity that surrounds a social problem, numerous occupations and facilities have been created that specialize in treatment, prevention, and reform, especially of those considered “troubled persons.” According to Gusfield (1989:432), modern societies have experienced a “long-running drift toward a greater commitment to use public facilities to directly enhance the welfare of citizens.” Based on examination of both the social problem and the life course literature, one might also add that the “disposition to turn private and familial problems into public ones” that Gusfield (1989:43 1) observes increasingly involves problems related to life course matters.

Constructing Social Problems across the Life Course America has constructed many problems, such as wars; poverty; crime and juvenile delinquency; health care; race, ethnic, gender, and age discrimination and prejudice; pollution; underemployment; violence within families and on streets; drug and alcohol abuse; and all forms of behavior that are labeled as deviance. In fact, the readers of this book or their families and associates may have experienced any number of situations that have been or are being defined as social problems: infertility, premature or difficult birth, too many births, being orphaned or abandoned, neglected, abused, missing, or discriminated against. The life course of Americans is full of different troubles and, therefore, also full of social problems. Let us turn now to the readings in this volume to examine a sampling of the social problems created out of the personal troubles of Americans across their life course. Various parts of the volume are organized to follow the order and timing of the life events and normative expectations that make up the typical life course trajec-

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tory. The individual papers have been chosen to illustrate some of the many problems that may occur over an individual’s life span that have been elevated to the status of a social problem. An introductory overview precedes each of the volume’s parts and has been included to help orient the reader to the social problems and issues within them.

References Blumer, Herbert. 1971. “Social Problems as Collective Behavior.” Social Problems 18:298-306. Cahill, Spencer E. 1990. “Childhood and Public Life: Reaffirming Biographical Divisions.” Social Problems 37(3):390-402. Callahan, Daniel. 1994. “Setting Limits: A Response.” The Gerontologist 34(3):393-98. Eitzen, D. Stanley, and Maxine Baca Zinn. 1992. Social Problems, 5th ed. Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Elder, Glen. 1974. Children of the Great Depression: Social Change in Lij2 Experiences. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. . 1994. “Time, Human Agency, and Social Change: Perspectives on the Life Course.” Social Psychology Quurterly 57:appendix A 4-1 5. , and R. C. Rockwell. 1979. “The Life Course and Human Development: An Ecological Perspective.” International Journal of Behavioral Development 2: 1-2 1. Friedan, Betty. 1963. The Feminine Mystique. New York: Norton. Fuller, Richard C., and Richard R. Myers. 1941a. “The Natural History of a Social Problem.” American Sociological Review VI:320-29. . 1941b. “Some Aspects of a Theory of Social Problems.” American Sociological Review VI:24-32. Gusfield, Joseph R. 1989. “Constructing the Ownership of Social Problems: Fun and Profit in the Welfare State.” Social Problems 36:431-41. Handel, Gerald. 1994. “Life Course as Reflexive Object: Some Constituent Elements in the Life Histories of Working-Class Men.” Studies in Symbolic Interaction 16:295-306. Hareven, Tamara. 1982. Family Time and Industrial Time. New York: Cambridge University Press. Kohn, Melvin L. 1976. “Looking Back-A 25 Year Review and Appraisal of Social Problem Research.” Social Problems 24:94-112. Lopata, Helena Z. 1984. “Social Construction of Social Problems over Time.” Social Problems 31: 249-72. Mills, C. Wright. 1959. The Sociological Imagination. New York: Oxford Universiry Press. Pearson, I. 1992. “The Stigma of Infertility.” Nursing Times 88(1):36-38. Sloboda, Zili. 2000. “Epidemiology and Prevention Research among U.S. Children and Adolescents.” In Issues in the FieldofDrugAbuse, Advances in Medical Sociology, Volume 8, edited by Judith A. Levy, Duane McBride, and Richard Stephens, 19-43. Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press. Smith, Ken, and Phyllis Moen. 1988. “Passage through Midlife: Women’s Changing Family Roles and Economic Well-Being.” The Sociological Quarterly 29:503-24. Spector, Malcolm, and John I. Kitsuse. 1987. Constructing Social Problems. New York: Aldine de Gruyer.

Part II

SOCIAL PROBLEMS IN CHILDHOOD

The concept, roles, and activities assigned to the period of the life course that Americans think of as “childhood’ are relatively recent in history. Looking back to earlier times, Philippe Arib (1965) observed that portraits from the fifteenth century show children dressed in adult clothing and displaying a physical demeanor portraying them as miniature adults. In societies undergoing industrialization or where farming, fishing, or other labor-intensive activities provide the main resources for survival, children typically function as a vital part of the economy. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, for example, women and children formed a large and essential segment of the American labor force. Compulsory education in the United States can be traced, in part, to the problem of keeping young people occupied and out of trouble when their employment as a workforce no longer proved economically profitable to industry. The concept and social roles of “childhood” as a life stage partly emerged from the need of an industrialized society to develop new pursuits and forms of socialization for the young. Social analysts argue that the lines separating childhood from adulthood are becoming significantly blurred in today’s society. Some American beauty pageants, for example, feature young girls parading in the clothing, makeup, and, in some instances, seductive poses that mimic adult behavior. The highly popular film Home Alone features a child, mistakenly left behind by vacationing parents, who successfully manages to foil the attempts of two house burglars. Such a portrayal implies that a child can function as, and also outwit, an adult. Similarly, newspaper cartoon strips such as Doonesbury and Jason have featured story lines about children who develop or are key employees of computer software companies-social roles typically reserved for an adult. Cahill, in this section, examines the popular premise that childhood, as a stage of the life course, is disappearing in favor of an earlier assumption of adult roles. His analysis focuses on adults’ attitudes and behavior toward children in private versus public spheres of physical and social interaction. In examining behavior that occurs outside the boundaries of the home and within public settings, Cahill observes that the social norms and practices surrounding the use of public space reinforce the separation of childhood from other life stages. Despite youth’s appropriation of some adult pursuits and privileges, territorial rights based on age-grading sanction adults’ control over children’s presence and behavior in public areas. Rather than obliterating the 11

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boundaries that distinguish childhood from adulthood, he concludes that contemporary norms governing the use of public space keep them intact. Other theorists have shown that the separations of public and private domains among children and adults that Cahill observes also define and help to reinforce gender differences. The social practices where girls and boys follow separate lines of action within differing spatial circumstances begin at birth and continue throughout life. The chapter by Thorne and Luria examines how gender divisions are enacted and enforced by the daily patterning of friendships, playground activities, use of classroom space, and boy-girl interactions that occur in elementary schools. Boys, for example, pal with boys in games that involve aggressive play and fighting. They also are more likely than girls to participate in organized team sports that are both hierarchical and competitive. Such play offers boys practice in teamwork along with exposure to handling conflict within the context of individual and group transgressions, rowdiness, disputes, and negotiations over rules and actions. In contrast, play activities among girls tend to revolve around cooperation and being agreeable. Play for girls typically involves turn-taking activities, “best friends,” popularity seeking, and synchronized body rituals such as cheerleading and jumping rope in unison. Besides producing different patterns of interpersonal relationships, these childhood role-distinctions also help to shape dating, marriage, and the scripting of sexual norms and practices later in the life course. Social class membership constitutes another societal division with roots in patterns of classroom and schoolyard separations. Margolin (1993), for example, examined how the construction of the “gifted child” concept educationally labels and divides children into categories with differing opportunities and social positioning in later life. She notes that development of the definition and meaning of “being gifted” historically favored children who were white and upper middle class. Connoting mental superiority, the designation of being gifted also became implicitly associated with possessing the moral qualities of purity and goodness. Unevenly applied across ethnicity and race, the concept of the gifted child selected white upper middle-class youth over their minority and lower-class counterparts for special attention, greater privileges, more resources, and systematic educational channeling into success in later life. Equating “being gifted” with “being of exceptional virtue and exemplary character” functioned to legitimate this inequitable treatment and, in doing so, helped to perpetuate racial and class discrimination. The connotation of giftedness also can be seen as a form of social control designed to bend children to their elder’s will. Youth who wish to be seen as gifted implicitly receive the message to engage in behavior likely to be judged as “good.” Of course, other forms of social control exist to elicit desired behavior from children. At the turn of the century, for example, males who headed families legally could discipline family members and control their behavior using whatever means they deemed appropriate including physical punishment. As a result, children (and wives) could be beaten without legal retribution and often with social approval. Corporal punishment was believed to be necessary to rearing good children. Parents who abstained were seen as neglecting their duty (De Mause 1975). The axiom “Spare the rod and spoil the child” directly stems from this social right and perceived obligation of parents.

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Protection from the potential power that adults hold to inflict injury upon children’s bodies underlies many of the criminal statutes passed into law over the last few decades. Nonetheless, such damaging practices as child abuse and incest have long histories that have continued into the present. In examining historical documents from 1880-1930, for example, Gordon (1986) discovered that male-dominated households of that period embodied belief systems that reinforced female subordination to older or stronger male relatives. Hidden behind family doors and with little recourse for victims, incest could become a regular pattern of abuse for young girls. Despite behavior that some scholars judge as passive or helpless acquiescence, Gordon found that an unknown number of such girls proactively engaged in acts that directly struck at the ideology of feminine virtue that created and legitimized their victimization. Delinquency, emancipation as a minor financed through prostitution, and selfsacrifice of their bodies to protect their mother or younger siblings became ways to rebel or resist.

References Aries, Philippe. 1962. Centuries of Childhood: A Social Histoty of Family Life. Translated by Robert Baldick. New York: Vintage. De Mause, Lloyd. 1975. “Our Forebears Made Childhood a Nightmare.” Psychology Today 8(11):85-88. Gordon, Linda. 1986. “Incest and Resistance: Patterns of Father-Daughter Incest, 18801930.” Social ProbLms 33(4):253-67. Margolin, Leslie. 1993. “Goodness Personified: The Emergence of Gifted Children.” Social Problems 40(4):5 10-32.

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CHAPTER 2

Childhood and Public Life REAFFIRMING BIOGRAPHICAL DIVISIONS Spencer E. Cubill

There may be many untold and misunderstood subplots to the history of childhood in Western societies (Synnott 1983), but the main story line is by now familiar. Before the sixteenth or seventeenth century, the young were absorbed into the world of adults once they had passed the age of five or seven (Arits 1960:329). With the subsequent spread of literacy and schooling, the privatization of family life, and the evolution and diffusion of courtly manners throughout European societies and their North American offspring, the biographical duration of childhood was gradually extended, the young were increasingly insulated from the affairs and concerns of their elders, and the psychological distance between children and adults grew (Aries 1960: 137-407; Elias 1939; Postman 1982). Despite sometimes fierce resistance, self-styled “child savers” from among the middle and upper classes eventually succeeded in making schooling compulsory for those under a specified age and in securing the passage of various forms of ostensively protective legislation such as laws prohibiting or restricting the paid employment of the young (Zelizer 1985). The economically unproductive and presumedly incompetent child now found in Western societies was thereby created. To some this is a story of the historically progressive subjugation of the young (Arits 1960) while for others it is a nightmarish tale of previous generations’ abuse of children (DeMause 1974). Despite this continuing debate, the parable of childhood’s history in Western societies has a moral that seems beyond question: contemporary conceptions of childhood and children are historical products that may well change in the future. Recognition of that moral has caused a number of casual observers and more serious students of contemporary social life some anxiety. They worry that, among other things, current fashions in children’s clothing (Lurie 1981:46), television (Meyerowitz 1985226-67; Postman 1982), and “egalitarian childrearing” (Winn 1983) are eroding the dividing line between childhood and adulthood that had characterized American society during the so-called “highwatermark” (Postman 1982:68) or “golden age of childhood’ (Winn 1983:ll) of the past hundred years. Almost everywhere they look in contemporary American society they see signs of an approaching “new Middle Ages” (Winn 1983) of an “adult-child’’ (Postman 1982:99). However, these prophets of childhood’s end have failed to look for such signs in 15

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some of the most obvious places. Although the story that historians of childhood tell us is based in part on information about the young’s behavior, access to, and treatment by others in public places in the past, students of social life have paid only passing attention to comparable evidence about contemporary conceptions of childhood and children. The purpose of this paper is to fill that gap in our understanding of contemporary childhood by focusing attention on the place of the young in the public life of contemporary American society. Drawing inspiration from the work of Durkheim and Goffman, I examine reports and observed instances of the young’s participation, behavior, and treatment in public life for expressive evidence of contemporary Americans’ collective conceptions of children and childhood. The signs that this examination reveals point to a somewhat different conclusion from that reached by the prophets of childhood’s end.

Social Facts and Public Life It is not much of an exaggeration to suggest that Emile Durkheim provided the authoritative definition of what most students of social life still consider their distinctive enterprise-the study of “social facts.” According to Durkheim ([ 18951 1964:3), that category of “facts” consists of “ways of acting, thinking and feeling, external to the individual and endowed with a power of coercion.” Of course, this characterization of social facts raises at least as many questions as it answers. What exactly is the character of the exteriority and the source of the coercive power of such facts? How can these exterior and constraining ways of acting, thinking and feeling be empirically identified and investigated? Although Durkheim was far from silent on these questions, his answers evolved over the course of his scholarly career (Parsons 1937; Stone and Farberman 1967). He initially maintained that a social fact could be recognized by either “the existence of some specific sanction” or “its diffusion in the group” (Durkheim [ 18951 1964: 10). Thus, legal codes served as Durkheim’s empirical indicators of social facts in his early study of The Division ofLabor ([ 18931 1964) while statistical distributions did so in his study of Suicide ([ 18971 1966). However, later in his career Durkheim turned his attention to ritualized, behavioral expressions of collective ways of thinking and feeling. His own study of religious rites (Durkheim [1915] 1965) led him to conclude that the very existence, not to mention the coercive power, of social facts was the product of common actions of individuals who are assembled together. In his words, “collective ideas and sentiments are even possible only owing to these exterior movements which symbolize them” (Durkheim [1915] 1965:466). That, in turn, would seem to suggest that social facts are made visible and, therefore, available for study on those occasions when and in those places where the members of a society routinely assemble and expressively symbolize collective ideas and sentiments. Erving Goffman took this Durkheimian suggestion to its logical conclusion. Borrowing from Durkheim, Goffman (1983:9) observed that it was in face-to-face gatherings and them alone that “we can fit a shape and dramatic form to matters that aren’t otherwise palpable to the senses” such as “larger social structures” and, of particular

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interest in this context, “ideals regarding our various categories of persons.” However, Goffman ([ 19551 1982) took this theme beyond where Durkheim had left it by recognizing that every social encounter has ritual elements. According to Goffman, the individuals who compose a society not only expressively rejuvenate collective ideas and sentiments, on special, celebrative occasions but also routinely reaffirm those social facts where and whenever they are in one another’s presence. As his own analyses of behavior in public places convincingly demonstrate (Goffman 1963, 1971), microecological metaphors, behavioral displays and other observable expressions of collective ideas and sentiments are readily found in those “regions of a community” that are “freely accessible to members of that community” (Goffman 1963:9). Consistent with the study policy that Durkheim suggested and Goffman developed, this paper examines children’s participation in public life for insights into contemporary Americans’ conceptions of childhood and children. Over a two-year period, several research assistants and I spent over 300 hours observing young children in such public places as city streets, shopping malls, parks, restaurants, and laundromats at various locations in the northeastern United States. We visited such settings for the explicit purpose of observing children’s public behavior and treatment and recorded our observations in fieldnotes. In addition, we occasionally made fieldnotes on children’s public behavior and treatment that we observed in the course of our daily rounds. Both during and after the time of these observations, I continually reviewed our fieldnotes in relation to concerns reported in the popular press and contemporary folklore about children in public places. The following analysis of children’s place in public life and discussion of collective conceptions of childhood and children in contemporary American society are products of those efforts.

The Public Lives of the Young Whatever else it may be, the familiar tale of childhood’s history in Western societies is a story of the sequestering of the young for what increasing numbers of their elders came to see as the young’s own good. In the United States, for example, child labor and compulsory schooling laws enacted during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries effectively segregated the young from their elders for a large part of the day, week and year. Yet, as Nasaw (1985:117) reports, “unlike work, school let out at three o’clock, leaving the new working class students with free time in the afternoon.” Many of these students, especially the boys, filled this free time hawking goods and services on the streets and frequenting a variety of public establishments. But economic and technological change was unkind to such youthful participants in public life. Young street entrepreneurs were soon confronted by overwhelming competition from home newspaper delivery, newsstands, permanent shoeshine stands, and other business enterprises owned and operated by adults (Nasaw 1985). In addition, during the early part of the twentieth century, “railroads, streetcars and automobiles emerged as fiercer killers of children than communicable diseases” (Zelizer 1985:33), causing widespread anxiety about the young’s safety in public places. Consequently, the young were gradually pushed off the streets of American towns and cities and into family households,

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schools, and other public settings-such as playgrounds-that were specifically designed for their use (Lofland 1973:76; Zelizer 198552). Perhaps because of this virtual banishment of the young from many public places, public accommodations were seldom designed with them in mind. Among other things, water fountains, toilets and public telephones were and still are built too high for young children to reach and for many older children to easily use.’ American children’s changing place in public life was thereby built right into the physical features of public places. If children ventured into public places at all, they inevitably required the assistance of a larger, more experienced person.

RESTRICTING PARTICIPATION In comparison to their historical counterparts, at least in the lower and working classes, contemporary American children’s access to public places and conveniences seems severely restricted. A study of 323 four to seven-year-olds conducted in 1975 found that only 16 percent of the interviewed children were “allowed to go further away than their own block” if not in the company of an adult caretaker (Boocock 1981:99). Children who lived in urban areas were most likely to be subject to such a restriction and many were even more constrained. For example, over half of the children who lived in East Harlem were “not allowed to go outside their own building or yard,” as were nearly two-fifths of the more affluent Nay York children with Park Avenue addresses (Boocock 1981:99). Similarly, only 16 percent of the 764 eleven to twelve-year-olds from low and middle-income homes in Oakland, California, surveyed in the late 1970s had visited more than two nearby public places in the past year without adult supervision, and nearly 30 percent had visited none (Medrich et al. 1982:82).2 Since approximately 1979, popular concern about children’s safety in public places has mushroomed. A series of highly publicized child abductions and murders, such as that of Adam Walsh in 1981, apparently convinced many Americans that children in public places faced a more ominous danger than moral temptation or accidental injury or death. Televised dramas, documentaries, and Congressional hearings helped to foster the impression that there was a virtual army of villainous adults stalking and preying upon children who dared to venture outside the protective fortresses of home and school. Today, “The smiling faces of missing-presumably abducted-youngsters peer out from grocery bags and utility bills, from fast-food cups, from congressional mail” (Spitzer 1986:18). It now often seems as if America, in the words of Adam Walsh’s father, John, is “littered with mutilated, decapitated, raped and strangled children” (Spitzer 1986:20). Contemporary folktales or urban legends also fuel this fire of popular concern about children’s safety in public places. For example, the modern horror legends of “the mutilated boy” and “the attempted abduction” have a similar theme. Either a young boy or an adolescent girl suddenly disappears from a department store or shopping mall. The missing child is then found in a public restroom either physically mutilated or in the process of being disguised by the abductors, who are preparing to

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sell her into some form of sexual slavery. As Brunvand (1 98480) observes, “hardly an urban center in the United States that is large enough to have suburbs and shopping centers has been free” of these modern horror legends. He reports that he has repeatedly heard these legends from worried parents who name specific businesses in their community where the incident supposedly occurred: “Typical of many people, a mother . . . relaying a castrated boy story she heard in Milwaukee, wrote, ‘I don’t know if this is legend or fact-but I haven’t let my 5-year-old son go in (to a shopping center restroom) alone yet”’ (Brunvand 198483). Like this mother, many adults apparently take the moral of these urban legends quite seriously: children are not safe even in such morally benign and vehicle-free public places as department stores and shopping centers. The widespread impression that practically all public places expose children to the dangers of abduction, mutilation, and murder has proven remarkably resilient. Serious questions have recently been raised about the accuracy of frightening estimates of the number of American children who are abducted by strangers (see Best 1989), and journalists have repeatedly debunked the “attempted abduction” and “mutilated boy” legends (Brunvand 198478). Yet, it does not appear that popular concern about children’s safety in public places has subsided appreciably because of the widespread publication of such information. Modern horror legends about children in public places continue to be told and believed, parents are still cautioned to vigilantly watch their children when in public places, and children are repeatedly warned not to talk to strangers. Regardless of whether the presumed dangers awaiting children who venture into public places are primarily real or imagined, it is the young who bear the burden of such popular fears. They are the ones whose access to and freedom of movement within public places are restricted as a result. For example, when it is not immediately obvious that an adult is accompanying a young child in a public place, the adults who are present almost always scan the surrounding setting in an apparent attempt to identify one of their kind as the child’s caretaker. If that visual search is unsuccessful, one of the adults typically requests that the child identify her or his caretaker usually by asking: “Where’s your mommy?”3 If the child is unable or unwilling to answer such questions then she or he is commonly detained until an adult caretaker can be located (see Cahill 1987:3 14). These somewhat extreme measures are seldom necessary, however. For the most part, young children in public places are not only accompanied by an adult caretaker but their relationship to that adult is clearly displayed “to whom it may concern.” An adult commonly has a firm grasp on one of their hands or else they are within easy reach of an adult whose eyes seldom wander from them for more than a few seconds. Moreover, in some public places, such immediately apparent expressions of the caretaker-child relationship are explicitly required as when signs on the entrance of some shops boldly announce that “children must stay with parents” or some similar message. While adults do tolerate the presence of older, school-age children who are not under the obvious supervision of an adult in many public places, it seldom appears as if they welcome it. Such children may not be subjected to interrogation and detention as are unaccompanied younger children, but they commonly do attract concerned if

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not suspicious glances from adults. Moreover, older children’s excursions into public places are subject to a variety of temporal and spatial limitations. Some localities enforce curfews for those under a specified age, and almost all formally prohibit the young from entering taverns or attending the screening of movies or theatrical events judged unsuitable for their delicate sensibilities. Those under unspecified but commonly understood ages are also informally barred from a number of other public establishments and events. Few American restaurants may advise potential patrons to “leave under fourteens and dogs at home” as do some British restaurants in The Good Food Guide (Greer 1984:3), but patrons of finer American restaurants implicitly know that they are expected to honor similar unspoken prohibitions. Clearly, neither young nor older, school-age children are allowed to freely or fully participate in the public life of contemporary American society.

ALLOCATING MORAL RESPONSIBILITY Contemporary Americans’ concern about children’s physical and moral safety is not the only reason that they restrict the young’s access to and freedom of movement in public places, however. As Goffman’s (1963, 1971) analyses of behavior in public places demonstrate, public order is predicated on a large base of normative presuppositions and self-sustained restraints. Public actors routinely observe a complex code of conduct and attend to the observance of public etiquette as a deeply moral matter. Because they do so, public life is relatively orderly and predictable. Yet most adults, including the arbitrators of popular morality who offer their advice in the daily newspapers, apparently consider children, especially younger children, either too inexperienced to be aware of the implicit code of conduct that governs behavior in public places, incapable of exercising the degree of self-control necessary to uphold it, or both. For example, when the reader “Sick of Brats” writes “Dear Abby” to complain about “the noisy, screaming, bratty kids” who ruin meals at nice restaurants, Abby sympathizes with her but instructs, “don’t blame the kids” (Van Buren 1986). Most adults would probably agree with Abby that children are not morally responsible for their disruptive or otherwise offensive public acts. However, someone must be held morally responsible if the orderliness and predictability of public life are to be maintained. That, in turn, requires that children in public places be accompanied by someone who is considered morally accountable. Because young children are not only considered in danger when in public places but a danger as well, the adult caretakers who are implicitly required to accompany them in public places are expected to do more than protect their charges from the dangers of public life. They are also expected to protect public order from the dangers of their charges’ amoral ways, as the following observation illustrates: A man, a woman, an approximately seven-year-old boy and four-yearold girl are sitting on either side of a table in the dining car of a long distance passenger train. The two children gradually raise their voices until they can be heard throughout the dining car, but the accompanying adults make no attempt to quiet them. A woman sitting at the table directly across

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the aisle suddenly turns to the children and sternly requests: “Would you two keep it down? Christ!” She glares at the accompanying adults, but they studiously avoid looking in her direction until she turns her attention back to her meal. A few moments later, the young girl starts to raise her voice again, but this time the man sitting across from her reaches under the table, places a hand on one of her knees and shakes his head back and forth in the negative.

In addition to containing the children’s disruption of public order, the woman sitting across the aisle from them also with her eyes subtly accused the accompanying adults of a dereliction of duty, and they apparently took that accusation to heart. At least the accompanying man quickly acted to prevent a reoccurrence of his charges’ disruption of public order when one of the children subsequently threatened to do so. Given that young children’s adult caretakers are held morally accountable for their charges’ actions, children’s disruptive or otherwise offensive public acts threaten more than public order. They also threaten what Goffman ([1955] 1982:5) termed the “face” or “positive social value a person effectively claims” of the children’s accompanying adult caretakers. In a featured newspaper article, entitled “The Tyranny of Toddlers,” a staff writer warns parents of this danger.* About the time you’ve settled back to wait for your entree, or just as the movie is kicking into gear, Junior-that child who looks so innocent in family portraits-will turn on you and wail. . . . Bowing to the stares . . . you will beat a hasty exit . . . and you will swear that Junior absolutely will not go out in public again for another 18 or so years (Campbell 1987:Dl).

Like the parent in this cautionary tale and the man in the preceding example, children’s adult caretakers commonly do bow to others’ stares when their charges violate public etiquette. To the extent that they are competent public actors who possess a defensive orientation toward saving their own face (Goffman [1955] 1982), they can be counted upon to prevent or at least contain their charges’ disruptions of public order. Thus despite younger children’s assumed incapacity to observe public etiquette, they often do pay a price for their disruptive or otherwise offensive public acts. Their adult caretakers often control them by physical fiat, threaten them with temporary exile from public life, and occasionally execute such threats, as the following observation illustrates: A man is inspecting a box in a large toy store while an approximately sixyear-old and seven-year-old girl who are standing nearby engage in a heated argument. The man turns toward the girls and inquires: “How would you two like to go home RIGHT NOW?” In response, the girls loudly and simultaneously accuse one another of starting the argument. The man places the box back on the shelf, grabs a hand of each of the girls, and leads them toward an exit despite their pleas and protests.

It is as if young children in public places are on a kind of probation that their accompanying caretakers are obliged to and commonly do enforce.

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Of course, young children’s adult caretakers often do fail to prevent their charges from disrupting public order. Yet, as Goffman (1971:lOS) once observed, “[Iln the realm of public order it is not obedience and disobedience that are central, but occasions that give rise to remedial work of various kinds, especially the provision of corrective readings calculated to show that a possible offender actually had a right relation to the rules.” It is also on such occasions that young children’s adult caretakers most directly acknowledge their obligation to protect public order from their charges’ presumedly amoral ways. For example, the following was observed in a discount department store: While a young woman is inspecting a rack of clothing, an approximately five-year-old boy who had been standing next to the young woman runs between the surrounding racks of clothing and collides with an elderly woman. The elderly woman loudly exclaims: “OH, MY LORD!” The young woman quickly comes to the scene of the accident and remarks: “Oh, I’m sorry about that. B-, come over here right now.” The elderly woman responds: “That’s all right. He just frightened me.”

Note that in this remedial interchange (Goffman 1971:95-187) it is “I” not “he” who is “sorry about that.” The young woman thereby implicitly acknowledged that the collision was not the boy’s but her responsibility and that she did not take lightly her failure to prevent his disruptive act. In addition to preventing their charges from disrupting public order and attempting to restore it when they fail to do so, children’s caretakers also apparently attempt to reduce the future reoccurrence of their charges’ disruptive or otherwise offensive public acts. For example, they often respond to their charges’ violations of public etiquette with rule statements such as “it’s not polite to stare”; prompts such as “tell the lady you’re sorry”; and priming moves such as “what do you say?” (Cahill 1987). These responses are obviously addressed to the offending child, but they also seem designed for those who may have witnessed the child‘s delict. Like such admonitions as “you know you’re not supposed to do that,” these common responses to children’s violations of public etiquette display to the audience-at-large that the offending child‘s caretaker is a morally responsible public actor even though her or his charge is not yet. Indeed, those who witness such attempts to teach children about public etiquette sometimes encourage the caretaker by smiling in apparent appreciation of her or his efforts. And, regardless of whether the primary concern of children’s caretakers is reducing the future reoccurrence of their charges’ violations of public etiquette or saving face, in most cases the eventual effect of their common responses to children’s disruptive or otherwise offensive public acts is to transform the young into morally responsible, public actors (Cahill 1987). From children’s perspective, on the other hand, their public caretakers’ rule statements, prompts, and priming moves are behavioral demands that must be met. This is apparently part of the price they are made to pay for being temporarily relieved of moral responsibility for their public acts. Any excursion into a public place can quickly turn into an arduous training exercise complete with formal instruction, practice drills, and exams. While this may be an effective method of teaching the uninitiated what

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morally responsible public actors must know and do, there is also a more immediate lesson. When in public places, the young always must be mindful of the overwhelming dominance and dictates of their ever watchful elders. And that is only part of the burden that children must bear when in public places. O n crowded public transport vehicles and in supermarket check-out queues, adults commonly use nearby children as a temporary source of amusement to break the monotony of their ride or wait. They often visually admire and sometimes smile, wink and make faces at a nearby child in an apparent attempt to provoke some response from her or him. They may even question such a child or otherwise attempt to lure her or him into conversation. All this attention may seem quite innocent, but it just as clearly denies children the right to be let alone when in public places-a right children are continually instructed and encouraged to grant adults. In Durkheimian language, it is just such exterior movements that symbolize contemporary Americans’ collective conception of children.

APPORTIONING THE COLLECTIVE MANA As Goffman (119561 1982:47) once observed, Durkheim’s (1915:273-308) d’ISCUSsion of the soul suggests that “the individual’s personality can be seen as one apportionment of the collective mana”-the sanctifying energy arising from social existence. Goffman ([1956] 1982, 1971) also convincingly demonstrated that it was through such acts of deference or interpersonal rituals as honoring one another’s right to be let alone that public actors expressively acknowledge each other’s possession of a quota of mana. Yet, as the preceding suggests, the collective mana in contemporary American society is not expressively distributed in equal proportions among our various categories of persons. To borrow from Goffman (1963:126), the young seem to be considered so meager in sacred value that it is thought that they have nothing to lose through engagement, and hence can be engaged at will. Indeed, the young’s occasional protests against such demeaning treatment, if not summarily dismissed, merely invite further humiliation, as the following observation illustrates: An approximately four-year-old boy is holding on to a pant leg of a man in a checkout queue at a discount department store. While they wait, the woman immediately behind the man in the queue makes faces at the boy. He calmly looks up at her for a few moments and then pointedly sticks out his tongue. At that very moment, the man turns his head and sharply inquires: “What are you doing?” The boy replies: “Daddy, she’s making faces at me.” The man informs the boy that “she was only joking around’ and instructs him to “tell the lady you’re sorry.” The boy firrows his brow and purses his lips but complies.

For the young, this is the justice of public life. Of course, individuals must “show proper demeanor in order to warrant deferential treatment” (Goffman [1956] 1982:83), and young children in public places commonly fail to do so. They often seem unconcerned with the sorry state of their personal

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appearance, talk too loud, sometimes allow themselves to be overcome with situationally inappropriate emotions, and expose themselves to such profaning substances as previously used chewing gum. Such acts are undoubtedly treated as symptomatic of their performer’s lack of collective mana regardless of her or his age, but when committed by the young they are apparently treated as evidence that the entire category “children” has not yet acquired a quota of mana. Thus, regardless of whether a particular child shows proper demeanor when in a public place, she or he is unlikely to receive the deference from adults that she or he is expected to give them. However, children do reap benefits from their many public trials and tribulations, including gradual emancipation from direct adult supervision when in public places. Once they demonstrate an awareness of and willingness to observe public etiquette, they are allowed to sometimes participate in public life as individuals, albeit not fullfledged ones. Despite their freedom from direct adult supervision, they still remain on a kind of probation that almost any adult can enforce, as the following illustrates: An approximately nine-year-old and eight-year-old boy are looking at the overhead menu in a fast-food restaurant and discussing the offerings. The younger of the two suddenly exclaims “Wait,” turns, and starts to run toward an exit only to collide with a woman. The woman immediately grabs the boy’s shoulders and informs him that “you shouldn’t run.”

Like this boy, older, school-age children in public places may be subjected to reprimands from total strangers before they even have an opportunity to provide a corrective reading for the act in question. Given that almost any adult may quickly bring them back into line with public etiquette whenever they step out of line, they are made to walk a behavioral tightrope when in public places. Unlike adults, they are seldom given the benefit of doubt, and, unlike younger children, they are not relieved of moral responsibility for their acts. In an important respect, then, public places are more hostile social environments for older, school-age children than for younger children. For example, a few minutes after the pedestrian collision reported above, an approximately four-year-old girl collided with another woman in the same fast-food restaurant. However, unlike the perpetrator of the earlier collision, the young girl was not reprimanded. Instead, the victim of the collision pleasantly remarked: “Oh, aren’t you adorable.” It is doubtful that she would have found an older child who committed a similar offense adorable. At least the woman in the preceding example did not. Although adults grant the young a kind of learner’s permit in public etiquette which entitles them to considerable moral license, the latter apparently expires long before the former. Yet, despite holding older, school-age children morally responsible for observing public etiquette, adults apparently do not trust them to do so. Groups of preadolescents and adolescents in public places who are not under the obvious supervision of an adult inevitably attract suspicious glances from adults and, in many shopping malls, the undivided attention of security officers. For example, the following occurred in a shopping mall on a Friday evening: A number of adults are standing and talking to one another outside the entrance to a movie theater and near to where a group of adolescents have

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congregated. A uniformed security officer approaches and instructs the adolescents to move away from the theater entrance. Although some of the adolescents briefly protest, they all eventually comply with the officer’s command. The officer then turns toward the adults, smiles and shakes his head before leaving to follow the departing adolescents. The adults remain, still partially blocking the theater entrance.

As this example suggests, the very presence of groups of preadolescents or adolescents

in a public place is apparently considered a potential threat to public order. Of course, older, school-age children do give adults some reason to doubt their loyalty to the code of conduct that governs behavior in public places. They sometimes vocally or electronically jam the airwaves of public places and, when in groups, may defiantly block pedestrian thoroughfares, stare, and verbally harass selected passersby. However, such pointedly disruptive and offensive acts probably are not symptoms of incomplete training in public etiquette as some adults apparently believe. Rather, they seem to be “meaningful nonadherences” (Goffman 1971:61) through which the young convey something about “their relation to the adult world” (Goffman 1963:223),and adults are at least as responsible as the young for the character of that relation. As previously suggested, the expressive relationship between the young and their elders in public places is one of asymmetrical deference. Even older, school-age children are under constant surveillance when in public places, expected to relinquish such territories as previously claimed seats to their elders, and are often talked about as if absent. For example, the following was observed in a shopping mall. An approximately ten-year-old boy is sitting on a bench between two men. While the boy is telling one of the men about the recent success of his little league baseball team, the other man leans back, interrupts the boy, and addresses the second man in a modulated voice as if to indicate that his remarks were not for the boy’s ears. The boy gradually leans forward until his elbows are resting on his knees while the men discuss his promise as a baseball player.

Adults may demand that older children act like morally responsible public actors but, in many respects, treat them as mere children. Thus, older children may not so much be alien to but alienated from the code of conduct that governs behavior in public places and the well-demeaned adults who sustain it. Goffman (1963:84) once described the young’s lot in public life as “nonperson treatment,” but that characterization glosses over important differences between the treatment of younger and older children. Neither is shown the deference due fullfledged persons, but their lot in public life is not the same. While adults treat younger children in public places as innocent, endearing yet sometimes exasperating incompetents, they treat older children as unengaging and frightfully undisciplined rogues. Among other things, the very violations of public etiquette that adults often find amusing when committed by younger children are treated as dangerous moral failings when the transgressor is a few years older. Thus, in public places, the young are expressively divided into two distinct categories of beings both of which are treated

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differently from adults. To borrow from Parsons (1942:89), the age lines dividing these categories of persons may not be rigidly specific, but that does not lessen their significance as those so categorized are routinely reminded when in public places.

The Facticity of Biographical Divisions

Whatever else may be happening with and to the young in contemporary American society, the dividing line between childhood and adulthood is still expressively drawn in public places with unmistakable clarity. The young may now dress more like their elders than in the recent past (Bush and London 1960) and have access through electronic media of communication to information that their elders once jealously guarded from them (Meyerowitz 1985). Yet, in public places we continue routinely to reaffirm the dividing lines between adulthood and both early and later childhood through a variety of expressive acts. Those seemingly automatic, fleeting acts may seem relatively insignificant, but they are not. In Goffman’s (1956:91) words, “the gestures which we sometimes call empty are perhaps in fact the hllest things of all.” Indeed, it is through such gestures that we fill collective conceptions of our various categories of persons with behavioral content, thereby making them palpable to the senses and generating evidential warrants for that sorting of persons. For example, by restricting their freedom of movement, forgiving them their offensive acts, and assaulting them with uninvited looks and words, adults expressively define young children as hopelessly but endearingly incompetent social creatures. While young children clearly are inexperienced public actors, they may be capable of much more than adults apparently believe that they are (Joffe 1973:116). And if young children do understand the expressive significance of their treatment in public places, then they may have good reasons ro behaviorally confirm adults’ conception of them. They may knowingly threaten to disrupt public order so as to extract concessions from their adult caretakers, because they have so little to lose, and cynically enact incompetence in order to placate and manipulate adults. Thus, younger children may well cooperate with adults in expressively reproducing the “social facticity” of early childhood as a distinctive biographical stage populated by untamed and temporarily untamable beings. Similarly, older, school-age children also have good reasons to behaviorally confirm adults’ unflattering conception of their kind. While implicitly requiring such children to observe public etiquette, adults seldom reciprocate the deference that they expect those children to accord them. Thus, public places are environments where it is difficult for older, school-age children ro have viable selves. They can not rely on adults for the deference that would complete the picture of a complete person of which they can paint only certain parts by acting with proper demeanor (Goffman [ 19561 1982:84). Yet, by pointedly violating their tormentors’ injunctions, they can demonstrate-to themselves if not to one anorher-that they have some selfhood and personal autonomy (Goffman 1961:314). Of course, they thereby also inadvertently

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cooperate with adults in expressively reproducing later childhood as a distinctive biographical stage populated by irresponsible malcontents. Moreover, the dividing lines between adulthood and both early and later childhood that both the young and their elders expressively reaffirm in public places stretch far beyond those settings in which they are routinely drawn. The characteristically asymmetrical and often strained relationship between the young and their elders in public places further constricts the already narrow channels of communication between them that results from their continued if not increasing segregation from one another at other times and in other places. Thus, the young and their elders are unlikely to become more alike because of their access to similar information and comparable goods as the prophets of childhood’s end assume. Information and objects are interpreted, used, and thereby collectively defined by those among whom communication freely flows. When communication between persons is restricted as it is between adults and children in contemporary American society, those persons tend to interpret, use, and define information and objects differently. The result in contemporary American society of such restricted communication is distinctive children’s subcultures of which adults are only vaguely aware (Fine 1987:124-84). In turn, the consequent lack of understanding among adults of the young’s seemingly exotic and sometimes appalling ways is a continual reminder of the young’s difference from adults, thereby fortifying the dividing line between childhood and adulthood that is expressively drawn in public places. While the prophets of childhoods end may yet prove prescient, at present the dividing line between childhood and adulthood continues to be reproduced in public places through a variety of exterior movements that symbolize it. Perhaps the actual source of the anxiety of those prophets and their many converts is not the claimed erosion of the dividing line between childhood and adulthood but uncertainty and fear about what may be happening on the young’s side of that divide. Yet, the young’s failure to confirm their elders’ romantic images of childish joy and innocence does not necessarily portend that the end of childhood is at hand. At least in contemporary American society the young and their elders continue to be divided by an expressive barrier that only a few are able to scale. For the overwhelming majority of the young, the dividing line between childhood and adulthood remains an external and constraining social fact of no small consequence in their lives.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 37, No. 3, August 1990, pp. 390-402.

0 1990 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used by permission.

1. As Pogrebin (1983:47)suggests, recent efforts to construct public accommodations accessible to handicapped adults may have the unintended consequence of making life easier for children in public places. 2. In apparent contrast to the working-class students of early twentieth century America, nearly three-quarters of these more contemporary lower and working-class students reported that they routinely came straight home after school, and only 15 percent reported working outside the home on a regular basis (Medrich et al. 1982)

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3. All four of the unaccompanied young children that we observed in public places were asked about their mother’s and not their father’s location. This would seem to suggest that mothers are still collectively considered more responsible for children’s safety and actions in public places than are fathers. 4. I am indebted to Eleanor Lyon for bringing this article to my attention.

References Aries, Philippe. [ 19601. Centuries of Childhood. Translated by Robert Baldick. New York: Random House, 1962. Best, Joel. 1989. “Dark Figures and Child Victims: Statistical Claims about Missing Children.” In Zmages ofZssues, edited by Joel Best, 21-37. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Boocock, Sarane Spence. 1981. “The Life Space of Children.” In Buildingfor Women, edited by Suzanne Keller. Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books. Brunvand, Jan. 1984. The Choking Doberman. New York: Norton. Bush, George, and Perry London. 1960. “On the Disappearance of Knickers: Hypotheses for the Functional Analysis of the Psychology of Clothing.” Journal of Social Psychology 5 1:359-66. Cahill, Spencer. 1987. “Children and Civility: Ceremonial Deviance and the Acquisition of Ritual Competence.” Social Psychology Quarter4 50:3 12-2 1. Campbell, Susan. 1987. “The Tyranny of Toddlers.” The H a ~ o r dCourant, July 8. DeMause, Lloyd. 1974. “The Evolution of Childhood.” In The History of Childhood, edited by Lloyd DeMause, 1-73. New York: The Psychohistory Press. Durkheim, Emile. [1893]. The Division of Labor in Sociezy. Translated by George Simpson. New York: Free Press, 1964. . [ 18951. The Rules of the Sociological Method. Translated by George Catlin. New York: Free Press, 1964. . [1897]. Suicide. Translated by George Spaulding and George Simpson. New York: Free Press, 1966. . [1915]. The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life. Translated by J. W. Swain. New York: Free Press, 1965. Elias, Norbert. [ 19391. The History of Manners. Translated by E. Jephcott. New York: Random House, 1982. Fine, Gary Alan. 1987. With the Boys. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Goffman, Erving. [1955]. “On Face-Work: An Analysis of the Ritual Elements of Social Interaction.” In Znteraction Ritual, 5-45. New York: Random House, 1982. . [1956]. “The Nature of Deference and Demeanor.” In Interaction Ritual, 47-95. New York: Random House, 1982. . 1961. Asylums. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday. . 1963. Behavior in Public Places. New York: Free Press. . 1971. Relations in Public. New York: Basic. . 1983. “The Interaction Order.” American Sociological Review 48:l-17. Greer, Germaine. 1984. Sex and Destiny. New York: Harper and Row. Joffe, Carole. 1973. “Taking Young Children Seriously.” In Children and Their Caretakers, edited by Norman Denzin, 101-16. New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction. Lofland, Lyn. 1973. A World of Strangers. New York: Basic. Lurie, Alison. 1981. The Language of Clothes. New York: Random House. Medrich, Elliot, Judith Roizen, Victor Rubin, and Stuart Buckley. 1982. The Serious Business of Growing Up. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Meyerowitz, Joshua. 1985. No Sense of Place. New York: Oxford University Press. Nasaw, David. 1985. Children of the City. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday. Parsons, Talcott. [ 19371. The Structure of Social Action, 2 vols. New York: Free Press, 1968. . [1942]. “Age and Sex in the Social Structure of the United States.” In Essays in Sociological Theory, rev. ed., 89-103. New York: Free Press, 1954. Pogrebin, Letty Cottin. 1983. Family Politics. New York: McGraw-Hill. Postman, Neil. 1982. The Disappearance of Childhood. New York: Delacorte Press. Spitzer, Neil. 1986. “The Children’s Crusade.” Atlantic 257, June, 18-22. Stone, Gregory, and Harvey Farberman. 1967. “On the Edge of Rapprochement: Was Durkheim Moving toward the Perspective of Symbolic Interaction?” The Sociological Quarterly 8: 149-64. Synnott, Anthony. 1983. “Little Angels, Little Devils: A Sociology of Children.” Canadian Review of Sociology and Anthropology 20: 79-95. Van Buren, Abigail. 1986. “Dear Abby.” The Saratogian, 24 June. Winn, Marie. 1983. Children without Childhood. New York: Random House. Zelizer, Viviana. 1985. Pricing the Priceless Child. New York: Basic.

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CHAPTER 3

Sexuality and Gender in Children’s Daily Worlds Burrie Thorne und Zebu Luria

The ambiguities of “sex”-a word used to refer to biological sex, to cultural gender, and also to sexuality-contain a series of complicated questions. Although our cultural understandings often merge these three domains, they can be separated analytically; their interrelationships lie at the core of the social organization of sex and gender.’ In this paper we focus on the domains of gender and sexuality as they are organized and experienced among elementary school children, especially nine to eleven-year-olds. This analysis helps illuminate age-based variations and transitions in the organization of sexuality and gender. We use “gender” to refer to cultural and social phenomena-divisions of labor, activity, and identity which are associated with but not fully determined by biological sex. The core of sexuality, as we use it here, is desire and arousal. Desire and arousal are shaped by and associated with socially learned activities and meanings which Gagnon and Simon (1973) call “sexual scripts.” Sexual scripts-defining who does what, with whom, when, how, and what it means-are related to the adult society’s view of gender (Miller and Simon 1981). In our culture, gender and sexuality are deeply intertwined, especially for adults; “womanlman,” and especially, “femininity/masculinity” are categories loaded with heterosexual meanings. Erotic orientation and gender are not as closely linked in our culture’s definitions of children. Although there is greater acknowledgement of childhood sexuality than in the past, we continue-often after quoting Freud to the contrary-to define children as innocent, vulnerable, and in need of protection from adult sexual knowledge and practice.* Children are not, of course, asexual. They experience arousal, and they sometimes engage in practices (even some leading to orgasm) that adults call “sexual” (Kinsey et al. 1948, 1953). Some children learn and use sexual words at a relatively young age, and, as we will describe later, they draw on sexual meanings (although not necessarily adult understandings) in constructing their social worlds. But special taboos and tensions surround the feelings and language of sexuality in childhood. In our culture we limit the “fully sexual” (sexual acts tied to accepted adult meanings) to adolescence and adulthood. Among children any explicitly sexual activity, beyond ill-defined crushes, is treated as culturally deviant. 31

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Nine to eleven year-old children are beginning the transition from the gender system of childhood to that of adolescence. They are largely defined (and define themselves) as children, but they are on the verge of sexual maturity, cultural adolescence, and a gender system organized around the institution of heterosexuality. Their experiences help illuminate complex and shifting relationships between sexuality and gender. First we explore the segregated gender arrangements of middle childhood as contexts for learning adolescent and adult sexual scripts. We then turn from their separate worlds to relations between boys and girls, and examine how fourth and fifth grade children use sexual idioms to mark gender boundaries. Separate gender groups and ritualized, asymmetric relations between girls and boys lay the groundwork for the more overtly sexual scripts of adolescence.

Methods and Sources of Data Our data are drawn from observations of children in elementary school playgrounds, classrooms, hallways, and lunchrooms. All of the schools went up through sixth grade. One of us (Thorne) was a participant-observer for eight months in a largely white, working-class elementary school in California, a school with about 500 students (5 percent black, 20 percent Chicana/o, and 75 percent white). She also observed for three months in a Michigan elementary school with around 400, largely working-class students (8 percent black, 12 percent Chicana/o, and 80 percent white). Playground observations included all ages, but emphasized fourth and fifth graders. The other author (Luria) observed for one-and-a-half academic years in a middle-class, suburban Massachusetts public school and in an upper-middle-class private school in the Boston area. Both schools had about 275 students-17 percent black and 83 percent white-in the fourth through sixth grade^.^ A separate Massachusetts sample of 27 fourth and fifth graders was interviewed to ascertain children’s knowledge of what boys and girls “should do” and know. We have combined our data for this paper. Throughout our fieldwork we tried to observe children in situations where they were under less adult supervision and control and hence more likely construct their own activities and social relations. Although we could not pass as children, we did try to separate ourselves from the adult authority systems of the schools. We essentially tried to hang out-watching, talking, and sometimes playing with the children. We interacted freely with the children and sometimes elicited their understanding of ongoing situations. O n a number of occasions, we each observed significant breaking of school rules, a backhanded compliment to our trustworthiness, if not our in~isibility.~ Elementary schools may not seem to be the most fruitful contexts for gathering information about sexuality. Indeed, had we observed the same children in more informal and private settings, such as in neighborhoods or summer camps, we probably would have observed more extensive sexual talk and behavior (as did Fine 1980, in an ethnographic study of pre-adolescent boys on Little League baseball teams). O n the other hand, children spend a great deal of time in schools, and they often construct their own interactions within the structure of adult-controlled school days. The presence of teachers and aides gave us many opportunities to observe children

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guarding their more secret lives from potential interference from adults, and to see children and adults negotiating sexual meanings.5 Furthermore, the dynamics of gender separation and integration are especially vivid in densely populated school settings. The social categories of observers have no simple bearing on the process of research, but the fact that we are women may well have affected what we saw and how we interpreted it. Our gender enhanced access to groups of girls, but the more public nature of boys’ groups made them generally easier to observe. Age may mute the effects of gender; just as very young boys may go into women’s bathrooms, so, by virtue of age, adult women may cross ritual boundaries separating groups of boys from groups of girls. We both found it easier to see and articulate the social relations of boys than those of girls, a skew also evident in the literature. Having grown up as girls, we may have had less detachment from their interactions. In addition, until recently, more research had been done on groups of boys than on groups of girls, and categories for description and analysis have come more from male than female experience.

The Daily Separation of Girls and Boys Gender segregation-the separation of girls and boys in friendships and casual encounters-is central to daily life in elementary schools. A series of snapshots taken in varied school settings would reveal extensive spatial separation between girls and boys. When they choose seats, select companions for work or play, or arrange themselves in line, elementary school children frequently cluster into same-sex groups. At lunchtime, boys and girls often sit separately and talk matter-of-factly about “girls’ tables” and “boys’ tables.” Playgrounds have gendered spaces: boys control some areas and activities, such as large playing fields and basketball courts; and girls control smaller enclaves like jungle-gym areas and concrete spaces for hopscotch or jumprope. Extensive gender segregation in everyday encounters and in friendships has been found in many other studies of elementary- and middle-school children (e.g., Best 1983; Eder and Hallinan 1978; Lockheed 1985). Gender segregation in elementary and middle schools has been found to account for more segregation than race (Schofield 1982). Gender segregation is not total. Snapshots of school settings would also reveal some groups with a fairly even mix of boys and girls, especially in games like kickball, dodgeball, and handball, and in classroom and playground activities organized by adults. Some girls frequently play with boys, integrating their groups in a token way, and a few boys, especially in the lower grades, play with groups of girls. The amount of gender segregation varies not only by situation, but also by school. For example, quantitative inventories in the Massachusetts schools indicated that in the private, upper-middle-class school, 65 percent of playground clusters were samegender, compared with 80 percent in the matched, middle-class public school.6 Social class may help account for the difference, but so may school culture; the private school had initiated large group games, like one called “Ghost,” which were not typed by gender. The extent of adult supervision also makes a difference. In general, there is more gender segregation when children are freer to construct their own activities.’

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Gender arrangements in elementary schools have a “with-then-apart’’ structure (a term coined by Goffman 1977). In any playground, cafeteria, or classroom, there are mixed-gender, as well as same-gender groups. Mixed-gender groups, and patterns of activity and solidarity which draw boys and girls together, need closer attention (see Thorne 1986). O n the other hand, children so often separate themselves by genderritualizing boundaries between girls and boys, and talking about rhem as separate “teams” or “sides”-that they create bounded spaces and relationships in which somewhat different subcultures are sustained. In some respects, then, boys and girls occupy separate worlds. Most of the research on gender and children’s social relations emphasizes patterns of separation, contrasting the social organization and cultures of girls’ groups with those of boys (e.g., see Best 1983; Eder 1985; Eder and Hallinan 1978; Goodwin 1980a; Lever 1976; Maccoby and Jacklin 1974; Maltz and Borker 1983; Savin-Williams 1976; Waldrop and Halverson 1975).8 In brief summary: Boys tend to interact in larger and more publicly visible groups; they more often play outdoors, and their activities take up more space than those of girls. Boys engage in more physically aggressive play and fighting; their social relations tend to be overtly hierarchical and competitive. Organized sports are both a central activity and a major metaphor among boys; they use a language of “teams” and “captains” even when not engaged in sports. Girls more often interact in smaller groups or friendship pairs, organized in shifting alliances. Compared with boys, they more often engage in turn-taking activities like jumprope and doing tricks on the bars, and they less often play organized sports. While boys use a rhetoric of contests and teams, girls describe their relations using language which stresses cooperation and “being nice.” But the rhetorics of either group should not be taken for the full reality. Girls do engage in conflict, although it tends to take more indirect forms than the direct insults and challenges more often found in interactions among boys, and between girls and boys. In a study of disputes among children in a black working-class neighborhood, Goodwin (1980b) found that girls more often talked about the offenses of other girls in their absence. Hughes (1983, Forthcoming) found that groups of third and fourth grade girls playing foursquare used a rhetoric of “friends” and “nice” to justify, rather than avoid, competitive exchanges, and to construct complex large-group activity. This recent research is irnportant in providing a more complex portrayal of girls’ interactions-their patterns of competition and conflict, as well as cooperation. Informal gender segregated groups are powerful contexts for learning. Children may be especially attentive to one another when they are outside of adult surveillance and in situations not formally defined as ones of teaching and learning. Peers and friends are especially valued because they never seem to teach, or, as one child defined “friend”: “they never tell you to wash your hands” (Rubin 1973). In the Massachusetts public school when children asked her purpose, the observer said she was watching how children taught one another things through the rules of games. After incredulous stares, one boy easily turned this bizarre statement into a playground joke: “She thinks we teach each other something!” For children in solid positions inside gender segregated peer groups, such learning may appear seamless and

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almost invisible, associated with free choice and pleasure. Excluded children probably have fewer doubts about the teaching of peers. Because of time spent and emotions invested in gender-differentiated worlds, girls and boys have somewhat different environments for learning. Gender-differentiated social relations and subcultures may teach distinctive patterns of talk (Maltz and Borker 1983) and forms of prosocial and antisocial behavior (Maccoby 1985). Our focus is on how the gender-specific contexts of middle and late childhood may help shape the sexual scripts-the social relations and meanings associated with desire-f adolescent boys and girls.

Interaction among Boys In daily patterns of talk and play, boys in all-male groups often build towards heightened and intense moments, moments one can describe in terms of group arousal with excited emotions. This especially happens when boys violate rules. In a Massachusetts fifth grade, four boys played a game called “Flak’ which one of them had invented. The game took place on a 8 1/2” X 11” piece of paper with drawings of spaceships with guns on each of the corners. The airspace in the middle of the paper was covered by short lines representing metal flak. The purpose of the game was to shoot down all opponents by using one’s hand as a gun while making shooting noises. The danger was that one’s shots could ricochet off the flak, destroying one’s spaceship. The random straying of flak was such that there was no way-if the game was played honestly-to survive one’s own shots. Boys playing the game evolved implicit (never stated) rules about cheating: Cheating was permitted up to about one-fourth the distance to an opponent’s corner, then the others could complain that flak would stop a player, but not before. At the instigation of the observer, the boys enthusiastically taught the game to the brightest girl in the class, who found the game “boring” and “crazy.” The excitement the boys associated with the game was lost on her; she did not remark on the cheating. Dirty words are a focus of rules, and rule breaking, in elementary schools. Both girls and boys know dirty words, but flaunting of the words and risking punishment for their use were more frequent in boys’ than in girls’ groups in all the schools we studied. In the middle-class Massachusetts public school, both male and female teachers punished ballplayers for frequent cries of “Shit” and “You fucked it up.” But teachers were not present after lunch and before school, when most group-directed play took place. A female paraprofessional, who alone managed almost 150 children on the playground, never intervened to stop bad language in play; the male gym teacher who occasionally appeared on the field at after-lunch recess always did. Boys resumed dirty talk immediately after he passed them. Dirty talk is a stable part of the repertoire of boys’ groups (also see Fine 1980). Such talk defines their groups as, at least in part, outside the reach of the school’s discipline. Some of the dirty talk may be explicitly sexual, as it was in the Massachusetts public school when a group of five fifth-grade boys played a game called “Mad Lib” (also described in Luria 1983). The game consisted of a paragraph (in this case, a

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section of a textbook discussing the U.S. Constitution) with key words deleted, to be filled in by the players. Making the paragraph absurd and violating rules to create excitement seemed to be the goal of the game. The boys clearly knew that their intentions were “dirty”: they requested the field observer not to watch the game. Instead the observer negotiated a post-game interrogation on the rules of the game. The boys had completed the sentence, “The was ratified in in 1788,” with “The shit was ratified in Cuntville in 1788.” The boys reacted with disbelief when the adult woman observer read the entire paragraph aloud, with no judgment, only requesting correction of pronunciation. The next day, in a gesture which connected rule violation to the interests of the male group, one of the boys asked the observer, “Hey lady, did ya watch the Celtics’ game last night?” Sports, dirty words, and testing the limits are part of what boys teach boys how to do. The assumption seems to be: dirty words, sports interest and knowledge, and transgression of politeness are closely connected.

RULE TRANSGRESSION: COMPARING GIRLS’ AND BOYS’ GROUPS Rule transgression in public is exciting to boys in their groups. Boys’ groups are attentive to potential consequences of transgression, but, compared with girls, groups of boys appear to be greater risk-takers. Adults tending and teaching children do not often undertake discipline of an entire boys’ group; the adults might lose out and they cannot risk that. Girls are more likely to affirm the reasonableness of rules, and, when it occurs, rule-brealung by girls is smaller scale. This may be related to the smaller size of girls’ groups and to adults’ readiness to use rules on girls who seem to believe in them. It is dubious if an isolated pair of boys (a pair is the modal size of girls’ groups) could get away with the rule-breaking that characterizes the larger male group. A boy may not have power, but a boys’ group does. Teachers avoid disciplining whole groups of boys, partly for fear of seeming unfair. Boys rarely identify those who proposed direct transgressions and, when confronted, they claim (singly), “I didn’t start it; why should I be punished?” Boys are visibly excited when they break rules together-they are flushed as they play, they wipe their hands on their jeans, some of them look guilty. The Mad Lib game described above not only violates rules, it also evokes sexual meanings within an all-male group. Arousal is not purely individual; in this case, it is shared by the group. Farts and cunts-words used in the game-are part of a forbidden, undressed, sexual universe evoked in the presence of four other boys. The audience for the excitement is the gender-segregated peer group, where each boy increases the excitement by adding still a “worse” word. All of this takes place in a game (“rules”) context, and hence with anonymity despite the close-up contact of the game. While we never observed girls playing a Mad Lib game of this sort, some of our female students recall playing the game in grade school but giving it up after being caught by teachers, or out of fear of being caught. Both boys and girls may acquire

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knowledge of the game, but boys repeatedly perform it because their gender groups give support for transgression. These instances all suggest that boys experience a shared, arousing context for transgression, with sustained gender group support for rule-breaking. Girls’ groups may engage in rule-breaking, but the gender group’s support for repeated public transgression is far less certain. The smaller size of girls’ gender groupings in comparison with those of boys, and girls’ greater susceptibility to rules and social control by teachers, make girls’ groups easier to control. Boys’ larger groups give each transgressor a degree of anonymity. Anonymity-which means less probability of detection and punishment-enhances the contagious excitement of rule-breaking. The higher rates of contagious excitement, transgression, and limit-testing in boys’ groups mean that when they are excited, boys are often “playing” to male audiences. The public nature of such excitement forges bonds among boys. This kind of bonding is also evident when boys play team sports, and when they act aggressively toward marginal or isolated boys. Such aggression is both physical and verbal (taunts like “sissy,” “fag,” or “mental”). Sharing a target of aggression may be another source of arousal for groups of boys.’

THE TIE TO SEXUALITY IN MALES When Gagnon and Simon (1973) argued that there are gender-differentiated sexual scripts in adolescence, they implied what our observations suggest: the gender attangements and subcultures of middle childhood prepare the way for the sexual scripts of adolescence. Fifth and sixth grade boys share pornography, in the form of soft-core magazines like Phyboy and Penthouse, with great care to avoid confiscation. Like the Mad Lib games with their forbidden content, soft-core magazines ate also shared in all-male contexts, providing explicit knowledge about what is considered sexually arousing and about attitudes and fantasies. Since pornography is typically forbidden for children in both schools and families, this secret sharing occurs in a context of rule-breaking. While many theorists since Freud have stressed the importance of boys loosening ties and identification with females (as mother surrogates), few theorists have questioned why “communally aroused” males do not uniformly bond sexually to other males. If the male groups of fifth and sixth grade are the forerunners of the “frankly” heterosexual gender groups of the junior and high school years, what keeps these early groups from open homosexual expression? Scripting in same-gender peer groups may, in fact, be more about gender than about sexual orientation. Boys, who will later view themselves as having homosexual or heterosexual preferences, are learning patterns of masculinity. The answer may also lie in the teaching of homophobia. By the fourth grade, children, especially boys, have begun to use homophobic labels-“fag,” “faggot,” “queer”-as terms of insult, especially for marginal boys. They draw upon sexual allusions (often not fully understood, except for their negative and contaminating import) to reaffirm male hierarchies and patterns of exclusion. As “fag” talk increases, relaxed and cuddling patterns of touch decrease among boys.

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Kindergarten and first-grade boys touch one another frequently and with ease, with arms around shoulders, hugs, and holding hands. By fifth grade, touch among boys becomes more constrained, gradually shifting to mock violence and the use of poking, shoving, and ritual gestures like “giving five” (flat hand slaps) to express bonding. The tough surface of boys’ friendships is no longer like the gentle touching of girls in friendship. “Fag talk,” pornography, and the rules for segregation from girls create a separate, forbidden, and arousing area of life among boys. Group teasing for suspected crushes (which we discuss later) heightens the importance of the ambiguous opening toward the institutionalized, heterosexuality of adolescence. The underside of this phenomenon is the beginning of homosexual relationships by some 11- and 12-year-old males and the rule-violating fantasy of early male masturbation (Bell et al. 1981; Kinsey et al. 1948). Fag talk helps keep homosexual experiments quiet and heightens the import of the lessons of pornography and gender segregation. Homoeroticism and homophobia coexist, often in tension, in male peer groups of middle childhood, and in some later adolescent and adult male groups. Our hunch is that the high arousal of the peer group may provide much of the cuing for the homophobic control. For males, navigating the onset of masturbation and social sexuality is another example of handling rule violations. Miller and Simon (198 1) point out that violating rules is felt to impart excitement and an almost moral fervor to early sexual events.

Interaction among Girls In contrast with the larger, hierarchical organization of groups of boys, fourth- and fifth-grade girls more often organize themselves in pairs of “best friends” linked in shifting coalitions. These pairs are not “marriages”; the pattern is more one of dyads moving into triads, since girls often participate in two or more pairs at one time. This may result in quite complex social networks. Girls often talk about who is friends with or ‘‘likes’’whom; they continually negotiate the parameters of friendships. For example, in the California school, Chris, a fifth-grade girl, frequently said that Kathryn was her “best friend.” Kathryn didn’t proclaim the friendship as often; she also played and talked a lot with Judy.” After watching Kathryn talk to Judy during a transition period in the classroom, Chris went over, took Kathryn aside, and said with an accusing tone, “You talk to Judy more than me.” Kathryn responded defensively, “I talk to you as much as I talk to Judy.” In talking about their relationships with one another, girls use a language of “friends,” “nice,” and “mean.” They talk about who is most and least ‘‘liked,’’ which anticipates the concern about “popularity” found among junior high and high school girls (Eder 1985). Since relationships sometimes break off, girls hedge bets by structuring networks of potential friends. The activity of constructing and breaking dyads is often carried out through talk with third parties. Some of these processes are evident in a sequence recorded in a Massachusetts school: The fifth-grade girls, Flo and Pauline, spoke of themselves as “best friends,” while Flo said she was “sort of friends” with Doris. When a lengthy illness

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kept Pauline out of school, Flo spent more time with Doris. One day Doris abruptly broke off her friendship with Flo and began criticizing her to other girls. Flo, who felt very badly, went around asking others in their network, “What did I do? Why is Doris being so mean? Why is she telling everyone not to play with me?”

O n school playgrounds girls are less likely than boys to organize themselves into team sports. They more often engage in small-scale, turn-taking kinds of play. When they jump rope or play on the bars, they take turns performing and watching others perform in stylized movements which may involve considerable skill. Sometimes girls work out group choreographies, counting and jumping rope in unison, or swinging around the bars. In other synchronized body rituals, clusters of fifth- and sixth-grade girls practice cheerleading routines or dance steps. In interactions with one another, girls often use relaxed gestures of physical intimacy, moving bodies in harmony, coming close in space, and reciprocating cuddly touches.” We should add that girls also poke and grab, pin one another from behind, and use hand-slap rituals like “giving five,” although less frequently than boys. When the teacher of a combined fourth- and fifth-grade classroom in the California school pitted girls against boys for spelling and math contests, there were vivid gender group differences in the use of touch, space, and movement. During the contests the girls sat close together on desk tops, their arms and shoulders touching. Occasionally a gesture, such as a push or a lean way to one side, would move like a wave through their line. When one of them got a right answer, she would walk along the row of girls, “giving five” before returning ro her place. The boys mostly stood along the other side of the classroom, leaning against desks; their bodies didn’t touch except for “giving five” when one of them got a right answer. In other gestures of intimacy, which one rarely sees among boys, girls stroke or comb their friends’ hair. They notice and comment on one another’s physical appearance such as haircuts or clothes. Best friends monitor one another’s emotions. They share secrets and become mutually vulnerable through self-disclosure, with an implicit demand that the expression of one’s inadequacy will induce the friend to disclose a related inadequacy. In contrast, disclosure of weakness among boys is far more likely to be exposed to others through joking or horsing around.

IMPLICATIONS FOR SEXUALITY Compared with boys, girls are more focused on constructing intimacy and talking about one-to-one relationships. Their smaller and more personal groups provide less protective anonymity than the larger groups of boys. Bonding through mutual selfdisclosure, especially through disclosure of vulnerability, and breaking off friendships by “acting mean,” teach the creation, sustaining, and ending of emotionally intimate relations. Girls’ preoccupation with who is friends with whom, and their monitoring of cues of “nice” and “mean,” liking and disliking, reach them strategies for forming and leaving personal relationships. In their interactions girls show knowledge of motivational rules for dyads and insight into both outer and inner realities of social rela-

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tionships. Occasionally, girls indicate that they see boys as lacking such “obvious” knowledge. Girls’ greater interest in verbally sorting out relationships was evident during an incident in the Massachusetts public school. The fifth-grade boys often insulted John, a socially isolated boy who was not good at sports. O n one such occasion during gym class, Bill, a high status boy, angrily yelled “creep” and “mental” when John fumbled the ball. The teacher stopped the game and asked the class to discuss the incident. Both boys and girls vigorously talked about “words that kill,” with Bill saying he was sorry for what he said, that he had lost control in the excitement of the game. The girls kept asking, “How could anyone do that?” The boys kept returning to, “When you get excited, you do things you don’t mean.” Both girls and boys understood and verbalized the dilemma, but after the group discussion the boys dropped the topic. The girls continued to converse, with one repeatedly asking, “How could Bill be so stupid? Didn’t he know how he’d make John feel?” When talking with one another, girls use dirty words much less often than boys do. The shared arousal and bonding among boys which we think occurs around public rule-breaking has as its counterpart the far less frequent giggling sessions of girls, usually in groups larger than three. The giggling often centers on carefully guarded topics, sometimes, although not always, about boys. The sexually related discourse of girls focuses less on dirty words than on themes of romance. In the Michigan school, first- and second-grade girls often jumped rope to rhymes about romance. A favorite was, “Down in the Valley Where the Green Grass Grows,” a saga of heterosexual romance which, with the name of the jumper and a boy of her choice filled in, concludes: . . along came Jason, and kissed her on the cheek . . . first comes love, then comes marriage, then along comes Cindy with a baby carriage.” In the Michigan and California schools, fourth- and fifth-grade girls talked privately about crushes and about which boys were “cute,” as shown in the following incident recorded in the lunchroom of the Michigan school: ‘ I .

The girls and boys from one of the fourth-grade classes sat at separate tables. Three of the girls talked as they peered at a nearby table of fifth-grade boys, “Look behind you,” one said. “Ooh,” said the other two. “That boy’s named Todd.” “I know where my favorite guy is . . . there,” another gestured with her head while her friends looked. In the Massachusetts private school, fifth-grade girls plotted about how to get particular boy-girl pairs together. As Gagnon and Simon (1973) have suggested, rwo strands of sexuality are differently emphasized among adolescent girls and boys. Girls emphasize and learn about the emotional and romantic before the explicitly sexual. The sequence for boys is the reverse; commitment to sexual acts precedes commitment to emotion-laden, intimate relationships and the rhetoric of romantic love. Dating and courtship, Gagnon and Simon suggest, are processes in which each sex teaches the other what each wants and expects. The exchange, as they point out, does not always go smoothly. Indeed, in heterosexual relationships among older adults, tension often persists between the scripts (and felt needs) of women and of men (Chodorow 1978; Rubin 1983).

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Other patterns initially learned in the girls’ groups of middle childhood later may be worked into more explicitly sexual scripts. In all the schools we studied, emphasis on appearance increased over the course of fifth grade, and symbols of cultural adolesgloss (kept hidden in desks and clandestinely passed from girl to girl), cence-lip hairbrushes, and long-tailed combs-began to appear. However, the girls who first began to use these teen artifacts were not necessarily the ones who showed physical signs of puberty. In the California school, fourth- and fifth-grade girls talked about who was prettiest and confessed feelings of being ugly. Girls remark on their own and others’ appearance long before they talk about issues of attractiveness to boys. The concern with appearance, and the pattern of performing and being watched, may be integrated into sexual expression later.

Children’s Sexual Meanings and the Construction of Gender Arrangements Girls and boys, who spend considerable time in gender-separate groups, learn different patterns of interaction which, we have argued, lay the groundwork for the sexual scripts of adolescence and adulthood. However, sexuality is not simply delayed until adolescence. Children engage in sexual practices-kissing, erotic forms of touch, masturbation, and sometimes intercourse (see Constantine and Martinson 1981; Finkelhor 1979). As school-based observers, we saw only a few overt sexual activities among children, mostly incidents of public, cross-gender kissing, surrounded by teasing, chasing, and laughter. In elementary school life the overtly sexual is mostly a matter of words, labels, and charged rituals of play. In identifying this behavior as “sexual,” we are cautious about imposing adult perspectives. When children say words like “fag’ or ‘‘fuck,” they rarely share adult meanings, as was apparent in their use of “fag’ essentially as a synonym for “nerd” and as an epithet occasionally applied to girls as well as to boys. Although their sexual knowledge is fragmentary and different from that of adults, children learn early on that certain words and gestures are forbidden and charged with special meaning. Adults and children jointly construct the domain considered to be “sexual.” For example, both adults and children know and sometimes enforce taboos against the use of dirty words in school, as shown in an incident in the library of the California school:

“Miss Smith, Donny is being a bad boy, he’s being nasty, he’s looking up sex,” a fourth-grade girl told the teacher as they stood near the card catalogue. “No I’m not, I’m looking up sunset,” Donny said defensively. HETEROSEXUAL TEASING AND T H E IMPORTANCE OF THIRD PARTIES The special loading of sexual words and gestures makes them useful for accomplishing non-sexual purposes. Sexual idioms provide a major resource which children draw

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upon as they construct and maintain gender segregation. Through the years of elementary school, children use with increasing frequency heterosexual idioms-claims that a particular girl or boy “likes,” “has a crush on,” or is “goin with” someone from the other gender group. Unlike alternative, non-gendered terms for affiliation (“friends,” “playmates”), heterosexual idioms imply that interaction between girls and boys has sexual overtones. Children rarely use sexual language to describe within-gender interaction. From an early age, the erotic is prescriptively heterosexual, and male (but, significantly, much less female) homophobic. Children’s language for heterosexual relationships consists of a very few, often repeated, and sticky words. In a context of teasing, the charge that a particular boy “likes” a particular girl (or vice versa) may be hurled like an insult. The difficulty children have in countering such accusations was evident in a conversation between the observer and a group of third-grade girls in the lunchroom of the Michigan school: Susan asked me what I was doing, and I said I was observing the things children do and play. Nicole volunteered, “I like running, boys chase all the girls. See Tim over there? Judy chases him all around the school. She likes him.” Judy, sitting across the table, quickly responded, “I hate him. I like him for a friend.” “Tim loves Judy,” Nicole said in a loud, sing-song voice.

Sexual and romantic teasing marks social hierarchies. The most popular children and the pariahs-the lowest status, excluded children-are most frequently mentioned as targets of “liking.” Linking someone with a pariah suggests shared contamination and is an especially vicious tease. When a girl or boy publicly says that she or he “likes” someone or has a boyfriend or girlfriend, that person defines the romantic situation and is less susceptible to teasing than those targeted by someone else. Crushes may be secretly revealed to friends, a mark of intimacy, especially among girls. The entrusted may then go public with the secret (“Wendy likes John”), which may be experienced as betrayal, but which also may be a way of testing the romantic waters. Such leaks, like those of government officials, can be denied or acted upon by the original source of information. Third parties-witnesses and kibitzers-are central to the structure of heterosexual teasing. The teasing constructs dyads (very few of them actively “couples”), but within the control of larger gender groups. Several of the white fifth graders in the Michigan and California schools and some of the black students in the Massachusetts schools occasionally went on dates, which were much discussed around the schools. Same-gender groups provide launching pads, staging grounds, and retreats for heterosexual couples, both real and imagined. Messengers and emissaries go between groups, indicating who likes whom and checking out romantic interest. By the time “couples” actually get together (if they do at all), the groups and their messengers have provided a network of constructed meanings, a kind of agenda for the pair. As we have argued, gender-divided peer groups sustain different meanings of the sexual. They also regulate heterosexual behavior by helping to define the emerging sexual scripts of adolescence (who ‘‘likes’’ whom, who might “go with” whom, what it means to be a couple).

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In the California and Michigan schools, when children reported news from the playground to an adult observer, they defined two types of activities as especially newsworthy: physical fights (who fought with and beat up whom), and who ‘‘liked,’’ had a crush on, or was “goin with” whom. Like fights, purported romantic liaisons (e.g., “Frank likes Bonnie”) are matters of public notice and of widespread rumor and teasing. The charge of “liking” or having a “girlfriend” or “boyfriend’ may be constructed from very small clues-for example, that Frank sat down by or talked with Bonnie, or that he chose her as a partner in PE. When a girl or boy consistently initiates talk or play with someone of the other gender group, she or he risks being teased. This risk is so severe that close friendships between boys and girls that are formed and maintained in other places like neighborhoods or church sometimes go underground during the school day.I2 Heterosexual meanings, which one might think would unite boys and girls, in fact may keep them apart. Children use heterosexual teasing to maintain and police boundaries between “the girls” and “the boys,” defined as separate groups.

HETEROSEXUALLY CHARGED RITUALS Boundaries between boys and girls are also emphasized and maintained by heterosexually charged rituals like cross-sex chasing.I3 Formal games of tag and informal episodes of chasing punctuate life on playgrounds. The informal episodes usually open with a provocation-taunts like “YOUcan’t get me!” or “Slobber monster!,” bodily pokes, or the grabbing of possessions like a hat or scarf. The person who is provoked may ignore the taunt or poke, handle it verbally (“leave me alone!”), or respond by chasing. After a chasing sequence, which may end after a short run or a pummeling, the chaser and chased may switch roles. Chasing has a gendered structure. When boys chase one another, they often end up wrestling or in mock fights. When girls chase girls, they less often wrestle one another to the ground. Unless organized as a formal game like “freeze tag,” samegender chasing goes unnamed and usually undiscussed. But children set apart crossgender chasing with special names-“girls chase the boys”; “boys chase the girls”; “the chase”; “chasers”; “chase and kiss”; “kiss-chase”; “kissers and chasers”; “kiss or kill”-and with animated talk about the activity. The names vary by region and school, but inevitably contain both gender and sexual meanings.’* When boys and girls chase one another, they become, by definition, separate teams. Gender terms override individual identities, especially for the other team: “Help, a girl’s chasin’ me!”; “C’mon Sarah, let’s get that boy”; “Tony, help save me from the girls.” Individuals may call for help from, or offer help to, others of their gender. In acts of treason, they may also grab someone of their gender and turn them over to the opposing team, as when, in the Michigan school, Ryan grabbed Billy from behind, wrestled him to the ground, and then called, “Hey girls, get ’im.” Names like “chase and kiss” mark the sexual meanings of cross-gender chasing. The threat of kissing-most often girls threatening to kiss boys-is a ritualized form of provocation. Teachers and aides are often amused by this form of play among

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children in the lower grades; they are more perturbed by cross-gender chasing among fifth- and sixth-graders, perhaps because at those ages some girls “have their development” (breasts make sexual meanings seem more consequential), and because of the more elaborate patterns of touch and touch avoidance in chasing rituals among older children. The principal of one Michigan school forbade the sixth-graders from playing “pom-pom,” a complicated chasing game, because it entailed “inappropriate touch.” Cross-gender chasing is sometimes structured around rituals of pollution, such as “cooties,” where individuals or groups are treated as contaminating or carrying “germs.” Children have rituals for transferring cooties (usually touching someone else and shouting “You’ve got cooties!”), for immunization (e.g., writing “CV” for “cootie vaccination” on their arms), and for eliminating cooties (e.g., saying “no gives” or using “cootie catchers” made of folded paper [described in Knapp and Knapp 19761). Boys may transmit cooties, but cooties usually originate with girls. One version of cooties played in Michigan is called “girl stain”; the fourth-graders whom Karkau (1973) describes used the phrase, ‘‘girl touch.” Although cooties is framed as play, the import may be serious. Female pariahs-the ultimate school untouchables by virtue of gender and some added stigma such as being overweight or from a very poor family-are sometimes called “cootie queens” or “cootie girls.” Conversely, we have never heard or read about “cootie kings” or “cootie boys.” In these cross-gender rituals girls are defined as sexual. Boys sometimes threaten to kiss girls, but it is girls’ kisses and touch which are deemed especially contaminating. Girls more often use the threat of kissing to tease boys and to make them run away, as in this example recorded among fourth-graders on the playground of the California school: Smiling and laughing, Lisa and Jill pulled a fourth-grade boy along by his hands, while a group of girls sitting on the jungle-gym called out “Kiss him, kiss him.” Grabbing at his hair, Lisa said to Jill, “Wanna kiss Jonathan?” Jonathan got away, and the girls chased after him. “Jill’s gonna kiss your hair,” Lisa yelled. The use of kisses as a threat is doubled-edged, since the power comes from the threat of pollution. A girl who frequently uses this threat may be stigmatized as a “kisser.” Gender-marked rituals of teasing, chasing, and pollution heighten the boundaries between boys and girls. They also convey assumptions which get worked into later sexual scripts: (1) that girls and boys are members of distinctive, opposing, and sometimes antagonistic groups; (2) that cross-gender contact is potentially sexual and contaminating, fraught with both pleasure and danger; and (3) that girls are more sexually defined (and polluting) than boys. These meanings are not always evoked. Girls and boys sometimes interact in relaxed ways, and gender is not always salient in their encounters (see Thorne 1986). But sexual meanings, embedded in patterns of teasing and ritualized play, help maintain gender divisions; they enhance social distance, asymmetry, and antagonism between girls and boys. These patterns may persist in the sexual scripts of adolescence.

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Conclusion Social scientists have often viewed the heterosexual dating rituals of adolescencewhen girls and boys “finally” get together-as the concluding stage after the separate, presumably non-sexual, boys’ and girls’ groups that are so prevalent in childhood. We urge a closer look at the organization of sexuality and of gender in middle and late childhood. The gender-divided social worlds of children are not totally asexual. And same-gender groups have continuing import in the more overtly sexual scripts of adolescence and adulthood. From an early age “the sexual” is prescriptively heterosexual and male homophobic. Children draw on sexual meanings to maintain gender segregation-to make cross-gender interaction risky and to mark and ritualize boundaries between “the boys” and “the girls.” In their separate gender groups, girls and boys learn somewhat different patterns of bonding-boys sharing the arousal of group rule-breaking; girls emphasizing the construction of intimacy, and themes of romance. Coming to adolescent sexual intimacy from different and asymmetric gender subcultures, girls and boys bring somewhat different needs, capacities, and types of knowledge. It is obvious that heterosexual acts require some form of cross-gender interaction. Among early adolescents, social support for such interaction comes from separate girls’ and boys’ groups that construct couples through talk and teasing long before dating is prevalent. Girls’ and boys’ groups do not measure with the same ruler; they promote different sexual meanings. An argument may be made that the audiences (those who share our measures) remain same-gender peer groups later as well as early in life. Perhaps our culture’s concern with the question of the sex of the sexual partner has obscured how much our sexual life is tied to group gender arrangements. Gender segregation and its effects on the narrowing of the audiences to which we play are not limited to childhood. The social supports for gender segregation-in work and other institutions-are lifelong. Their effects extend into the organization of gender and of sexuality in later life. Transitions not only involve continuity, but also disjuncture and loss. By the sixth and seventh grades, culturally defined heterosexual rituals (like “goin with”) have begun to replace the more relaxed and non-sexualized contact found between some girls and boys at earlier ages. Adult women who were “tomboys” often speak of adolescence as a painhl time when they were pushed away from comfortable participation in boys’ activities. Other adult women say they experienced entry into adolescent rituals of heterosexual dating as a time of loss, when intense, even erotic ties with other girls were altered and even suppressed (Rich 1980). With the shift to adolescence, heterosexual encounters assume more importance. They may alter relations in same-gender groups. For example, Janet Schofield (1982) reports that for sixth- and seventh-grade children in a middle school, the popularity of girls with other girls was affected by their popularity with boys, while boys’ status with other boys did not depend on their relations with girls. As it is defined in this culture, entry into adolescence entails the assumption of sexuality as a core of identity. How, in the shift away from the less sexual definitions

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of gender in childhood, does sexuality become seen a n d experienced as an intrinsic “personal” characteristic? How are different sexualities constructed? Analysis of the somewhat separate systems of gender a n d sexuality, with attention to changes over the life course, may begin t o provide answers to such questions.

This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 33, No. 3, February 1986. 0 1986 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission. 1. Physiological psychologists define “sex” as the structures and functions (dimorphisms) of biological maleness and femaleness. They define “sexuality” as the social meanings that are attached to sex-i.e., masculinity, femininity, learned stimuli for sexual arousal. By these definitions, sexuality includes the social meanings that transform males and females to boys and girls, men and women-that is, “gender.” Sexuality also includes the learning of the wide range of stimuli (virtually everything beyond direct genital touch) that produce sexual arousal (see Luria and Rose 1979). Depending on one’s definitions, this paper deals with two aspects of what physiological psychologists call sexuality: gender and learned aspects of sexual arousal and sexual meanings, or what most sociologists call gender and sexuality (learned arousaVsocia1 meanings). Writing for a sociological audience, we-a sociologist and a psychologist-have chosen the latter language and conceptualization. Our usage is clarified in the body of the paper. 2. In the western world, this definition is made possible by the physical separation of the sexual life of adults from the everyday life of children, a privilege not extended to families who inhabit one room in much of the rest of the world. 3. In this paper, we have set out to trace general patterns in age-based relationships between sexuality and gender. We have not, except incidentally, explored possible variations by region, social class, and race or ethnicity. All of these dimensions should be more fully addressed. For example, our data suggest that the transition to adolescent sexual scripts begins earlier in working-class than in middle-class or upper-middle-class schools. However, the transition began earlier in the Massachusetts, upper-middle-class private school than in the more middle-class public school. The relation of class, type of school, and age of transition to adolescent sexual scripts is obviously complex. 4. O n the special challenges of fieldwork with children, see Fine and Glassner (1979) and Mandell (1985). 5. We will discuss the joint construction of the “dirty words” later. 6. All playground clusters were counted, regardless of activity; such an inventory characterizes groups of children, rather than individuals. This may overrate the “quality” of cross-gender activity when, for example, a single girl integrates a soccer game, or when one boy chases a large group of girls (both types of groups, as well as those with more even gender ratios, were counted as mixed-gender). 7. In the private Massachusetts school, which had less gender segregation, children could stay indoors after lunch. Thus, they were more often under adult supervision than the public school children who, during the noontime recess, were all on the playground without adults organizing their activity. 8. In this paper we also use a comparative strategy, emphasizing the occasions when girls and boys are apart, and the ways they mark and ritualize gender boundaries. A full analysis would also stress the occasions of “with”: pressures for gender integration, occasions when gender is muted in salience, the dynamics of mixed-gender groups, and the ways that girls and boys share culture (including the particular activities and meanings associated with being in

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fourth or fifth grade). A full analysis would also examine variations among girls and among boys: specific groups and networks; the vantage points of those at the margins as well as at the center of same-gender groups; and the experiences of those who frequently join the groups and activities of the other gender. 9. For a related analysis of bonding among adult men, see Lyman (Forthcoming). 10. All names in this paper are fictitious. 1 1. These patterns accord with other studies of gender differentiation in the use of space and touch; see Henley 1977. We noticed a pattern which distinguishes touch among children from patterns adults use to mark status. In adult hierarchies, subordinates tend to avoid initiating touch to dominate (Henley 1977). But, in a sort of courting gesture, subordinate children (both girls and boys) often initiate touch to more dominant or popular children of the same gender. Refusing these bids for acceptance or liking, the more popular sometimes shake away such touch; they also may verbally refuse physical contact (“Don’t do that, it bothers me”). These gestures are powerful markers of social position. 12. This is especially a risk for lower status children. Those of top status run less risk in crossing the gender divide. 13. See Thorne (1986) for more extended analysis of the marking and crossing of gender boundaries among children. 14. This form of play is briefly analyzed in Best (1983), Finnan (1982), and Sluckin (1981).

References Bell, Alan T., Martin S. Weinberg, and Sue K. Hammsersmith. 1981. Sexual Pr6erence: Its Development in Men and Women. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Best, Raphaela. 1983. We’veAll Got Scars. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Chodorow, Nancy. 1978. The Reproduction of Mothering. Berkeley: University of California Press. Constantine, Larry L., and Floyd M. Martinson. 1981. Children and Sex. Boston: Little, Brown. Eder, Donna. 1985. “The Cycle of Popularity: Interpersonal Relations among Female Adolescents.” Sociology of Education 58: 154-65. , and Maureen T. Hallinan. 1978. “Sex Differences in Children’s Friendships.” American Sociological Review 43:237-50. Fine, Gary Alan. 1980. “The Natural History of Preadolescent Male Friendship Groups.” In Friendship and Social Relations in Children, edited by Hugh C. Foot, Antony J. Chapman, and Jean R. Smith, 293-320. New York: Wiley. , and Barry Glassner. 1979. “Participant Observation with Children: Promise and Problems.” Urban Life 8: 153-74. Finkelhor, David. 1979. Sexually Kctimized Children. New York: Free Press. Finnan, Christine R. 1982. “The Ethnography of Children’s Spontaneous Play.” In Doing the Ethnography of Schooling, edited by George Spindler, 358-80 New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston.

Gagnon, John H., and William Simon. 1973. Sexual Conduct. Chicago: Aldine. Goffman, Erving. 1977. “The Arrangement between the Sexes.” Theory and Society 4:301-36. Goodwin, Marjorie Harness. 1980a. “Directive-Response Speech Sequences in Girls’ and Boys’ Task Activities.” In Women and Language in Literature and Society, edited by Sally McConnell-Ginet, Ruth Borker, and Nelly Furman, 157-73. New York: Praeger.

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. 1980b. “ ‘He-said-she-said: Formal Cultural Procedures for the Construction of a Gossip Dispute Activity.” American Ethnologist 7:674-95. Henley, Nancy. 1977. Body Politics. Englewood, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Hughes, Linda A. 1983. “Beyond the Rules of the Game: Girls’ Gaming at a Friends’ School.” Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania Graduate School of Education. . Forthcoming. “The Study of Children’s Gaming.” In A Handbook of Children? Folklore, edited by Brian Sutton-Smith, Jay Mechling, and Thomas Johnson. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian. Karkau, Kevin. 1973. Sexism in the Fourth Grade. Pittsburgh: KNOW, Inc. Kinsey, Alfred C., Wardell B. Pomeroy, and Clyde E. Martin. 1948. Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. Philadelphia: Saunders. , and Paul H. Gebhard. 1953. Sexual Behavior in the Human Female. Philadelphia: Saunders. Knapp, Mary, and Herbert Knapp. 1976. One Potato, Two Potato. New York: Norton. Lever, Janet. 1976. “Sex Differences in the Games Children Play.” Social Problems 23:478-87. Lockheed, Marlaine E. 1985. “Sex Equity in Classroom Organization and Climate.” In Handbookfor Achieving Sex Equity through Education, edited by Susan s. Klein, 189-217. Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press. Luria, Zella. 1983. “Sexual Fantasy and Pornography: Two Cases of Girls Brought up with Pornography.” Archives of Sexual Behavior 11:395-404. , and Mitchel D. Rose. 1979. The Psychology ofHuman Sexuality. New York: Wiley. Lyman, Peter. Forthcoming. “The Fraternal Bond as a Joking Relationship.” In Changing Men, edited by Michael Kimmel. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. Maccoby, Eleanor. 1985. “Social Groupings in Childhood: Their Relationship to Prosocial and Antisocial Behavior in Boys and Girls.” In Development ofAntisocial and Prosocial Behavior, edited by Dan Olweus, Jack Block, and Marian Radke-Yarrow, 263-84. San Diego, Calif.: Academic. , and Carol Jacklin. 1974. The Psychology of Sex Differences. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. Maltz, Daniel N., and Ruth A. Borker. 1983. “A Cultural Approach to Male-Female Miscommunication.” In Language and Social Identity, edited by John J. Gumperz, 195-216. New York: Cambridge University Press. Mandell, Nancy. 1985. “The Research Role in Observational Fieldwork with Preschool Children.” Paper presented at annual meeting of Eastern SociologicalAssociation. Miller, Patricia Y., and William Simon. 1981. “The Development of Sexuality in Adolescence.” In Handbook of Adolescent Psychology, edited by Joseph Adelson, 383-407. New York: Wiley. Rich, Adrienne. 1980. “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence.” Signs 5:63 1-60. Rubin, Lillian. 1983. Intimate Strangers. New York: Harper and Row. Rubin, Zick. 1973. Liking and Loving. New York: Holt. Savin-Williams, Richard C. 1976. “An Ethological Study of Dominance Formation and Maintenance in a Group of Human Adolescents.” Child Development 47:972-79. Schofield, Janet. 1982. Black and White in School. New York: Praeger. Sluckin, Andy. 1981. Growing Up in the Playground. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Thorne, Barrie. 1986. “Girls and Boys Together . . . but Mostly Apart: Gender Arrangements in Elementary Schools.” In Relationships and Development, edited by Willard W. Hartup and Zick Rubin, 167-84. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum. Waldrop, Mary F., and Charles F. Halverson. 1975. “Intensive and Extensive Peer Behavior: Longitudinal and Cross-Sectional Analysis.” Child Development 46: 16-1 9.

Part Ill

SOCIALIZATION AND EDUCATION

All individuals born into a society or culture must learn the normative expectations,

values, rights and obligations, respect for reward structures, and work skills needed to function within its social boundaries. Some of this information is transmitted indirectly through language, custom, role-modeling, and other informal means. Other forms of acquisition include formal education through apprenticeships and schooling. Socialization not only determines how things are to be done but also who will be allowed to do them. “Tracking” is a system by which individuals with a particular set of characteristics, biographical background, or social class membership are channeled into specific educational experiences and life opportunities. For example, while some categories of students are forced systematically from school before gaining the skills or credentials to succeed in the job market, others are “tracked” almost from birth on a pathway to guaranteed job or career success. In the previous section of readings, we explored how the separation of boys from girls in grade school and “gifted” students from those judged less talented form an early tracking system resulting in differing roles and success in later life. Drawing upon the Job Corps, a major occupational federal training program of the 1960s and 1970s “War on Poverty,” Quadagno and Fobes (1995) examined how government sponsorship of educational programming contributed to maintaining and legitimating unequal rewards for those they served. Although the program initially targeted males exclusively, early planning established different standards of eligibility and training for male and female recruits once women were included. Instruction and on-the-job training reflected and reproduced a division of labor based upon traditional gender roles. Skill training emphasized entry into higher-paying mainstream labor-force participation for men and low-wage, domestic work for women. Not surprisingly, women were likely upon graduation to obtain jobs with lesser rewards than those of their male counterparts-an outcome that also helped to ensure women’s economic dependency on men. Despite such gendered separation, however, some women did overcome training barriers to enter the better paying jobs reserved for men. In the early 1900s, graduation from eighth grade was considered sufficient education for most of Americans (Bettelheim 1982). “Dropouts” at that time consisted of students who ended their education during grade school. Today most Americans who graduate from high school enter college (Statistical Abstracts, U.S. Census). Yet, as Bowditch (chapter 4 ) documents, the problem of dropouts continues to exist, al-

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though primarily concentrated among inner-city, minority youth who fail to complete

high school.

Many investigations and proposed solutions have focused on the characteristics of youth that place them at high risk for school attrition. Bowditch, however, documents the close similarity between indicators used to identify students likely to drop out and those used to label classroom “troublemakers.” The latter students tend to be poor inner-city black and Hispanic youth whose family and life circumstances contribute to low attendance, attention deficits, and other behaviors considered undesirable. Bowditch found that administrators used two strategies to handle such troublemakers: transferring them to another school or dropping them from the student roll. Her analysis suggests that disciplinary practices that exclude “troublemakers” push minority students out of school, thus perpetuating the dropout problem while also reinforcing a system of class and racial stratification. Exploring the privileged end of the social class strata, Granfield and Koenig’s article (chapter 5 ) demonstrates how learning “collective eminence” channels Harvard law students from elite backgrounds into eventual employment with America’s most prestigious law firms. From day one of their educational training, students are socialized to relinquish a personal identity in favor of social cohesiveness based on mutual respect and shared values with their peers. Together, students learn to view their place in society and also the practice of law as an interdependent set of relationships, bonded by group pride and the obligations of elite leadership and privilege. By the time students graduate, they are ready to enter into the social networks and value structures of elite law practice and to recruit new lawyers as they were once recruited. At the other end of the race, class, and gender spectrum, we find the written account by Cuadraz and Pierce (1994) of the personal negotiations required to successfully manage the pathway from entering graduate school as “scholarship girls” at a prestigious university to obtaining an academic position. The majority of faculty and graduate peers that Cuadraz and Pierce encountered as students at the University of California, Berkeley shared a “cultural capital” foreign to the Chicana and/or white working-class backgrounds within which the women were reared. The language and interactional norms of campus and in classes and seminars seemed strange, and silenced the women until they learned to “talk back” and insist on being taken seriously. Despite an indifferent and sometimes seemingly hostile university environment, they persisted in their studies through “endurance labor,” learning to “talk back,” and working together as minority working-class women. After first learning how to fit into the university culture, they spent their middle years taking courses and surviving financially through holding mediocre and tedious jobs. For the most part, they lacked the resources that other students with “cultural capital competency” took for granted. Cuadraz and Pierce describe the work of completing their doctorates as “lifting as we climb,’’ an action that required cooperating with others while passionately doing their own research. What a contrast to the experiences of the Harvard law students who were taught how to interact with upper-class lawyers and clients by a system that provided all the resources needed! Yet the educational and career success of both sets of students depended, in part, on adopting patterns of peer cooperation and developing a personal identity consistent with both an elite university and upper social-class norms.

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References Bettelheim, Bruno. 1982. “Difficulties between Parents and Children: Their Causes and How to Prevent Them.” In Family Strengths 4: Positive Support Systems, edited by Nick Stinnett, John DeFrain, Kay King, Herbert Lingren, George Row, Sally Van Zandt, and Roseanne Williams, 5-14. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Cuadraz, Gloria H., and Jennifer L. Pierce. 1994. “From Scholarship Girls to Scholarship Women: Surviving the Contradictions of Class and Race in Academe.” Explorations in Ethnic Studies 17(1):21-44. Quadagno, Jill, and Catherine Fobes. 1995. “The Welfare State and the Cultural Reproduction of Gender: Making Good Girls and Boys in the Job Corps.” Social Problems 42(2):171-90.

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CHAPTER 4

Getting Rid of Troublemakers HIGH SCHOOL DISCIPLINARY PROCEDURES AND THE PRODUCTION OF DROPOUTS

Christine Bowditcb

Questions about schools and stratification have been addressed at both the macroand the microlevel and from the full spectrum of theoretical perspectives (Karabel and Halsey 1977). Although the dominant research tradition has looked to the characteristics of students or their families to explain patterns of school performance and subsequent occupational placement, a significant and growing body of scholarship has underscored the role played by the organization of schools and the practices of school personnel (e.g., Anderson 1982; Cicourel and Kitsuse 1977; Connell et al. 1982; Corcoran 1985; Fine 1991; Rutter et al. 1979; Weis, Farrar, and Petrie 1989). Both lines of research, until quite recently, have focused on differences between collegebound students and those who move into the work force after graduation. However, since the rnid-l98Os, resurgent interest in urban poverty has directed attention to high school dropouts and to the factors that distinguish them from graduates (Ekstrom et al. 1987; Fine 1986; Hahn and Danzberger 1987; Morrow 1986; Peng 1983; Rumberger 1983). Dropout research has found that a disproportionate number of inner-city Hispanic and black students leave school before graduation and has identified a series of factors that place such students “at risk”’ of dropping out: students are least likely to complete high school if they come from a low-income background, are frequently absent or truant, have a record of school disciplinary problems, are failing classes, and are overage in grade (Borus and Carpenter 1983; Ekstrom et al. 1987; Peng 1983; Rumberger 1983). Dropouts are also more likely to feel alienated from school and less likely to get along with their teachers Wagenaar 1987). According to one conventional interpretation of these data, students become discouraged with multiple experiences of failure and walk away from school (see Finn 1989); hence a proposed solution to the dropout problem has been to convince “at risk” students to remain in school and to support them in their struggle to graduate.

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Although this goal has become the publicly stated objective of many urban school districts, experience as well as research teaches that other pressures can subvert such ideals (see Fine 1991; Kozol 1991). This paper examines some of those countervailing forces. Specifically, this paper analyzes the routine disciplinary activities in an innercity high school and shows that these policies and practices encouraged school workers to “get rid of” students deemed to be “troublemakers.” Significantly, the indicators used to identify “troublemakers” were the very “risk factors” that emerge in the research on dropouts. The exclusion of “troublemakers,” sometimes explicitly against their wishes, calls into question precisely why such students are “at risk.” Are students at risk because they truly cannot or will not finish school? Or, are they at risk because school personnel label their behaviors or attitudes as troublesome and, on that basis, encourage their departure from school? Answers to these questions can help us understand the role schools play in perpetuating social inequality.

Discipline and Dropout As previous scholarship has noted, the category “dropout,” as employed by school districts and educational researchers, often includes “pushouts,” “stopouts,”z and those who fail academically, as well as disaffected students who decide to leave (Fine 1991; Hahn and Danzberger 1987; Morrow 1986). The number of students who leave via these routes is unknown since these paths to early school withdrawal are masked in the official statistics. Yet, in at least one study, as many as a quarter of the “dropouts” reported that they were discharged coercively (Fine 1991). Recent scholarship has raised questions about how student characteristics interact with institutional practices in producing dropouts (Farrell 1988; Fine 199 1; Miller 1988; Pittman 1986; Toles, Schulz, and Rice 1986; Weis, Farrar, and Petrie 1989). Even though research has begun to examine how school environments produce truancy, academic failure, or disobedience, the relationship between these student behaviors and dropping out is either ignored or treated as essentially unproblematic (Fine 1991, is a notable exception). Little has been done to examine how schools selectively label and respond to student actions. The fact that African-American students experience a significantly higher rate of school suspension than do whites (Hahn and Danzberger 1987; Yudof 1975), as well as a higher dropout rate, underscores the importance of looking at disciplinary procedures. Recent findings seem to refute charges of racism in the use of suspension, but research in other institutional settings gives us reason to remain skeptical. When a student’s past disciplinary record, grades, and demeanor are taken into account, neither race nor socioeconomic status explains the type of disciplinary action taken by school officials (McCarthy and Hoge 1987). Parallel findings emerge from research on juvenile court dispositions (Cohen and Kleugel 1987; see also Empey 1982; Tittle 1980); however, the way certain youth come to police attention in the first place and the factors that influence police decisions to take official action-in other words, to construct a “prior” record-is connected to race and class (e.g., Morash 1984; Sampson 1986). We need to question, therefore, how school workers construct the records

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that “explain” suspensions. We need a much clearer understanding of how grades, demeanor, and prior record are linked in practice to suspensions, since a record of suspensions increases a student’s “dropout” risk.

Theoretical Perspective Following the research tradition established by Cicourel and Kitsuse (1977), this paper investigates how routine administrative decisions and actions affect a student’s passage through high school. Whereas Cicourel and Kitsuse looked at the counselor’s role in selecting students who will go on to college, this paper examines the disciplinarian’s role in selecting students who will be “dropped.” The theoretical framework for this investigation borrows from both the labeling perspective in criminology, which itself is informed by both conflict theory and symbolic interactionism (Paternoster and Iovanni 1989), and the “negotiated-order’’ approach to the study of organizations (Maines and Charlton 1985). According to the labeling per~pective,~ people in positions of formal authority-such as school board members or state legislators-define “deviance” through a process of conflict and negotiation with other interested players. Practices at the organizational level-in this case, within schools-determine whose behavior fits those formal definitions of deviance. Analysis of school practices draws on the negotiated-order approach to the study of organizations. That approach acknowledges that formal rules organize and define an agency’s work, but calls attention to the fact that workers’ informal, negotiated understandings determine the meaning and implementation of rules. Workers use and interpret the formal rules governing client interactions in ways that allow them to simplify their own work conditions; accommodate co-workers’ expectations or routines; and pursue their own, unofficial understanding of the agency’s proper goals (Lipsky 1980). Although research findings have been mixed, some labeling studies have concluded that the accused person’s class or racial status makes him or her more vulnerable to being officially labeled (Paternoster and Iovanni 1989). Labeling theory also addresses the source of “secondary deviance” (Becker 1963; Lemert 1967). In some instances, labeling produces additional deviance by strengthening identification with and commitment to deviance. However, since the accused individual’s social, political, and economic resources shape the capacity to reject or mitigate the stigma of a deviant label, labeling may produce additional deviance merely by cutting off access to legitimate resources and opportunities. Alternatively, a social network which provides support and resources may allow an individual to renegotiate or disavow a deviant label (Paternoster and Iovanni 1989). Thus, the power and social resources attached to class and racial status may affect both the initial interpretation of a person’s actions and the consequences following from that interpretation.

Methodological Approach A labeling or interactionist perspective calls for an investigation of the tacit, unofficial

rules employed by school workers as they engage in routine organizational activities,

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and thus favors an ethnographic approach to research (Cicourel and Kitsuse 1977; Mehan 1992). Accordingly, this paper draws on qualitative data collected as part of a case study of DuBois High School conducted between the spring of 1984 and the spring of 1987; the bulk of classroom observation was done during the 1985/86 school year. (All names, including the school’s, have been changed.) Although I spoke regularly, throughout the study, to the school’s disciplinary workers and security staff, most of the material considered in this paper comes from two ten-day periods of intensive observation in the boys’ discipline office. The materials include written observations of daily disciplinary activities; notes on frequent in situ discussions with teachers, disciplinarians, nonteaching assistants (NTA), students, and a small number of parents; tape-recorded post hoc interviews with key players in a particular case of a “troublemaker”; and publicly available disciplinary documents generated by the district and the school. I did not have access to confidential materials in student records except in cases where the materials were presented in a conference I attended or when a disciplinarian chose to show me a student file he or she thought I might find interesting.

The Field Setting DuBois High was a troubled, inner-city school. Its all-black student bodf came from an area of a highly segregated northern city where half of the adults never completed high school (Bureau of the Census 1983), almost half of the school’s students lived in poverty, and more than 60 percent had only one parent or guardian at home (school figures 1984).5 Many of the teenage girls had children of their own and most of the boys belonged to one of the area’s five or six corner groups or neighborhood gangs. In the decade before my study, enrollment at DuBois had declined steadily as many students in its catchment area found their way to city magnet schools or private or parochial high schools. Of the more than 1,600 students still on the school’s roll, many came late, cut classes, or just did not attend. While I was there, as many as 400 missed school daily. Another 100 or more students arrived late. Two hundred or more students cut certain classes on a regular basis; perhaps as many or more skipped some of their classes on occasion. Most of the students worked substantially below grade level. California Achievement Test scores for 1983 showed that while no student scored above the 85th percentile in reading, 53 percent scored below the 16th percentile and another 40 percent scored between the 16th and 49th percentiles. Records of school grades provided additional evidence of low achievement. Figures from the math department for the 1984/85 school year, for instance, showed that 74 percent of all tenth graders failed math. As a consequence of the widespread academic failure, each year the school retained in grade approximately a quarter of all its tenth graders. Student disorder and disobedience figured prominently both in the public’s perception of the school and in the school’s self-assessment. DuBois frequently suspended a half dozen or more students each day; by the end of the year, more than a quarter of its students were suspended at least once, and many had multiple or serial suspensions.

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G E T T I N G R I D OF TROUBLEMAKERS Table 4.1. Percentile

< 16th

16th-49th 50th-84th 85th-100

California Achievement Test Schoolwide Distribution for Reading 1980

798 1

1982

1983

49 42 8 0

48 43 8 1

47 44 8 1

53 40 8 0

Despite these facts, I did not encounter scenes of violence or chaos. Teachers did not complain of belligerence or open hostility; instead they talked about apathy, silliness, inattention, and poor attendance. During my months of fieldwork, I witnessed daily the essentially familiar scenes of high school life. Students sent from class; picked up in the halls; or brought in by the police for truancy, misbehavior, or more serious misconduct all went to the discipline office, a crowded, first floor office divided into a small waiting area and four inner offices. Although they shared a physical space, girls’ and boys’ discipline was administered separately. Three disciplinarians handled cases involving boys and two disciplinarians dealt with girls. The discipline office could go from complete quiet to the confusion of three or four cases without notice. In addition to the discipline staff, three or four nonteaching assistants, two district security officers assigned to the school, two city police officers assigned to the school, various teachers, one or two of the school’s counselors, twenty or thirty students, and five to ten parents moved in and out of the office in the course of a day. The design of the office ensured little privacy or protection from the noise and confusion of other cases. Just inside the door to the office, a half dozen mismatched classroom chairs placed between a couple of battered file cabinets and a table scattered with outdated school notices formed a waiting area. But, since the partitions that separated the disciplinarians’ offices from that area did not rise completely to the ceiling and were fitted with opaque glass, waiting parents and students could monitor much of the “private” conversation and activity; shouted comments or angry remarks made in one conference often intruded upon other conferences.6

Disciplinary Work Within the school’s bureaucratic organization, the discipline office staff‘s specialized tasks were to maintain files on the documented misbehavior of DuBois students, confer with students charged with rule violations, determine punitive actions to be taken against students, contact the parents of students who had violated school rules, and process the forms documenting disciplinary actions and protecting due process. Specific and extensive rules from the school district defined misconduct and outlined policies, procedures, and proper documentation for disciplinary actions. The disciplinarian’s responsibility, when a student entered the office, was to determine what the student had done, assess the seriousness of the offense, and take the

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appropriate disciplinary action. Most of the routine work involved either dealing with students who were late for class, caught cutting class, or accused of disrupting class, or meeting with students and their parents for the required conference following a suspension. Less routine, but still fairly common work involved determining punishments for students who were caught fighting; found in possession of marijuana; accused of theft, vandalism, or wall-writing; caught drinking alcohol; or charged with threatening a teacher. In rare instances, the disciplinary office handled cases involving a weapon, the sale of drugs, or violence directed against a teacher.’ Neither the formal description of disciplinary activities nor the rules and procedures governing the discipline office fully captured its operational practice. Disciplinary practice reflected the negotiated definitions, routines, and expectations developed among co-workers, and ongoing contests over work, authority, and responsibility within the school and between the school and parents. Disciplinarians relied on informally developed understandings about the discipline office’s goals, the typical forms of student misconduct the office should handle, the types of students who normally caused trouble, and the standard strategies for dealing with misconduct (cf. Sudnow 1965, see also Waegel 1981). Within this context, official rules became a resource for workers to regulate the conditions of their work and to pursue informally identified goals (see Lipsky 1980). To complete its work, the discipline staff interacted with teachers, NTAs, security personnel, administrators, parents, and students. Although school workers’ jobs were formally coordinated, they frequently contested the boundaries of their authority and responsibility. Teachers, for example, negotiated their own strategies of classroom control-some taking a “hard line” allowing no deviation from formal rules, some using rules selectively to “contain problems” rather than to enforce obedience-and therefore made different demands on the discipline office (cf. Bittner 1967; Rubinstein 1973). Each student a teacher sent to the discipline office was, in essence, a test case of that teacher’s authority. The discipline office’s handling of the student determined whether the school’s coercive power endorsed the teacher’s definition of the situation or refuted it. The nature of the disciplinarians’ work meant the student’s behavior was not interpreted in terms of its threat to one teacher’s struggle for authority and classroom control. Instead, a student’s behavior was judged in relation to the other students processed through the office. The staff was concerned with regulating and controlling its work, protecting its authority, and, most important, maintaining the institution’s authority. Because disciplinarians judged student misconduct with reference to the concerns of the school as a whole, they sometimes disagreed with teachers over what types of problems required the intervention of their office, complaining “this is something the teacher should have handled.” In those instances, they typically took no action or very limited action against a student. In other cases, where the disciplinarian agreed with the teacher’s assessment, punitive actions, especially severe punitive actions, were occasionally blocked by the principal. The principal shared their concern for the school’s interests, but nonetheless had to evaluate both student behavior and staff authority

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within the context of complaints or pressures from parents and the district, or with regard to the school’s public image.

DISCIPLINARY PENALTIES The sanctions available to the disciplinary staff were few. Beyond talking to students, and short of transferring or expelling them, disciplinarians could hold students out of class, contact their parents, or enforce one to five day suspensions. Disciplinarians rarely, if ever, contacted parents outside the context of a suspension. Official responses to misbehavior were, thus, limited in practice to either a simple reprimand, holding the student in the office until the next class period, or a suspension. The district’s “Code Prohibiting Serious Student Misconduct” identified and defined the nine categories of misconduct that warranted suspension: (1) disruption of the school, (2)damage, destruction or theft of school property, (3) damage, destruction or theft of private property, (4) assault on a school employee, (5) physical abuse of a student or other person not employed by the school, (6) possession of weapons and dangerous instruments, (7) possession or use of narcotics, alcoholic beverages, and stimulant drugs, (8) repeated school violations, and (9) disruptive and/or offensive use of language (District manual on policies and procedures 1984).8 At DuBois High, an estimated 35.2 percent of the boys’ suspensions were for “repeated school violations.”’ That figure jumped to 63 percent with the inclusion of suspensions for which no specific reason was listed. Presumably, most unspecified cases were repeated school violations rather than some more specific and serious violation. A full 81.4 percent of the suspensions could be accounted for by adding the category “disruptive and offensive use of language.” These figures demonstrate how heavily the discipline staff at DuBois, in accord with national patterns (see note 7), relied on suspensions to punish behaviors that threatened the school’s authority rather than its safety. The figures also emphasize the amount of discretion called for in disciplinary work. The issue of “labeling” enters when we examine how disciplinarians determine the definition of “repeated” violations and the instances when profane or obscene language warrants punishment. The procedural instructions in the district manual for “repeated school violations” explained that the rule “basically. . . is aimed at those students whose conduct is consistently at odds with normal school discipline”; these were the students disciplinarians defined as “troublemakers.” The instructions went on to caution that a pupil should be suspended only when unacceptable behavior continued after all available school resources and services were tried or when an exceptionally serious act that warranted such action was committed. Since the instructions did not define “available school resources and services,” the discipline staff, in practice, operated as if any ‘‘legitimate’’ case entering their office came there either because it was “an exceptionally serious act,” or because previous efforts by teachers, or perhaps counselors, had failed. Thus, beyond assessing whether “a teacher should have handled this,” disciplinarians made little or no effort to consider other school services.I0

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Table 4.2.

Reasons for the Suspension of Boys (N = 244) Oct. 1986 feb. 1987 Mar. 1987 Total Percentwe

Disruption of school Damage/theftof school property Damage/theftof private property Assault on school employee Physical abuse of another student Possession of weapon Possession of drugs or alcohol Repeatedschool violations Disruptive/offensive language No reason listed Total

6 1 1 0 5 0 0 28 14 27 82

1 1 1

0 5 0

1 22 19 6 56

3 1 0 1 11 2 5 36 12 35 106

10 3 2 1 21 2 6 86 45 68 244

4.1 1.2 0.8 0.4 8.6 0.8 2.4 35.2 18.4 27.8 99.7

The Social Construction of a Troublemaker Conflicts over disciplinary practice arose because the definition of what constituted misconduct was itself problematic. Although the authors of the school’s rules identified the categories of punishable student behavior, they realized judgements about the meaning and seriousness of any particular behavior depended upon its specific social setting, the student’s intent, and the responses of others present. Understandably, some categories of misconduct, such as “disrupting class,” were necessarily vague or ambiguous. The immediate context of a student’s actions distinguished silliness or immaturity from insubordination or disruptiveness. Situational factors such as intent or provocation changed the meaning of an act. For that very reason, district regulations allowed disciplinarians considerable discretion. In practice, disciplinarians rarely questioned students about the details of their misbehavior or the reasons behind them. Instead, after identifying the charge against the student, they moved on to a series of questions about grades, attendance, previous suspensions, and, in some instances, the student’s year in school, age, or plans for employment. A student’s answers, rather than the particular circumstances of his actions, identified the misconduct’s meaning to the disciplinarians. Only when a student’s academic profile seemed to violate the disciplinarian’s expectations would he or she inquire further about the charges against the student. They sought to punish “types of students” more than “types of behavior.” Whereas most students occasionally violated school rules, the proper role of the discipline office, as its staff understood it, was to deal with troublemakers who persistently disregarded the institution’s authority. Information on grades, attendance, and prior disciplinary problems created a profile of the student’s relationship to the school used to interpret the meaning of misconduct and the appropriateness of disciplinary intervention.” Students who failed classes, played hooky, used drugs, or frequently troubled teachers with disruptive behavior were students who, in the minds of most school workers, did not belong in school.

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The following example illustrates the use of questions to interpret the significance of a student’s behavior: Mr. Leary picked up the next file on his desk and called out, “Is Kenneth Watson out there?” Kenneth stood up and walked over to Mr. Leary’s doorway. Leary: “Kenneth?” Kenneth: “Yeah.” Leary: “Sit down.” Kenneth slumped into the chair in front of Mr. Leary’s desk. In a combative voice: “I’ve got a pink slip here that says you were disrupting class. Talking. I thought we had this straightened out. Wasn’t this straightened out?” Kenneth: Muttering, “Yeah, I guess so.” Leary: “What do you mean, ‘I guess so’? If it was straightened out, you wouldn’t be here.” He paused, looking down at the pink slip. “It says here you were talking in class. So what is this? I’ve got three others here for the same thing. Now what’s the problem?” Kenneth: “I don’t know.” Leary: “Well, we already brought your mother in, didn’t we?” Kenneth shook his head slightly, looking puzzled. “Yeah, you were present at the meeting.” Mr. Leary looked again at the file. “What class is it?” Kenneth: “Math.” Leary: “How are you doing in it?” Kenneth shrugged. “Well, didyou pass math in the last report?” Kenneth nodded. “What grade did you get, then?” Mr. Leary shouted, clearly exasperated. Kenneth: Afrer a slight hesitation, “Two As and a B. I think I had an 89 for the last report and As for the ones before.” Leary: Visibly surprised, “You have As and Bs in math?” Slight pause, then, “You’re in what, general math?” Kenneth: “Algebra.” Leary: ‘Xreyou passing all your classes?” Kenneth: “Yeah.” Leary: “Were you on the honor roll?” Kenneth: “I don’t know,” still mumbling, still sullen. Leary: “What do you mean you don’t know! Were you in the lottery?” Kenneth: He gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the main hallway, “That attendance thing?” Leary: “No! We have one for grades, too. Didn’t you go to the awards assembly?” Kenneth: “Oh, yeah. I went to that. I got a slip . . . said to report . . . I didn’t know.” Leary: Quite frustrated, “Yeah, well I was there. I gave out the certificate and prize.” He paused and looked down at the file again. “What does this mean, ‘talkingin class ?” Kenneth: Still mumbling, “We have these preclass exercises on the board. When I got that done, I end up talking.” Leary: “What, you have a problem to do when you get to class?” Kenneth: “Yeah.” Leary: In a reasoning tone, “Well, if you finish up early can’t you help out someone who isn’t as bright as you, who has trouble in math?”

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CHRISTINE BOWDITCH Kenneth: “He wants us to do our own work.” Leary: “Yeah, well, ok. That doesn’t mean you have to talk. You make it sound like you can’t control yourself. Why don’t you do some studying for another class? A bright boy like you shouldn t have to go through all this. So what’s the solution to this problem?” Kenneth: “I guess I shouldn’t talk in class.” Leary: “Alright. This is M i r k y Mouse stuff” He paused, “You wait outside until the next period.” After Kenneth left the office, Mr. Leary turned to me and explained, “Clearlya classroom problpm. A kid like that can understand $you reason with him. It2 not like some of the barely educable k i d we see in here. The teacher-Idon t know what the problem is-just wants topass along the problem to us. We get a lot of that here. This teacher should just take him aside and talk to him, even he has to do it every week” (April 1984, italics added).

if

During my observation, three pink slips for disrupting class, a prior interview with a parent, and a sullen and uncooperative demeanor normally led to a student’s suspension, a significant act in the creation of an official record. Disciplinarians typically did not ask students, “What does this mean?” Instead, they took “talking in class” as a known and unproblematic form of disruption. In the case above, Mr. Leary began with the assumption that Kenneth, a student repeatedly sent to the office for disrupting class, must be a troublemaker. In the course of their interaction, however, Kenneth became a kid you could reason with; the talking in class became “Mickey Mouse stuff”; the whole problem became something the teacher should have dealt with. Each of these reconstructions occurred because Kenneth’s grades altered the meaning of his behavior. In most school workers’ minds, students who received high grades demonstrated that they accepted the school’s requirements and, presumably, acknowledged the value of the school’s work. According to this reasoning, Kenneth obviously posed no challenge to the school’s aims or operation-and indeed was one of its few success stories. Therefore, his talking in class, even if it recurred weekly, represented not a “repeated violation of school rules” but a problem with the teacher’s ability to control the class.

Parental Involvement A student’s vulnerability to suspension, and to identification as a “troublemaker,”

may also depend upon his or her parents’ ability to influence the actions of school personnel. As one NTA observed, “The only time you ever see a parent is when the kid is suspended and they have to come in.” Indeed, according to district policy, “The primary purpose for the use of suspension is for the involvement of parents in the remediation of a problem.”’2 In interviews, disciplinarians confirmed this objective. Ms. Gordon, an NTA working as a disciplinarian, told me: “Suspension is strictly for communication. Not to hurt the student or punish the student.” Both she and the others did, however, qualify that objective with conditions such as “unless we can’t keep the kid in school because it was something serious or he completely defies authority.”

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Although all agreed that suspensions served to bring parents into the school, the understanding among most school workers about what constituted “involvement of the parent in the remediation of a problem” challenged the claim that suspensions had no punitive intent. School workers expected parents to accept the school’s authority and to support its goals and practices. They expected parents to force their children to comply with the school’s rules. If parents suggested, through their words and demeanor, that they accepted the school’s authority and shared its judgement of their child, then disciplinarians interpreted “involvement” as “notification.” They informed the parents of the student’s misbehavior and, frequently, suggested strategies for controlling the student’s actions. However, if a parent either challenged the disciplinarian’s version of events or argued that the student was responsible for him or herself, “involvement” became more punitive in intent. One teacher explained how a student’s suspension would punish the parent and thereby encourage her to support the school’s efforts: If you got to take a day off from work because of something your child has done, that’s going to make you put more pressure on him. If you can’t come up here, then you keep him home until you can come up here. He becomes your problem for four or five days. You got to worry about what he’s doing in your apartment or your house while you’re at work. Now you’re a little more concerned about this (Mr. Fisk, May 1987).

The relatively disadvantaged status of most parents vis-2-vis school workers meant that many parents received disrespectful and dismissive treatment.I3 Parents had few, if any, social or political resources with which to challenge a disciplinarian’s actions. Freed from the constraints more powerful, higher status parents might have imposed, disciplinarians reverted to three tactics when they faced opposition from students and parents: (1) they denigrated the parenting skills of the mother or father; (2) they threatened the student with failure, arrest, or expulsion-frequently without the power or intent to make good their threat; ( 3 ) they explicitly denied any personal responsibility or concern for resolving the problem. In the course of a reinstatement conference, Carl told Mr. Weis, “She [the teacher] seen me, I was coming out of the bathroom, but she closed the door and wouldn’t let me in.” His mother characterized this as an “involuntary cut.” Weis countered by repeating the rule, “If you’re late to class, you’re not allowed in class. It’s a cut.” The mother muttered something about knowing all about it since she’d gone to school, too. Weis: ‘Perhaps $you talked to your son-” Mother: “I talk to Carl every day. . . but I have to go to work, and sleep, I can’t watch him every minute. And he is sixteen . . .” Weis (to Carl): “You want to go to disciplinary school? Or drop out?” (To mother): “Cuz that’s where he’s headed. We won’t take himfor a thirdyear in tenth grade. Not at seventeen. (Mother mutters something) You have a complaint that you’re not getting serviced properly, there’s a principal . . . I really have a problem that you didn’t insist on getting his second report [card]. How important is education to you? I know $I had kid, I wouldn’t let

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C H R I S T I N E BOWDITCH them get away with that . . . unless you’re going to support him for the rest of your life” (March 1987, italics added).

Mr. Weis told Carl’s mother that he needed more responsibility and discipline at home. She claimed that her son acted responsibly at home, it was only when he came to school that he “acted like a fool.” During the course of this discussion, someone delivered Carl’s grades to Mr. Weis which showed he was failing all of his classes. After a few minutes of berating Carl for his grades, Mr. Weis said, “Ihave no timefor this. I am writing here, t o be droppedjom school at age seventeen if there is no improvement in grades and attendznce. ’So you’ll receive a letter this summer, when we make our review.” As they left the office, Mr. Weis turned to me and said, “All bluff.” I asked, “YOU can’t drop him?” Weis said, “Naw.” “Will he get a letter?” I asked. He answered, “No.” Mr. Weis admitted to me that he was bluffing; but in such an example his threat’s impact came less from his actual power to expel the student-which, informally, he could and had done-than from his presentation of the school as unforgiving and unconcerned. It was not, in fact, unusual to hear him say to a parent: “This is your problem. You’ll have to deal with it. I’ll readmit him, but-I don’t mind, I’ll keep suspending him. It’s not my problem” (April 1984). This posture by a school official seems likely to affect “secondary deviance,” that is, the student’s continued violation of the school’s expectations. Mr. Weis has emphasized to Carl that the school has little stake in his success and a primarily negative vision of his social value and personal worth-the very conditions which may strengthen his hostility toward the school and to foster his commitment to the troublemaker role.’* Even if Carl does not want to adopt the troublemaker identity, Mr. Weis has made it clear that he will be treated as one, in any case.I5 Moreover, as I have suggested above, it seems likely that Mr. Weis’s easy rejection of Carl and his mother, and his willingness to push Carl out of school, is connected to their social position. A higher status mother might have been successful in her efforts to define Carl’s behavior as an “involuntary cut” and to forestall his classification as a troublemaker.

Getting Rid of Troublemakers The discipline office had two strategies to get rid of students identified as troublemakers. One was to transfer the student; the other to drop the student from the roll. Transfers were of two types: “regular” transfers, arranged when students moved out of the school’s catchment area; and “disciplinary transfers,” known by their code as “21s.” Dropping a student from the roll required that the student be 17 years old. At that age, schooling was no longer compulsory and the discipline office interpreted this to mean the school no longer had to keep the student. Typically, if a disciplinarian sought a regular transfer for a troublesome student, arrangements were made for the student to shift his or her legal residence to the address of a relative in another part of the district. This procedure avoided the paper-

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work and legal proceedings of a disciplinary transfer. In the following incident, however, Mr. Weis discovered he could get rid of a troublemaker who already lived outside the normal bounds of the school. Mr. Weis began a conference with John, a boy I had seen in the office on two previous occasions, by asking, “What’s your address?” After questioning, Weis discovered John’s address put him in another school’s catchment area. Weis called John’s house: Hello, Mrs. Preston? . . . well you’ll have to wake her up. This is DuBois High School calling . . . Mrs. Preston, this is Carl Weis. John has been acting up again. He refused to take off his hat and has been disruptive. I have five pink slips on him. Look, I don’t know why he’s here and not at Northern Heights to start with. . . . Yeah, well, I’m going to write up a transfer for him and get all his records together. You’ll have to come down tomorrow and take him over there and enroll him.

After John left the office, Weis turned to me and said: We didn’t solve anything We just sent the problem along to Northern Heights. But we have to look out f i r ourselves. That? the way it is-crazy system (April 1984, italics added). Although this case was unusual in that the student already lived in another school’s catchment area, it was absolutely standard in intent. The goal of the discipline office, as Mr. Weis explained, was not to solve any problems a student might have, but to protect the school’s operation. Thus, in the case of another transfer, Mr. Leary confirmed Mr. Weis’s assessment of their goals. Mr. Leary escorted a boy and his mother out of the office and then sat down next to me. He explained: Now that mother came in here, her son was suspended weeks ago for having a weapon, marijuana. Now she wants him transferred to Washington High. You know, for us, that’s fine. We get rid of one.

I asked if 21 transfers helped. He said: They help this school. They don t help the kid. But then, you can t do anything with those kidr, anyway. (March 1986, italics added)

Transfers were, thus, seen as an important resource for the discipline office. If they could build a sufficiently strong case, they could get rid of a troublemaker, even if he wanted to remain in the school, through the use of a disciplinary transfer. Because district rules prohibited the use of 21s on students whose only offenses were cutting class or missing school, the disciplinarians took pains to document all other forms of misconduct on potential or identified troublemakers. Since they would be used for a 21, Mr. Leary stressed the importance of being detailed and complete when making out “pink slips.” You don’t just write, “picked up for cutting class.” You write, “cutting class, ran away from officer, used abusive language,” all of which is true, but if you don’t write it d o w n - o r if there’s a disturbance in class, you write down, “shoved desks, said ‘fuck you’ to teacher”-you know, we’re

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CHRISTINE BOWDITCH not squeamish. We write down just what they say, “fuck you” or “fuck you white mother.”

Since the projected future or “career” of the forms influenced their form and content,lG the pink slips represent an important point at which discretion or “bias” can enter into the construction of an official disciplinary record. Once disciplinarians filed the paperwork on a 2 1, a parent had to come in for a conference. The parent has the right to a hearing in the district superintendent’s office. If a parent does not want a hearing, he or she can sign a form during the conference transferring the child. The discipline staff and the principal work toward that goal, since all the paperwork goes to the district superintendent’s office for review when the parent wants a hearing. As Mr. Leary complained: “Then they mostly do nothing. Send the kid back. Decide he needs another chance.” Student transfers were not the only means available to get rid of troublemakers. Another option used by the school was the informal expulsion of overage students. Although the state granted all students the right to attend public school until the age of twenty-one, it did not require attendance past the age of sixteen. At DuBois, school workers understood that to mean that they were not required to keep a student in school once he or she turned seventeen.” It was not unusual, therefore, for disciplinarians to reason: “Look, he’s already eighteen and only in tenth grade. You know he can only stay in school ’ti1 he’s twenty-one. I don’t want him here. I’m going to talk to [the principal].” That logic also permitted the following scene. A police officer escorted four boys into the discipline office. The officer stopped at Weis’s door. Weis sent the boys into Leary’s office. The officer: Two with, two without IDS. Weis: This one I don’t know. He might be an adult. I don’t know if he’s a juvenile. This one’s a student. Doesn’t come in very often.

Weis asked the boy he didn’t recognize how old he was. The boy said he was seventeen, went to DuBois, and was in tenth grade. Weis: You don’t go to DuBois. I just dropped you as of now. I’m not suspendingyou. I’m dropping you j o m school.

Weis said to the officer, in reference to the other boy who was younger: You’re going to leave the building right now.

Older boy: How many days suspension! Weis: I just told him. Two months, three months, ’ti1 his mother comes in (April 1986).

Although in this example the student demonstrated little interest in attending school,I8 other students who did want to attend but who ran into problems with the discipline office were also subject to the informal expulsion of an “overage drop.” In the following instance, Nicholas had missed most of his first period math classes because of familial responsibilities.

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Weis: What’re you in for? Nicholas: Mr. Fisk suspended me cuz I missed his class. Weis: Let me get your folder.

He left the office and returned with the folder. To Nicholas’s stepfather he said: As you are aware, sir, Nicholas was out of school and then let back in school. When he was readmitted, he signed a contract that he would attend school and behave himself. Right now, he> overage, still in tenth grade, not passing [one class]. I recommend dropping him. Nicholas: That’s only one class! Weis: But that’s enough. You are overage in tenth grade. You have to pass. . . . Nicholas: Don’t you want to know why I missedWeis: N o reason is-you signed a contract. Nicholas: I had to do something for my mother. Weis: You ’re eighteen years old, third year in tenth grade, you have to set

priorities. Ifthat? to do somethingfor your mother-you signed a contrdct that you would obey all the rules and attend allyour chses. You know, we wanted to transfer you before. D o you have a relative in another neighborhood (March 1987, italics added)?

The conference established that Nicholas was a classic troublemaker. He had previously been dropped from school, and was overage, behind in grade, and failing a class. Mr. Weis wanted him out of the school. Since he could not initiate a disciplinary transfer on the grounds of cutting class, Mr. Weis explored his two other options: an “overage” drop pressed on Nicholas because he had violated the terms of his readmission contract, and a regular transfer based on the pretense that Nicholas had changed residence. It is important to note that because he did not conform to all of the school’s demands, the school workers focused on how to exclude Nicholas rather than on how to solve his problems or to work around them. As I learned from lengthy interviews with both Nicolas and his stepfather, Nicolas had tried to work within the system. As he told me:

I have this first period class and I’m supposed to be there at five minutes before eight. And I have to take my nieces to day care in the morning. . . . They live with me, and there’s no one else there, you know, that could take them. It’s inconvenient for my mother cuz she leaves so early. And their mom is in Florida. So I was the only one that could take them. So I was taking them, and I wasn’t making the class. But I was bringing notes and stuff in to show them. . . , Mr. Fisk wouldn’t contact my mother or nothing. H e just kept on telling me the notes aren’t going to do no good. . . . I talked to my mother at one time. And that’s when she told me she was going to try to work something out [about taking the girls to day care]. But at the moment to keep taking them. . . . You know, so that’s when I went to see the counselor. She told me to see [someone else] . . . he was absent two days I brought in the note. . . . Probably if I went to see [the counselor] earlier, I would have probably got help. But I didn’t know who to go to

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CHRISTINE BOWDITCH see. I thought he was the teacher, I was supposed to give the notes and all that to him. . w e n I did see the counselor], she was saying there’s not much you can do, and everything. I could have got a roster change if it was

..

like the beginning.

The school workers blamed his mother for putting Nicholas in the position of having to care for his sister’s daughters and blamed him for accepting that responsibility. Mr. Fisk explained: Why should that responsibility become his? The parent has to take more active-why would you thrust that responsibility on your offspring if it’s creating problems in the school? . . . If he’s thrust into this situation and he knows it’s threatening his possibilities for graduation, for promotion, for passing this class, if he’s truly serious about passing, he has to lighten the load. And there’s only one load he can lighten. And that‘s the supervision of this [niece]. So that means sitting down with whomever. Mr. Fisk assumed that the solution to the problem involved “sitting down” with someone. Nicholas, therefore, was penalized for his mother’s inability or unwillingness to make his education the family’s priority. Nicholas confronted a system which his parents had little skill in handling or power to influence, and which rejected his own efforts. Had he come from a middleincome family, it is likely he would have fared better. Not only would it have been less likely for such a family/school conflict to arise, but a middle-income parent would have had greater success in manipulating the bureaucratic requirements of the school system. As it was, Nicholas’s family circumstances allowed-one might even argue, encouraged-both Mr. Fisk and Mr. Weis to dismiss him as another troublemaker who did not value education.

Being “At Risk” When I spoke to Ms. Riley, the vice principal of DuBois High, she was not “amazed” that 335 of her students had “dropped out” in the previous year. Instead, citing how many kids faced problems at home or on the streets, she was amazed that so many of them “made it.” DuBois High students who faced disruption, violence, substance abuse, or conflicting obligations to school and family were understandably distracted, uncooperative, or truant. Manifesting those symptoms of broader social ills, however, brought them into contact with the discipline office. There troubled students were rather easily reconceptualized as troublemakers. And troublemakers were readily seen as undeserving of the school’s services. This process is all the more disturbing when we consider that inner-city African Americans and Hispanics are disproportionately likely to suffer from such social ills. The activities of the discipline office, which routinely identified “troublemakers” and “got rid of” them through suspensions and involuntary drops, may be one important but largely unacknowledged mechanism through which schools perpetuate the racial and class stratification of the larger society.

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Ironically, educational research has served to legitimate the actions of the disciplinarians. In a conference to reinstate a student following his suspension for poor attendance, Mr. Leary remarked: I’m talking to you like a man . . this is a turningpoint in your 1~3.You can go either way: follow the rules and graduate, or drop out of the whole school system. You signed this contract. I’m going to reinstate you. But I tell you quite frankly, you got to get up, whatever you got to do, and get to school. I know, there’s no doubt in my mind, [the principal] is going to want to drop you. Not because he wants to be mean, but statistics prove it out (March 1986, italics added).

Indeed, the statistics prove that students are most likely to “drop out” of high school if they come from a low-income background, are frequently absent or truant, have a record of school suspensions, are failing classes, and are overage in grade (Hahn and Danzberger 1987; Natriello 1986). But what is proven? Those factors are the very indicators that disciplinarians used to define troublemakers and that led to suspensions, disciplinary transfers, and involuntary drops. Although it is unwise to generalize from the findings of one case study, we can nevertheless ask: are “risk factors” correlated with “dropping out” because they are used routinely by school workers to expel students? If that is the case, then disciplinarians’ daily activities play an important role in regulating social mobility.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 40, No. 4, November 1993, pp. 493509. 0 1993 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission. 1. For a critical discussion of “at risk” see Margonis (1992). 2 . “Pushouts” refers to students who are forced to leave school. “Stopouts” refers to students who withdraw from school and then return. 3. See Rist (1977) for an explanation of labeling theory’s utility in the study of schools. 4. Although all of the students were African Americans, the faculty’s racial composition reflected the metropolitan area’s labor pool and thus included many whites. 5. These figures come from a report prepared by the school for the visiting committee of the association charged with evaluating the school for accreditation. For reasons of confidentiality, I cannot give the full name of this publication or of other reports issued by the school or the school district. 6. The irregular tempo of activity in the discipline office made it difficult to gather accurate, quantifiable data on the number, type, and disposition of cases. Although I solicited staff members’ help at one point, asking each of them to mark on a chart the type and disposition of each case they handled, I found their recordkeeping unreliable. Moreover, such records masked the very assumptions and decisions I sought to investigate. 7. National studies report that most high school suspensions are for nonthreatening behavior-defying authority, chronic tardiness, chronic absence, and use of profanity and vulgarity. Black students are suspended three times as often as whites (Hahn and Danzberger 1987:19). 8. The physical education department also suspended students who were unprepared for gym class on three occasions. Those “one day” suspensions were not processed through the discipline office and are not a part of my report.

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9. These figures come from the suspension reports compiled by one of the disciplinarians for the district. I selected three months, at random, from the 1986/87 school year and computed the percentages. These figures are compatible with my observations in the discipline office. The total number of boys suspended in those three months was 244. 10. Students had extremely limited access to any form of counseling. The few “guidance counselors” in the school each had responsibility for hundreds of students and seemed to limit their “guidance” to brief conferences on scheduling or attendance problems. The only other counselor 1 was aware of was a part-time drug counselor from a private agency. 11. McCarthy and Hoge (1987) found that school disciplinary sanctions were influenced by the student’s past official record, grades, and “general demeanor in school.” These findings suggest that the practices of the discipline staff at DuBois conform to those at other schools. 12. The other purposes of suspension noted in the district’s guidelines were: removing the student from the scene of difficulty, diffusing a situation when the final outcome is not yet assured, and displaying the school’s dissatisfaction with the student’s behavior. 13. The relatively homogeneous background of DuBois students prohibited a comparative assessment of how a parent’s race and class affected her or his treatment by disciplinarians. 14. Crespo (1974) found that a school’s disciplinary responses to “skippers” (truants) did indeed lead to the amplification of deviance and, in many cases, encouraged students to drop out. 15. See Anderson’s discussion of how “social selves” are constructed in social interaction; as he states, “a person is somebody because others allow him to be” (1976:38). 16. See Meehan (1986) for a discussion of how the projected use of police records shapes their form and content as well as for a discussion of how police officers infer the meaning or accuracy of a record. 17. In the official statistics for the 1985186 school year, all but six of the 335 dropouts were categorized as “overage.” 18. Crespo noted, “students who do not find school rewarding are more prepared to consider missing it. In this sense, the tracking system provides the invitational edge to the activity of skipping” (1974: 133). Students in lower tracks are offered less stimulating and less valuable educational experiences (Oakes 1985). We must remember, therefore, that the school bears some responsibility for its students’ attitudes and behaviors.

References Anderson, Carolyn. 1982. “The Search for School Climate: A Review of the Research.” Review of Educational Research 52:368-420. Anderson, Elijah. 1976. A Place on the Corner. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Becker, Howard. 1963. Outsiders. New York: Free Press. Bittner, Egon. 1967. “The Police on Skid-Row: A ‘Study of Peace Keeping.’” American Sociological Review 32:699-715. Borus, Michael E., and Susan A. Carpenter. 1983. “A Note on the Return of Dropouts to High School.” Youth and Society 14501-7. Cicourel, Aaron V., and John I. Kitsuse. 1977. “The School as a Mechanism of Social Differentiation.” In Power and Zdeology in Education, edited by Jerome Karabel and A. H. Halsey, 282-92. New York: Oxford University Press. Cohen, Lawrence, and James Kleugel. 1987. “Determinants of Juvenile Court Dispositions: Ascriptive and Achieved Factors in Two Metropolitan Courts.” American Sociological Review 43: 162-76.

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Connell, R. W., D. J. Ashenden, S. Kessler, and G. W. Dowsett. 1982. Making the Difference: Schools, Families and Social Division. Boston: George Allen & Unwin. Corcoran, Thomas. 1985. “Effective Secondary Schools.” In Reachingfor Excellence: A n Effective Schools Sourcebook, 71-97. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of Education. Crespo, Manuel. 1974. “The Career of the School Skipper.” In Decency and Deviance: Studies in Deviant Behavior, edited by Jack Haas, 129-45. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart. Ekstrom, Ruth B., Margaret E. Goertz, Judith M. Pollack, and Donald A. Rock. 1987. “Who Drops Out of High School and Why? Findings from a National Study.” In School Dropouts: Patterns and Policies, edited by Gary Natriello, 52-69. New York: Teachers College Press. Empey, Lamar. 1982. American Delinquency: Its Meaning and Construction. Homewood, Ill.: Dorsey. Farrell, Edwin. 1988. “Giving Voice to High School Students: Pressure and Boredom, Ya Know What I’m Sayin’?”American Educational Research Journal 25:489-502. Fine, Michelle. 1986. “Why Urban Adolescents Drop into and out of Public High School.” In School Dropouts: Patterns and Policies, edited by Gary Natriello, 89-105. New York: Teachers College Press. . 1991. Framing Dropouts: Notes on the Politics of an Urban Public High School. Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press. Finn, Jeremy D. 1989. “Withdrawing from School.” Review of Educational Research 59:117-42. Hahn, Andrew, and Jacqueline Danzberger. 1987. Dropouts in America: Enough Is Known for Action. Washington, D.C.: Institute for Educational Leadership. Karabel, Jerome, and A. H. Halsey, eds. 1977. Power and Ideology in Education. New York: Oxford University Press. Kozol, Jonathan. 1991. Savage Inequalities: Children in American Schools. New York: Crown Publishers, Inc. Lernert, Edwin M. 1967. Human Deviance. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Lipsky, Michael. 1980. Street-Level Bureaucraq: Dilemmas of the Individual in Public Services. New York: Russell Sage. Maines, David R., and Joy C. Charlton. 1985. “Negotiated Order Approach to the Analysis of Social Organization.” In Foundations of Intep-etive Sociology: Original Essays in Symbolic Interaction, edited by Harvey A. Faberman and R. S. Perinbanayagam, 271308. Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press Inc. Margonis, Frank. 1992. “The Cooptation of ‘At Risk‘: Paradoxes of Policy Criticism.” Teachers College Record 94:343-64. McCarthy, John, and Dean Hoge. 1987. “The Social Construction of School Punishment: Racial Disadvantage Out of Universalistic Process.” Social Forces 65: 1101-20. Meehan, Albert J. 1986. “Record-Keeping Practices in the Policing of Juveniles.” Urban L;fp 15~70-102. Mehan, Hugh. 1992. “Understanding Inequality in Schools: The Contribution of Interpretive Studies.” Sociology of Education 65: 1-20. Miller, Sandra E. 1988. “Influencing Engagement though Accommodation: An Ethnographic Study of At-Risk Students.” American Education Research Journal 25465-87. Morash, Merry. 1984. “Establishment of a Juvenile Police Record.” Criminology 22:97-111. Morrow, George. 1986. “Standardizing Practice in the Analysis of School Dropouts.” In School Dropouts: Patterns and Policies, edited by Gary Natriello, 38-5 1. New York: Teachers College Press. Natriello, Gary, ed. 1986. School Dropouts: Patterns and Policies. New York: Teachers College Press. Oakes, Jeannie. 1985. Keeping Track: How Schools Structure hequalily. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press.

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Paternoster, Raymond, and Leeann Iovanni. 1989. “The Labeling Perspective and Delinquency: An Elaboration of the Theory and an Assessment of the Evidence.”Justice Quarterly 6:359-94. Peng, Samuel S. 1983. “High School Dropouts: Descriptive Information from High School and Beyond.” National Centerfor Education Statistics Bulletin. Pittman, R. B. 1986. “Importance of Personal, Social Factors as Potential Means for Reducing High School Dropout Rate.” The High SchoolJournal70:7-13. Rist, Ray C. 1977. “On Understanding the Processes of Schooling: The Contributions of Labeling Theory.” In Power and Ideology in Education, edited by Jerome Karabel and A. H. Halsey, 292-305. New York: Oxford University Press. Rubinstein, Jonathan. 1973. City Police. Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Rumberger, Russell W. 1983. “Dropping Out of High School: The Influence of Race, Sex, and Family Background.” American Educational Research Journal 20: 199-220. Rutter, Michael, B. Maughan, R. Moritmore, J. Ouston, and A. Smith. 1979. Fzjieen Thousand Hours: Secondtry Schoob and Their Effects on Children. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Sampson, Robert J. 1986. “Effects of Socioeconomic Context on Official Reaction to Juvenile Delinquency.” American Sociological Review 5 1 376-85. Skolnich, Jerome H. 1975. Justice without Trial. New York: Wiley. Sudnow, David. 1965. “Normal Crimes: Sociological Features of the Penal Code in a Public Defender’s Office.” Social Problems 12:255-76. Tittle, Charles. 1980. “Labelling and Crime: An Empirical Evaluation.” In The Labelling of Deviance, edited by Walter Gove, 241-63. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. Toles, T., E. M. Schulz, and W. K. Rice Jr. 1986. “A Study of Variation in Dropout Rates Attributable to Effects of High Schools.” Metropolitan Education 2:30-38. Waegel, William B. 198 1 . “Case Routinization in Investigative Police Work.” Social Problems 28:263-75. Wagenaar, Theodore C. 1987. “What Do We Know about Dropping Out of High School?” In Research in Sociology of Education and Socialization, edited by Ronald G. Convin, 16190. Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press. Weis, Lois, Eleanor Farrar, and Hugh G. Petrie, ed. 1989. Dropoutsporn School: Issues, Dilemmas, and Solutions. New York: State University of New York Press. Yudof, Mark G. 1975. “Suspension and Expulsion of Black Students from the Public Schools: Academic Capital Punishment and the Constitution.” Law and Contemporary Problems 39:374-411.

CHAPTER 5

Learning Collective Eminence HARVARD LAW SCHOOL AND THE S O C K PRODUCTION OF ELITE LAWYERS

Robert Granjeld und Thomas Koenig

Introduction That American law schools feature a placement hierarchy is well established. Graduates of the most prestigious schools, whom Kilmer (1976: 18) labels the “Brahmins,” generally obtain the most eminent positions within the legal profession while lower rated schools place most alumni less prestigiously. Analysts characterize the post-law school placement process as “a large number of employers competing fiercely for a small proportion of the student pool, and the rest of the student pool competing fiercely for whatever they could get” (Munneke 1982). However, despite the many descriptions of this “bifurcated bar” (Van Alstyne, Julin, and Barnett 1990; Rustad and Koenig 1990; Abel 1989; Heinz and Laumann 1982; Zemans and Rosenblum 1981), analysis of how elite law schools prepare students for prestigious futures is poorly developed. An implicit assumption reigns that training people to accept subordinate positions in the social hierarchy is problematic and therefore must be analyzed (McLaren 1986; Valli 1985; Willis 1977), but that for those with the opportunity for advancement to wish to join the power elite is natural. In reality, students must be taught both to desire prestigious jobs and to have the social qualifications necessary to fulfill elite positions. These lessons constitute an important part of Harvard Law School’s informal curriculum. Elite schools produce “eminent” graduates through several processes including recruitment of already eminent students (Cappell and Pipkin 1990) as well as teaching elite styles and dispositions to those who lack them upon entrance (Bourdieu and Passeron 1990). Meyer (1977) stresses the importance of a school’s “charter,” a prestige image arising from the institution’s eminent history and name recognition. Cookson and Persell (1985) demonstrate that prep schools transmit class privilege through well-established placement networks, alumni prominence, and providing an education oriented toward future command. In a law school, Van Alstyne, Julin, and Barnett (1990) claim, all of these factors plus faculty prominence, the school’s financial resources, its post-graduate programs, and educational innovations contribute to its eminence. Harvard Law School, with top ratings on all these factors, bestows a mantle of prestige upon all alumni.

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Much of Harvard Law’s eminence comes from the extreme difficulty of obtaining admission. To be chosen from the huge number of applicants to this elite training ground requires extraordinary personal talents and academic credentials. Those selected generally are highly competitive individuals (Kilmer 1976) who have bested less talented or less aggressive undergraduate peers. However, while less distinguished institutions often promote competition in order to elicit students’ best (Rustad and Koenig 1990; Blake 1990), Harvard Law works hard to develop a sense of cooperation and fellowship. In sharp contrast to the “paper chase” myth of vicious competitiveness at the school, students develop a sense of solidarity that prepares them for elite futures. They learn that success comes from working with rather than competing against their peers. One goal of all elite educational institutions is to develop a sense of cohesiveness. As Cookson and Persell (1985) illustrate, students are socialized away from a personal identity and toward a collective one almost upon arrival at elite private schools. Elites bond not only on the basis of wealth but by a collective sense of mutual respect and shared values (Domhoff 1983; Cookson and Persell 1985; Baltzell 1958). In Keller’s (1964:220) words, Elites must be capable of developing self-images that stress their comrnunality and their uniqueness. They must consolidate their identities, images, and aims around ideologies that justify and at the same time illumine their specialized, autonomous roles in a joint destiny.

Education in this leading law school, we argue, has less to do with learning technical abilities than with providing an opportunity to cultivate contacts and develop an elite collective identity. Research on elite schools consistently demonstrates their fostering of a sense of collectiveness among graduates (Cookson and Persell 1985; Useem and Karabel 1986; Collins 1979; Mills 1959; Baltzell 1958), while, in contrast, working-class schools block such formation (Wexler 1983). However, few have studied the process of collective identity formation within elite schools, particularly post-graduate. Exploration of Harvard Law School dynamics reveals much about the ways that law school training shapes the elite professionals of the future. We explore the micro-politics within Harvard Law School that creates in most students a sense of shared eminence that points them toward elite legal careers. Consistent with recent approaches to the study of educational institutions (Giroux and McLaren 1989; Apple 1982, 1986; Valli 1985), we view the development of collective identity as a constitutive process that enables Harvard Law students to make sense of the social reality they experience in ways that direct them into elite careers within the legal profession. This study focuses on the experiences of Harvard Law students and the process through which they develop collective eminence, the view that they are members of a distinct group and occupy a privileged societal position.

Method The data derive from triangulated research (Granfield 1992). The first phase of the research consisted of extensive fieldwork at the law school from 1985 to 1988. This

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comprised attending classes with students, participating in their Moot Court preparations, studying with them on campus and at times in their apartments, lunching with them, becoming involved in their demonstrations over job recruiting and faculty hiring, attending campus extracurricular lectures, and participating in orientation exercises for first-year students. Both overt and covert roles were assumed. During classroom observation periods, teachedstudent interactions were recorded. To supplement these observations, 103 in-depth, two-hour interviews were conducted with law students at various stages in their training. The interviews probed the lived process through which law students experience their legal training. Finally, a survey administered to 50 percent of the 1540 law school students examines their backgrounds, motives for attendance, subjective perceptions of personal change, expectations about future practice, and evaluations of various substantive areas of practice. Over half (391) were returned, a high response rate for a six page survey requiring approximately 45 minutes to complete. To assess randomness of non-responses, we compared respondents to the population of Harvard Law students by gender, geographical origin, admission year, and race. They prove almost identical. Follow-up interviews produce no hint of any systematic bias among respondents. This analysis draws heavily upon the qualitative data. While a portion reports on cross-sectional survey data, our focus is on detailing the ways that students at Harvard Law experience their elite socialization and build collectiveness. Development and cultivation of privilege and status occur at an experiential level, difficult to capture through survey methods. For example, students enter and leave Harvard Law with equally strong interest in public interest law according to our survey. However, our qualitative work reveals that the definition of this term changes sharply as the student progresses through the program.

Pre-Law School Competitiveness Many Harvard students attribute their law school admission to their aggressively competitive nature. They frequently characterize themselves as having always been driven to out-perform peers. One typical first-year student, for example, reflects: While all my friends in high school were out screwing around I was studying. I worked hard to get into this place. The reason that I’m here and they’re at some other lesser law school is because I worked hard. They could be here too if they were willing to make the sacrifices that I did.

In most cases, newly admitted students expect Harvard Law School to be the greatest competitive challenge of their lives and come prepared for the worst. They feel nervous about the prospect of competing against some of America’s most brilliant and aggressive students. One student recalls:

I had seen The Paper Chase and was worried that Harvard Law School would be terrible.

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Another first-year male reports,

I had read One L and I thought it was going to be real competitive. I thought that I would be swamped with work 24 hours a day. I thought that I had to be careful about what I said. The imposing architecture combined with omnipresent oil paintings of famous legal scholars conveys a sense of the law school’s eminence and, in so doing, strengthens incoming students’ belief that it will take every ounce of skill and dedication to live up to the university’s standards. One first-year woman explains how she felt during her initial days at the law school: When I first came here I was impressed by all the columns and pictures and thought, ‘my god, I’m at Harvard Law School-the best!’ Once a week for about three months I would walk around the campus with my head in the clouds and think about actually being here. I was intimidated by the whole idea of being here. I remember being more nervous than I thought I would be, competing with all these smart people. I was worried whether I could keep up.

Other institutional messages reinforce this combination of exhilaration and fear. For example, among a variety of registration materials stressing the eminent company to which they have been admitted, students read: As president of the Harvard Law School Alumni Association it is a pleasure to join in welcoming you as you begin your student years in the legal profession at the School. You join a long succession of men and women who have benefited from their studies here and have made significant contributions to the welfare of society, both in law and in the areas outside law, in the United States and in over 100 countries abroad. Graduates of the Law School have been richly diverse in backgrounds and in accomplishments, and our alumni include, for example: one president of the United States; such distinguished jurists as Oliver Wendell Holmes, Louis Brandeis, and Learned Hand; such public officials as Archibald Cox, Elliot Richardson, William Coleman, Patricia Schroeder, and Elizabeth Dole; and-for good measure-James Russell Lowell and Archibald MacLeish. You have the very best wishes of those who have preceded you, and you have our high expectations for the future.

Students fear that they will experience difficulty living up to the lofty traditions associated with the law school. However, almost immediately, these students receive messages that competition is not the key to law school success: competitive ambitiousness helped procure admission to this top law school, but solidarity and cooperation will help establish them as elite professionals. The groundwork for developing a collective spirit is cultivated within days of arrival on campus. For instance, students are greeted not with intimidating authority figures but a round of relaxing social events such as a get-acquainted boat cruise and seats at a Boston Red Sox game. Students participate in small group orientations

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during which second or third-yeat students create an atmosphere of camaraderie and esprit de corps. During these “0-groups” new students are introduced to the collective spirit within the law school. A woman in her second year comments,

I really liked the orientation groups. It helped me make a few friends and deal with this mass of students. I was able to develop a bond with a few of these students. My “0-group” leader was great. He told us that we didn’t need to compete with each other. He had parties at his house and I liked that. Students are told that Harvards curriculum and faculty are superior to the “lowerranked” schools and that they should not worry about being average within such a talented group. As one student explains, O u r group leader was reassuring. He kept saying, ‘law school is easy and you’re going to have a great time.’ He told us not to worry about anything. The thing I kept hearing over and over again was reassurance, it’s going to be all right, everyone does fine, don’t worry. Some friends of mine are at Alabama Law School and their orientation process was, ‘you all have to work and put out.’ The One L and Paper Chase was my impression of law school when I came here. After being here awhile I laughed about those books.

The dean’s welcoming address caps off orientation week. The dean praises those about to embark on their three-year journey through law school, assuring them that they are worthy inheritors of Harvard Law’s eminence and urging them to share it collectively. The graduates of Harvard, he points out, are not ordinary, but rather, include heads of foundations, presidents of universities, and leading politicians. Law school graduates comprise three 1988 presidential candidates-Bruce Babbit, Michael Dukakis, and Pierre du Pont; and three U.S. Supreme Court justices-William Brennan, Harry Blackmun, and Antonin Scalia. As an aside, the dean mentions that Justice Scalia will preside over this year’s Ames Moot Court competition. In his address, the dean charges students with the burden of elites. Harvard does not turn out merely technically proficient corporate tools. “Your predecessors,” he points out, “have played heroic roles in the quests for racial equality, for arms control, for children’s rights, for environmental protection, and for international human rights.” Harvard, he instructs, will be “good training for such roles”: There is no school in the country where major issues about the role of law and legal education are being debated with more energy. . . . There are crucial questions about whether and how the law can be an instrument of a just society and they concern us all. If you find yourself worrying about such issues, you are in good company. If lawyers who build their livelihoods on those processes are not morally obliged to serve as their guardians, who does have that obligation?

Harvard Law is not a place to prepare merely to become rich. Students are to devote themselves to the higher task of constructing a better world. This sense of duty

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and obligation to use one’s eminent position for the betterment of society has commonly been associated with social elites (Keller 1964; Baltzell 1958) as well as legal elites (Powell 1988). A leadership position and associated social ameliorism is the “burden” elites carry that acts to justify their privileged societal position. This is a community to be embraced, not competed against. In sharp contrast to the orientation speeches at less elite law schools,’ the dean reassures law students that competitiveness is not necessary. Attempting to release students from any anxiety, he tells them: The fact is that you are not competing with each other. Your life at the School and your life as a lawyer will be happier and more satisfying if you recognize that your goal is to become the best possible lawyer so that you can serve your clients and society with maximum skills. . . . Although you will experience frustrations from time to time, I think that rather than the Paper Chase you will see the School as much closer to the image invoked in a letter we received some years ago from a Japanese lawyer who had just been admitted: “Dear Sir: I have just seen the movie Love Story with Ryan O’Neal and Ali McGraw and I am looking forward to a very romantic time at the Harvard Law School.”

Incoming students’ mailboxes overflow with reassuring symbols of their newly acquired status. Local fine-clothing stores send tasteful cards announcing their willingness to aid in projecting an appropriate image. World famous faculty members extend cocktail party invitations. Knowing that students soon will be flying frequently at corporate expense, travel agencies compete for the students’ good will. Such materials begin to define for students their collective position within society and help construct elite dispositions of distinction, superiority, and self-confidence associated with leadership. That all Harvard Law students receive these messages serves to promote the growth of a collective identity: rewards number enough for all, so no reason exists to compete. Students’ emerging sense of collective identity is soon bolstered by the discovery that many outside the Harvard Community hold its students and alumni in awe. A first-year student reflects on an experience that occurred within days of arrival on campus: The thing about Harvard Law School is that it‘s instant prestige. The credential here gives you every opportunity coming out. It’s not only for jobs, it’s everything. I called my insurance adjuster last week because I was involved in an accident that required surgery. I called and he said, ‘Oh Richard, I understand you’re from Harvard Law School. That’s wonderful.’ That guy was great and insurance adjusters are usually assholes. It’s things like that that make you realize that this place is magic.

Even before they attend their first class, students begin to enjoy the material and psychological rewards association with such an eminent group bestows upon them.

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Producing Collective Eminence in the Classroom At first, the classroom experience challenges the emerging sense of collectivity. As one first-year student recalls,

During the first two weeks of class I think everyone here felt like they had to say something intelligent. I spoke three or four times the first two weeks of class and then went more than two months without speaking. A lot of people like to show off at first.

Despite encouragement to cooperate with others and forge a collective identity, many continue to fear being thought incompetent and tend to be skeptical of the cooperative messages received during orientation. Regimentation within the first-year classes seems to further imply an essentially competitive nature of the institution. Students typically are assigned to seats alphabetically, frequently addressed as Mr. or Ms., and occasionally are called upon by a professor looking at a seating chart. It appears at first as if Harvard Law really is as the Paper Chase portrays. One first-year student reports,

I was humiliated the first year by the professors and some of the other students’ knowledge of the subject. My perception of myself was challenged. I was an “A” student at Columbia and I was getting “B’s” for the first time in my life. That was hard. The fear of exposing one’s inferiority leads many new students to restrict conversation to reassuring small talk on subjects that do not reveal weaknesses. As one first-year student explains, You can’t expose yourself because you’re always being judged by your peers. People generally don’t talk about what law school is doing for them for fear of exposure. I know I feel this way. You have to watch your guard around here. Most people just end up talking about working in law firms. This is a safe topic.

To students who have always excelled, the sense of being simply one of the crowd creates substantial stress. One student explains how difficult it is at first to accept that you might only be mediocre even in such a distinguished group:

I had a problem with my sense of myself the first year, my sense of my ability to do the work to my own satisfaction, and my sense of working hard for very little results in terms of grades. It was frustrating to have worked very hard and ended up only average. This stress often fosters personal crises dealt with by Harvard Law psychiatric staff who refer to this syndrome as “wounded narcissism.” In the words of one staff psychiatrist,

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Harvard Law Professor Morton Honvitz calls students so affected the “walking wounded.” Students learn to take pride in peers’ capabilities, rather than see them as competitors. The emergent sense that they are part of a superior group rescues students from feelings of personal inadequacy and insecurity. Relative mediocrity is acceptable in such a talented group. One student describes the collective superiority of Harvard students:

I find the teaching and the classes really boring but I like the community. It’s like a fraternity or a sorority. Although there are some dregs here mostly everyone else is incredibly bright and creative. Everyone here graduated at the top of their class in college so Harvard is able to select the best students. Superiority is proclaimed by association with elite classmates rather than by individual excellence. Students begin regaining self-esteem and building solidarity through their symbolic rejection of the law school’s distinctive characteristics and authority relations. They learn self-confidence and group pride through this symbolic resistance, feeling a personal triumph over a stressful, demeaning, and pretentious environment. Such experiences in common help foster the collective identity students soon develop. The school facilitates such rejection. Students’ classroom experiences involve only mock severity. In sharp contrast to the popular image, students are allowed a “no hassle pass.”2 Those who wish to avoid class participation are also free to sit in unassigned seats at the rear of the classroom, a practice known as “backbenching.” Once students learn to enjoy their shared eminence, cooperation becomes possible. As one second-year student explains, Most people quickly find out that if you do most of the work yourself, it’s redundant and senseless. Most people end up realizing that it’s better to share outlines with everyone else.

Students begin to focus on ways to manage the work load instead of trying to outdo their peers. One second-year student attests, For a good part of the first year I was intimidated. There was a point, however, that I realized that going to law school was more a matter of doing the work. Once I realized that I became more comfortable and didn’t feel the pressure to show how smart I was.

As collective identification develops, all expressions of competitive individualism in the classroom come to be defined as impolite, even neurotic. For many, the sense of cooperation that emerges within the student culture serves to evince Harvard’s distinctiveness. One second-year student illustrates this perspective: Our section was very cohesive, we all got along well. N o one stole notes or ripped out pages out of law reviews. We all borrowed each other’s notes.

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What I have found is that what people think happens here doesn’t really happen. A lot of people think we’re all cut-throats. There’s no need for that, that‘s why this place is so elite. There’s no need for me to tear out another student’s throat. I would imagine that the level of competition must be much higher at other schools that aren’t as good.

“B” grades, the most common grade Harvard Law students receive, are redefined as not indicative of merely acceptable work but as superior to top grades anywhere else. This grade homogeneity, in fact, contributes to collective identity by downplaying differentiation and uniqueness. Students aggressively proclaim averageness. Some wear T-shirts proclaiming “grades are random,” and hold grade-burning rallies to illustrate the neuroticism of competition within such a homogeneous collection of high achievers. The few remaining highly competitive individualists are punished for attempting to disrupt the collective bond that is being established. O n e third-year student refers to these “gunners” as “psycho-nurds” and not “the kind of people you want to spend time with.” Such activities as “turkey bingo” ridicule those who persist in being competitive. This game employs a bingo card designed with aggressive students’ names instead of numbers. When a student talks, his or her square is checked off. The holder of a winning bingo card answers a professor’s question using a pre-agreed code word that informs the other players bingo has been scored. When gunners finally learn their peers have been making fun of them they tone down or eliminate their blatant competitiveness. This tendency to discourage competition permeates the law school community. More than half of those returning the questionnaire, 57 percent, describe Harvard Law as not being very competitive. This sense of personal security encourages them to embrace the group. Seventy percent of the students report never worrying about being a success and nearly 90 percent expect to have little trouble in finding a good job after graduation. Only 24 percent report experiencing high stress levels during law school. O n e third-year student relates, I think that here there is not that much pressure on grades. There is some competition early on but the sense of competition stays with you for only part of the first year. This is because most people have this idea that you are at the top of your class so you want to stay there. However, because everyone is so bright here, you just can’t continue to be competitive. There’s no need for it. Second and third year it seemed to me that there is virtually no pressure on grades and it seemed to me that the difference between working hard and not working at all is the difference between a B + andaB-. In fact, students become so nonchalant about their grades that many, after their initial year, begin to skip classes. As one third-year student reports, I’ve pretty much stopped going to classes. Every semester I go to a few classes. Last semester I went to one class three times and another class four times. A lot of people do this. I generally do all the reading but I don’t go to class. I tend to get grades like everyone else here, mostly Bs.

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This is possible because most students freely share notes, participate in study groups, and circulate outlines. In many instances, a nonhierarchical division of labor holds individual students responsible for particular course sections to be shared by outline with others. In some cases, the whole class collectively participates in constructing course outlines. One third-year student debunks the “paper chase” myth, attesting: Things are pretty democratic. There are lots of outlines around, even by people on law review. The legal copy center circulates outlines now. When I was a first-year student I got access to a law review property outline. The legal copy center institutionalized the circulation of these outlines.

Professors’ questions come to be resented rather than feared since they offend the collective sense of superiority. Rather than seeing classes as helpful preparation for legal practice, in time students view their teachers as an annoyance. One third-year student explains, What irritates a lot of people here is that you’re treated like a child. Although no one gets grilled the professors try to embarrass you in front of all these people. People get real angry with this. Most people after a while do as little work as possible.

Affirming Collective Eminence through Law Firm Recruitment The prestige these students begin to feel is so strong that they often question the necessity of a third year in law school. As one third-year student remarks, After the second summer I think you’re as capable as any attorney and I think third year is unnecessary in the concrete and measurable sense. By this time we have a lot of confidence.

The process of law firm recruitment does much to build a sense of eminence and distinction. As representatives from over 800 large national law firms interview second and third-year students on a daily basis during October and November, law students soon witness the power of a Harvard Law pedigree. A second-year male reflects on his first year: I was incredibly nervous the first year in class. I just didn’t talk. Although students are really supportive of each other there’s still a lot of uncertainty. That’s where the job recruiters play a big role because they really want you to work for them and unless you’ve done really well in class you don’t know if the law school really wants you. There’s not a lot of ego-stroking in class whereas the recruiters really do that. It’s like realizing that you’re still really competent in spite of how the classes made you feel. The recruiters are willing to fly you around the country and put you up in the best hotels. It’s like instant gratification.

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Selecting a suitable firm from among the plethora of choices is made as easy as possible for Harvard students. Each receives an employment bulletin that lists firms that interview at Harvard, complete with demographic breakdowns on the racial and gender characteristics of partners and associates. This compendium lists other vital statistics such as areas of practice, starting salaries, and types of pro bono work, if any, offered. Telephone books from all the major metropolitan areas occupy nearby shelves, as do student evaluations of law-firm summer experiences. Students may use any available placement office telephones to place collect calls to the firms. During recruitment season, the requirement that recruiters talk with every second and third-year student who requests an interview forges collective eminence. A sense evolves that students are choosing firms rather than competing for scarce slots. Two of our Harvard respondents report receiving more than 90 interviews. This does not signify the particular desirability of these two individuals, only their stamina. Social events recruiters sponsor, ranging from mere cocktail parties to elaborate barbeque parties like “Texas Night,” further the formation of collective prestige. One third-year student explains, “You can literally eat your way through recruiting season by going to the different receptions every night.” Being wined and dined by the legal elite provides ceremonial affirmation of their new status. That everyone can participate reinforces the message of collective eminence. Informal ties that will prove helpful to these students throughout their careers cultivate the building of this collective prestige (Granovetter 1974). Many interviewers are former graduates demonstrating Harvard school loyalty. Ultimately, Harvard’s social network, not necessarily students’ individual achievement or legal skill, has opened so many doors. One second-year male unabashedly notes the value of being at Harvard Law: Here I have the opportunity to meet five hundred people during my first year, in addition to the opportunities to work in the best corporate law firms. These are important factors-not necessarily the legal education one receives.

As part of recruitment, firms finance “fly-outs’’ after on-campus interviews. These trips bring students to the law firm to allow hiring partners a closer look at the

prospective employee. However, they also teach the desirability of elite perspectives, life styles, and dispositions. Students are often astonished by the lavishness of their fly-out. One third-year student reports, It’s incredible! When I first started on the fly-out routine I tried to save the firm money by arranging for a few interviews in the same city. I then got a call from this partner in a LA firm that I was going to interview at and he asked whether I was bringing a guest. I told him I would stay with some friends just outside LA and he asked me why I wasn’t staying at a hotel that they would pay for. Here I was trying to save them money! I couldn’t believe it.

Students often take fly-outs simply to enjoy the luxury. A second-year student boasts, The second year interviews were great. Everyone was after my ass. I knew I was going to get anything I wanted. O n campus I had about 25 interviews.

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I flew out for about 15 of those. They were real cushy. In New York I really didn’t care that much. I just flew out for the hell of it.

Academic endeavors rake a back seat to recruitment-ritual enticements that offer a glimpse of “life in the fast lane.” A third-year woman discusses her experiences: I got a lot of fly-outs and spent a month on the road racking up my frequent flyer points on the Eastern shuttle. . . . I missed weeks of class, but it’s more important to make a decision about your job than attend antitrust for three weeks. You can always cram.

Recruitment dramatically confirms that everything students have been told about their superior status is true. They feel deserving by virtue of the fact that they are so desired. Still, eminence is clearly collective, not individual. As one student comments, The second year I was blown away. I couldn’t believe it. It [recruiting] was beyond my wildest dreams. There’s plenty of students here that I wouldn’t trust to carry out my trash, but they can get great jobs just as easily as I can because they’re from Harvard. It’s an incredible feeling to be sought after so intensely.

Indeed similarity of their recruitment experiences greatly enhances the collective bond students share. This process grooms a sense of poise and sophistication associated with being socially polished. This celebration of students’ worldliness promotes collective identity by emphasizing the importance of learning social skills appropriate to their elevated status. Like pupils at other elite schools (Cookson and Persell 1985), Harvard Law students learn the importance of cultural capital (Bourdieu and Passeron 1990). Recruiters, for instance, rarely pose questions that test students’ legal knowledge. Rather than focusing on abilities and intellectual potential, interviews are more a screening device to evaluate social qualities. A woman in her second year explains, I prepared myself for a technical discussion. I thought they would ask me about strict liability or something. They didn’t ask me any legal type of questions. They were mostly interested in how I would fit in with their firm. . . . I can’t believe that a law firm would pay so much for a first year student who really doesn’t know much about law.

Most recruiters simply probe to see whether a student will fit into the firm’s corporate culture. The casualness associated with the recruitment process sends a resounding message throughout the law school that confirms the validity of feelings of collective eminence. A recent American Bar Association report concludes that personal characteristics rank among the most important traits recruiters look for when hiring new legal associates (Buller and Beck-Dudly 1990). The placement office recognizes this in its manual, which suggests that students focus in interviews on personal attributes such as their best trait or their knowledge of French cooking. Cultural capital is critical for

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success, particularly within the elite firms that most often handle the legal affairs of high status individuals (Abel 1989). Students learn that proper mannerisms, not necessarily superior academic performance, are required to acquire prestigious jobs in the large law firms. As one woman in her second year demonstrates, collective eminence builds through interactions not only with recruiters, but also with peers who themselves are beginning to experience elite status: The big thing for me was seeing 2nd and 3rd year students in October going through the interview process. They bring the information to other students. They told us about the perks, the pay, the benefits. For instance they told us that it was important to make a good impression. They told us to emphasize social skills. That what these places want are people who will fit in.

Many respondents report that degree of social polish is a key distinguishing characteristic since everyone at Harvard Law can be assumed intellectually capable. O n the importance of such traits, one first-year female comments,

I have begun to see the value of having good social skills. I think that this

is one way that law firms weed out people. Everyone here graduated at the top of their class in college. We are all about the same, high achievers. But in order to get the best jobs, you have to have those social skills. I’m real conscious of this when I go out on interviews now.

Twenty-three year olds become nonchalant about staying at fine hotels and dining in four star restaurants. A second-year male notes, I’ve learned how to dress, how to hold a drink and not look twice when I walk into a very fancy hotel. I’ve learned to accept this as given. It’s the life-style of a corporate lawyer. While this was all new to me, I found that I could adapt.

The collective eminent spirit among students even reduces potential social-class divisions. A working-class student comments, I’m from the Midwest and didn’t go to prestigious schools. I was surprised though because there didn’t seem to be much pretentiousness here. I was surprised by how many Yale and Harvard people there were here. I have a lot of friends here now that I’ve forgotten they went to Harvard College. It used to be that I would look up to a Harvard graduate and now I don’t. I’m here, they’re here, and we’re all equal and that’s a good feeling.

By the time such working-class students graduate and take legal positions within America’s elite law firms, they have assimilated many elite values and behaviors. Wealthy students are happy to teach their peers from less privileged backgrounds such behaviors and norms. Working-class students are anxious to learn that they can “pass” as elite (Granfield 1991).3

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Threats to Collective Eminence Still, not everyone accepts this ideology. Two groups of students challenge the growing spirit of collective eminence. As superachievers, those on Harvard Law Review threaten the value of collectiveness, while the “counter-hegemonic front” scoffs at the ideological pretentiousness of the school’s eminence. While competition among students for academic honors persists, the most successful law students take pains to conceal attempts to outdo peers. Although having several student-run law reviews minimizes competition, the editorial board of the most prestigious, the Harvard Law Review, is a sub-elite. That only 40 students can be invited to serve on its board assaults the sense of shared eminence. Staff members have the opportunities for the most prestigious judicial clerkships. Yet, despite elevated status, even these students abide by the collective spirit that pervades the law school. To minimize the challenge to collective prestige that Harvard Law Review represents, mention of one’s affiliation to nonmembers is minimal. One student explains, You just don’t talk about it [being on Haward Law Review]. I think there’s a lot of resentment. We do get more clerkship opportunities than anyone else here. People defer to you when you’ve got Haward Law Review as a credential. Some people do let others know they’re on Law Review. I think this upsets people. But you really can’t blame Law Review people. We’re all people who like to think of ourselves as very smart and we like other people to think we’re smart.

Another Harvard Law Review member describes it as a “taboo” subject: “You don’t want to be perceived as gunning for it-no one wants to be perceived as being real competitive.” These students go to great lengths not to appear arrogant or to too obviously strive. This combination of cooperative, modest manner and quiet determination to excel is ideal preparation for those destined to serve at the highest rungs of American society. A small minority of students reject the top law-firm path collective eminence prescribes. The “counter-hegemonic front,” a loose collection of approximately 20 students who challenge the elitist orientation of the law school, is highly visible on campus. Its activities include picketing corporate recruiters, inviting speakers with radical viewpoints on the legal system, and making posters that urge students not to “sell-out’’ by joining large law firms after graduation. However, this group’s principal form of resistance attempts to expose the pretentiousness implicit in collective prestige through such activities as covering portraits of prominent legal scholars that line law school corridors, altering faculty name plates from “Mr.” to “White Male,” and publishing a newsletter, The Lizard, that lampoons the law school. Such blatant mockery of the law school draws criticism from most peers. Fellow students frequently describe direct assault of the law school’s collective spirit of eminence as childish, foolish, and even self-interested. Most students interviewed are very aware of the group’s activities although few know who is affiliated. The group also receives considerable negative coverage in the law school’s various publications. That

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such a small group of resisters elicits such collective outcry evinces the psychological importance of the feeling of shared eminence. Most activist resisters staff the Labor Law Project, the Students for Public Interest Law program, and the Harvard Legal Aid clinic. Still, even these radicals sometimes fail to resist the power of collective prestige. For instance, one second-year student reports,

I was in housing court the other day and this judge began lecturing me about being late. I felt like telling him that “Who do you think you’re dealing with. I’m from Harvard Law School.” Even among students who seek to resist developing this elite identity, the overwhelming majority come to accept the rightness of large, urban, prestigious law-firm membership. Students commonly disparage other types of practice such as working directly for corporations or small firms or doing plaintiffs law. One second-year student explains, “Although family law is interesting, no one does it because it’s not seen as being that difficult.” Even joining a less prestigious mid-size law firm is considered deviant. As one student complains, “People have treated me badly because I’m working for this smaller firm. I get razzed a lot for it.” Even corporation employment as in-house counsel is deemed beneath students. “They [corporations] don’t pay the going rate. They’re looked down upon,” a student observes. Harvard Law students are not merely “corporate tools,” but instead destined for greater responsibility. One student explains the lowered status associated with corporate work: In a corporation, the legal department is considered staff and never really involved in the important decisions. In a large law firm, the lawyer is primarily concerned with important facts of the operation-with the business, the profit, and decisions of the firm. Any time you decide to go into a corporation you eliminate yourself from the important work and you end up as simply a staff worker.

Although collective eminence channels most students into high-paying law-firm practices, a sense of obligation to promote the public good, not only to maximize individual gain, accompanies it. However, for the most part, students deem such goals best facilitated by working at highly prestigious law firms and volunteering time to remedy problems of concern:

I think it’s a moral and ethical responsibility of every lawyer to help make positive social change. Coming into law school I didn’t have a favorable view of corporate law firms and corporations. But since I’ve worked there I realized that corporate law firms are positive. I think I’ll have the opportunity to be a more effective advocate for the poor or the homeless. Programs such as Code Critical in which students on fly-outs stay in less lavish surroundings and donate the savings to worthy causes teaches that the best way to do good is to divert elite resources to the less privileged, not work with them directly. Although 70 percent of returned questionnaires describe public interest law as personally rewarding, even those most committed to social activism come to see such

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work as ineffectual to do good. Despite student beliefs in helping others, the assimilation of values associated with collective eminence makes it extremely likely that they will serve the interests of the corporate elite rather than other individuals and groups in need of talented lawyers.

Conclusion: The Result of Collective Eminence Throughout their schooling, Harvard Law students are initiated into a culture of shared privilege. For those whose background already provides a predisposition toward eliteness, Harvard Law cements their sense of eminence and class pride. Those previously unexposed to such elite dispositions find the school offers both a psychological and material path of least resistance into America’s higher circles. Further research into this process is important to understand not only how ptofessional elites ate trained and recruited, but the often bemoaned maldistribution of legal services. Harvard Law students learn that to refuse jobs in elite law firms is to abandon the collectivity. Having learned this, they find it appropriate to join a social network that eases their entry into top law firm practice. This sense of collective prestige teproduces itself when it leads powerful alumni back to Harvatd Law to recruit future lawyers. The promotion of collective eminence, the collective attitude students develop about their superior societal position and responsibilities, has significant implications regarding Harvard Law graduates’ career decisions. Although large numbers of Harvard Law students express interest in settings other than large law firms, few actually assume such careers. While 60 percent in their first year report primary interest in law practice other than in large law firms, the great majority upon graduation join large, urban law firms. This suggests that while student interests might lie elsewhere, most feel compelled to accept prestigious positions within large corporate law firms. Only 5 percent of Harvard Law’s class of 1986 entered either government service ot public interest work (Bronner 1987). Of the 11,000 graduates of the top eight law schools between 1983 and 1987, only 243 went into public interest jobs upon graduation (Kaplan 1988). Considerable evidence over the years shows that while many students enter law school with public interest goals, few graduate with these commitments intact (Stover 1989; Foster 1981, 1985; Pipkin 1976). Administrators in the most elite law schools are increasingly concerned about the restricted career track graduates take. These occupational decisions are mistaken as simple preference for where financial rewards are highest. This belief has led many of the most elite law schools to establish loan forgiveness programs in order to promote greater graduate willingness to accept alternative legal positions, particularly in public interest law. While these programs are too new to evaluate fully, this analysis suggests such programs will enjoy minimal success because they neglect the ideological dimension

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of identity production among elites. As we demonstrate, elite law school education involves a great deal more than simply learning the law. It introduces a culture that constructs a student’s “rightful” position in society. One third-year student, initially interested in public interest practice, sums up his transformation of career goals: I’m clerking for a very prestigious court in the D C circuit. After that I plan to go work for [large New York firm]. This is a change for me. I can’t go into some public interest job straight out of here. It’s not really because of my loan debt though. If I really wanted to take a public interest job I could get the school to forgive my loan. The question is do I really want to live on $30,000 a year. I think I want to buy a house and be comfortable for awhile. Maybe I’ll move into public interest work after a few years in a big firm. This all leads to a mainstream corporate job for me. I guess I want to keep my options open. I’ve gotten into the habit of going for the brass ring and so I don’t want to slip. The problem with the brass rings are that they don’t conform to a non-mainstream career route. In public interest jobs it’s not clear where you go to be on top. I’m caught on a success treadmill and it remains clear to me where the successful firms are. If you get on a partner track at a large New York law firm then it’s clear that you’re still on track. I’m keeping my options open.

However, graduates circumvent not only public interest jobs. Harvard Law students disfavor even legal positions working directly for corporations. The lowered status of corporate work, despite relatively high starting salaries, is felt throughout the student body. The vast majority of students report that working for such corporations is personally unfulfilling. Subsequently, while Harvard Law graduates possess a myriad of opportunities, an identity formed by collective eminence limits the occupational horizons of the great majority to one path of achievement.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from The Sociological Quarterly, Vol. 33, No. 4 , 1992 Index issue, pp. 503-20. 0 1992 by The Midwest Sociological Society. Used with permission. Partial Funding for this article was provided by the Spencer Foundation and Woodrow Wilson Foundation. 1. For example, at the University of Denver School of Law, the dean gives students a taste of how difficult law school will be by subjecting selected neophytes to an intimidating round of legal questions and warns that many will fail to graduate (Blake 1990). 2. The “no hassle pass” option is available in most classes. A student who feels unprepared to answer questions simply informs the professor before class. The professor will then not call on that student if he/she does not wish to respond to a query. 3. Cookson and Persell (1985) make a similar point about working-class students. Their study of prep schools reveals that although working-class students lack appropriate social skills, they can adapt by receiving assistance from more elite peers. Zweigenhaft and Domhoff (1991) replicate this finding in their study of nonelite black youths recruited into prep schools.

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References Abel, R. 1989. American Lawyers. New York: Oxford University Press. Apple, M. 1982. Education and Power. Boston: Routledge, Kegan Paul. . 1986. Teachers and Texts: A Political Economy of Class and Gender Relations in Education. New York: Routledge. Baltzell, D. 1958. Philadelphia Gentlemen: The Making of a National Upper Class. Chicago: Quadrangle Books. Blake, T. 1990. “Alienation: The Hidden Agenda of American Law Schools.” Unpublished manuscript, University of Denver. Bourdieu, P. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Translated by R. Hall. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. , and J. C. Passeron. 1990. Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. Bronner, E. 1987. “Harvard Plan Helps Law Graduates Enter Public Service.” Boston Globe 24 May, 25. Buller, P., and C. Beck-Dudly. 1990. “Performance, Policies and Personnel.” American Bar AssociationJournal 76:94-95. Cappell, C., and R. Pipkin. 1990. “The Inside Tracks: Status Distinctions in Allocations to Elite Law Schools.” In The High Status Track: Studies ofElite Schools and StrafiFcation, edited by P. Kingston and L. Lewis, 221-30. New York: SUNY Press. Collins, R. 1979. The Credential Society: A Historical Sociology of Education. New York: Academic Press. Cookson, P., and C. Persell. 1985. Preparingfor Power: America>Elite Boarding Schoolr. New York: Basic. Domhoff, G. W. 1983. The Bohemian Grove and Other Elite Retreats. New York: Harper and Row. Foster, J. 1981. “The Cooling Out of Law Students.” Law and Policy Qwrterb 3:243. . 1985. “Legal Education and the Production of Lawyers to (Re)Produce Liberal Capitalism.” Legal Studies Forum 9:179-211. Giroux, H., and P. McLaren, eds. 1989. Critical Pedzgogy, the State and Cultural Struggk New York: SUNY Press. Granfield, R. 1991. “Making It by Faking It: Working Class Students in an Elite Academic Environment.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 20: 3, 33 1-5 1. . 1992. Making Elite Lawyers: Ksions of Law at Haruard and Beyond. New York: Routledge, Chapman and Hall. Granovetter, M. 1974. Getting A Job: A Study of Contacts and Careers. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Harvard Law School. 1983. “Registration Materials.” Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Law School. Heinz, J., and E. Laumann. 1982. Chicago Lawyers: The Social Structure of the Bar. Chicago: American Bar Foundation. Jackell, R. 1988. MoralMazes: The Worldof the CorporateManager. New York: Oxford University Press. Kaplan, D. 1988. “Out of 11,000, 243 Went into Public Interest.” National Law Journal 8 Aug.: I, 46. Keller, S . 1964. Beyond the Ruling Class: Strategic Elites in Modern Society. New York: Random House. Kilmer, J. 1976. “Where Do You Fall in the Legal Caste System?” American Bar Association Journal Fall: 18-26.

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Lamont, M., and A. Lareau. 1988 “Cultural Capital: Allusions, Gaps and Glissandos in Recent Theoretical Development.” Sociological Theory 6:2, 153-68. McLaren, P. 1986. Schooling as a Ritual Performance. London: Routledge, Kegan Paul. . 1988. “On Ideology and Education: Critical Pedagogy and the Politics of Education.” Social Zxts Fall: 19-20. Metaxas, J. 1988. “Harvard, Yale Add New Features to Loan Forgiveness Program.” National Law Journal March. Meyer, J. 1977. “Education as an Institution.” American Journal of Sociology 83:55-77. Mills, C. W. 1959. The Power Elite. New York: Oxford University Press. Munneke, C. 1982. “History of National Association for Law Placement.” Eleventh annual conference of the National Association of Law Placement. St. Petersburg, Florida, May 9-12. Pipkin, R. 1976. “Legal Education: The Consumers’ Perspective.” American Bar Foundation ResearchJournal4:1161. Powell, M. 1988. From Patrician to Professional Elite: The Transformation of the New York City Bar Association. New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Rustad, M., and T. Koenig. 1990. “The Impact of History on Contemporary Prestige Images of Boston’s Law Schools.” Suffolk University Law Review 243, 621-48. Stover, R. 1989. Making It and Breaking It: The Fate of Public Interest Commitment during Law School. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Useem, M., and J. Karabel. 1986. “Paths to Corporate Management.” American Sociological Review 5 1: 184-200. Valli, L. 1985. Becoming Clerical Workers. Boston: Routledge, Kegan Paul. Van Alstyne, W. S., J. Julin, and L. Barnett. 1990. The Goals and Mission of Law Schools. New York: Peter Lang. Wexler, P. 1983. “Movement, Class and Education.” In Race, Class and Education, edited by L. Barton and S. Walker, 184-200. London: Croom Helm. Willis, P. 1977. Learning to Labor. New York: Columbia University Press. Zemans, F. K., and V. Rosenblum. 198 1. The Making of a Public Profession. Chicago: American Bar Foundation. Zweigenhaft, R., and G. W. Domhoff. 1991. Blacks in the White Establishment: A Study of Race and Class in America. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press.

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Part IV

ADOLESCENCE AND YOUNG ADULTHOOD

In all societies, exiting from one important life stage to enter another may be marked by special celebrations, ceremonies, or other forms of recognition. Contemporary Judaism, for example, still observes the religious ceremony of the Bar/Bat Mitzvah, a rite of passage that has its roots in centuries-old tradition. Held when a boy or girl turns thirteen, the ceremony signals to the youth, family, and community that the celebrant has entered man or womanhood. The conferring of adult status at such a relatively early age contrasts sharply with the prolonged period of adolescence that characterizes much of postindustrial society. More typically, the biological years roughly spanning age thirteen to eighteen form a protracted period of social transition marking the transformation from childhood to young adult. During this period, teenagers are expected gradually to assume greater autonomy and increased responsibility for their own lives and well-being. The role of teenager permits them to prepare for and try on some of the activities, rights, and responsibilities that will be accorded to them as adults. Yet, teens also are simultaneously prohibited from engaging in many forms of behavior reserved exclusively for adults. These include restrictions on political voting, consumption of alcoholic beverages, and marrying before a legally specified age. As is often true when cultures meld, teenagers whose parents or cultural communities subscribe to more traditional definitions of the onset of maturity may find themselves needing to adapt to two different and conflicting sets of norms. Schnaiberg and Goldenberg’s analysis (chapter 6 ) deals with what happens when youth find it unsatisfactory, difficult, or impossible to assume the responsibilities and requisites of being an adult. One of the traditional, normative expectations of white middle-class American families is for young people to leave home to establish their own households upon marrying or finishing their education. In examining residence patterns in the United States between 1988 and 1954, these authors find that an increasing number of young adults either never moved out of their parents’ household or left and then moved back. This trend appears rooted in changing patterns of intergenerational relationships, lowered expectations among young persons and parents, and the narrowing of economic and job opportunities. As a life stage, adolescence also includes preparing for or actually taking a mate and beginning a family. Although not a condition of marriage in all cultures, love plays a significant role in the ideology of Western courtship and selection of a marital partner. Yet, most Americans will end up marrying along predictable patterns that

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include similarity in race, age, social class, and religion. Flaunting and circumventing courtship conventions, however, often form the basis for absorbing drama and human interest. The popularity of Titanic, the blockbuster film of 1998, can trace much of its popularity to its portrayal of young and socially unsanctioned love that persists despite social boundaries and spatial divisions of the ship by class. In the film, a lovely young woman of great wealth traveling in first-class passage falls in love with a charming but penniless young man traveling in steerage. Her family objects and tries to stop the courtship. In a romantic scene, the young couple evades pursuers, taking refuge in the ship’s cargo hold where they express their love through sexual intimacy-an action meriting deep disapproval and censure by 1912’s Western-world moral standards. Many possible reasons, including the desire to discourage unsanctioned sexual behavior, can underlie family and society’s objections to what may be defined as an inappropriate courtship. In this regard, social restrictions frequently are designed to control the parentage, circumstances, and timing of fertility. Traditional American values hold that childbearing should occur after attaining the age of legal consent and within the context of marriage. Childbearing among young teens and/or out-of-wedlock births can occasion harsh social condemnation and stigma for both the mother and her family. Kaplan (1996), for example, examined the impact of adolescent childbearing on black teenagers’ relations with their mothers. She found that both the young mother and her own mother feared that the economic pressures shared in rearing a child at so young an age would prove an enormous financial burden and foster unwanted intergenerational dependency. Both perceived that the young mother would be hampered in her attempts to attain adult social autonomy as she biologically matured, a circumstance likely to generate constant discord. Similar to the young adults that Schnaiberg and Goldenberg studied, these teenage girls were likely to spend an unknown number of the years of their young adult lives improperly launched. Norms surrounding the control of sexuality also stem from societal attempts to ensure the health and welfare of its members by curbing the sexual transmission of serious diseases, The sinking of the Titanic occurred only three years after Paul Ehrlich developed a lengthy treatment for syphilis that entailed costly and painful injections of an arsenic compound (Poirier 1995). Commonly found among all social classes at that time, syphilis and gonorrhea posed significant and potentially fatal consequences for those contracting them. Although the love story is fictive, certainly the couple portrayed in the film Titanic would have been aware of such dangers as were most people of that time. The film is silent about their possible concerns in this regard. Perhaps, they relied on the belief that someone whom they trusted and loved with such passion could not be infected. This notion of avoiding contracting a sexual disease based on judgments about the perceived safety of one’s partner appears common among today’s adolescents and young adults when confronting the threat of AIDS. Maticka-Tyndale’s analysis (chapter 7) of the effects of HIV prevention and health promotion campaigns on youthful risk-taking indicates that care in partner selection was the single most common rule used in protecting against infection. Believing themselves uninfected, young people projected the same negative HIV sero-status on those whom they perceived as being

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similar to themselves. Such attitudes pose a growing social problem as the rate of AIDS among young people climbs, particularly among minority youth.

References Kaplan, Elaine Bell. 1996. “Black Teenage Mothers and Their Mothers: The Impact of Adolescent Childbearing on Daughters’ Relations with Mothers.” Social Problems 43(4):427-43. Poirier, Suzanne. 1995. Chicago? War on Syphilis. Urbana: University of Illinois Press.

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CHAPTER 6

From Empty Nest to Crowded Nest THE DYNAMICS OF INCOMPLETELY LAUNCHED YOUNG ADULTS AIIan Scbnaiberg and Sheldon Goldenberg

Our first goal in this paper is to draw sociologists’ attention to the returning young adult syndrome (RYA), which we take to be the major symptom of certain recent changes in the American middle-class family system.’ Our second objective is to out-

line some likely psychodynamic and sociological causes of these changes, and our final task is to suggest some consequences of this change in family structure and functioning for the development of the family and other institutions.

Problems in the Transition to Adulthood: RYAs, ILYAs, and Their Parents The general conditions associated with what has been termed the RYA syndrome (or the problem of a “postponed generation”) seem to include the following:

(1) children’s unanticipated economic dependency and/or failure(s) to “launch ca-

reers” and become successfully autonomous adults; (2) deviance from parental expectations that children will physically separate from parents in “young adulthood” (college years or post-college); (3) one or more “attempts” by these children to fulfill these expectations, followed by a return to a parental home for varying periods of time; and (4) anornic context for household labor organization and allocation of family resources when there is a returning young adult in the household; anger of parents (and often of children), and substantial conflict over these issues. 97

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The first factor is of critical importance; the others follow from it only in the case of co-residence. In consequence, we conceptualize the central issue as the “incompletely launched young adult” (ILYA). The other factors are problems only to the extent that they may follow from the first condition. Where children are arguably struggling to “make it,” even these other conditions can be tolerated, albeit with some strain, since these behaviors are not normative. Conversely, where the first condition exists, even without producing the phenomenon of the returning young adult, many of the same strains and adaptations we discuss will occur. However, these are not exacerbated by the additional stresses directly attributable to co-residence. In short, the unexpectedly prolonged dependency (the first condition) is both necessary and sufficient to create many of the problems within the familial milieu that we treat below. Although there are clearly quite different perspectives on this phenomenon among various family members, we focus in this paper on the perspective of parents.2 Both media reports (e.g., Greenberg 1985; Wilding 1985; McCullough 1986; Sullivan 1987; Sherrod 1988; Rosemond 1988; Kuttner 1988; Cowan 1989) and our own observations suggest there is a widespread concern about these matters among middleclass parents, especially those with professional, technical, or managerial occupations (Litnvin 1986; Okimoto and Stegall 1987). Most commonly, this takes the form of anxiety about whether they have personally failed to adequately socialize their ILYAs for adulthood (including work and marriage) and angerlresentment at their ILYAs’ violation of parental expectations (Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984251). Two features emerge in most accounts. First, parents are not enthusiastic about the “failure” of their ILYAs to make a smooth transition to autonomous adulthood. Contrary to many social and psychological profiles of this life cycle stage as that of the “empty nest,” many modern parents find themselves instead in a “crowded nest” (Greenberg 1985) with an unexpectedly returned young adult. A second feature is the personalizing of the accounts, with a great deal of self-blame or blaming the victim (whether parent or child). In C. Wright Mills’s (1959) classical conceptualization, the ILYA phenomenon seems at present to be stuck at the level of a personal trouble arising from the family milieu (Hagestad, Srnyer, and Stierman 1984) rather than having become a public issue, seen to arise from structural change in the society. Sociologists are partly implicated in this absence of consciousness since we have largely ignored ILYAs as a social phenomenon. (Ironically, from our observations, sociologists at this stage of the family life cycle seem indistinguishable from other middle-aged, middle-class parents; they also struggle with ILYAs as personal troubles.) Yet a defining element of the ILYA phenomenon (and its frequent returning young adult adaptation) is a prior set of social norms about when young adults should separate physically, economically, and socio-emotionally from their parents (Cohler and Geyer 1982; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). Such norms have been grounded in structural contexts that have been changing for the middle class in recent decades. Institutional reinforcement of the norms, however, seems to be lagging substantially behind these changing conditions for ILYAs and their parents. Hence middle-class parents and children experience these socio-historical shifts as personal troubles, pro-

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ducing expressions of guilt, shame, and anger, rather than as public issues resulting from socio-economic forces, as Mills a d ~ o c a t e d . ~ Toward defining this phenomenon as a social or public issue, we would like to focus attention on patterns that transcend the individual experience. We begin by noting that the phenomenon of relatively large numbers of ILYAs presents anomic conditions for parents (and ILYAs as well) with respect to both intrafamilial and extrafamilial roles and relationships. Both parties are confronted with questions of socially appropriate behavior for themselves and their role reciprocals in dealing with such issues as failure/delay in achievement of middle class status, psychological tensions about being a “good parent” or “good child’ and “adult,” and the additional stress of a rather anomic division of labor and resources in those households containing an incompletely launched young adult (Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 198425 1). There are, of course, anomic aspects of all parenting relationships. Dialectical social tensions between children’s needs for support (dependency needs) and children’s needs for freedom (autonomy needs) exist in all kinship systems. Likewise, at apsychodynamic or developmental level, parents struggle uniquely with each child at each developmental stage to achieve some balance between nurturance, control, and encouragement of self-development to facilitate the separation and individuation of the child (Cohler and Geyer 1982). Nowhere has this tension been more acute and more attended to by various experts than in the American middle-class family in the postSecond World War period (Lasch 1977; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). This paper elaborates this dialectic. It explores the heightened parental anomie produced by recent socio-economic transformations that have raised obstacles to fulfillment of previous developmental expectations (Elder 1978). More abstractly, we suggest that the middle class norms about timing and success of children’s adoption of adult roles that parents incorporated in the period of growth following the war may be increasingly difficult to achieve. Parents and their ILYAs (and other children) often confront a hiatus between the former’s goals and the latter’s insufficient means to attain such goals. Following Merton (1957), we suggest that parents may display different behavioral adaptations to these conditions. Depending on their level of consciousness, resources, and personalities, parents may conform, innovate, retreat, ritualize or rebel in response to the strains experienced. They may alter their goals for their ILYAs and/or alter the means at their disposal by shifting the content of parental socialization, the allocation of resources to ILYAS, or by other behaviors. Alternatively, they may fail to recognize their own experience as exemplifying this particular public issue. Parents may remain stuck at the level of conflict within the family (without resolution) for some indefinite period. Yet another path is for parents to find some partial resolution through overt negotiation with their ILYAs. Finally, they may withdraw from their children, by emotionally or physically retreating from them. We view the ILYA syndrome as consistent with Elder’s (197857) cautions about “the complex meanings associated with age differentiation.” In particular, ILYA changes illustrate that “observed variations in family patterns by stage . . . are subject to interpretations that are based on historical context and change. . . [and] may be due to historical trends and unique events, as well as to the constraints and requirements of

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particular role systems” (Elder 197856). We seek to extend Elder’s insight by using a sociology of knowledge perspective to consider how the developmental ideologies and practices of the post-war middle-class family were shaped by historical trends and unique events that differ from those of the current “crowded nests.” We stress, like Elder, that whether ILYAs are seen as a personal trouble or public issue depends as much on changing interpretations by parents as on changing behaviors of young adult children.

RESIDENCE PATTERNS OF YOUNG ADULTS One crude indicator of this changing behavior is the demographic evidence of declining neolocal residence of many young adults, the phenomenon we label the returning young adult syndrome. Table 6.1 provides an overview of the recent turnabout in residence patterns of young adults. Interestingly, these recent increases in co-residence with parents are more striking for young males than females, which may be due to gender differences in several of the hypothesized ILYA causal factors we offer below. These gender differences run contrary to the expectations of high school seniors found in recent work (Goldscheider and Goldscheider 1987), raising some questions about the launching process. While these RYA indicators in Table 6.1 are only partial surrogates for richer data on increases in incomplete launching, they do suggest that some recent shifts in relationships between young adults and their families of origin have occurred in the past 15 years. They are indirect evidence for a change in family milieus. We argue below that they are also consequences of public issues of changing opportunity structures for families (Knapp 1987). While Table 6.1 refers to co-residence increases across all family milieus, Riche’s (1987) work suggests that these demographic changes most typify upper middle class families. Moreover, since expectations of launching are most prevalent in just this stratum, it strongly reinforces our sense that the level of personal troubles associated with incomplete launching should be greatest among these well-educated, middle-class parents (Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). Our contention that this is a problem of anomie is further reinforced by the fact that due partly to delays in marriage in recent cohorts, increases in RYA rates coexist with increases in rates of single young adults living apart from their parents (Goldscheider and LeBourdais 1986; Goldscheider and Waite 1987; Waite, Goldscheider, and Witsberger 1986). Thus both parents and their ILYAs who are also RYAs confront evidence of the nonconventional nature of their circumstances, since at any given time most young adults are moving away from parents (albeit perhaps only to return to the nest at a later time). Interestingly, our finding that male RYA rates are substantially higher than female rates may complement recent findings that living apart from parents has weaker effects on the attitudes and expectations of young men than on young women (Waite, Goldscheider, and Witsberger 1986). The two sets of findings indicate that perhaps male RYAs are also less impacted by their co-residence than are female RYAs (though whether this is a result of selection or socialization factors is still unclear). Finally, Table 6.1 understates the pervasiveness of returns to the “crowded nest” because the data are cross-sectional indicators of a

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highly fluid phenomenon. Waite, Goldscheider, and Witsberger (1986), as well as other research on YAs living apart from parents, note that this young adulthood period encompasses many frequent residential and role transitions. We believe this can be translated into a much higher frequency of incompleteness of launching than Table 6.1 indicates. As with unemployment or poverty statistics, a cross-sectional rate of seven or eight percent can easily be congruent with perhaps one third of families experiencing some return of ILYAs during an elapsed one-year period. Even the longitudinal surveys to measure transitions to adult roles (e.g., Goldscheider and DaVanzo 1985; Goldscheider and Waite 1987) are taken at broad intervals that underestimate returns to the parental household. The same caution is necessary in estimating the type and amount of other support from parents even if their ILYAs do not return to the household. This partly explains why these data fail to predict the nearly universal interest in this phenomenon expressed by our middle-aged colleagues, friends, and media audiences. They are responding to this in part because we are raising this as a quasi-public issue, while they have previously endured this only as a personal trouble.

Parents’ Expectations for Young Adults: Changes and Dilemmas One way of grounding the ILYA phenomenon is to consider some idealized or idealtypical expectations of white middle-class parents (among others) in recent decades. Table 6.1. Percentages”of Young Adults living with Their Parent(s), by Age and Gender. United States. 1954-1988 AGES

1988

1987

1986

1985

1984

1974

1964

1954

18-19 20-24 25-29 30-34

84.1 50.7 19.1 9.6

82.5 52.2 18.8 8.9

84.0 48.8 17.6 9.2

MALES 83.6 50.1 16.6 8.3

84.3 52.5 16.0 8.3

82.4 40.5 11.3 5.5

89.9 52.4 17.4 9.5

88.3 53.4 23.9 12.0

18-1 9 20-24 25-29 30-34

70.9 33.6 8.6 3.1

70.5 33.0 7.6 3.1

71.7 32.2 8.1 3.0

FEMALES 69.9 33.6 7.8 3.1

70.1 32.1 7.8 2.8

64.3 26.1 5.4 2.1

73.3 29.8 10.0 5.8

72.3 35.0 15.3 10.9

Note:

a. Percentages refer to data for all races combined, and for all children who are single and living with parents (married children are usually listed as “subfamilies”). The Current Population Survey counts students in dormitories as living in their parents’ household (Heer, Hodge. and Feison 1985. Glick and Lin 1986). However, this is a consistent bias across all these historical comparisons. Recent increases in educational indebtedness are likely to have produced lower levels of dormitory living among college students than in the pre-1974 period, suggesting that these observations may in fact underestimate the recent rise in RYA‘s. (That is, because of higher rates of dorm living in the era of greater federal support of higher education, the pre-1974 figures would be inflated by allocating too many dorm students in the category of “living in parents’ household.”) Sources: U.S. Bureau of the Census, Current Population Reports, “Marital status and living arrangements”. Series P-20. numbers 56, 135,271,399,410,418,423and 433.

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One way these parents dealt with the dialectics of parenting was to provide intensive support of children until “young adulthood.” The influence of Spock and other experts on developmental guidelines for parents was pronounced (Lasch 1977). We would note that this ideology of parenting styles and the concomitant idealized goal of raising independent children (Parsons 1943; Parsons and Bales 1955) was itself historically grounded in the expansion of opportunity for bureaucratic-professional employment for such children (Schnaiberg and Goldenberg 1975; Kohn 1959, 1963; Kotulak and Van 1987). This ideal typification logically led to the emergence of an isolated nuclear family norm to guide young adult offspring and their middle-class parents as the young adults reached a life-cycle stage of creating their own family of procreation.* In many of the dominant cultural institutions such as schools and mass media in American society in the 1950s and 1960s, social scientists and journalists thus both described and prescribed parental and children’s roles as primarily separate in young adulthood (Skolnick 1983:chs. 12-13, Lasch 1977). They thus ignored the mutual dependencies present even in the American middle-class family system (Cohler and Geyer 1982; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). The postwar American economic expansion of bureaucratic and technical jobs for a burgeoning middle class (Blumberg 1980) helped ground the ideology of autonomous young adults and their “isolated” nuclear families of procreation. Parents who produced the 1945-1959 baby boom were among the first to have some of the means to implement these goals with the expansion of postsecondary education and upper white collar jobs. But their parents did not fully share this ideology, leading to conflicts about “ungrateful children.” In absorbing this ideology/goal and assuming an expansion of these means, patents of the baby boom often resolved to be more supportive of their own baby-boom children, to avoid the painful conflicts that these young parents had experienced as they often moved up the socio-economic ladder and away from their parents (Skolnick 1983:ch. 12). The new ideology of the isolated nuclear family (Parsons 1943; Parsons and Bales 1955) helped firm up their resolve as it stressed the importance of self-orientation and need-achievement in the “modern family.” In the classical formulation of Zimmerman (1947), the postwar middle-class American family represented a transition to atomism as part of a long-term cycle alternating with collectivism. We argue here that we may indeed have been experiencing another transition point in the past decade. Constricted opportunity structures for many young adults may be leading to greater and more prolonged reliance on families of orientation. Only for other middle class young adults in the “yuppie” track is there heightened evidence of the growth of the earlier atomism (and narcissism; see Lasch 1979). The postwar model of parenting was one of heavy investment in children but with a time-limited commitment. Children were expected to leave the nest, either by going away to college and/or establishing considerable autonomy and separate residence soon after graduation. The postwar expansion of college enrollment rates as well as the rise in dormitory and off-campus housing was associated with this trend. By the 1960s, the concept of middle-class children’s rights was dominant in parenting, perhaps one of the most diffused postwar increases in “entitlement.” Along with the

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new material affluence, this was a core element of the emergent American “youth culture.” Youth now had the right to a separate consumption agenda, to separate institutions, and to access to the material means to support these entitlements (Parsons 1943; Coleman 1960; Littwin 1986). Table 6.2 provides a brief outline of the middle-class parents’ idealized expectations about their own success as parents, reflected by their producing successfully independent young adults. In effect, these idealized arrangements constituted the social goals of parenting. Material and emotional support-recognized as children’s “rights”-were the means by which parents could express the separation-individuation of their children. As long as children were roughly “on schedule” in achieving these conventional expressions of apparent separation-individuation, parents could feel that the heavy material and emotional investments in children had paid off. In contrast, Table 6.3 outlines a more contemporary constricted model of late adolescent achievement. Table 6.3 points to multiple discrepancies in the achievements of young adults, in effect laying out three dimensions of the RYA syndrome. For parents who have expectations typical of Table 6.2, this is a condition of anomie; the old goals/expectations no longer apply. By the criteria of Table 6.2, these children are not successfully independent young adults. Parents are then confronted with the full range of potential responses to anomie. Do they reject Table 6.2’s expectations or substitute them as targets and attempt to find new means of coping with the realities as described in Table 6.3? Do they simply continue their earlier parenting roles (conformity, ritualism)? Do they lower their expectations of their children, but continue supporting them (innovation)? Or do they emotionally or physically abandon ILYAs (retreatism, rebellion)? The fragmented media accounts of ILYA families have indicated parental responses in all of the Mertonian categories. Since every “solution” of the ILYA Table 6.2.

Idealized Parental Expectationsfor Young Adults0

Education

Living Arrangements

Family of Procreation

College attendance away from homeb

Dorms or apartments or fraternity/sorority houses away from home

Early marriage and early childbearing, in a context of a marriage expected to be permanent.

Postgraduate or professional training away from home Entry-level position in a career, expected to lead to upward mobility & generally, sufficient income to provide independence

Neolocal household, normatively & structurally relatively independent of kin utilization for utilitarian, instrumental purposes

Notes: a. There are almost certainly gender differences in these expectations, but we have neither the data nor the space to explore them in depth here. It is clear that this paper deals most closely with parental expectations for young males. We would welcome comparativestudy to examine relevant gender differences. b. Note that for many students the college experience is defined as a time for ”fun” or to “find themselves.”

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Table 6.3. Constricted Achievement Patterns of Young Adultsa Education Living Arrangements Family of Procreation Interrupted, postponed or intermittent college attendanceb Interrupted, postponed or intermittent postbaccalaureate attendance Erratic job patterns, often remote from career path, & with no assurance of future upward mobility or even status maintenance. No assured income level for self-sufficiency,

Commuting from home daily. sporadic periods of household independence but with heavy reliance on parental home as base and resource ~001.

Postponement of marriage and/or postponement of childbearing, or a decision to have children despite marital risks.

“Home is the place you can always return”, however unwillingly & uncomfortably. Unusual living arrangements (neither parental nor independent household of procreation).

Expectations of instability and high marital pressure.

Notes: a. There are almost certainly gender differences in these achievement patterns, but we have neither the data nor the space to explore them in depth here (cf. table 6.1). It is clear that this chapter deals most closely with the achievement patterns of young males.We would welcome comparativestudy to examine gender differences. b. For many students, the college experience is defined as strictly vocational.

“problem” involves giving up some parental expectation and/or resource, it becomes clear that there are no cost-free technical solutions to this set of personal troubles. Parental responses to the dialectical tensions of dependencehndependence thus range from increased support for ILYAs to actual abandonment (Cohler and Geyer 1982). The former synthesis increases opportunity costs for parents. Resources (time, money, emotional energy) that they had planned to invest in themselves after the children’s departure are instead allocated to ILYAs. But they do maintain strong ties with children by this route (Granovetter 1973, 1982). The opposite synthesis, cutting off support, permits parents to keep more of their resources but often entails a weakening of their ties to children. One way of reframing these shifts is to note the de facto change in extended familism connoted by the ILYA phenomenon, particularly in the returning young adult adaptation. As we have noted elsewhere (Schnaiberg and Goldenberg 1975), strong postwar pressures were placed on young upwardly mobile middle-class parents by their need to help support aging parents of lower status while they were also raising their own young children. These earlier strains may now have been replaced or augmented for ILYA families (Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). For parents at midlife, we can conceptualize the ILYA syndrome as a modern variant on extended familism, with subsidization of ILYA children rather than elderly parents. The less fortunate among these parents may have both burdens. Aging of the population implies greater presence of elderly parents, who may still need financial aid and personal services from their middle-aged children (Hagestad 1986; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). From a psychodynamic development perspective, it is not clear which is the “ap-

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propriate” parental response to facilitate their children’s separation and individuation processes. As we note below, the emergence of the ILYA syndrome has both socioeconomic and developmental roots and may be a complex mixture of different patterns. That is, some shifts may be due purely to changing opportunity structures. Some may be a consequence of children in this class having increasing problems meeting their parents’ expectations of movement into adult roles. And some substantial portion of the rise in the ILYA phenomenon may represent Elder’s (1978) model of the interaction between developmental conflicts and historical-economic shifts. Given the paucity of systematic analysis, it is premature to partition the phenomenon in this chapter.

Towards a Causal Interpretation of the ILYA Phenomenon We can begin to construct at least a tentative explanatory structure for the rise of a recent ILYA syndrome, laying out a fairly straightforward but complex causal model, relying upon both psychodynamic and sociological causal factors. The basic developmental cause is the tension of the separation-individuation process for children, a tension that is prevalent in both children and parents within the family. Parents nurture children and develop strong emotional bonds to them, only to have children grow up and leave their parents, if parenting has been successful. This tension is most acute in the professional middle-class family, where the intensity of emotional energy given to childrearing and the expectation for children to move out into the larger world are highest (Lasch 1977). This emotional energy and these expectations are linked by a developmental model that says young adults will be more psychologically prepared to leave their parents if this nurturance has been supplied along with parental respect for the separate identity of the child (McGoldrick and Carter 1982; Cohler and Geyer 1982). Note that this is not only a theoretical model for a dominant school of psychology and psychiatry, but a normative model for modern educated parents in the United States and, to varying degrees, other developed nations. We can question how much this developmental ideal type itself was in part a product of the unprecedented postwar American expansion. Cohler and Geyer (1982) note that these developmental theories underestimate the emotional dependence of adult children on parents. And our earlier critique (Schnaiberg and Goldenberg 1975) points to the weak theoretical specification in most of the research on parental (and children’s) aid patterns, with the sociological pendulum swinging from “unheralding” to “overheralding” of levels of intergenerational aid. This raises questions: to what extent is our “analysis” of the modern American conjugal family system scientifically objective, and how much of it is normative, reflecting the Zeitgeist and socio-economic conditions under which the sociological enterprise operates? In any event, children’s autonomy, while socially conditioned, appears to be a basic developmental process fraught with tension for every parent-child dyad. “Successful” acquisition of “adult” status is a socially defined goal, and although variable over time and place, movement

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to it and achievement of it are a psychodynamic process that is relatively invariant over time, class, and gender (Keniston 1971). To this basic developmental cause of the ILYA syndrome we must add some sociological causes. These tend to be more transitional or temporally specific, more variable across countries and time periods, and perhaps more variable across ethnic or status groups as well (Keniston 1971). The emergence of the ILYA syndrome is, we argue, an outcome of shifts in three specific sociological domains over the past few decades. First, the postwar changes in childrearing ideology helped set the stage. Socialization for psycho-social autonomy is a largely postwar phenomenon (Skolnick 1983:ch. 13; Kohn 1959, 1963; Lasch 1977). It is located primarily within the educated, professional-technical-managerial status groups of the middle class. In Granovetter’s (1982) formulation, this “autonomy” consisted in encouraging young adults to rely on the strength of weak ties, rather than on their strong ties with family members and intimate friendships. The familial perspective most legitimating this ideal was the isolated nuclear family descriptively and normatively articulated by Parsons (I 943, 1949; Parsons and Bales 1955; cf. Lasch 1977). Second, somewhat later in American history there arose new norms supporting adult development (Back 1972, Skolnick 1983:ch. 2). New cultural emphases on individual development (Bellah et al. 1985) have essentially advocated resocialization of social actors well beyond childhood and early adulthood, throughout later stages of the family life cycle. Interestingly, this may be viewed as an extension of the paradigmatic shifts that occurred in the sociology of aging in past decades. Earlier theories of disengagement (Cumming and Henry 1961) in part receded, while non-familistic or self-centered activity of “senior citizens” became a new focus of research, social policy debate, and public and private retirement home investments. This shift offered the older family member freedom from previous collective-instrumental norms by legitimating more self-focused, expressive-individualisticones (Bellah et al. 1985). Most crucially for our argument, this extension of individualism within the family has included new legitimation for parents to refocus on their own adulthood needs. Rather than the earlier historical attentiveness to the “crisis” of the “empty nest” when the last child left home, the new social supports for individualism liberated parents to attend to their needs as adults throughout the family life cycle. Even immediately after childbirth, parents were encouraged to enrich their own marital relationship and not focus all their energies on parenting (Rossi 1968, Hagestad et al. 1984). Parents were now encouraged to live their own lives and achieve their own fulfillment rather than “living through the children,” and/or “living fir the children,” as in the 1940s and 1950s. The shift was, paradoxically, partly legitimated by the new developmental emphasis on selfhood for the children and the need to have parents more emotionally autonomous of their children (Cohler and Geyer 1982; Lasch 1977, 1979; Skolnick 1983:chs. 2,12,13). Obviously, for women, the rise of labor force participation and careerism represents an important dimension of such individualistic shifts. And for both men and women, the rise in divorce as a solution to marital problems, even with some costs to children (Goetting 1983), is another major change

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in children’s experiences prior to and during young adulthood (Furstenberg et al. 1983; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). New norms did not reduce the intensity of child nurturance. But they called for parental self-care and self-development as well. Recent studies report higher marital satisfaction after children have left home (Skolnick 1983:282-85). Of course, these were couples who were self-selected not to have become divorced earlier in the family life cycle. In short, parental nests often became more comfortable, not emptier. Departure of children provides individual and marital gains to balance bereavement and loss of young adult children. Conversely, then, the return of children (or their inability to depart) would provide more discomfort or crowding for the parents (Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984251). Third, the most recent and quite likely the most important causal element in the rise of the ILYA phenomenon is the change in opportunig structure. In recent years, there has been an educational squeeze, primarily constricting financial support for postsecondary education (Blumberg 1980; Knapp 1987). This means that, in the past decade and a half, young adults have fewer options for school type/location, more pressure to work during their schooling, and higher personal and familial indebtedness upon graduation than the preceding cohorts have had.5 Concomitant with this has been more intense competition for career-entry positions, particularly in non-hightechnology occupations (Litnvin 1986). And, even after entry to a career track, young adults are finding much less stability in career employment (Blumberg 1980; Conference Board 1985) even in “monopoly capital” firms that offered historically unprecedented returns on their parents’ accumulation of human capital (particularly their fathers’ educational achievements). Part of the recent resurgence of young adult interest in “entrepreneurialism” is, after all, less a pull than a push resulting from attrition of ready-made professionaltechnical careers in the bureaucratic hierarchies of large firms. Thus, managerial and technical opportunities for educated young adults are less assured: they are less accessible in many recent years to both technical and liberal arts graduates-and even those with masters and Ph.D.s in some fields-as starting positions. And they encompass higher uncertainty in career development over the age period in which earlier cohorts were already engaged in the first several stages of a family-of-procreation life cycle (Elder 1978; Carns, Goldenberg, and Greer 1973). While we have focused on the economic opportunity structure above, there have been some analogous shifts in the marital and procreative opportunity strucrure as well. The increase in age at marriage for the middle-class adult may well represent an adaptation to rising marital disruption rates in their parents’ generation, as well as among their married siblings or friends (Furstenberg et al. 1983). Reticence to marry may be an outcome of the new constricted economic opportunity srructure. It may also be rationalized by recent norms of “self-actualization” that have become vulgarized into a commodity-like narcissism (Lasch 1979) or hyperindividualism among young adults, exemplified by the “yuppie” phenomenon among economically successful young adults. But of greater importance than both of these may be the fear of marital disruption. These young adults have a good deal of experience with divorce and its costs (Goetting 1983; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). Marriage, in

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short, no longer may be as attractive to them as a way to publicly affirm one’s psychological individuation from one’s parents-or to camouflage one’s lack of such individuation by merging with a spouse. One of the great appeals of cohabitation to young adults in recent years is that it has, superficially, all the benefits of marriage without the apparent costs of divorce. MacMin (1978), among others, notes the unreality of this arrangement as a simulation of marriage. The above represents a relatively simple model to account for the rise of the ILYA phenomenon. Recall that we see this phenomenon not merely as a change in the trajectory of young adults moving towards independence today. Central to it is a parental dissatisfaction with this pattern. In this paper, we treat this as a personal trouble/public issue from the parental definition of the situation. From the children ? perspective, the ILYA phenomenon may be seen as either a problem or a solution (usually as some of both, as it may well be, in different proportions, for the parents). One way of conceptualizing the causal model above from the ILYA’s perspective is as follows. They have been socialized to desire the benefits of adult roles (economic, marital, parental). But as the costs of achieving successful role performance rise, the appeal of the role-playing diminishes. Similarly, if the incremental benefits of shifting from children’s to adult roles are not sufficiently high, there is less incentive to take the risks of moving from familiar childhood roles to unfamiliar adult ones. Uncertain career lines make for less enthusiasm about seeking entry-level career roles; this, in turn, makes investment in human capital through advanced education less attractive to many YAs as well. Parallel arguments can be drawn about the risks of divorce; a reticence to engage in enduring, “committed” relationships is one reasonable response to this risk or uncertainty for many YAs (cf. Litnvin 1986; Okimoto and Stegall 1987; Hagestad, Smyer, and Stierman 1984). This analysis suggests some paradoxical qualities of middle-class family organization. For middle-class parents have, unwittingly, contributed to young adults’ expectations of their relatively low or incrementally low levels of benefits from future adult roles. Consider Table 6.4, which compares some costslbenefits for young adults to achieve independence with the costs and benefits for those ILYAs choosing to return to the household of their family of origin. The table is an ideal typification of both models and is suggestive only. Generally, we argue that the supportive environment of a middle-class professional family makes movement toward independent adulthood

Table 6.4. Young Adult Games from Adult Roles: Constricted Model Dimension 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Material Comfort Economic Security Privacy Social Freedom Sexual Freedom Emotional Support

lLYAs in Supportive Family

Independent Constricted YAs

N e t Gain

Higher Higher Moderate Moderate Moderate High

Lower Lower Higher Low to High Higher Low to High

Strong negative Strong negative Weak positive Neg.-pos. Weak positive Neg./none

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relatively less attractive than maintenance of the ILYA status quo. Many of the social gains of adult roles can be achieved with higher benefits and generally lower costs by sharing parental resources rather than by moving out on one’s own! This includes much socio-emotional as well as material supports from parents. We can thus think of the modern middle-class family as a victim of many “ceiling effects.” There are, realistically, fewer social locations where children can immediately improve their lot. Moreover, middle-class parents’ expectations of their YAs’ “success,” reflecting their own career achievements, makes them and their children less prepared to deal with failure (Littwin 1986). The best that many YAs can do is to maintain their family-of-origin statuses and environments as independent persons, but at considerable cost and risk (and hence anxiety). If Table 6.4 is taken at face value, then why would any YA become more independent? Our answer revolves around what is omitted from the variations in Table 6.4. First, we omitted the developmental push toward separation/individuation. Second, we omitted the internalization of autonomy values as defined in our society. The psychodynamic thrust towards individuation is universally powerful, according to many developmental theorists (cf. Cohler and Geyer 1982). Moreover, their social networks reinforce YAs’ propensity to act out this intrapsychic thrust by successfully performing adult roles, even in our era of constricted opportunity (Goldscheider and DaVanzo 1985; Waite, Goldscheider, and Witsberger 1986). And we must not forget that these ILYAs were generally socialized for achievement and autonomy, at least in terms of dominant parental and educational system values. Although their level of need-for-achievement (n-Ach) may be lower than it was for their parents, it is still relatively high compared to many other socio-economic status groups. Thus, both their parents’ and their own expectations of autonomy offset the comforts of ILYA status as a returned member of the household. The anxieties about dependent YA roles do move most YAS out of an enduring ILYA status (e.g., Goldscheider and DaVanzo 1985; Waite, Goldscheider, and Witsberger 1986). Additionally, there are strong dialectical tensions in the ILYA syndrome that are unspecified in the ideal typifications of Table 6.4. Conflict between parents’ needs and ILYAs’ needs becomes more salient in the RYA syndrome (Greenberg 1985; Wilding 1985), leading to both greater perceptions of and actual costs for parents and RYAs. For example, privacy and freedoms of RYAs may become restricted. Parental schedules clash with the late-to-bed and late-to-rise schedules of unemployed and underemployed RYAs and their significant others. Resentment, guilt, jealousy, and other emotions charge the socio-emotional climate in these families (Okimoto and Stegall 1987). These factors often induce some kind of readjustment of behavior, usually on the part of the RYA, who is, finally, a less-powerful member of the family. Parents thus often become less supportive and more controlling, shifting to role patterns more characteristic of working-class than middle-class parenting (Kohn 1959, 1963). All of these make returning-young-adulthood a somewhat less attractive alternative for ILYAs. Our observations include a variety of new “urban folk tales” about desperate parents thrusting their RYAs out of the parental home. Accounts of “friends” who have sold a larger house, rented their children’s rooms, sold their RYAs beds, or changed the lock seem to reflect a growing despair among RYA parents. While this is not a univer-

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sal pattern of all RYAs, it obviously represents the extremity of responses to ILYAs who act out their dependency by co-residing with their patents and maintaining an adolescent-like relationship to parents. Ironically, such parental rejections somewhat parallel the pattern of intetgenerational relations in earlier cohorts, which impelled the current cohort of parents into their own young adult roles, seeking their “security” in early marriages (May 1988). One difference is that for the current families, the response to ILYAs is a reactive resocialization. Parental reaction follows the onset of ILYA-hood. Earlier patterns were ones of proactive childhood socialization for YA “maturity,” which in turn led to accelerated YA independence. The final irony is, of course, that many parents in the earlier generations were hoping to retain children close to them, even after “maturity.” They unintentionally impelled them outwards into adult roles outside the family of origin. Today, most parents in this socio-economic status group struggle to create autonomous children. Yet in a similarly unanticipated fashion, they wind up having to wrestle with more dependent ILYAs, including some RYAs among them who remain unexpected members of the household.

The Future of the ILYA Phenomenon The full causal model delineated above includes both enduring psychodynamic causes and more recent sociological causes in a hierarchical model of causation. What this full model suggests, at minimum, is that industrial societies always have the potential for the emergence of the ILYA phenomenon under various social conditions. That is, there is always some built-in dialectical tension or ambivalence among YAs and parents about the values of autonomy versus dependence. Various arrangements of socioeconomic conditions (and psychological conditions for individual families) may produce historical and comparative variations in the ILYA phenomenon’s frequency, intensity, and outcomes. In one sense, we can view the current context as one of a lagging consciousness. Just as generals are trained to fight the last war, Skolnick (1983:ch. 14) argues that parents likewise socialize their children around the conditions that parents project from their own past experiences. The dynamics of the American economy and the fuller workings of the modern world-system clearly impact on the opportunity structure of young adults in ways that elude a contemporary public consensus. At present, there is substantial ground for pessimism (e.g., Blumberg 1980; Conference Board 1985; Bluestone and Harrison 1982; Alperovitz and Faux 1984; Schnaiberg and Reed 1973). Anticipated demand for many professional occupations is projected to be lower than projected supply, leading to a labor force or career squeeze for many YAs (Conference Board 1985). Moreover, a nagging question for some theorists (e.g., Lasch 1977) is whether current socialization of children actually produces a psychological and value profile that is compatible with the new competitiveness in professional-technical labor markets. And even if this proves to be an unfounded cavilling, the disjuncture between the supply of and demand for YAs with higher levels of human capital implies that

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some significant portion of the cohorts approaching young adulthood will face impediments to professional-technical career achievement. A moderate projection, then, would be to anticipate that the ILYA phenomenon is likely to endure for some fraction of middle-class families for at least the next few decades, ceteris paribus. But, as Lieberson (1985) notes, ceteris is in social fact rarely paribus. That is, causation is rarely symmetrical, and we would expect a variety of social responses inside and outside the family to change because of the current ILYA phenomenon and the constricted opportunity model of Table 6.3. We can outline possible outcomes in two major categories, again following the Mertonian (1 957) model of anomie. Families (and related institutions, including educational ones) can respond by lowering expectations (goals) or raising capacities (means). Essentially, we can view these possible changes in the context of the full causal model; we would look for changes in or around the sociological causes first since the psychodynamic causes are generally immutable. The first change might be increased political pressure to expand upper-white collar jobs and financial support for higher education. Since that is unlikely to succeed in the very short run because of domestic and world economic pressures, parents are likely to turn to lowering of expectations about what will represent “success” for their YA children. This could include a re-education in material achievements and/or a reduction or increase in the nonmaterial aspects of occupational or other roles of their children. For example, parents might increasingly emphasize the reduced emotional stresses of an “undemanding’ job, rather than the intellectual stimulation or “challenges” of a professional career. YAs might be encouraged to seek more emotional satisfaction from interpersonal relationships than from their occupations, following the path of many grandparents of these YAs. Another way to reduce the costs of the ILYA phenomenon would be to reduce expectations of parental development. For the current cohort of parents of ILYAs, these expectations may be largely irreversible. However, we might anticipate that younger parents at earlier stages in the family life cycle or still younger couples may reshape their own “atomistic” or individualistic interpretations of self-actualization to include a larger emphasis on familial-collective satisfactions (Swidler 1983; Bellah et al. 1985). This process would, of course, be facilitated by media and educational attentiveness to the benefits of “familism” and the costs of “selfishness.” Even for current parents of ILYAs, some emphasize the new “friendships” that can develop between RYAs and their parents (cf. Littwin 1986; Okimoto and Stegall 1987) as a step in legitimating dependency (Cohler and Geyer 1982). Moreover, squeezes on middle-class wages might simply make individual consumption less affordable than collective-familial consumption. (We predict, for example, that many of the current ILYAs will have to focus more on economic survival in their futures and less on emotional self-actualization, in contrast with their parents.) Recent shifts to small town living (e.g., Schnaiberg 1986) are consistent with this new familism, though they are not necessarily caused by the ILYA syndrome. At the other extreme, we might find more YAs rejecting parenthood and, perhaps, marriage as well (e.g., Newsweek 1986, Lublin 1986). What this suggests is much greater vari-

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ability within the YAs of the current middle class as to their status group and lifestyle conditions in the forthcoming decades. Within the increasingly common emergent multigenerational extended or modified conjugal families of RYAs and some other ILYAs, we anticipate that children will be socialized more as to their obligations and less intensively as regards their rights. In one sense, children would suffer downward social mobility or disentitlement within these families. The resulting family structure would be some combination of the current working-class stress on children’s obligations and current middle-class emphasis on children’s rights. For example, there would be a greater emphasis on obedience, along with some retention of children’s internalization of parental values (Kohn 1959, 1963). We see some extrafamilial reinforcement of this direction by schools and colleges in their re-emphasis of “basic education,” “basic skills,” discipline, distribution requirements, and computer ‘‘literacy.’’This stands in contradistinction to the emphasis on creative expression and problem-solving that characterized earlier curricula in suburban schools and elite collegesluniversities (and that also characterized many of the ILYAs’ parents’ careers). Likewise, middle-class children are currently much more likely to be working part-time in high school and college than was true for earlier cohorts, again stressing their obligations as well as rights. Media reports of RYAs particularly indicate that one coping strategy for parents and these children is to establish contractual relations, much as was done earlier with immigrant and working-class boarders (Okimoto and Stegall 1987). As one conceptualizes RYAs as “boarders,” though, the strains of this model become apparent. For boarders were taken in out of parents’ economic necessity and typically had weak or no ties to the family. RYAs, in contrast, represent some of the strongest ties parents feel, and the motivational underpinnings of the RYA syndrome are in many ways mirror images of the boarder-family relationship. Interestingly, in media accounts of RYAs (e.g.,Littwin 1986), this inversion is indirectly attested to by the lack of “board” charged to RYAs by their parents. For modern middle-class parents, there is at best ambivalence at charging rendboard to RYAs precisely because the relationship is so clearly non-economic and non-contractual (Greenberg 1985; Wilding 1985; cf. McCullough 1986; Sullivan 1987; Okimoto and Stegall 1987; Rosemond 1988). Ironically, this leads to frequent parental resentment as RYAs treat all of their income as largely discretionary, while much of parental income is devoted to familial maintenance (Cowan 1989; Kuttner 1988). Thus, RYAs are much more able to go on vacation with their “savings” while parents cover the basic living expenses for the entire “extended” family. Most of the responses we have described involve lowering expectations in order to cope with restricted opportunity structures. What of likely or possible strategies of raising capacities? We can suggest some that seem to be emerging, in part because of the constricted opportunity structure and the ILYA syndrome. At one extreme, there is the growing emphasis in all media and many educational systems in support of entrepreneurialism. While to some observers this may seem to be a ‘‘natural” economic shift, it has interesting elements that should be noted. Entrepreneurialism seems to imply a value shift for middle-class YAs. The goal of most entrepreneurs is the “bottom line” of profitability, not intrinsic job satisfaction. Moreover, a central

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element of entrepreneurialism is risk-taking, which is only partly consistent with the parental professional-technical model of bureaucratically secure employment. And finally, entrepreneurialism abandons the facade of social service and social justice that ILYAs’ so-called “post-materialist’’ parents (Inglehart 1977; cf. Schnaiberg 1983) espoused and occasionally practiced in social movement organizations. Again, there is scarcely any university or college today without some curricular or program attention to entrepreneurialism (despite high failure rates of entrepreneurs in this society). A growing acceptance of instrumentalism on the job, with a decreased focus on intrinsic socio-emotional satisfactions from the workplace, is related to this turn towards entrepreneurialism. Most of us contribute to this in our own professional roles as we, too, stress the importance of learning skills rather than how to do creative research. We stress to our students the importance of learning “where the funding is” in order to enhance their career productivity and attractiveness in the competitive marketplace. Parallel changes seem to be occurring throughout the educational system, and there are likely sympathetic responses among parents of ILYAs as well: “You have to be realistic, even if this isn’t a perfect or terrific job, it’s a living” (Littwin 1986). In an extreme sense, this process echoes the themes of Braverman’s (1974) thesis about the degradation of skilled labor in general, merely moving his provocative analysis up one level in the class hierarchy (Blumberg 1980). Figure 6.1 summarizes the causal model and these trajectories of the ILYA syn-

Responses to the ILYA Phenomenon

Psychodynamic C a w Separationindividuation tensions -Ned for/fear of adult extrafamilial roles

Increased _ _ YA _._ capacities:. -entrepreneurialism

\

ILYA Phenomenon

-instxumentalism

ir

-YA deviance

Sociological Causes

-Parent anomie

Decreased Parental

-Nurturancc of childrens’ rights

-Erratic YA performance of adult roles

-Disentitlement of YAs

-Legitimation of parents’ rights to develop themselves -Constricted opportunity structure Figure 6.1.

-Conflict

/

ExpeaatiOns:

I

-Parental development via familism versus individualism -Stress on YA jobs

versus careers

Causes of and Responsesto the ILYA Phenomenon.

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drome. At present it provides a framework for research, with fragments of evidence that we can patch into the appropriate slots in the figure. That is, Figure 6.1 represents an exercise in theory building rather than one in hypothesis-testing. It is part of a process of discovery (Kidder and Judd 1986) that will facilitate communication and perhaps coordination. Most crucially, we hope it will serve to integrate disparate research findings into a more synthetic hierarchical model of family change.

Conclusions: The Significance of the ILYA Phenomenon The ILYA phenomenon can be conceptualized as: (1) a shift of family functioning/ structure that is important to family sociologists; (2) a phenomenon of interest to stratification and socio-economic policy analysts; or (3) an illustration of the power of a hierarchical model of family change, one that integrates psychodynamic, familial roles, and extrafamilial change processes in understanding changes in the family over time and across contexts. Clearly, the analysis in this paper is a starting point, outlining areas for research focus and offering some suggestions for substantive hypotheses. Though well begun by family historians, there is a great deal more work to be done on historical and comparative studies of the transformation of family structures and their relationship to other institutional and ideological changes. In addition, research is needed to answer troubling questions about intracohort, gender, class, ethnic, and other sources of variation in the experience of young adults toward making a ‘‘successful” transition to adulthood. We believe, on the basis of our observations from colleagues, peers, and professional and technical acquaintances, that this is a widespread phenomenon in the North American middle-class at least. Finally, we are aware of potential ramifications of these phenomena in many institutional areas. For example, the labor force behavior of the ILYAs themselves may be quite different if the phenomenon is temporary or enduring. Implications of this behavior for other YAS in the middle and working class may also be important as they displace or are displaced for some occupational slots by these other labor force participants. But these and other implications for labor force participation, housing demand, fertility and marriage trends are all at present vague. What is clear is that the ILYA phenomenon (and the common RYA adaptation to it) is a significant and traumatic event for many of the families experiencing it. This seems a sufficient starting point for sociological study, since the common familial response of treating this as a personal trouble ignores its structural roots.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from SocialProblems, Vol. 36, No. 3, June 1989, pp. 251-69. 0 1989 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

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1. Many studies are now appearing that deal with the socio-historical and demographic aspects of the returning young adult syndrome. They are for the most part descriptive rather than theoretical. They do not deal substantially with either reasons for the current increase of this phenomenon or with the implications of it as experienced specifically by the middle class (Click 1996; Goldscheider and LeBourdais 1986; Goldscheider and DaVanzo 1985; Goldscheider and Waite 1987; Grigsby and McGowan 1986; Heer, Hodge, and Felson 1985; Riche 1987; Waite, Goldscheider, and Witsberger 1986; Boyd and Pryor 1988). Our interest is primarily in the ILYA issue, which only overlaps partly with RYAs; many ILYAs are not RYAs and some RYAs may not be ILYAs, but only in transition to their next adult role set. 2. As noted, parents and/or children, along with other interested parties including social scientist “experts,” contest some definitions of social problems, depending on the norms of their culture. The same “objective” phenomenon is certainly susceptible of conflicting interpretation, definition, and treatment. 3. We find it ironic that several reviewers have inadvertently reinforced our feeling about this in calling for further evidence on the breadth of this phenomenon. Our main point here is that the personal trouble perspective tends to be adopted precisely because we do not know, or appreciate, the breadth of the phenomenon at hand. The social issue perspective we are suggesting requires us to demonstrate a broad structural pattern and link the phenomenon to other structural features of the society. It is this task that we have begun in this chapter. 4. As the isolated nuclear family debate makes clear, the norm or ideology was not universal, and actual practice may well have been otherwise. Even for Parsons, it was in the white middle class family that the transition to isolated nuclear familism was expected to be clearest and occur first. 5. Interestingly, it is precisely over this same time period that there has been a considerable upgrading of the educational standards required for a great many jobs. This has further contributed to the difficulties and delays in independence as students are required to stay in school for ever longer periods of professional socialization before being allowed to take on adult roles in the “real world.” As university students, their real or quasi-dependent status is further confirmed and extended.

References Alperovia, Gar, and Jeff Faux. 1984. Rebuilding America: A Blueprintfor the New Economy. New York: Pantheon Books. Back, Kurt W. 1972. Beyond Words: The Story of Sensitivity Paining and the Encounter Movement. New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Bellah, Robert N., William M. Sullivan, Ann Swidler, and Steven M. Tipton. 1985. Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life. New York: Harper and Row, Perennial Library. Bluestone, Barry, and Bennett Harrison. 1982. The Deindwtrialization ofAmerica: Plant Closings, CommunityAbandonment, and the Dismantling of Basic Industry. New York: Basic. Blumberg, Paul. 1980. Inequality in an Age ofDecline. New York: Oxford University Press. Boyd, Monica, and Edward T. Pryor. 1988. “The Cluttered Nest: The Living Arrangements of Young Canadian Adults.” Paper presented at the annual meetings of the Canadian Population Society and Canadian Sociological and Anthropological Association, Windsor, Ontario. Braverman, Harry. 1974. Labor and Monopoly Capital: The Degradztion of Work in the Twentieth Century. New York: Monthly Review Press. Carns, Donald E., Sheldon Goldenberg, and Scott Greer. 1973. “Some Neglected Considera-

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tions on the American Urban Family.” In Cities in Change: Studies on the Urban Condition, edited by John Walton and Donald E. Carns, 226-37. Boston, Mass.: Allyn and Bacon. Cohler, Bertram J., and Scott Geyer. 1982. “Psychological Autonomy and Interdependence within the Family.” In Normal Family Processes, edited by Froma Walsh, 196-228. New York: Guilford. Coleman, James S. 1960. “The Adolescent Subculture and Academic Achievement.” American Journal of Sociology 65:337-47. Conference Board. 1985. “Labor Outlook 1986.” Research Bulletin No. 188. Cowan, Alison L. 1989. “Parenthood 11: The Nest Won’t Stay Empty.” New York Times, March 12. Cumming, Elaine, and William D. Henry. 1961. Growing Old: The Process of Disengagement. New York: Basic. Elder, Glen H., Jr. 1978. “Family History and the Life Course.” In Transitions: The Family and the L ; f . Course in Historical Perspective, edited by Tamara K. Hareven, 17-64. New York: Academic. Furstenberg, Frank F., Jr., Christine W. Nord, James L. Peterson, and Nicholas Zill. 1983. “The Life Course of Children of Divorce: Marital Disruption and Parental Conflict.” American Sociological Review 48:656-68. Glick, Paul C., and Sung-Ling Lin. 1986. “More Young Adults Are Living with Their Parents: Who Are They?”Journal of Marriage and the Family 48: 107-1 2. Goetting, Ann. 1983. “Divorce Outcome Research: Issues and Perspectives.” In Family in Transition. 4th ed., edited by Arlene S. Skolnick and Jerome H. Skolnick, 367-87. Boston, Mass.: Little, Brown. Goldscheider, Calvin, and Frances K. Goldscheider. 1987. “Moving Out and Marriage: What Do Young Adults Expect?”American Sociological Review 52:278-85. Goldscheider, Frances K., and Celine LeBourdais. 1986. “The Decline in Age at Leaving Home, 1920-1979.” Sociology and Social Research 70:143-45. Goldscheider, Frances K., and Julie DaVanzo. 1985. “Living Arrangements and the Transition to Adulthood.” Demography 22: 545-63. Goldscheider, Frances K., and Linda J. Waite. 1987. “Nest-Leaving Patterns and the Transition to Marriage for Young Men and Women.” Journal of Marriage and the Family 49:507-16. Granovetter, Mark S. 1973. “The Strength of Weak Ties.” American Journal of Sociology 78:1360-80. . 1982. “The Strength of Weak Ties: A Network Theory Revisited.” In Social Structure and Network Analysis, edited by Peter Marsden and Nan Lin, 105-20. Los Angeles, Calif.: Sage. Greenberg, Polly. 1985. “The Empty Nest Syndrome.” In Marriage and Family: Coping with Change, edited by Leonard Cargan, 278-86. Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth. Grigsby, Jill, and Jill B. McGowan. 1986. “Still in the Nest: Adult Children Living with Their Parents.” Sociology and Social Research 70: 146-48. Hagestad, Gunhild 0. 1986. “The Aging Society as a Context for Family Life.” Daedalus 115:119-39. , Michael A. Smyer, and Karen Stierman. 1984. “The Impact of Divorce in Middle Age.” In Parenthood: A Psychodynamic Perspective, edited by Rebecca S. Cohen, Bertram J. Kohler, and Sidney H. Weissman, 247-62. New York: Guilford. Heer, David M., Robert W. Hodge, and Marcus Felson. 1985. “The Cluttered Nest: Evidence That Young Adults Are More Likely to Live at Home Now Than in Recent Past.” Sociology and Social Research 69:436-41. Inglehart, Ronald. 1977. The Silent Revolution: Changing klues and Political Styles among Western Publics. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.

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Keniston, Kenneth. 1971. “Psychological Development and Historical Change.” The Journal of Interdisc+linary History II:329-45. Kidder, Louise H., and Charles M. Judd. 1986. Research Methods in Social Relations. 5th ed. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Knapp, Tim. 1987. “The Declining Middle Class: Causes and Consequences.” Paper presented at meetings of the Society for the Study of Social Problems, Chicago, August. Kohn, Melvin L. 1959. “Social Class and Parental Values.” American Journal of Sociology 64~337-51. . 1963. “Social Class and Parent-Child Relationships.” American Journal of Sociology 68:471-80. Kotulak, Ronald, and Jon Van. 1987. “Strict Obedience Fades as a Desirable Child Trait.” Chicago Tribune, December 6. Kuttner, Lawrence. 1988. “Parent and Child: When Young Adults Head Back Home, Set a Time Limit and Don’t Panic.” New York Times, July 14. Lasch, Christopher. 1977. Haven in a Heartless World: The Family Besieged. New York: Basic. . 1979. The Culture of Narcissism. New York: Norton. Lieberson, Stanley. 1985. Making It Count: The Improvement of Social Research and Theory. Berkeley: University of California Press. Littwin, Susan. 1986. The Postponed Generation: Why American Youth Are Growing Up Later. New York: Morrow. Lublin, Joann. 1986. “Staying Single: Rise in Never-Marrieds Affects Social Customs and Buying Patterns.” Wall Street Journal, May 28, 1. Macklin, Eleanor D. 1978. “Nonmarital Heterosexual Cohabitation.” Marriage and Family Review 1:l-12. May, Elaine Tyler. 1988. Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era. New York: Basic. McCullough, Bonnie. 1986. “Problems Arise When Grown Kids Come Home.” Grand Rapid Press, July 27. McGoldrick, Monica, and Elizabeth A. Carter. 1982. “The Family Life Cycle.” In Normal Family Processes, edited by Froma Walsh, 167-95. New York: Guilford. Merton, Robert K. 1957. “Social Structure and Anomie.” In Social Theory and Social Structure. Rev. ed., 131-60. New York: Free Press. Mills, C. Wright. 1959. The Sociological Imagination. New York Oxford University Press. Newsweek. 1986. “Too Late for Prince Charming?” Newsweek, June 2, 54-61. Okimoto, Jean Davies, and Phyllis Jackson Stegall. 1987. Boomerang Kid: How to Live with Adult Children Who Return Home. Boston, Mass.: Little, Brown. Parsons, Talcott. 1943. “The Kinship Structure of the Contemporary United States.” American A nthropologist 4 5:22-3 8. . 1949. “The Social Structure of the Family.” In The Family: Its Function and Destiny, edited by Ruth Anshen, 173-201. New York: Harper and Brothers. , and Robert F. Bales. 1955. Family, Socialization, and Interaction Process. Glencoe, 111.: Free Press. Riche, Martha F. 1987. “Mysterious Young Adults.” American Demographics, February, 38-43. Rosemond, John. 1988. “When the Kids Come Home to Roost: And How Long They Should Stay.” Better Homes and Gardens, February, 60. Rossi, Alice. 1968. “Transition to Parenthood.” Journal ofMarriage and the Family 30:26-39. Schnaiberg,Allan. 1983. “Redistributive Goals versus Distributive Politics: Social Equity Limits in Environmental and Appropriate Technology Movements.” Sociological Inquiry 53: 199-2 19. . 1986. “Reflections on Resistance to Rural Industrialization: Newcomers’ Culture of Environmentalism.” In Dzfferential Social Impacts of Rural Resource Development. Social Im-

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pact Assessment Series, no. 13, edited by Pamela D. Elkind-Savatsky, 229-58. Boulder, Colo.: Westview. , and Sheldon Goldenberg. 1975. “Closing the Circle: The Impact of Children on Parental Status.” Journal of Marriage and the Family 37:937-53. Schnaiberg, Allan, and David Reed. 1973. “Risk, Uncertainty, and Family Formation: The Social Context of Poverty Groups.” Population Studies 28:5 13-33. Sherrod, Katie. 1988. “Why Are Big Chicks Keeping Modern Nests Full Longer?” Fort Worth Star-Tekp-am, September 2. Skolnick, Arlene S. 1983. The Intimate Environment: Exploring Marriage and the Family. 3rd ed. Boston, Mass.: Little, Brown. Sullivan, Barbara. 1987. “Hey Mom, I’m Home.” Chicago Tribune, September 16. Swidler, Ann. 1983. “Love and Adulthood in American Culture.” In Family in Transition. 4th ed., ediced by Arlene S. Skolnick and Jerome H. Skolnick, 286-305. Boston, Mass.: Little, Brown. US. Bureau of the Census, Current Population Reports, series P-20. 1955 “Marital Status and Family Status: April 1954.” March, number 56. . 1965. “Marital Status and Family Status: March 1964 and 1963.” April, number 135. . 1974. “Marital Status and Living Arrangements: March 1974.” October, number 271. . 1985. “Marital Status and Living Arrangements: March 1984.” July, number 399. . 1986. “Marital Status and Living Arrangements: March 1985.” November, number 410. . 1987. “Marital Status and Living Arrangements: March 1986.” December, number 418. . 1988. “Marital Status and Living Arrangements: March 1987.” April, number 423. . 1989. “Marital Status and Living Arrangements: March 1988.” January, number 433. Waite, Linda J., Francis K. Goldscheider, and Christina Witsberger. 1986. “Nonfamily Living and the Erosion of Traditional Family Orientation among Young Adults.” American Sociological Review 51:541-54. Wilding, Jennifer. 1985. “Homing Pigeons.” Savvy, February, 86-89. Zimmerman, Carle C. 1947. The Family and Civilization. New York: Harper and Brothers.

CHAPTER 7

Social Construction of HIV Transmission and Prevention among Heterosexual Young Adults Eleanor Maticka- Tyndale

From a biomedical perspective, there are several characteristics of HIV, the virus considered to cause AIDS, which directly influence its sexual transmission and prevention of its transmission. These characteristics include the possibility of transmitting HIV through vaginal and anal intercourse, a prolonged asymptomatic infectious period, and the ability to prevent or reduce the risk of sexual transmission of HIV by abstaining from or using condoms when participating in activities associated with transmission. Scientific knowledge about these factors has been used to devise safer-sex guidelines. The central recommendation of these guidelines for the sexually active is the persistent and regular use of condoms. The focus of health promotion campaigns and research related to HIV prevention has been to incorporate safer-sex guidelines into sexual practices. Both health promotion campaigns and research on AIDS prevention have been primarily based on the health belief (Becker 1974) or reasoned action (Ajzen and Fishbein 1973) models, or their synthesis (Jan. and Becker 1984) Both have addressed the factors associated with making the biomedical safer-sex guidelines the basis of everyday action. With the exception of several British studies (e.g., Holland et al. 1990; Wanvick, Aggleton, 1989; Wanvick, Aggleton, and Homans 1988), little research directly addresses AIDS prevention strategies as personally constructed through everyday or common sense knowledge about AIDS and associated prevention strategies. In this chapter, I examine the construction of common sense knowledge about AIDS, focusing particularly on the sexual transmission of HIV. The work of Schutz (1 962), Garfinkel (1967), and Berger and Luckman (1967) on the social construction of everyday realities guides the analysis of 25 in-depth interviews with never-married, 17-22 year old residents in Montreal, Canada.

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The Construction of Common Sense Knowledge and Everyday Strategies The prevailing research on AIDS risk and risk reduction focuses on the degree to which individual actions comply with scientific guidelines for HIV prevention. When individual perceptions are addressed, it is with respect to their facilitating or impeding prescribed actions (e.g., Baldwin and Baldwin 1988; Bauman and Siege1 1987; Becker and Joseph 1988; Joseph et al. 1987; Maticka-Tyndale 1991a; Traeen, Rise, and Kraft 1989). In research based on the social constructionist perspective (Berger and Luckman 1967; Garfinkel 1967), the focus shifts to the construction of shared perceptions, or what Garfinkel terms common sense knowledge (1967). Common sense knowledge is central to the inquiry because it drives everyday action. For scientific knowledge to influence behavior, it must become part of common sense knowledge. Thus, to understand the actions of young adults potentially facing HIV infection, it is necessary to understand their common sense knowledge about AIDS and their methods of addressing the AIDS threat (i.e., their own constructed safer-sex rules or guidelines). From the perspective of social constructionism, society’s members are both authors of and actors in the realities they construct. As authors, they rely on a common stock of knowledge rooted within existing institutions, everyday language, shared meanings and understandings. This knowledge consists of recipes or scripts for action and typifications of people, events, and projects. Variations in reality construction result, in part, from variations in people’s lives based on their division into strata (e.g., age, gender, race). As authors, people work to make sense of new phenomena or events as they occur. They follow systematic procedures in selectively choosing from their stock of knowledge (which may include more or less accurate translations of scientific knowledge) to construct a base of common sense knowledge and associated surface rules. These rules reflect deeper norms and structures which form the base of social relationships. New phenomena are thus incorporated into, and in turn modifjr knowledge and rules. As actors, people use common sense, taken-for-granted knowledge and scripts to guide their everyday lives and to produce explanations or accounts of their actions. Common sense knowledge and its associated language, understandings, and accounts are shared to the degree that everyday life is shared among various groups of people. Disparities in meaning do not often become evident, however, since “indexical expressions,” expressions or actions whose commonality is assumed or taken-for-granted rather than specifically addressed, are most often shared in interactions (Garfinkel 1967). The absence of shared meaning may only become apparent when the deep structures on which surface rules are based are exposed. This paper focuses on construction of common sense knowledge about AIDS risk, related “popularly constructed” safer-sex rules, and the structural roots of both. Given the deep structure of gender based rules (e.g., Coveney et al. 1984; Holland et al. 1990; Kessler and McKenna 1978; Laws and Schwartz 1977; Lees 1986; Vance

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1984), the gendered nature of knowledge and rules about AIDS and HIV and the implications for cross-gender interactions are specifically addressed.

Methodology Between October 1988 and February 1989, interview consent forms were distributed together with 1000 questionnaires to students in a random sample of courses in humanities (English colleges) or philosophie (French colleges) classes from a stratified sample of English and French colleges in Montreal.’ Of the 866 students who completed questionnaires and fit the sampling criteria, 200 consented to be interviewed. An initial theoretical sample of 20 students was chosen for interviews. The goal in theoretical sampling is to ensure that a full range of differences on dimensions of interest is represented among those sampled (Strauss and Corbin 1990:177-193). The final number sampled cannot be determined when a study is initiated, but is based on saturation, i.e., when there is repetition of results with no new information forthcoming (Glaser and Strauss 1967). Four factors, based on prior research findings, formed the guidelines for theoretical sampling. First, given the focus on gender specific constructions, the sample included equal numbers of men and women. Second, to ensure that students from both dominant cultures were represented, there were equal numbers of students from French and English colleges. Finally, since the goal of this study was to explore sexual strategies, two additional dimensions were whether or not interviewees had ever experienced sexual intercourse, and the number of their partners. The original sample included 16 young adults who had and four who had not participated in sexual intercourse. For the 16 with coital experience, four participants had one partner in the past year, three had over six, and nine had between two and six partners. To achieve saturation, it was necessary to conduct five interviews beyond the original 20 with young adults with more than six recent coital partners. Three of these interviews were with men and two with women. They were added to more fully explore differences in preventive actions across different types of relationships for young adults with multiple partners. All study participants were fluent in French, English, or both languages. Thirteen were women and 12 were men, and they tepresented among them young adults of Greek, Italian, Sephardic, Ashkenazy, Jamaican, Haitian, British, and French cultural heritage. Interviews were conducted by two interviewers, one Francophone, the other Anglophone. All interviews were tape-recorded, and respondent permission was obtained beforehand. Interviews were minimally structured; each interviewer explored 12 topics using the format of “directed conversation” described by Lofland and Lofland (1983). Interviews lasted from 45 minutes to an hour. Analysis of interviews followed the constant comparison method (Glaser and Strauss 1967). The procedures set out by Lincoln and Guba (1985) for ensuring methodological rigor through credibility, “fittingness,” and auditability were followed during and following data analysis.2Transcripts of interviews were coded twice, once for thematic and once for structural content. Six thematic areas were addressed: common sense knowledge, sources of information, risk perception, preventive strategies,

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reported influence from friends, and sexual activities and their context (termed sexual lifestyle). Participants’ knowledge, expressed in their own words, identified as their own and as applicable to themselves, including illustrations from their own lives, was taken as common sense knowledge. Structural coding identified interview content as illustrating one or a combination of accounts, surface rules, indexical expressions, or deep structure. These were cross-classified with content. Finally, the transcript from each interview was used to construct a “story” or context for each interviewee with respect to AIDS and sexuality. The stories were grouped according to similarity. Themes and representations of different structures were compared within and between the story groupings. The results of this research were presented to groups of similarly aged young adults and to those working with young adults in a variety of settings across Canada, from late 1989 to late 1991. Feedback from these individuals and groups provided a member check on credibility and fittingness. An analysis of the findings follows brief overviews of the status of HIV and AIDS in the target population and of the questionnaire analyses.

AIDS in Quebec While it is difficult to know the actual incidence (and therefore risk) of HIV infection for these young adults, three types of information are helpful in estimating risk. The first is the incidence of AIDS among women, which is taken as an indicator of the prevalence of heterosexual transmission. According to Canada Diseases Weekly Report, the rate of HIV seropositivity of 22.5 per million for Quebec women over the age of 15 years is the highest for any Canadian province (Health and Welfare Canada 1989a:158). This compares to the second highest rate of 7.7 per million in the province of Alberta. The pronounced difference between Quebec and other Canadian provinces is primarily due to the higher proportion of residents from countries in which the predominant mode of transmission is heterosexual than elsewhere in Canada. This explanation of provincial differences is supported by the findings of a 1983-84 study of 189 healthy Montrealers of Haitian origin (transmission in Haiti occurs primarily through heterosexual behavior), in which a seroprevalence of 21,000 per million was obtained (Frappier-Davignon et al. 1990). The second type of information used to estimate the prevalence of HIV in the young adult population is obtained from blood donated to the Canadian Red Cross. During the 1987 calendar year, the 232,103 donations from 17-29 year olds in Quebec resulted in a rate of 1.9 per million seroconversions using the Western Blot test (Health and Welfare Canada 1989b). Finally, the third type of useful information for making estimates is the rates of other sexually transmitted diseases in the general population. Few studies have been done using asymptomatic populations whose sexual history is similar to that of the students in this study. One such study, of asymptomatic patients with no prior history of sexually transmitted disease who were tested during regular visits to general prac-

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titioners in Montreal, produced a gonorrheal infection rate of 8.1 percent in women and 3.6 percent in men (Allard et al. 1985). Although, the rates of HIV infection (excepting populations of Haitian origin) are low compared to the United States, these rates together with asymptomatic gonorrhea rates clearly indicate the potential for HIV spread in the young adult population.

Results of Quantitative Analyses The survey findings of the multi-college sample, and those of similar studies, provide a glimpse into the knowledge, attitudes, and behavior of young adults which helps to place the interview analysis in context. 1) Responses to fixed-choice tests indicate that young adults are aware of the biomedical understanding of AIDS; i.e., they achieve high scores on scientific knowledge ofAIDS (Maticka-Tyndale 1989; Smith et al. 1989; Thurman and Franklin 1990; Ziffer 1989). 2) Young adults identify condom use as an effective strategy to prevent transmission of HIV (e.g., Kegeles, Adler, and Irwin 1989; Otis et al. 1989; Otis, Godin, and Lambert 1990, 1991; Maticka-Tyndale 199 1a; Traeen, Rise, and Kraft 1989; Ziffer et al. 1989). 3 ) When asked to rank their own susceptibility to HIV infection on scales providing a range from high to low, most young adults select the low end of the scale (Levy et al. 1990; Maticka-Tyndale 1989, Smith et al. 1989; Thurman and Franklin 1990). 4) Young adults report participating in sexual activities which place them at risk of HIV infection (King et al. 1988; Maticka-Tyndale 1989). 5 ) The majority of young adults report they have changed their sexual practices specifically in response to AIDS (Goodman and Cohall 1989; Maticka-Tyndale 199 1b; White, Phillips, and Clifford 1989). 6) Very few young adults report regular use of condoms (Catania et al. 1989; Dupras et al. 1988; Maticka-Tyndale 1991a). 7) Perceptions of personal risk and condom use are statistically associated with different factors for men than for women (Maticka-Tyndale 1991a). Collectively, these findings provide a mixed message about the relation of young adults’ attitudes and actions with regard to biomedical knowledge about HIV transmission and prevention. Knowledge is high, as are subjective reports of “change.” The most effective method of prevention, however, is not widely used. These findings highlight the need for an in-depth analysis of the personally constructed realities of HIV transmission and prevention for young adults.

Accessing Scientific Knowledge Though the high level of awareness of the biomedical model exhibited in short-answer tests was replicated in interviews, respondents also displayed great uncertainty and

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~~

confusion, and little indication that scientific knowledge had been incorporated into common sense knowledge. The following commentary illustrates this uncertainty: I know it’s sexual intercourse and anal sex, they’re the ways you can get it, for sure. But what I don’t know is about oral sex. You know sometimes you hear “yes,” then you hear “no.” And then there’s kissing, there was a lot of confusion about that for awhile. But now I hear you don’t have to worry about kissing. You know, it can be pretty confusing with them changing their minds and alL3

Similar uncertainty was expressed with respect to the role of kissing, oral sex, and mosquito bites. When the source of confusion was explored, both media reports and educational campaigns were implicated. For example, young adults often cited information from early educational campaigns and media reports which indicated saliva was a possible transmitter of HIV, making wet kissing a risky activity. They were also aware, however, that later campaigns placed risk from kissing at a low level. Though the later campaigns attempted to clarify the status of saliva and kissing, they produced confusion, uncertainty, and doubt about the trustworthiness of such information. The greater uncertainty concerned the status of oral sex. This is not surprising since disagreement about the relative risk of oral sex continues-Canadian guidelines place it in a relatively low risk category while some U.S. guidelines place it considerably higher. When the relation of the biomedical information and official safer-sex guidelines to personal actions was explored, it became apparent that although the young adults possessed scientific knowledge, it was common sense knowledge, or folk knowledge (Warwick, Aggleton 1989; Warwick, Aggleton, Homans 1988) which guided their own perception and rules of action. This folk or common sense knowledge consisted of scientifically based knowledge filtered through their experiences and those of their peers, as will be illustrated in the remainder of this chapter.

Common Sense Understanding of Threat Three areas influenced perceptions of personal threat: fear, seriousness, and susceptibility. Though young adults generally described AIDS as fearsome, this fear was depersonalized through strategies developed to reduce or depersonalize fear of already familiar threats. First were those related to rare, large-scale disaster: Well, I am scared. . . . I’m scared, like I’m scared about war and stuff. . . . It’s like, when it hits me that it’s there, or it could be . . . it’s scary. But, then like you don’t really believe it will ever happen. At least, not to you.

Second were those related to an existing strong faith, reinforced by periodic media reports of imminent breakthroughs, in the ability of medicine to eventually provide a solution. This faith, combined with scientifically based knowledge of the prolonged asymptomatic period, produced a popular belief that even if they became infected, death would not occur:

HIV TRANSMISSION A N D PREVENTION Even if I get it . , . you don’t get sick for six maybe more years-that’s I’ve heard-so by that time they’ll be able to treat it. . . .this morning I heard on the radio about this new drug. . .

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Finally, fear was neither immediate nor personalized, since young adults did not believe they were susceptible. Here again, personal experiences and those of peers were compared to those portrayed in educational and media campaigns. The comparison might be geographical: Montreal right now isn’t very infected, but a bigger city like TO [Toronto] or New York you’d have to worry.

Or it might be related to the relative risk of different sexual practices:

. . . sure you can get it through sex, but I hear it’s really hard to get with regular sex, the kind I do. Evidence of a gender difference was related to fears about coitus. It was not, however, a difference in the surface understanding or rule with respect to susceptibility. The statements of both men and women addressed the low likelihood of HIV infection as a result of coitus. But the point of comparison used by men and women to establish the relative risk of coitus differed. For each it was rooted in prior experience of coitus and its potential consequences. For women, coitus, even before AIDS, carried a variety of risks; they commonly cited both risks of pregnancy and emotional hurt. Relative to these other risks, HIV was the least likely to occur: I know you can get it that way [sex between a man and a woman], but I don’t know anyone who has gotten it that way, so it has to be pretty hard. Anyway, there are a lot more common things women have to worry about.

For men, the experience of coitus generally lacked any prior sense of risk. Lacking a concept of risky coitus, men spoke of risk by ranking coitus against other sexual activities: But it’s really anal relations which are dangerous . . . especially homosexual relations. Just about everyone who gets it sexually is gay or has sex with a gay . . . ya, we all have to worry, but since I’m not gay I guess I don’t have to worry as much about sex.

For both men and women, fear of HIV in relation to their own coital activity was experienced as fleeting and after the fact, as one young woman commented: I’m always afraid after, but not before. And I always say, next time. that never happens.

. . but

The constructed reality of threat may be summarized as: AIDS kills, and death is something fearful, but other things can also kill, and my fear of AIDS is the same

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kind of fear as that of other fatal disasters. HIV may be transmitted through coitus, but the probability is low. If I am a woman, the probability is lower than that for other undesirable consequences of coitus. If I am a man, the probability of transmission through coitus is lower than the probability of transmission in other ways. Even if I do become infected, by the time I am initially sick there will be a cure. Of particular interest is that though the rate of HIV infection is higher among Montrealers of Haitian origin, there was no evidence in interviews that this was part of the common sense knowledge of young adults. Haitian status did not enter into the personal risk assessments of those interviewed, nor were there any other ethnic or linguistic differences evident.

Personal Methods of Protection: Rules for Safer Sex Most of the young adults interviewed had a single safer-sex guideline: never engage in sexual intercourse with an infected partner. They either reported changing their strategies of partner selection and communication to ensure the guideline was met, or they perceived that their existing sexual activities were already adequate to keep them risk free. The specific methods used to implement this norm varied depending on sexual experience and gender.

NOT YET COITALLY ACTIVE Though only four young adults who were not yet coitally active were interviewed, the consistency of their responses, whether from males or females, French or English speaking, added confidence to the conclusion that their responses were not idiosyncratic. All four perceived anyone who was coitally active as potentially infected and cited their fear of AIDS as one reason for their own abstention. They stressed the need for protection in all coital encounters and the impossibility of knowing who was and was not infected. They planned two strategies for hture coital activity: prior testing for HIV, and the use of condoms. No other young adults suggested testing as a preventive strategy, and no others were as insistent on condom use as an absolute requirement for coital activity. I’ll just have to use a condom. After all, who wants to die?

If he refuses to use a condom, that’s it. No sex.

It appears that these young adults incorporated the biomedical model of HIV risk and its safer-sex guidelines into their own understanding. The biomedical model provides, at least in part, their account for abstaining from sexual intercourse.

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COITALLY ACTIVE For the coitally active, safe or non-infected partners were identified in three ways: through good communication and trust, through friends, and through the appearance or reputation of potential partners. Precisely which of the strategies were used depended on the nature and number of sexual partnerships formed by the young adults. The first strategy was most often cited in relation to affection-based coital partnerships. Those for whom sexual intimacy was constructed within the framework of affection (respectively 42 percent and 56 percent of the coitally active males and females) relied almost exclusively on trust and “good communication.” When the meaning of trust was explored, it was clear that this was an indexical expression rooted in different meanings for men and women. For women, trust meant they expected their partners to disclose information about prior potentially risky activities. This conceptualization of trust was so absolute for some women that they could not imagine that their partner might withhold information, as the following quotation illustrates:

I trust him, I believe what he tells me. Maybe he lies, but I believe he tells me the truth. The potential ‘‘lie’’ was rejected by this young woman with a quick reply focusing on the belief that her boyfriend was truthful. For men, trust meant their partners had not engaged in prior risky activities or relationships: What do you think, I don’t have sex with just anyone! No, only with a girl who cares about me and who I care about, and I trust her. Here, rather than trusting in disclosure, there was trust that partners had nothing to disclose. Much has been written of the death of the classical double standard which permitted sexual activity for men and forbade it for women (e.g., DeLamater and MacCorquodale 1979; Reiss 1981). In fact, survey research finds few statistically significant differences in the sexual attitudes or actions of men and women (e.g., Bicher and Tyndale 1986; Herold 1984). Yet the results of my research suggest that a double standard for sexuality remains part of the deep structure of gender roles. With respect to AIDS, it surfaces as a norm assuming no prior risky activity for women and disclosure of possible prior risky activity for men. Though men and women believe they are saying the same thing when they use the word “trust,” clearly this word is an indexical expression, i.e., its meaning is taken-for-granted. This “taken-for-granted” or unexplicated character masks differences which have profound implications for risk reducing strategies. Most specifically, women rely on their partners to inform, while partners do not necessarily share a sense of obligation to inform. Another area of gender difference was the impact of affection or relationship based coital partnerships on the safer-sex rules for men and women. Even for young adults who preferred long-term, affection based relationships, these relationships were

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often not “long-term” (49 percent of men and 46 percent of women surveyed who preferred affection reported having had more than one partner). In between affection based partnerships, some young adults abstained from intercourse. For those who did not, coitus was described as restricted to friends, people known for several years in what might be called “friendly” or “affectionate” sex with someone who could be trusted: I’ve known them all for a couple of years, so I’d know if something was going on.

Women, though also citing the length of association, stressed the “friendship” aspect itself more than any knowledge obtained from the friendship as the basis of their own protection:

. . . well it’s just part of the friendship . . . after all they’re friends, and you’ve known them a long time. Anyway, it’s never more than maybe four or five a year. Men, on the other hand, relied on the friendship to provide them with information on their partners’ sexual history. These gendered patterns replicate those associated with the concept of trust. Women trust in the nature of “relationship” or “friendship” while men trust their knowledge of the relationship partner or friend. In all these relationships, the biomedical perspective that a partner could be infected and either not know, or not disclose such information was unthinkable. Young adults who constructed their sexual activity in the context of affection trusted their partners. Though men’s and women’s trust differed, the use of and reliance on trust as a method of protection was not necessarily effective for either gender. The latter two strategies, of judging partners by appearance or reputation, were most often cited by young adults who reported more casual sexual partnerships, those who engaged in sexual activity “affection notwithstanding” (54 percent and 42 percent respectively of the coitally active men and women surveyed). Though 73 percent of the young adults answering the multi-college survey agreed that “Most carriers of the AIDS virus look healthy,” most study participants felt they could identify a safe partner by appearance:

. . . there’s a look to that kind of girl . . , you know [clarification was requested] . . . well, they’re sort of sleazy, and they have a reputation. [No clarification of “sleazy” was available.]

I can tell when I look at them

The reputation of either the venue of meeting or the individual were also indicators of a partner’s acceptability as these two young women state:

I just pick them u p a t bars, or parties, or a game [referring to rugby games]. . . . it’s expected at games. But none of these places are sleazy-not the kind where you find bikers and stuff, and no one’s into needles . . . and rugby, where’re you gonna find a healthier bunch? It’s always through friends, you know if you meet someone through friends you know they’re OK.

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Rather than trust of the person, as in affection based relationships, here the young adults trusted in their own ability to accurately judge the HIV status of others by the reputation of persons or places, by intuition, or by appearance. There were no discernible gender differences, though clearly the different meanings of trust and friendship were related to gender differences in appearance and behavior norms. Two factors stood out for all three groups of young adults-the abstainers, those restricting sex to relationships based on affection or friendship, and those who engaged in more casual partnerships. First, AIDS was constructed in association with sexual lifestyles; it was the people who engaged in these lifestyles who were believed to pose a risk. Thus, the primary protection strategy was selecting partners who were not the “wrong kind of person.” This common sense understanding and related strategy were in direct contrast to the biomedical model and its related safer-sex guidelines which stressed acts rather than individuals. Second, regardless of the actual sexual practices and partnerships of interviewees, each defined his or her lifestyle as safe; only sexual partners or actions that were not part of the current lifestyle were considered risky. The survey research findings demonstrated that perceived susceptibility was low despite knowledge and actions which should have produced a clearer recognition. Participants clarified the reasons for low perceptions of susceptibility and the precise content of the beliefs young adults were constructing. Young adults were not consciously and purposefully courting risk and danger. Their common sense knowledge led them to believe they were acting in a safe fashion.

Condom Use From the biomedical perspective, regular condom use is the most effective method of reducing the likelihood of contracting HIV. While the young adults interviewed regularly recited this official knowledge, by and large, condoms were described as being used for contraception, with disease prevention merely a side benefit (Maticka-Tyndale 1991a). Common sense knowledge about condoms included four factors which interfered with their use for HIV protection: the belief that such protection was only necessary if one’s partner was infected, the belief that condoms were not completely reliable, a dislike of condoms, and gender differences in strategies for condom use. In the first instance, condoms were needed, but only if one’s partner was infected. As already illustrated, these young adults’ understanding of AIDS and of their actions led them to believe they had implemented effective strategies for avoiding infected partners. In the second instance, the lower reliability of condoms compared to other contraceptives was cited as evidence of their low reliability as protection against HIV by both men and women. Partner selection was seen as a more reliable form of protection: I really believe a condom wouldn’t really keep you safe from AIDS. They aren’t infallible. You have to know the girl you’re sleeping with, that’s the only way to be sure. And if you suspect anything, that’s it!

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In the third instance, the fact that condoms generally were disliked contributed to their rapid abandonment when they were used.

I don’t know a girl or a guy who likes them. Because it isn’t nice to interrupt the relation to put on a condom. find it silly to see a man covered in a condom.

...I

Finally, the use of condoms primarily for contraception, combined with the rule of HIV prevention through partner selection, and the underlying, though unstated, double standard produced different consequences for women than for men. Women reported facing queries from their partners if they introduced condoms, “Aren’t you on the pill? Why not?” calling on them to account for their actions. For most women, rules regarding condom use were straightforward-condoms were used only when they were not using oral contraceptives. To do otherwise implied they were either questioning the infection status of their partners or of themselves. In both cases this would violate the rule of partner selection, but the latter would also open to question their own position in the context of the new double standard. The full implications of the view of coitus as risky are evident here. These young women courted a risk of pregnancy by using condoms rather than the more effective oral contraceptive, of disease by using oral contraceptives and not condoms, or of emotional harm by openly using condoms for disease prevention. Two of the women interviewed suggested the extremes to which these rules might be taken, while effecting at least some self-protection. Both used oral contraception as well as condoms, but only with casual partners. Condoms were not used with partners who knew them well. Casual partners were not cognizant of the use of oral contraceptives and condoms could be introduced under the guise of contraception. This was not possible with partners the women knew well, however. Thus, they were most able to protect themselves from all three dangerspregnancy, disease and emotional hurt-in casual sexual encounters. Unlike women, men frequently described introducing condoms into new partnerships: I use condoms at first, until I get to know a girl, until I can trust her and know something about her past.

Men did not necessarily violate the rule of “no sex with an infected partner,” but merely added a layer of protection until they “[got] to know,” until they “[could] trust her and know something about her past.” The link between trust and the woman’s past experience recurs. Furthermore, men’s motivation for condom use was never seriously challenged. If a partner said she was “on the pill,’’ the male merely said he wanted to be sure she was “protected’ or “didn’t want anything bad to happen.” In this way, the male partner constructed an image of concern for his partner. For both women and men, self-protection meant deception-the deception that condoms were for contraception. When men’s and women’s ability to protect themselves was compared, however, a definite difference was evident. It was a difference in the image conveyed in the process of self-protection. The male could protect himself while conveying the image that he was protecting his partner. The female who at-

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tempted a similar strategy was seen as impugning her partner’s or her own reputation. In addition, the male did not challenge the rule of “No sex with an infected partner” by introducing condoms, since, he could claim they were for contraception. O n the other hand, the female could only make a claim of condom use for contraception if she was not using oral contraceptives, or hid this use from her partner. If she chose condoms for contraception, she gained protection from HIV, but at an increased risk of contraceptive failure, and with frequent demands that she explain and justify her choice, particularly in light of the common dislike of condoms. Condom use was not as rare or as gender differentiated as portrayed here for all young adults. Some men and women bad incorporated condom use into their sexual practices and described jointly purchasing condoms with their partners. One woman described incorporating condom use into more casual sexual relations in recounting a particular ski club weekend. Boxes of condoms were passed around together with “condom talk,” and “let’s not have any accidents” jokes on the ski bus. In both examples, condoms were the primary method of both contraception and disease prevention. By maintaining a dual use for condoms, neither accusation nor offense were suggested by their use. As in the survey findings, it is clear from the interview results that condom use is embedded in surface rules of sexual activity and HIV prevention. From the interviews, the basis of these rules in the deep structure of gender roles and their consequences for construction of safer-sex standards are apparent. In addition, the significance of partners and peers in reality construction is evident.

Conclusions Risk perception, while modeled as a necessary condition to behavior change in the prevailing theories of health promotion (e.g., Becker 1974; Ajzen and Fishbein 1973), is not elaborated as a concept in its own right. The research findings I present in this chapter suggest that a fuller elaboration of individual constructions of perception of risk and safety, and factors influencing these constructions may improve the explanatory power of theoretical models. This could in turn lead to a better fit between educational programs and those for whom they are designed. Applying Garfinkel’s (1967) perspective on social construction, I examined the common sense knowledge and surface rules constructed by young adults as well as their foundation in the deep structures of our society, particularly with respect to gender. For the young adults in this study, common sense knowledge coincided with the medical perspective of AIDS as fearsome and deadly. It diverged from the medical understanding of AIDS, however, in its personalization of risk and safety. This divergence is central to understanding the safer-sex rules constructed by these young adults. The first personalization was the faith that the scientific and medical communities will find a cure “in time” for these young adults, should they need one. The seriousness of AIDS is thus attenuated, since these young adults do not expect its deadliness to directly affect them. The second personalization is of the source of risk. AIDS is conceptualized as caused by individuals rather than by a virus. Individuals who engage in particular types of sexual

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encounters, unlike those engaged in by the study participants and their peers, are considered a threat. Thus, the single most common rule for protection was to take care in partner selection, restricting coitus to non-infected partners-i.e., people like oneself and one’s peers. Personalizing the source of risk made it difficult for these young adults to perceive of themselves as “at risk,” since risk entails blaming a partner. These two forms of personalization depersonalize the threat of AIDS-it posed a threat to others but not to these young adults. Two aspects of deep structure influence how the rule of “no infected partners” is actually applied: peer alliances and gender norms. As in other research (e.g., Fisher 1988; Traeen, Rise, and Kraft 1989), friends were found both to play a key role in building and maintaining constructions of reality and were central characters in these realities. The apparent absence of HIV infection among peers reinforces the sense of trust in and alliance with peers as a form of protection. If one does only what peers do and restricts coital contacts to the peer group or peer referral system, it is possible to remain free of HIV infection. Condom use is placed in a similar context. When condom use occurs in the context of a peer support system, condoms are acceptable. When peer norms reject condoms, condoms are not used. In addition, the peer group’s role as the repository of information about individuals reinforces reliance on reputation to identify suitable partners, and is a vehicle for enforcement of a gendered double standard. Gender differences in the consequences of coital activity and in expectations regarding sexual conduct affect the construction of HIV prevention strategies, particularly with regard to condoms. Women’s knowledge and strategies of self-protection are located within a context of negative consequences. Women face multiple negative consequences with respect to sexual choices, only one of which is AIDS. Methods of prevention are often mutually exclusive, particularly when gender norms are applied. Women’s paradoxical situation is illustrated most poignantly by those for whom coitus is based on affection. Introduction of condoms into their relationships violates the rule of “no infected partners” since it implies that either the women or their partners are infected. In addition, introducing condoms violates the trust on which those relationships are based. Men do not face a choice between negative consequences, which affords them more power to follow the biomedical prescription. The women who are able to introduce condoms are those whose partners or peers collaborate in condom use. These findings highlight the fact that information conveyed in educational campaigns is transformed by those receiving it. Exploring and understanding these transformations and the factors influencing them in particular groups will help in developing educational programs that better fit the lives of those to whom they are addressed. An improvement in fit will facilitate the incorporation of scientific into common sense knowledge. For those interviewed, blending this knowledge was complicated by the “mixed messages” they received. These included different messages from different interest groups (e.g., those stressing abstention vs. those stressing condom use), new information presented in isolation from its relationship to prior information, and the apparent contradictions between stress on relationships and trust and stress on self-protection. Young adults were left to integrate and interpret these on

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their own, and as a result felt confused and uncertain. The first step in effectively communicating scientific knowledge is to provide a single, fully integrated message which addresses conflict and contradictions and is relevant to the everyday lives of young adults. The second step is recognizing and addressing the impact of a continuing double standard and peer alliances on condom use. In essence, for AIDS prevention programs to effectively reduce the spread of HIV, they must be designed to become part of common sense knowledge. Theoretical models and practical programs of health promotion applied to AIDS prevention are likely to gain in explanatory power and impact by placing sex within the context and deep structure of peer alliances and gendered relationships and by taking account of the ways in which individuals construct their own perceptions and realities.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 39, No. 3, August 1992, pp. 238-52.

0 1992 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

This research was supported through doctoral research grants from the Izaak Walton Killam foundation and the University of Calgary. Many thanks to my co-investigators, Dr. Joseph Levy and Marilyn Bicher, to my research assistant, Helene Gagnon, and to Drs. Marlene Mackie, Mary Valentich, Robert Stebbins, and Leslie Miller for advice during the research process and comments on earlier drafts. Thanks to anonymous reviewers who contributed their time and expert advice toward improving the original draft of this chapter. Correspondence to: Maticka-Tyndale, Department of Psychiatry, Faculty of Medicine, University of Calgary, Foothills Hospital, 1403 29 Street N.W., Calgary, Alberta, Canada T2N 2T9. 1. The city of Montreal includes two dominant cultural groups, French and English. Students receive instruction throughout their schooling in either the French or English language. 2. Credibility, fittingness, and auditability parallel assessments of internal and external validity and reliability when using quantitative data. Credibility is established when study participants recognize the researchers’ interpretations as reflecting their own life experiences. Fittingness is established when audiences view the findings as meaningful and applicable to their own experiences. Both of these require member checks, or presentation of preliminary and final analyses to various audiences to obtain feedback. Auditability is established when another researcher can follow the decision trail of the researcher and come to comparable conclusions. 3. All quotations are presented in English.

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Part V

MARRIAGE AND FAMILIES

Getting married and creating a family of procreation are complex processes that can result in personal troubles of potential social problem status. As is true of all societies, Americans have formal and informal rules about when and whom they can marry. Proscriptions include incest taboos forbidding marriage among certain levels of blood relations and attempts to prevent marriages among people of different races, religions, and ethnic identities. Laws also specify the minimum age at which young people can marry, and health tests typically are required to determine eligibility. Moreover, the marriage must be officially recorded before being considered legally binding, and it must be officially dissolved before it can be considered legally ended. Many problems also surround the process of reproduction, including normative disagreements that arise over whether or not it should occur exclusively within the context of marriage. In addition, some women cannot conceive according to their preferred timetable or at all, while others intend never to become pregnant for reasons important to them. Whole medical, pharmaceutical, and related industries have developed to help both of these problems. In general, American society’s social structure and value system assume that a child will be born to a married, heterosexual couple. Strong but not very effective efforts are made to prevent pregnancies that might result from socially disapproved liaisons or at inappropriate ages. Yet many children are born to young, single mothers and/or to fathers who abandon or refuse to acknowledge them. Even the presence of a parent in a child’s life does not guarantee adequate economic, physical, social, or emotional parenting. While many social scientists and producers of mass media document that men and women share unequally in the physical and social care of their offspring, American social norms largely assume that the family arrangement of the 1950s still exists and is ideal for rearing children. In examining this premise, Hochschild (1989) observed how “modern” parents actually move and work in their homes. Her findings show that despite the perception of equally shared child care responsibilities, mothers are more aware and responsive to the child’s needs than fathers. Indeed, most men have to be asked to “help” with some aspects of child care or domestic labor. Consistent with Hochschilds findings, Susan Walzer argues in “Thinking about the Baby: Gender and Divisions of Infant Care” (chapter 8) that the social transition into parenthood is experienced differently by fathers and mothers even during pregnancy. Preparation for infant and child care involves advanced thinking and planning, feeling, managing thoughts, and mental role-playing of future responsibilities. These emotions and role rehearsals are not shared equally by gender. Qualitative interviews 137

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of fifiy mothers and fathers showed that women’s heightened sense of worry about caring for a newborn can create enormous tension in the marriage and ultimately affect the new family unit. Mothers who quit or cut back on paid employment for infant care typically become economically dependent upon their husbands, a circumstance that can unequally weight marital decision making. Also, women’s sense of identity and self-worth tend to diminish when they perceive that the self-sacrifices and work they perform for home and family are invisible and devalued. Conflicts can occur when the parent of either sex feels underappreciated (Hochschild 1989). The tensions created by such stressors can produce a variety of negative outcomes, including sexual abuse and physical or social battering-and most often the wife/ mother or child is the victim. Statistically, men are more likely than women to commit sexual abuse. Male relatives or a mother’s boyfriend are more common abusers than strangers, The fear, powerlessness, lack of self-esteem, or simple avoidance that stop some women from preventing their own or their children’s abuse have become acknowledged as social problems. Neglect and failure to provide for the care and survival of a child also have been defined as forms of abuse, two conditions likely to occur among fathers and offspring following divorce. According to Jay Teachman (chapter 9), only about 10 percent of divorces end with joint custody of children by parents. “Contributions to Children by Divorced Fathers” documents the infrequency with which divorced fathers make any of one of eight types of contributions to the welfare of their children. Findings show that only 43 percent of divorced fathers regularly pay child support, and only one in four fathers attends school events or helps their children with homework. Meanwhile, any provision of paternal support typically occurs multiplicably. That is, fathers who regularly make child-support payments also are likely to contribute other forms of assistance. The relationship of the parents to each other appears to primarily influence the amount and kind of child care that divorced fathers provide. For the most part, American society and its communities largely ignore the plight of children and parents caught in “unusual” circumstances such as serious economic and social difficulties. Unlike other times and places in the world where extended families and village-like communities customarily stepped in, few persons or groups in the United States take responsibility for caring for “other people’s children.” As Kaplan’s (1996) research on black teenage mothers shows, even those intergenerational families that assume such responsibility do so with feelings of unfairness and burden. In a study of how poor families make ends meet, Kathryn Edin (1991) documented the effects of the American welfare system prior to recent legislation that reduced or removed even this low level of assistance. Edin found that welfare mothers disliked being on public aid. Lacking the necessary skills for adequate employment, they could not find work that paid sufficient wages to meet their expenses. Meanwhile, surviving on AFDC (Aid to Families with Dependent Children) payments demanded a variety of means. To make ends meet, most recipients depended upon irregular and undependable funds from friends, family, boyfriends, absent fathers, and other people, as well as low-paying work in the regular or underground economy. Public assistance regulations forced them to hide these extra sources of income to avoid having their

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benefits reduced, an outcome that would leave them deeply in debt or unable to provide adequately for themselves and their children. They disliked lying and feared being caught, but circumstances forced them to do so. Such powerlessness and forced duplicity made developing and maintaining positive self-feelings and self-concepts difficult.

References Edin, Kathryn. 1991. “Surviving the Welfare System: How AFDC Recipients Make Ends Meet in Chicago.” Social Problems 38 (4):462-74. Hochschild, Arlie. 1989. The Second Shzji: Working Parents and the Revolution at Home. New York: Viking Penguin. Kaplan, Elaine Bell. 1996. “Black Teenage Mothers and Their Mothers: The Impact of Adolescent Childbearing on Daughters’ Relations with Mothers.” Social Problems 43(4):427-43.

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CHAPTER 8

Thinking about the Baby GENDER AND DIVISIONS OF INFANT CARE Susan Walzer

The tendency for women and men to become more differentiated from each other in work and family roles upon becoming parents has been documented in longitudinal studies of transitions into parenthood (see summaries in Belsky and Kelly 1994; Cowan and Cowan 1992). New mothers are more apt than new fathers to leave or curtail their employment (Belsky and Kelly 1994). And despite couples’ previous intentions (Cowan and Cowan 1992), mothers provide more direct care to babies than fathers do (Belsky and Volling 1987; Berman and Pedersen 1987; Dickie 1987; Thompson and Walker 1989). Fathers tend to act as “helpers” to mothers, who not only spend more time interacting with babies, but planning for them as well (LaRossa 1986). This pattern of increased gender differentiation following the birth of a baby has been associated with decreases in marital satisfaction, particularly for wives (Belsky, Lang, and Huston 1986; Cowan and Cowan 1988; Harriman 1985; Ruble et al. 1988). A number of researchers have interpreted new mothers’ marital dissatisfaction as connected with “violated expectations” of more shared parenting (Belsky 1985; Belsky, Lang, and Huston 1986; Ruble et al. 1988), although some researchers express surprise that wives expect so much in the first place (Ruble et al. 1988). Nevertheless, traditional divisions of household labor have been implicated in marital stress following the birth of a first baby (Belsky, Lang, and Huston 1986; Schuchts and Witkin 1989). In this paper I focus on the more invisible, mental labor that is involved in taking care of a baby and suggest that gender imbalances in this form of baby care play a particular role in reproducing differentiation between mothers and fathers and stimulating marital tension. My use of the term “mental” labor is meant to distinguish the thinking, feeling, and interpersonal work that accompanies the care of babies from physical tasks, as has been done in recent studies of household labor (see, e.g., Hochschild 1989; DeVault 1991; Mederer 1993).’ I include in the general category of mental labor what has been referred to as “emotion” work, “thought” work, and “invisible” work (Hochschild 1983; DeVault 1991); that is, I focus on aspects of baby care that involve thinking or feeling, managing thoughts or feelings, and that are not necessarily perceived as work by the person performing it (DeVault 1991). 141

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Using qualitative data from interviews with 50 new mothers and fathers (25 couples), this paper describes three categories of mental baby care and suggests that the tendency for mothers to take responsibility for this kind of work is an underrecognized stress on marriages as well as a primary way in which mothering and fathering are reproduced as gendered experiences. While the tendency for mothers to feel ultimately responsible for babies has been identified in other studies (see, e.g., McMahon 1999, this paper describes some of the interactional and institutional contexts within which differences between maternal and paternal responsibilities are reproduced. I suggest that the way that new parents divide the work of thinking about their babies reflects an accountability to socially constructed and institutionalized differentiation between women and men.

Data and Method The data grounding this discussion are from a qualitative interview study of 50 mothers and fathers who had become new parents approximately one year before the time of the data collection. The sample was located through birth announcements published in the local newspaper of a small city in upstate New York. This method for locating new parents was an attempt to improve upon the self-selection bias present in many studies of transitions to parenthood in which voluntary samples are generated through obstetrics practices, childbirth classes, or community announcements. Preliminary letters were sent in stages telling potential respondents about the study and inviting them to be interviewed. These letters were then followed with a phone call to answer any questions and schedule interviews. The response rate for those couples who received letters, were reached by telephone, and fit the sample parameters was 68 percent. The parents in the sample ranged in age from 21 to 44 years old and the age of the babies ranged from 11 to 18 months. Fourteen of the babies were boys and 1 1 were girls. Fifteen of the pregnancies were planned while 10 were not. Twenty-three of the couples in the sample were married while two were not. Four of the fathers and three of the mothers had had a previous marriage. All of the parents in the sample had finished high school or a GED, 23 had a college degree, 4 had masters degrees, and 2 had professional degrees. The median family income range was $40,000-49,999 with 6 families under $30,000 and five over $75,000. Two couples reported having received some public assistance. About 40 percent of the sample described growing up in households that could be characterized as poor to working class while 60 percent grew up in middle- to upper middle-class households. Ten of the mothers were employed full time, 7 were employed part time, and 2 were students. Six of the mothers described themselves as stay-at-home mothers, although two of them provided regular baby-sitting for pay. All except one of the fathers were employed at the time of the interview. In most cases, wives and husbands were interviewed on the same occasion, first separately and with as much privacy as possible, and then more briefly together upon

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the completion of their separate interviews. Interview sessions ranged from two to four hours long. In three cases, wives and husbands were interviewed on separate occasions. All of the interviews took place in the couples’ homes except for one father who requested an interview in his workplace. The data used in this paper are part of a larger data set about new parents’ transitions into parenthood. The interview protocol was serni-structured and designed to elicit parents’ experiences of having become mothers or fathers as well as to discuss possible influences on the nature of their transitions into parenthood. All of the interviews were taped and then transcribed, coded, and analyzed using a constant comparative method (see Glaser and Strauss 1967). This paper represents data and analysis that emerged during the course of this grounded theoretical study.

Thinking about the Baby as “Women’s Work” Three categories of mental labor associated with taking care of a baby surfaced in my respondents’ reports: worrying, processing information, and managing the division of labor (see also Ehrensaft 1987; LaRossa and LaRossa 1989).

WORRYING In this section I contextualize the disproportionate amount of worrying that new mothers do in interactional dynamics between mothers and fathers; that is, I suggest that mothers worry about babies, in part, because fathers do not. In this sense my analysis emphasizes other dynamics surrounding worrying besides the internalization of gendered personality differences (as in Ehrensaft’s 1987 account).2 I also suggest that gender differences in whether and how new parents worry are linked to socially constructed expectations for mothers and fathers to which new parents feel accountable (see West and Fenstermaker 1993 on the role of accountability in reproducing gender). The “mental” experience of being a new mother-thinking about the baby, worrying “about everything’-is one that many of the women in my sample shared (see also Ehrensaft 1987; Hays 1993):

I don’t walk around like a time bomb ready to explode. I don’t want you to think that. It’s just that I’ve got this stuff in the back of my head all the time. I worry about her getting cavities in teeth that are not even gonna be there for her whole life. Everything is so important to me now. I worry about everything. It’s like now you have this person and you’re always responsible for them, the baby. You can have a sitter and go out and have a break, but in the back of your mind, you’re still responsible for that person. You’re always thinking about that person.

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These new mothers described thinking about their babies as something that mothers do: “Mothers worry a lot.” Worrying was such an expected part of mothering that the absence of it might challenge one’s definition as a good mother. One of my respondents described returning to her job and feeling on her first day back that she should be worrying about her baby. She said that she had to “remind” herself to check on how her baby was doing at the baby-sitter’s “or I’d be a bad mother.” Fathers do not necessarily think about their children while they are at work o r worry that this reflects on them as parents (Ehrensaft 1987). My respondents did not report feeling like “bad” fathers if they took their minds off of their babies; some even expressed stress when their babies had to have their attention: Sitting two hours playing with him, when I first did it was like, this is a waste of my time. I said, “I have more important things to do.” And I’m still thinking, “Look at the time I’ve spent with him. What would I have done otherwise?”

This father’s concern with his perceived lack of productivity while spending time with his baby might be a response to the social construction of fathers’ roles as primarily economic (see Benson 1968; Thompson and Walker 1989). Another new father in my sample described a sense of loss about time he missed with his baby when he had to travel for work, “but,” he said, “it goes back to the idea of being a father . . . I do think in a traditional sense where I’m the father, I’m the husband, it’s my job to support the family.” A couple I will call Brendan and Eileen illustrate the relationship between parental worry and social constructions of motherhood and fatherhood. Brendan and Eileen both have professionaUmanageria1 careers, each reporting salaries of more than $75,000. When Eileen had to travel for work, Brendan would function as Jimmy’s primary caregiver. But when she was home, Eileen wanted to do “the baby stuff.” She referred to her care giving of Jimmy as her “stake” in his life: This is going to be hard to say. It’s really important to me that Jimmy understands I’m his mother, whatever that means, because I’m probably not a traditional mother by any stretch.

When I asked what it means to her for Jimmy to know that she’s his mother, Eileen responded: It means that if I come home some night and he’s with [his] day care [provider] and he doesn’t want to leave her, it’ll kill me, is what it means. So I don’t know if the rest of this is trying to ensure that doesn’t happen. I don’t h o w if the rest is trying to ensure that I have that very special role with him.

For Eileen, anything that she was not doing for Jimmy had the potential to damage her “special role” with him. If she was not the most special person to him, she was inadequate as a mother-something she noted that Brendan did not feel. She connected these concerns with what she referred to as “the good mother image”:

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“She’s somehow all nurturing and all present and always there.” And she added: “Now, I’m not even going to be able to have a shot at it because I’m not a lot of those things.” Brendan said that his behavior with Jimmy was not driven by guilt and anxiety as he perceived Eileen’s to be:

I think she feels that need. She wants to be a good mother . . . Being a father, it’s not a guilt thing. It’s not like I’m going to do this because I don’t want to be a bad daddy. Brendan noted that his relationship with Jimmy was based on h n while he perceived Eileen’s actions to be driven by insecurity. Eileen recognized that her concerns made her less of a good mother in Brendan’s eyes. “I think his issue with me as a mother is that I worry a lot. The fact is that I do, but I also think mothers worry a lot.” Although Eileen worried that she couldn’t march the good mother image she described herself as “absolutely” buying into, worrying itself made her feel like a good mother. Why is worrying associated with being a mother? I suggest two general reasons, which generate two kinds of worry. The first reason is that worrying is an integral part of taking care of a baby; it evokes, for example, the scheduling of medical appointments, babyproofing, a change in the baby’s diet. There appears to be a connection between taking responsibility for physical care and carrying thoughts that reinforce the care (see Coltrane 1989; Ruddick 1983). This kind of worry, which I refer to as “baby worry, ” is generated by the question: What does the baby need? And babies need a lot. As Luxton (1980:lOl) points out, women are often anxious because babies are “so totally dependent” and perceived as highly vulnerable to illness and i n j ~ r y . ~ A second reason that new mothers worry is, as I suggest above, because they are expected to, and because social norms make it difficult for mothers to know whether they are doing the right thing for their babies. I call this “mother worry, ” and it is generated by the question: Am I being a good mother? While it has been suggested that mothers are more identified with their children than fathers are (Ehrensafi 1987), I suggest that mothers’ worrying is induced by external as well as by internal mechanisms. That is, perhaps mothers experience their children as extensions of themselves as Ehrensaft (1987) argues, but mothers are also aware that their children are perceived by others as reflecting on them. Mothers worry, in part, because they are concerned with how others evaluate them as mothers:

I think that people don’t look at you and say, “oh there’s a good mother,” but they will look at people and say, “oh there’s a bad mother.” Being a mother I worry about what everyone else is going to think.

The mother jusr quoted perceived mothers as uniquely responsible for their children’s behavior, and even street violence: The behavior of the child reflects the mother’s parenting . . . I mean kids, you have all these things with kids shooting people, and I blame it on . . . mothers not being around.

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The association of mothers with worrying provides a source of differentiation between mothers and fathers and presents women with a paradox, often played out in interactions with their male partners. Worrying is associated with irrationality and unnecessary anxiety, and some fathers suggested that their partners worried too much about their babies: Sometimes I say, “He’s fine, he’s fine,” but he’s not fine enough for her.

However, worrying is perceived as something that “good” mothers do. A number of fathers made an explicit connection between good mothering and their wives’ mental vigilance: She’s a very good mother. She worries a lot. She’s always concerned about how she’s doing or she’s always worried about if [child’s] feelings are hurt or did she say something wrong to her.

This paradoxical message-good mothers worry; worrying too much isn’t goodunderlies the tendency for mothers to worry and for fathers to express ambivalence about their worrying. One mother described a division of labor in which she was stressed and got things done while her husband’s job was to tell her to lighten up: I’m the one who stresses out more. He is very laid back. He doesn’t worry about things. In fact he procrastinates. And I’m the one, run run run run run. . . . But one of us has to get things done on time and the other one has to keep the other one from totally losing it and make them be more relaxed. So it kind of balances us out.

A father described the care that his wife’s worrying ensures for their baby while also suggesting that some of it might be unnecessary: She worries a lot. I’m probably too easygoing, but she makes sure he goes to the doctor, makes sure he has fluoride, makes sure he has all of his immunizations. She’s hypervigilant to any time he might be acting sick. She’s kind of that way herself. I kid her about being a hypochondriac. She makes sure he gets to bed on time, makes sure he’s eating enough, whereas I’m a little more lackadaisical on that.

In both of these cases, as with Brendan and Eileen, the respondents described a kind of balance between the mother and father: The mother worries, the father doesn’t; his job, in fact, might be to tell her not to worry. This dynamic reinforces a gendered division of mental labor. Although there is a subtext that the mother’s worrying is unnecessary andlor neurotic, she does not stop. In fact, the suggestion that the mother “relax” serves to reinforce her worrying because although she does not recognize it as work, she does recognize that worrying gets things done for the baby. If the father offered to share the worrying rather than telling the mother to stop, the outcome might be quite different. While I would not argue that it is possible for a baby to be cared for without having some assortment of adults performing “baby worry,” the “mother worry” I

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have described here is heightened in our society by assumptions that good parenting is done exclusively and privately by a mother (with perhaps some “help” from a father) and that veering from this model may have severe consequences for children (see Coontz 1992 for a critique of “American standards of childrearing”). Examining another area of mental labor-the work of processing “expert” information about baby care-further reveals the norms attached to the work of thinking about babies.

PROCESSING INFORMATION: “WHAT TO EXPECT” LaRossa and LaRossa (1989) make a direct connection between the fact that wives tend to buy and read how-to books on parenting and their being “in charge” of the baby. Because mothers read the books more thoroughly, they are more informed, and both parents assume that the mother will orchestrate and implement the care: “Her purchase of the books reflects what is generally accepted: Babies are ‘women’s work‘ ” (LaRossa and LaRossa 1989:144). In this section, I suggest that processing information about baby care is itself part of the work of taking care of a baby. I also argue that the assumption that mothers will do this work is embedded and reinforced in the “information” that mothers get from expert advice (see also Hays 1993). There are a number of steps that may be involved in the mental labor of processing information about babies: 1) Deciding on the need for advice 2) Locating the advice (often from more than one source) 3) ReadingAistening to the advice 4) Involving/instructing one’s partner 5 ) Contemplating and assessing the advice 6) Planning for the implementation of the advice What I label here as steps 1-3 are carried out by mothers usually (LaRossa and LaRossa 1989; Hays 1993). In my sample, 23 out of 25 of the mothers reported reading parenting literature while 5 of the 25 fathers did. Step 4 occurs in a number of variations: Mothers tell fathers what to read; mothers tell fathers specifically what they have read; mothers tell fathers what to do based on their own reading. These approaches to disseminating information were apparent in my sample: He would say, “Well you’re the mother, so what’s the answer here?” And I said, “What do you think I have that I would know just because I’m the mother?” But I would do a lot more reading. Sarah [wife] has read quite a few and I just pretty much go with her. She hasn’t really told me I’m doing anything wrong. Every once in a while she might pull something out and show me if she found something she thinks I should read, but I usually don’t have time.

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Step 5-contemplation and assessment of the advice-is often complicated, since what women find in advice books is ideology as well as information. According to a content analysis performed by Hays (1993; see also Marshall 1991), underlying the advice provided by child care experts is an “ideology of intensive mothering” that, among other things, holds individual mothers primarily responsible for child-rearing and treats mothering as expert-guided, emotionally absorbing, and labor-intensive. Mothers therefore take responsibility for gathering information from sources that reinforce their primary responsibility for the care of babies. As described by one respondent below, mothers have to confront the ideology underlying the advice in order to assess whether they can or want to implement it (Step 6). The book relied on by a majority of the mothers in my sample was What to Expect the First Year (Eisenberg, Murkoff, and Hathaway 1989), a book that one of the authors writes was conceived to address new mothers’ “numerous worries.” Several of the women in my sample referred to it as their “bible,” and, because it is not included in content analyses of expert advice books (see, e.g., Hays 1993; Marshall 1991), I include some excerpts in this chapter. These excerpts illustrate how gendered divisions of mental labor are reinforced on an institutional level through “expert” advice for new parents. The book is divided into two main parts-“The First Year” and “Of Special Concern”-and has a third “Ready Reference” section at the end. “Becoming a Father” is the 25th of 26 chapters in the book and is included in the issues “of special concern.” Much of the information given throughout the book is in the form of answers to specific questions that are presented with quotation marks, as if particular mothers had asked them. One of the mothers in my sample who preferred What to Expect over other books nevertheless had questions about its “accuracy.” Her statements were sarcastic in response to the book‘s advice about the effort that mothers should exert to see that their babies eat healthy foods: I like to read What to Expect. Although I don’t think they’re too accurate . . . So your baby should be doing this and the other thing. And never give

him any white sugar. Don’t give him any cookies. Make sure they’re muffins made from fruit juice. Yeah, okay. I’ll just pop off in the kitchen and make some muffins.

Following are the comments that open a consideration of when to introduce solid foods to a baby-something that a father can do whether or not the baby is being breast-fed: The messages that today’s new mother receives about when to start feeding solids are many and confbsing. . . . Whom do you listen to? Does mother know best? Or doctor? Or friends? (Eisenberg, Murkoff, and Hathaway

1989:202)

This passage illustrates the mental labor that is expected to accompany the introduction of solid foods: choosing when to do it, consulting with others about the issue, making a decision about whose advice to take. It also presumes that it is the mother

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who is making the decision in consultation with her mother, doctor, friends, yet her male partner is not mentioned. The one chapter addressed to fathers begins with the following question from a presumably typical father: “I gave up a lot of my favorite foods when my wife was pregnant so I could support her efforts to eat right for our baby. But enough’s enough. Now that our son’s here, shouldn’t I be able to eat what I like?” (Eisenberg, Murkoff, and Hathaway 1989:591)

The tone of the question suggests that the father is getting guff from someone about his diet. Implication: It may not be only babies whose diets new mothers need to worry about. Regardless of who is nagging this father, the question suggests that fathers will not be independently motivated to eat a healthy diet in the interest of their babies and themselves (although given the comments of the mother in my sample, this father may just want some cookies and white sugar in his diet). As Hays (1993) points out, authors of advice books may not have created gender differentiation in parenting responsibility, but they certainly play a role in reproducing it. Mothers in my sample who already felt that they had the primary responsibility for their babies did not get any disagreement from the advice book they consulted most frequently about “what to expect”: If your husband, for whatever reason, fails to share the load with you, try to understand why this is so and to communicate clearly where you stand. Don’t expect him to change overnight, and don’t let your resentment when he doesn’t trigger arguments and stress. Instead explain, educate, entice; in time, he’ll meet you-partway, if not all the way (Eisenberg, Murkoff, and Hathaway 1989545).

This advice directs women to do “emotion work” (Hochschild 1983) to contain their responses to their husbands’ lack of participation. Rather than experiencing stress or conflict, new mothers are directed to keep a lid on their feelings and focus on instructing and enticing their husbands into participation (and after all this, not to expect equity). This kind of “advice” provides reinforcement for new parents’ gendered divisions of mental labor, including the tendency for mothers to have the responsibility for getting the advice in the first place. The suggestion from these experts that new mothers should not argue with or expect equity from their husbands may also be a factor in the decreases in marital satisfaction that some experience.

MANAGING THE DIVISION OF LABOR In this section I expand the concept of “managing” that has already been applied to infant care in past studies and suggest that it is not only the baby’s appointments and supplies that mothers tend to manage (Belsky and Kelly 1994), but their babies’ fathers as well (see also Ehrensafi 1987). To use the language from What to Expect the

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First Year, “enticing’ fathers into helping out with their babies is another invisible, mental job performed by new mothers, as one respondent said of her husband: Peter is very good at helping out if I say, “Peter, I’m tired, I’m sick, you’ve got to do this for me, you’ve got to do that,” that’s fine, he’s been more than willing to do that.

Even in situations in which fathers report that they and their partners split tasks equally, mothers often have the extra role of delegating the work, as the following fathers in my sample indicate (Coltrane 1989 and Ehrensaft 1987 also describe “manager-helper’’ dynamics in couples who “share” the care of children): I don’t change her [diaper] too often-as much as I can get out of it. Then at night either one of us will give him a bath. She’ll always give him a bath, or if she can’t, she’ll tell me to do it because I won’t do it unless she tells me, but if she asks me to do it I’ll do it.

These quotes from two fathers, who perceived that they split tasks equally with their partners, reflect a division of labor in which the mothers are the ultimate managers. Both of these fathers had described themselves as sharing tasks with their wives-when their wives told them to. Diaper changes were a particular area in which enticing was evident: I mean diapering, that’s hard to say. He won’t volunteer, but if I say, “Honey, she needs a diaper change, could you do it?” he does it. It took me a little while to get him to change the nasty diapers . . . but now he changes ’em all. He’s a pro.

Mothers also made decisions about when not to delegate: I do diapers. Joel can’t handle it well. You know, he does diapers too, but not if there’s poop in them. I’m pretty much in charge of that, which is fine because it’s really not that big of a deal. And she’s more, it seems like she’s easier for me than she is for him when it comes to diapering ’cause I just all the time do it, you know? The mother just quoted illustrates how habitual patterns become perceived as making sense-doing becomes a kind of knowing (Daniels 1987; DeVault 1991)just as being the one to read the book makes the mother the expert. Another woman described how her husband sits and eats while she “knows” what is involved in feeding their baby (and him): I know what has to be done. I know that like when we sit down for dinner, she [child] has to have everything cut up, and then you give it to her, you know, where he sits down and he eats his dinner. Then I have to get everything on the table, get her stuff all done. By the time I’m starting to eat, he’s almost finished. Then I have to clean up and I also have to get her cleaned up and I know that like she’ll always have to have a bath, and if

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she has to have a bath and if I need him to give it to her, “Can you do it?” I have to ask . . . because he just wouldn’t do it if I didn’t ask him. You know, it’s just assumed that he doesn’t have to do it.

While on one level it appears that women are “in charge” of the division of labor, the assumption of female responsibility means that, on another level, men are in it is only with their permission and cooperation that mothers can charge-because relinquish their duties. One mother talked about feeling that she had to check with her husband before making plans that did not include their baby, while her husband did not check with her first. She described herself asking her husband, “Can I do this in 3 weeks?” Another young woman complained that her partner would leave the house while their child was taking a nap: It’s always the father that can just say, “Okay, I’m gonna go.” Well I obviously can’t leave, he’s ready for a nap, you know? It’s nap time. Mommy seems to always have to stay. I think that fathers have more freedom.

These statements go against suggestions that mothers may not want to relinquish control to their male partners because motherhood is a source of power for women (see, e.g., Kranichfeld 1987). What is powerful, perhaps, is the desire of mothers to be perceived as good mothers, and this may be what they feel they are trading off if they are not taking responsibility for the care of their babies. While mothers may instruct their husbands to do things, the data here suggest that husbands’ responses to and compliance with orders are not compulsory (see also DeVault 1991). Fathers who considered themselves equal participants in the division of labor would use the fact that they were “willing” to do diapers as an example: We each will do whatever we have to do. It’s not like I won’t change diapers.

Mothers did not necessarily see any baby task as optional for them: It’s kind of give and take. As far as diaper changing, I think I do more It’s not one of his favorite tasks.

...

Women are the “bosses” in the sense that they carry the organizational plan and delegate tasks to their partners, but they manage without the privileges of paid managers. Their ultimate responsibility for baby care may, in fact, disempower them in relation to their husbands, since for many women it means a loss of economic power (see Blumberg and Coleman 1989) and greater dependence on their male partners (LaRossa and LaRossa 1989; Waldron and Routh 1981).

Mental Baby Care and Marital,Changes While having a baby may foster greater dependence by women on their husbands, Belsky and Kelly (1994) report that new mothers are often disappointed by the level

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of emotional support they get from their husbands. I suggest that women’s disproportionate responsibility for mental baby care plays an important role in generating women’s dissatisfaction. Mothers in my sample were not necessarily appreciated and were even criticized by their partners for worrying; the advice they were in charge of getting told them not to be open with their husbands about their experiences; and their sense of being ultimately responsible for their babies’ care affected their access to other sources of validation and power, such as paid work and social networks. One of the primary ways in which women’s sense of responsibility for babies surfaced was in decisions they made about employment. In my sample, many women changed their paid work patterns, quitting jobs or cutting back their hours (see also Cowan and Cowan 1992). These changes had implications for the balance of power in their marriages: It’s funny now because he is the breadwinner so there have been opportunities where he has interviewed for positions, had opportunities to relocate and get a better position and the money was better. You’re just put in a position where you have to just follow. Before when we were both working we would talk it out. I’d say, “No, I want to stay here.” And now you really can’t.

O n an institutional level, men’s bigger pay checks and women’s experiences of low-wage, low-prestige jobs structured some of my respondents’ traditional parenting arrangements. But there were also women in my sample, such as Eileen, who made as much money as their husbands and were very satisfied with their jobs, yet felt that they had to answer for their work in ways that their husbands did not. Laura, for example, described her decision to let go of a part of her job that she enjoyed the most because she did not want to see her baby at the sitter for more hours: I can’t do that, I can’t emotionally. I probably could, we’d have to pay more money for the sitter, but I don’t want him at the sitter like for 10 hours a day. To me, that’s, I’m doing something that I want to do, but in the long run I’m hurting him, you know? In my mind, I think that.

Laura’s husband, Stuart, had not cut back on any parts of his job and was struggling with maintaining his performance in extracurricular activities:

I either want to be involved and do it the right way or I almost don’t want to be involved at all. Because I don’t want to do a less than good job.

Laura did not mention how the hours required by Stuart’s activities influenced the time spent by their child at the baby-sitter’s, but she did acknowledge that her marriage was stressed by her resentment of her husband’s “freedom.” Even though both Laura and Stuart were employed and made similar wages, Laura felt more directly accountable for their baby’s care. She could not allow herself to stay at work, she said, because it would hurt their baby: “In my mind, I think that.” What Laura resented perhaps is that her husband was free from these kinds of thoughts. Women’s disappointment with their partners may stem from their loneliness in

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particular with the thinking they do about their babies. One woman in my sample, who did not question her primary responsibility for baby care, was upset by her perception that her husband did not recognize what goes on inside her head (emphases added): It really hurts, because he doesn’t know how high my intentions or whatever or goals for being a good mom are . . . (crying) He doesn’t know what I think and when he’s at work he doesn’t know when she starts screaming and throwing fits, or pulling everything out of the dishwasher when I’m trying to load it, and I’ve got all this in the back of my head that I have to do for school, and the house is a mess, and supper’s not cooked and he’ll be home in 30 minutes. He doesn t know that I have to keep telling myself“Be calm. Love your chihi. ” You know? He doesn’t know. So I just get upset when sometimes I really think he would say, “Well she could be a better mom.”

Hochschild (1989) notes that when couples experience conflict about housework, it is generally not simply about who does what, but about who should be grateful to whom. This “economy of gratitude,” Hochschild suggests, relates to how individuals define what should be expected of them as men and women. Applying this notion to divisions of baby care, if mental labor is defined as an idiosyncrasy of mothers rather than as work, there is nothing for a man to feel grateful for if his wife does it. If fathers are seen as doing mothers a favor when they participate in baby care, fathers will receive more appreciation from their partners than they give back, which may contribute to new mothers’ disappointment in the lack of emotional support they receive from their husbands (Belsky and Kelly 1994). Mothers’ sense of responsibility may also keep them from other sources of support, which is another factor that puts stress on their marriages. Several of the mothers in my sample reported that their ability to keep up with social networks was affected by their sense of needing to get home to their babies. Women who lost contact with work or other social networks became more aware of what they did not get from their husbands: I need him sometimes to be my girlfriend and he’s not. . . . I feel sorry for him because he wasn’t ready for that. . . . You don’t realize how much you need those other people until you see them less frequently.

Decreases in new mothers’ marital satisfaction, I am suggesting, are related both to the lack of recognition and sharing of mental labor by their husbands and to the loss of independence and support from other people that mothers’ exclusive mental responsibility generates. If men and women who become parents together shared the mental labor associated with taking care of a baby, neither one would be “free,” but perhaps neither one would be ~ n h a p p y . ~

Invisible Work and Doing Gender

One prominent explanation for gendered divisions of baby care in general is that the capacity to soothe or respond to a baby’s hunger is more innate in mothers than

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fathers, yet it is not clear why a new mother would feel more worried and driven to read baby-care books if she has more “natural” ability. While the notion that mothers and fathers differ in caretaking competence has been refuted by some research (see, e.g., Parke and Sawin 1976), even those social scientists who argue for the salience of sex differences in caretaking capacity suggest that societies will ascribe more or less meaning to these differences. In Rossi’s (1 985) “biosocial” approach, biological and cultural factors interact in determining male and female parenting roles. In this discussion I focus on the cultural part of this equation and examine the role of gender in the reproduction of differentiation between new mothers and fathers. As discussed, new parents experience distinct and different norms attached to motherhood and fatherhood. While fatherhood is equated foremost with economic provision, motherhood is socially constructed as a “constant and exclusive responsibility” (Thompson and Walker 1989:860). These norms have been linked in sociohistorical accounts with Western, dichotomized images of public and private, work and love, that became especially pronounced during nineteenth-century industrialization. As manufacturing took paid work out of households, the “public” sphere of the economy and state became perceived as a male sphere and economic provision the job of fathers, while women were left (at least ideologically if not in reality) to the “private” domain of the household and children (see Glenn 1994; Osmond and Thorne 1993). This ideology continues to be reflected in pay inequity, occupational segregation, and other gendered workplace processes that both assume and reinforce divisions of labor in which women take primary responsibility for families (Reskin and Padavic 1994). The devaluation of “women’s work,” both paid and unpaid, has been a particular point of entry for the feminist argument that the ideological separation of public and private, production from reproduction, is a source of exploitation of women (see, e.g., Hartmann 1981). One question that has puzzled social scientists, however, is why many women do not experience their disproportionate responsibility for household labor as oppressive (Berk 1985; Thompson 199 1; Thompson and Walker 1989). The theoretical answers to this question are relevant for understanding divisions of mental baby care. DeVault (1991:11) suggests, for example, that women often do not recognize feeding their families as work because it is perceived as “embedded in family relations,” “part of being a parent . . . or of being a wife.” The notion that housework is considered to be an integral part of being a wife is reinforced by South and Spitze’s (1994) finding in their analysis of housework patterns across marital statuses that married couples have the highest gender gaps in housework. Studies of divisions of housework provide support for the theoretical notion that imbalances in household labor when men and women live together is a way in which they “do gender” (West and Zimmerman 1987); that is, they construct their social identities as “women” and “men” through their performance (or not) of “women’s work’ (Berk 1985; DeVault 1991). The fact that much of the mental work associated with household labor is invisible to the women who do it reinforces the notion that it is simply part of their identities and something for which they are perceived as having a “natural” propensity (Daniels 1987). For women to not do this work might challenge their social definition as women.

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Taking responsibility for babies is socially constructed as “women’s work,” and men and women participate in reproducing this construction through their interactions with each other. One of the women in my sample said of what it means to be “the wife and mother”:

If I hear him [baby] cry during the night, I’m more apt to get right up than Jake. Or if it’s time to get up in the morning and I hear him, I’m more apt to get up and go get him. Jake is more apt to stay in bed and see what happens. According to this respondent, “wives and mothers” do not wait to see if their male partners will take care of the baby. Her husband agreed that although they share their baby’s care, his wife does “a little more . . . because she is his mother.” In a hypothetical game of “chicken,” in which the winner is the parent who can wait longer for the other parent to take responsibility for a baby’s needs, it is difficult for mothers not to lose. There is a much greater threat to their social identities as mothers than there is for fathers if, in any particular moment, they are not taking responsibility for their baby (see also McMahon 1995). One explanation for why new parents reproduce differentiated images of mothering and fathering therefore is because they feel accountable to these already established images, “to normative conceptions regarding the essential womanly nature of child care” (West and Fenstermaker 1993:165). Perhaps more than any other aspect of gender, Glenn (19943) suggests, mothering is perceived as “natural, universal, and unchanging,” and in this sense, worrying and knowing about the baby may be constructed simply as part of being a mother in the way that feeding the family is. As with the invisible parts of feeding, men and women becoming parents differentiate themselves as “mothers” and “fathers” by how much they think (or think they should think) about their babies. I am suggesting here a different spin on new parents’ apparent identification with gender-differentiated parental functions. Ehrensafi (1987), for example, suggests that men perceive fathering as something they “do,” while women experience mothering as something they “are.” Cowan and Cowan (1992) report that new mothers experience a subsuming of themselves into mothering while new fathers become more preoccupied with their abilities as breadwinners. Rather than simply identifying with gender-differentiated images of mothers and fathers, I suggest that new parents feel accountable to these images and reinforce their partner’s accountability to these images in order to accomplish parenting and gender at the same time (see Fenstermaker, West, and Zimmerman 1991; West and Fenstermaker 1993). Whether still employed or not, being in charge of baby care places mothers in a different relationship to paid work than their male partners, whose accountability to the breadwinner image may induce more distance between themselves and their babies. A father can be perceived as a “good” father without thinking about his baby; in fact, his baby may pose a distraction to his doing what he is expected to do. Mothers, on the other hand, are expected to think about their babies. They perform a disproportionate amount of mental baby care not because they are “good’ mothers, but in order to be.

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Conclusion This discussion has been an attempt to suggest some of the interactional and institutional processes underlying differences in how men and women who become parents together think about babies as well as to highlight the importance of this issue for marital relationships. To the extent that the discussion has emphasized common experiences by gender, this has been intentional, though not necessarily an expected finding. In embarking on the larger study of gender differentiation in transitions into parenthood from which this paper is derived, I expected to find variations in the couples in my sample. Although there were indeed variations in how couples approached the care of their babies, the tendency for mothers to be responsible for a variety of forms of mental baby care emerged strikingly in my data as a source of gender differentiation, even in situations of relatively shared physical care. While this pattern appeared in my sample across employment statuses and family experiences, this study does not claim to be a test of the mediating power of work, family, and other variables, which might be areas for future research. These data are part of a theory-generating study about gender-differentiation in the transition to parenthood and should not be seen as a test of hypotheses. Rather I have tried here to make a theoretical case for the importance of recognizing the mental labor that accompanies physical infant care; I suggest that the way mental labor is divided in malefemale couples in transition to parenthood is a way in which women and men recreate motherhood and fatherhood as differentiated social experiences. Finally, I have suggested that gendered divisions of mental labor may be an underrecognized factor in decreases in marital satisfaction following the birth of a first baby. Women who experience marital dissatisfaction upon becoming new mothers will not necessarily be relieved simply by trading off diaper changes. Only when the work of thinking about the baby is shared can new fathers claim to be truly equal participants and new mothers able to make their economic and other contributions to their babies with less stress and guilt.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 43, No. 2, May 1996, pp. 219-34. 0 1996 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission. 1. DeVault’s (1991) examination of feeding work, for example, elaborates the notion that feeding involves mental labor preceding and beyond the physical act of meal preparation. Feeding the family includes planning, strategizing, juggling various individuals’ needs as well as facilitating group interaction. 2. See Risman and Schwartz (1989) for a discussion of individualist versus microstructural approaches to gender; see also Ferree (1991). 3. See Lamb (1978) and LaRossa and LaRossa (1989) for discussions of how babies’ dependency contributes to traditionalization in parental roles. 4. Ross, Mirowsky, and Huber (1983), for example, find that wives are less depressed when their husbands help with housework; and the husbands are no more depressed as a result

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of their contributions. Marshall and Barnett (1995) find that when husbands share supervision of children, both husbands and wives report lower psychological distress.

References Belsky, Jay. 1985. “Exploring Individual Differences in Marital Change across the Transition to Parenthood: The Role of Violated Expectations.” Journal of Marriage and the Family, November: 1037-44. , and John Kelly. 1994. The Transition to Parenthood. New York: Delacorte Press. Belsky, Jay, Mary Lang, and Ted L. Huston. 1986. “Sex Typing and Division of Labor as Determinants of Marital Change across the Transition to Parenthood.” Journal of Personaliy and Social Psychology 50:517-22. Belsky, Jay, and Brenda L. Volling. 1987. “Mothering, Fathering, and Marital Interaction in the Family Triad during Infancy: Exploring Family Systems Processes.” In Men j Transitions to Parenthood, edited by Phyllis W. Berman and Frank A. Pedersen, 37-63. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc. Benson, Leonard. 1968. Fatherhood A Sociological Perpective. New York: Random House. Berk, Sarah Fenstermaker. 1985. The Gender Factory. New York: Plenum Press. Berman, Phyllis W., and Frank W. Pedersen. 1987. “Research on Men’s Transitions to Parenthood: An Integrative Discussion.” In Men > Transitions to Parenthood, edited by Phyllis W. Berman and Frank A. Pedersen, 217-42. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc. Blumberg, Rae Lesser, and Marion Tolbert Coleman. 1989. “A Theoretical Look at the Gender Balance of Power in the American Couple.” Journal of Family Issues 10:225-50. Coltrane, Scott. 1989. “Household Labor and the Routine Production of Gender.” Social Problems 36:473-90. Coontz, Stephanie. 1992. The Way We Never Were: American Families and the Nostalgia Trap. New York: Basic. Cowan, Carolyn Pape, and Philip A. Cowan. 1988. “Who Does What When Partners Become Parents: Implications for Men, Women, and Marriage.” Marriage and Family Review 12: 105-3 1. . 1992. When Partners Become Parents. New York: Basic. Daniels, Arlene Kaplan. 1987. “Invisible Work.” Social Problems 34:403-14. DeVault, Marjorie L. 1991. Feeding the Family. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dickie, Jane R. 1987. “Interrelationships within the Mother-Father-Infant Triad.” In Men j Transitions to Parenthood, edited by Phyllis W. Berman and Frank A. Pedersen, 113-43. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc. Ehrensaft, Diane. 1987. Parenting Together. New York: Free Press. Eisenberg, Arlene, Heidi E. Murkoff, and Sandee E. Hathaway. 1989. What to Expect the First Ear. New York: Workman Publishing. Fenstermaker, Sarah, Candace West, and Don H. Zimmerman. 1991. “Gender Inequality: New Conceptual Terrain.” In Gender, Family, and Economy: The Triple Overlap, edited by Rae Lesser Blumberg, 289-307. Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage. Ferree, Myra Marx. 1991. “Feminism and Family Research.” In Contemporary Families, edited by Alan Booth. Minneapolis, Minn.: National Council on Family Relations. Glaser, Barney G., and Anselm L. Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Grounded Theory. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Glenn, Evelyn Nakano. 1994. “Social Constructions of Mothering: A Thematic Overview.” In Mothering: Ideology, Experience, and Agency, edited by Evelyn Nakano Glenn, Grace Chang, and Linda Rennie Forcey, 1-29. New York: Routledge.

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Harriman, Lynda Cooper. 1985. “Marital Adjustment as Related to Personal and Marital Changes Accompanying Parenthood.” Family Relations 34233-39. Hartmann, Heidi I. 1981. “The Family as the Locus of Gender, Class, and Political Struggle: The Example of Housework.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Socieg 6:366-94. Hays, Sharon. 1993. “The Cultural Contradictions of Contemporary Motherhood: The Social Construction and Paradoxical Persistence of Intensive Child-Rearing.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of California, San Diego. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. 1983. The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. Berkeley: University of California Press. , with Anne Machung. 1989. The Second Shift. New York: Viking. Kranichfeld, Marion L. 1987.“Rethinking Family Power.” Journal of Family Issues 8:42-56. Lamb, Michael E. 1978. “Influence of the Child on Marital Quality and Family Interaction during the Prenatal, Perinatal, and Infancy Periods.” In Child Infuences on Marital and Family Interaction, edited by Richard M. Lerner and Graham B. Spanier, 137-64. New York: Academic. LaRossa, Ralph. 1986. Becoming a Parent. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. , and Maureen Mulligan LaRossa. 1989. “Baby Care: Fathers vs. Mothers.” In Gender in Intimate Relationships: A MicrostructuralApproach, edited by Barbara J. Risman and Pepper Schwartz, 138-54. Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth. Luxton, Meg. 1980. More Than a Labour of Love: Three Generations of Women? Work in the Home. Toronto: Women’s Press. Marshall, Harriette. 1991. “The Social Construction of Motherhood: An Analysis of Childcare and Parenting Manuals.” In Motherhood: Meanings, Practices, and Ideologies, edited by Ann Phoenix, Anne Woollett, and Eva Lloyd, 66-85. Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage. Marshall, Nancy L., and Rosalind C. Barnett. 1995. “Child Care, Division of Labor, and Parental Emotional Well-Being among Two-Earner Couples.” Paper presented at the 90th Annual Meeting of the American Sociological Association, Washington, D.C. McMahon, Martha. 1995. Engendering Motherhood: Identity and Self-Transformation in Women ? Lives. New York: Guilford. Mederer, Helen J. 1993. “Division of Labor in Two-Earner Homes: Task Accomplishment versus Household Management as Critical Variables in Perceptions about Family Work.” Journal ofMarriage and the Family 55:133-45. Osmond, Marie Withers, and Barrie Thorne. 1993. “Feminist Theories: The Social Construction of Gender in Families and Society.” In Sourcebook of Family Theories and Methods: A ContextualApproach, edited by P. G. Boss, W. J. Doherty, R. LaRossa, W. R. Schumm, and S. K. Steinmetz, 591-623. New York: Plenum Press. Parke, Ross D., and Douglas B. Sawin. 1976. “The Father’s Role in Infancy: A Re-evaluation.’’ The Family Coordinator 25:365-71. Reskin, Barbara, and Irene Padavic. 1994. Women and Men at Work. Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Pine Forge Press. Risman, Barbara J., and Pepper Schwartz. 1989. “Being Gendered: A Microstructural View of Intimate Relationships.” In Gender in Intimate Relationships: A Microstructural Approach, 1-9. Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth. Ross, Catherine E., John Mirowsky, and Joan Huber. 1983.“Dividing Work, Sharing Work, and In-Between: Marriage Patterns and Depression.” American Sociological Review 48:809-23. Rossi, Alice S. 1985. “Gender and Parenthood.” In Gender and the L $ =Course, edited by Alice S. Rossi, 161-91. New York: Aldine Publishing Co. Ruble, Diane N., Alison S. Fleming, Lisa S. Hackel, and Charles Stangor. 1988. “Changes in the Marital Relationship during the Transition to First Time Motherhood: Effects of Vio-

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lated Expectations Concerning Division of Household Labor.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 55:78-87. Ruddick, Sara. 1983. “Maternal Thinking.” In Mothering: Essays in Feminist Theory, 213-30. Savage, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield. Schuchts, Robert A., and Stanley L. Witkin. 1989. “Assessing Marital Change during the Transition to Parenthood.” Social Casework: The Journal of Contemporary Social Work, Februa1y67-7 5. South, Scott J., and Glenna Spitze. 1994. “Housework in Marital and Nonmarital Households,” American Sociological Review 59~327-47. Thompson, Linda. 1991. “Family Work: Women’s Sense of Fairness.” Journal of Family Issues 12:181-96. , and Alexis J. Walker. 1989. “Gender in Families: Women and Men in Marriage, Work, and Parenthood.” Journal ofMarriage and the Family 5 1:845-71. Waldron, Holly, and Donald K. Routh. 1981. “The Effect of the First Child on the Marital Relationship.” Journal ofMarriage and the Farnib, Novembec785-88. West, Candace, and Sarah Fenstermaker. 1993. “Power, Inequality, and the Accomplishment of Gender: An Ethnomethodological View.” In Theoty on Gender/Feminism on Theory, edited by Paula England, 151-74. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. West, Candace, and Don H. Zimmerman. 1987. “Doing Gender.” Gender and Society 1:125-51.

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CHAPTER 9

Contributions to Children by Divorced Fathers lay D.Tedcbman

Concern over the consequences of marital disruption has spurred considerable research, documenting the negative consequences of marital dissolution for femaleheaded families (Garfinkel and McLanahan 1986; Hoffman and Duncan 1988) and the long-term negative consequences for children (McLanahan and Bumpass 1988). At least part of the negative impact of divorce on women and children can be traced to the loss of economic support from fathers. Specifically, women with children experience a 30 percent decline in income in the first year following divorce (Hoffman and Duncan 1988), and divorce accounts for many women falling below the poverty line (Lerman 1987). Historically, as it has evolved through the political and legal systems (Kahn and Kamerman 1988), the central mechanism by which divorced fathers contribute to their children has been court-ordered child-support payments. Yet, recent estimates indicate that nearly 20 percent of divorced mothers do not have a child-support award (Office of Child Support Enforcement 1988). Moreover, of women with an award, less than 75 percent receive payment, and the amount of support received is generally below the costs associated with rearing children (Beller and Graham 1985; Seltzer 1991). Recognizing the centrality of child-support payments for the economic well being of children following divorce and the variability in child-support outcomes, considerable research has sought to identify the correlates of child-support award and receipt, as well as the amounts involved (Beller and Graham 1985, 1986; Hill 1984; O’Neill 1985; Peterson and Nord 1988; Seltzer and Garfinkel 1990). However, almost nothing is known about other forms of social and economic contributions fathers make to their children. In addition to making child-support payments, fathers can provide economic contributions by purchasing clothing for their children or by assuming medical and other expenses, resulting in increased material well being of their children. Such economic contributions also imply greater involvement on the part of fathers as they gather information about their children (likely through increased contact) and make decisions about how much to contribute, when to contribute, and in which areas. Fathers can also elect to participate more or less fully in their children’s daily 161

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activities, for example, taking an active interest in their children’s schooling. Although the roots of the effects are not entirely clear, children from divorced families are more likely to drop out of high school, experience disciplinary problems in school, and engage in delinquent behavior (Hetherington, Cox, and Cox 1979; Matsueda and Heimer 1987; McLanahan 1985). These outcomes may be due partly to the lack of participation and supervision on the part of fathers. Given the paucity of empirical evidence, the first goal of this chapter is to describe the nature and extent of contributions fathers make to their children, including childsupport payments, but with greater emphasis on other forms of assistance. The second goal is to estimate the relationship between selected variables and these contributions. The third goal is to ascertain the degree to which fathers who provide one form of assistance are likely to provide other forms, with particular attention to competing hypotheses about the association between child-support payments and other contributions. One hypothesis holds that contributions are positively correlated because divorced fathers who pay child support are more likely to have contact with their children (Furstenberg et al. 1983; Seltzer, Schaeffer, and Charng 1989). Fathers who have contact with their children have both the information and opportunity needed to provide other forms of assistance. The alternative hypothesis holds that fathers opt to substitute, not supplement, other forms of assistance for child-support payments. This occurs because fathers cannot control how the payments are divided between the personal consumption of the custodial parent and the children (Weiss and Willis 1985). Congruent with reports from divorced fathers, inability to control how child support is allocated by the custodial mother might be a primary reason for not making payments (Haskins 1988). By examining the relationship between child-support payments and other forms of assistance, it is possible to test whether they are substitutes or complements.

Data The data are taken from the fifth round of the National Longitudinal Study of the High School Class of 1972 (NLS). The NLS has followed respondents from their senior year in high school to early 1986, with intervening follow-ups in 1973, 1974, 1976 and 1979. The original sample was a stratified random sample of all high-school seniors enrolled in public, private, and church-affiliated high schools in the United States (Tourangeau et al. 1987). The fifth follow-up is a subsample of approximately 14,500 cases of the original sample of over 22,000 men and women and contains a supplement gathering detailed information from ever-married custodial parents about the nature and extent of assistance provided by the other parent. Because very few divorced fathers in the population and thus in the NLS data have custody of their children, analyses are based on responses provided by mothers. Respondents in the NLS are followed from approximately age 18 to age 32, a span of ages over which both marriage and divorce are likely to occur. However, disruptions of late marriages (those that occur after age 32) and marriages of long duration (more than 14 years) are not observed. Also, women divorced after age 32

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are not included. However, the ages covered in the NLS are those at which parents are likely to have minor children. All divorced mothers in the NLS are included in the analysis, yielding a sample size of 644. To determine the nature and extent of assistance provided by fathers, mothers were asked how regularly the spouse provided assistance with: clothes, gifts, vacations, dental care, medical insurance, uninsured medical expenses, help with homework, and attending school events. They also were asked to report on child support payments. The use of reports from one spouse (the mother) introduces downward bias into the data. Mothers may underestimate the contributions fathers make to their children for at least two reasons: (1) they lack information about the contributions, or (2) they deliberately downplay the contributions. The first source of bias is likely to be random across mothers, leading to conservative estimates of the contributions fathers make but not affecting differences according to the predictor variables. The second source of bias is more problematic because it is more likely that mothers will downplay the contributions of fathers if their relationship is poor. This type of bias would, therefore, artificially increase reported differences in contributions according to measures of the relationship between the parents. Unfortunately, the data available do not provide any other assessment of the contributions made by fathers. Thus, reported differences according to parental relationship should be interpreted cautiously. The NLS also misses individuals who were not in school the spring of their senior year in high school. Variation in education and in other variables is thus truncated. However, this restriction is likely to have less impact on ever-divorced mothers because they are more likely than never-married mothers to have graduated from high school. In general, though, the higher education of the NLS sample compared to the United States population means that fathers are more likely to have the resources needed to provide various forms of assistance, most likely leading to an upward bias in the results reported below.

Descriptive Results Responses for the regularity with which each type of assistance is provided by fathers are shown in Table 9.1. Excluding child support, the results indicate that fathers seldom provide any given assistance. For only one item, purchasing gifts, have more than 50 percent of the fathers ever provided assistance. Except for the provision of medical insurance, which is likely to be included in divorce settlements, fewer than one out of seven fathers provides assistance on a very regular basis. Results based on a different scale indicate that more fathers have at some time paid child support (almost three out of four) than have at some time provided any of the other forms of assistance.' Fathers are somewhat more likely ro provide economic assistance than non-economic assistance. The proportion of fathers who participate in the schooling of their children is particularly low. Fewer than one father out of 27 regularly assists his children with homework or attends school events. Over 75 percent of divorced fathers have never participated in the schooling of their children. Slightly more fathers (one

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Table 9.1. Regularity with Which Fathers Provide Each Form of Assistance (percent) (N = 644) Very Regularly to Never Form of Assistance

1

2

3

4 ~

Pays for clothes Pays for presents Takes the children on vacation Pays for routine dental care Carries medical insurance Pays for uninsured medical expenses Helps the children with homework Attends school events Regularity of Child Support Payments

5 13 8 13 28 12 2 4 Regularly 43

3 12 8 20 11 4 3 5 3 5 3 6 2 5 3 7 Occasionally 11

15 19 11 5 4 4 6 12 Seldom 18

5

65 40 65 75 61 76 85 75 Never 28

out of 12) take their children on vacation, while a majority of fathers (three out of five) have purchased gifts. Because it is possible for fathers to provide only a subset of the types of assistance being considered, the data in Table 9.2 likely underestimate the percentage of fathers who have ever provided any type of assistance. The data in Table 9.3 address this possibility by presenting the percentage of fathers who have ever provided different numbers of contributions. The first column of figures excludes child-support payments, while the second column of figures includes them. More fathers have at some time provided at least one type of assistance than is evident from considering each type separately. Excluding child support, about two out of three fathers have made one or more types of contributions, while including child support, this figure increases to about four out of five fathers. Note, however, that these figures refer to having ever provided assistance-the percentage of fathers that provide assistance on a very regular basis would be much smaller. Moreover, the fact that one out of five fathers has never provided any of the types of assistance speaks to the frailty of father-child relationships outside of marriage.

Explaining Fathers’ Contributions EXPECTED RELATIONSHIPS The multivariate analysis is designed to identify the key correlates of the provision of various forms of support and to ascertain whether fathers who provide a given form of assistance are more likely to make other contributions. The expected correlates of support are suggested by a framework developed by Weiss and Willis (1985). This framework, building on a microeconomic model of the family (Becker 1981), holds

C O N T R I B U T I O N S TO C H I L D R E N BY D I V O R C E D FATHERS

165

Table 9.2. Percent of Fathers Making Different Numbers of Contributions Number of Different Contributions Made

Excluding Child Support Payments (percent)

Including Child Support Payments (percent)

None One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine

31 10 12 11 9 6 6 5 11 -

19 16 10 11 10 8 6 6 8 6

that both parents value their children and each therefore benefits from the other’s investments in the children. In a two-parent family, propinquity generally acts to maximize the investments of both parents, so that either parent enjoys investments in a child, while also making such investments. After divorce, however, fathers lose control over the allocation of goods and services in the children’s household and cannot assume that their economic contributions will be distributed as they wish between the private consumption of the mother and the children. Within this framework, a divorced father is expected to contribute more to his children if he expects greater utility from making contributions than not. The level of utility is based on the costs and rewards associated with providing contributions. Thus, there is a close link between the notion of utility maximization within the microeconomic framework and several variants of exchange theory (Nye 1979). In this paper, the costs and rewards of providing contributions are assumed to be a function of two factors: (I) the degree of emotional and instrumental interdependency between the father and his children and (2) the quality of the relationship between the parents. Stronger interdependency between fathers and children increases utility by elevating satisfaction in hlfilling such interdependencies by providing different types of assistance. In turn, a good relationship between the divorced parents may increase utility by increasing interdependencies. It is also likely, though, that a better relationship between parents increases utility by increasing the father’s control over how his contributions are allocated. The strength of interdependency between fathers and their children is measured by the following variables: age of the children at divorce, whether visitation rights were granted, the father’s physical proximity, and the time since the divorce. Age of the children at divorce is used to indicate the time fathers had with their children to make economic and emotional investments leading to interdependency. Both mothers and fathers are more likely to agree to visitation rights if the father-child interdependence is strong. Physical proximity, while indicating the opportunity to provide par-

,003 ,168 ,172 - ,089 - ,031 .230'

,058"

-.150

.403* .041 - ,265 -.168 ,135 ,004 - ,003 - .072 - ,605'

SupporP Gifts

Dentist

,046 .089 - ,056 - ,030 ,061

- ,008

.126 ,024

.024

,139

.008 ,054

,000

.lo3 .133 - ,026

,018 - ,002 .222 .148 ,012 ,038

- ,454" - .264

.260* ,193 ,078 ,155" ,144" ,212' - ,232 - ,850" - ,264 .979' ,734" ,690' -.138 - ,086 - .399' ,001 ,001 - ,001 - ,003 - ,004' - ,002 .010 - ,021 - ,008 - ,344" - ,510" - ,443'

Clothes

.084' .004 .279 ,077 - ,053 - ,047 .038

- ,146

,394' ,082 - ,624' .268 -.118 ,004 - ,003 -.178 - ,785"

Medical lnsurance

,220 ,051

,519"

~

~~~~

,134 ,057 - ,075 -.011 ,022

- ,005

-

-

- ,005' - .033

,153 ,157' -.192 .893' - ,291 - ,001

Medical Bills

~

~~~

~~

.lo6

.088

.007 .042* ,015 .144 .418' - ,052

-.183 ,002 - ,000 ,261' - ,029

.580'

,312" ,149" -.319

Vacations

~~~

,000

-

,003 .007 .093 .039 - .031 ,042

,008

- ,004

,004 .008

.lo8 ,018 ,218 ,035 ,050 - ,036

-

-.166 - ,540'

- ,000

,001

- .080 ,001

-.128 - ,323"

-

- .053

,787"

- ,085

School Events

,108 ,083" - ,156 582'

,095 ,062'

Homework

Notes: a. Directionof coding for regularity of receipt of other forms of assistance is reversed from that shown in table 9.1. b. Model for receipt of child support also includes controls for whether child support was awarded at divorce, the amount of child support awarded, whether the mother retained a lawyer and whether the divorce occurred in a state with a "no fault" provision. ' D < .05.

Contrd Variables: Black Father's Earnings Mother's Earnings Mother Some College Mother College Number of Children Mother Remarried Father Remarried System weighted R2 = .102'

Predictor Variables: Voluntary Agreement Spouse Relationship No Visitation Joint Custody Child < 6 at Divorce Marital Duration Divorce Duration Proximity Medium Proximity Low

Variable

Child

Table 9.3. Beta Weights from Results of GLS Regression of Various Forms of Assistance on Predictor and Control Variablesa

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167

ticular forms of assistance (e.g., help with homework), also measures the opportunity to maintain emotional and instrumental interdependency through contact. Time since divorce indicates the erosion of interdependency that occurs as fathers and children develop other interests and responsibilities. It is expected that fathers with older children at divorce, who have visitation rights, who live closer to their children, and who have been divorced for less time will be more likely to make contributions to their children. The nature of the relationship between parents is measured by the several variables: marital duration, whether the divorce agreement was reached voluntarily, and the mother’s report of the quality of the relationship (from bitter to friendly) between the parents during the divorce. Longer marriages, through greater economic and emotional investments, are likely to reflect stronger interdependency between mothers and fathers. The divorce settlement is more likely to be reached voluntarily when the parental relationship is of better quality. A more direct measure of the quality of the parental relationship, although limited to the time of divorce, is the mother’s report of how friendly she was with the father during the divorce. It is therefore expected that fathers who were married longer, who entered into a voluntary divorce agreement and who enjoyed a better relationship with the mother during the divorce will be more likely to provide various forms of assistance to their children. The custody arrangement parents made for their children at divorce is also included in the analysis. Although still relatively rare, the prevalence of joint physical custody has been increasing (Seltzer 1991)-in the NLS sample about 10 percent of the mothers report that fathers have joint custody of their children. Joint custody is more likely to occur when the parents enjoy a reasonably good relationship and when fathers and children are more interdependent. As such, it is anticipated that fathers with joint custody will be more likely to make various contributions to their children. However, the nature of joint custody requires that its effect be evaluated somewhat differently from the effects of other variables. By the very nature of the custody arrangement, resources are provided to children simply by sharing households so that the effect of joint custody on the degree to which fathers contribute to their children is likely inflated and must be interpreted cautiously. The multivariate analysis also contains a number of control variables that might mitigate the relationship among the covariates discussed above and the provision of various types of assistance. These controls include: the socioeconomic resources of parents (measured at divorce), the current marital status of each parent, the number of children, and race.2 The socioeconomic resources of the parents are included in order to control for the overall ability of parents to provide for their ~ h i l d r e n The .~ number of children is included to control for differences in level of household expenses faced by custodial mothers introduced by variations in household composition. The remarriage of either patent is included to control for changes in interdependency that take place as allegiances are shifted to a new family and new boundaries are erected between the father and his children from the first marriage. Race is included as a control on the basis of research that indicates that black mothers (at least among women who are ever married) are less likely to receive child-support payments from the father (Beller and Graham 1985).

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JAY D. TEACHMAN

STATISTICAL MODEL The multivariate analysis is conducted using a simultaneous equation procedure in which each type of assistance is made jointly dependent and errors are allowed to be correlated across equations. This is sometimes known as a “seemingly unrelated equations model” (Pindyck and Rubinfeld 1981). The model is appropriate when the dependent variables are conceptually related. It is hypothesized that making childsupport payments and providing other forms of assistance are interrelated. Consequently, it is expected that the error terms across the models for each type of assistance will be correlated. As indicated below, the expected direction of the correlations across error terms will vary according to whether one hypothesizes that fathers use various forms of assistance as either supplements to or substitutes for each other. The model estimated takes the following general form:

where Y,, . . . , are the forms of assistance provided by fathers, including child are vectors of predictor variables that may overlap, PI, . . . , pn are support, Xl,.. ,X, vectors of parameters associated with the predictor variables, and el, . . . , E, are error terms with COV(E,,E;) not restricted to equal 0. The model is estimated using a twostep, generalized least squares procedure (PROC SYSLIN in SAS). The regularity with which child support and each of the eight other forms of assistance are provided constitutes the dependent variables.* The relationships between providing the various forms of support are indicated by the correlations between the error terms of the model. Positive correlations indicate that fathers who provide at least one type of support are also more likely to provide other types of assistance. Negative correlations indicate that fathers substitute types of support. ,

RESULTS The results from estimating the equations for fathers’ contributions are presented in Table 9.4.5While there are some minor variations in effects across forms of assistance (some of which would be expected due to chance), the general pattern is clear. Consistent with the expectations outlined above, fathers who enjoyed a friendlier relationship with the mother during the divorce (for all forms of assistance except child support and medical insurance) and who reached an agreement on the divorce settlement voluntarily (for child support, clothes, medical insurance, and vacations) more regularly contribute to their children. The effect of propinquity is particularly strongfathers who live farthest from their children are the least likely to provide assistance (vacations being the one exception). Time since divorce is negatively related to the provision of gifts and the payment of medical bills. Also as expected, fathers who share joint custody of their children are more likely

.20 .33 .25 .24 .03 .15

1 .oo .14 .28

Support Received

1.oo 58 .49 .35 51 .52 .52 52

Clothes 1.oo .42 .43 .37 52 .36 .42

Gifts

1 .oo .56 .67 .41 .36 .37

Dentist

1.oo 52 .35 .28 .29

Medical Insurance

a. All correlationsexcept that betweensupport received and homework are significant at p < .05

Note:

Support Received Clothes Gifts Dentist Medical Insurance Medical Bills Vacations Homework School Events

Variable

Table 9.4. Cross-Model Correlations for DependentVariables"

1.oo .38 .41 .39

Medical Bills

1 .oo .39 .35

Vacations

1.oo .66

Homework

1.oo

School Events

170

TAY D. TEACHMAN

to provide assistance than fathers not sharing custody (medical insurance and child support being exceptions), although the magnitude of the effects indicates that fathers with joint custody do not uniformly contribute to their children on a very regular basis. That joint custody does not affect the payment of child support is not unexpected given the sharing of costs that most likely occurs under this custody arrangement and the resulting latitude that parents have in structuring if and when one parent will make a monetary compensation to the other parent (Seltzer 1991). Neither the age of the children at divorce nor marital duration has a consistent effect on making contributions. While this may truly be the result of null effects, it should also be noted that the age of children and marital duration are highly collinear (which is exacerbated by the fact that a single cohort of young women is being examined). Indeed, the strength of the collinearity led to the use of a simple dichotomy for the age of children at divorce (at least one child less than age 6). However, other results (not shown) indicate that neither marital duration nor a continuous indicator of the age of children at divorce have significant effects when the other is left out of the model. Most of the control variables shown in Table 9.3 have only modest effects on the father’s contributions. Higher income fathers are more likely to pay child support, carry medical insurance, and pay for uninsured routine medical bills but are not more likely to provide other forms of assistance. Neither the economic and educational resources of the mother nor the number of children have a consistent effect on contributions from the father. The marital status of mothers and fathers has little effect on whether fathers provide assistance to their children except that remarried fathers are more likely to make child-support payments. The positive effect of the father’s remarriage on the payment of child support is contrary to the expectation outlined earlier in the paper but is consistent with other reports (Beller and Graham 1985; Hill 1984). It may be that fathers who remarry are more family oriented than are fathers who do not remarry, leading to the positive impact on child-support payments. The failure of remarried fathers to provide other forms of assistance may be attributed to the demands on their time and resources made by their new families. The cross-model correlations for the equations, shown in Table 9.4, are all positive (and statistically significant with one exception), indicating that fathers who provide at least one form of assistance for their children are more likely to provide other forms of assistance. Note, however, that the correlations between paying child support and providing other contributions are generally smaller than those observed between other pairs of support (the correlations between support received and both assisting with homework and attending school events are very small). O n one hand, this suggests that a proportion of fathers restrict the transfer of resources to making child-support payments. O n the other hand, these results indicate that if fathers contribute more than just child-support payments, they are likely to provide several types of assistance. To examine both of these possibilities in greater detail, the extent to which fathers provide more than one form of assistance to their children, conditional on having ever provided a given type of assistance, is shown in Table 9.5. The mean number of other forms of support ever provided is indicated according to whether each type of assis-

C O N T R I B U T I O N S TO C H I L D R E N BY D I V O R C E D FATHERS

171

tance has at one time been provided. For most forms of assistance, fathers who have at one time provided the assistance in question have provided between five and six other types of assistance (including the type of support being considered). Of particular note is the number of other types of support provided by fathers who help their children with homework or attend school events. Although these forms of assistance are relatively rare (see Table 9.1), the fathers that do provide this sort of support make a substantial number of other contributions. At another extreme, a few other forms of assistance are provided by fathers who have ever paid child support (3.31). This value is much smaller than comparable figures for other forms of assistance and occurs because a substantial proportion of fathers, about 20 percent (data not shown), make child-support payments but do not provide other types of assistance. That is, the mean number of other forms of assistance provided by fathers who make child-support payments is weighted downward by the proportion of fathers who make child-support payments but provide no other contributions to their children. The multivariate analysis is concluded by considering the predictors of the number of different contributions ever made by fathers. Because the cross-model correlations shown in Table 9.4 and the means shown in Table 9.5 indicate that fathers who provide at least one type of assistance are more likely to provide other contributions, it is expected that the predictors of the number of contributions ever made will be similar to those for the regularity with which individual types of assistance are provided. As shown in Table 9.6, the pattern of effects for the number of different contributions made by fathers is indeed very similar to that observed in Table 9.3. Fathers who voluntarily agreed to the divorce settlement, who enjoyed a friendlier relationship with their spouse during the divorce, who live closer to their children, who earn more, who have visitation rights and who have joint custody all provide a greater number of contributions. Thus, the factors that lead fathers to make at least one type of contribu-

Table 9.5. Mean Number of Other Forms of Assistance Ever Provided by Fathers According to Whether Each Type of Assistance Has Ever Been Provided Mean number of other forms of assistance Variable Chid-Support Payments Clothes Gifts Dentist Medical Insurance Medical Bills Vacation Homework School Events Mean number of forms of assistance provided:

Ever Provided

Never Provided

3.31 5.54 4.41 6.30 5.23 6.32 5.41 6.87 6.10

1.35 1.20 0.35 1.44 1.15 1.50 1.30 1.88 1.54

2.86

Note:All differences between value for ever provided and never provided are significant at p < .a.

172

JAY D. TEACHMAN

Table 9.6. Results of OLS Regressionof Number of Contributions Made by Fatherson Predictor Variables and Controlsa Excluding Child lncluding Child Variable Support Payments Support Payments Predictor Variables: Voluntary Agreement Spouse Relationship No Visition Joint Custody Child c 6 at Divorce Marital Duration Divorce Duration Proximity Medium Proximity Low Control Variables: Black Father's Earnings Mother's Earnings Mother Some College Number of Children Mother College Mother Remarried Father Remarried R*

Beta ,731" ,260' - ,902' 1.133' - ,251 ,006 - .004 - .498' - 1.644" - ,167

.089* - .019 ,224 - ,256 ,469 - ,223 .204 .23

Beta ,877" ,273" -1.188' .929" -.190 .006 - .004 - .498* - 1.862" - .288 .108" -.018 ,297 - .278 ,507 - ,239 ,291 .25

Notes: a. Direction of coding for regularity of receipt of other forms of assistance is reversed from that shown in table 9.1. 'p<.@5.

tion more regularly also act to increase the diversity of the types of contributions they provide to their children.

Discussion Using data from a nationally representative sample, have examined the extent to which divorced fathers contribute to their children, ranging from clothes to help with homework. Other than paying child support and buying gifts, the majority of fathers have never provided assistance to their children. Consistent with other studies which show that divorced fathers have little contact with their children (Furstenberg et al. 1983), fathers are particularly unlikely to provide assistance that requires their direct participation (e.g., helping their children with homework or attending school events). The picture is less dramatic but still telling when considering the percent of fathers who have at one time provided at least one type of assistance. Other than paying child support, about one out of three fathers has never provided assistance to his children. Considering both child-support payments and other forms of assistance, about one out of five fathers has never provided any form of assistance. While these

C O N T R I B U T I O N S TO C H I L D R E N BY D I V O R C E D FATHERS

173

figures show that a majority of fathers have provided at least some form of assistance to their children, they also indicate that a substantial minority have never contributed to their children (at least with respect to the forms of assistance considered in this chapter). Moreover, the figures refer to having ever provided assistance, ignoring the regularity with which contributions are made. For example, none of the fathers in the NLS sample has provided each of the types of support on a very regular basis (data not shown). Including child-support payments, only 50 percent of the fathers have provided at least one type of assistance on a very regular basis (data not shown). One consequence of this pattern is that children from disrupted families are more likely to experience some form of deprivation than children from intact families. Subsequent research needs to more clearly document the parameters of this deprivation, its long-term consequences, and the role of various types of contributions from fathers in alleviating deprivation. It would also be useful to obtain a better understanding of the socioemotional consequences for children of variations in the nature and extent of contributions made by fathers. While not the central focus of this chapter, the effect of joint custody on the provision of assistance is also interesting to note. With the exception of paying child support, it is clear that fathers who share physical custody of their children are more likely to transfer resources to their children. Although this may occur because joint physical custody increases the participation of fathers in rearing their children, such a conclusion must be made with a significant caveat. Under the current regime of divorce settlements, parents who agree to a joint custody arrangement are likely to be an unusually select subset of all parents (as noted above, in the NLS data, joint custody arrangements characterize only about 10 percent of the divorces). Attempts to unilaterally increase the prevalence of joint physical custody could result in rapidly diminishing returns in terms of the father’s contribution. It remains an open question as to the nature and extent of this selectivity problem-but a question that is crucial for the development of policy initiatives. Despite the generally negative tone of the findings, the data indicate that there is a subset of fathers who contribute substantially to their children. Both the crosstabular and multivariate analyses indicate that fathers who regularly make child-support payments supplement those payments with other forms of assistance. There is no evidence to indicate that various forms of assistance may serve as substitutes for each other. Finally, the multivariate analysis indicates that objective measures of household socioeconomic status (i.e., mother’s education and income, father’s income, number and ages of children) are less important in predicting whether assistance is provided than are indicators of the parental relationship. The development of policy and programs aimed at maximizing the contributions to the children of divorce should consider the role played by the parental relationship.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 38, No. 3, August 1991, pp. 358-71.

0 1991 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permissions.

174

IAY D. T E A C H M A N

1. Originally, two measures of receipt of child support were considered: whether support was received in the past month and the regularity with which support is received. Each indicator is subject to different sorts of response error. While the indicator of whether support was received in the last month is likely to suffer from recall bias, the indicator of the regularity of receipt of support more accurately captures fluctuations over time in the father’s propensity to make support payments. There is little substantive difference in results when using the two measures. 2. Because the marital status of each parent is determined from responses provided by mothers, there is likely to be error in measuring whether the father has remarried. For the approximately 20 percent of mothers who stated that they did not know the marital status of the father, the cases are coded in the zero category (father not remarried). Similarly, when the father’s location is not known, the proximity is coded as low. Preliminary analyses indicated that including separate indicators for whether the mother knew the location and marital status of the father does not lead to a better fitting model and does not affect the parameter estimates for other variables. More generally, there are missing data on several of the predictor variables included in the regression models. The procedure used to handle missing data was to code the mean value of the variable and include a set of dummy variables in preliminary models indicating whether a substitution was made. In none of the preliminary models did the missing data indicators lead to a substantially better fitting model or one that yielded substantively different results. 3. There are two reasons for including the earnings of parents measured at the time of divorce. First, and most important, the NLS does not contain a measure of the father’s income following divorce. Second, it is likely that variations in earnings potential are reasonably well captured by earnings at divorce, especially given the relatively short period covered by the NLS data. The education of fathers is not included in the model because of its collinearity with his income and the education and income of mothers. 4 . The use of an ordinal scale to measure the regularity with which types of assistance are provided may lead to biased estimates of coefficients when GLS regression is used. However, least squares regression is generally robust to departures from normality. To obtain some idea of the robustness of the GLS results, a logistic regression model was fitted to each of the forms of assistance separately using I to indicate that the assistance had ever been received and 0 otherwise, The results (not shown) correspond closely to those shown in Table 9.4. 5 . Several additional models were also estimated due to the possibility that the ambiguous time reference of several questions used in the NLS-72 introduces endogeneity (e.g., providing assistance influences the values taken by the covariates). Specifically, it is possible that endogeneity biases the effects of proximity of the father and the marital status of the parents. Using a stepwise procedure to enter these variables in various orders does not alter the pattern of results for other covariates. Possible endogeneity is not explicitly modeled, because this chapter is less interested in partitioning the direction of causality and more interested in determining whether a relationship holds. Moreover, there is also concern for the change in the effects of other variables once the additional variables are included.

References Becker, Gary. 1981. A Treatise on the Family. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Beller, Andrea, and John Graham. 1985. “Variations in the Economic Well-Being of Divorced Women and Their Children.” In Horizontal Equity, Uncertainty and Economic Well-Being, Studies in Income Wealth Series, Vol. 50, edited by Martin David and Timothy h e e d i n g , 471-506. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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. 1986. “Child Support Awards: Differentials and Trends by Race and Marital Status.” Demography 23:23 1-46. Furstenberg, Frank, Christine Nord, James Peterson, and Nicholas Zill. 1983. “The Life Course of Children of Divorce: Marital Disruption and Parental Contact.” American Sociological Review 48:656-67. Garfinkel, Irwin, and Sara McLanahan. 1986. Single Mothers and Their Children. Washington, D.C.: Urban Institute. Haskins, Ronald. 1988. “Child Support: The Men’s View.” In Child Support: From Debt Collection to Social Policy, edited by Sheila Kamerman and Alfred Kahn, 306-17. Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage. Hetherington, E. Mavis, Martha Cox, and Roger Cox. 1979. “Play and Social Interaction in Children Following Divorce.” Journal of Social Issues 35:26-49. Hill, Martha. 1984. “PSID Analysis of Matched Pairs of Ex-Spouses: Relation of Economic Resources and New Family Obligations to Child Support Payments.” Unpublished manuscript, Institute for Survey Research, University of Michigan. Hoffman, Saul, and Greg Duncan. 1988. “What Are the Economic Consequences of Divorce?” Demography 25:641-45. Kahn, Alfred, and Sheila Kamerman. 1988. Childsupport: From Debt Collection to Social Policy. Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage. Lerman, Robert. 1987. Child Support and Dependency. Report prepared for U.S. Department of Health and Human Services under contract No. HHS-CS-86-002 1. Matsueda, Ross, and Karen Heimer. 1987. “Attitudes toward Women’s Familial Roles: Change in the United States, 1977-1985.” American Sociological Review 52:826-40. McLanahan, Sara. 1985. “Family Structure and the Reproduction of Poverty.” Americanlournal of Sociology 90:873-901. , and Larry Bumpass. 1988. “Intergenerational Consequences of Family Disruption.” American]ournal of Sociology 94:130-52. Nye, F. Ivan. 1979. “Choice, Exchange and the Family.” In Contemporary Theories about the Family, edited by Wesley Burr, Reuben Hill, F. Ivan Nye, and Ira Reiss, 1-41. New York: Free Press. Office of Child Support Enforcement. 1988. TweFh Annual Report to Congressfor the Period Ending September 30, 1987. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office. O’Neill, June. 1985. “Determinants of Child Support.” Report prepared for the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development under grant No. RO-1-HD-16840. Peterson, James, and Christine Nord. 1988. “The Regular Receipt of Child Support: A MultiStep Process.” Unpublished manuscript, Child Trends, Washington, D.C. Pindyck, Robert, and Daniel Rubinfeld. 1981. EconometricModels and Economic Forecasts. New York: McGraw-Hill. Seltzer, Judith. Forthcoming. “Legal Custody Arrangements and the Intergenerational Transmission of Economic Welfare.” American Journal of Sociology. , and Irwin Garfinkel. 1990. “Inequality in Divorce Settlements: An Investigation of Property Settlements and Child Support Awards.” Social Science Research 19:82-111. Seltzer, Judith, Nora Cate Schaeffer, and Hong-wen Charng. 1989. “Family Ties after Divorce: The Relationship between Visiting and Paying Child Support.” Journal of Marriage and the Family 5 1:1013-3 1. Teachman, Jay. 1990. “Socioeconomic Resources of Parents and the Award of Child Support in the United States: Some Exploratory Models.” Journal of Marriage and the Family 52:689-700. Tourangeau, Roger, Penny Sebring, Barbara Campbell, Martin Glusberg, Bruce Spenner, and

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Melody Singleton. 1987. The National Longitudinal Study of the High School Class of 1972 (NLS-72) Fjih Follow-up (1972) Data File User; Manual. Chicago: National Opinion Research Center, University of Chicago. Weiss, Yoram, and Robert Willis. 1985. “Children as Collective Goods and Divorce Settlements.” Journal of Labor Economics 3:268-92.

Part VI

CAREERS

Many personal difficulties of recent decades are related to the role-assignments and rewards of contemporary Americans’ work lives. Here again we find the combination of objective conditions and subjective perceptions as a basis for defining a social problem. Work-related social problems tend to cluster around perceived economic inequalities. Industrialization, the development of the economic institution of nation states, and the more recent global expansion of corporations reorganized most human work from feudal arrangements into paid jobs-that is, social roles within organizations that produce, distribute, and influence the consumption of objects and services. Educational and job training institutions were developed to prepare members of society to assume such jobs, and various social mechanisms exist to match a job candidate and an organizational social circle needing a worker. Job candidates must find an organization that will hire them based on the premise that they meet the necessary job requirements, fit into the social circle of coworkers and the organization’s structure and, when applicable, successfully respond to the needs or demands of its beneficiaries such as clients or students. All societies develop structured systems of inequality and a legitimizing ideology specifying who will hold what jobs and the distribution of rewards for work performed. Historically in Europe, for example, the “Divine Right of Kings” consigned persons of royal descent to the more prestigious and highly rewarded societal positions. The coming of the industrial revolution, however, with its dependence on skilled labor, challenged this age-old tradition. Scientific management in the late 1900s, aimed at increasing capitalistic production in the workforce, proposed the principle of matching “the right person to the right job” rather than role assignment based on tradition or bloodlines. Compensation for work performed was to be driven by the concept of the “fair wage.” Meanwhile, the democratic ideals of American society posited that each person could prosper and rise to the top of its social strata though motivation, hard work, and ability. Despite such normative expectations, however, many Americans perceived that serious inequalities existed that favored certain groups for employment and other rewards. Protests by interest groups, including women and ethnic minorities who perceived themselves as discriminated against, have redefined many current work-related social problems involving differential opportunity and labor force inequality. These protests typically challenge the power structure of American society and the sexist and racist ideologies that define certain groups of persons as unqualified for equal pay or entry into society’s more desirable occupations. Such labor-related inequities also exist in social arrangements outside the work-

177

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force. Much of the work that makes the life of a society possible receives little or no direct financial compensation. Those who perform such roles are dependent for survival on others who are employed in the workforce to purchase and supply them with needed goods and services. For example, full-time housewives typically are not directly compensated monetarily for work performed in their homes or in the service of their families. They depend upon a share of their husband’s earnings or access to other nonsalaried income. While feminist protests in the wake of the women’s movement generated sporadic attempts to estimate how much and by whom women should be paid for their domestic labor, their familial contributions to society continue to be unrewarded in terms of direct wages. The value of their domestic labor also is ignored by such societal accounting schemes as the gross national product (GNP), which only tallies the contributions of paid work. Meanwhile, women’s assignment to the unpaid rewards and social dependencies of full-time household labor is not always voluntary or desired by them. The dire consequences of discrimination and sexist ideology on the lives of women who are unable to obtain jobs to support themselves and their children were discussed in the previous section of this volume. We now turn in this section to three examples of life course situations in the world of work that represent social problems: the negative discrimination and personal harassment of black women police officers in an occupation dominated by men and male culture, the positive advantages for males in entering female-typed occupations, and the deviant careers of upper-level smugglers and dealers in illegal occupations. Police work in America, our first example, traditionally has been viewed as a male occupation requiring the stereotypical male attributes of strength, aggression, courage under fire, and the willingness to use force when challenged. The stereotypes of women’s work capabilities, on the other hand, have been in the areas of nurturing and caring, as with the professions of social work and teaching. The belief that police work is too dangerous and physically taxing for women persists in contemporary America despite their historical contributions to frontier life and other stressful periods of the nation’s history. As reported (in chapter 10) by Susan Martin in ‘Outsider within’ the Station House: The Impact of Race and Gender on Black Women Police,” the 1972 Equal Employment Opportunity Act outlawed discrimination by public employers on the basis of race, color, religion, gender, and national origin. This legislation opened the door for women and minorities to enter occupations previously reserved for white men. In studying five police departments, Martin found that black female police officers faced a “double whammy” of prejudice based on color and gender discrimination when accepting this opportunity. The women she studied experienced assignment inequities along with sexual and racial harassment in the stations and on street patrols. In addition, they were defined as token employees-a condition that made them highly visible and constantly scrutinized. They worried about lack of support from the very public that they had sworn to protect or control, especially since proper backup from other officers was uncertain. The black women also were less powerful than the other three categories of police officers: white men, white women, or black men. According to Martin, the effects of this dual injustice (race and gender) made it impossible to organize or protest by either characteristic. Most of the women used “

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individualistic methods to deal with such problems and were careful not to antagonize other officers or their superiors. Reverse discrimination occurs when members of a privileged group receive preferential treatment upon entering a field in which they are marginal. For example, certain jobs such as nursing, social work, librarianship, and elementary school teaching traditionally have been typecast as women’s occupations. Fewer men than women enter such professions as a career. In studying the hidden advantages for males in entering such professions, Williams (1992) found that men who do so are drawn to various valued characteristics of the work. Like the black female police officers that Martin studied, Williams discovered that men who obtain such jobs were viewed as token representatives of a group marginal to the occupation that they had entered. Yet, this designation worked to their advantage when seeking more prestigious positions, especially in administration. Not all the men that Williams studied desired such promotions, however, despite the tendency of administrative superiors to push them upward. Their female counterparts also resented them for having been promoted primarily on the basis of being male. Given that men by virtue of gender have greater job opportunities than women, males who do select female-typed occupations risk being judged as having ulterior motives or something “wrong” with them. In selecting to teach nursery or elementary school children, for example, such judgments may evoke fear and hostility among parents as children are considered quite vulnerable to harm. Thus, prejudice and discrimination are quite alive in American society, as elsewhere, making life troublesome for many workers. The people described by Patricia Adler and Peter Adler (in chapter 11) in “Shifts and Oscillations in Deviant Careers: The Case of Upper-Level Drug Dealers and Smugglers” have completely different careers and relationships: they proactively create the organization within which they work and from which they make considerable money. The circle within which they operate is broad and shifting in personnel, just as they themselves are shifting in and out and around in their careers. The underworld of drug use is a “community” within which friendships and business deals are formed-which causes negative consequences for its members in both cost and drug effects-and life is led. Suppliers who bring drugs into the area, various levels of dealers, “go-betweens,” and drug-consumers all form this circle of work and commerce. Law enforcement agencies and criminal justice personnel also participate within this subworld as threats to and actual curtailers of activities. Drug-trafficking is a dangerous life with sufficient problems to induce some dealers and smugglers to try to phase out. However, the pull of the community and of “easy” money, often reinforced by the pressures of drug addiction, can draw them back into the life although not always into the same role, activities, or social circle of commerce or interaction. The occupational world of drug sellers certainly differs from that of teachers or nurses who function in established, bureaucratized environments. The social problems that arise are considerably different, yet each occupation poses its own potential troubles, especially for people who are marginal to it or to society. In all career situations

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described in this section, interaction with others in the occupational circles threatens the multiple identities presented to others along with their own conception of self.

Reference Williams, Christine L. 1992. “The Glass Escalator: Hidden Advantages for Men in the ‘Female’ Professions.” Social Problems 39(3):253-67.

CHAPTER 10

“Outsider within” the Station House THE IMPACT OF RACE AND GENDER O N BLACK WOMEN POLICE Susan E. Martin

In the past 30 years more women and persons of color have entered occupations previously limited to white men. Although some studies have examined the factors that have aided or hindered women’s advancement into “non-traditional” occupations and others have focused on changes in the occupational status of blacks and other ethnic minorities, few have systematically focused on the interactive effects of race and gender on black women’s occupational perspectives and behavior. This paper examines how race and gender interact and affect the workplace status and perspectives of black women by closely examining one occupation long dominated by white males-police work. It explores how racism enlarges cleavages among women and how sexism divides black women and men, while police work itself, in controlling “the dangerous classes,” contributes to these divisions. By focusing on these interlocking systems of oppression in one particular setting this chapter seeks to expand understanding of the interconnections among these elements of an overarching structure of domination and resistance to it.

The Intersection of Race and Gender Most studies of occupational attainment and the effects of discrimination focus separately on the effects of gender or race, ignoring the fact that black women must deal with the joint effect of multiple disadvantaged statuses.’ Several early studies of the effects of race and gender adopted an additive approach, suggesting that the combination of their gender and race statuses expose black women to “double jeopardy” (Beale 1970) or multiple disadvantages in the labor market or, alternatively, provide extra benefits arising from “the positive effects of the double negative” of their minority statuses, particularly for affirmative action decisions (Epstein 1973). Two recent studies testing the competing “double jeopardy” and “double advantage’’ hypotheses, however, find little support for either in their examinations of black 181

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female managers (Nkomo and Cox 1989) and chemists (Koelewijn-Strattner et al. 1991). Both suggest the need for a more qualitative approach to explore how black women perceive themselves vis-a-vis white women and black and white men. Feminist critics of the additive approach note that much of the literature has generalized about women on the basis of data on white women, and about blacks on the basis of the experience of black men (Dugger 1988; Hooks 1981) or has treated black women as invisible or as deviant cases (Gilkes 1981). Additional studies have compared the dynamics and effects of racism and sexism, ignoring qualitative differences in the scope and intensity of the physical and psychological impact of racism compared to sexism (King 1988). Other analysts have proposed an interactive model, noting that black women’s unique social location at the intersection of different hierarchies has produced a distinct feminist consciousness different from that of white women (Collins 1986, 1990; Dill 1983; King 1988; Smith and Stewart 1983). White women have ample contact with white men and the potential for increased power by association with one of them. But they have limited their influence by internalizing an image of helplessness and allowing themselves to be “put on a pedestal.” In contrast, due to racism, black women have experienced far less protection and a far greater element of fear based on white hostility, physical separation, and intimidation. Thus Hurtado (1989:845) suggests that white women experience “subordination through seduction” while black women face “subordination through rejection.” For the latter, the result is “a unique angle of vision” which “merges thought and action . . . and espouses a both/and orientation that views them as part of the same processes” (Collins 1990:26). Differences in class and occupational status intersect with those of race and gender in separating black and white women. Historically white middle-class women accepted and contributed to the domestic code that enabled them to slough off burdensome domestic work onto more oppressed groups of women. As service work moved from the home to institutionalized urban labor markets segmented by race and gender, the race and gender hierarchy also moved into public settings. This divergence in the experiences of black and white women with respect to access to power, their workplace, activities, and their roles in their respective communities has contributed to black women’s “acute consciousness of the interlocking nature of race and gender oppression” (Glenn 1992:34-35). Kanter’s (1977) structural approach identifies power, opportunity, and group representation as key determinants of occupational behavior and work-related contingencies in work organizations. Inequalities in opportunities for mobility and the distribution of power within an organization lead some members toward success and consign others to failure. In addition, “tokens,” whose type is underrepresented in majority-dominated groups, face barriers to occupational achievement including performance pressure, exclusion as “outsiders,” and treatment according to familiar stereotypes. Kanter’s theory of tokenism was conceived as gender neutral and as broadly applicable to racial and other minorities. However, it ignores both the specific effects of sexism that male tokens do not suffer (Zimmer 1988; Williams 1992) and the effects of other dimensions of domination including race, class, sexual orientation, and age.

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As Acker (1990: 146) observes, neither mobility opportunities nor the organizations in which they are found are “gender neutral.” Rather,

advantage and disadvantage, exploitation and control, action and emotion, meaning and identity are patterned through and in terms of a distinction between male and female, masculine and feminine. Gender is not an addition to ongoing processes, conceived as gender neutral. Rather, it is an integral part of those processes. Organizations are “gendered’ in terms of physical and social divisions (e.g., job titles and physical space); symbols and images (e.g.., language and dress) that explain and reinforce those divisions; interaction processes and patterns that enact dominance and submission (e.g., nonverbal “door ceremonies”); and the production of organizational identities that are gendered. Furthermore, organizations are structured by racial divisions, stereotypes, and patterns of dominance and deference that intersect with gender distinctions. In one of the few studies examining these patterns of interaction that focused explicitly on black women, Collins (1990) identifies four stereotypes or “controlling images.” In contrast to the key virtues of piety, purity, submissiveness, and domesticity to which white women have been encouraged to aspire, black women have been portrayed as mammies, matriarchs, welfare recipients, and “hot mommas.” These images have maintained the political economy of domination by making racism, sexism, and poverty appear to be normal and inevitable. They have kept black women as “others,” at the margins of society, while their labor market opportunities have been severely restricted to low paying service jobs (Collins 1990). To provide a clearer picture of the interlocking effects of gender and race, this chapter explores their impact on one occupation that traditionally has been monopolized by white men. While a fully interactive model would compare the experiences and perspectives of incumbents from all groups, this paper focuses on black women as the pivotal group in defining the commonalities and differences between: 1) black and white women in their experiences of sexism; and 2) black men and women in the face of racism, in police organizations which have long been dominated by and served the interests of dominant white men.

The Police and Discrimination Police work has a long tradition of discriminatory selection criteria and assignment practices. Until recently, most black men were rejected by racially discriminatory selection procedures that excluded persons that did not “fit” (Gray 1976); those that became officers2walked foot beats in ethnic neighborhoods and were prohibited from arresting white offenders (Leinen 1984). Regardless of race, women were employed as “policewomen,” got lower pay, and worked with “women, children, and typewriters” (Milton 1972). In 1972, the Equal Employment Opportunity Act outlawed discrimination by public employers on the basis of race, color, religion, sex, or national origin. Since

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that time, most police agencies have altered discriminatory selection criteria related to education, age, height, and weight, as well as their use of arrest records, agility tests, and veterans’ preference (Sulton and Townsey 1981). They have modified the agility tests and personal interview procedures that disproportionately eliminated women and the written examinations that disproportionately eliminated minority candidates; many departments now are guided by affirmative action plans.3 As a result, the representation of women and black men in policing has grown. By the end of 1986, in municipal departments serving populations of more than 50,000 people, white men comprised 72.2 percent of the sworn personnel, non-white men made up 19 percent, white women constituted 5.3 percent, and non-white women 3.5 percent. Although black women made up only 2.5 percent of all sworn officers, they constituted 31 percent of the female officers, whereas black men comprised only 12.5 percent of male personnel (Martin 1990). Above the entry officer rank, the proportion of women police was 3.3 percent and that of black women a mere 1 percent. While the door to the station house has opened to minority men and all women, both racist (Leinen 1984; Christopher et al. 1991) and sexist attitudes and behaviors remain widespread within police departments (Horne 1980; Hunt 1990; Martin 1980, 1990; Pike 1991). Nevertheless, in comparing the discrimination experienced by female and minority male officers, Pike (199 1:275) suggests that minority men do not challenge the ‘‘quintessential’’ police officer role in the same way women do. Stereotypes of black men fit into the traditional police model since they are seen as physically strong, street-wise, and masculine; their integration did not require organizational changes. In contrast, the integration of women required changes in facilities, uniforms, and physical training programs. In addition, the organizational stereotype of “what women are like” means that women are much less likely to match the ideal type of the officer and those that do risk being labeled “butch” or “bitch.” None of these studies, however, has addressed the issue of the unique situation of black women officers and the interactive effects of racism and sexism.

Data Sources and Research Design The data reported here come from case studies in five large municipal agencies that were part of a larger study designed to assess the current status of women in policing (Martin 1990). The case studies explored departmental policies and procedures for integrating women into policing and officers’ perspectives on changes in the status of women over the past two decades. As shown in Table 10.1, the agencies were diverse with respect to size, region, representation of minorities and women, and the nature of their affirmative action policies. The data were collected in two phases. First, approximately ten command staff and other administrators in each department were interviewed regarding historical and current departmental policies and procedures related to women. Interviews were conducted with persons in charge of recruitment, psychological services, the training academy, promotion process, EEO and legal officials, field operations, a precinct or

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Table 10.1. Characteristics of the Case Study Departments-End 1986 Washington, 0.C. Birmingham Department Sizeend 1986 Region % female % non-white % female supervisors Affirmative Action # women interviewed # men interviewed # sergeant and above

3,869 Mid-Atlantic 13

56

644

South 15 25

7 10 voluntary court ordered

Detroit

Phoenix

Chicago

5.049 N. Central 18 48

1,757 West 7 15

12.448 N. Central 10 25

12 court ordered and voluntary

2 2 voluntary court ordered

16

17

15

12

12

9

6

12

6

7

19

11

15

10

9

district, the union or bargaining agent for the officers, and with other individuals regarded as knowledgeable about department policies affecting the status of women. This included a total of about 15 high ranking women (some in top civilian positions), nearly half of whom were black. In addition, statistical data, policy documents, and personnel rosters from which to select an interview sample were obtained. In the second phase, approximately 30 female and 20 male officers and mid-level supervisors were randomly selected and invited to participate in an interview conducted during on-duty time. Approximately half of these persons were interviewed in each agency (see Table 10.1), depending on the contingencies of scheduling and their willingness to participate. Because the case studies were designed to identify changes in the status of women officers during the past decade and to explore the problems of women supervisors, mid-level supervisors were oversampled and comprise 54 percent of the females and 60 percent of the males that were interviewed. Most were in their 30s and had about 10 years of police experience at the time of the interviews. The interviews were semi-structured, lasted about two hours, and explored a wide range of work issues. In four of the five sites, half of the interviews were conducted by the author (who is white) and half by a black female research as~ociate.~ When the interview schedule permitted a choice, we each interviewed persons of our own race in order to increase rapport and disclosure of potentially embarrassing information.

Officers’ Perceptions of Discrimination The interviews indicated that across the five case study departments the experience of discrimination is widespread but that officers differ in their perceptions of it both on the basis of gender and race.5 These differences help explain why female officers rarely

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have acted in concerted political fashion, despite their common experience of sex discrimination, including sexual harassment. Most of the female but only a minority of the male respondents believe that they had been victims of discrimination as police officers. As shown in Table 10.2, 68 percent of the black women and 80 percent of the white women reported encountering discrimination based on either race or sex, in contrast to 43 and 24 percent of the white and black men, respectively (X2 = 58.5; df = 9; p < .001). Yet white and black women differed in their experiences of discrimination. The majority of white women reported facing sex discrimination (77 percent) but were unlikely to believe they had been victims of racial discrimination (20 percent). Black women reported racial discrimination as the more frequent experience (61 percent) than sex discrimination (55 percent), although a substantial minority (48 percent) of the black women reported experiencing both. Black women also were much more likely than black men to report racial discrimination (24 percent compared with 61 percent). Among the men, whites claimed to be victims of racial discrimination more frequently than blacks (33 percent versus 24 percent), and most of their complaints were related to racial discrimination (made by 33 percent). Complaints of sex discrimination came only from white men.6 Respondents also were asked whether they had benefited or been favored because of their race or sex. Black women were as likely as white women (36 percent versus 38 percent) to report being favored, but the former were more likely to believe they had benefited from both statuses while the white women felt favored only on the basis of their sex. A third of the black men but none of the white males believe they had been favored. The meaning of discrimination varied among the four groups. Some whites, particularly the men, regard themselves as having been victimized by affirmative action programs which resulted in promotion of black men and women who scored lower than they did on the promotion exam. Male respondents never mentioned and women infrequently commented on the inequities that arise from assignments attributable to informal sponsorship by powerful mentors or from membership in “old boy networks.” Thus the measure of “discrimination” is the decision-making process related to a specific opportunity or position, particularly when there are formalized rules that

Table 10.2. Percentage of Case Study Police Officers That Experienced Discrimination by Gender and Race Type of Discrimination

Sex only Race only Both race and sex Neither Total

White Female (N = 35)

60 3 17 20 100%

Black Female (N = 31)

7

13 48 32 1OOYO

White Male (N = 21) 10 19 14 57 100%

Black Male (N = 17) 24 76 100%

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confer advantage on a class rather than individuals. In contrast, there is little recognition of inequities built into the organizational logic (Acker 1990) or the ways that decision rules related to policies, procedures, and systems of evaluations structure advantages or disabilities in ways that are both gendered and racially biased. If everyone competes according to the same formal criteria (whether or not these are appropriate, job related, or biased in some fashion), then there is no perception of discrimination. Conversely, when “the playing field is not level,” persons are promoted “out of turn” or from a race or sex-based list, or an assignment is earmarked for a person of a particular race andlor gender, the decision is viewed as discriminatory. Men, both black and white, also expressed indignation at the “discrimination” arising from women’s “taking advantage” of their sexuality to gain sponsorship, protection, and coveted assignments. That as males, some men “took advantage” of informal “buddy” relationships and insider status and were involved in exchanges of other types of favors was ignored by the men and infrequently articulated by the women. Many women also were critical of those (other) women who exchanged sexual favors for job-related benefits. Although they recognized that this had a negative impact on women as a group (and some observed that individually they had had to work harder because they did not “play”), few labeled it discrimination.

Affirmative Action Policies, Counting Rules, and the Intersection of Race and Sex Given the presence of discrimination on the basis of both race and gender, how to “count” black females has an important effect on the implementation of affirmative action efforts. Clearly, some individual black women have benefited, but in three of the case study departments the rules applied to counting in court orders and affirmative action plans have worked to black women’s disadvantage. This disadvantage was most strikingly illustrated by the legal battle over promotion procedures in the Chicago police department, as black men and white women protected their own interests at the expense of the black women. The department’s hiring and promotion process came under supervision of the federal courts as a result of US. us. City of Chicago. In 1973, after a finding that the sergeant’s promotional exam was discriminatory, the judge imposed quotas for promotions. The black women, as black plaintiffs, were represented by the Afro-American Police League and initially were drawn from the promotion list as blacks, regardless of gender. When the white women realized some black women were being promoted to sergeant ahead of them, however, they filed a claim asserting that all females should be treated as a single minority group. The judge ruled that black women could not be given double benefits. He asked the Afro-American League’s legal representative whether it was acceptable to count the black women as women, not as blacks, for the purpose of the quota. Without consulting the women, the lawyer agreed. Perhaps in accepting the change the lawyer recognized that he would increase the

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number of positions for which blacks were eligible. Alternatively, one might interpret his actions as knowingly undercutting the black women. While the change increased promotion opportunities for black men by removing the women from competition with them, it forced the black women to compete with the white women whose test scores were better than theirs (whereas those of black men were not). When the black women legally protested the decision several years later, the judge agreed that they had a valid complaint but ruled that it was “not timely.” As one black woman observed, “Nobody was looking out for our interests.”’ In another department, although black females now outnumber white females three to one, the affirmative action practice remains the promotion of one white woman for every black women. In a third department, black women have been double counted, but the result in counting them twice is to shrink rather than expand either the quota for women or for minorities. Despite these generally disadvantageous counting rules, the black women often have incurred the hostility of both white women and black men who feel that the black women have taken “their” places. Furthermore, when black females act in concerted fashion with black men, as the Chicago lawsuit illustrates, they have less power to share, lower status as women, and face being betrayed or undermined by their “allies” in the latter’s quest for advantage.

Race and Gender Effects on Street Patrol Activities The initial resistance to both racial integration and the assignment of women to police patrol was strong, organized, and sometimes life threatening (Bloch and Anderson 1974; Martin 1980; Leinen 1984; Hunt 1984). Such systematic harassment has largely ended. Nevertheless, both racism and sexism continue, although they are expressed in different ways. Many men-both white and black-still openly voice negative views of women as officers, prefer not to work with them, and alter their behavior when they have a female partner. In contrast, black men are accepted as capable officers, although racial politics abounds and seating at roll calls and most off-duty socializing remain racially separate. Overt expressions of racism, however, are taken seriously by command staff and have led to disciplinary actions in the departments in this study. How do these patterns of racism and sexism affect black women officers’ perceptual world, street patrol behavior, and opportunities for mobility? All rookie officers face a “reality shock” when they begin street patrol. This initial training period is important in developing skills and self-confidence and establishing a reputation. An officer who does not have or take opportunities to develop patrol skills due to limiting assignments, inadequate instruction, or overprotection is likely to be hesitant or fail to act in a confrontation. Such incompetent officers are regarded by others as potential dangers they are anxious to avoid, thus perpetuating the cycle of incompetence on patrol. Gender-based patterns of occupational socialization and expectations of patrol

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performance influence the way rookies respond, creating self-fulfilling prophecies for many women officers (Martin 1980). These patterns are most visible for the first generation of women officers who faced organized resistance designed to drive them out of police work. They faced insufficient instruction, co-worker hostility, and the “silent treatment” that “made eight hours seem like eight days”; close and punitive supervision; exposure to danger and lack of backup; and paternalistic overprotection. As one black woman recounted: Males didn’t want to work with females, and at times, I was the only female or black on the shift so I had to do a lot to prove myself. I was at the precinct 10 days before I knew I had a partner ’cause . . . (the men) called in sick and I was put in the station. The other white guys called the man who was assigned to work with me the 11th day and told him to call in sick. . . . He came in anyway.

Another noted: My first day on the North side, the assignment officer looked up and said, “Oh shit, another fucking female.” That’s the way you were treated by a lot of the men. The sergeant called me in and said the training officer doesn’t want to ride with you but I’ve given him a direct order to work with you.

Although both white and black women were targets of the men’s hostility, several black women observed differences in their treatment that reflect differences in the cultural images and employment experiences of black and white women. Historically, white women have been “put on a pedestal,” idealized as frail, and spared from physical labor. In contrast, black women have assumed the “beast of burden” role (Dill 1979), performing heavy physical labor in fields, factories, and the homes of white women, as well as coming “to symbolize sexuality, prowess, and . . . embody the ‘myth of the superwoman’” (Palmer 1983:158). Faced with these dual images of womanhood, white women formed their identities around “good” womanhood, accepted their difference from black women, and adopted a sense of superiority, although, in reality, they were powerless, having accepted economic and psychological dependence on white men who control their sexuality. O n patrol, women tend to be treated according to those traditional patterns. In all five departments the initial cohorts of white women assigned to patrol, particularly those that were physically attractive or attached to influential white men, were more likely than black women to be “protected” from street patrol assignments by being given station house duty and rapid transfers to administrative units. As one woman noted, white women were put on a pedestal, treated like wives. . . . (Many) got jobs doing typing for commanders and downtown assignments. They’re high priced secretaries.

O n street patrol, too, there were and continue to be differences in expectations and treatment of black and white women. Patrol officers rely heavily on fellow officers for backup in dangerous situations; providing backup when another officer calls for

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help is a central norm of policing (Westley 1970). Police also may support, control, or sanction others by their willingness to “slide in” on calls to provide added police presence and by the speed with which they provide assistance. Both the lack of reliable backup and overprotectiveness are likely to reduce an officer’s willingness to take risks or display initiative. But the officer who fails to act appropriately is shunned as a “coward.” And when such behavior is displayed by a woman, rather than being an individual failure, the stigmatizing label is generalized to all women. Many of the white patrolmen are protective ofwhite women, and the latter acquiesce by enacting the stereotyped roles of “pet,” “mother,” or “seductress” (Kanter 1977) to gain personal acceptance and backup. Black women also are told to remain “back covers” by male partners who do not expect them to perform as equals. When they defer to white men and accept a passive role, however, they cannot count on being protected as females and may instead be viewed as “lazy” (thereby fitting the “welfare mother” stereotype). A black woman explained: Black women don’t expect to be nice to them (white men) because white males won’t protect us on the street.

Another noted that when she had a white female partner, the white men backed them up; when she worked with a black partner the white men would not do so. Several stated they had faced outright racial harassment, illustrated by the following incident that occurred in 1977: My training officer and I went to a call. . . . When we got back, our car door was open and there was a cut out arrow from a sheet of paper taped to the window. The word “nigger” was written on the arrow which was pointing to my seat. My training officer told me not to pay attention to it, but it bothered me. I didn’t report it; it wouldn’t have done any good . . . but the incident let me know where I stood.

Black women face uncertainties related both to co-worker backup and to unpredictable responses of citizens to a black woman exercising authority. They also are aware of the historical role of the police as oppressors in the black community. These factors contribute to their reluctance to adopt the policing style characteristic of white men who are enthusiastic about “aggressive patrol” and seeking out crime and criminals. This difference in occupational perspective and role performance style was illustrated in interviews with two rookie officers for whom similar assignments to “the projects” posed starkly contrasting problems. The black female was troubled by responding to conflicts involving people she had grown up with and was embarrassed to learn intimate information about their lives. The white male burned out after acting as the macho enforcer zealously arresting for drug offenses persons he viewed as “animals” he had to fight “tooth and claw.”

Non-Patrol Assignments and Station House Interaction Inside the station, women face a hostile working environment filled with sexual propositions, pornographic material, and cursing (Martin 1980; Swerdlow 1989). Several

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black women asserted that they faced additional displays of deliberate disrespect shown to them as women by the men’s use of language.8 One black woman observed: White males generally have very little respect for black females, especially if they don’t know you. . . . If a white female is around and they start their cursing, they’ll say “Excuse me.” If a black female is around they don’t stop. Their attitude is, “Oh it is only a black female, who cares.” Black men also tend to be protective of women but black women cannot count as heavily on them for backup. First, they are fewer in number and, therefore, less available when needed. In addition, they face pressures from the white men (or shared their resistance to women on patrol), not to back the women up. Interacting with these gender-based stereotypes, black women face widespread racial stereotypes as well as outright racial harassment. Stereotypically, blacks are assumed to be less knowledgeable, reliable, and able to manage power as supervisors. For example, a black female burglary detective observed that white men are reluctant to recognize her expertise. Precinct supervisors often call her unit for information. However, when she answers calls from white males they tend to argue with what she says. Another black woman asserted: A white male can goof off all day and nobody’d say a thing. But a woman, especially a black woman . . . has to work twice as hard. Another woman did just that when she took over the administrative work of two sergeants who retired at the same time in her detective unit. Although she explained, “I had an advantage, I knew how to type,” the difference was also one of attitude. The men would wait for a typist; she did the work herself, to assure that the records were current. While she observed, “now everything runs smoothly,” her performance may also contribute to the subsequent “downgrading” of such administrative support positions and to their resegregation (Reskin and Roos 1990). As part of the gendering of organizations, job tasks come to be “loaded with gender meanings” (Hall 1993:454). Even before integration, not only was policing done by men and thus viewed as “men’s work,” police attached gendered meanings to various tasks and aspects of the job. Hunt (1984) observed that police symbolically construct their occupational world in terms of oppositional categories with masculine and feminine significance. “Real police work” is associated with the outside domain of the street where men engage in high status, dirty, dangerous crime fighting activities. In contrast, inside administrative work, formal rules, and cleanliness are associated with femininity. As women officers have moved into symbolically “feminine” inside positions, those jobs have become more strongly gender labeled and devalued in the eyes of male officers. It probably was no accident that men in administrative support jobs emphasized their “masculine” policy and administrative responsibilities, letting the typing pile up rather than perform the task regarded as “women’s work.” As women gain these assignments, by using their “feminine” typing and office management skills to make the unit operate more efficiently, they also risk transforming the gender and racial meanings of the work so that it confers less prestige and authority.’

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In some instances, the black women’s combination of race and gender has made the nature of their problems ambiguous. One explained: Sometimes I couldn’t tell if what 1 faced was racial or sexual or both. The black female is the last one on the totem pole in the department, so if things are okay you thank God for that.

A black female supervisor reported having problems with a white male subordi-

nate who deliberately violated procedures. Aker he transferred, she learned that his new male supervisor also had problems with him, so it wasn’t a female thing. . . but at the time I couldn’t be sure. . . . I felt he was rebelling against me because I was a female lieutenant and a black lieutenant. 1 had a double whammy on me as female and black.

Facing the “double whammy,” however, emboldened some black female supervisors to stand up to harassment and challenge the systemic racial and gender discrimination they perceived, perhaps because of their detachment from the informal work culture. Like Simmel’s “marginal man” (sic), the black female has been the “outsider within” (Collins 1986). Nowhere is this truer than in the “macho” world of police work, where black women are separated both from many black male officers who have enthusiastically embraced its “crime fighting’ activities and from white women by the latter’s expectations of protection as stereotypic women. Having survived isolation and performance pressures as officers and as sergeants, they relished their access to power and sought to use it in broadly political ways.Io Several told of challenging evaluation and assignment practices they regarded as racist, not simply for individual career advancement but on behalf of black officers. One black woman in a command position related the following:

I took a beating for changing things (regarding race). Whites are tribal in this community ’cause they see all blacks as the enemy and as criminals. I understand their ethnocentrism . . . but cannot tolerate some of the stuff that was going on. When I insisted on doing things by the book there was rebellion. . . . Now they’re on the right path but they call me “that woman” because I caused them problems.

A female sergeant related the following experience. When she observed that blacks

were receiving lower service ratings, regardless of their productivity, she began recording all activities for the unit. The next rating period, when the lieutenant called all sergeants in to justify their ratings, the whites and the black male sergeant had rated blacks lower than the whites; she rated females and blacks higher. The lieutenant refused to approve her ratings and demanded an explanation. She stated that her ratings were based on her six-month log on all officers’ activities and threatened to file a grievance and let the records speak for themselves if the ratings were not changed. She added: The lieutenant sat back in his chair and said that in his 15 years as a lieutenant he’d never had a black officer challenge him. He wondered how

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long it would take for a black to speak up. He added it took guts, but that the service ratings would be changed.

A third black woman supervisor stated that she challenged the disproportionate num-

ber of detective positions held by white men after feeling empowered by the model provided by Jesse Jackson when he ran for president.

Dealing with Black Men Although black women often have worked closely with black men to reduce the effects of racial discrimination, their relations with them also are strained by tensions and dilemmas associated with sexuality and competition for desirable assignments and promotions. Like white women, in the struggle for power and acceptance in policing, black males have sometimes allied with white men. The bases for their alliance, however, rest largely on their shared resistance to the integration of women into the “policemen’s’’ world. Yet, the open hostility of black men to white women-particularly those with close personal bonds to white male police-always poses the threat of reprisals. Consequently, the black men appear to display less hostility to white than black women with whom they compete for positions and promotions earmarked “black” by affirmative action programs. Illustrating such competition, a black woman observed that when she was promoted her black male peers suggested that she had taken “their” slot. Another noted, “if you speak up or show you can think for yourself. . . you have problems from black men.” For example, a black female lieutenant told of being verbally abused by a white lieutenant. When she hung up on him, he called her commander to complain. When her black commander asked why she could not be nicer to the lieutenant, her response was, “The only thing that I hate more than a white man trying to run over me is a black man clearing the way.” Others recounted instances of sexual harassment and the dilemmas it posed in choosing between fighting for one’s personal interests as a woman and recognition of a “larger” concern arising from racism and the need to preserve racial solidarity. One black woman observed, “The black men have assumed they could make sexual approaches to black women they would hesitate making to whites.” Another reported: The worst harassment I got came from a black male lieutenant. . . . The only reason I didn’t (file a sexual harassment suit) is because the lieutenant’s black. I guess that makes me a racist but I looked at the overall problem it would have caused and how it would be played up in the press and didn’t do it.

Elaborating on the competition theme, one woman mused: For some reason the black men tend to hurt us more (than white men). Maybe they’re afraid of us, although they won’t admit it.

...

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Several recounted instances of competition for scarce resources, from being denied lockers in the station house to jealousy regarding assignments. For example, a black woman asserted: The white commanders put white women on desk jobs for years. As soon as black females got desk assignments, however, the black guys complained. Other black women, however, observed that they have had support from black men but poor treatment from whites. One stated, for example:

Black males are generally good to work with, but white males generally have very little respect for black females, especially if they don’t know you. In departments with a large proportion of black personnel or a black chief the effects of racism seem to diminish, but this tends to heighten black women’s awareness of sex discrimination, particularly in the selection of members of the command staff:

No woman in the department is considered capable of operating in the inner circle. . . . It’s an exclusive club. . . . and having a woman as the right hand man (sic), the Chief would suffer ridicule from ranking men. They’d say “what can she offer,” implying what is done by a woman can’t be of

value.

Ironically, she did not comment on the implied sexual innuendo.

Relations among Women Officers All respondents agreed that there is little unity among the women. They are divided

by divergent perspectives on occupational performance, gender enactment, racism, and by white men’s success using a “divide and conquer” strategy, playing on the racism of white females and the sexism of black males. Consequently, most women do not see it in their best interest to organize. All police must find a personal style that solves certain work-related problems: dealing with fear and danger; gaining citizen compliance; and relating to peers and supervisors. In addition, women officers must cope with discrimination, sexual harassment, gender stereotypes, and the interactional scripts that incorporate race and gender in what is considered appropriate behavior for a “policeman.” They must negotiate an occupational identity and respond to the gender role stereotypes into which they are cast. Martin (1980) observes that women officers are pressured to enact the police role either as policewomen or policewomen. The former behave in a manner that conforms to existing male behavioral norms and emphasizes being professional, dedicated, aggressive, and controlling even though this means acting “unladylike” and being labeled “dyke” or “bitch.” The latter, in contrast, emphasize their femininity, adopt a less assertive policing style, and consequently fail to meet work-related expectations. Most female respondents stated that they seek to negotiate an identity that allows

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them to maintain their femininity, succeed as officers, and gain individual acceptance as “just me.” Nevertheless, most were critical of other women, including those who “behave like clinging vines” or “act mannish” on the job and those who “act like sluts” or “try to make their way around the department on knee pads” because each of these behaviors contributes to negative stereotyping that “rubs off on us.” Although some women-both white and black-have succeeded in creating a new “woman-cop’’ identity by combining valued masculine and feminine attributes and self definitions (Hunt 1984), the opportunities, options, and the way they arrived at their identities also are affected by racial scripts for policing styles and prevailing stereotypes of and structural constraints on black and white women.” A few of the women belong to state or national women’s law enforcement organizations, but efforts to organize the women in their own agencies have been short-lived or sporadic. Chicago is the only case study site with an active (but still fledgling) departmental women officers’ organization, the Coalition of Law Enforcement Officers (CLEO). Formally open to all officers, CLEO is designed to address the concerns of black women officers through educational growth and support activities.’* Commenting on a recent meeting held by CLEO, one white Chicago officer admiringly observed: White women won’t be organized. (At the CLEO meeting) they were talking about day care! . . . White women have the housewife syndrome; many black women are single, used to running a family, and are more assertive. . . . Black women have much more consciousness of abuse; white women are less aware of abuse as women.

Another white woman added: Black females are more militant and don’t think white females are suffering. I wish they could see how white males treat white females.

Of course, the black women do see that white women that do not conform to stereo-

types are “punished’ for their independence, but that others have been willing to remain “on the pedestal,” and that both types have actively used their personal ties to white men to gain occupational advantages less frequently available to black women. Several white women complained that they were isolated politically and personally. Most appear to share the view that: Had we organized as a group, it would have hampered our acceptance. We went out as individuals and fitted in as individuals and that was the best thing we did for acceptance. If we’d set ourselves apart, it would have turned people off.

Clearly the “people” t o whom she is referring are white men who become the reference group and persons in power to be appeased rather than “turned off.” Unity threatens her with “guilt by association” with the women whose occupational performance and personal behavior the respondent and others like her find objectionable, namely women who do not adopt a “kick-ass’’ aggressive patrol style.

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Black women less frequently articulated such an individualistic strategy for gaining acceptance. Despite widely differing gender performance styles and approaches, they rarely were openly critical of other black women. Their barbs and expressions of anger were reserved for the frequent racism and sexism they encountered. They also consistently expressed both pride and frustration in their identity as “a black woman officer” or “a black female in management” rather than as simply a black or a female. Racism compounds the divisions among women. Several blacks noted that white women are as racist as white men. For example, one woman stated: White females seem to think that minorities are totally incompetent, dirty, don’t know what we are doing, and need to be led by the hand and told what exactly has to be done, so that we won’t screw up anything. That’s insulting to me.

Others recounted incidents of racism involving women. Some incidents were individual; others involved organized actions such as that illustrated by the white women’s legal action that blocked black women from accessing both their identities in U.S. vs.

Chicago.

Joining a women’s group, the men assert and white women perceive, means implicitly joining “them” (the other racial group) which makes you not part of “us.” For women of both races acceptance by the men (of the same race) is more important than the support of other women, for both work-related and social reasons. Since women usually work with men and depend on them for backup, their support is often a matter of life and death. Men have more experience, “muscle,” and are available in greater numbers than women officers. They also are the supervisors who have the power to reward and punish. In addition, social activities including dating and marriages occur along racial lines. Men of each race control women’s on-duty behavior by threatening them with social isolation. Both white and black men have used racism to control the women of their race and prevent women from unifying to address sex discrimination. A white female, for example, said that when she rejected the sexual advances of a white male, he started the rumor that she only slept with blacks. This attempt to assert white male control used both racism and sexism: doubly impugning the woman’s behavior as both “promiscuous” and “disloyal.” In departments where blacks have gained political and numerical power, overt racism has diminished. However, the salience of their oppression as women is heightened. As one black female supervisor observed: They keep us competing, fat versus thin, old versus young, and women seem to fall for it. Getting unity is like pulling teeth. The women say (of a female supervisor who tries to counsel them), “she doesn’t want to help us” and while the women are feuding, the men are moving up.

Conclusions This study has sought to go beyond dichotomous approaches to understanding both race and gender that have characterized much of the study of racism and sexism.

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Instead of the prevailing “eithedor” approach, it has sought to treat them as interlocking systems of oppression and has employed a “bothland” approach to focus on black women as a unique class or group. It has done so using a narrowly targeted in-depth strategy of examining workplace experiences and perceptions in an occupation long dominated by white men-policing. Such a strategy has both strengths and weaknesses. O n the positive side, police work provides rich opportunities for exploring interlocking dimensions of discrimination and black women’s “unique angle of vision” (Collins 1990:26). Gender is deeply embedded in the police culture, while historically police departments have excluded black officers and have served as enforcers of a system of racial injustice in the black community. Despite changes in the past two decades, the idealized image of the representative of the forces of “law and order” and protector who maintains “the thin blue line” between “them” and “us” remains white and male. As “outsiders within” black women’s perspectives on policing challenge the prevailing notions, including the “naturalness” of the police role as it currently is enacted, and hint at an alternative vision of policing. Moreover, their experiences suggest the complexity of the interconnections of racism and sexism which themselves are parts of the larger “matrix of domination” (Collins 1990:225).They also illustrate some of the ambiguities in distinguishing among the bases for differential treatment. Domination occurs not only with respect to race and gender but class, age, sexual orientation, and ethnicity, and operates on three levels at which people experience and resist it: the individual; the group or community; and social system. Thus this examination has focused on only one cell of the matrix and explored it for only one particular occupation. Even in this narrowly focused effort, however, the reception of black and white women, and nature of the “discrimination” they experienced appears to have varied across specific work settings, depending on whether or not they were introduced as a result of legal action against the department as well as the racial and social climate in the study sites. The in-depth strategy has the advantage of reducing the likelihood of either overgeneralization or oversimplification that have characterized studies of both racism and sexism. It suggests that experiences and perspectives are situated not only historically but within organizational and occupational contexts that vary. And, in studying an occupational or organizational setting in which both black and white men are present, it has expanded the “three-way relationship involving white men, white women, and women of color” in which “race and gender dynamics are played out” (Glenn 1992:34) to give black men a role. At the same time, it has excluded several important issues and elements of that matrix that should be noted. It “controlled” for several variables by ignoring or excluding them. The class backgrounds of the officers were presumed to be the same for black and white officers; this clearly is questionable and merits further study. Most of the persons that were interviewed were experienced officers and “successes” who had been promoted. The perspectives expressed by these black women may point to useful strategies for survival but understate the problems of “average” women officers, particularly those that left police work. The experiences of a wider segment of the occupational or organizational group also merit future exploration.

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The data rest entirely on intensive interviews without observing actual behavior or gathering intensive personality measures. Since discrimination often is subtle, the findings illustrate the ways in which one may easily confuse whether “discrimination” is based on race, gender, age, experience, or personality style. Thus the “by the book” behavior of the female supervisor cited in this paper illustrates how a personality or interactional style that is offensive to others may elicit punishment or be perceived in race or gender terms. The both/and conceptual perspective allows one to view all groups as having varying amounts of penalty and privilege in a single system that changes over time. White women are penalized by gender but privileged by their race. Depending on the context, an individual may be oppressor or member of an oppressed group or both simultaneously. For example, the interactions of white women officers with other police and with citizens most likely were affected by their age, rank, and by the authority of their office. Similarly, black men alternately were shown to act as mediators and oppressors of black women in “divide and conquer” politics characteristic of many organizational settings. Assuming the perspective of persons who are multiple minorities illuminates the unique uncertainties and heightened consciousness that result, as well as the advancement strategies likely to be different from those of other groups. As “outsiders within” with limited expectations of climbing onto “the pedestal” or becoming “one of the boys,” black women have been able to distance themselves from the occupational culture and adopt a more critical view of it as well as their place in it. It is hoped that these findings stimulate a variety of further studies. In exploring the matrix of domination, not only the intersection of race and gender but consideration of class, ethnicity, and sexual orientation are important factors for further examination in a variety of occupational settings as well as across occupations and work contexts which vary widely from each other. Studies too are needed that go beyond resistance of the oppressed to examine structural “reversals,” as persons who are not white males move into positions of authority. Finally, these findings suggest the value of exploring sources of strength and resilience as well as the nature of the barriers that limit achievement.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 41, No. 3, August 1994, pp. 383-400.

0 1994 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

1. Although Hispanic, Native American, and Asian-American women share many of the disadvantages of black women, this chapter focuses only on black women, given the limitations of my data and the history of police integration. 2. The term police officer has replaced policeman and policewoman as the generic term referring to sworn police personnel of all ranks. While the word “officer” sometimes is used to mean police at the lowest rank in a semi-military organization, I will use it in the generic sense unless otherwise specified. 3. By the end of 1986, 15 percent of the departments in cities serving populations of more than 50,000 were operating under court orders or consent decrees (most of these were in

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jurisdictions with populations over 250,000) and 42 percent had adopted voluntary affirmative action plans (Martin 1990). Only 4 percent of municipal agencies still had minimum height and weight standards as entry criteria (Fyfe 1987). 4. Personal contingencies prevented the research associate from leaving Washington, D.C. to conduct the interviews in Phoenix. The proportion of blacks in that city and police department, however, is very small. 5. Afier relating their history of assignments and experiences during initial training, respondents were asked directly “Have you experienced discrimination on the basis of race or sex as members of the police department?” N o definition of discrimination was provided but all positive responses were probed. Even before getting to this question, however, many of the women described treatment by training officers, supervisors, and fellow officers that was subsequently described as discrimination or as sexual harassment. A separate question regarding both their definition and experience of sexual harassment was included late in the interview schedule (if the subject had not already been explored). 6. The low proportion of black men reporting discrimination is puzzling. Although it is possible that women’s “radar” for detecting discrimination was more sensitive, a more likely explanation is that the interviews, focused largely on women in policing, led the black men to minimize discussion of their own experiences of racial discrimination. Furthermore, the higher proportion of white than black males to claim to have been a victim of discrimination suggests both a reluctance of some of the latter to discuss their experiences and the strength of the white backlash and resentment of affirmative action. The perception of being a victim of “reverse discrimination” was only expressed by respondents in the agencies with court ordered affirmative action policies including racial quotas for promotions. The acrimony over integration was particularly intense in Detroit where a powerful police union dominated by white men had initiated a number of lawsuits challenging several court ordered affirmative action policies. 7. This case clearly illustrates the problem of judicial treatment of black women’s employment discrimination claims. If courts shifted from looking one at a time at “protected categories” to conceptualizing “black women” as a distinct class protected by Title VII of the Civil Rights Acts it would have a substantial impact on current anti-discrimination efforts (Scarborough 1989). 8. White men sometimes combined expressions of racism and sexism in their put downs of black women by evoking stereotypes of the latter’s sexuality. The mechanism was strikingly displayed by a white male respondent in his interaction with the black female interviewer. In discussing the racial integration of the police work he strayed from the question to gratuitously assert: I can’t accept it that it is acceptable for black women to have babies out of wedlock and give them over to the grandparents. These women prefer to date married men. They don’t care how men treat them.

He responded to a question about how white females are accepted in policing saying: on a par with black females. I don’t want to offend you but if I was reincarnated, I wouldn’t want to come back as a black female.

But of course he was deliberately offending, by making clear his stereotypic view of black women as both sexually promiscuous and willing victims of black men. 9. This energetic black woman also stated: Initially they (the men) couldn’t stand the thought of you being around them; now all administrative units are run by females. Few men type so they seek out good

females.

Similarly, an internal audit by the Chicago police determined that women held 53 percent of the “inside” permanent station assignments in violation of the senioriry rules.

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10. In addition to bringing structural changes, a high proportion of the black women related at least one instance of resisting oppression, bias, or discrimination at a personal level. For example one woman stated: When I was (assigned to work) at the jail I had a lieutenant who didn’t like blacks period. . . . He wouldn’t speak to me. One day I was the only one in the office and if he wanted to get out, I’d have to let him out (by opening the electronically controlled door). I deliberately turned my back to him so he’d have to ask me to let him out. He stood five minutes before saying anything.

Nevertheless, ultimately she “won” by forcing him to recognize and address her as a fellow officer. 11. Examining the structural constraints on correctional officer role enactment, Zimmer (1986) found that they affected black and white in different ways. A woman who wanted to enact the “modified” (or policewoman-like) style of work performance required protection from male co-workers and safe non-contact assignments from male supervisors. Since most coworkers and virtually all supervisors in the prisons were white men, they forced black women into direct contact assignment. The latter perceived this distribution of assignments as racial prejudice although it was due primarily to the lack of “connections” also faced by white women from urban areas who lacked ties to male supervisors. Harlan and O’Farrell (1982) also note that black women who entered traditionally male blue collar jobs in large industrial firms felt similarly disadvantaged vis-A-vis white women. 12. At the time the data were collected, CLEO was only 18 months old, had been inactive in its first year, and included only 55 members (out of approximately 1,000 women in the department, 455 of whom are black). Its continuation and success under a new leader are uncertain. Its focus on concerns of black women, however, may have removed one source of tension that has hampered organizing efforts in other departments.

References Acker, Joan. 1990. “Hierarchies, Jobs and Bodies: A Theory of Gendered Organizations.” Gender &Society 4:139-58. Beale, Francis. 1970. “Double Jeopardy: To Be Black and Female.” In The Black Woman: A n Anthology, edited by Toni Cade. New York: New American Library. Bloch, Peter D., and Deborah Anderson. 1974. Policewomen on Patrol: Final Report. Washington, D.C.: Urban Institute. Christopher, Warren, J. A. Arguelles, R. Anderson, W. R. Barnes, L. F. Estrada, Mickey Kantor, R. M. Mosk, A. S. Ordin, J. B. Slaughter, and R. E. Tranquada. 1991. Report of the Independent Commission on the Los Angeles Police Department. Collins, Patricia H. 1986. “Learning from the Outsider Within: The Sociological Significance of Black Feminist Thought.” Social Problems 33: 14-32. . 1990. Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness and the Politics of Empowerment. New York: Routledge. Dill, Bonnie T. 1979. “The Dialectics of Black Womanhood.” Signs 4:543-55. . 1983. “Race, Class and Gender: Prospects for an All-inclusive Sisterhood.” Feminist Studies 9:131-50. Dugger, Karen. 1988. “Social Location and Gender-Role Attitudes: A Comparison of Black and White Women.” Gender &Society 2:425-48. Epstein, Cynthia F. 1973. “The Positive Effects of the Multiple Negative: Explaining the Success of Black Professional Women.” American journal of Sociology 78:912-35.

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Fyfe, James. 1986. Police Personnel Practices, 1986 Baseline Data Report Vol. 18, Number 6. Washington, D.C.: International City Management Association. Gilkes, Cheryl T. 1981. “From Slavery to Social Welfare: Racism and the Control of Black Women.” In C h s , Race and Sex: The Dynamics of Control, edited by Ann Swerdlow and H. Lessing, 288-300. Boston: G. K. Hall. Glenn, Evelyn N. 1992. “From Servitude to Service Work: Historical Continuities in the Racial Division of Paid Reproductive Labor.” Signs 18:1-43. Hall, Elaine J. 1993. “Waitering/Waitressing: Engendering the Work of Table Servers.” Gender &Society 7:329-46. Harlan, Sharon L., and Brigid O’Farrell. 1982. “After the Pioneers: Prospects for Women in Non-traditional Blue Collar Jobs.” Work and Occupations 9:363-86. Hooks, Belle. 1981. Ain ’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism. Boston, Mass.: South End Press. Horne, Peter. 1980. Women in Law Enforcement. 2nd ed. Springfield, Ill.: Charles C. Thomas. Hunt, Jennifer. 1984. “The Development of Rapport through Negotiation of Gender in Field Work among Police.” Human Organization 43:283-96. . 1990. “The Logic of Sexism among Police.” Women and Criminal Justice 1:3-30. Hurtado, Aileen. 1989. “Relating to Privilege: Seduction and Rejection in the Subordination of White Women and Women of Color.” Signs 14:833-55. Kanter, Rosabeth M. 1977. Men and Women of the Organization. New York: Basic. King, Deborah. 1988. “Multiple Jeopardy, Multiple Consciousness: The Context of a Black Feminist Ideology.” Signs 14:42-72. Koelewijn-Strattner, Gijsberta J., Joseph L. Lengermann, and Marina A. Adler. 1991. “Race and Gender in the Chemistry Profession: Double Jeopardy or Double Negative.” Unpublished paper presented at the annual meeting of the American SociologicalAssociation, Cincinnati, Ohio. Leinen, Stephen. 1984. Black Police, White Sociey. New York: New York University Press. Martin, Susan E. 1980. “Breakingand Entering? Policewomen on Patrol. Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press. . 1990. On the Move: The Status of Women in Policing. Washington, D.C.: Police Foundation. Milton, Catherine. 1972. Women in Policing. Washington, D.C.: Police Foundation. Nkomo, Stella M., and Taylor Cox, Jr. 1989. “Gender Differences in the Upward Mobility of Black Managers: Double Whammy or Double Advantage.” Sex Roles 2 12325-39. Palmer, Phyllis. 1983. “White Women/Black Women: The Dualism of Female Identity and Experience in the United States.” Feminist Studies 9: 151-71. Pike, Diane L. 1991. “Women in Police Academy Training: Some Aspects of Organizational Response.” In The Changing Roles of Women in the Criminaljustice System: Offenders, Victims and Professionals, 2nd ed., edited by Imogene Moyer, 261-80. Prospect Heights, Ill.: Waveland Press. Reskin, Barbara, and Patricia Roos. 1990. Job Queues, Gender Queues: Explaining Womenj Znroadr into Malp Occupations. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Scarborough, Cathy. 1989. “Conceptualizing Black Women’s Employment Experiences.” Yale Law Journal 98:1457-78. Smith, Althea, and Abigail J. Stewart. 1983. “Approaches to Studying Racism and Sexism in Black Women’s Lives.” journal of Social h u e s 39: 1-13. Sulton, Cindy, and Roi Townsey. 1981. A Progress Report on Women in Policing. Washington, D.C.: Police Foundation. Swerdlow, Marion. 1989. “Men’s Accommodations to Women Entering a Nontraditional Occupation: A Case of Rapid Transit Operatives.” Gender &Society 3:373-87. Westley, William. 1970. Violence and the Police. Cambridge: M.I.T. Press.

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Williams, Christine. 1992. “The Glass Escalator: Hidden Advantages for Men in the ‘Female’ Professions.” Social Probkms 39:253-66. Zimmer, Lynn. 1986. Women Guarding Men. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. . 1988. “Tokenism and Women in the Workplace: The Limits of Gender Neutral Theory.” Social Problems 35~64-77.

CHAPTER 1 1

Shifts and Oscillations in Deviant Careers

THE CASE OF UPPER-LEVEL DRUG DEALERS AND SMUGGLERS Patricia A. Adler and Peter Adler

The upper echelons of the marijuana and cocaine trade constitute a world which has never before been researched and analyzed by sociologists. Importing and distributing tons of marijuana and kilos of cocaine at a time, successfd operators can earn upwards of a half million dollars per year. Their traffic in these so-called “soft”l drugs constitutes a potentially lucrative occupation, yet few participants manage to accumulate any substantial sums of money, and most people envision their involvement in drug trafficking as only temporary. In this study we focus on the career paths followed by members of one upper-level drug dealing and smuggling community. We discuss the various modes of entry into trafficking at these upper levels, contrasting these with entry into middle- and low-level trafficking. We then describe the pattern of shifts and oscillations these dealers and smugglers experience. Once they reach the top rungs of their occupation, they begin periodically quitting and re-entering the field, often changing their degree and type of involvement upon their return. Their careers, therefore, offer insights into the problems involved in leaving deviance. Previous research on soft drug trafficking has only addressed the low and middle levels of this occupation, portraying people who purchase no more than 100 kilos of marijuana or single ounces of cocaine at a time (Anonymous 1969; Atkyns and Hanneman 1974; Blum et al. 1972; Carey 1968; Goode 1970; Langer 1977; Lieb and Olson 1976; Mouledoux 1972; Waldorf et al. 1977). Of these, only Lieb and Olson (1976) have examined dealing and/or smuggling as an occupation, investigating participants’ career developments. But their work, like several of the others, focuses on a population of student dealers who may have been too young to strive for and attain the upper levels of drug trafficking. Our study fills this gap at the top by describing and analyzing an elite Community of upper-level dealers and smugglers and their careers. We begin by describing where our research took place, the people and activities we studied, and the methods we used. Second, we outline the process of becoming a 203

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drug trafficker, from initial recruitment through learning the trade. Third, we look at the different types of upward mobility displayed by dealers and smugglers. Fourth, we examine the career shifis and oscillations which veteran dealers and smugglers display, outlining the multiple, conflicting forces which lure them both into and out of drug trafKcking. We conclude by suggesting a variety of paths which dealers and smugglers pursue out of drug trafficking and discuss the problems inherent in leaving this deviant world.

Setting and Method We based our study in “Southwest County,” one section of a large metropolitan area in southwestern California near the Mexican border. Southwest County consisted of a handful of beach towns dotting the Pacific Ocean, a location offering a strategic advantage for wholesale drug trafficking. Southwest County smugglers obtained their marijuana in Mexico by the ton and their cocaine in Colombia, Bolivia, and Peru, purchasing between 10 and 40 kilos at a time. These drugs were imported into the United States along a variety of land, sea, and air routes by organized smuggling crews. Southwest County dealers then purchased these products and either “middled’ them directly to another buyer for a small but immediate profit of approximately $2 to $5 per kilo of marijuana and $5,000 per kilo of cocaine, or engaged in “straight dealing.” As opposed to middling, straight dealing usually entailed adulterating the cocaine with such “cuts” as manitol, procaine, or inositol, and then dividing the marijuana and cocaine into smaller quantities to sell them to the next-lower level of dealers. Although dealers frequently varied the amounts they bought and sold, a hierarchy of transacting levels could be roughly discerned. “Wholesale” marijuana dealers bought directly from the smugglers, purchasing anywhere from 300 to 1,000 “bricks” (averaging a kilo in weight) at a time and selling in lots of 100 to 300 bricks. “Multi-kilo’’ dealers, while not the smugglers’ first connections, also engaged in upper-level trafficking, buying between 100 to 300 bricks and selling them in 25 to 100 brick quantities. These were then purchased by middle-level dealers who filtered the marijuana through low-level and “ounce” dealers before it reached the ultimate consumer. Each time the marijuana changed hands its price increase was dependent on a number of factors: purchase cost; the distance it was transported (including such transportation costs as packaging, transportation equipment, and payments to employees); the amount of risk assumed; the quality of the marijuana; and the prevailing prices in each local drug market. Prices in the cocaine trade were much more predictable. After purchasing kilos of cocaine in South America for $1O,OOO each, smugglers sold them to Southwest County “pound” dealers in quantities of one to 10 kilos for $60,000 per kilo. These pound dealers usually cut the cocaine and sold pounds ($30,000) and half-pounds ($15,000) to “ounce” dealers, who in turn cut it again and sold ounces for $2,000 each to middle-level cocaine dealers known as “cut-ounce” dealers. In this fashion the drug was middled, dealt, divided and cut-sometimes as many as five or six times-until it was finally purchased by consumers as grams or half-grams.

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Unlike low-level operators, the upper-level dealers and smugglers we studied pursued drug trafficking as a full-time occupation. If they were involved in other businesses, these were usually maintained to provide them with a legitimate front for security purposes. The profits to be made at the upper levels depended on an individual’s style of operation, reliability, security, and the amount of product he or she consumed. About half of the 65 smugglers and dealers we observed were successful, some earning up to three-quarters of a million dollars per year.* The other half continually struggled in the business, either breaking even or losing money. Although dealers’ and smugglers’ business activities varied, they clustered together for business and social relations, forming a moderately well-integrated community whose members pursued a “fast” lifestyle, which emphasized intensive partying, casual sex, extensive travel, abundant drug consumption, and lavish spending on consumer goods. The exact size of Southwest County’s upper-level dealing and smuggling community was impossible to estimate due to the secrecy of its members. At these levels, the drug world was quite homogeneous. Participants were predominantly white, came from middle-class backgrounds, and had little previous criminal involvement. While the dealers’ and smugglers’ social world contained both men and women, most of the serious business was conducted by the men, ranging in age from 25 to 40 years old. We gained entry to Southwest County’s upper-level drug community largely by accident. We had become friendly with a group of our neighbors who turned out to be heavily involved in smuggling marijuana. Opportunistically (Riemer 1977), we seized the chance to gather data on this unexplored activity. Using key informants who helped us gain the trust of other members of the community, we drew upon snowball sampling techniques (Biernacki and Waldorf 1981) and a combination of overt and covert roles to widen our network of contacts. We supplemented intensive participant-observation, between 1974 and 1980,3 with unstructured, taped interviews. Throughout, we employed extensive measures to cross-check the reliability of our data, whenever possible (Douglas 1976). In all, we were able to closely observe 65 dealers and smugglers as well as numerous other drug world members, including dealers’ “old ladies” (girlfriends or wives), friends, and family members.

Becoming a Drug Tr&cker There are three routes into the upper levels of drug dealing and smuggling. First, some drug users become low-level dealers, gradually working their way up to middle-level dealing. It is rare, however, for upper-level dealers to have such meager origins. Second, there are people who enter directly into drug dealing at the middle level, usually from another occupation. Many of these do extremely well right away. Third, a number of individuals are invited into smuggling because of a special slull or character, sometimes from middle-level drug trafficking careers and other times from outside the drug world entirely. We discuss each of these in turn.

LOW-LEVEL ENTRY People who began dealing at the bottom followed the classic path into dealing portrayed in the literature (Anonymous 1969; Blum et al. 1972; Carey 1968; Goode,

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1970; Johnson 1973). They came from among the ranks of regular drug users, since, in practice, using drugs heavily and dealing for “stash” (one’s personal supply) are nearly inseparable. Out of this multitude of low-level dealers, however, most abandoned the practice after they encountered their first legal or financial bust, lasting in the business for only a fairly short period (Anonymous 1969; Carey 1968; Lieb and Olson 1976; Mandel 1967). Those who sought bigger profits gradually drifted into a full-time career in drug trafficking, usually between the ages of 15 and 22. Because of this early recruitment into dealing as an occupation, low-level entrants generally developed few, if any, occupational skills other than dealing. One dealer described his early phase of involvement: I had dealt a limited amount of lids [ounces of marijuana] and psychedelics in my early college days without hardly taking it seriously. But after awhile something changed in me and I decided to try to work myself up. I probably was a classic case-started out buying a kilo for $150 and selling pounds for $100 each. I did that twice, then I took the money and bought two bricks, then three, then five, then seven.

This type of gradual rise through the ranks was characteristic of low-level dealers; however, few reached the upper levels of dealing from these humble beginnings. Only 20 percent of the dealers we observed in Southwest County got their start in this fashion. Two factors combined to make it less likely for low-level entrants to rise to the top. The first was psychological. People who started small, thought small; most had neither the motivation nor vision to move large quantities of drugs. The second, and more critical factor, was social. People who started at the bottom and tried to work their way up the ladder often had a hard time finding connections at the upper levels.* Dealers were suspicious of new customers, preferring, for security reasons, to deal with established outlets or trusted friends. The few people who did rise through the ranks generally began dealing in another part of the country, moving to Southwest County only after they had progressed to the middle levels. These people were lured to southwestern California by its reputation within drug circles as an importation and wholesale dealing market.

MIDDLE-LEVEL ENTRY About 75 percent of the smugglers and dealers in Southwest County entered at the middle level. Future big dealers usually jumped into transacting in substantial quantities from the outset, buying 50 kilos of “commercial” (low-grade) marijuana or one to two ounces of cocaine. One dealer explained this phenomenon: Someone who thinks of himself as an executive or an entrepreneur is not going to get into the dope business on a small level. The average executive just jumps right into the middle. Or else he’s not going to jump.

This was the route taken by Southwest County residents with little or no previous involvement in drug trafficking. For them, entry into dealing followed the establish-

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ment of social relationships with local dealers and smugglers. (Naturally, this implies a self-selecting sample of outsiders who become accepted and trusted by these upperlevel traffickers, based on their mutual interests, orientation, and values.) Through their friendships with dealers, these individuals were introduced to other members of the dealing scene and to their “fast” lifestyle. Individuals who found this lifestyle attractive became increasingly drawn to the subculture, building networks of social associations within it. Eventually, some of these people decided to participate more actively. This step was usually motivated both by money and lifestyle. One dealer recounted how he fell in with the drug world set: I used to be into real estate making good money. I was the only person at my firm renting to longhairs and dealing with their money. I slowly started getting friendly with them, although I didn’t realize how heavy they were. I knew ways of buying real estate and putting it under fictitious names, laundering money so that it went in as hot cash and came out as spendable income. I slowly got more and more involved with this one guy until I was neglecting my real estate business and just partying with him all the time. My spending went up but my income went down, and suddenly I had to look around for another way to make money fast. I took the money I was laundering for him, bought some bricks from another dealer friend of his, and sold them out of state before I gave him back the cash. Within six months I was turning [selling] 100 bricks at a time.

People who entered drug dealing at these middle levels were usually between the ages of 25 and 35 and had been engaged in some other occupation prior to dealing seriously. They came from a wide range of occupational backgrounds. Many drifted into the lifestyle from jobs already concentrated in the night hours, such as bartender, waiter, and nightclub bouncer. Still others came from fields where the working hours were irregular and adaptable to their special schedules, such as acting, real estate, inventing, graduate school, construction, and creative “entrepreneurship” (more aptly called hand-to-mouth survival, for many). The smallest group was tempted into the drug world from structured occupations and the professions. Middle-level entrants had to learn the trade of drug trafficking. They received “on-the-job training” (Miller and Ritzer 1977539) in such skills as how to establish business connections, organize profitable transactions, avoid arrest, transport illegal goods, and coordinate participants and equipment. Dealers trained on-the-job refined their knowledge and skills by learning from their mistakes. One dealer recalled how he got “burned’ with inferior quality marijuana on his first major “cop” [purchase] because of his inexperience: I had borrowed around $7,000 from this friend to do a dope deal. I had never bought in that kind of quantity before but I knew three or four guys who I got it from. I was nervous so I got really stoned before I shopped around and I ended up being hardly able to tell about the quality. Turned out you just couldn’t get high off the stuff. I ended up having to sell it below cost.

Once they had gotten in and taught themselves the trade, most middle-level entrants strove for upward mobility. About 80 percent of these Southwest County

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dealers jumped to the upper levels of trafficking. One dealer described her mode of escalation: When I started to deal I was mostly looking for a quick buck here or there, something to pay some pressing bill. I was middling 50 or 100 bricks at a time. But then I was introduced to a guy who said he would front me half a pound of coke, and if I turned it fast I could have more, and on a regular basis. Pretty soon I was turning six, seven, eight, nine, 10 pounds a weekthey were passing through real fast. I was clearing at least 10 grand a month. It was too much money too fast. I didn’t know what to do with it. It got ridiculous, I wasn’t relating to anyone anymore, I was never home, always gone. . . . The biggest ego trip for me came when all of a sudden I turned around and was selling to the people I had been buying from. I skipped their level of doing business entirely and stage-jumped right past them.

Southwest County’s social milieu, with its concentration of upper-level dealers and smugglers, thus facilitated forming connections and doing business at the upper levels of the drug world.

SMUGGLING Only 10 percent of Southwest County drug smugglers were formerly upper-level dealers who made the leap to smuggling on their own; the rest were invited to become smugglers by established operators. About half of those recruited came directly from the drug world’s social scene, with no prior involvement in drug dealing. This implies, like middle-level entry into dealing, both an attraction to the drug crowd and its lifestyle, and prior acquaintance with dealers and smugglers. The other half of the recruits were solicited from among the ranks of middle-level Southwest County dealers. The complex task of importing illegal drugs required more knowledge, experience, equipment, and connections than most non-smugglers possessed. Recruits had some skill or asset which the experienced smuggler needed to put his operation together. This included piloting or navigating ability, equipment, money, or the willingness to handle drugs while they were being transported. One smuggler described some of the criteria he used to screen potential recruits for suitability as employees in smuggling crews: Pilots are really at a premium. They burn out so fast that I have to replace them every six months to a year. But I’m also looking for people who are cool: people who will carry out their jobs according to the plan, who won’t panic if the load arrives late or something goes wrong, ’cause this happens a lot. . . . And I try not to get people who’ve been to prison before, because they’ll be more likely to take foolish risks, the kind that I don’t want to have to.

Most novice smugglers were recruited and trained by a sponsor with whom they forged an apprentice-mentor relationship. Those who had been dealers previously

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knew the rudiments of drug trafficking. What they learned from the smuggler was how to fill a particular role in his or her highly specialized operation. One smuggler we interviewed had a slightly larger than average crew. Ben’s commercial marijuana smuggling organization was composed of seven members, not including himself. Two were drivers who transported the marijuana from the landing strip to its point of destination. One was a pilot. The dual roles of driver and co-pilot were filled by a fourth man. Another pilot, who operated both as a smuggler with his own makeshift crew and as a wholesale marijuana dealer who was supplied by Ben, flew runs for Ben when he wasn’t otherwise occupied. The sixth member was Ben’s enforcer and “stash house” man; he lived in the place where the marijuana was stored, distributed it to customers, and forcibly extracted payments when Ben deemed it necessary. The seventh member handled the financial and legal aspects of the business. He arranged for lawyers and bail bondsmen when needed, laundered Ben’s money, and provided him with a legitimate-looking business front. Most of these family members also dealt drugs on the side, having the choice of taking their payment in cash ($10,000 for pilots; $4,000 for drivers) or in kind. Ben arranged the buying and selling connections, financed the operation, provided the heavy equipment (planes, vans, radios) and recruited, supervised, and replaced his crew. Relationships between smugglers and their recruits were generally characterized by a benign paternalism, leading apprentices to form an enduring loyalty to their sponsor. Once established in a smuggling crew, recruits gained familiarity with the many other roles, the scope of the whole operation, and began to meet suppliers and customers. Eventually they branched out on their own. To do so, employees of a smuggling crew had to develop the expertise and connections necessary to begin running their own operations. Several things were required to make this move. Acquiring the technical knowledge of equipment, air routes, stopovers, and how to coordinate personnel was relatively easy; this could be picked up after working in a smuggling crew for six months to a year. Putting together one’s own crew was more difficult because skilled employees, especially pilots, were hard to find. Most new smugglers borrowed people from other crews until they became sufficiently established to recruit and train their own personnel. Finally, connections to buy from and sell to were needed. Buyers were plentiful, but securing a foreign supplier required special breaks or networks. Another way for employees to become heads of their own smuggling operations was to take over when their boss retired. This had the advantage of keeping the crew and style of operation intact. Various financial arrangements could be worked out for such a transfer of authority, from straight cash purchases to deals involving residual payments. One marijuana smuggler described how he acquired his operation: I had been Jake’s main pilot for a year and, after him, I knew the most about his operation. We were really tight, and he had taken me all up and down the coast with him, meeting his connections. Naturally I knew the Mexican end of the operation and his supplier since I used to make the runs, flying down the money and picking up the dope. So when he told me he wanted to get out of the business, we made a deal. I took over the set-

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up and gave him a residual for every run I made. I kept all the drivers, all the connections-everythingthe guy had-but I found myself a new pilot. In sum, most dealers and smugglers reached the upper levels not so much as a result of their individual entrepreneurial initiative, but through the social networks they formed in the drug subculture. Their ability to remain in these strata was largely tied to the way they treated these drug world relationship^.^

Shifts and Oscillations We have discussed dealers and smugglers separately up to this point because they display distinct career patterns. But once individuals entered the drug trafficking field and rose to its upper levels, they became part of a social world, the Southwest County drug scene, and faced common problems and experiences. Therefore, we discuss them together from here on. Despite the gratifications which dealers and smugglers originally derived from the easy money, material comfort, freedom, prestige, and power associated with their careers, 90 percent of those we observed decided, at some point, to quit the business. This stemmed, in part, from their initial perceptions of the career as temporary (“Hell, nobody wants to be a drug dealer all their life”). Adding to these early intentions was a process of rapid aging in the career: dealers and smugglers became increasingly aware of the restrictions and sacrifices their occupations required and tired of living the fugitive life. They thought about, talked about, and in many cases took steps toward getting out of the drug business. But as with entering, disengaging from drug trafficking was rarely an abrupt act (Lieb and Olson 1976364). Instead, it more often resembled a series of transitions, or oscillations,6out of and back into the business. For once out of the drug world, dealers and smugglers were rarely successful in making it in the legitimate world because they failed to cut down on their extravagant lifestyle and drug consumption. Many abandoned their efforts to reform and returned to deviance, sometimes picking up where they left off and other times shifting to a new mode of operating. For example, some shifted from dealing cocaine to dealing marijuana, some dropped to a lower level of dealing, and others shifted their role within the same group of traffickers. This series of phase-outs and re-entries, combined with career shifts, endured for years, dominating the pattern of their remaining involvement with the business. But it also represented the method by which many eventually broke away from drug trafficking, for each phase-out had the potential to be an individual’s final departure.

AGING IN THE CAREER Once recruited and established in the drug world, dealers and smugglers entered into a middle phase of aging in the career. This phase was characterized by a progressive loss of enchantment with their occupation. While novice dealers and smugglers found

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that participation in the drug world brought them thrills and status, the novelty gradually faded. Initial feelings of exhilaration and awe began to dull as individuals became increasingly jaded. This was the result of both an extended exposure to the mundane, everyday business aspects of drug trafficking and to an exorbitant consumption of drugs (especially cocaine). One smuggler described how he eventually came to feel: It was fun, those three or four years. I never worried about money or anything. But afier awhile it got real boring. There was no feeling or emotion or anything about it. I wasn’t even hardly relating to my old lady anymore. Everything was just one big rush.

This frenzy of overstimulation and resulting exhaustion hastened the process of “burnout” which nearly all individuals experienced. As dealers and smugglers aged in the career they became more sensitized to the extreme risks they faced. Cases of friends and associates who were arrested, imprisoned, or killed began to mount. Many individuals became convinced that continued drug trafficking would inevitably lead to arrest (“It’s only a matter of time before you get caught”). While dealers and smugglers generally repressed their awareness of danger, treating it as a taken-for-granted part of their daily existence, periodic crises shattered their casual attitudes, evoking strong feelings of fear. They temporarily intensified security precautions and retreated into near-isolation until they felt the “heat” was off. As a result of these accumulating “scares,” dealers and smugglers increasingly integrated feelings of “paranoia”’ into their everyday lives. One dealer talked about his feelings of paranoia: You’re always on the line. You don’t lead a normal life. You’re always looking over your shoulder, wondering who’s at the door, having to hide everything. You learn to look behind you so well you could probably bend over and look up your ass. That’s paranoia. It’s a really scary, hard feeling. That’s what makes you get out. Drug world members also grew progressively weary of their exclusion from the legitimate world and the deceptions they had to manage to sustain that separation. Initially, this separation was surrounded by an alluring mystique. But as they aged in the career, this mystique became replaced by the reality of everyday boundary maintenance and the feeling of being an “expatriated citizen within one’s own country.” One smuggler who was contemplating quitting described the effects of this separation: I’m so sick of looking over my shoulder, having to sit in my house and worry about one of my non-drug world friends stopping in when I’m doing business. Do you know how awful that is? It’s like leading a double life. It’s ridiculous. That’s what makes it not worth it. It’ll be a lot less money [to quit], but a lot less pressure. Thus, while the drug world was somewhat restricted, it was not an encapsulated community, and dealers’ and smugglers’ continuous involvement with the straight world made the temptation to adhere to normative standards and “go straight” omnipresent. With the occupation’s novelty worn off and the “fast life” taken-for-granted,

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most dealers and smugglers felt that the occupation no longer resembled their early impressions of it. Once they reached the upper levels of the occupation, their experience began to change. Eventually, the rewards of trafficking no longer seemed to justify the strain and risk involved. It was at this point that the straight world’s formerly dull ambiance became transformed (at least in theory) into a potential haven. PHASING-OUT Three factors inhibited dealers and smugglers from leaving the drug world. Primary among these factors were the hedonistic and materialistic satisfactions the drug world provided. Once accustomed to earning vast quantities of money quickly and easily, individuals found it exceedingly difficult to return to the income scale of the straight world. They also were reluctant to abandon the pleasures of the “fast life” and its accompanying drugs, casual sex, and power. Second, dealers and smugglers identified with, and developed a commitment to, the occupation of drug trafficking (Adler and Adler 1982). Their self-images were tied to that role and could not be easily disengaged. The years invested in their careers (learning the trade, forming connections, building reputations) strengthened their involvement with both the occupation and the drug community. And since their relationships were social as well as business, friendship ties bound individuals to dealing. As one dealer in the midst of struggling to phase-out explained: The biggest threat to me is to get caught up sitting around the house with friends that are into dealing. I’m trying to stay away from them, change my habits.

Third, dealers and smugglers hesitated to voluntarily quit the field because of the difficulty involved in finding another way to earn a living. Their years spent in illicit activity made it unlikely for any legitimate organizations to hire them. This narrowed their occupational choices considerably, leaving self-employment as one of the few remaining avenues open. Dealers and smugglers who tried to leave the drug world generally fell into one of four patterns.* The first and most frequent pattern was to postpone quitting until after they could execute one last “big deal.” While the intention was sincere, individuals who chose this route rarely succeeded; the “big deal” too often remained elusive. One marijuana smuggler offered a variation of this theme: My plan is to make a quarter of a million dollars in four months during the prime smuggling season and get the hell out of the business.

A second pattern we observed was individuals who planned to change immediately, but never did. They announced they were quitting, yet their outward actions never varied. One dealer described his involvement with this syndrome: When I wake up I’d say, “Hey, I’m going to quit this cycle and just run my other business.” But when you’re dealing you constantly have people

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dropping by ounces and asking, “Can you move this?” What’s your first response? Always, “Sure, for a toot.”

In the third pattern of phasing-out, individuals actually suspended their dealing and smuggling activities, but did not replace them with an alternative source of income. Such withdrawals were usually spontaneous and prompted by exhaustion, the influence of a person from outside the drug world, or problems with the police or other associates. These kinds of phase-outs usually lasted only until the individual’s money ran out, as one dealer explained: I got into legal trouble with the FBI a while back and I was forced to quit dealing. Everybody just cut me off completely, and I saw the danger in continuing, myself. But my high-class tastes never dwindled. Before I knew it I was in hock over $30,000. Even though I was hot, I was forced to get back into dealing to relieve some of my debts.

In the fourth pattern of phasing-out, dealers and smugglers tried to move into another line of work. Alternative occupations included: ( I ) those they had previously pursued; (2) front businesses maintained on the side while dealing or smuggling: and (3) new occupations altogether. While some people accomplished this transition successfully, there were problems inherent in all three alternatives. (1) Most people who tried resuming their former occupations found that these had changed too much while they were away. In addition, they themselves had changed: they enjoyed the self-directed freedom and spontaneity associated with dealing and smuggling, and were unwilling to relinquish it. (2) Those who turned to their legitimate front business often found that these businesses were unable to support them. Designed to launder rather than earn money, most of these ventures were retail outlets with a heavy cash flow (restaurants, movie theaters, automobile dealerships, small stores) that had become accustomed to operating under a continuous subsidy from illegal funds. Once their drug funding was cut off they could not survive for long. (3)Many dealers and smugglers utilized the skills and connections they had developed in the drug business to create a new occupation. They exchanged their illegal commodity for a legal one and went into impodexport, manufacturing, wholesaling, or retailing other merchandise. For some, the decision to prepare a legitimate career for their future retirement from the drug world followed an unsuccessful attempt to phase-out into a “front” business. One husband-and-wife dealing team explained how these legitimate side businesses differed from front businesses: We always had a little legitimate “scam” [scheme] going, like mail-order shirts, wallets, jewelry, and the kids were always involved in that. We made a little bit of money on them. Their main purpose was for a cover. But [this business] was different; right from the start this was going to be a legal thing to push us out of the drug business.

About 10 percent of the dealers and smugglers we observed began tapering off their drug world involvement gradually, transferring their time and money into a selected

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legitimate endeavor. They did not try to quit drug trafficking altogether until they felt confident that their legitimate business could support them. Like spontaneous phaseouts, many of these planned withdrawals into legitimate endeavors failed to generate enough money to keep individuals from being lured into the drug world. In addition to voluntary phase-outs caused by burnout, about 40 percent of the Southwest County dealers and smugglers we observed experienced a “bustout” at some point in their careers.’ Forced withdrawals from dealing or smuggling were usually sudden and motivated by external factors, either financial, legal, or reputational. Financial bustouts generally occurred when dealers or smugglers were either “burned’ or “ripped-off’ by others, leaving them in too much debt to rebuild their base of operation. Legal bustouts followed arrest and possibly incarceration: arrested individuals were so “hot” that few of their former associates would deal with them. Reputational bustouts occurred when individuals “burned” or “ripped-off’ others (regardless of whether they intended to do so) and were banned from business by their former circle of associates. One smuggler gave his opinion on the pervasive nature of forced phase-outs: Some people are smart enough to get out of it because they realize, physically, they have to. Others realize, monetarily, that they want to get out of this world before this world gets them. Those are the lucky ones. Then there are the ones who have to get out because they’re hot or someone else close to them is so hot that they’d better get out. But in the end when you get out of it, nobody gets out of it out of free choice; you do it because you have to.

Death, of course, was the ultimate bustout. Some pilots met this fate because of the dangerous routes they navigated (hugging mountains, treetops, other aircraft) and the sometimes ill-maintained and overloaded planes they flew. However, despite much talk of violence, few Southwest County drug traffickers died at the hands of fellow dealers.

RE-ENTRY Phasing-out of the drug world was more often than not temporary. For many dealers and smugglers, it represented but another stage of their drug careers (although this may not have been their original intention), to be followed by a period of reinvolvement. Depending on the individual’s perspective, re-entry into the drug world could be viewed as either a comeback (from a forced withdrawal) or a relapse (from a voluntary withdrawal). Most people forced out of drug trafficking were anxious to return. The decision to phase-out was never theirs, and the desire to get back into dealing or smuggling was based on many of the same reasons which drew them into the field originally. Coming back from financial, legal, and reputational bustouts was possible but difficult and was not always successfully accomplished. They had to re-establish contacts, rebuild their organization and fronting arrangements, and raise the operating capital to

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resume dealing. More difficult was the problem of overcoming the circumstances surrounding their departure. Once smugglers and dealers resumed operating, they often found their former colleagues suspicious of them. One frustrated dealer described the effects of his prison experience: When I first got out of the joint [jail], none of my old friends would have anything to do with me. Finally, one guy who had been my partner told me it was because everyone was suspicious of my getting out early and thought I made a deal [with police to inform on his colleagues].

Dealers and smugglers who returned from bustouts were thus informally subjected to a trial period in which they had to re-establish their trustworthiness and reliability before they could once again move in the drug world with ease. Re-entry from voluntary withdrawal involved a more difficult decision-making process, but was easier to implement. The factors enticing individuals to re-enter the drug world were not the same as those which motivated their original entry. As we noted above, experienced dealers and smugglers often privately weighed their reasons for wanting to quit and wanting to stay in. Once they left, their images of and hopes for the straight world failed to materialize. They could not make the shift to the norms, values, and lifestyle of the straight society and could not earn a living within it. Thus, dealers and smugglers decided to re-enter the drug business for basic reasons: the material perquisites, the hedonistic gratifications, the social ties, and the fact that they had nowhere else to go. Once this decision was made, the actual process of re-entry was relatively easy. One dealer described how the door back into dealing remained open for those who left voluntarily:

I still see my dealer friends, I can still buy grams from them when I want to. It’s the respect they have for me because I stepped out of it without

being busted or burning someone. I’m coming out with a good reputation, and even though the scene is a whirlwind-people moving up, moving down, in, out-if I didn’t see anybody for a year I could call them up and get right back in that day.

People who relapsed thus had little problem obtaining fronts, re-establishing their reputations, or readjusting to the scene.

CAREER SHIFTS Dealers and smugglers who re-entered the drug world, whether from a voluntary or forced phase-out, did not always return to the same level of transacting or commodity which characterized their previous style of operation. Many individuals underwent a “career shift” (Luckenbill and Best 1981) and became involved in some new segment of the drug world. These shifts were sometimes lateral, as when a member of a smuggling crew took on a new specialization, switching from piloting to operating a stash

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house, for example. O n e dealer described how he utilized friendship networks upon his re-entry to shift from cocaine to marijuana trafficking: Before, when I was dealing cocaine, I was too caught up in using the drug and people around me were starting to go under from getting into “base” [another form of cocaine]. That’s why I got out. But now I think I’ve got myself together and even though I’m dealing again I’m staying away from coke. I’ve switched over to dealing grass. It’s a whole different circle of people. I got into it through a close friend I used to know before, but I never did business with him because he did grass and I did coke. Vertical shifts moved operators to different levels. For example, one former smuggler returned and began dealing; another top-level marijuana dealer came back to find that the smugglers he knew had disappeared and he was forced to buy in smaller quantities from other dealers. Another type of shift relocated drug traffickers in different styles of operation. O n e dealer described how, after being arrested, he tightened his security measures: I just had to cut back after I went through those changes. Hell, I’m not getting any younger and the idea of going to prison bothers me a lot more than it did 10 years ago. The risks are no longer worth it when I can have a comfortable income with less risk. So I only sell to four people now. I don’t care if they buy a pound or a gram.

A former smuggler who sold his operation and lost all his money during phase-out

returned as a consultant to the industry, selling his expertise to those with new money and fresh manpower: What I’ve been doing lately is setting up deals for people. I’ve got foolproof plans for smuggling cocaine up here from Colombia; I tell them how to modify their airplanes to add on extra fuel tanks and to fit in more weed, coke, or whatever they bring up. Then I set them up with refueling points all up and down Central America, tell them how to bring it up here, what points to come in at, and what kind of receiving unit to use. Then they do it all and I get 10 percent of what they make.

Re-entry did not always involve a shift to a new niche, however. Some dealers and smugglers returned to the same circle of associates, trafficking activity, and commodity they worked with prior to their departure. Thus, drug dealers’ careers often peaked early and then displayed a variety of shifts, from lateral mobility, to decline, to holding fairly steady. A final alternative involved neither completely leaving nor remaining within the deviant world. Many individuals straddled the deviant and respectable worlds forever by continuing to dabble in drug trafficking. As a result of their experiences in the drug world they developed a deviant self-identity and a deviant modm operandi. They might not have wanted to bear the social and legal burden of full-time deviant work but neither were they willing to assume the perceived confines and limitations of the straight world. They therefore moved into the entrepreneurial realm, where their daily

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activities involved some kind of hustling or “wheeling and dealing” in an assortment of legitimate, quasi-legitimate, and deviant ventures, and where they could be their own boss. This enabled them to retain certain elements of the deviant lifestyle, and to socialize on the fringes of the drug community. For these individuals, drug dealing shifted from a primary occupation to a sideline, though they never abandoned it altogether.

Leaving Drug Trafficking This career pattern of oscillation into and out of active drug trafficking makes it difficult to speak of leaving drug trafficking in the sense of a final retirement. Clearly, some people succeeded in voluntarily retiring. Of these, a few managed to prepare a post-deviant career for themselves by transferring their drug money into a legitimate enterprise. A larger group was forced out of dealing and either didn’t or couldn’t return; their bustouts were sufficiently damaging that they never attempted re-entry, or they abandoned efforts after a series of unsuccessful attempts. But there was no way of structurally determining in advance whether an exit from the business would be temporary or permanent. The vacillations in dealers’ intentions were compounded by the complexity of operating successfully in the drug world. For many, then, no phaseout could ever be definitely assessed as permanent. As long as individuals had the skills, knowledge, and connections to deal they retained the potential to re-enter the occupation at any time. Leaving drug trafficking may thus be a relative phenomenon, characterized by a trailing-off process where spurts of involvement appear with decreasing frequency and intensity.

Summary Drug dealing and smuggling careers are temporary and fraught with multiple attempts at retirement. Veteran drug traffickers quit their occupation because of the ambivalent feelings they develop toward their deviant life. As they age in the career their experience changes, shifting from a work life that is exhilarating and free to one that becomes increasingly dangerous and confining. But just as their deviant careers are temporary, so too are their retirements. Potential recruits are lured into the drug business by materialism, hedonism, glamor, and excitement. Established dealers are lured away from the deviant life and back into the mainstream by the attractions of security and social ease. Retired dealers and smugglers are lured back in by their expertise, and by their ability to make money quickly and easily. People who have been exposed to the upper levels of drug trafficking therefore find it extremely difficult to quit their deviant occupation permanently. This stems, in part, from their difficulty in moving from the illegitimate to the legitimate business sector. Even more significant is the affinity they form for their deviant values and lifestyle. Thus few, if any, of our subjects were successful in leaving deviance entirely. What dealers and smugglers intend, at the time, to be a permanent withdrawal from drug trafficking can be seen in retrospect as a

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pervasive occupational pattern of mid-career shifts and oscillations. More research is needed into the complex process of how people get out of deviance and enter the world of legitimate work.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 31, No. 2, December 1983, pp. 19599. 0 1983 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission. 1. The term “soft” drugs generally refers to marijuana, cocaine and such psychedelics as LSD and mescaline (Carey 1968). In this paper we do not address trafficking in psychedelics because, since they are manufactured in the United States, they are neither imported nor distributed by the group we studied. 2. This is an idealized figure representing the profit a dealer or smuggler could potentially earn and does not include deductions for such miscellaneous and hard-to-calculate costs as: time or money spent in arranging deals (some of which never materialize); lost, stolen, or unrepaid money or drugs; and the personal drug consumption of a drug trafficker and his or her entourage. Of these, the single largest expense is the last one, accounting for the bulk of most Southwest County dealers’ and smugglers’ earnings. 3. We continued to conduct follow-up interviews with key informants through 1983. 4. The exception to this was where low-level dealers rose on the “coattails” of their suppliers: as one dealer increased the volume of his or her purchases or sales, some of his or her customers followed suit. 5. For a more thorough discussion of the social networks and relationships in Southwest County’s drug world see Adler and Adler ( 1983). 6. While other studies of drug dealing have also noted that participants did not maintain an uninterrupted stream of career involvement (Blum et al. 1972; Carey 1968; Lieb and Olson 1976; Waldorf et al. 1977), none have isolated or described the oscillating nature of this pattern. 7. In the dealers’ vernacular, this term is not used in the clinical sense of an individual psychopathology rooted in early childhood traumas. Instead, it resembles Lemert’s (1962) more sociological definition which focuses on such behavioral dynamics as suspicion, hostility, aggressiveness, and even delusion. Not only Lemert, but also Waldorf et al. (1977) and Wedow (1979) assert that feelings of paranoia can have a sound basis in reality, and are therefore readily comprehended and even empathized with others. 8. At this point, a limitation to our data must be noted. Many of the dealers and smugglers we observed simply “disappeared” from the scene and were never heard from again. We therefore have no way of knowing if they phased-out (voluntarily or involuntarily), shifted to another scene, or were killed in some remote place. We cannot, therefore, estimate the numbers of people who left the Southwest County drug scene via each of the routes discussed here. 9. It is impossible to determine the exact percentage of people falling into the different phase-out categories: due to oscillation, people could experience several types and thus appear in multiple categories.

References Adler, Patricia A., and Peter Adler. 1982. “Criminal Commitment among Drug Dealers.” Deviant Behavior 3: 117-35.

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. 1983 “Relations between Dealers: The Social Organization of Illicit Drug Transactions.” Sociology and Social Research 67(3):260-78. Anonymous. 1969. “On Selling Marijuana.” In Marijuana, edited by Erich Goode, 92-102. New York: Atherton. Atkyns, Robert L., and Gerhard J. Hanneman. 1974. “Illicit Drug Distribution and Dealer Communication Behavior.” Journal of Health and Social Behavior 15(March):36-43. Biernacki, Patrick, and Dan Waldorf. 1981. “Snowball Sampling.” Sociological Methods and Research 1O(2):141-63. Blum, Richard H., and Associates. 1972. The Dream Sellers. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. Carey, James T. 1968. The College Drug Scene. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Douglas, Jack D. 1976. Investigative Social Research. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. Goode, Erich. 1970. The Marijuana Smokers. New York: Basic. Johnson, Bruce D. 1973. Marijuana Users and Drug Subcultures. New York: Wiley. Langer, John. 1977. “Drug Entrepreneurs and Dealing Culture.” Social Problems 24(3):377-85. Lemert, Edwin. 1962. “Paranoia and the Dynamics of Exclusion.” Sociomety 25 (March):2-20. Lieb, John, and Sheldon Olson. 1976. “Prestige, Paranoia, and Profit: On Becoming a Dealer of Illicit Drugs in a University Community.” Journal ofDrug Issues 6 (Fall):356-69. Luckenbill, David F., and Joel Best. 1981. “Careers in Deviance and Respectability: The Analogy’s Limitations.” Social Problems 29 (2): 197-206. Mandel, Jerry. 1967. “Myths and Realities of Marijuana Pushing.” In Marijuana: Myths and Realities, edited by Jerry L. Simmons, 58-1 10. North Hollywood, Calif.: Brandon. Miller, Gale, and George Ritzer. 1977. “Informal Socialization: Deviant Occupations.” In Working: Conflict and Change, 2nd ed., edited by George Ritzer, 83-94. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Mouledoux, James. 1972. “IdeologicalAspects of Drug Dealership.” In Society? Shadow: Studies in the Sociology of Countercultures, edited by Ken Westhues, 110-22. Toronto: McGrawHill, Ryerson. Redlinger, Lawrence J. 1975. “Marketing and Distributing Heroin.” Journal of Psychedelic Drugs 7 (4):331-53. Riemer, Jeffrey W. 1977. “Varieties of Opportunistic Research.” Urban Life 5 (4):467-77. Waldorf, Dan, Sheigla Murphy, Craig Reinarman, and Bridget Joyce. 1977. Doing Coke: An Ethnography of Cocaine Users and Sellers. Washington, D.C.: Drug Abuse Council. Wedow, Suzanne. 1979. “Feeling Paranoid: The Organization of an Ideology.” Urban Life 8 (1):72-93.

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Part VII

AGING AND DYING

Some turning points of the life course occur within clear-cut temporal boundariesone day you are single, the next day you are married; one day you are not a parent, and the next day there is a baby. Yet as we all know, the social processes that precede these events extend beyond a single day’s experiences. Getting ready to marry or to have a child, by birth or adoption, are prolonged processes. Both life events considerably change people’s self-concept, identities, roles, and relationships-especially when they occur for the first time. The same is true of preparing for and entering an occupation, going through various stages of a career, changing jobs or being removed from a work organization, and exiting at retirement. Other turning points are gradual, sornetimes not even consciously felt until resulting changes are observed and interpreted as problematic and requiring social action. Aging of both the body and mind typically are viewed as gradual and inevitable “natural” processes experienced individually as a person and collectively as members of an age cohort. Every culture known to anthropologists and sociologists has built a complex system of beliefs, behaviors, and expectations surrounding the aging process. Each culture also has developed normative interpretations of physical changes associated with aging including cues or signs of its occurrence and judgments about its desirability or disadvantages. For the most part, American culture negatively values the social and physical signs of age, particularly as experienced by older women. Cultural constructions of attractiveness tend to equate beauty or handsomeness with youth. Graying hair, sagging jowls, and the formation of lines around the mouth that commonly begin with middle age are perceived to render the person less sexually desirable or good-looking. With an increasing number of persons turning to cosmetic surgery to reduce or remove such telltale characteristics, the condition of showing one’s biological maturity has reached the proportion of a social problem requiring a profusion of professions and other occupations to “do something about it.” Masking the signs of age to maintain the illusion of youth often requires considerable investments in personal time, money, and effort. Research by Dull and West (199 1) demonstrates the close interweave between private troubles surrounding aging and other body “imperfections” and those of social problems focused on body images. Here many of our values and beliefs converge. American culture is both youth oriented and extremely gender specified. Newborns are classified as either male or female immediately at birth or after clarifying operations when hermaphroditic characteristics or other physiological problems are present. From then on culture reinforces gender assignment through its social agencies of 22 1

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parents, schools, and mass media to ensure the socialization of boys and girls into gender-appropriate self-images, pervasive identities, behaviors, roles, and relationships. Girls, and then women, are expected to differ in social characteristics from boys and men. We saw the effects of such stereotypic identities in the study of women in police departments (see part VI). Both the women and the men that Martin studied held definite ideas of appropriate behavior for each gender. These expectations complicated police work for women officers, even without the added effects of racial stereotype. The study of plastic surgeons who perform cosmetic surgery and those (mainly women) who seek such operations points to the persuasiveness of gender ideology in specifying how women should behave and look. As Dull and West observe, in one year alone, women accounted for almost all of the nearly half a million Americans undergoing surgical alteration of the face, neck, or body. Both the surgeons and patients whom the authors studied viewed cosmetic surgery as a normal expression of women’s desire to become or remain attractive. The rationale for any particular cosmetic operation rested on seeing the body as composed of parts that fit, or did nor fit, an idealized form. Negative self-images and poor relations with others were believed influenced by imperfections that might be surgically overcome. The process involved negotiations between surgeons and prospective patients over cost and the unpredictability of “success.” Meanwhile, assertions that “normal” men do not need or want to change their appearance, and the justifications of men who considered such surgery, certainly reflect the “accomplishment of gender” scripting. Thus, not only do signs of aging encourage women to seek the scalpel but also to feel that parts of the physical self need changing throughout life. Merely entering midlife as a stage of the life course creares a situation where society views men and women differently. The notion of men experiencing a “midlife crisis” is considered amusing but not biologically pathogenic. In contrast, since the 1960s the medical profession and pharmaceutical companies have viewed women’s menopause as a disease requiring special treatment through hormonal replacement. Frances McCrea (chapter 12) considers four themes pervading the medical definition of menopause that transmit and reinforce negative gender distinctions: 1) women’s potential and function are biologically destined; 2) women’s worth is determined by fecundity and attractiveness; 3) rejection (secession) of the female reproductive role will bring physical and emotional havoc; 4) aging women are useless and repulsive. Such medical views of menopause and menopausal women coincide with many of the negative judgments about growing older that propel women toward considering “restorative” cosmetic surgery. A feminist movement in medicine, which in recent years has gained added momentum, challenges the definition of menopause as a disease and argues for considering biological changes at midlife for women as a part of the normal aging process. Throughout this volume we have seen the importance of gender in shaping the events and processes of the life course. The effects of gendering on people’s lives from early socialization to marriage and parenthood, and from preparation for entering the workforce to employment and retirement are particularly salient during the latter years of the life course. The organization of work into waged labor under the forces of industrialization and women’s subsequent assignment to primary care for home and

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family often have negatively affected their economic well-being in old age. For example, in the wake of the “great depression” of the 1920s and 1930s, various social groups successfully pressured the federal government to provide workers with social security in the form of retirement and disability benefits. The resulting national insurance program covered nonemployed women in their role as mothers of nonadult children of qualifying male workers but not as the latters’ spousal dependents. Although employed female workers could qualify for benefits on their own employment record, few women of that generation had sufficient histories of paid work to qualify for adequate benefits. The Social Security Act of 1935 (Lopata and Brehm 1986:5692) marginally provided for women and children, but it was not until 1939 that an amendment granted more generous benefit to minor children, their mothers, and older women living without age-dependent children. Benefits also were instituted at that time for several categories of widows. Despite programmatic reforms that extended social security coverage to today’s older women, retirement benefits for this age-cohort often remain inadequate as Madonna Harrington Meyer documents in chapter 13. Several reasons explain why the income of many contemporary older women falls close to or below national poverty levels. To begin, Social Security retirement annuities are based on total years of paid employment and are tied closely to withholding taxes levied and paid proportional to wages. When today’s older women were growing up and rearing families, most were normatively discouraged from entering the labor force except, perhaps, before marriage. Throughout their lives, involvement in paid employment typically was sporadic and entailed jobs with low salaries and few benefits. Meanwhile, traditionally female pursuits involving community volunteerism and unpaid domestic labor were not defined as work or subject to withholding taxes or benefits. Such services to others might include caring for a home, husband, children, and even infirm, disabled, or elderly relatives. Meanwhile, women and children were assumed not to need pubic entitlements in situations where a wage-earning father or husband provided some level of support. In reality, this premise often was incorrect due to death, disability, divorce, separation, and simply non-support. Finally, few employed women of this generation worked for organizations or held jobs with pensions, nor did they have sufficient discretionary income to purchase retirement insurance or make long-term investments. Clearly, existing strategies aimed at ameliorating poverty among today’s older women have not succeeded. Future cohorts of women may have different life histories upon reaching maturity, a circumstance that could potentially result in different patterns of income when compared to that of their contemporary older counterparts. “Earnings sharing’ has been proposed as one future solution for couples. This system potentially would eliminate dual entitlement or spousal benefits of Social Security along with the disadvantages of reproduction and unpaid care giving. Meyer and numerous other scholars, however, conclude that earnings sharing as a strategy demands total reconfiguration of the existing social structure-a circumstance unlikely to occur. Besides a reduction of income, loss of physical independence is another unwanted consequence of old age for some. “Aging in place” refers to the desire of many older

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people to reside in the same homes and neighborhoods where they have long-standing social roots and from which they derive a sense of familiarity and belonging. Yet poor health, functional impairment, or a change in socioeconomic circumstances sometimes demands new living arrangements. American society has created several more or less satisfactory ways for handling the survival needs of older people who can live relatively independently but still need some level of care or supervision. David Morgan (chapter 14) studied the experiences of older persons who relocated to an old-age home that contained both semi-independent apartments and supervised nursing areas. Personal and structural problems emerged for these individuals even under such seemingly accommodating conditions. The women-and the home’s residents were mainly women as this gender tends to outlive their male partners and men also tend to have more personal assistance for remaining in private surrounding-did not want to lose their personal independence and social status by being moved from their apartments to the nursing area when their health or functional abilities declined. The home’s administrators, on the other hand, preferred relocating all questionable cases to the nursing area where they could be more easily treated and closely supervised. Negotiations over where the women would live were complex and involved special strategies on both sides. Many of the tactics employed by the women revolved around maintaining their personal appearance, not only in terms of neatness, but also through displays of healthful competencies. This stage work required disguising or minimizing symptoms of health problems so as not to appear in need of special care or treatment. Failure to offer a convincing portrayal could result in forced movement from the privacy and semi-independence of apartment living to a shared and more closely supervised nursing unit. Meanwhile, facility staff constantly remained alert for signs of infirmity or functional decline among residents that would signal the need for such a move. Whether it comes early or late in life, death is the final event in a person’s life course that ends all other activities. No consensus exists over which of the circumstances surrounding death are the most difficult for both the person and survivors. Sudden, unexpected death ends the person’s ability to work through unfinished business including those of relationships. It also can negate the dying person’s ability to express a preference for certain final rituals, such as funeral arrangement or where to be buried, unless this information had been discussed during “normal times.” O n the other hand, expected but prolonged dying can prove hard for everyone. Pain and decreasing functional ability can erode the dying person’s earlier self-image that was built on his or her ability to organize and interact throughout most of life. The demands of caring for a dying person and the difficulty of watching a loved one die can place enormous demands on caregivers. Certain ways of dying also are harder than others as with the physical complications of AIDS or mental depression leading to suicide. In “Death and Personal History: Strategies of Identity Preservation,” David Unruh analyzes how those involved in the process of dying often use specific tactics to establish and preserve a preferred personal identity. For example, a dying person may document and solidify a personal history through a life review that is shared with others. The meaning of precious symbols in personal belongings may be explained.

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Distributing valued possessions to those who are likely to appreciate the legacy helps to allay fears of being forgotten too soon. Survivors, meanwhile, can assist in the preservation work by constructing memory packages that redefine and ignore negative memories of the person, building bonding activities prior to death, and tying the dying person to the personal unit. Lopata was so impressed by survivors’ tendency to idealize the dead person and their life together that she created a “sanctification scale” for studying widowed women in the Chicago area (see Lopata 1973, 1979). Thus, the personal identity of a person precedes birth, in anticipatory feelings and behavior of others, is carried forth through the life course in social interaction, and exists beyond death in the memories and socially constructed awareness of survivors.

References Dull, Diana, and Candace West. 1991. “Accounting for Cosmetic Surgery: The Accomplishment of Gender.” Social Problems 38( 1):54-70. Lopata, Helena Z. 1973. Widowhood in an American City. Cambridge, Mass.: Schenkman. . 1979. Women as Widows. New York: Elsevier. , and Henry P. Brehm. 1986. Widows and Dependent Wives: From Social Problem to Federal Program. New York: Praeger.

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CHAPTER 12

The Politics of Menopause T H E “DISCOVERY” O F A DEFICIENCY DISEASE Frances B. McCrea

In the 1960s the medical profession in the United States hailed the contraceptive pill as the “great liberator” of women, and estrogens in general as the fountain of youth and beauty. Prominent gynecologists “discovered” that menopause was a “deficiency disease,” but promised women that estrogen replacement therapy would let them avoid menopause completely and keep them “feminine forever.” Yet within a few years, U.S. feminists in the vanguard of an organized women’s health movement defined the health care system, including estrogen treatment, as a serious social problem. The male-dominated medical profession was accused of reflecting and perpetuating the social ideology of women as sex objects and reproductive organs. Treating women with dangerous drugs was defined as exploitation and an insidious form of social control. These issues raised several questions: How did such diametrically opposed definitions evolve? How, under what conditions, and by whom does a certain behavior become defined as deviant or sick? In what context does a putative condition become defined as a social problem? I believe that definitions of health and illness are socially constructed and that these definitions are inherently political. “Deviant behaviors that were once defined as immoral, sinful or criminal,” according to Conrad and Schneider (1980:1), “have now been given new medical meanings” which are “profoundly political in nature” and have “real political consequences.” Indeed “in many cases these medical treatments have become a new form of social control.” I interpret the definition of menopause from this framework. During the 19th century, Victorian physicians viewed menopause as a sign of sin and decay; with the advent of Freudian psychology in the early 20th century, it was viewed as a neurosis; and as synthetic estrogens became readily available in the 1960s, physicians treated menopause as a deficiency disease (McCrea 198 1). Perhaps more important than these differences, however, are four themes which pervade the medical definitions of menopause. These are: (1) women’s potential and function are biologically destined; (2) women’s worth is determined by fecundity and attractiveness; (3) rejection of the feminine role will bring physical and emotional havoc; (4) aging women are useless and repulsive. 227

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In this paper I first analyze the rise of the disease definition of menopause and show that this definition reflects and helps create the prevailing ageism and sexism of our times. Then I show how the disease definition has been challenged from inside the medical community. Finally I examine how feminists outside the medical community have also challenged the disease model, claiming that menopause is normal and relatively unproblematic.

Menopause as Disease The roots of the disease definition of menopause can be traced back to the synthesis of estrogens. The earliest interest in these hormones grew out of efforts to find a cure for male impotence (Buxton 1944; Page 1977). In 1889, Charles Edouard BrownSequard, a French physiologist, reported to the SociCtC de Biologie in Paris that he experienced renewed vigor and rejuvenation after injecting himself with extracts from animal testicles. Four years later another French scientist, Regis de Bordeaux, used an ovarian extract injection to treat a female patient for menopausal “insanity.” And in 1896 a German physician, Theodore Landau, used desiccated ovaries to treat menopausal symptoms at the Landau Clinic in Berlin. In the late 1920s, Edgar Allen and Edward Doisey isolated and crystallized theelin (later known as estrone) from the urine of pregnant women. In 1932 Samual Geist and Frank Spielman described in the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology their efforts to treat menopausal women with theelin. Such treatments, however, were expensive and supplies of the drug limited, since it was derived from human sources. These problems were solved in 1936 when Russell Marker and Thomas Oakwood developed a synthetic form of estrogen known as diethylstilbesteral (DES). This cheap and potent hormone substance could be made readily available to a large number of women and paved the way for the development of the contraceptive pill. The last step in the development of hormone therapy occurred in 1943 when James Goodall developed an estrogen extract from the urine of pregnant mares. Termed conjugated equine estrogen and manufactured by Ayerst under the brand name Premarin, it was only about half as potent as synthetic estrogen, but it created fewer unpleasant side effects. By the early 1960s exogenous estrogen (that is, estrogen originating outside the human body) was widely available in the United States, and was inexpensive and easy to administer. It was used to treat various conditions of aging. But if estrogens were to become the cure, what was to be the disease? [Medicine] is active in seeking out illness. . . . One of the greatest ambitions of the physician is to discover and describe a “new” disease or syndrome and to be immortalized by having his name used to identify the disease. Medicine, then, is oriented to seeking out and finding illness, which is to say that it seeks to create social meanings of illness where that meaning or interpretation was lacking before. And insofar as illness is defined as something bad-to be eradicated or contained-medicine plays the role of what Becker called the “moral entrepreneur” (Freidson 1970:252).

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The moral entrepreneur who, during the 1960s, led the crusade to redefine menopause as a disease was the prominent Brooklyn gynecologist Robert A. Wilson. As founder and head of the Wilson Foundation, established in New York in 1963 to promote estrogens and supported by $1.3 million in grants from the pharmaceutical industry (Mintz and Cohn 1977), Wilson’s writings were crucial to the acceptance of menopause as a “deficiency disease” and the large-scale routine administration of Estrogen Replacement Therapy (ERT). He claimed that menopause was a hormone deficiency disease similar to diabetes and thyroid dysfunction. In an article published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Wilson (1962) claimed that estrogen prevented breast and genital cancer and other problems of aging. Even though his methodology was weak,’ this article launched a campaign to promote estrogens for the prevention of menopause and age-related diseases. A year later, writing with his wife Thelma in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society, Wilson and Wilson (1963) advocated that women be given estrogens from “puberty to grave.” Crucial to the popular acceptance of the disease model of menopause was Robert Wilson’s widely read book Feminine Forever (1966a), which claimed that menopause is a malhnction threatening the “feminine essence.” In an article summarizing his book, Wilson described menopausal women as “living decay” (1966b370) but said ERT could save them from being “condemned to witness the death of their womanhood” (1966b:66). He further proclaimed that menopause and aging could be allayed with ERT and listed 26 physiological and psychological symptoms that the “youth pill” could avert-including hot flashes, osteoporosis (thinning of bone mass), vaginal atrophy (thinning of vaginal walls), sagging and shrinking breasts, wrinkles, absentmindedness, irritability, frigidity, depression, alcoholism, and even suicide. Wilson also was aware of the physician’s potential and even mandate for social control. The first paragraph of a chapter titled “Menopause-The Loss of Womanhood and Good Health” states:

. . . I would like to launch into the subject of menopause by discussing its

effect on men. Menopause covers such a wide range of physical and emo-

tional symptoms that the implications are by no means confined to the woman. Her husband, her firnib, and her entire relationship to the outside world are affected almost as strongly as her own body. Only in this broader context can the problem of the menopause-as well as the benefits of hormonal cure-be properly appreciated (emphasis added, 1966a:92).

Wilson gives an example of how he helped a distressed husband who came to him for help with the following complaint: She is driving me nuts. She won’t fix meals. She lets me get no sleep. She picks on me all the time. She makes up lies about me. She hits the bottle all day. And we used to be happily married (1966a:93).

This man’s wife, Wilson says, responded well to “intensive” estrogen treatment and in no time resumed her wifely duties (1966a:94). In another chapter Wilson conjures up visions of Ira Levin’s (1972) novel The Stepford Wives:

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F R A N C E S B. M c C R E A In a family situation, estrogen makes women adaptable, even-tempered, and generally easy to live with. Consequently, a woman’s estrogen carries significancy beyond her own well-being. It also contributes toward the happiness of her family and all those with whom she is in daily contact. Even frigidity in women has been shown to be related to estrogen deficiency. The estrogen-rich woman, as a rule, is capable of far more generous and satisfying sexual response than women whose femininity suffers from inadequate chemical support (Wilson 1966:64).

From Wilson’s own words it is obvious that the disease label is not neutral. This label, like any disease label, decreases the status and the autonomy of the patient while increasing the status and power of the physician. When seen as part of a political process, knowledge and skill are claimed by a group to advance its interests. True or false the knowledge, disinterested or interested the motive, claims of knowledge function as ideologies. . . . insofar as claims to knowledge and skill are essential elements in a political process . . . it is highly unlikely that they can remain neutrally descriptive (Freidson 1971:30).

By individualizing the problems of menopause, the physician turns attention away from any social structural interpretation of women’s conditions. The locus of the solution then becomes the doctor-patient interaction in which the physician is active, instrumental, and authoritative while the patient is passive and dependent. The inherent authority of physicians is institutionalized in ways that minimize reliance on explanation and persuasion. This clinical mentality is “intrinsically imperialistic, claiming more for the profession’s knowledge and skill, and a broader jurisdiction than in fact can be justified by demonstrable effectiveness” (Freidson 1971:31). Such imperialism is independent of the particular motivation of the physician. Not only could it function as “crude self-interest,” but also as “a natural outcome of the deep commitment to the value of his work developed by the thoroughly socialized professional” (1971:31). A number of prominent U.S. physicians supported Wilson’s claims. Robert Greenblatt (1974, former president of the American Geriatrics Society, claimed that about 75 percent of menopausal women are acutely estrogen-deficient and advocated ERT for them, even if they were without symptoms. Another crusader for ERT, Helen Jern, a gynecologist at the New York Infirmary, wrote a book of case studies proclaiming the miraculous recoveries made by elderly women placed on ERT: I know the remarkably beneficial effect of estrogen as energizer, tranquilizer and anti-depressant. I know that it stimulates and maintains mental capacity, memory, and concentration, restores zest for living, and gives a youthful appearance. . . . Hormone therapy, once begun, should be continued throughout a woman’s lifetime. It is my firm belief that many female inmates of nursing homes and mental institutions could be restored to full physical and mental health through adequate hormone therapy Uern 1973:156).

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David Reuben proclaimed in his best-selling book Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex: As estrogen is shut off, a woman comes as close as she can to being a man. Increased facial hair, deepened voice, obesity, and decline of breasts and female genitalia all contribute to a masculine appearance. Not really a man but no longer a functional woman, these individuals live in a world of intersex. Having outlived their ovaries, they have outlived their usefulness as human beings (Reuben 1969:287).

But women need not despair. Reuben (1969:290) proclaimed that with estrogen replacements women can “turn back the clock,” and adequate amounts of estrogens throughout their lives will protect them against breast and uterine cancer. Throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s, Wilson’s book was excerpted widely in traditional women’s journals, and over 300 articles promoting estrogens appeared in popular magazines (Johnson 1977). During the same period an aggressive advertising campaign, capitalizing on the disease label, was launched by the U.S. pharmaceutical industry. ERT products were widely advertised in medical literature and promotional material as amelioratives for a variety of psychological, as well as somatic, problems. One advertisement depicted a seated woman clutching an airline ticket, with her impatient husband standing behind her glancing at his watch. The copy read: Bon Voyage? Suddenly she’d rather not go. She’s waited thirty years for this trip. Now she doesn’t have the “bounce.” She has headaches, hot flashes, and she feels tired and nervous all the time. And for no reason she cries (Seaman and Seaman 1977:28 1).

Another advertisement promoted ERT “for the menopausal problems that bother him the most” (Seaman and Seaman 1977:28 1). Yet another advertisement stated: “Any tranquilizer might calm her down . . . but at her age, estrogen may be what she really needs” (Seaman and Seaman 1977:281). Such advertisements paid off: between 1963 and 1973 dollar sales in the United States for estrogen replacements quadrupled (U.S. Bureau of the Census 1975). As one Harvard researcher stated, “few medical interventions have had as widespread application as exogenous estrogen treatment in postmenopausal women” (Weinstein 1980). By 1975, with prescriptions at an all-time high of 26.7 million (Wolfe 1979), estrogens had become the fifth most frequently prescribed drug in the United States (Hoover et al. 1976). A 1975 survey in the Seattle-Tacoma area of Washington State revealed that 51 percent of all post-menopausal women had used estrogens for at least three months, with a median duration of over 10 years CJCTeiss et al. 1976). Indeed, 1975 was a watershed year for estrogen therapy: sales were at an all-time high and physicians routinely used estrogens to treat a wide variety of purported menopausal symptoms. Yet within a few years this trend changed as estrogen therapy came under attack from inside and outside the medical community.

Medical Controversy Researchers had suspected an association between estrogens and cancer since the 1890s (Johnson 1977). Experimental animal studies, conducted in the 1930s and 1940s,

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claimed that estrogenic and progestinic substances were carcinogenic (Cook and Dodds 1933; Gardner 1944; Perry and Ginzton 1937). Novak and Yui (1936) warned that estrogen therapy might cause a pathological buildup of endometrial tissue. Most investigators trace the roots of the ERT controversy back to 1947. In that year Dr. Saul Gusberg, then a young cancer researcher at the Memorial Sloane-Kettering Hospital and Columbia University in New York City, made a histologic link between hyperplasia (proliferation of the cells) and adenocarcinoma in the female endometrium (lining of the uterus). After finding a significant increase in endometrial cancer among estrogen users, Gusberg (1947:910) wrote: Another human experiment has been set up in recent years by the widespread administration of estrogens to postmenopausal women. The relatively low cost of stilbestrol [synthetic estrogen] and the ease of administration have made its general use promiscuous.

Why was more attention not paid to these early warnings? In addition to the low cost and ease of administering estrogens mentioned by Gusberg, most scientists judged these early cancer studies to be scientifically unsound: those based on animal studies were dismissed as not applicable to humans. Perhaps most importantly, physicians found estrogens to be remarkably effective in alleviating vasomotor disturbances (hot flashes) and vaginal atrophy (Page 1977:54). In his book The Ageless Woman, Sherwin Kaufman (1967:61) described menopausal symptoms as the result of hormone deficiency, and lamented: Many women are obviously in need of estrogen replacements but are so afraid of “hormones” that it requires a good deal of explanation to persuade them that estrogen does not cause cancer and may, on the contrary, make them feel much better.

Kaufman regretted that some of his colleagues also share this unwarranted fear of cancer: Some doctors prescribe estrogens reluctantly. . . . Historically, and too often hysterically, estrogens have been endowed with malignant potentialities. Paradoxically, it has been pointed out that even conservative physicians may not hesitate to give sedatives or tranquilizers, yet they stop at the suggestion of estrogen replacement therapy. This is baffling to a good many doctors (1967:67).

Kaufman confessed that “Years ago, I used to discontinue such treatment [ERT]after a few months,” but “today I am in no rush to stop” (1967:64). The ERT controversy erupted in 1975 when two epidemiological studies, by research teams from Washington University (Smith et al. 1975) and The KaiserPermanente Medical Center in Los Angeles (Ziel and Finkle 1975), found a link between post-menopausal estrogen therapy and endometrial cancer. The two studies, according to Ziel: were written independently of each other and published side by side in the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine. By 1980, nine more studies, all done in the United States, concluded that women on ERT were four to 20 times

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more likely to develop endometrial cancer than non-users (Ziel 1980). Moreover, the risk of cancer purportedly increased with the duration and dose of estrogens. Indeed, according to Gusberg (1980:729), endometrial cancer has “superseded cervical cancer as the most common malignant tumor of the female reproductive tract.” At a 1979 Consensus Development Conference on Estrogen Use and Post-Menopausal Women, sponsored by the National Institute on Aging, researchers unanimously concluded that ERT substantially increases the risk of endometrial ~ a n c e r . ~ The final report of the conference concluded that ERT is only effective in the treatment of hot flashes and vaginal atrophy, and, if used at all, should be administered on a cyclical basis (three weeks of estrogen, one week off), at the lowest dose for the shortest possible time.* Any candidate for post-menopausal estrogen, the report recommended, “should be given as much information as possible about both the benefits and risks and then, with her physician, reach an individualized decision regarding whether to receive estrogens” (Gastel et al. 1979:2). Not only has the treatment of menopause come under criticism, the disease label has also been challenged by medical researchers. Saul Gusberg, who first warned of the ERT-cancer link, called the deficiency disease label for menopause “nonsense,” adding “People are beginning to be more sensible about this, and realize that not a great trauma has happened to the average woman going through the menopause” (quoted in Reitz 1977:198). Research presented at the Consensus Development Conference in 1979 claimed that although ovarian production of estrogen declines after the menopause, older women need less estrogen. Moreover, production of the hormone by the adrenal glands partially compensates diminished ovarian production for most women (Ziel and Finkle 1976). Furthermore, only 10 to 20 percent of women experience severe or incapacitating symptoms, and even those are generally temporary and decline over time (Gastel et al. 1979; McKinley and Jeffreys 1974). Researchers have also criticized the disease model on ideological grounds. Ziel and Finkle (1976:737), two well-known cancer researchers, argued that the disease model was based on a traditional view of women’s role: Because they desire the preservation of cosmetic youth and the unflagging libido of the patients, physicians have championed estrogen replacement therapy in the hope of attaining a maximal quality of life for their patients.

The female patient, in turn, “is readily deluded by her wish to preserve her figure and her physician’s implication that estrogen promises eternal youth” (1976:739). Despite a strong consensus in the research community that ERT increases the risk of endometrial cancer, practicing physicians continued to prescribe the drug. As one San Francisco gynecologist stated after the 1975 cancer studies were published:

I think of the menopause as a deficiency disease like diabetes. Most women

develop some symptoms whether they are aware of them or not, so I prescribe estrogens for virtually all menopausal women for an indefinite period (quoted in Brody 1975:55).

Even though U.S. prescriptions for ERT have steadily declined since the 1975 cancer studies, some 16 million were written in 1978 (Wolfe 1979). Indeed, a 1978

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Detroit-area survey showed that two-thirds of all women who saw their physicians about menopausal complaints received estrogens and 50 percent received tranquilizers (Dosey and Dosey 1980). In fact, a 1978 drug analysis by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) concluded that menopausal estrogens, even after a major decline, were still “grossly overused” (Burke et al. 1978). My analysis5of 1979 estrogen replacement prescriptions revealed that 31 percent were still written for such vague diagnostic categories as “symptoms of senility,” “special conditions without sickness,” and “mental problems”-in violation of FDA specifications.6 Other measures of physicians’ endorsement of ERT are authoritative references which describe menopause as a morbid condition for which estrogen therapy is indicated. For example, The Merck Manual (Berkow 1980), a book of diagnosis and therapy widely used by physicians, lists menopause under “Ovarian Dyshnction.” Modell’s (1980) Drugs of Choice lists it under “Diseases of the Endocrine system.” Both sources advocate estrogens for treatment. Drugs of Choice states that “objective studies” evaluating the risks and benefits are “not currently available” (1980:540). Likewise, Current Medical Diagnosis and Treatment (Krupp and Chatton 1980:731) lists menopause under “Endocrine Disorders” and notes that “estrogen therapy has been recommended for life” but “the advisability of this practice remains unsettled.” Current Therapy (Kantor 1980439) lists as benefits of ERT “improvement of disposition and unreasonable outburst of temper” and “avoidance of the shrinking and sagging of breasts.” Attention is called to recent cancer claims, but “when doses are small and administration is in interrupted courses, any potential risk is indeed small and perhaps theoretic.” But a patient who has been frightened by “magazine articles” or “Food and Drug Administration bulletins” may “psychologically block the benefits” of ERT (Kantor 1980339). U.S. physicians have viewed the use of ERT as a political issue, and their endorsement of the therapy as an exercise of professional control. Editorials in the Journal of the American Medical Association have been critical of outside interference in the doctor-patient relationship. A 1979 editorial criticized the FDA Commissioner for mandating a “biased” warning: “In doing so he has officially expressed his distrust of the medical profession” (Landau 1979:47). A 1980 editorial castigated the FDA for creating unnecessary “public anxiety.” Contradicting almost all the then-current U.S. research, the editorial concluded that “Estrogens already rank among the safest of all pharmaceuticals” (Meier and Landau 1980:1658).

Menopause As Normal In the late 1960s and early 1970s, U.S. feminists began to challenge medical authority by questioning the legitimacy of the disease model of menopause. They argued that menopause is not a disease or sickness but a natural process of aging, through which most women pass with minimum difficulty.’ The medical problems that do arise can be effectively treated or even prevented by adequate nutrition and exercise combined with vitamin supplements. According to feminists, the menstrual and menopausal myths are a form of social control. If women are perceived as physically and emotion-

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ally handicapped by menstruation and menopause, they cannot and may not compete with men. The health care system legitimates sexism, under the guise of science, by depicting women’s physical and mental capabilities as dependent on their reproductive organs. Schur (1980:6) calls these struggles over collective definitions “stigma” contests, wherein subordinate groups reject their deviant label. Although economic, legal, and political power is often involved in stigma contests, “what is essentially at stake in such situations is the power of moral standing or acceptability.” Thus, stigma contests are always partly symbolic, since prestige and status are important issues (Gusfield 1966; 1967). Stigmatized individuals must rectify a “spoiled identity” (Goffman 1963) through collective efforts. In the United States, feminists have tried to neutralize stigma by claiming that menopause is a normal experience of normal women. O n these ideological grounds, feminists have opposed the routine use of ERT. For example, an article, published in Ms. in 1972, before strong medical evidence against ERT was uncovered, maintained that menopause was not a traumatic experience for most women. Because menopause freed women from the risk of pregnancy, it was viewed as a sexually liberating event. ERT, seen as an attempt to keep women “feminine forever,” was thus viewed as a male exploitation, relegating women to the status of sex objects (Solomon 1972). Four years later, offering a feminist interpretation of the menstrual and menopausal taboo, Delaney et al. (1976: 184) stated that “the main fault of Feminine Forever lies not in the medicine but in the moralizing.” After medical evidence became available to strengthen the ideological arguments, feminist criticism became widespread. In Women and the Crisis in Sex Hormones (Seaman and Seaman 1977), the ERT controversy received a 70-page analysis titled “Promise Her Anything But Give Her. . . Cancer.” These authors warned against the increasing medicalization of normal female functions: Pregnancy or non-pregnancy are hardly diseases; and neither is menopause. The latter is a normal developmental state wherein reproductive capacity is winding down; the temporary hot flashes some women experience may be compared to the high-to-low voice register changes adolescent boys evidence when their reproductive capacity is gearing up. We no longer castrate young boys to preserve their male sopranos, nor should we treat hot flashes with a cancer-and-cholesterol pill (1977:xi).

In a collection of feminist critiques, Grossman and Bart (1979:167), two social scientists, make a similar claim in a chapter entitled “Taking Men Out of Menopause’’: . . . [the] actions of the medical and pharmaceutical groups dramatize the sexism and general inhumanity of the male-dominated, profit-oriented U.S. medical system. A “deficiency disease” was invented to serve a drug that could “cure” it, despite the suspicion that the drug caused cancer in women. That the suspicion has been voiced for so many years before anyone would investigate it is yet another example of how unimportant the well-being of women is to men who control research and drug companies who fund much of it.

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The 1981 edition of The Ms. Guide to a Woman? Health warns women that “Estrogen replacement therapy (ERT) is a dangerously overused treatment. Avoid it if at all possible” (Cooke and Dworkin 1981:310). The chapter on menopause repeatedly states that the change of life is not a disease but a normal process. Similarly, The New Woman? Guide to Health and Medicine states “The truth is that menopause is a positive or at least neutral experience for many women” (Derbyshire 1980:269). Several other U.S. feminist publications, such as Majority Report (Lieberman 1977) and OffOur Backs (Moira 1977), have taken strong stances against ERT. Mother Jones condemned ERT in an article entitled “Feminine Straight to the Grave” (Wolf 1978). Though most of the criticism has been voiced by younger feminists, some older women have also opposed ERT. Reitz (1977:181) referred to ERT as “The No. 1 Middle-Age Con” and proclaimed: I accept that I’m a healthy woman whose body is changing. No matter how many articles and books I read that tell me I’m suffering from a deficiency disease, I say I don’t believe it. I have never felt more in control of my life than I do now and I feel neither deficient nor diseased. I think that people who are promoting this idea-that something is wrong with me because I am 50-have

something to gain or are irresponsible or stupid.

Collins (1977:3), in an article in Prime Time, a publication devoted to ageist issues, stated: Even today the literature . . . defines menopause as a deficiency disease. Of course that may sell estrogen, and we’ll stay out of the controversy over whether that’s a good thing or not. But it certainly echoes once more the male prejudice against menopausal and post-menopausal women.

Health-related associations and consumer groups have also joined feminists in their opposition to ERT. Consumer Reports (1976), the official publication of Consumers Union, published a lengthy article warning women of the risks; Citizens Health, Ralph Nader’s organization, opposes (and regularly testifies against) ERT (Wolfe 1979). Smaller groups such as Coalition for the Medical Rights of Women (Brown 1978), and National Action Forum for Older Women (1979), have all warned women of the risks of ERT and advocated alternative treatment (diet, exercise, and vitamin supplements) for menopause, Menopause workshops and self-help groups have sprung up across the United States (Page 1977). Afier the 1975 cancer studies several feminist and consumer groups, including the National Women’s Health Network and Consumers Union, began to pressure the FDA to warn consumers of the dangers of ERT. O n July 22, 1977, after rwo years of public hearings, the FDA issued a ruling that a “patient package insert” (PPI), warning of the risk of cancer and other dangers, be included with every estrogen and progesterine prescription. O n October 5, 1977, in an effort to block this regulation, the Pharmaceutical Manufacturing Association-together with the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the National Association of Chain Drug Stores, the American Society of Internal Medicine, and various state and county medical societies-responded by filing a civil suit in the Wilmington, Delaware, Federal Dis-

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trict Court against the FDA. The plaintiffs charged that the FDA lacked statutory authority to require the patient package insert warning, and that such a requirement was an unconstitutional interference with the practice of medicine. They also asserted that such a regulation is “arbitrary, capricious [and] an abuse of discretion” (Pharmaceutical Manufacturers Association v. Food and Drug Administration 1980). To represent the interests of women patients, the National Women’s Health Network, Consumers Union, Consumers Federation of America, and Women’s Equity Action League filed as interveners in the lawsuit in support of the FDA. Three years later, in 1980, Federal District Judge Walter K. Stapleton upheld the FDA decision, giving estrogen replacements the distinction of being one of only four classes8 of drugs which require such patient package inserts in the United States (Pharmaceutical Manufacturers Association v. Food and Drug Administration 1980). Regulation, however, does not mean compliance, and the feminist victory appears more symbolic than instrumental. A 1979 FDA survey of 271 drug stores in 20 U.S. cities revealed that only 39 percent of all ERT prescriptions were accompanied by the required insert (Morris et al. 1981). Moreover, under the administration of President Ronald Reagan, the FDA has suspended all proposed PPI regulations and is reconsidering existing ones (National Women’s Health Network 198

Conclusion In this article I have characterized the medical-feminist struggle over the collective definition of menopause as a stigma contest. Feminists have attempted to show that menopause is not an event that limits women’s psychological or physical capacities, but a natural part of aging. Physicians have tried to explain the problems of middleaged women through a medical model. In so viewing the life course, including menopause, physicians have tended to see problems experienced during menopause as either “all in the head” or the result of a deficiency disease, to be treated with tranquilizers or hormones. The aging woman has a particularly vulnerable status in our society. She is no longer the object of adoration and romanticism that youthful women frequently are. Menopause usually comes at a time when children leave home, and husbands frequently seek younger sexual partners. Physical changes taking place in her body might be compounded, and negatively interpreted, by the loss of status and primary social role. Clearly, such women are vulnerable to the promise of a “youth” pill which purports to allay the aging process. Yet to blame all the problems that aging women experience on menopause is a classic case of blaming the victim. The medical model individualizes the problem, and deflects responsibility from the social structure which assigns aging women to a maligned and precarious status. The vulnerable status of women makes fertile ground for medical imperialism. A health care system, based on fee-for-service, is conducive to defining more and more life events as illnesses. A disease definition of menopause has served the interests of both the medical profession and the pharmaceutical industry. Until these structural

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arrangements change, the hormone deficiency definition of menopause, or some equivalent to it, is likely to prevail. Feminists, particularly those in the women’s health movement (Ruzek 1979), have exposed the sexism in women’s health care. Publications such as Our Bodies, Ourselves (Boston Women’s Health Book Collective 1976) offered a new definition of women’s role in health care. No longer passive consumers of male-dominated medicine, women asserted the right to control their own bodies. Feminists in the health movement have begun to demystify menopause and have made it a topic for discussion. By making their stigma contest part of a broad-based social movement, feminists have been able to define women’s health care as a social problem (Mauss 1975). Yet in their efforts to fight off the stigma of menopause, some feminists have inadvertently contributed to ageism. Most criticisms have been voiced by younger feminists who have not gone through menopause. Their main focus has been on the medicalization of childbirth and menstruation, and they have extrapolated their analysis to menopause without adequate appreciation of the problems of aging women. By emphasizing the natural and unproblematic nature of menopause, they have overlooked the minority of women who do need medical attention. Such women might feel shame or guilt for suffering through what others claim is normal or unproblematic (Posner 1979). Moreover, most feminist studies of menopause have ignored structural factors, restricting their analyses to ideological and social psychological issues. Most feminists in the health movement see women’s oppression rooted in arguments of biological inferiority. Feminists have tried to settle the nature-nurture debate by showing that differences in socialization, not biology, account for women’s inferior status. In their attempt to overthrow the dictum “biology is destiny,” feminists have argued that menstruation, childbirth, and menopause are natural events and, in most cases, do not warrant medical intervention. They charge that myths surrounding these events function as social control. In so doing, feminists have attempted to substitute a new ideology (biology is irrelevant) for an old one (biology is destiny). The women’s health movement, largely middle-class, has approached the problems of women’s health care from a point most visible to the middle-class consumer: the private office of the gynecologist or psychiatrist. Focusing on doctor-patient interaction, they have advocated self-help outside the established health care system. Admirable though these actions are, they are not sufficient to change the collective status of women. Nor will the call by radical feminists for self-help, alternative health care accomplish this goal; it only takes the struggle to the margins of the established order (Fee 1975). Neither ideological nor social-psychological analyses challenge the private health care system or the economic and social infrastructure which support it. What is needed are studies which elucidate the structural affinities between the economics of health care and the status of women. Such scholarship might point the way toward more meaningful change.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from SucialProblems, Vol. 31, No. 1, October 1983, pp. 111-23.

0 1983 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

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The author thanks Gerald Markle for his collaboration in the research; John Gilmore, Daryl Kelley, Ronald Kramer, Ellen Page-Robin, Ronald Troyer, and the anonymous Social Problpms reviewers for their criticisms of earlier drafts; and Agnes McColley for typing the manuscript. Correspondence to: Department of Sociology,Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI 49008. 1. For example, Wilson (1962) stated that 86 of the 304 women had undergone a total hysterectomy either before or during treatment without giving a reason for the hysterectomy (Johnson 1977). 2. Harry Ziel, February 1, 1983: personal communication. 3. Other U.S. studies claimed that ERT increased the risk of breast cancer, atherosclerosis, myocardial infarction, pulmonary emboli, thrombophlebitis, gall bladder disease, and diabetes (Gastel et at., 1979). 4. In Great Britain researchers are skeptical of the cancer link. They claim that sequential therapy (the addition of progestin for the last five to 13 days of a 20-to-30-day course of estrogen) would eliminate the potential risk of cancer. U.S. researchers claim that sequential treatment may not prevent endometrial cancer (Ziel 1980:451) and the dangers associated with progestins have not been fully evaluated (Gastel et al. 1979). British researchers also promote ERT for the prevention of osteoporosis (loss of bone mass), but U.S. researchers contend more research is needed on osteoporosis and, at this time, the established cancer risk outweighs the potential benefit of the treatment. For a discussion of the cancer and osteoporosis debates, see McCrea and MarMe (In press). 5. The data for this analysis are proprietary, and were obtained from the IMS National Disease and Therapeutics Index, IMS America, Ltd., Ambler, Pennsylvania. IMS collects these data from a representative panel of 1,500 physicians who, four times a year, report case history information on private patients seen over a 48-hour period. For each prescription written, physicians report their diagnosis. 6. The FDA has found menopausal estrogens “effective” only for the treatment of vasomotor symptoms and atrophic vaginitis, and “probably” effective for “estrogen deficiency-induced osteoporosis, and only when used in conjunction with other important therapeutic measures such as diet, calcium, physiotherapy, and good general health-promoting measures.’’Furthermore, the FDA states that estrogens are not effective for nervous symptoms or depression “and should not be used to treat such conditions” (Physicians’Desk Reference 1982:641). 7 . Although the majority of U.S. feminists, particularly those in the women’s health movement, have defined menopause as unproblematic, there are notable exceptions. For example, Posner (1979: 189) charges that feminists “have been led into the ideological trap of denying their own hormones.” Lock (1982) argues that physicians ought to pay more attention to physiology, and not dismiss women’s medical complaints as psychological. British feminists also want more medical services made available in the treatment of menstruation and menopause (McCrea and Markle In press; Sayers 1982). 8. The other three are oral contraceptives, progestational drug products, and isoproterenol inhalation preparations used by asthmatics. 9. This was confirmed by the FDA official in charge of the PPI program, Louis Morris, May 11, 1983: personal communication.

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Kantor, Herman. 1980. “Menopause.” In Current Therapy, edited by Howard F. Conn, 83840. Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders and Co. Kaufman, Sherwin. 1967. The Ageless Woman. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Krupp, Marcus, and Milton Chatton. 1980. Current Medical Diagnosis and Treatment. Los Altos, Calif.: Lange Medical Publications. Landau, Richard. 1979. “What You Should Know about Estrogens.” Journal of the American Medical Association 24 1:47-5 1. Levin, Ira. 1972. The Stepford Wives. New York: Random House. Lieberman, Sharon. 1977. “But You Will Make Such a Feminine Corpse . . .” Majority Report 6 (February 19-March 4):3. Lock, Margaret. 1982. “Models and Practice in Medicine: Menopause as Syndrome or Life Transition?” Culture, Medicine and Pychiaty 6:261-80. McCrea, Frances. 1981. “The Medicalization of Normalcy? Changing Definitions of Menopause.” Paper presented at the International Interdisciplinary Congress on Women, Haifa, Israel, December 28-January 1, 1982. , and Gerald Markle. In press.“Estrogen Replacement Therapy in the United States and Great Britain: Different Answers to the Same Questions?” Social Studies of Science. McKinley, Sonja M., and Margot Jeffreys. 1974. “The Menopausal Syndrome.” BritishJournal ofPreventive and Social Medicine 28:108-15. Mauss, Armand. 1975. Social Problems as Social Movements. Philadelphia: Lippincott. Meier, Paul, and Richard Landau. 1980. “Estrogen Replacement Therapy.” Journal of the American Medical Association 243: 1658. Mintz, Morton, and Victor Cohn. 1977. “Hawking the Estrogen Fix.” The Progressive 4 1:24-25. Modell, Walter. 1980. Drugs of Choice, 1980-1981. St. Louis: Mosby. Moira, Fran. 1977. “Estrogens Forever: Marketing Youth and Death.” OffOur Backs (March): 12. Morris, Louis, Ann Meyers, Paul Gibbs, and Chang Lao. 1981. “Estrogen PPIs: A Survey.” American Pharmacy 20 Uune):318-22. National Action Forum for Older Women. 1979. “Forum.” Newsletter of the National Action Forum for Older Women 2(2):8. National Women’s Health Network. 1981. “Network Fights to Save PPI Program.” National Womenj Health Network Newsletter 6(6):1-2. Novak, Emil, and Enmei Yui. 1936. “Relation of Endometrial Hyperplasia to Adenocarcinoma of the Uterus.” American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology 321596-674. Page, Jane. 1977. The Other AwkwardAge: Menopawe. Berkeley, Calif.: Ten Speed Press. Perry, I. H., and L. L. Ginzton. 1937. “The Development of Tumors in Female Mice Treated with 1:2:5:6 Dibenzanthracone and Theelin.” American Journal of Cancer 29:680. Physicians’ Desk Reference. 1982. Physicians’ Desk Reference. 36th ed. Oradell, N.J.: Medical Economics Company, Inc. Posner, Judith. 1979. “It’s All in Your Head: Feminist and Medical Models of Menopause (Strange Bedfellows).” Sex Roles 5: 179-90. Reitz, Rosetta. 1977. Menopause: A Positive Approach. Radnor, Penn.: Chilton Book Co. Reuben, David. 1969. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Aftaid to Ask. New York: David McKay Co. Ruzek, Sheryl Burt. 1979. The Women? Health Movement. New York: Praeger. Sayers, Janet. 1982. Biological Politics. London: Tavistock Publications, Ltd. Schur, Edwin. 1980. The Politics of Deviance. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall. Seaman, Barbara, and Gideon Seaman. 1977. Women and the Crisis in Sex Hormones. New York: Rawson Association Publishers, Inc. Smith, Donald D., Prentice Ross, J. Thompson Donovan, and Walter L. Herrmann. 1975.

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“Association of Exogenous Estrogen and Endometrial Carcinoma.” New England Journal of Medicine 293: 1164-67. Solomon, Jean. 1972. “Menopause: A Rite of Passage.” Ms. (December) 1:16-18. U.S. Bureau of the Census. 1975. Pharmaceutical Preparations, Except Biologicals. Current Industrial Reports, Series Ma28G(73)-1.Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. Weinstein, Milton. 1980. “Estrogen Use in Post-Menopausal Women-Costs, Risks and Benefits.” New England Journal ofMedicine 303:308-16. Weiss, Noel S., Daniel Szekely, and Donald F. Austin. 1976. “Increasing Incidence of Endometrial Cancer in the United States.” New England Journal ofMedicine 294: 1259-62. Wilson, Robert. 1962. “Roles of Estrogen and Progesterine in Breast and Genital Cancer.” Journal of the American Medical Association 182:327-3 1, . 1966a. Feminine Forever. New York: M. Evans. . 1966b. “A Key to Staying Young.” Look (January):68-73. , and Thelma Wilson. 1963. “The Fate of Nontreated Post-Menopausal Woman: A Plea for the Maintenance of Adequate Estrogen from Puberty to the Grave.” Journal of the American Geriatrics Society 11:347-6 1. Wolfe, Sidney. 1978. “Feminine Straight to the Grave.” Mother Jones (May):18-20. . 1979. Women in Science and Technology Equal Opportunity Act, 1979. Testimony before the Committee on Labor and Human Resources, Subcommittee on Health and Scientific Research. 96th Congress, 1st session. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. Ziel, Harry K. 1980. “The Negative Side of Long-Term Postmenopausal Estrogen Therapy.” In Controversies in Therapeutics, edited by Louis Lasagna, 450-52. Philadelphia: Saunders. , and William D. Finkle. 1975. “Increased Risks of Endometrial Carcinoma among Users of Conjugated Estrogens.” New England Journal of Medicine 293: 1167-70. . 1976. “Association of Estrone with the Development of Endometrial Carcinoma.” American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology 134:735-40.

CASE CITED PharmaceuticalManufacturers Association v. Food and Drug Administration, 484 F. Supp. 1179, 1980.

CHAPTER 13

Family Status and Poverty among Older Women THE GENDERED DISTRIBUTION OF RETIREMENT INCOME IN THE UNITED STATES Mudonnu Hurrington Meyer

While the elderly in the United States have made remarkable economic gains in recent decades (US. Bureau of Census 1989:9), these gains have not been enjoyed evenly. Certain groups-women, blacks, and the oldest old-still suffer high rates of poverty (Pearce 1989). Among these groups, older women are among the most disadvantaged. Women comprise 59 percent of the aged population and 71 percent of the aged poor population (U.S. Bureau of Census 1989:58). Marriage generally serves to protect the elderly from poverty; household income data reveal that just 6 percent of married older men and women are poor (U.S. Bureau of Census 1989:32). Poverty rates for all other categories of marital status are significantly higher. For example, Table 13.1 shows that 20 percent of widowed and 24 percent of divorced older women are impoverished. Unmarried older people are more likely to be poor than their married counterparts. The greater incidence of poverty among older women is directly linked to their greater likelihood of being unmarried; 25 percent of older men and 60 percent of older women are unmarried (U.S. Bureau of Census 1989:58). Reports of household income hide latent poverty among married women (U.S. Congress: Senate 1990:32, 29). In 1988 the median income for married older women-considered separately from their husbands’ incomes-was just $5,485, only 43 percent of that received by married older men. With such relatively low incomes, many married women are at risk of impoverishment should their spouses die, divorce, or enter a nursing home. The cessation of marriage in old age raises the risk of poverty for all older citizens, but the consequences for older women, following a lifetime of economic subordination, can be devastating (Older Women’s League 1988). Phrases like “the aged poor” or “the impoverished elderly” obscure the fact that these people primarily are women (Pascall 1986:6). To understand the mechanisms that reproduce gender inequality, I critically examine the supposedly gender-neutral arrangements of old-age income programs. I 243

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begin with a review of feminist arguments on how retirement income is structured around gender, examine the benefit and eligibility structures of three major sources of retirement income-Social Security, private pensions, and individual retirement accounts-and discuss various policy proposals in terms of their effects on older women.

Waged Labor, Reproductive Labor, and Family Status in Old Age Recent research suggests that we could expect retirement income to be significantly gendered in that it reflects: (1) the influence of the waged labor force; (2) a gendered conception of work; and (3) a view of marriage and family life as permanent.

GENDER AND THE WAGED LABOR FORCE O n the basis of two cohort studies of women born in the 1910s and 1920s, O’Rand and Henretta (1982) and H e n (1988) argue that women’s working and retirement income is low because of the competing demands of child care, homemaking, and waged labor. Old age income schemes currently favor those with higher working wages and lengthy and continuous waged labor force participation. Men tend to be relieved of domestic work and are available for the more stable, higher waged, and better protected market positions (Sokoloff 1980:20 1). Responsibility for child care and domestic labor delays and interrupts women’s waged labor force participation, causing them to be segregated into secondary sectors of the labor market, and into part-time work in particular. As a result, they typically receive low working wages, low public pensions, and little or no private pensions. After breaks in their work careers, women are often treated as new employees (Land 1978). Over time they often exchange some flexibility in working hours for lower pay and prospects. Women are less likely than men to be employed in core industries where pension coverage is high (Quadagno 1988). They are less likely to receive benefits even when they work in industries with Table 13.1. Poverty Rates by Race, Sex, and Marital Status, Age 65 and Over, 1987 Male Single Married, spouse present Married, spouse absent Widowed Divorced

Female

Total

White

Black

Total

White

Black

17.7 5.9 17.1 14.6 19.1

15.9 4.9 11.3 11.6 15.5

17.3 34.8 36.7 -

23.3 5.7 35.2 20.0 23.9

22.3 4.7 26.9 16.9 20.4

33.5 19.5 48.0 50.5

Source: Calculated from U.S. Bureau of Census, 1989,Table 8:32-37.

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high coverage because eligibility requirements favor lengthy and continuous service. When women do receive benefits, the amount is considerably lower than men’s because retirement wages are based on working wages. This gender gap in working wages is replicated in retirement wages; women’s working and retirement wages are on average just 60 percent of men’s (Reskin and Hartmann 1986:l). Women’s pattern of labor force participation fails to approximate men’s, thus they are denied access to maximum old-age benefits. Some are optimistic that the picture will improve for later cohorts of women because younger women today are less inclined to interrupt full-time work for childbearing or other reproductive labor (Hem 1988; O’Rand and Henretta 1982). Labor force participation rates of never-married and married women ages 25-34 differed in 1957 by 50 percent, but by 1987 the gap had narrowed to only 15 percent (Herz 1988). Although today’s cohort of older women often delayed, interrupted, or eliminated waged labor force participation to perform reproductive labor, current cohorts of women in their reproductive years show no drop in overall labor force participation. With time, then, women will be fully integrated into the waged labor force and will compete on an equal footing with men for old age income. Others are less optimistic arguing that women’s increased participation in the labor force has not significantly lessened the effect of reproductive labor on women’s waged labor (Ferree 1987; Reskin and Hartmann 1986). Moreover, Reskin (1988) points out that sex segregation in the labor force has remained remarkably stable. Ferree (1987) demonstrates that where women have increased their numbers in traditionally male jobs, the rewards and opportunities attached to these jobs have typically diminished. Finally, Reskin argues that the segregation of women into secondary labor markets is but one of many ways that men retain their economic advantage. Because the structure of retirement income reflects men’s interests more than women’s (Quadagno 1988), the integration of women into the labor force alone will not significantly diminish women’s economic dependency.

EXCLUDING REPRODUCTIVE LABOR FROM THE DEFINITION OF WORK Retirement income is based on a gendered conceptualization of work. Women’s old age poverty is directly linked to a sexual division of labor that relegates the reproductive labor performed almost exclusively by women to the non-waged or private sector of society (Hartmann 1981;Young 1981;Acker 1988). For much of the work women do, they earn neither working wages nor retirement wages (Ferree 1987:388; Stone and Minkler 1984232). Women are almost exclusively responsible for non-waged reproductive labor including the provision of food, clothing, and shelter and care for children, the disabled, and the elderly (Laslett and Brenner 1989:384). Despite increasing participation in the paid labor force, women have retained almost complete responsibility for unpaid domestic work and childrearing (Ferree 1987:325; Reskin and Hartmann 1986:16). Pascal1 (1986) argues paid work lessens women’s identification with housework but fails to substantially shift the burden.

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With age, women often exchange mothering for other family caregiving responsibilities (Stone and Minkler 1984233; Brody 1981:471; Pascall 1986; McIntosh 1979; Land 1983; Lewis 1983). In 1982, 72 percent of the unpaid caregivers for the frail elderly in the United States were women (U.S. Congress: Senate, 1988:19). Unpaid responsibilities often interfere with or prohibit women’s participation in the paid labor force. Caring for an ailing parent causes thousands of working daughters to rearrange their work schedules, take time off from work without pay, and reduce their working hours (Stone 1989:27). In one national sample of married persons working shift hours, 12.3 percent of the women (and 2.5 percent of the men) said they did shift work so they could care for an adult family member (Presser 1990). This labor, which consumes so much of women’s time and energy, is not paid and not regarded as work. Some seek to liberate women from their work in the domestic sphere while others celebrate reproductive labor, demanding that it be reasonably compensated. Brenner (1987) and Bergmann (1982), for example, argue that women must be relieved of the burden of reproductive work, which should be regarded as a societal rather than a woman’s responsibility. Bergmann suggests that the disadvantages of being a housewife are so great that the role should be avoided on even a temporary basis. She opposes policies that would increase the economic security of traditional homemakers in old age because they reinforce the traditional division of labor. O’Brien (198 1) and Pascall (1986), alternately, argue that the answer cannot lie in devaluing reproductive labor; to deny women’s reproductive work is to deny the labor that has in part historically defined women. Quadagno (1988) asks why the rules are structured to penalize women for their reproductive work rather than rewarding them for the work they do in the domestic sphere. The objective is to rewrite the rules so that women are rewarded, both in terms of working and retirement wages, for their reproductive labor. THE TRANSIENCY OF FAMILY STATUS IN OLD AGE Rule structures of old age pension schemes are grounded in a conceptualization of family status as permanent despite insurmountable evidence that it is transient. Retirement wage programs are based on a traditional family model with a male breadwinner and a dependent female caregiver. But the model does not describe contemporary social structure (Pascall 1986:47). Most people are only in nuclear families for brief portions of their lives. A lifetime of unpaid or underpaid labor leaves many older women ill-prepared for economic security without a spouse (Glasse 1988:2; Stone and Minkler 1984:230), yet with age women are increasingly likely to become single. U.S. old age income schemes are maximally beneficial only to men and women who manage to sustain a traditional marriage. While men and women alike are penalized for their failure to do so by the increased likelihood of poverty, women, because they are more likely to be dependent within marriage, and less likely to sustain a traditional marriage into old age, suffer the greater risk of impoverishment under existing policies. By ignoring that marriage ends for a large proportion of older women, pension plan and individual retirement account rule structures systematically penalize women as a group.

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The Gendered Structure of Retirement Income in the United States SOCIAL SECURITY Social Security is the primary source of retirement income for most elderly people and the only source for many elderly women (Older Women’s League 1988). Table 13.2 shows that nearly 40 percent of all elderly income comes from Social Security. Table 13.3 shows that 70 percent of all income received by the poor elderly comes from Social Security. For the non-poor elderly, Social Security accounts for just 40 percent of total income. Because Social Security benefits are based on working wages, women’s mean monthly benefits are significantly lower than men’s. Average monthly benefits in 1987 for men were $576 compared to $403 for women; women’s benefits were just 70 percent of men’s (Social Security Bulletin 1988:2). The gender gap in Social Security benefits is less severe than the gap in working wages because Social Security benefit formulas are purposely designed to redistribute money from higher waged to lower waged earners, thus the variation of wages by gender is truncated. Eligibility for Social Security is based on 40 quarters or 10 years in the waged labor force (Greenberg 1978). The quarter years need not be continuous, thus women’s eligibility is not penalized for interrupting waged work with reproductive labor. Initially, under the 1935 Social Security Act, one-half of all workers were excluded from coverage by their occupation (Quadagno 1984). Increasingly Social Security coverage approaches universality (Quadagno 1988), but coverage is limited to formal wage relationships. Workers in informal wage relationships are not covered by Social Security. No statistics are available on how many people are excluded, but there is evidence of underreporting of both migrant work and private household work. For example, domestic workers, who are almost exclusively women, have been covered by Social Security since 195 1. However, “employers and domestics both avoid paying the 5.85 percent of domestic’s wages that would be their share of the tax” (Rollins 198556). After a lifetime of marginal earnings, most domestic workers face old age with no regular source of retirement income. Social Security benefits are based on earnings averaged over 35 years (or the number of years between age 21 and age 62, excluding the five lowest years of earnings; Burkhauser and Holden 1982; Greenberg 1978:38). Because the denominator in this calculation includes all years between ages 21 and 62, employees with the longest and most continuous work records earn the highest benefits (Olson 1982:67). The five lowest years, dropout years, are removed so that “persons who did not have an opportunity to work under the [Social Security] program would not be disadvantaged by a lower benefit amount” (Greenberg 1978:38). Limiting the number of dropout years to five has the consequence of not penalizing workers for temporary absences from the labor market (Greenberg 1978) and severely penalizing those with

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extended absences. A substantial length of time without earnings, whether due to parttime employment or unemployment, illness, or family responsibilities, reduces benefits considerably. Occasionally, the federal government grants workers wage credits for wages not received. During the Second World War, for example, members of the armed forces and interned Japanese-Americans received “gratuitous” wage credits (Greenberg 197854). No such provisions have ever been enacted for women who temporarily leave the waged labor force for reproductive labor. Workers with long absences are further penalized because each year’s earnings are indexed according to current wage structures before they are averaged in the benefits calculations (Greenberg 1978). Years with zero earnings cannot be indexed and are entered into the equation as zeros. Social Security has a dual eligibility structure that entitles beneficiaries based on either their own earnings record or their spouse’s. Spousal Social Security benefits are based on marriages of at least 10 years and are equal to one-half of the worker’s benefit. Nearly all men receive benefits based on their earnings record, but the majority of women receive spousal benefits; 99 percent of all spousal beneficiaries are women (Social Security Bulletin 1988:2). Of the new women beneficiaries in 1982,60 percent received benefits based on their family status rather than their life’s work. Though spousal benefits are just half of the wage-earner benefit, many dually entitled women do better to claim spousal benefits. Holden (1982) reports in one study that 84 percent of dually entitled women who had any zero-earnings quarters were eligible for spousal benefits higher than their own worker benefits. The Social Security Administration describes women who are dually entitled but taking spousal benefits as receiving a “combined benefit” in which “their retired worker benefit is supplemented by a partial wife’s benefit” (Social Security Bulletin 19859). This is misleading, however, because they would be entitled to the exact amount they are currently receiving had they never participated in the labor force. Some might argue that by providing spousal benefits, Social Security recognizes women’s unwaged domestic labor, childrearing, and caregiving as work. However, women do not earn spousal benefits by performing reproductive labor but by maintaining a marital relationship. Spousal benefits cannot be considered an earned, delayed wage on several grounds: married women who hire domestic workers to do household labor still receive a spousal benefit; women who perform reproductive labor outside marriage do not earn a spousal benefit; and married women who perform reproductive labor within a marriage for nine (but not 10) years do not receive a Table 13.2. Sources of Total Aged Income, 1986 Social Security Assets Earnings Pensions Other TOTAL

Source:US. Congress: Senate, 199043

38% 26 17 16

3

100%

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Table 13.3 Total Aged Unit Income from Various Sources, in percent

Earnings S.S. and Railroad Pensions AFDC, SSI, Gen. Asst. InterestIDividends Other TOTAL

Poor

Non-poor

Total

1 .o 70.3 2.0 10.8 3.7 12.2 100%

11.4 40.8 17.7 .4 27.7 2.0 1

10.9 42.2 16.9 .9 26.6 2.5 100%

om

Source: U S Congress:Senate, 199047

spousal benefit. Benefits based on family status rather than reproductive labor are not earned and always subject to change pending any change in family status. Social Security benefits are most advantageous to women if the marriage ends in death rather than divorce. Table 13.4 shows that when one spouse dies, the surviving spouse, whether male or female, receives two-thirds of the couple’s combined Social Security benefit. After a divorce, each spouse retains his or her portion of the combined Social Security benefit; the wife typically receives one-third of the couple’s combined benefit while the husband receives two-thirds. Divorced or widowed women who are remarried at the time of application forfeit earlier spousal benefits (Olson 1982). If one spouse enters a nursing home, Social Security income is divided as under divorce. Since the spouse remaining in the community is most often the woman possessing only a spousal benefit, community spouses are often left impoverished (Kasper 1988; U.S. Congress: Senate, 1988). The dual structure of the Social Security system is thus a mixed blessing for women. To a certain extent, it ameliorates the effects on retirement income of a lifetime of low or no wages by providing women with spousal benefits more generous than benefits they could earn in their own name. Indeed the persistence of the wage gap complicates debates about the spousal benefit because for many older women it is a necessary source of income (Burkhauser and Holden 1982). But it also “reveals the underlying assumptions about a form of the family predicated on the economic dependence of women” (Acker 1988:492). The spousal benefit option means that one-earner families actually can receive higher benefits than two-earner families with

Table 13.4 Proportion of Couple’s Social Security Benefit Received by Each Spouse under Different Family Statuses, for Women Taking Spousal Benefits, 1989 Marital Status

Husband Wife

Married

Widowed

Divorced

Spouse Institutionalized

213 113

213 213

213 113

213 113

Source: Created by author.

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identical household incomes; couples are rewarded for maintaining a traditional family structure (Burkhauser and Holden 1982). Despite the gender-neutral language of Social Security benefit criteria, the primarily male worker benefits are based on a male pattern of work, while the primarily female spousal benefits are based on the notion of a stable nuclear family. As more women remain in the labor force throughout their childbearing years, the spousal benefit grows increasingly controversial. Some regard it as a working wife’s penalty because a waged woman who contributes to the system but receives the spousal benefit because it is greater, pays a redundant tax, and is not rewarded with higher benefits for her efforts (Lampman and MacDonald 1982).

PRIVATE PENSIONS Private pensions are offered by employers, including state and local governments, to certain groups of full-time employees. Increasingly, access to private pension income differentiates the poor from the non-poor aged (Quadagno 1988:541; Kammerman and Kahn 1987:49). Because so many older women do not receive private pensions, relying instead on Social Security as their sole source of income, they are much more likely than men to be impoverished. Like Social Security, private pension plans are based on a gendered waged labor force, but the mechanisms by which private pensions gender the distribution of retirement income are somewhat different. Private pension access and coverage vary widely, but across all sectors of employment women are much less likely than men to be covered (O’Rand and Henretta 1982:366). Pension coverage is tied to industries and specific jobs within industries, length of service, and continuity of service. Private pensions are more likely to be offered by large, unionized firms where women are underrepresented, and less likely to be offered by smaller, non-unionized firms where women are significantly overrepresented (Nation2 Business 1986:ll; Stone 1989). One-fourth of all working women work in retail and service industries, which have the lowest pension coverage (Reskin and Hartmann 1986: 13). Of fill-time employees, 40 percent of women and 55 percent of men are covered by private pensions (Reskin and Hartmann 1986:13). Among those aged 65 and older, only 10 percent of women, compared with 27 percent of men, actually receive any monthly private pension income. When women do receive private pension benefits, their benefits are just half of men’s; men’s average benefits are $442 per month compared with $221 for women (Meier 1986:14). Because private pension plans favor lengthy and continuous employment (Quadagno 1988:542), women are considerably less likely than men to actually receive benefits. Passage of the Employee Retirement Income Security Act (ERISA) in 1974 increased standardization of vesting and portability requirements, eliminating requirements for extremely lengthy service and continuity of service, yet considerable variability remains (O’Rand and MacLean 1986:227). In calculating benefits, many private pension plans practice pension integration by taking into account the amount of Social Security benefits a worker will receive (Borzi 1985:2). Pension payments are offset by deducting a percentage of the worker’s Social

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Security benefit from the private pension benefit. For example, a woman who had earned a monthly private pension benefit of $120 and a Social Security benefit of $300 would expect her combined retirement income to be $420. But if her pension plan calculates private pensions by subtracting one-third of the Social Security benefit from the private benefit, she will be left with a private pension of just $20, and a combined monthly benefit of only $320. Pension integration penalizes women more severely than men because women’s private pensions are typically half of men’s, but their Social Security incomes are significantly more than half of men’s. Therefore, when a proportion of the Social Security payment is subtracted from the private pension payment, women are much more likely than men to have their private pensions all but disappear. Social Security’s benefit formula is currently weighted to provide lower-rather than higher-income workers with a higher wage replacement. However, pension integration schemes “are designed to help close such replacement rate gaps” (Employee Benefit Research Institute 1987:75), thus neutralizing Social Security’s weighted formula (Olson 1982235). Finally, like Social Security, private pensions are based on a gendered view of work and a misperception of marriage as permanent. Women do not receive private pensions for performing unwaged labor such as domestic work, childrearing, and caregiving. Although few older women receive private pensions based on their own life’s work, many have access to private pension income through marriage. But their claim to that pension income upon dissolution of a marriage is, at best, tentative (U.S. Congress: Senate 1988:39). Although private pension plans do not pay spousal benefits in the sense that Social Security does, some pay a half benefit to the spouse after the death of the wage earner. After the death of her husband, a widowed woman receives at most one-half of the couple’s private pension benefit. The distribution of private pensions following divorce or institutionalization of a spouse varies by state. In most states, the pension is regarded as the sole property of the worker. The spouse receives none of the pension following divorce or institutionalization and the worker receives the full private pension (U.S. Congress: Senate 1988:39). In California and other states with community property laws, however, the private pension is more likely to be regarded as marital property and divided evenly upon divorce or institutionalization of one spouse.

INDMDUAL RETIREMENT ACCOUNTS Due in part to criticisms of private pension plan eligibility schemes, new personal pension plans have been developed that are more portable and often require no vesting. But these plans vary sharply from private pension plans in that often only the worker makes a contribution. Individual Retirement Accounts (IRA) and Keogh plans were designed to encourage pension savings among those not already covered by a private pension scheme. Keogh accounts, which permit earners to save either $30,000 or 20 percent of their income, apply primarily to self-employed, high-waged entrepreneurs. IRAs, though much smaller in scale, apply to all workers but often exclude women because they are secondary wage-earners or traditional homemakers.

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Since 1974, the federal government has encouraged Americans to create individual retirement accounts to supplement Social Security and private pension income during retirement (Olson 1982:94). Prior to the 1987 tax code revisions, each worker could save up to $2,000 per year tax-free, whether covered by a private pension plan or not. The response was immediate: IRAs became a popular tax shelter. However, when the 1987 tax reform law was passed, restrictions on the tax-free status of IRAs greatly diminished use of this mechanism for saving private money for old age (Wall Street Journal January 10, 1989). Currently, people not covered by private pensions through work may invest up to $2,000 a year tax-free in an IRA. Those covered by private pensions may invest in an IRA but the extent to which investment is tax-free depends on annual income. Single-earner families retain complete tax-free status up to $25,000, and partial taxfree status up to $35,000 a year. Two-earner families retain tax-free status up to $40,000, and partial tax-free status up to $50,000 a year in combined annual income (Internal Revenue Service 1989). However, if only one member of a dual-earner couple is covered by a private pension plan, the other member loses his or her right to tax-free status if their combined income exceeds the limit. Because men are more likely to receive private pension coverage, and because women are more likely to receive lower wages, the following scenario often arises: a woman without private pension coverage, married to a man with private pension coverage, loses her right to invest in a tax-free IRA because of her current marital status. For the most part, only earnings can be invested in an IRA. A traditional homemaker is permitted to invest tax-free in an IRA if her husband’s earnings do not exceed $35,000. However, the couple is only permitted to exceed the current $2,000 limit by $250. They may divide the $2,250 in half or however else they see fit, so long as neither IRA exceeds $2,000. If his income were regarded as a family wage that both owned equally, they could each invest $2,000 a year. Instead, in a single worker family-because the family wage is regarded as his property alone-a traditional homemaker loses her right to a tax-free IRA if her husband receives a pension and his income exceeds $35,000. Like Social Security and private pensions, 1% do not regard reproductive work as labor, and they assign ownership of the family wage to the breadwinner. IRAs are most relevant for people in marginal or secondary labor market segments-primarily women and other low paid workers. They differ from Social Security and private pension plans in that they are merely tax-free savings programs. Thus, the people least able to forgo current wages are encouraged to forgo them to provide a source of retirement income (Olson 1982:95). Working women, though covered by Social Security, are seldom covered by private pensions yet they are often deemed ineligible for IRAs because of their marital status. Traditional homemakers are not covered by Social Security or private pensions, yet their failure to earn wages also prevents them from being eligible for I&. Recent IRA rule changes clearly turn on the conceptualization of family status as permanent. A reconceptualization of family status as temporary would undermine the logic of the new rule structures. Many

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women are denied tax-free IRA status based on their current husbands income or pension coverage only to find later they are without either husband or IRA.

Discussion Because analyses of gender inequality in the United States are typically tied closely to labor force participation and child care, relatively little attention has been given to the economic circumstances of women after retirement. For example, the economic costs to women of providing long-term care to a frail relative are well-documented in research on aging but rarely alluded to by researchers discussing women’s reproductive work. This and other caregiving are a vital component of women’s reproductive labor that is often all but ignored. In addition, while the gender gap in working wages is well-documented, the gender disparities in retirement income from Social Security, private pension plans, and individual retirement accounts-also often ignored-serve to further widen the gender gap (Kammerman and Kahn 1987). Finally, while the importance of marital status for the economic security of women in the childbearing years is widely recognized, there is little attention given to the fate of unmarried older women. Given the gendered status of working and retirement wages, women of all ages tend to be dependent on the family wage (Pascall 1986). But the family wage, supposedly designed to provide economic security to dependent wives, has historically served to increase men’s status in both the labor market and within the family (May 1985; Acker 1988). The family wage is not necessarily distributed to dependent wives and it does not, in the eyes of the state, belong to them upon the dissolution of marriage (Pascall 1986; McIntosh 1979). The same is true of the Social Security spousal benefit. Married older women fare relatively well, but upon dissolution of marriage many find they own precious few of the family resources. If she was not married to her spouse for ten years she receives no spousal benefit at all. If she remarries, she forfeits any right to a spousal benefit based on his earnings. If he fails to enroll for his benefit she may not be able to attain her half benefit. If he works and his income exceeds set limits, her benefit is reduced proportionately with his. Her claim to the spousal benefit is as tentative as her claim to the family wage; for many women, economic security is linked to marital status throughout the life-cycle. Similarly, her claim to a share of his private pension is debatable, despite her life-long contributions in reproductive and waged labor. Finally, her ability to invest in an IRA is dependent on her family status, whether she is a traditional homemaker or a paid worker. Current wage and retirement policies have contradictory effects for women and cannot be understood in one dimension. According to Pascall (1986), the great paradox for women is to either live without a male wage and risk impoverishment, or to live with a male wage and risk dependency. Policies that deny the realities of women’s lives by assuming or forcing economic independence ignore the economic dependency associated with reproductive labor under the current system. Yet policies that recognize women’s economic dependency also sustain that dependency. Some policy analysts have proposed the institution of childcare credits or home-

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maker credits for public pensions (Burkhauser and Holden 1982). Few feminists would support this proposal, despite its capacity to reward reproductive labor and alleviate economic dependency, because it reinforces a traditional division of labor (Land 1983; Lewis 1983). Lewis (1983) argues, for instance, that policies based on women’s reality as economic dependents only serve in the long run to reinforce the role. Fierst (1982:71) takes a very different approach, arguing that like the current dual entitlement system, childcare credits give preference to the traditional homemaker without alleviating the pressures on working mothers: “Fair play requires that the woman who works and pays taxes should get more for her efforts.” Holden (1982) points out that while homemakers would earn credit for childcare, they would not be compensated for subsequent lower earnings related to the interruptions of reproductive work. Only one policy proposal currently under debate seems to balance the need to alleviate the realities of women’s economic dependency without further tying them to reproductive roles: earnings sharing (Burkhauser 1982). This proposal applies only to Social Security-but it is particularly significant for older women since Social Security makes up a substantial share of their old-age income. Earnings sharing is regarded as an easy to institute, relatively inexpensive incremental change to existing old-age policy that will at once recognize women’s reproductive labor and increase women’s economic independence in old age (Burkhauser 1982). Earnings sharing calls for the elimination of dual entitlement, or spousal benefits, and the institution of equal credit for both marital partners. Whatever the total household income, regardless of length of marriage or imbalance in individual earnings, both spouses would earn direct credit for Social Security based on half of the household income. In a study of projected costs under earnings sharing, Burkhauser (1982) found that there would be little decrease in Social Security benefits to traditional oneearner families and little increase in benefits to most two-earner families. The principal losers would be high income one-earner families. Burkhauser and Holden (1982) argue that earnings sharing assumes that labor force withdrawal is a joint decision and that both spouses should share in the burden of the decision. The working spouse shares the cost of the decision through lower benefits, while the at-home spouse’s contributions are explicitly acknowledged. Homemakers earn credit under their own names, thus the link between marital status and old-age poverty is weakened. With divorce, death, or institutionalization of her spouse, a wife need not lose her economic security (Bergmann 1982). Earnings sharing would not increase women’s claim to the family wage, it would not alter the gender gap in wages, and it would not reconceptualize work to include reproductive labor. But it would distribute the long term costs of reproductive labor in terms of Social Security to both men and women, offset the gender gap in retirement wages for married women, and give all married older women incontestable claim to half of the Social Security portion of the retired family wage. Neither a husband’s failure to enroll in the program or level of earnings in retirement, nor a wife’s marital status or length of marriage would be relevant. Men, too, might experience greater old age income stability under earnings sharing since they are also more likely to face impoverishment under the existing rules if not married.

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Of course earnings sharing alone will not erase old-age poverty. For many older Americans, and for blacks particularly, even marriage in old age does not prevent impoverishment. A substantial increase in the minimum benefit would be required to offset the effects of a lifetime of economic subordination. Provision of an adequate living wage to all people throughout their lives, regardless of age, race, sex, marital status, or type of labor, would require major transformations of the existing social structure. At bare minimum, women must no longer be forced to bear the burden of reproductive labor without compensation. The gendered structure of waged labor, the gendered definition of work, and the conceptualization of family status as permanent rather than transient all intersect to impoverish older women. Until policies that reward women for their life’s work, rather than fostering dependency and poverty in old age, are put into place, present improvements in economic conditions for the elderly in the United States will not be shared by all.

Note This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 37, No. 4, November 1990, pp. 55163. 0 1990 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

References Acker, Joan. 1988. “Class, Gender, and the Relations of Distribution.” Signs 13:473-97. Bergmann, Barbara R. 1982. “The Housewife and Social Security Reform: A Feminist Perspective.” In A Challenge to Social Security: The Changing Roles of Women and Men in American Society, edited by Richard Burkhauser and Karen Holden, 229-33. New York: Academic. Borzi, Phyllis. 1985. “Pension Integration May Mean Income Disintegration for Women.” In The OWL Observer Special Edition: Women and Pensions, November:2. Washington, D.C.: The Older Women’s League. Brenner, Johanna. 1987. “Feminist Political Discourses: Radical vs. Liberal Approaches to the Femininization of Poverty and Comparable Worth.” Gender and Society 1:447-65. Brody, Elaine. 1981. “ ‘Women in the Middle’ and Family Help to Older People.” The Gerontologist 21 :471-80. Burkhauser, Richard. 1982. “Earnings Sharing: Incremental and Fundamental Reform.” In A Challenge to Social Security: The Changing Roles of Women and Men in American Society, edited by Richard Burkhauser and Karen Holden, 73-99. New York: Academic. , and Karen Holden, eds. 1982. A Challenge to Social Security: The Changing Roles of Women and Men in American Society, 1-18. New York: Academic. Employee Benefit Research Institute. 1987. Fundamentals of Employee Bent@ Programs. Washington, D.C.: Employee Benefit Research Institute. Ferree, Myra Marx. 1987. “She Works Hard for a Living: Gender and Class on the Job.” In Analyzing Gender, edited by Beth Hess and Myra Marx Ferree, 322-47. Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage. Glasse, Lou. 1988. “A Message from Lou Glasse, President of the Older Women’s League.” In The Road to Poverty: A Report on the Economic Status ofMidlz9 and Older Women in America, Mother; Day Report. Washington, D.C.: Older Women’s League. Greenberg, Joel. 1978. “The Old Age Survivors and Disability Insurance (OASDI) System: A

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General Overview of the Social Problem.” HS 7094 U.S. Report No. 78-200 EPW. Washington, D.C.: Health Care Financing Administration. Hartmann, Heidi. 1981. “The Unhappy Marriage of Marxism and Feminism: Toward a More Progressive Union.” In Women and Revolution, edited by Lydia Sargent, 1-4 1. Boston: South End Press. Hen, Diane. 1988. “Employment Characteristics of Older Women, 1987.” Monthly Labor Review 3:3-12. Holden, Karen. 1982. “Supplemental OASI Benefits to Homemakers through Current Spouse Benefits, a Homemaker Credit and Child-Care Drop-Out Years.” In A Challenge to Social Security: The Changing Roles of Women and Men in American Society, edited by Richard Burkhauser and Karen Holden, 41-72. New York: Academic. Internal Revenue Service. 1989. Individual Retirement Accounts. Publication No. 590. Washington, D.C.: Internal Revenue Service. Kammerman, Sheila, and Alfred Kahn. 1987. The Responsive Workplace: Employers and a Changing Labor Force. New York: Columbia University Press. Kasper, Judith. 1988. Aging Alone, Projles and Projections. Washington, D.C.: Commonwealth Fund Commission on Elderly People Living Alone. Lampman, Robert, and Maurice MacDonald. 1982. “Concepts Underlying the Current Controversy about Women’s Social Security Benefits.” In A Challenge to Social Security: The Changing Roles of Women and Men in American Society, edited by Richard Burkhauser and Karen Holden, 21-39. New York: Academic. Land, Hilary. 1978. “Who Cares for the Family?”Journal of Social Policy 7:257-84. . 1983. “Who Still Cares for the Family?” In Women? Welfare, Women? Rights, edited by Jane Lewis, 64-85. London: Croom Helm. Laslett, Barbara, and Johanna Brenner. 1989. “Gender and Social Reproduction: Historical Perspectives.” Annual Review of Sociology 15:381-404. Lewis, Jane. 1983. “Dealing with Dependency: State Practices and Social Realities, 18701945.” In Women? Welfare, Women? Rights, edited by Jane Lewis, 17-37. London: Croom Helm. May, Martha. 1985. “Bread before Roses: American Working Men, Labor Unions and the Family Wage.” In Women, Work and Protest, edited by Ruth Milkman, 1-21. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. McIntosh, Mary. 1979. “The Welfare State and the Needs of the Dependent Family.” In Fit for Work, edited by Sandra Burman, 153-71. London: Croom Helm. Meier, Elizabeth. 1986. Employment Experience and Income of Older Women. American Association of Retired Persons. Bulletin No. 8608. December. Washington, D.C.: American Association of Retired Persons. Nations Business. 1986. “Pension Gender Gap: No Narrowing.” February 11. O’Brien, Mary. 1981. The Politics of Reproduction. Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Older Women’s League. 1988. The Road to Poverty: A Report on the Economic Status of Midl13 and Older Women in America, Mother? Day Report. Washington, D.C.: Older Women’s League. Olson, Laura Katz. 1982. The Political Economy of Aging. New York: Columbia University Press. O’Rand, Angela, and John Henretta. 1982. “Delayed Career Entry, Industrial Pension Structure and Early Retirement in a Cohort of Unmarried Women.” American Sociological Review 47:365-73. O’Rand, Angela, and Vicki MacLean. 1986. “Labor Market, Pension Rule Structure and Retirement Benefit Promise for Long Term Employees.” Social Forces 65:224-40. Pascall, Gillian. 1986. Social Policy: A Feminist Critique. London: Tavistock.

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Pearce, Diana. 1989. “The Feminization of Poverty: A Second Look.” Presented at the Annual Meetings of the American Sociological Association, San Francisco. Presser, Harriet. 1990. “The Complex Work Schedules of Dual-Earner Couples in the United States: Choice or Necessity.” Presented at Annual Meetings of the American Sociological Association, Washington, D.C. Quadagno, Jill. 1984. “Welfare Capitalism and the Social Security Act of 1935.” American Sociological Review 49:632-47. . 1988. “Women’s Access to Pensions and the Structure of Eligibility Rules: Systems of Production and Reproduction.” The Sociological Quarterly 29:541-58. Reskin, Barbara. 1988. “Bringing the Men Back In: Sex Differentiation and the Devaluation of Women’s Work.” Gender and Society 2:58-81. , and Heidi Hartmann. 1986. Women? Work and Men? Work: Sex Segregation on the Job. Washington, D.C.: National Academy of Sciences Press. Rollins, Judith. 1985. Between Women: Domestics and Their Employers. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Social Security Bulletin. 1985. “1982 New Beneficiary Survey: Women and Social Security.” Vol. 48: 17-26. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. . 1988. “Annual Statistical Supplement.” Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Sokoloff, Natalie. 1980. Between Mong, and Love: The Dialectics of Women? Home and Market Work. New York: Praeger. Stone, Robyn. 1989. “The Femininization of Poverty among the Elderly.” Women? Studies Quarterly 17:20-34. , and Meredith Minkler. 1984. “The Sociopolitical Context of Women’s Retirement.” In Readings in the Political Economy ofAging, edited by Meredith Minkler and Carroll Estes, 225-38. Farmingdale, N.Y.: Baywood Publishing Co. U.S. Bureau of Census. 1989. Poverty in the United States, 1987. Current Population Reports. Series P-60, No. 163. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. US. Congress: Senate. 1988. Developments in Aging: The Long Term Care Challenge. Special Committee on Aging. Vol. 3, S. Res. 80, Sec. 19. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. . 1990. Aging America: Trends and Projections. Special Committee on Aging. Serial No. 101-5. Washington, D.C.: US.Government Printing Office. Wall StreetJournal. 1989. “Labor letter,” January 10. Young, Iris. 1981. “Beyond the Unhappy Marriage: A Critique of the Dual Systems Theory.” In Women and Revolution, edited by Lydia Sargent, 43-70. Boston: South End Press.

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CHAPTER 14

Failing Health and the Desire for Independence TWO CONFLICTING ASPECTS OF HEALTH CARE IN OLD AGE David L. Morgan

Nearly all models of health-care decision-making recognize the importance of both social and medical factors (Mechanic 1978; Twaddle 1981). Among the elderly, the interaction between these factors is further complicated by the incurable nature of health problems. Institutionalization is the common medical response to the multiplicity of chronic conditions that comprise failing health. Almost one quarter of the elderly people in the United States spend a portion of their final days in a nursing home, and it is widely suggested that this phenomenon represents a medical solution to what are essentially social problems (Kane and Kane 1980; Mendelson 1974). Nursing homes are, however, but one end point in a longer health-care continuum for the elderly, which ranges from independent living to completely institutionalized medical care (Koff 1982; Marshall 1980). The health-care continuum may also be viewed as a sequence of options for the elderly. This paper develops a complementary health-care career which emphasizes the individual’s movement through this set of alternatives, taking an older person away from social independence and toward a medically determined way of life. The concept of career has been widely used in medical sociology, including studies of mental patients (Goffman 1961), terminal care wards (Glaser and Strauss 1965), and tuberculosis hospitals (Roth 1963). This approach has proven particularly useful in studying long-term care within organized treatment settings for at least three reasons: (1) it examines the perspectives of both patients and providers; (2) it recognizes that these perspectives have evolved together, often over a substantial period of time; and (3) it treats health-care decisions as the result of continual negotiations between the two perspectives. The career framework (Maines 1977; Strauss 1978), following Roth (1963), contains two key elements: first, a sense of movement or “progress” that can be judged according to specific benchmarks or transitions; second, bargaining between those moving through the career and those with control over the career. 259

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Bargaining, or negotiation, is particularly important because it determines movement within the career. Gustafson’s (1972) study of patient careers in a nursing home points out the “regressive” nature of this particular career: movement through a nursing home is movement away from both socially and medically desirable states. Because Gustafson considers only the last point on the continuum of health care for the elderly, however, it is not surprising that she finds little in the way of well-defined career processes. With regard to benchmarks and transitions, she describes an “undifferentiated” decline toward death; bargaining in this setting is “unrealistic” and consists mostly of providing the resident with signs of continued social worth. By contrast, my study shows that the entrance to a nursing home is itself a crucial transition in the healthcare career of the elderly-a transition that is surrounded by intense negotiations on the part of both medical staff and potential patients. This paper looks at the middle portion of the health-care career of the elderly, after the entrance to a partially medicalized environment, but before the terminal stage of life. Data come from observations and interviews in a retirement housing complex that combined two levels of care: semi-independent apartments and a nursing home. I describe the differing perspectives of the medical care personnel and their potential patients, and how these differences affect the timing of moves between the two levels of care. I pay special attention to the negotiations surrounding transfers to a nursing area, and the relative importance attached to social and medical factors in evaluating such moves. My goals are to give a better picture of the individual health-care decisions underlying the larger health-care continuum for the elderly, and to give a more general analysis of the trade-off between social and medical factors in health-care decision-making.

Method and Background Data I conducted my research in 1976 at a church-sponsored home for the elderly in a major city in the Midwestern United States. To protect the residents’ anonymity I have given the home a fictitious name: Eastside. I selected Eastside because it contained, since its opening in 1963, equal numbers of both apartment and nursing units, although my principal focus was on life in the apartments.’ Over the course of a year, I visited the home an average of twice a week to observe and interview the apartment residents. In addition to keeping extensive notes, I conducted two waves of structured interviews (75 percent response rate) and made thorough records of social networks. Near the beginning and end of my fieldwork, I conducted semi-structured interviews with informants among the residents on the past history of the home and the origins of its present policies, both formal and informal. Throughout my research I paid special attention to the sense of community in the home, and the meaning of health to the residents-both as individuals and as a community (Morgan 1977). According to the home’s records, the median age of the 58 apartment residents was just over 80, and the median length of residence was between five and six years. Eighty percent of the residents were women, most of them widowed. Ninety percent

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were white. Most of the residents were from middle- to upper-middle-class backgrounds, had lived in the metropolitan area for most of their adult lives, and belonged to the Protestant denomination that sponsored the home. During the structured interviews with the residents, the most frequently mentioned reasons for entering the home were: (1) general aspects of age or health; (2) the health or dependency of a family member-typically a spouse; (3) relief from housekeeping, meal preparation, and shopping; (4) specific illnesses or health loss; and ( 5 ) a desire to stop living alone or to decrease reliance on others. The residents agreed that the primary attraction of Eastside was the opportunity it provided to live one’s own life in one’s own apartment, with the staff providing meals and housekeeping services. For some residents, the proximity of medical services in the nursing wing was another appealing feature of the home. Recent arrivals mentioned the availability of these facilities for short-term stays during acute illnesses, overnight rests, and recovery from surgery. As we shall see later, however, this assessment changed with longer residence. Overall, residents did not experience a large gap between life in their previous home and life in Eastside’s apartments. By entering an apartment, residents felt they had sacrificed little of their independence for what many of them interpreted as a substantial relief from burdens. The control exercised by the home’s staff seldom bothered them according to both their own reports and my observations. Residents did emphasize that any move into a “home” presented difficulties, such as adapting to group life and explaining their change in status to old friends. They were quick to point out to misguided outsiders that they did not live in an “institution,” and that they were not “patients” but “residents.”* Several of the residents justified their move into the Eastside apartments by referring to contemporaries who had “waited too long” and then been unable to avoid moving straight into a nursing home or similar institution. This desire to avoid living in a nursing home was, of course, a problem that had been modified rather than resolved by moving to Eastside. In my interviews I asked residents: “Would you be willing to go to the nursing area, if you had to go?” Twentyeight percent said they were willing, 33 percent rephrased the qualifications on when they would move to “when I absolutely have to,” or similar words, and the remaining 39 percent said they were unwilling to make the move under any circumstances. When I asked why the move to the nursing area was hard, the most frequent responses were: (1) loss of privacy because of unrelated roommates and intrusions by staff; (2) loss of personal freedom or the presence of restrictions; (3) loss of possessions and clothing; and (4) general loss of one’s “own place.” A final factor was the social separation between the two areas. Once a person moved to the nursing area, they were likely to lose all contact with residents who remained in the apartments; although the two areas were physically located in the same building, they were separated by a very wide social distance. These responses are the typical description of a total or near total institution (Bennett and Nahemow 1965; Goffman 1961; Gubrium 1975). Whereas Eastside residents emphasized the relief from burdens in characterizing their move into apartments, they associated a loss of independence and control with the move to the nurs-

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ing area. O n the whole, residents wanted to remain in their apartments until events made this undeniably impossible. To avoid a complete rejection of the need to move, they emphasized a vague willingness to move “once I’m real sick,” or “when my time comes.” In fact, many residents did not hesitate to state that death was the ideal reason for leaving one’s apartment-so long as it was not preceded by undue suffering. Not surprisingly, Eastside’s medical staff, led by the home’s head nurse, wished to intervene in residents’ physical and mental declines well before death. There was an ongoing debate between the residents and the medical staff about the circumstances that made a move to the nursing area necessary. This debate was a continuing source of frustration to the medical staff. They thought only a simple medical determination should be necessary. In the words of the head nurse: “Some of these people want to leave their apartments feet first or not at all!” The result was an unavoidable conflict between the resident’s social goals, which implied remaining in an apartment as long as possible, and the nursing staffs medical goals, which implied a move as soon as a medical necessity was detected. The negotiations generated by this fundamental difference in perspectives are the core topic of this paper.

Negotiations Negotiations require not only two divergent points of view, but a joint history in which the points of view evolve together over time. At Eastside, a 13-year history involving well over a hundred completed moves from apartments to the nursing area had produced a certain predictability in the actions of the two sides. Although the actual content of negotiations is unique to each resident whose move is in question, the negotiations display a common pattern. This can be seen as an intensification of the pattern of decision making which accompanies most “illness behavior” in our society (Mechanic 1978). As Twaddle and Hessler have put it: One useful approach to the sickness career is to employ as benchmarks the decisions made by the sick person or others acting on his behalf. There is a set of logically necessary decisions that must be made for the sick person (1 977: 124). The decision to move to the nursing area is the key “benchmark’ here, and the negotiations surrounding this move can be divided into a sequence of five strategies that residents are likely to employ. First, they will attempt to disguise their health problems; second, they minimize any problem that cannot be disguised; third, they deny the implication that their problem requires treatment, or that the nursing area is the appropriate place for treatment; fourth, they seek alternatives to a move; and finally, they create conflict among the home’s staff. I discuss each of these strategies in detail below, but it should be emphasized that, although these stages summarize the general path of negotiations, not every resident passes through every stage, and moving back and forth between stages is not uncommon. Each successive strategy brings the resident a step closer to the point where a move cannot be avoided, and I have defined the strategies to emphasize the residents’ determination to move through

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the sequence as slowly as possible. Each of these steps was actually a negotiating tactic for evading the move to the nursing area. The staff members, of course, had their responses for each of these tactics. To begin with, the head nurse denied that anyone in the apartment area was truly “well”-if nothing else, each was at least a little “confused.” She and the other staff members were thus involved in a continual process of monitoring the residents, which amounted to a constant informal review of all the residents to see “who was having trouble.” These reviews attached medical significance to signals such as mobility limirations, general instability, drooling, occasional mild confusion (losing track of time), and temporary limitations in routine activities (well-dressed appearances at meals). Residents, in turn, were well aware of this monitoring of their daily lives, and attempts to evade monitoring were their first line of defense against a move.

1) DISGUISING HEALTH PROBLEMS The first and most common way that residents disguised health problems was by appearing competent in public and not missing the opportunity to display good appearances when expected, for example at meals. Where the suspicion of declining health was stronger, more active measures were adopted. One woman made a large public production of her weekly taxi trip to an outside hairdresser. Although she considered this a sign of her continuing competence, her friends emphasized the two days of rest required to prepare for her “activity.” It was not uncommon for residents to put off a variety of small activities in order to accomplish particularly demanding public performances, but such residents were marked by staff and other residents for more careful monitoring. More serious was the attempt to disguise accidents and other critical incidents arising from failing health. Discovery by the staff of such a concealed incident led to bargaining, precisely when the resident was least able to cope. The medical staff had warned one woman that her general instability made a disabling fall probable if she continued living in her apartment. One night she slipped on her bathroom scales and gashed her leg. Rather than admit the fall, she attempted to “doctor herself,” until the wound ulcerated and she was unable to leave her bed. At this point her absences from the dining room were noted and she was moved immediately to the nursing area, where she remained bedridden for two months (due as much to mental collapse as to the condition of her leg). By disguising their health problems, and evading the monitoring process, residents tried to avoid opening negotiations. In response, the staff actively tried to penetrate what they suspected were facades of competence among residents. As a result, the residents complained that the medical staff treated everyone as if they were sick. Maruyama (1963) has labeled this type of conflict “deviance amplification,” or negative feedback: each side’s attempt to control the unacceptable behavior of the other produces still higher levels of the undesired behavior. Most of the negotiations at Eastside tended, in fact, to heighten rather than resolve conflict.

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2) MINIMIZING HEALTH PROBLEMS Problems that could not be completely disguised were often minimized. Residents argued that it was too early to open negotiations for a move. Two particular strategies of minimizing were notable at Eastside: the routinization of daily activities and the enlistment of social support. Routinizing their daily activities allowed residents to minimize their problems by lowering the drains on their energies. From the residents’ point of view, it was a reasonable coping strategy. The staff, however, argued that where there was any evidence of diminished physical capacity, an early move would forestall more serious consequences in the future. Attempts at routinization became obvious when a small change in the organization of the home produced disproportionate strains on some residents. For example, the mailboxes were moved to the other side of the complex when the dining room was reorganized, and at least two residents lacked the energy both to attend lunch and make the trek to and from the mailboxes. One resident resolved this problem by waiting unobtrusively outside the dining room while her neighbor got her mail. The other resident chose to complain to the administrator who had ordered the change. He told her that if such a short walk was beyond her capacity, then she should probably be in the nursing area. Thereafter, this woman made a special effort to pick up her mail in person every day, her extra energy coming from a shift in routine: she ceased attending the “optional” morning meal and made a light breakfast in her room instead. Many of the residents relied on social supports to minimize the impact of any health problems. Family, including spouses, siblings, and “aged” children, were available as sources of support; in addition, most residents had lived at Eastside long enough to have made some friends and to have established exchange relations with neighbors. Although such sources of aid were frequently cited by residents as a potential minimizing factor, in reality active social support for health-related problems was relatively uncommon. In part, this was due to resistance against “being dragged down”: the belief that it was wrong to sacrifice one’s own health by caring for others (with the exception of caring for one’s spouse). In a conference I attended between a female resident and the head of nursing, the nurse presented this woman’s problems as a series of small incapacities that, she thought, together were life threatening. The woman responded that her sister, living in the home, and a next-door neighbor were able to meet any of her needs. This led to an angry confrontation in which the nurse accused the woman of placing burdens on others who were no more competent than the woman herself. The neighbor later told me privately that she feared that this woman would one day seek assistance that was beyond her capabilities. Within two weeks of the first conference, the second source of aid, the sister, suffered a broken hip. The nurse then scheduled another conference to take advantage of her “improved” bargaining position. As this example shows, the medical staff were well aware of the limited availability and reliability of social support. They argued that the health of the potential source of support was in fact no more certain than the health of the intended recipient. They told residents that their use of another person as a source of support was dangerous to

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them and to their friend. A final limitation on social support came from the resident’s communal desire that the home be filled largely with outwardly healthy, competent members. This group norm tended to be exercised at the expense of declining individuals, and few of their potential supporters were willing to risk both the ire of the medical staff and the gossip of their fellow residents.

3) DENYING THE IMPLICATIONS OF PROBLEMS AND THEIR TREATMENT In contrast to disguising and minimizing the problem, focusing on the implications of the problem or its treatment shifted a resident’s efforts from denying any basis for negotiations to denying the staffs version of the facts. In both cases, the resident gained time, which allowed the possibility of either a partial recovery or the preparation of more effective negotiating tactics. The principal means that residents used to deny the implications of their problems was to compare themselves to other residents who were not in immediate danger of being moved.3 One woman disputed her need to move because her neighbor, who had just as much trouble walking plus a heart condition, was not asked to move. The nurse responded that the neighbor’s mobility problems came from the surgical removal of a kneecap, not from general instability. Any single comparison was likely to be defeated by the staffs superior medical knowledge, so residents tried to arm themselves with multiple comparisons: this same woman responded to the nurse’s argument by citing another case of a woman who was “sicker than I am.” The staffs limited ability to convince residents to move to the nursing area for medical reasons assured apartment residents of a steady supply of fairly ill residents for such comparisons. Residents used the least competent person in their apartment wing as a general standard for moves; thus, they measured their own problems against the lowest possible level of functioning. Staff were particularly vulnerable to this tactic when their inability to move a person was largely unrelated to the medical issues involved. For example, one woman had a degenerative bone disease, but was supported in her efforts to remain in her apartment by a deacon of the church that sponsored Eastside. Members of the staff were visibly annoyed when other residents argued, “If she doesn’t have to move, why should I?” The frustrated response was, “She would be over here now, if I had my way!” When the implications of a problem could not be denied, residents tried to attack the consequences of the move. They argued that moving to the nursing area would make them so depressed or anxious that any medical benefits would be lost. For some medical conditions this was clearly true: one woman who was offered a temporary stay in the nursing area as a “last chance” to get her high blood pressure down became extremely agitated in her efforts to “fight that blood pressure” so she could return to her apartment. Residents also protested that life in the nursing area would “drive you nuts,” and argued to the nurses that they “didn’t want to end up like crazy Mrs. . . .” Few residents, however, were willing to enter into any form of negotiation that might, even indirectly, question their own mental health.

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As a negotiating tactic, denying the implications of treatment had the considerable advantage of attacking the actual rationale behind the staffs attempt to move a resident. The tactic deflected debate from the issue of establishing criteria for who should be moved when. Further, the psychological issues involved (depression, agitation) were sufficiently ambiguous that the staff frequently had to acknowledge them, even where they believed that the physical health considerations were more important. 4) SEEKING ALTERNATIVES In moving beyond arguments over implications, the burden of proof shifted from the staff‘s need to provide compelling reasons for a move, to the residents’ need to provide evidence of competency. At this point, some residents considered leaving the home as an alternative. Transfers from Eastside to other homes were rare, and few residents had the option to move in with their families at a point when their health was in question. The staff sometimes tried to convince residents of the lack of alternatives by offering them temporary, short-term stays in the nursing area. Residents protested that the staff would try “to keep you there.” In fact, members of the staff did admit to bargaining in bad faith by claiming to offer aid for temporary problems when what they actually hoped to demonstrate was a lack of alternatives to a move. Recently arrived residents saw the possibility of temporary stays in the nursing area as one of Eastside’s special advantages. Over time, however, these residents learned that once in the nursing area, it became easier for the staff to keep one there permanently. Seeking alternatives to such temporary stays was a priority for residents. When acute care was necessary, residents tried to gain admission to hospitals, despite the cost. Even more troublesome was the issue of recovering from surgery in one’s own apartment rather than in the nursing area. One widow of a minister managed to negotiate an apartment recovery after surgery to replace both her hips; this meant that the nursing staff had to make several trips a day over to her apartment to attend to her needs. This in turn raised the larger issue of why more medical care could not be provided outside the nursing area. The staff responded to such questions with a mixture of general arguments about cost and thinly veiled threats that, as far as they were concerned, there were a good many more people who should already be in the nursing area. The ironic upshot of this and other incidents was that where residents initially perceived the possibility of nursing care at Eastside as an advantage, with experience, they perceived it as a threat to be countered at any expense to oneself or the home.

5) CREATING CONFLICT Creating conflict, despite its demonstrable effectiveness as a tactic for delaying moves, was a last-ditch strategy. The overt production of trouble inevitably cost residents the sympathy and support of their peers, and led to social isolation, even though they did retain their own apartments. Residents who were willing to provoke conflicts had two main options: enlisting outside support and involving the home’s top administrator.

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Outside support ranged from family (especially adult children) to members of Eastside’s board of trustees. The argument from these outside sources amounted to, “Why should Mom be deprived of a way of life that she so obviously enjoys?” If nothing else, requiring the staff to reconstruct their case for the benefit of these parties produced some breathing space for the resident. More common, and often more effective, was the involvement of Eastside’s top administrator. In addition to being the most likely target of complaints from outside sources, he was also a useful ally because he was more sensitive than the medical staff to a resident’s “psychological state.” The result was a classic conflict, between the administrator’s ultimate responsibility for all aspects of life in the home and the nursing staffs expert knowledge of the medical aspects of life in the home (Smith 1955). The administrator was responsible for the general well-being of the residents and the financial well-being of the home. Near the end of my observations, the administrator began to place more emphasis on his financial responsibilities. This meant that between two medically equivalent residents, he would give less support to one whom it was financially advantageous for him to move and thus receive federal support through Medicaid. Both residents and medical staff recognized this change and incorporated it into their bargaining strategies. In one case, a woman who was financially dependent on the home and had been through several rounds of negotiating with the head nurse agreed to move, providing she was guaranteed a more expensive single room. Although such rooms were supposed to be assigned only according to medical necessity and financial ability, the nurse argued to the administrator that it was worth it to get the woman to move willingly. In this one case, at least, a resident and the nursing staff met each other halfway to establish a coalition that could then negotiate effectively with Eastside’s admini~trator.~ Although I have described the course of career negotiations in terms of residents’ strategies, it would be equally possible to summarize a simultaneous set of staff strategies. While residents disguised individual problems, staff members constantly evaluated all residents. While residents minimized their problems, the staff emphasized the implications of them. While residents denied both the negative implications of their problems and the positive implications of the nursing area as a treatment, the staff demonstrated that there were no other options. While residents sought alternatives, the staff set them on the path to the nursing area. And while residents created conflict, the staff rode out the storm. This pairing of residents’ and staff members’ strategies highlights a distinct irony in using the word “negotiation” in this setting. In point of fact, each side saw its goals as essentially non-negotiable, and there was little or nothing in this process that would bring either side closer to the other’s point of view.

Discussion A sharp difference in perspectives between residents and the nursing staff underlined

all stages in the negotiations at Eastside. One way to summarize this difference is in terms of the costs and benefits that both sides perceived in moving or not moving. The staff saw the move to the nursing area as an attempt to preserve or extend the

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residents’ physical well-being. The residents balanced any such benefits against the costs to their social well-being. This trade-off between health-related benefits and social costs is a general feature of transitions along the health-care continuum for the elderly. Figure 14.1 formalizes this difference in perspective by comparing the preferred “trajectories” of Eastside residents and staff. These trajectories are a trade-off between length of life (years, on the horizontal axis) and quality of life (level of independent functioning, on the vertical axis). The two trajectories are shown as declines in independent functioning over time: residents are presumed to lose more and more of their functional capacity with each successive year. Obviously, such declines are highly individual in nature, and the figures should be taken only as a rough generalization and not as a summarization of medical evidence about the path of “normal aging.” The figure represents the theoretical description in this paper, not a measurement of the actual trajectories of Eastside residents. The uninterrupted curve represents the trajectory that residents would follow if they simply remained in their apartments until reaching the zero point on independent functioning-biological death. Note that this trajectory allows the resident to maintain a relatively high quality of life throughout most of the career, with a rapid decline near the end. Figure 14.1 also shows a level of functioning labeled social death QUALITY OF

LIFE Trajectory i f Resident

E

c 0

LL

*E

tc 0

Trajectory i f Resident

0

Years Lived

LENGTH OF LIFE Figure 14.1.

gained due to move

Comparison of Residents’ and Nursing Staff’s PreferredTrajectories

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which occurs before biological death; following Kalish (1966) I use this point to signify the end of meaningful interaction, in other words, a level of functioning below which life is not worth living. The trajectory preferred by residents reaches the point of social death very shortly before reaching biological death. By comparison, the trajectory preferred by the nursing staff interrupts the residents’ preferred trajectory. This move to the nursing area has the simultaneous effects of lowering the level of independent functioning and prolonging the length of life by slowing the rate of physical decline. The result is an increase in life span over the residents’ preferred career path, but with most of the additional time spent at a noticeably lower quality of life. The conflict between the two perspectives can be seen as either the staffs fight to prevent the “premature” death of residents, or as the residents’ fight to avoid an extended stay at a lifestyle approaching social death. By focusing on quality of life, residents assess the value of moving in terms of severe social costs and few medical benefits. The staff, by focusing on length of life, emphasize the medical benefits more than the social losses. Considering costs and benefits is a widespread approach to decision rnaking.5 In looking at the trade-off between social and medical factors, costs and benefits provide a useful point of comparison between my careers/negotiations model and other, more narrowly social/psychological models of health-care decision making, such as Becker’s (1978, 1979) Health Belief Model. The careednegotiations model differs by drawing equal attention to the perceptions of costs and benefits by both patients and practitioners. This approach also emphasizes the interactions which link these two sets of perceptions. Most importantly, the careerdnegotiations model pays particular attention to the influence of larger elements of social organization on individual decision making. Within the Health Belief Model, considerations of costs are frequently applied to issues of patient non-compliance, or what are termed “social barriers” to compliance (Becker 1978). Most existing studies of noncompliance begin with a series of medical demands and then focus on any social barriers that might limit patients’ acceptance of the medical benefits. In contrast, the careers/negotiations model replaces assumptions about the priority of practitioners’ demands and the probability of patients’ compliance with an evolving series of negotiations between two equally valid perspectives. Indeed, the data from Eastside could be used equally well to discuss either “social barriers” to patients’ compliance with the staffs medical demands, or “medical barriers” to staffs compliance with patients’ social demands. I do not deny the importance of non-compliance as a research topic, but suggest the inadequacy of a narrowly social psychological approach to the issue. Although the limits of that approach are particularly obvious in the case of failing health in old age, I believe these arguments have broader application. In considering the trade-off between medical and social factors in health-care decision making, we need to understand more than just how these two sets of factors go together in patients’ minds. Nor is it sufficient merely to expand our studies to include similar perceptions of costs and benefits on the part of practitioners. At the very least, we must examine the negotiations that determine the balance between medical and social factors whenever patients

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and practitioners come together; ultimately we must direct our attention to the structural context in which these negotiations occur.

Conclusions What, then, made the move between the semi-independent apartments and the nursing area so difficult at Eastside?To what extent was the difficulty due to factors specific to this setting, rather than to features of Eastside’s position within the larger continuum of health-care services for the elderly? In part, the intensity of this conflict resulted from the long-standing differences between the two parties to these particular negotiations and their inabilities to accommodate each other’s perspective. It also seems, however, that the simple fact of entering a nursing home caused much of the conflict-indicating that this move is a major benchmark or turning point in the elderly person’s health-care career. Clearly, the health-care decisions of elderly individuals are affected by both their local context and their position in the larger health-care continuum. The issue of how the structure of the health-care continuum influences personal careers produces a variety of questions for research. For instance, are residents in complexes which combine different levels of care more likely to experience an early transfer to the higher level of care (and thus less likely to die in the lower level of care)? What differences will be experienced by those who enter the continuum at a lower level of care and in relatively good health, compared to those who postpone a move and enter further along the continuum? And, in general, is there some career path through the continuum that maximizes both the length and quality of life? These questions make it clear that even such apparently psychological and social psychological issues as health beliefs and health-care decision making demand attention to elements of social organization. The description of such beliefs and decisions at Eastside in terms of negotiations and careers suggests two elements of social structure that come into play. The first is the specific setting or formal organization in which the negotiations take place. The second is the broader social context in which such settings are linked to form a set of career options. Seen in this light, our goal is to understand the combination of social and medical factors that occurs whenever patients and practitioners come together. The health-care career of the elderly is a particularly powerful example of the possible conflict between social and medical perspectives on life.

Notes This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 30, No. 1, October 1982, pp. 40-50.

0 1982 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

The author thanks Rue Bucher, Mark Gottdiener, David Street, Susan Wladaver-Morgan, and his graduate seminar students, especially Karen Lyman-Viera, for their comments. Portions of this work were supported by a National Institute of Mental Health post-doctoral training

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grant to Sheldon Stryker and Indiana University. Correspondence to: Department of Sociology, University of California, Riverside, CA 92521. 1. During the course of my fieldwork, the home was in the process of opening a third, intermediate level of care. The home’s management hoped that this would bridge some of the gap between the nursing and apartment areas. Although this new area was occupied by the end of my observations, clear policies concerning entrance to and exit from this area had not yet been established. 2. At Eastside, the use of the labels “resident” and “patient” was a subject of some dispute. Apartment dwellers insisted that the only patients were those already in the nursing area, while the staff referred to everyone in both sections of the complex as a patient. To avoid confusion, I use the term resident for those living in apartments, and patient for those living in the nursing area. 3. Versions of this tactic were also observed by Gustafson (1972) and Roth (1963). 4. During the period of my observations, the timing of moves represented a mixed outcome: they occurred before the residents might have wished, but after the time when the medical staff felt a move would have been most appropriate. If the administrator continued to develop his own set of criteria about who should move down when, the negotiztions would become a three-way process. The outcome would then reflect some mixture of the resident’s personal, the staffs medical, and the administrator’s financial goals. Such ongoing changes point to the continual evolution of negotiating positions in any specific setting. 5. For an application of costs and benefits to larger questions of policy making in social gerontology, see Kane and Kane (1982).

References Becker, Marshall. 1978. “Understanding Patient Compliance.” In New Directions in Patient Compliance, edited by Stuart Cohen 1-31. Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books. . 1979. “Psychological Aspects of Health-Related Behavior.” In Handbook of Medical Sociology. 3rd ed., edited by Howard Freeman, Sol Levine, and Leo Reader, 252-74. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Bennett, Ruth, and Lucille Nahemow. 1965. “Institutional Totality and Criteria of Social Adjustment in Residences for the Aged.” International Journal ofAging and Human Development 21:44-70. Glaser, Barney, and Anselrn Strauss. 1965. A Timefor Dying. Chicago: Aldine. Gubrium, Jaber. 1975. Living and Dying at Murray Manor. New York: St. Martin’s. Gustafson, Elizabeth. 1972. “Dying: The Career of the Nursing Home Patient.” Journal of Health and Social Behavior 12:226-35. Kalish, Richard. 1966. “A Continuum of Subjectively Perceived Death.” The Gerontologist 6:72-77. Kane, Robert, and Rosalie Kane. 1980. “Long-Term Care.” Annual Review of Public Health 1:227-53. . 1982. Values and Long-Tern Care. Lexington Mass.: Lexington Books. Koff, Theodore. 1982. Long-Term Care: A n Approach to Sewing the Frail Elderly. Boston: Little, Brown. Maines, David. 1977. “Social Organization and Social Structure in Symbolic Interactionist Thought.” Annual Review of Sociology 3~235-60. Marshall, Victor. 1980. Last Chapters: A Sociology ofAging and Dying. Monterey, Calif.: Brooks Cole.

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Maruyama, Magoroh. 1963. “The Second Cybernetics: Deviance Amplifying Mutual Causal Processes.” American Scientist 5 1:164-79. Mechanic, David. 1978. MedicalSociology. 2nd ed. New York: Free Press. Mendelson, Mary. 1974. Tender Loving Greed. New York: Vintage. Morgan, David. 1977. “Keeping Up Appearances: Community Life in a Home for the Aged.” Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Roth, Julius. 1963. Timetables. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Smith, Harvey. 1955. “Two Lines of Authority: The Hospital’s Dilemma.” Modem Health Care 89:59-64. Strauss, Anselm. 1978. Negotiations. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. Twaddle, Andrew. 1981. Sickness Behavior and the Sick Role. Cambridge, Mass.: Schenkman. , and Richard Hessler. 1977. A Sociology ofHealth. St. Louis, Mo.: Mosby.

CHAPTER 15

Death and Personal History STRATEGIES OF IDENTITY PRESERVATION Duvid R. Unruh

When death occurs, relationships and attachments between the living and the dead are physically if not emotionally severed. The literature on bereavement and survivorship focuses on the social and psychological processes by which survivors cope with the loss, reorganize their lives, and try to reintegrate into society (Berardo 1970; Harvey and Bahr 1974; Hochschild 1978; Kalish 1981; Lopata 1973, 1979). However, survivors often maintain an attachment to the deceased that may never be completely lost; they continue to experience recurring images, thoughts, and memories of the deceased, though these usually decrease in intensity, emotional impact, and centrality to their daily lives (Bornstein et al. 1973; Clayton 1973; Glick et al. 1974; Kastenbaum and Aisenberg 1972; Lindemann 1944; Lofland 1982; Marshall 1980; Volkhart and Michael 1976). This emotional attachment is reinforced by actions on the part of people before they die and their survivors which preserve some of the deceased’s multiple identities-often, long after death has occurred. In this paper, I look at the kinds of activities that encourage continued emotional attachment. I do not assess whether continued attachment is normal or pathological, nor whether the preserved identities which reinforce attachment accurately reflect the deceased’s life. Instead, I focus on how identity preservation and the resulting emotional attachment are socially accomplished. The accomplishment of emotional attachment of survivor to deceased is interactional in the sense that survivors interpret and act upon information, actions, traits, and behaviors that were part of the deceased when alive. That is, before they die, people interpret and apportion cues to their personal identities for those who will survive (Butler 1963; Marshall 1980). Dying people hope they will be remembered as good fathers, competent women, successful businessmen, creative artists, or peacemakers. Survivors are left with bundles of images, materials, objects, and wishes of the deceased. Their task is to make sense of this amalgam and selectively preserve certain identities of the deceased. Aspects of the self other than those which directly reflect personal identities may also be preserved: idiosyncrasies, habits, qualities, and characteristics of the deceased may live on in the minds of survivors. The dead may be remembered as loving, obnoxious, volatile, or scornful, whether or not they viewed themselves as such while alive. However, the fact 273

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that survivors focus on personal identity implies that the deceased held certain images of themselves while alive which others accepted. In this context, what is being preserved after death is a self-concept which existed during life, was acknowledged by others, and had become a significant aspect of the dead person’s self (Gross and Stone 1981; Stone 1962). Dying people and their survivors use a “hierarchy of prominence” to give some identities preference over others (Heiss 1981). McCall and Simmons (1978) and Stryker (1968) note some factors which affect these priorities. Some identities offer greater rewards, provide access to relationships, or dramatize great personal sacrifices. This is crucial since it is impossible for the dying or their survivors to preserve all of the dying person’s multiple identities. They preserve some identities and downplay, ignore, or discard others. I use the term strategies ofidentitypresewation to refer to the activities by which both the dying and survivors keep certain identities intact and alive for the future. The focus on strategies of identity preservation by the dying and their survivors relies on reminiscence as conceived in the gerontological literature. However, while many authors focus on types of reminiscence (Butler 1970, 1980; Coleman 1974; Lo Gerfo 1980), the relationship between reminiscence and mental health (Boylin et al. 1976; Costa and Kastenbaum 1967; Meacham 1977; Myerhoff and Tufie 1975), and how reminiscences are affected by individual circumstances (Cameron 1971; Havighurst and Glasser 1972; Revere and Tobin 1980), I examine the outward, observable actions of the dying and their survivors who seek to structure the frequency and context of some reminiscences. Not all attempts to structure reminiscences are successful and not every memory, image, and thought of the deceased is preserved. Therefore, I focus on how a portion of survivors’ reminiscences are preserved. This paper addresses three questions: (1) What are the strategies by which identities are preserved? (2) How do these strategies promote continued emotional attachment of survivor to deceased? (3) How are the reminiscences of survivors structured by these processes? I have drawn insight, ideas, and materials from a number of sources. First, I interviewed 25 people during 1979 and 1980 to explore their reminiscences and social involvements. The interviews were part of a study of the social lives and involvements of older people in and around a middle-sized northern California city. The people I interviewed represented a broad range of interests, living conditions, economic levels, and physical capabilities. They ranged in age from 62 to 85 years. Second, I analyzed the personal letters, mementos, and conversations of the dying and their survivors. In some instances, these materials were gathered from the older people I interviewed, but I also drew upon contacts and conversations with friends, relatives, and acquaintances. Finally, I examined popular and scholarly materials which address these processes, including autobiographies, newspaper accounts, journalistic interviews, and scholarly studies. This paper is divided into two parts. The first examines three strategies used by the dying to preserve and communicate how they should be remembered by survivors. The second looks at four strategies that survivors use to preserve the identities of the deceased as they sort through their own thoughts and possessions lefi to them by the deceased.

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Strategies of the Dying Dying broadly describes the status of two categories of people: (1) those who have a disease or physical condition which most likely will lead to death in a short or predictable period of time; and (2) those not medically defined as dying, but who have acquired an awareness that “their life will end in the not-too-distant-future” (Marshall 1980: 127). The first group have entered a “dying trajectory,” a probability statement that death will occur in a specified number of weeks, months, or years (Glaser and Strauss 1968; 1965). While these projections may not reflect the actual course of the dying process, they influence the person’s use of existing time, energy, and resources (Lofland 1978). The dying person’s belief that death is near is the essential criterion. People in the second category may increasingly think of death as they grow aware of their passage through the life cycle; are exposed to the deaths of others (Tolor and Murphy 1967); compare their age to life expectancy in their cohort (Cain 1978; Reynolds and Kalish 1974); compare their own age to the age that their parents died (Marshall 1975); and consider their occupational risks (Teahan and Kastenbaum 1970). Such awareness of death may stimulate more frequent reflection on the pastespecially on matters of self and personal identity. The dying-in either of the above categories-interpret and apportion their identities to survivors through the use of three strategies: solidifying identities, accumulating artifacts, and distributing artifacts.

1) SOLIDIFYING IDENTITIES Intensive self-reflection with increasing awareness of impending death is the foundation of Butler’s (1963, 1980) life review concept, Myerhoffs (1975, 1978) life history technique, and Marshall’s (1980) “last chapters metaphor.” Common to all three is the notion that dying people begin to make sense of their lives by accentuating portions of their personal histories for which they wish to be remembered. Solidifying identities emphasizes and makes explicit the function of these activities for preserving personal identities. Myerhoff (1978:34), in a study of elderly Jews in Venice, California, found that their reminiscences were not intended to mark successes or unusual merits, but to render coherent lives marked by great ruptures and shifts. In reminiscing they searched for “integrating ideas and characteristics” that helped them to know themselves and communicate to others who they were. Some identities dominated others; those of Jew, survivor, and humanitarian were strongest. Similarly, the older people I interviewed began by focusing on matters of social integration, but quickly redirected the conversation toward the personal circumstances underlying their present situations. They mentioned identities which were often those not immediately apparent in their everyday lives. Instead, they presented themselves as good businessmen, hard workers, loving family members, and self-sufficient individuals long after the situations which supplied them with these identities faded away. They indicated which identities were worth remembering by their survivors.

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The people I interviewed solidified these identities through memos, letters, notes, journals, poems, and spontaneous reflections they planned to leave behind. When people think they are dying, they begin documenting pieces of their personal history through autobiographies, diary entries, and stories which leave portions of themselves with survivors. A major figure in Myerhoffs (1978) study concluded his written life history with instructions that it be read at family and senior center gatherings after his death. He hoped people would remember him through his writing, which would evoke a modicum of nostalgia, empathy, and continued emotional attachment. There are other ways the dying supply survivors with information about what should be preserved. Some of these ways simultaneously create and preserve identities. One way is planning for the disposal of one’s body. Another is donating an organ so others might live, or so that those still alive won’t have to jeopardize their lives by giving an organ. This “priceless gift,” as Fox and Swazey (1974) term it, invokes the identity of “self-sacrificing humanitarian” which will live long after the donor dies. Solidifying an identity is not the only reason people become donors, but the act overshadows those negative, suspicious, or simply mundane aspects of the person’s history. One older woman studied by Matthews (1979:161) planned to have her body cremated after death. While she viewed cremation as a sensible, if slightly frightening, act which would allow her finances to be better spent elsewhere, she felt her daughter would not have the courage to make such plans on her own. She, therefore, left this gesture of practicality and self-sufficience in her will by which her daughter might remember her. Glick et al. (1 974) report numerous examples of husbands who made funeral, burial, and financial arrangements before their death. As one widow remembered her husband: Jack had gone out and bought his own lot a year-and-a-half ago at the cemetery. H e had made all the arrangements, what he wanted and what he didn’t want. People were shocked by this, that a man could go and do this, but that’s the type of man he was. H e said, “I’m making arrangements so that when it happens everybody won’t be up in the air and not know what they’re going to do” (1974:41).

The funeral arrangements represented a final act of foresight which would be publicly acknowledged after death. Other dying husbands left instructions about how their families should behave at their funeral. For some, the appearance of stoic, composed, and restrained families meant others would perceive them keeping the family unit together even after death. As one widow recalled: Last year he said to me, “If anything ever happens to me I don’t want you to go to pieces. I want you to act like Jacqueline Kennedy-you know, very brave and courageous. You’ve got to have class,” he said. “I just don’t want screaming and hollering” (Glick et al. 1974:60).

Further, by leaving specific instructions about their survivors’ behavior at the funeral, these dying husbands and fathers were acting as if their family might be an embarrassment to them even after death.

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In a study of the life insurance industry, Zelizer (1979) implies that insurance was marketed-and eventually accepted-as a way the deceased could solidify the identities of good provider and loving husband. Monetary payments are ways such identities are preserved after death.

2) ACCUMULATING ARTIFACTS Throughout their lives, people acquire objects and imbue them with personal meanings which represent past accomplishments, talents, journeys, and sentiments. When people are dying, some objects become artifacts of their personal history. The accumulation of artifacts is a strategy by which the dying preserve identities over time and communicate their importance to survivors. In Goffman’s (196 1) terms, artifacts are components of an “identity kit” in which personal identities and feelings about oneself are located, invested, and stored in material possessions. These include scrapbooks, photo albums, mementoes, souvenirs, and jewelry which symbolize personal histories (as well as shared biographies) of the elderly and others. One person I interviewed was an active cross-country cyclist while still in his late 70s. He and his wife compiled scrapbooks of magazine and newspaper articles and sporting programs which chronicled his post-retirement cycling career. They devoted a corner of their mobile home to the display of tour badges, photographs, and trophies. During our interview, the elderly cyclist noted that the utility of these artifacts in the here-and-now was not as crucial as their value for future reference. You know, I won’t always be as active as I am now. I’m getting up there in years and so it is important for my wife and me to record these good memories and experiences. God forbid, I may get to the point where I start forgetting things, and these things will help me and my children remember these activities.

Many of the people I interviewed recalled past events and important junctures in their lives by using physical objects in their homes to stimulate memories and “stories.” The meaning of these objects, and the identities they represented, would be imparted to survivors when death approached or occurred. One woman gave reprints of historic family photographs to her grandchildren with personalized narrations on the back. Phrases like “this may not seem important to you now, but it may someday” and “I am telling you these facts so they will not be lost when I die” reveal her selfidentity as family matriarch and the wish to leave her sense of family history to survivors. Sherman and Newman (1977) found that 81 percent of their sample of 94 older people in community senior centers and nursing homes could identify a “most cherished possession.” For the elderly, these objects often represent the last symbolic remnants of who and what they once were. Most of the senior center participants and nursing home residents studied by Sherman and Newman associated symbolic jewelry with a spouse and used photographs to evoke memories of their children. The identities of spouse and parent took precedence and were preserved over others. The possessions of a person-a stamp collection, favorite painting, wedding band,

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or family Bible-symbolize identities which may become the objects of reminiscences by survivors. However, the full import of an artifact can never completely be transferred from the dying person to a survivor. Collections of personal treasures rarely evoke memories of the same intensity for survivors that they had for the deceased. Auctions and antique stores are full of unwanted objects stripped of the cherished meanings they once held (Taylor 1981). However, if survivors know the “stories” behind an acquired object and the meaning it once had for the deceased, reminiscences will be formed and organized around that knowledge. An acquired rocking chair may be described to visitors as “the one my grandmother used for 60 years as she raised her family.” Thus, the grandmother’s identity of caring mother may become intertwined with the object itself.

3) DISTRIBUTING ARTIFACTS Wills and testaments are the most obvious devices used by the dying to apportion and dispense objects in which personal identities and feelings about oneself are stored. However, wills and testaments also selectively communicate to survivors which identities should be remembered, and the partial content of those reminiscences. Wills generally follow traditional kinship lines with spouses, offspring, and relatives receiving the bulk of possessions. However, variations exist which highlight the ordering of multiple identities on a hierarchy of prominence. Rosenfeld (1979) has noted the modern trend of leaving one’s personal estate to the surviving spouse and, at least partially, excluding one’s children. In many instances, this decision illustrates preeminence of the identity of generous husband or wife over those of father, mother, community leader, or religious person. The implication of this decision is that the surviving spouse was the major supplier of personal meaning and identity for the deceased. Most interesting and revealing are instances where the dying bequeath specific artifacts to survivors, or make unorthodox provisions for distribution. Bryant and Snizek (1975224) noted the obligations and conditions of stewardship of those receiving “special” objects from the dying or deceased. To receive grandmother’s pearl brooch or grandfather’s favorite shotgun may make emotionally mandatory compliance with other stipulations or expectations. One obligation may be the survivor’s desire to preserve and protect specific memories or images of the deceased-that is, to become a guardian of the deceased’s persona. These include identities preserved through bequests to dogs, cats, showgirls, under-privileged groups, or complete strangers. The personal identity of one Englishman as an “Irish-hater’’ was preserved through a provision in his will to have Irishmen assemble at his grave on the anniversary of his death and be supplied with liquor and weapons; the dying Englishman believed they would become drunk, violent, and eventually destroy themselves (Bryant and Snizek 1975222). The intent of these bequests may be not only to preserve the identities of cat-lover, Irish-hater, liberal, or philanderer, but also that of unpredictable eccentric. Through wills and testaments the dying may best reveal their “true” identities or aspects of their “real” selves (Turner 1976). The concierge of San Francisco’s

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Opera House between 1932 and 1972 would never reveal to anyone which he preferred-the opera or the symphony. Only after his death at the age of 88 was it revealed that he willed $10,000 to the symphony rather than the opera. People who move to nursing homes or retirement communities may develop new friendships, peer groups, and organizational loyalties which are unknown to family members. Rosenfeld (1979; 1980) has analyzed the degree to which friends and loyalties developed in old age have supplanted traditional kinship lines in the distribution of artifacts. One-third to one-half of the elderly residents in three settings Rosenfeld (1980) studied made bequests outside the family. There were many bequests to neighbors and friends from the retirement settings where, in a comparative sense, the older people had brief but intense social lives. Thus, the deceased’s will revealed for the first time-and preserved-the newly formed identities of retirement community resident and best friend to other residents. Disinheritance, the other side of this issue, also preserves identities. Conscious exclusion of an award to legal heirs demonstrates assertiveness, independence, or publicly metes out punishment. One dying woman sought to preserve her identities of mother and homemaker through her will, despite the perceived inadequacies of her daughter: I give and bequeath to my daughter, Florence, the sum of One Dollar, and no more; reason for this is due to her not living at home and doing her share to maintain our home, and also due to her having caused me undue worry and trouble for the past couple of years (Rosenfeld 1979:85).

Statements like this may create family polarization, conflict, or feelings of shame (Sussman et al. 1970). The following excerpt from a will reveals an expression of disappointment which must have affected the nature of the surviving brother’s reminiscences of the deceased: My bequest to , my brother, is limited because of his unconcerned attitude and actions with respect to my late wife’s illness, as well as having failed to induce his very arrogant physician son, with whom I had repeatedly pleaded, unsuccessfully, to intercede and collaborate with the physicians assigned to the case of my severely ailing wife shortly before her death (Rosenfeld 1979:9 1).

Finally, while I have focused on distributing artifacts-whether they be objects, property, or money-through formal processes, distribution can also occur informally. The dying often distribute artifacts to friends and family in a casual way. This is a way of allocating personal explanations of the meaning and identity associated with the objects to those receiving them-as well as those excluded.

Strategies of the Survivors Survivors maintain an emotional attachment to those who precede them in death by drawing from two sources of information. First, they reinterpret past experiences and

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knowledge of the deceased and imbue them with personal meaning. Second, the dying supply survivors with information, requests, and desires regarding how they themselves wish to be remembered. Four strategies enable survivors to preserve an emotional attachment: reinterpreting the mundane; redefining the negative; continued bonding activities; and sanctifying meaninghl symbols.

1) REINTERPRETING THE MUNDANE Survivors are left with a plethora of images, thoughts, and memories. Some exceptional feats or characteristics of the deceased may live on in the minds of survivors, but much of what remains is ordinary and mundane. The literature on survivorship contains many accounts of survivors who continually remembered such ordinary things as how the deceased ordered wine in a restaurant, told jokes to friends, showed affection to family, dealt with children, or left clothes about the house (Cain 1974; Charmaz 1980; Lopata 1979; Parkes 1972). Conventional wisdom might view such lingering thoughts and memories as signs of continued emotional distress. However, they also maintain an emotional attachment which influences reminiscences for many years. Reinterpreting the mundane emphasizes how survivors sift through the deceased’s life to preserve-and create-identities. The journalist Martha Lear gave her dying husband’s possessions to the survivors for which they seemed most meaningful. She anticipated reinterpretation of the mundane by her husband’s children, friends, and relatives after his death: I went into his closet and closed the door and stood in the dark embracing his clothes, smelling him. Who will take his clothes if he dies? His son, Jon? They won’t fit. But as mementos, maybe. Yes, Jon will want his clothes. His books, his desk, his easy chair. Judy will want his bathrobe-as a child, she loved to cuddle in his bathrobe-his granny glasses, his collection of petrified wood. His pictures? How will they divide the pictures? Oh, God, the pictures, hanging on walls, crammed into albums, stashed in boxes on closet floors . . . Hal sailing his Sunfish in our beautiful Provincetown harbor. Hal fighting the bull in some Mexican town. . . . They staged a bullfight for the doctors and then asked for volunteers. And suddenly there was Hal, bounding out onto the field, I yelling, “Are you crazy? Come back here?” (Lear 1980:31). Lear alludes to two identities of her husband Hal which were preserved in this manner-those of father and adventurer. Similarly, Glick et al. (1974:143) recounted one widow’s reminiscences which (despite the obvious idealization) were organized around her husbands identities of family man and thoughthl husband: We had a beautiful marriage. I’m not saying this because he’s gone but we did, we got along beautifully. I think we were really envied by people because we got along so well. We were always together. . . . H e was full of fun. He was a tease with the kids. My nieces and nephews loved him. . . . He didn’t deprive his family of anything. We were always together. We had a very nice social life, he took us places, he took the kids. . .

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The evidence consisted of “little things” which most likely escaped attention or comment while the husband was alive. After death, many practices or habits may symbolize identities and thereby stimulate reminiscences about activities of the deceased. In a published interview, Yoko Ono remarked that her swearing sparked reminiscences of her husband John Lennon, as father, who preferred they not swear in the presence of their son. Eating chocolate reminded her of Lennon the songwriter who consumed countless Hershey bars while recording their last record album (Norman 1981). There are many cues which stimulate reminiscences of the deceased in a specific time and place. The number of mundane activities, traits, or events reinterpreted will likely be high shortly after death and decrease in number and intensity over time. This change is probably due to two factors: the rate of reinterpretation may be higher shortly after death and with passing time there may be fewer things left to reinterpret with regard to the deceased’s life. However, attachments based on the mundane remain. Identities preserved in this manner may be less central to survivors’ reminiscences than identities preserved in other ways. In other words, this strategy preserves identities that are low on the hierarchy of prominence. One widow I interviewed reminisced about her husband who had died 40 years earlier. Every time I go out dancing and have to worry about finding a suitable partner, I have to think about what a really good dancer my husband was. We had a lot of things in common . . . you know, the children, our family, our house, and our friends, but he was such a good dancer that I’m still reminded of it when the subject of dance comes up.

2) REDEFINING THE NEGATIVE Just as dying people engage in self-reflection and interpret their pasts before death, survivors tend to “idealize” the deceased, thereby simultaneously increasing the deceased’s status and helping alleviate grief (Charmaz 1980; Glick et al. 1974; Lopata 1979; Neugarten 1968; Rees 1975). Some view idealization as unrealistic and pathological. I prefer to emphasize its function in preserving identities, structuring reminiscences, and sustaining emotional attachment. The point is not that actions or qualities viewed as negative when the deceased was alive are positively redefined. Rather, the negative provides additional evidence for an identity which-good or bad-is part of the survivor’s memory. Thoughts about negative qualities may spark reminiscences which keep the survivor and deceased emotionally connected. One elderly widower I interviewed described the following reminiscences of his deceased wife, whose “nagging’ and watchful eye later became evidence for her preserved identity as family matriarch: I have been living in this apartment by myself for five years now. I get lonely now and then. . . . When my wife was here, she wanted to know where I was and what I was doing all the time. She did this with the kids and me for many years, I guess it was sort of a bone of contention for some time, and we argued about it. Now that I’m by myself, I kind of miss it.

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You know, all she was trying to do was be a good wife. At least, that’s what she always said. She was raised to think that a good wife and mother always kept close track of her family. It’s funny, but from time to time for several years after she died, I would remember her nearly every time I left the house to go someplace. . . .

For other survivors I interviewed, a lack of economic success became evidence for the preserved identity of honest and benevolent businessman; jealous actions were confirmation of a lover’s devotion; and memories of an abrasive manner suggested the preserved identity of aggressive, self-made man. When these traits were observed in others, survivors felt “pangs” of emotional attachment to the deceased (Weiss 1973). Emotional attachment does not always consist of warm and pleasant feelings: survivors may feel hate, guilt, relief, shame, or elation, based on reminiscences of the deceased’s negative qualities.

3) CONTINUED BONDING ACTIVITIES People create shared biographies through joint activities, processes, events, and acts. Horseback riding, singing, going to the theater, shopping, conversing, or making love all bond aspects of the self with those of others (Lofland 1982). Upon death, these activities may stimulate memories, thoughts, and images of the deceased, and the accompanying identities. Continued bonding activities represent both conscious and unconscious actions. One widow occasionally set a place at the dinner table for her deceased husband on Sundays. When she caught herself, she felt a “funny feeling” running through her for some time afterward. Not only did this act remind her of loneliness and loss, it also sparked reminiscences of the deceased based on his encouragement of “togetherness” at Sunday dinners (Glick et al. 1974: 150). Some survivors continue visiting a summer cabin their partner loved, use opera tickets that were so difficult to obtain, maintain joint group memberships, and walk the same routes the deceased once traveled (Lopata 1973, 1979). Attitudes and teactions to these actions differ. Some survivors find the reminiscences haunting, while others revel in continued ties to the deceased. Continued bonding activities are exernplified by the actions of the surviving friends and family members of two murdered college lovers. The lovers devoted much of their activity and energy toward a city recreation program. They coordinated activities and supervised events sponsored by their city’s Department of Parks and Recreation. Some months after their deaths, the survivors organized a “warm remembrance festival” at which friends and family gathered to reminisce about the couple. The event included many of the same activities in which the couple had engaged while involved in the recreation program. The mood at the event was anything but sad. Wide-eyed children were scattered throughout the block-long park climbing over an earth ball, gorging on watermelon, or throwing softballs at a dunk tank. Many of the relatives and friends of the slain couple picnicked on the grass. . . . Although certainly many were thinking of the pair, none seemed to be saddened by the tragedy. [According to the father of one of the pair] “It’s the best way

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to remember them.” He said, however, that it was impossible to cope with the loss of his son through such tragic circumstances (California Aggie

198 1: 1).

While this event was termed the “first annual warm remembrance festival,” it was not held in the succeeding year. However, it was a dramatic example of survivors collectively bonding to the deceased.

4) SANCTIFYING MEANINGFUL SYMBOLS Some survivors imbue a small number of objects with meanings symbolic of “special” or exemplary identities of the deceased. In effect, these objects are viewed as “sacred” symbols of the deceased’s life. Grave sites and markers are the most obvious examples: accompanying icons and epitaphs cue observers to exemplary identities or traits. However, survivors also sanctify many objects or spaces and preserve other identities. Untouched bedrooms preserve memories of sons, daughters, or spouses; places of birth are places for pilgrimages regardless of current inhabitants; paintings, furniture, needlepoint projects and the like may be sacred embodiments of the identities of artist, woodworker, and craftsperson. Further, portraits or photographs may become objects of “worship” or felt communication with the dead (Parkes 1972). A small number of objects become sanctified to such a degree that their loss would be as tragic for the survivors as was the death of the deceased. Sanctifying symbols may be a collective endeavor rather than an individual or family act. This is especially true when the deceased is well known to large numbers of people. Special funds in the name of the deceased to combat the fatal disease, or to carry on exemplary work, preserve the identities of cancer victim, murdered leader, literary figure, or philosopher. The collective sanctification surrounding what many fans perceived as the important identities of John Lennon further illustrates this point. In 1981, on the first anniversary of his death, fans gathered outside the Dakota Apartments in New York City where he was murdered, at the Cavern Club in Liverpool where the Beatles were discovered, and at many other symbolic places. At vigils and concerts-in Liverpool, New York, and around the worldfans recalled Lennon as a rock’n ’roll dream-weaver, working-class hero, and househusband. . . . In Liverpool, thousands of Beatles fans paid tribute to Lennon at an outdoor concert and vigil. . . . “I’m memory laning, if not Penny Laning tonight,” said disc jockey Bob Wooler, emcee of the free concert (San Francisco Chronicle 1981:3, italics added). Collective efforts to preserve Lennon’s identities were instituted by his wife, fans, and New York City officials through plans to refurbish a three-acre “island” in Central Park christened “Strawberry Fields.” As a young child in Liverpool, Lennon played in an area known as Strawberry Fields, later wrote a song of the same name, and took his last walk through this area of Central Park. Materials for the refurbishment consisted of plants, trees, and stones donated by fans from many nations; these would be unified into a single “sanctified” symbol. Lennon’s identities of working-class child,

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songwriter, and social visionary would be symbolized and located in this single location, which would become a mecca for fans. However, as planning and construction began, Yoko Ono was said to be frustrated by New York City regulations which forced her to scale down her original design. According to a New York City Parks Department official, “We hope Strawberry Fields will be a very lovely landscape, but it must be in keeping with the rest of the park” (RollingStone 1982:34). Collective sanctification highlights the problem not only in achieving consensus on the identities to be preserved, but in the consensual meaning of the symbols used in the process. Conflict between Yoko Ono and representatives of the New York City Parks Department hints at problems in achieving consensus, but the furor surrounding a sculpture by the San Francisco Arts Commission to symbolize that city’s assassinated mayor, George Moscone, is instructive. Based on submitted drawings, the Art Commission approved Robert Arneson’s plan for a bust of Moscone. The completed sculpture was placed on a pedestal covered with graffiti-like inscriptions, including bullet holes, the profiles of a .38 caliber pistol, blood-like spatters of red glaze, and the name of Dan White, the city supervisor convicted of murdering Moscone and supervisor Harvey Milk. City officials, the deceased mayor’s wife, and most of the public expressed shock, not only at the pedestal, but at the facial expression on the bust. One art critic described it as “a grotesquely inane smile. . . . The entire expression has the feeling of a mask . . . that politicians characteristicallywear when they are up for election, shaking hands, kissing babies, speaking on the tube” (Albright 1981:25). The furor centered on the artist choosing to preserve the identities of assassinated public figure and plastic politician over the preferred identities of family patriarch, liberal Democrat, friend of the poor, and respected politician. Sanctification of the Moscone Convention Center and reminiscences stimulated by the sculpture were expected to contain only “positive and tasteful images.” For example, sculptures to honor deceased politicians have traditionally included patriotic slogans, children kneeling around the figure, flags, and warm smiles. Similarly, the continued emotional attachment city leaders hoped to foster toward the deceased mayor was to be “warm and loving” rather than mixed with the unpleasant.

Implications This chapter has explored the interaction between the dying and their survivors as they seek to preserve certain identities. I have shown how the dying preserve and distribute important images of the self. The other side of this interactional process, in which survivors preserve the identities of the deceased, begins to shed light not on how survivors “work through” and dispense with lingering images of those who precede them in death, but how memories of the deceased thrive through social action. Many preserved identities carry with them an emotional component: memories evoke feelings of love, hate, shame, elation, relief, or grief which sustain a measure of emotional attachment. Thus, continued attachment is not something which simply happens as a result of some psychological state, but it often arises out of strategic social action. Further, this paper highlights how reminiscences are structured, apportioned, and

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stimulated, both by the dying and survivors. Unlike most psychiatric and psychological conceptions of the process, reminiscences-and the kinds of images they containare structured through social action. We need to recognize the sociological nature of these processes which have previously been conceived as internal, spontaneous, and purely personal, for these are the strategic actions of people trying to exercise some personal control over the impact of death on their personal histories.

Note This chapter is reprinted from Social Problems, Vol. 30, No. 3, February 1983, pp. 340-51.

0 1983 by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. Used with permission.

References Albright, Thomas. 1981. “Arneson’s View of Life in Sculpture.” San Francisco Chronicle, December 4, 25. Berardo, Felix. 1970. “Survivorship and Social Isolation: The Case of the Aged Widower.” The Famib Coordinator 1(1):11-25. Bornstein, Philip, Paula J. Clayton, James A. Halikas, William L. Maurice, and Eli Robins. 1973. “The Depression of Widowhood after Thirteen Months.” BritishJournal of Psychiatty 122 (4):561-66. Boylin, William, Susan K. Gordon, and Milton F. Nehrke. 1976. “Reminiscence and Ego Integrity in Institutionalized Elderly Males.’’ Gerontologist 16(1):118-24. Bryant, Clifton D., and William Snizek. 1975. “The Last Will and Testament: A Neglected Document in Sociological Research.” Sociology and Social Research 59(2):2 19-30. Butler, Robert N. 1963. “The Life Review: An Interpretation of Reminiscence in the Aged.” Psychiatvy 26(1) :65-76. . 1970. “Looking Forward to What? The Life Review, Legacy, and Excessive Identity versus Change.” American Behavioral Scientist 14(1):121-28. . 1980. “The Life Review: An Unrecognized Bonanza.” ZnternationalJoumal of Aging and Human Development 12(1):35-38. Cain, Leonard D. 1978. “Counting Backward from Projected Death: An Alternative to Chronological Age in Assigning Status in the Elderly.” Paper presented to the Policy Center on Aging, Maxwell School, Syracuse University, March 22. Cain, Lynne. 1974. Widow. New York: Morrow. California Agie (University of California, Davis). 1981. “Friends Gather for Warm Remembrance.” September 5, 1. Cameron, Paul. 1971. “The Generation Gap: Time Orientation.” Gerontologist 12(2):117-19. Charmaz, Kathy. 1980. The Social Realiy of Death. Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley. Clayton, Paula J. 1973. “Anticipatory Grief and Widowhood.” British Journal of Psychiatry 122(1):47-51. Coleman, Peter G. 1974. “Measuring Reminiscence Characteristics from Conversation as Adaptive Features of Old Age.” International Journal of Aging and Human Development 5 (3):28 1-94. Costa, Paul G., and Robert Kastenbaum. 1967. “Some Aspects of Memories and Ambition in Centenarians.” The Journal of Genetic Psychology 110(1):3-16.

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Fox, Renee, and Judith Swazey. 1974. The Courage to Fail. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Glaser, Barney, and Anselm Strauss. 1965. Timefor Dying. Chicago: Aldine. . 1968. Awareness ofDying. Chicago: Aldine. Glick, Ira O., Robert Weiss, and C. Murray Parkes. 1974. The First Ear of Bereavement. New York: Columbia University Press. Goffman, Erving. 1961. Asylums. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday-Anchor. Gross, Edward, and Gregory Stone. 1981. “Embarrassment and the Analysis of Role Requirements.” In Social Psychology through Symbolic Interaction. 2nd ed., edited by Gregory Stone and Harvey Farberman, 115-30. New York: Wiley. Harvey, Carol D., and Howard M. Bahr. 1974. “Widowhood, Morale, and Affiliation.”JOUYnal ofMarriage and the Fami4 36(1):95-106. Havighurst, Robert, and Richard Glasser. 1972. “An Exploratory Study of Reminiscence.” Journal of Gerontology 27(2):245-53. Heiss, Jerold. 1981. The Social Psychology of Znteraction. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. 1978. The Unexpected Community. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kalish, Richard. 1981. Death, Grie$ and Caring Relationships. Belmont, Calif.: Brooks-Cole. Kastenbaum, Robert, and Ruth Aisenberg. 1972. The Psychology of Death. New York: Springer. Lear, Martha Weinman. 1980. Heartsounds: The Story of a Love and Loss. New York: Simon and Schuster. Lindemann, Erich. 1944. “Symptomatology and Management of Acute Grief.” The American Journal of Psychiatry 10l(4):141-48. Lofland, Lyn. 1978. The C r a j ofDying. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. . 1982. “Relational Loss and Social Bonds: An Exploration into Human Connection.” In Personality, Roles, and Social Behavior, edited by William Ickes and Eric S. Knowles, 2 19-42. New York: Springer-Verlag. Lo Gerfo, Marianne. 1980. “Three Ways of Reminiscence in Theory and Practice.” Znternational Journal ofAging and Human Development 12(1):39-48. Lopata, Helena 2.1973. Widowhood in an American City. Cambridge, Mass.: Schenkman. . 1979. Women as Widows. New York: Elsevier. McCall, George, and J. L. Simmons. 1978. Identities and Interactions. Rev. ed. New York: Free Press. Marshall, Victor W. 1975. “Age and Awareness of Finitude in Developmental Gerontology.” Omega 6(2):113-29. . 1980. Last Chapters:A Sociology ofAging and Dying. Monterey, Calif.: Brooks-Cole. Matthews, Sarah H. 1979. The Social Worldof Old Women. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage. Meacham, James A. 1977. “A Transactional Model of Remembering.” In Life Span Developmental Psychology, edited by Nancy Datan and Hayne Reese, 81-95. New York: Academic. Myerhoff, Barbara. 1978. Number Our Days. New York: Simon and Schuster. , and Virginia Tufte. 1975. “Life History as Integration.” Gerontologist 15(4):541-43. Neugarten, Bernice. 1968. Middle Age and Aging. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Norman, Philip. 1981. “A Talk with Yoko.” New York 12(May 25):32-40. Parkes, C. Murray. 1972. Bereavement: Studies of Grief in Adult Life. New York: Basic. Rees, W. Dewi. 1975. “The Bereaved and Their Hallucinations.” In Bereavement: Its Psychological Aspects, edited by Bernard Schoenbert, Irwin Gerber, Alfred Wiener, Austin Kutscher, David Peretz, and Arthur Carr, 66-7 1. New York: Columbia University Press. Revere, Virginia, and Sheldon Tobin. 1980. “Myth and Reality: The Older Person’s Relationship to His Past.” International Journal ofAging and Human Development 12(1):15-26. Reynolds, David, and Richard A. Kalish. 1974. “Anticipation of Futurity as a Function of Ethnicity and Age.” Journal of Gerontology 29(2):224-3 1.

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Part Vlll

CONCLUSIONS

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CHAPTER 16

Final Constructions A REVIEW OF DIFFERING PERSPECTIVES AND SOLUTIONS

Helenu Z. Loputu und/uditb A. Levy

The chapters in this book were selected from Social Problems, a journal of the Society for the Study of Social Problems, which is a sociological association. Many more articles could have been added, except for space limitations. The articles included provide a small sampling of the many possible problems people can encounter throughout their life course. Chances are that readers of this volume personally have experienced some of them or know people who have. Some of the troubles that readers experience may have reached social problem status, having gained the attention of persons with sufficient power to define them as such and to mobilize public empathy. Other situations or conditions, such as the creation of a category of “gifted children” or the atmosphere in the elite Harvard Law School, may have aroused the anger of those who believe that such actions are undemocratic and elitist, thus favoring already privileged upper-class children and youth. The definition and proposed solutions of any social problem can generate differing perspectives. Certainly much heated disagreement exists about the characteristics of the “welfare system” and the people on public aid who have to survive on its “dole” despite its inadequacy. The potential for an individual to experience something that may be defined as a social problem begins at birth, after a child has been assigned to a gender based on physical sex characteristics and claimed as an offspring by a mother and typically a father. In traditional societies, based on these gender and familial designations, the role expectations and processes throughout the child’s life course are relatively predictable and peer-homogeneous. But today, identity claims are not always transformed into social relationships by persons assuming the roles of mother, father, grandparents, other relatives, teachers, and friends. American society and the rest of the world have changed considerably since the traditional definition of family roles became established. Even the definition of childhood has undergone great modifications. Family structures in postmodern societies are quite varied as are the roles. Whereas children used to contribute to family survival through their labor, this condition no longer holds. Industrialization, mass education, and the separation of public from private spheres have realigned relationships within and outside the family circle. 29 1

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Ideas as to what children need to grow up healthy and to contribute to their community have undergone major transformations. Some previously sanctioned forms of corporal discipline have been redefined as a social problem and labeled as “child abuse.” Incest, previously tolerated or at least ignored among some people, now generates revulsion as a legally punishable form of sexual violation. In this regard, power previously permitted male members of families has been redefined as a wrong requiring legal rectitude. Gender, class, and race also have been defined historically as pervasive identities that often confer specific roles and relationships. Often these designations exist to the detriment of women and minorities. Throughout this book, we saw examples of how various segments of the population are channeled into differing status categories through processes that begin at childhood and continue through old age. Educational and career tracking can restrict opportunities for some, while advantaging others. For example, the problem of providing adequate public education for all youth in America receives a lot of ideological and educational attention. Yet, as we saw, school administrators are often overburdened and glad to be rid of students defined as “troublemakers.” Even attempts to prepare disadvantaged youth for work, as with the Job Corps, can perpetuate class, race, and gender problems by favorably channeling some applicants and not others. The period of the life course when youth are expected to leave childhood dependencies and enter adulthood also is fraught with difficulties. Behavior or attitudes that are considered permissible for young people according to some values are defined as wrong or dysfunctional by others. In the dominant American society, for example, offspring are supposed to leave and not return to their parental homes to live upon reaching adulthood. Women also are “supposed to” be of appropriate age and marital status ro bear children. Men are “supposed to” acknowledge and support the children they biologically father. Yet, several of the chapters we read examine situations contradicting these expectations. Such “troubles” are not merely value-based. Going against age-graded and developmental stages can create actual problems for the mother, the father, grandparents, and the community at large. Also, sexual maturation carries health risks in the form of possible reproductive disorders and also exposure to sexually transmitted diseases (STDs). The sexual lives of women are particularly subject to fears of pregnancy and the need to avoid the effects of STDs on future children. Whether or not women and men marry or develop other family-like relationships, creating a family of procreation is complex. Societies develop rules and norms concerning who should marry, with whom, and the age and health condition of those entering such relationships. However, the attempts to guarantee the “1950s ideal family” have not succeeded for a variety of reasons, including a divergence of values and differences in their hierarchies of importance. Children are not necessarily cared for adequately, while mothers are more likely to think and worry about their children than fathers. The primary responsibility for family care typically borne by women can force them into dependency on men for economic sustenance. Yet in the case of divorce, many noncustodial fathers fail to support their children. Those who contribute economically are more apt to have other positive aspects of relations with the mother and their children. Meanwhile, mothers without steady income from child

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support or a sufficiently paying job are forced to use a variety of methods to finance the family. Welfare, when available, does not cover their needs sufficiently. Even people with substantial “cultural capital” in the form of education and training, as well as contact with formal or informal jobs, often face great difficulties. The articles in part VI illustrate some of these troubles that have reached social problem dimensions. In entering a traditionally all-male and largely white occupation, black female police officers employed in police departments in several cities faced a “double whammy” of discrimination. Being both black and a woman disadvantaged these officers in the station and on street patrols. Other officers, including both black men and white women, hold stereotypes that enable them to discriminate against black female officers, even to the point of endangering them by a lack of back-up support. Discrimination also can offer “positive” advantages for some categories of people by convincing others in power to push them up the rungs of a career ladder. This phenomenon of reverse discrimination is documented in the case of men who enter female-typed occupations. Such occupations usually rank relatively low in occupational status, and men who select them typically do so because they value some aspect of the work. Unlike the female police officers described above, males in female-typed occupations often are singled out for special rewards and promotions based solely or partly on their status as men. Despite whatever personal preferences they bring to the job, pressure to move up the ladder usually influences them to do so. The occupations connected with drug dealing described by the Adlers combine to form a separate community or sub-culture apart from that of the non-drug-using world. Incumbents have their own career paths, depending on how they entered and the particular direction they took within it. Such careers tend to be disorderly and frequently involve sporadic movements in and out of “the life,” phasing out and coming back in, or changing direction. The acts of procuring and selling drugs are illegal. Yet, the lure of easy money and temptations of drug use can pull people back into this subworld even after a drug bust or emotional burnout. Part VII looks at the end stages of the life course: aging and dying. In a youthoriented culture that values a closely defined model of “beauty,” signs of aging can be most unwelcome. In fact, at any age, parts of the body that do not fit an idealized model can generate depression and a wish for change. Here, again, gender stereotyping and societal focus on looks disadvantage women to the extent that some undergo surgery to modify the offending part. Men in this culture are not as bound by narrow judgments about appearance and are less likely to undergo such procedures. Meanwhile, the idealization of “true womanhood” combined with role expectations of reproduction and “motherhood’ for women in a two-sphere world has aided the medical profession and the pharmaceutical industry in defining women’s menopause as a deficiency disease requiring their intervention. Thus, the bodily changes that accompany midlife in women are interpreted as a source of functional and emotional havoc requiring medication, while men’s midlife crisis is seen as amusing and not particularly serious or worth addressing medically. In general, the process of growing older is fraught with many personal difficulties that can become the fodder of a social problem. The economic situation of older

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women who arrive at old age without sufficient financial resources has been defined as one of serious proportions. Possibly, over time fewer women will confront this situation as future generations of American women change their patterns of labor force participation, thereby qualifying for pensions, social security, and other resources in old age. Yet, the real equalization of income between men and women in later life will not occur until both genders experience the same opportunities for work at the same level of rewards. Unfortunately, in terms of meeting such goals, the policies and practices that perpetuate gender segregation in occupations, work environments, and other responsibilities of men and women are deeply entrenched and unlikely to change soon. Assisted living in facilities that offer home-like living arrangements has emerged as one solution to the social problem of what to do when older people no longer can live alone or without some form of ongoing assistance. Some of these facilities combine opportunities for relatively independent apartment living with relocation when needed to nearby areas of assisted care. Most people who opt for life in such residential settings hope to maintain their tenancy in semi-independent apartments as long as possible, and Morgan’s article in this volume shows that they may go to great lengths to convince others, including facility administrators, that they are able to do so. Social conflict and tension between residents and administrators can result, and the desire to be perceived as functionally capable of apartment living can force older residents to remain constantly attuned to hiding signs of functional decline. Death marks the end of the human life course. Its occurrence calls up questions about the very meaning of life while posing multiple problems for society and its members (Blaunder 1966). Such difficulties include managing grief, role replacement, disposal of bodies, and the potential loss of identify and social self (Marshall and Levy 1990). Just like those whom Morgan described in his study of assisted-care living, those who are dying typically want to preserve a positive self-image in the face of serious physical decline and the prospect of exiting the life course. Life review that recounts and legitimates the personal biography of the dying person helps to keep the past alive through collective memory and assists in the preservation and claiming of the person’s former self. Significant others often assist in this process by retelling stories that include the person, supplying artifacts that can help in recalling earlier times, and by recounting conversations from the past that figure into the person’s earlier experiences. All in all, as this volume has shown, many of the major troubles experienced by people occur in relation to the roles, responsibilities, phases, and other demands and dictates of the life course. Those personal difficulties discussed here as social problems, and those that have not reached this status through public definition, are a consequence of both the traditional and/or assumed social structure and its culture including all social processes and changes. The unrealistic model of the “American family” as portrayed in the 1950s life of Ozzie and Harriet continues to define what is perceived as the ideal family even though it never really existed (Coontz 1992). Such stereotypes render deviant the lives of people who are single parents, living in gay or lesbian relationships, cohabiting without marriage, widowed or divorced, or remarried with a blending of families. Alternative lifestyles, as defined by deviation from the

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nuclear family, are subject to stigma and can complicate maintaining a positive selfconcept for those who embrace them. Meanwhile, society provides only marginal and often inadequate help for people who need assistance, particularly those who don’t conform to this normative ideal. These examples point to the continuing processes and outcome of constructing a social problem that have yet to be resolved. One possible challenge for the readers of this volume lies in determining why a specific social problem emerged and persists, the various ways that it has been defined, and how it might be resolved. Answering these questions provides an opportunity to put a newly acquired knowledge of social problems to work.

References Blauner, Robert. 1966. “Death and Social Structure.” Psychzag, 29: 378-94. Coontz, Stephanie. 1992. The Way We Never Were. New York: Basic. Marshall, Victor W., and Judith A. Levy. 1990. “Aging and Dying.” In Handbook ofAging and the Social Sciences. 3rd ed., edited by Robert H. Binstock and Linda K. George, 245-60. San Diego: Academic.

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Source List The chapters in this volume originally appeared in Social Problems and are copyrighted by the Society for the Study of Social Problems. These works are reprinted with the permission of the publisher and authors. Chapter 2. Childhood and Public Life: R e a r m i n g Biographical Divisions Spencer E. Cahill Social Problems 1990 Volume 37, Number 3, 390-402 Chapter 3. Sexuality and Gender in Children’s Daily Worlds Barrie Thorne and Zella Luria Social Problems 1986 Volume 33, Number 3 Chapter 4. Getting Rid of Troublemakers: High School Disciplinary Procedures and the Production of Dropouts Christine Bowditch Social Problems 1993 Volume 40, Number 4,493-509 Chapter 5. Learning Collective Eminence: Harvard Law School and the Social Production of Elite Lawyers Robert Granfield and Thomas Koenig The Sociological Quarterly 1992 Volume 33, Number 4, pp. 503-20 Chapter 6. From Empty Nest to Crowded Nest: The Dynamics of Incompletely Launched Young Adults Allan Schnaiberg and Sheldon Goldenberg Social Problems 1989 Volume 36, Number 3, pp. 251-69 297

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Chapter 7. Social Construction of HIV Transmission and Prevention among Heterosexual Young Adults Eleanor Maticka-Tyndale Social Problems 1992 Volume 39, Number 3,238-52 Chapter 8. Thinking about the Baby: Gender and Divisions of Infant Care Susan Walzer Social Problems 1996 Volume 43, Number 2,219-34 Chapter 9. Contributions to Children by Divorced Fathers Jay D. Teachman Social Problems 1991 Volume 38, Number 3,358-71 Chapter 10. “Outsider Within” the Station House: The Impact of Race and Gender on Black Women Police Susan E. Martin Social Problems 1994 Volume 41, Number 3, 383-400 Chapter 11. Shifts and Oscillations in Deviant Careers: The Case of Upper-Level Drug Dealers and Smugglers Patricia A. Adler and Peter Adler Social Problems 1983 Volume 31, Number 2, 195-99 Chapter 12. The Politics of Menopause: The “Discovery” of a Deficiency Disease Frances B. McCrea Social Problems 1983 Volume 31, Number 1, 111-23 Chapter 13. Family Status and Poverty among Older Women: The Gendered Distribution of Retirement Income in the United States Madonna Harrington Meyer Social Problems 1990 Volume 37, Number 4, 551-63

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Chapter 14. Failing Health and the Desire for Independence: Two Conflicting Aspects of Health Care in Old Age David L. Morgan Social Problems 1982 Volume 30, Number 1,40-50

Chapter 15. Death and Personal History: Strategies of Identity Preservation David R. Unruh Social Problems 1983 Volume 30, Number 3, 340-51

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Index

with black men, 193-94; intersection of race and gender, 181-83, 187-88, 197. See also police work blame, assignment of, 6-7 Blumer, Herbert, 6 body image, 222 Bordeaux, Regis de, 228 Bowditch, Christine, 50 boys: games, 33-36; gender separation and, 33-35; groups, 37-38; interaction among, 35-38; rule transgression and, 36-37 “Brahmins,” 73 Braverman, Harry, 1 13 Brown, Murphy (character), 4 Brown-Sequard, Charles Edouard, 228 Brunvand, Jan, 19

Acker, Joan, 183 actors, people as, 120 Adler, Patricia, 179 Adler, Peter, 179 adolescence, 93-95. See also young adults adult development, 106, 11 1 affirmative action policies, 187-88, 193 Afro-American Police League, 187 The Ageless Woman (Kaufman), 232 agency, 4-5 age-norms, 4-5, 12, 292 aging, 221-25, 293-94; independence, 259, 261-62; poverty and, 243-44. See also dying and identity; health-care career; menopause; old-age-income programs AIDS, 95, 119, 122-23. See also HIV transmission Allen, Edgar, 228 American Geriatrics Society, 230 anomie, 97, 100, 103, 111 Aries, Philippe, 11 artifacts, 277-79 authors, people as, 120 baby boomers, 4, 102 “backbenching,” 80 Bar/Bat Mitzvah, 93 Bart, Pauline, 235 Bergmann, Barbara R., 246 “biosocial” approach, 154 black men, in police work, 182, 184, 186, 188, 191, 193-94 black women, images of, 189-90 black women police officers, 178-79; dealing

Cahill, Spencer E., 7, 11-12 California Achievement Test, 56, 57 Callahan, Daniel, 8 careers, 177-80, 292. See also deviance; drug trafficking; health-care career; police work childcare, 7, 137-38. See also fathers, divorced; infant care childcare credits, 253-54 childhood, 11-13, 106, 138, 291-92; adolescents, 24-25; assumption of adult roles, 11-12; changing conceptions of, 11, 15-16; corporal punishment, 12-13; incest, 13, 292. See also children and public life; fathers, divorced; gender roles; sexuality and children child labor, 7, 17 childrearing ideology, 106

301

302

INDEX

children and public life: allocating moral responsibility, 20-23;asymmetrical deference, 20-23,25,27;biographical divisions, 26-27;categories of older and younger children, 19-20,24-26; collective mana and, 23-26; demonstration of personal autonomy, 26-27;horror legends, 18-19; interrogation and detainment of, 19-20; restricting participation, 18-20; segregation of from public places, 17-18 children’s rights, 102-3 child savers, 15 child support, 161,163,170-71,173,174111 Cicourel, Aaron V., 55 claims-making activities, 6 class issues, 33,85,89n3,181-82,292 Clinton-Lewinsky scandal, 7 Coalition of Law Enforcement Officers (CLEO), 195,200n12 Code Critical, 87 codes of conduct, 20-21, 25 cohort effects, 4 collective eminence, 50;affirming through law firm recruitment, 82-85;personal characteristics, 84-85,86;production of in classroom, 79-82;result of, 88-89; threats to, 86-88.See also eminence collective identity, 74,80-81,88-89 collective mana, 23-26 Collins, Marjorie, 236 Collins, Patricia H., 182,183 common sense knowledge, 1 19,120-21, 131 ; understanding of threat, 124-26 conflict theory, 55 Consensus Development Conference on Estrogen Use and Post-Menopausal Women, 233 consumer groups, 236-37 Consumer Reports, 236 Consumers Union, 236,237 contamination discourse, 42,44 contraception, 129-30 cooties, 44 corporal punishment, 12-13 cosmetic surgery, 221,222 counting rules, 187-88 Cuadraz, Gloria H., 50-51 cultural capital, 50-51,84-85,293 “dangerous classes,” 181 v death, 5,224-25.See also dying and identity

decision making, 138,152,262-67 Delaney, Janice, 235 De Mause, Lloyd, 13 dependency, 94,97,165-67 DeVault, Marjorie L., 154,156nl developmental theories, 104-5,113 deviance, 55,97,203-4,216-17.Seealso drug trafficking “deviance amplification,” 263 diethylstilbesteral (DES), 228 dirty words, 35-36,40,41 “disciplinary transfers,” 64-66 discipline: definition of misconduct, 59,60; formal practice, 57-58;meaning of misconduct, 60-62;parental involvement, 62-64,68; penalties, 59-60; principal and, 58-59;racial issues, 54, 69n7;record keeping, 65-66,70n16; troublemakers, 50,59,60-62,292;type of student and, 60-62,7Onll discrimination, 293;police work, 183-87, 199nn5,6;reverse, 179,199n6 disinheritance, 279 “Divine Right of Kings,” 177 divorce, 106-8.See also fathers, divorced Doisey, Edward, 228 domestic abuse, 138 domestic work, 178,245-47 “double advantage” hypothesis, 181-82 “double jeopardy” hypothesis, 181-82 dropouts, 50;coerced, 54,63-68; disciplinary transfers, 64-66;disciplinary work, 57-60;discipline and, 54-55; expulsion of overage students, 66-68; field setting, 56-57;methodological approach, 55-56;racial issues and, 49-50, 54,68-69;risk factors, 53-54,68-69 drug trafficking, 178-80,217-18;aging in the career, 210-12;arrests, 214,216; bustouts of, 214;career shifts and oscillations, 2 10-17;entrepreneurialism, 206-7,213,216-20;low-level entry, 205-6;middle-level entry, 206-8;“onthe-job training,” 207-8;phasing-out, 212-14;pilots, 209-10;re-entry, 214-15; routes to learning trade, 203-4,205-10; setting and method, 204-5;shifts in type of career, 215-17;smuggling, 208-10, 216;social relationships, 206-7,210, 212.See also deviance DuBois High School, 56-57,59

INDEX Dull, Diana, 222 Durkheim, Emile, 16-17, 23 dying, 5, 224-25 dying and identity, 225, 273-74,294; accumulating artifacts, 277-78; continued bonding activities, 282-83; distributing artifacts, 278-79; implications, 284-85; redefining the negative, 28 1-82; reinterpretation of mundane, 280-8 1; sanctifying meaningful symbols, 283-84; solidifying, 275-77; strategies of identity preservation, 274, 275-79; wills and testaments, 278-79 “dying trajectory,” 275 earnings sharing, 254-55 economic inequality, 177-78 Edin, Kathryn, 138-39 education, 107; personal negotiations, 50-5 1; racial issues, 49-50, 54, 68-69; socialization and, 49-51; tracking, 49, 70n18, 292. See also collective eminence; discipline; eminence; Harvard Law School; school personnel Ehrensaft, Diane, 143-145, 149, 150, 155 Ehrlich, Paul, 94 Eitzen, D. Stanley, 8 Elder, Glen, 3-4, 5, 99-100 elites, 74, 77-78, 87-88. See also Harvard Law School eminence, 73-75; production of in classroom, 79-82; sense of duty, 77-78. See also collective eminence Employee Retirement Income Security Act (ERISA), 250 empty nest syndrome, 106 entrepreneurialism: drug trafficking and, 206-7, 213,216-20; medical, 228-29; moral, 228-29; young adults and, 107, 112-13 Equal Employment Opportunity Act, 178, 183-84 estrogen replacement therapy (ERT), 227-29,231-33 Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (Reuben), 231 exchange theory, 165 face, 2 1, 22 facts, 16-17 faith, 124-25, 131

303

familism, 111 family, 104, 137-39; microeconomic model of, 164-65; nuclear, 102, 115114;private versus public issues, 98-99. See also fathers, divorced; parents family status, old age income and, 243-46, 248-51,253-55 fathers, divorced, 138; current marital status of parents, 167, 170, 174n2; custody arrangements, 167, 171, 173; data, 162-63; descriptive results, 163-64; discussion, 172-73; economic support, 161, 163-64; expected relationships, 164-67; explaining contributions, 164-72; interdependency with children, 165-67; marital duration, 167, 170; participation in children’s daily activities, 161-64, 170-72; relationship between parents, 165, 167; results of estimating equations, 168-72; socioeconomic status and, 167, 170, 174n3; time since divorce, 167, 168 Feminine Forever (Wilson), 229, 235 feminism, 154, 178, 182; view of menopause, 222-23,234-38, 239n7 Finkle, William D., 233 fly-outs, 83-84, 87 Fobes, Catherine, 49 Friedan, Betty, 8 Fuller, Richard C., 6, 8 Gagnon, John H., 31,40 Garfinkel, Howard, 120, 131 Geist, Samuel H., 228 gender, 57, 292; intersection with race, 181-83, 187-88, 197; safer-sex differences, 127-28, 132; waged labor force and, 244-45. See alro old-ageincome programs gender roles: adult supervision and, 33-34; boys’ games, 33-36; dirty words, 35-36, 40, 41; friendship dyads, 34, 38-39; girls’ games, 33-34; infant care, 153-55; interaction among boys, 35-38; interaction among girls, 38-41; peers and, 34-35; rule transgression, 35-38, 41; segregation, 33-35; turn-taking play, 34, 39. See also children and public life; infant care generation X, 4 gifted students, 12, 49

304

INDEX

girls: games, 33-34; gender separation and, 33-35; interaction among, 33-34, 38-41; rule transgression and, 36-37 Glenn, Evelyn Nakano, 155 Glick, Ira O., 276, 280-81 globalization, 177 Goffman, Erving, 16-17,20-23,25-26,34, 277 Goldenberg, Sheldon, 93-94 Goodall, James, 228 Goodwin, Marjorie Harness, 34 Gordon, Linda, 13 Granfield, Robert, 50 Great Depression, 5 Greenblatt, Robert, 230 Grossman, Marilyn, 235 gross national product (GNP), 178 guidance counselors, 59, 701110 Gusberg, Saul, 232, 233 Gusfield, Joseph R., 9 Gustafson, Elizabeth, 260 Handel, Gerald, 5 Hareven, Tamara, 5 Harrington Meyer, Madonna, 223, 224 Haward Law Review, 86-87 Harvard Law School, 5 1, 73; classroom, 79-82; dean’s address, 77-78; grades, 79, 81; law firm recruitment, 82-85; loan forgiveness programs, 88-89; methodology, 74-75; orientation groups, 76-77; pre-law school competitiveness, 75-78; psychiatric staff, 79-80; result of collective eminence, 88-89; social activities, 76-77, 83; solidarity among students, 74, 76-77, 85; threats to collective eminence, 86-88; use of outlines, 80, 82; working-class students, 85,89n3 health belief, 119, 124-25, 131, 269 health-care career, 259-60; creating conflict, 266-67; denial of problems and treatment, 265-66; discussion, 267-70; disguising health problems, 263; method and background data, 260-62; minimizing health problems, 264-65; negotiations, 262-67; quality of life, 269-70; seeking alternatives, 266; sources of support, 264-65; trajectory of aging, 268-69 Hessler, Richard, 262

heterosexual teasing, 4 1-43 hierarchy of prominence, 274, 278 historical times, 4 HIV transmission, 119, 131-33; accessing scientific knowledge, 123-24; AIDS in Quebec, 122-23; common sense knowledge, 119, 120-2 1; common sense understanding of threat, 124-26; condom use, 129-3 1, 132; gender-based differences in safer sex, 127-28, 132; personal methods of protection, 126-29; research methodology, 121-22; risk perception, 126-27, 131. See also sexually transmitted diseases Hochschild, Arlie Russell, 137, 138, 153 homes for elderly, 224, 259, 260-61, 279 homophobia, 37-38,41,42,45 housewives, 154, 178 Hughes, Linda A., 34 Hurtado, Aileen, 182 idealization, 28 1 identity, 212, 291; children’s, 105, 106; collective, 74, 80-8 1, 88-89; deviant, 2 16-1 7; hierarchy of prominence, 274, 278; sense of inferiority, 79-80; women police, 194-95, 200n 11. See also dying and identity illegal occupations, 178, 179-80. See also drug trafficking imperialism, medical, 230, 237 incest, 13, 137, 292 incompletely launched young adults (ILYA), 97-98; causal interpretation of, 105-10, 111, 113-14; children’s view, 108-9; entrepreneurialism, 107, 112-13; future of phenomenon, 110-14; lag in socialization, 110-1 1; lowering expectations, 11 1-12, 113; parental responses, 103-5; private versus public issue, 98-99; urban folktales, 109-10 Individual Retirement Accounts (IRA), 251-53 individuation, 109 industrialization, 177 infant care, 141-42, 292; data and method, 142-43; expert advice, 147-49; good mother image, 144-45, 155; invisible work and gender roles, 153-55; managing division of labor, 149-5 1; mental baby care and marital changes, 151-53;

INDEX processing information, 147-49; shared responsibilities, 153, 156-57114; thinking about baby as women’s work, 143-51; worry, 143-47 instrumentalism, 1 13 invisible work, 154-55 Jackson, Jesse, 193 Jern, Helen, 230 Job Corps, 49-50 juvenile court dispositions, 54 Kanter, Rosabeth M., 182 Kaplan, Elaine Bell, 94, 138 Kaufman, Sherwin, 232 Keogh accounts, 25 1 Kilmer, J., 7 3 Kitsuse, John I., 6, 5 5 Koenig, Thomas, 50 Kohn, Melvin L., 7 , 9 labeling, 6 , 55-56, 59 labor force, 7 ; exclusion of reproductive labor from, 245-46; gender and, 244-45; Social Security and, 247-5 1. See a h oldage-income programs Landau, Theodore, 228 LaRossa, Maureen Mulligan, 147 LaRossa, Ralph, 147 law enforcement organizations, 195 law firm recruitment, 82-85 Lear, Martha, 280 legitimacy of claims, 6 Lennon, John, 281,283-84 life course: as social construction, 3-5; social problems constructed across, 6-10 life insurance, 277 linked lives, 4 living arrangements, 224

The Lizard, 86

Lopata, Helena Z., 6 , 225 love, 94 Luria, Zella, 12 Mad Lib game, 35-37 males in female-typed occupations, 178-79 mana, collective, 23-26 management, of infant care, 149-51 Margolin, Leslie, 12 Marker, Russell, 228 marriage, 94, 137-39; divorce, 5, 106-8;

305

incest taboo, 137; mental baby care and, 15 1-53; spousal benefits, 248-50,25 1 , 253. See also fathers, divorced Martin, Susan E., 178-79, 194, 222 McCrea, Frances B., 222 menopause, 222,227-28,237-38,293; as deficiency disease, 227, 228-3 1 , 233-34, 237-38; estrogen replacement therapy, 227-29, 23 1-33; feminist response, 222-23, 227, 234-38, 239n7; medical controversy, 23 1-34; as normal, 234-37; political meanings, 230-3 1, 234; social control, 227, 229-30, 234-35; mental labor, 141-42; marital changes and, 1 5 1-53; thinking about baby as women’s work, 143-51; worrying, 143-47 midlife crisis, 222 migration, 9 Miller, Patricia Y., 38 Mills, C. Wright, 3 modern societies, 9 Moen, Phyllis, 5 moral entrepreneur, 228-29 moral responsibility, 20-23 Morgan, David, 224 Moscone, George, 284

Ms., 235 The Ms. Guide to a Woman> Health, 236 Myerhoff, Barbara, 275-76 Myers, Richard R., 6, 8

Nasaw, David, 17 National Institute on Aging, 233 National Longitudinal Study of the High School Class of 1972 (NLS), 162-63 “negotiated-order” approach, 55 The New Woman> Guide to Health and

Medicine, 23 6

“no hassle pass,” 80, 89n2 nuclear family, 102, 115114 nursing homes, 259, 279. See also homes for elderly old-age-income programs, 243-44; discussion, 253-55; earnings sharing, 254-55; individual retirement accounts, 251-53; private pensions, 250-5 1 ; Social Security, 247-5 1 ; spousal benefits, 248-50, 251, 253; waged labor force and gender, 244-46

One L, 76, 77

306

INDEX

Ono, Yoko, 281, 284 opportunity structures, 102, 104, 107 organ donation, 276 organizations, 177, 183, 195; school, 53-54, 66

Paper Chase, 77, 78, 79 parents, 5, 98, 99; adulthood needs, 106, 1 1 1 ; expectations for young adults, 101-5; goals, 102-3; involvement in discipline, 62-64, 68. See also fathers, divorced; incompletely launched young adults (ILYA) pension integration, 250-5 1 Pharmaceutical Manufacturing Association, 236-37 Pierce, Jennifer L., 50-51 police work, 196-98, 222, 293; affirmative action policies, 187-88, 193; backup, 189-90; data sources and research design, 184-85; dealing with black men, 193-94; discriminatory selection criteria, 183-84; identity of women police, 194-95, 200nl I; intersection of race and gender, 181-83, 187-88, 197; non-patrol assignments and station house interaction, 190-93, 199n9; officers’ perceptions of discrimination, 185-87, 199nn5, 6; relations among women officers, 194-96, 197; rookie officers, 188-89; sexual harassment, 193, 199; street patrol activities, 188-90. See also black women police officers population growth, 6 pornography, 37 poverty, 8, 223-24, 244, 294; family status in old age, 243-46, 248-51,253-55; gendered status of retirement income, 247-53 Premarin, 228 prep schools, 7 3 Prime Time, 236 private sphere, 154 psychodynamic development perspective, 104-5, 113 public order, 20-23 public space. See children and public life Quadagno, Jill, 49 race, 167, 292; dropouts, 54, 68-69; education and, 49-50, 54, 68-69;

intersection with gender, 18 1-83, 187-88, 197. See also black women police officers; police work “regular transfers,” 64 Reitz, Rosetta, 236 remedial interchanges, 22 reproductive labor, 244-46 Reskin, Barbara, 245 retirement. See old-age-income programs returning young adult (RYA), 97-98. See also incompletely launched young adults Reuben, David, 231 reverse discrimination, 179, 199n6 risk perception, 126-27, 131 ritualized behaviors, 16-17, 43-45 Rockwell, R. C., 5 Rossi, Alice S., 154 routinization, 264 safer sex, 119; condom use, 129-3 1; personal methods of protection, 126-29; selfprotection image, 130-3 1 . See also HIV transmission “sanctification scale,” 225 Schnaiberg, Allan, 93-94 Schofield, Janet, 45 “scholarship girls,” 50-5 1 school. See discipline; education; Harvard Law School school personnel, 53-54; disciplinary work, 57-60; parental involvement and, 62-64; racial issues and, 54-55. See also discipline Schur, Edwin, 235 secondary deviance, 55 senior citizens, 106 service work, 182 sexual abuse, 138 sexual harassment, 193, 199 sexual idioms, 41-42 sexuality. See HIV transmission; safer sex; sexuality and children sexuality and children, 31-32, 45-46; boys’ groups, 37-38; children’s sexual meanings, 4 1-44; cross-gender chasing, 43-44; daily separation of girls and boys, 33-35; discourse of relationships, 39-40; heterosexually charged rituals, 43-45; heterosexual teasing, 4 1-43; implications of gender roles, 39-41; methods and sources of data, 32-33

INDEX sexually transmitted diseases, 94-95, 123, 292. See also HIV transmission sexual scripts, 31, 37, 40-41 Simon, William, 31, 38, 40 Skolnick, Arlene S., 110 Smith, Ken, 5 social barriers, 269 social construction, 3-5, 131; common sense knowledge, 120-21; of social problems, 6-10; of troublemaker, 60-62 social death, 269-70 “social facticity,” 26 social facts, public life and, 16-17 socialization, 5, 49-51, 74; young adults, 110-1 1 social problems, 3, 291; constructing across life course, 9-10; as social constructions, 6-9 Social Problems, 29 1 Social Security, 223, 247-50 “social selves,” construction of, 70nl5 social services, women and, 223-24 social structure, 9 SociCtC de Biologie, 228 Society for the Study of Social Problems, 291 sociology of knowledge perspective, 100 solutions, 6-7 soul, 23 Spector, Malcolm, 6 Spielman, Frank, 228 Spock, Benjamin, 102 spousal benefits, 248-50,251,253 Stapleton, Walter K., 237 Starr, Ken, 7 stigma contests, 235 strategies of identity preservation, 274; dying people, 275-79; survivors, 279-84 survivors: continued bonding activities, 282-83; emotional attachment to deceased, 273-74; redefining the negative, 28 1-82; reinterpretation of mundane, 280-8 1; sanctifylng meaningful symbols, 283-84; strategies of identity preservation, 279-84. See also dying and identity “Taking Men Out of Menopause” (Grossman and Bart), 235-36 Teachman, Jay, 138 Thorne, Barrie, 12

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Titanic, 94 tokenism, 182 tracking, 49 troublemakers, 50, 59, 60-62, 292 trust, 127, 132 Twaddle, Andrew, 262 university culture, 50-5 1 University of California, Berkeley, 50-5 1 Unruh, David, 225 US. us. City ofchicago, 187-88, 196 Vietnam War, 8-9 wage credits, 248 waged labor force. See labor force Walsh, Adam, 18 Walsh, John, 18 Walzer, Susan, 138 “War on Poverty,” 49 “welfare mother” stereotype, 190 welfare system, 138-39 West, Candace, 222 What to Expect the First Ear (Eisenberg, Murkoff, and Hathaway), 148-50 Williams, Christine L., 179 wills and testaments, 278-79 Wilson, Robert A., 229-30 Wilson, Thelma, 229 “with-then-apart” structure, 34 womanhood, dual images of, 189-90 women: aging, 237-38; employment, 7-8, 152, 154; social services and, 223-24. See also infant care; old-age-income programs Women and the Crisis in Sex Hormones (Seaman and Seaman), 235-36 working-class students, 85, 89n3 world problems, 8-9 worry, 143-47 young adults, 93-95; anomic context, 97, 100, 103, 11 1; dependency and, 94,97; opportunity structures, 102, 104, 107; parental expectations for, 101-5; problems in transition to adulthood, 97-101; residence patterns, 93-94, 100-1 0 1 youth culture, 102-3 Ziel, Harry K., 233 Zinn, Maxine Boca, 8

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About the Editors

Helena Z. Lopata, Ph.D., held the prestigious position of senior professor of sociology at Loyola University at Chicago. At the time of her death in February 2003, she had published over a dozen books and one hundred articles on a wide range of topics, including gender, aging and adulthood, occupations and professions, family, and social roles. She also had served as president of the Society for the Study of Social Problems, the Midwest Sociological Society, Sociologists for Women in Society, the Midwest Council for Social Research on Aging, and the Illinois Sociological Society. In addition, she held numerous other offices in the field of social sciences ranging from committee memberships to vice-presidencies in more than two-dozen professional societies and organizations. In recognition of her scholarly and civic contributions, she was the recipient of both the Mead and Feminist Mentoring Awards from the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction, the Distinguished Career Award from the American Sociological Association Section on Aging, the Burgess Award from the National Council on Family Relations, the Distinguished Scholar Award from Society for the Study of Social Problems, the Meiczyslaw Haiman Award from the Polish American Historical Association, the Bronislaw Malinowski Award from the Polish Institute of Arts and Sciences in America, and she also received an honorary doctorate of science from the University of Guelph.

Judith A. Levy, Ph.D., is associate professor of health policy and administration at the School of Public Health, University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC) and the director of the AIDS International Training and Research Program (AITRP) at UIC. Funded by the National Institute of Health, John E. Fogarty International Center, the UIC-

AITRP fosters “in-country’’ research capacity-building internationally for participating faculty and supports graduate training at UIC in partnership with educational institutions in China, Chile, Indonesia, and Malawi. Trained at Northwestern University as a medical sociologist, and later developing an expertise in aging studies as a postdoctoral fellow of the Midwest Counsel for Research on Aging (Dr. Lopata was her training mentor), Dr. Levy’s research interests include the social aspects of HIV/ AIDS, drug abuse, the sociology of aging and the life course, and Internet studies. Current projects supported through funding from the National Institute of Health (NIH) include an evaluation of the efficacy of using outreach-assisted case manage309

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ABOUT T H E EDITORS

ment to curb HIV transmission among injecting drug users, the delivery and testing of AIDS risk-reduction video-programming for women in drug treatment, and the use of Internet strategies for AIDS education for people over age 50. Dr. Levy is a former vice-president of the Society for the Study of Social Problems (SSSP), which sponsors this volume, and also a former chair of the SSSP Budget and Finance Committee and co-chair of the Division on Health, Health Policy, and Health Services.