Reflecting on the Decline of Professionalism in Sociological Research

This post is the first of a two-part discussion on professionalism in social science research (focusing primarily on sociology, but I expect my points to generalize).

In this first post, I discuss expertise, objectivity, and professionalism, offering my take on what they are and how they are related, but also their decline in recent years. This first post is focused on diagnosing the “problem”—the decline of objectivity, as a subset of professionalism, and with it our claims to expertise. In the second post (forthcoming), I’ll focus on one possible solution (for individual researchers to adopt).

As I’ll explain more in the second post, this reflection was motivated by someone asking me essentially what do we do when we do feel strongly about what we are studying and how do we maintain objectivity when we’re not personally objective about a topic. But before I get to the answer (my advice), this first post steps back to reflect on the larger context, including why this type of advice is so rare in my fields.

Professionalism, Objectivity, and the Foundation of Our Expertise

One of the marks of professionalism is a level of detachment in our work. In the case of social science, there’s a sense in which we are supposed to be detached observers, watching phenomena unfold at arm’s length with a kind of disinterested orientation. We want to observe, understand, explain; to do that, we need to be equally skeptical and empathetic. We want to understand our subjects’ point of view, but we also want to understand where their ideas come from (reality, bias, etc.)—this includes pressure-testing their ideas rather than simply assuming they are accurate. And this is true whether we are dealing with the most marginal or the most powerful people in society. We open ourselves to a variety of possibilities and let the evidence help us distinguish truth from perception, to let a systematic analysis slice through our preconceptions.

This focus on taking into account and critically examining multiple possibilities and perspectives is why a systematic, rigorous scientific study commands greater respect and influence than one person’s “lived experience.” Our broader aperture (gleaned both from years of methodolgoical and substantive training, along with a continuing review of the literature, and from our empirical (systematic + data-driven) studies on topics within our specializations) is, ostensibly, what makes us “experts” and lay people “inexpert,” however much life experience they have. We are supposed to examine an issue from all sides, look at different probes/datasets/indicators, and create a holistic picture of a situation or phenomenon that one can’t see when they are in the middle of it all. We are supposed to step outside of the fray and analyze it.

In recent years, however, a large share of academics (including especially sociologists) have abandoned this idea—not only the approach of systematically analyzing and reviewing a phenomenon from all sides, but also doing things impartially/objectively.

Sociologists’ Views on Objectivity: What the Data Say

(One might argue that arms-length/disinterested analysis is somewhat different from objectivity: the former might be a kind of orientation or mindset, whereas the latter might be the actual reality of whether that orientation is followed through on. That might be an artificial distinction (you can also use an objective mindset). Either way, I’m going to treat them as strongly related, if not entirely interchangeable, though. My main focus is the orientation/mindset one uses as a way to ensure our work is as objective as it can be, so I’ll discuss objectivity since I think it’s relevant: if you don’t believe in objectivity, you’re not going to bother with the mindset of trying to be objective, while people who don’t believe in objectivity also seem to lean into their priors and preferences.)

In his 2013 book, Neil Gross wrote about the divide in sociology in how scholars thought about objectivity. (He had conducted an interview study of 57 social scientists, including sociologists, and a broad sample of 1400 academics, but on pp. 198-200, he discussed the sociology results.) Interestingly, he used the “professional” v. “activist” labels (mirroring Burawoy’s (2001) professional v. public v. critical v. applied sociologist labels). Gross explained,

“Among sociology interviewees, nearly two-thirds said they did think critically about the notion of objectivity, but only one-third told us objectivity is an illusion. The latter tended to be in either the humanistic or activist camp or both and were remarkably similar in their epistemological views to professors of literature—the difference being that their perspectives seem informed more by ‘standpoint theories,’ arguing that scholars’ views on the social world are inevitably shaped by their race, class, and gender, than by more philosophically sophisticated intellectual approaches.” (Gross 2013, 198-199)

He went on to say that objectivity is generally viewed as an ideal to strive for, but that sociologists also understood the difficulties in perfectly achieving it (200).

Akresh (2017) interviewed 27 sociology department chairs/heads. While the author hadn’t directly asked about objectivity, the chairs/heads said enough that they appeared divided across three broad categories: 3 departments were generally oriented against positivism (meaning the department was one where most would general agree “that objectivity is either not possible or not desirable”), 11 were generally positivist in their orientation (meaning the department was one where most would general agree “research should be objective”), and 13 were mixed (the interviewee did not specify which orientation was preferred).

In a survey of sociologists published in 2018, only 47% of sociologists polled agreed that a “Dispassionate attitude in research [is] important for accuracy” (a whole 39% disagreed, and the balance neither agreed nor disagreed) (Horowitz et al. 2018, 468). Even higher numbers thought that sociology should have a moral and political mission: “Sociology should analyze and transcend oppression” (59% agree, 21% disagree); “I support Marx’s dictum to change the world” (62% agree, 15% disagree). Comparable numbers also thought these goals didn’t interfere with good research: 51% disagreed (and 35% agreed) that “Sociology [is] undermined by excessive activism” and only 44% thought “Advocacy and research should be separate for objectivity” (and 43% disagreed). In a podcast about the article, one commentator thought these numbers were surprising—they thought more sociologists would agree that researchers could be advocates and that having a moral mission wouldn’t be incompatible with research. In the time since, I think the field has, on the whole, radicalized even further and I suspect we’d see even lower numbers supporting the importance of researching at arm’s length.

I would argue that by giving up on disinterested observation and analysis, we are giving up on one of the hallmarks of professionalism and retreating from professional sociology. And at this point, I suspect that view is not controversial with a sizeable plurality of the field—the one that would cheer the demise of objectivity and “professional sociology”—while another sizeable plurality might actually argue that you can be both a professional sociologist without being impartial, objective, dispassionate, etc., and that you have a moral obligation to do so. I’d say they are wrong.

Professionalism and Stepping Back

Similar to those who refer to “professional sociology” in distinction to activist versions of sociology, I’ve increasingly been thinking about professionalism as an antidote to the sorts of biases that can reduce the credibility of our work and our expertise more generally. But first, what do I mean by professionalism?

A few months ago, I was interested in understanding a late-19th C state statute that stated that prison guards should maintain professionalism while meting out corporal punishment (e.g., whipping). What does it look like to maintain professionalism when you’re carrying out a fairly intense punishment (both to give and receive), particularly when it’s not something ordered by a court but determined by a guard, who serves, in this case, as judge, jury, and executioner for a given infraction. I suspect the case the statute is trying to avoid is a guard, carrying a whip, gets pissed at a prisoner for breaking some rules and suddenly starts whipping him; perhaps in his anger, he whips the prisoner excessively (either harder than he should or more lashes than are appropriate). This could be contrasted with another situation the prisoner would be taken to the warden, the warden would determine the prisoner should be whipped based on his infraction, and then the guard ordered to carry it out. I’ve also written about the professionalization of prison administrators in the nineteenth century, and the meaning of professionalization was more about expertise rather than how punishment was carried out. I was curious to figure out what it meant in this context.

Reading several takes from the time, I came away with the understanding that what contemporaries meant was a guard shouldn’t visibly or audibly enjoy the act of whipping. No matter how much a prisoner had been annoying or threatening or even causing injury, the guard should carry out the punishment without glee, taunting, or an obvious sense of revenge. This makes a lot of sense: on the one hand, it’s practical (you don’t want a guard to get carried away, thinking about how they were wronged and then going too far in meting out their justice); on the other hand, it’s also sensible (since the Enlightenment (or thereabouts), there’s been something unseemly about the idea of taking pleasure at another’s misery, especially their physical pain; plus, doing so in this cultural context can reduce legitimacy, which could undermine the viability of incarceration as a form of punishment).

We see this same commitment today. At modern execution rituals, the witnesses (including the crime victim’s family) are discouraged from shouting things like, “Burn in hell!” at the last minute. It’s supposed to be a somber affair guided by law, not emotion. (Indeed, the condemned’s family is not supposed to mourn too loudly, either.) Even when judges hand down the sentence, they are supposed to be serious and not shout or scream at the person (including the emotive personal statements judges sometimes add); if they do, it’s something to comment on and even question because it’s not part of the courtroom decorum and what’s befitting the professionalism of a judge.

This analogy holds up in all sorts of contexts: A professor shouldn’t gloat when failing a student who was a pain in the ass; instead, it’s supposed to be a solemn, unfortunate occasion that feels like a collective failure. When we do fail a student, we are doing our job, not indulgently exercising power within our little fiefdom—that’s pretty gross and illegitimate. A medical professional dealing with a refractory patient who hurls epithets at them is not supposed to say something clever and mean and jab a needle into their arm when they need to sedate them; instead, they’re supposed to maintain professionalism, administer the dosage as they would with any other patient, and deal with their emotions privately, after they have left the room. To take a more low-brow example, look at the reaction when Tyra Banks, host of and judge in America’s Next Top Model, yelled at a contestant after eliminating her from the show. It didn’t fit the calm/serious/somber persona she had cultivated during the cutting phase of the episode. It doesn’t matter that Tyra had a point (the would be model wasn’t taking her opportunity seriously), that wasn’t the way to deliver that message. It wasn’t professional.

In general, professionals are supposed to keep their emotions in check when they are doing their jobs. Indeed, I’d say there’s a general sense that if you can’t maintain that professionalism in some context, you shouldn’t be the one to do that part of the job, and you should remove yourself from the situation (and if you don’t, someone else should remove you); if that act is central to your job, you shouldn’t do the job. Yes, we all have bad days and maybe even lose our shit from time to time (hopefully not); but when that does happen, usually, it breeds censure (formal or informal) and, if it repeats, job loss.

(Un)learning Professionalism as Academics

This detachment, this clinical stance, is something we’re not trained in as academics or researchers beyond maybe getting assigned Weber’s essay on objectivity (if you’re lucky). Many of these soft skills are things we are “socialized” into, essentially copying what we see around us, or hopefully taking cues from those we respect when they nudge us (gently or curtly) in different directions if we misstep. For a while, there were some efforts to make explicit this “hidden curriculum,” but my impression is that wave has passed (or maybe it’s just because I’m don’t scroll bluesky and the folks remaining on twitter don’t talk about such things—I don’t know).

But even among those older efforts to teach the hidden curriculum, we didn’t see a lot of talk of professionalism. Instead, professionalism was sort of avoided at that time because it was associated with allegedly (race, gender, and class) biased understandings of self-presentation that were generally viewed as incompatible with progressive values. For example, telling a grad student they needed to dress up for a conference was considered tone deaf if your student either doesn’t have money to buy fancy clothes or didn’t come from the type of background where people dressed up and finds formal wear uncomfortable. Instead, the advice was to “dress comfortably” rather than “dress the way you are expected to.” Likewise, if you had unnatural hair dye, tattoos, piercings, etc., the advice was “you be you” in contrast to the older advice of temporarily re-dying your hair to a natural color, covering up the tats, and removing visible atypical piercings (just as there were conversations about whether or not to wear a wedding ring, depending on your sex) to increase your chances of a job offer. (Now, the culture has shifted sufficiently that for many departments, that advice really is unnecessary, which I tell my students when they ask for this advice.) To take another example on this front, my (continued) advice to students from modest backgrounds who are nervous about making a misstep at a job talk dinner (when they are not used to eating at fancy restaurants) is to be agentic and watch YouTube videos about how one is expected to behave at a restaurant (e.g., what fork do you use) or to go on a practice dinner. However, I’ve been told this is not good advice—some students appreciate it, but I’ve been informed that the better advice was to rage against the inequalities in academia, which is set up for cishet white men with housewives and upper-class upbringings.

In this context (of the last decade or so), saying you need to be more “professional” was increasingly viewed as a dog whistle for white, heterosexual, upper-class values. So you can imagine that talking about what was necessary for “professional sociology” wasn’t going to go over well.

While professionalization advice was largely absent, the opposite advice was becoming popular. Indeed, the socialization process generally took a turn when social media became such a big part of our lives and academic culture c. 2014-2023+ (it’s arguably a smaller part now since a lot of people permanently logged off in 2023, but I’d say it’s still pretty well institutionalized and influential in large segments of the field). For those of us Very Online People (yes, including me), publicly emoting became all the rage—and it was often rewarded not just with likes and retweets, but expanding your professional network and getting the sorts of goodies we seek. A viral post could land a radio interview or an introduction to a famous person. There were even a few high-profile cases of academics getting jobs or side gigs after becoming social media darlings within their fields.

This period was also very powerful in shaping a common culture among the Very Online crowd, where we were trained to think and talk in particular ways (and publicly or privately chided accordingly when we deviated—once I got a DM because my use of very progressive terminology was not progressive enough). The idea that groups aren’t a monolith and that your demographics do not dictate your views was a celebrated trope, but not always one that people followed in practice. Instead, there was One Right Way to refer to groups of people (who have diverse views about how they want to be called) and One Right Way to be an ally to groups of people (who have diverse views about what they want and need). And the emotional register inched up and up as new ideas became sacred and deviants had to be collectively condemned to show your rightness and membership in this crowd (in a classic Durkheimian pattern).

I’d argue this process has continued even in our more low-key era of social media. When I’ve sampled posts on bluesky, I’ve been struck by how many faculty engage in public namecalling, including about people’s appearances (e.g., “Fuckers,” “Goons,” “Big Orange Brother,” “ICE Barbie,” “Agent Orange”). Expressing outrage in this way seems to be the modal stance for some—and yes, I often use my social media to express my discontent, shock, confusion, disillusionment, and occasionally joy, but I try to mix in analysis and I avoid (or I hope I avoid) ad hominem attacks and namecalling. But back to the point….

Just as peers are stronger influences than parents, the social media landscape became a more powerful influence than an academic advisor (although many advisors were also getting and giving the same influence). It was a time when many of us had far more contact with people online than we did with our local colleagues in person (many of whom we interacted with more on social media than in person)—and this is still true, too; it’s just this era (c. 2012-2023) was the time when that really shifted to become the new reality. And the lesson we were taking away from this common culture was largely to fight for “social justice” (defined narrowly), mostly by calling out and expressing our outrage at injustice (as we defined it).

This trend of online socialization maps neatly onto the growing focus on “woke” topics in publications (a trend that started well before but that picked up over the last decade and then even more in the last five years as activism became even more socially acceptable in research among academics) and the growing explicit normativity and APOV statements in publications. (See prior posts for various measures of this in AJS publications. See my normativity piece for a more qualitative data looking at punishment studies. See books by Musa Al-Gharbi, Bradley Campbell, and Tim Urban for multi-disciplinary and cross-society examples of the institutionalization of this style of thinking.)

That doesn’t mean social media was the only cause of this shift—I’m sure you could find people who weren’t active online who also gave into these trends—or even the main cause. Indeed, there are other causes we could discuss, including the polarization of society and politics more generally as both political parties became increasingly reactionary, taking stances that were the opposite of whatever Obama wanted or the opposite of whatever Trump wanted. We could also talk about the changing selection mechanisms for who went to college, grad school, and went on to become a faculty member. But I do think social media is probably the most salient explanation and a really important factor in explaining the rapid cultural changes in sociology, accelerating trends that had already been in play long before social media.

Summary and Coming Up

This post introduced the relationship between objectivity and professionalism, how objectivity or a kind of clinical distance is the source of our expertise as social scientists, the low status of objectivity in sociology, what I mean by professionalism (and how it involves a kind of clinical distance), and the decline of professionalism in sociology (and likely other social sciences) and with it the clinical distance that gives us status as experts. (I’m not sure if my slipping back and forth between objectivity, clinical distance, and professionalism is sufficiently coherent, but it made sense to me at the time.) In my next post, I’m going to offer my advice to researchers on how to introduce that clinical distance into their research, even when they have strong feelings about what they are studying.