The mode of discourse I treat as characteristic of the “therapeutic culture in America” has a long tradition in writings exploring the early success of Freudian psychoanalytic theories and therapy. As suggested by Rieff (1990 [1960]), Freud is America’s great teacher who introduced the psychological man of the twentieth century (8). As a movement, he claimed, psychoanalysis was fortunate enough to achieve a counterrevolution in America. And in daily life, “to become a psychological man is thus to become kinder to the whole self, the private parts as well as the public, the formerly inferior as well as the formerly superior” (5). Or as suggested by Steadman Rice (2004: 113): “the therapeutic ethic constructed around the conviction that human nature is intrinsically benevolent, positive, and constructive.” Another outsider, Illouz (2008), commented recently: “Psychoanalysis [in America] enjoyed not only the authority of a prestigious medical profession but also the popularity among the ‘lay’ public” (35); “the therapeutic discourse has become a cultural form, shaping and organizing experience, as well as a cultural resource with which to make sense of the self and social relations” (56), “making private selfhood a narrative told and consumed publicly” (239).
I hope my subject of interest is not associated with the staged shows on television, those displaying the stripping of the inner personal lives of volunteers in front of innumerable one-night anonymous spectators in the studio theater and beyond, such as on Oprah Winfrey’s programs. I consider these staged performances a new form of the old freak shows that paraded on stage unfortunate disfigured humans such as the Elephant Man. Kaminer (1992) and Plummer (1995) have critically reviewed the confessional television talk shows as well as the American culture of recovery groups as centers of sexual storytellers offering “instant” therapies.
Perhaps paradoxically, the smaller, closer-knit, and far more communal Israeli society does not foster, even among close friends, the confessional-intimate atmosphere I witnessed. Although Israelis are assumed to have no inhibitions about inquiring into the lives of others and are well known for their straight-talk (dugri) style of conversation (Katriel 1986), nevertheless, they are reluctant to expose personal intimate matters. This hesitancy extends to the professional realm as well. The ethos that promotes both individual self-assertion and enduring social commitments (e.g., Dominguez 1989; Furman 1994; Illouz 2008) operates against Israelis seeking therapeutic help by way of revealing their true selves and as a strategy to improve their social skills.
Given this background, I wondered what explained the free sharing of personal information and the moving expressions of empathy that I witnessed in all the groups observed. Did the common sexual orientation connect the participants and heighten the emotional resonance of their disclosures? It seemed so. But still, one ponders over what it is that leads mature, educated, and frequently quite successful people to seek trust and friendship in the company of strangers gathered at often run-down buildings for lay-led meetings conducted without professional direction. I wondered, like Umberto Eco (1986) in Disney World, what the visitor takes away from these experiences. Is it fantasy, or is it something real? And if the latter, what is the reality produced in these meetings? In sum, I repeat Halperin’s archetypal query, “what do gay men want?” albeit addressing a field of behavior that only marginally involves intense sexual activity.
My purpose is to reveal a missing block in the vast corpus of research in the “house of anthropological queer studies” (Boellstorff 2007). I consider my observations and interpretation of affective relationships displayed in voluntary fellowships, in specific issue-oriented groups composed of strangers, or among circles of close friends as essential components of the dynamics that impact gay identity and constitute gay community life. I develop a perspective on modern intimacies (Plummer 2003), more specifically on affective solidarity, also explored by feminist and lesbian researchers (J. Dean 1996; Cvetkovich 2003). It exposes a powerful notion of spontaneous fraternity—communitas experiences, in anthropological parlance—among people who express a notion of solidarity and mutual trust without the constraints of earlier acquaintance and regardless of socioeconomic markers dividing them in daily life. This journey among the various gay arenas of mostly dialogical sociability offers a deep entry into gay subjectivity.
I consider that fraternity endeavor a vehicle for specific gay selfhood confirmation beyond a general accommodation with one’s gay/lesbian identity. That deep-felt personal impact distinguishes the groups I present from most other “small groups” popular in American society. Based on a vast national survey, Wuthnow (1994: 4) concluded that following the tradition of voluntary associations, four out of every ten Americans belong to a small group that meets regularly and provides caring and support for its members. Nearly two-thirds of all small groups have some connection to the quest for spirituality, and the rest are geared to more specific needs, such as helping individuals cope with addictions
I hope my observations might illuminate some essential issues affecting contemporary gay life. Whatever the answers, however, given the direction of globalization, it is to be expected that the phenomena I recorded will find their way to Israel. A cross-cultural study of social activities in Tel Aviv as compared with our observations at the New York Center might suggest whether, and to what extent, this is actually happening. I have already made a tentative assessment of that trend (2003, 2010).
I believe my portrayals and reflections will be of interest to both gay and nongay audiences, offering a wider view of the urban gay experience—with its alternative spaces and novel patterns of sociability—than the more familiar and limited ethnographic exploration of the gay scene of sex and recreation. It extends and elaborates on Bech’s (1997) rendering of the existential conditions and opportunities for sociability emerging in contemporary urban gay life.
A final comment: most of the chapters present my observations in groups that brought together gay men. Naturally, I could not attend all-women/lesbian meetings. But in three chapters, which introduce the association of bisexuals, sexual compulsives, and religious congregations, lesbians are strongly represented among the participants and occupy prominent leadership roles. In order to maintain anonymity, all names and identifying features of the participants mentioned in the book, except for the well-known religious leaders at CBST and MCC, have been changed.
A Personal Note
I assume that some colleagues among my cohort in academia who are familiar with the work in earlier stages of my career have been puzzled by my attraction in the last two decades to gay studies. However, I am not connected in any serious way, professional or social, to the network of “queer anthropologists.” As I remember, I expressed a lone opposing voice at the meeting of the Anthropology Research Group on Homosexuality (ARGOH) when it was decided to change its name to SOLGA (Society of Lesbian and Gay Anthropologists). I thought the decision might deter other researchers uncomfortable with that personal “tribal” designation. I have been equally unhappy with other AAA sections and networks that represent “minorities” and “identities” of all sorts (Jewish included).
Nevertheless, I did not relinquish my association with that group of researchers (in 2010 renamed again: AQA—Association for Queer Anthropology). A few among its leading figures have favorably reviewed my CBST ethnography and support my positions in other academic venues. However, my work has not entered the “official,” though unwritten, list of “texts of the tribe” (usually recipients of the Benedict Prize), and I remain an outsider in that socioacademic ambience of identity politics. So in a similar vein as my query in the above pages “what do gay people want?” I try to explain, not to excuse or legitimate, what made me depart from the “mainstream” research venues of my earlier projects and immerse myself in a subject that has become a field strongly associated with the researcher’s own personal identity and political agenda.
As I mentioned earlier, my engagement in the gay field started with the chance invitation to attend a CBST