I first learned about the intense costs of researching sensitive issues on a Sunday morning in June 2012. My article on the effects of same-sex relationships on adult children was just published when critiques started pouring in. It seemed my work had been leaked, and a campaign against me was underway. A colleague had warned me, “Mark, your life is about to change.” He was right.
The aftermath was hard for me to face, and it took me years to put the experience into words. My story reflects a troubling trend in the scientific community: if you study LGBTQ topics, you better support certain conclusions. Otherwise, you may find yourself facing attacks that have little to do with science.
Almost immediately, I began receiving hostile emails mixed with some genuine inquiries. Within eleven days of my study being published, a letter demanding its withdrawal was circulated. This letter, written before anyone even saw my data, claimed “serious concerns.” Just three weeks later, my university informed me I was under investigation for scientific misconduct, pressured by a pseudonymous blogger. He went as far as stalking my wife online and sending group emails to my colleagues about my research. The administration was rattled and requested access to my work devices and emails, including personal ones.
This person’s intimidation tactics convinced my university’s integrity officer that action was necessary. Despite having peer-reviewed my research methodology, I faced an inquiry simply because my findings contrasted with popular beliefs: stable homes with a married mother and father were optimal for children. If I had claimed otherwise, perhaps the backlash would have been different.
A few weeks later, I found myself in a small conference room, answering questions drafted by my accuser. A group of administrators listened, advising the provost on my case. Eventually, he decided to drop the investigation, but the damage was done.
The journal editor then requested an audit of my article, appointing someone highly biased against my work. This “audit” came back with the conclusion that my study shouldn’t have been published, even though it acknowledged no breaches in editorial procedures. The media frenzy continued against me.
As the weeks passed, I chose to stop discussing my study publicly and instead focused on addressing genuine criticisms in a follow-up article. I released my data for public review, a step not typically required for funded research but a necessary one in my view. Unfortunately, many studies in this field hide their data from scrutiny, creating an unacceptable double standard.
Two years later, in 2014, the cycling accusations resurfaced. A department chair tried to undermine a favorable review I received after my tenure. This initiated another investigation, and I found myself drowning in reports and responses, taking a toll on my career and peace of mind.
The fallout from my research left me branded as a homophobe and a conservative hack. While I sought to gather data, I was accused of using science to attack same-sex marriage. Ironically, I wasn’t even familiar with legal terms like “amicus brief” when I started my study. However, as I learned more about the legal landscape, I felt compelled to contribute to cases like Windsor and Obergefell to protect my research from being misused against me.
My work had real consequences. During a court case, my department chair’s hostile letter against me was read to a judge. The judge mischaracterized the testimonies of experts, which continued to haunt me in subsequent discussions about my research outcomes.
A five-year delay in my promotion to full professor followed the backlash from my research. By the time my promotion finally went through, it felt like a hard-won battle against negative perceptions among my colleagues.
Despite these challenges, there were moments of unexpected humor. My identity was confused with a deceased publisher, and well-meaning fans cheered me on, oblivious to the reality of my situation. Those reaching out didn’t understand the heavier toll that attention can take when it’s fueled by animosity.
Throughout all this, I have realized that studying sex and gender is often fraught with bias and politics. While some research genuinely seeks the truth, many studies reflect prevailing societal narratives rather than objective findings. There is a troubling trend of double standards in how topics are approached; some research is celebrated, while others face immense scrutiny simply for challenging popular views.
My aim remains the same: to strip away biases and seek the truth of human behavior, no matter how complex that truth might be. This drive motivates me to look deeper than prevailing narratives, even if it means facing opposition.
If you look at current trends, minority stress has become a mainstream area of study in LGBTQ research. It suggests that societal stigma causes significant stress, leading to poor outcomes for LGBTQ individuals. However, I worry that this perspective often ignores alternative explanations for these disparities. The focus on minority stress has led to an explosion of research, but we must remain vigilant about not missing other important factors.
In the summer of 2022, the academic journal Nature issued new rules around research ethics, cautioning that studies could inadvertently stigmatize groups. This guidance shifts the focus from objective truth-seeking to preserving social rights and avoiding potentially harmful conclusions. Such changes could stifle the ability to speak truthfully about uncomfortable findings.
Ultimately, I remain dedicated to exploring complex truths in social science. I believe that honesty about human behavior must endure, no matter how politically painful it might be for some. Academia should not shy away from difficult conversations about reality.
