In Defense of David Gilmour

I suppose the title of this blog is rather misleading.  I don’t intend to defend Mr. Gilmour’s outright dismissal of women writers, or Canadian writers, or Chinese writers.  But better thinkers than I have written posts that range from outrage to disappointment to sadness--my favourite ends with a picture of the author giving Mr. Gilmour the finger; Mr. Gilmour has a narrow-minded approach to literature.  For me, the discussions boil down to two tweets:  Jonathan Ball suggested (jokingly, obviously) that we should cut Mr. Gilmour some slack since he wrote “Comfortably Numb.”  Zachariah Wells tweeted in response, “Comfortably Dumb?”

I was going to start this post with an apology on behalf of white men who don’t think like Mr. Gilmour.  As expected, that is not necessary at all.  Many of those lambasting Mr. Gilmour are, in fact, very similar to Mr. Gilmour, in terms of their age, gender, and race.  Those who do not share Mr. Gilmour’s privileged position are not blaming old white guys for Mr. Gilmour’s views.  They are not blaming the University of Toronto.  Everyone seems to be placing the blame squarely on the shoulders of the responsible party:  the system that allows for someone to think that reading and teaching books that reflect only one’s own identity is a great way to teach students.  Some might name that system the patriarchy.

However, I have read numerous responses to Mr. Gilmour’s ill-conceived words (and ill-conceived perceptions of education and teaching) that condemn him for teaching only those books about which he is passionate.  And here is the only defense I can muster for Mr. Gilmour.  I had to reflect on my “Introduction to Language and Literature” course because that course could be sub-titled “Some of Jay’s Favourite Texts.”  The books I teach to students (many of whom are in my class only to meet a requirement for a Management degree) are books that I love; they are also books that I love to teach.  In fact, I have previously made an effort to teach books I actively hate in order to let students know that it is perfectly acceptable to study and read literature that you dislike.  I actually thought I would make a great scholar of Victorian novels because I despise them so perfectly.

One of the novels I made myself teach, despite my hatred for it, was Wuthering Heights.  I hate that book because it seems to me like a tragic episode of Three’s Company:  there’s a misunderstanding, but instead of it being wrapped up in a half-hour with Mr. Roper doing or saying something ridiculous and oblivious, it turns out the misunderstanding makes characters mope about on the moor for days-on-end crying into the sodden wind, “Woe is me,” and then trying to destroy others’ happiness because of a simple misunderstanding.  “Just TALK to each other!” I want to scream at the characters.  Anyway, my hatred of that book has nothing to do with the fact that it was written by a woman or that it does not reflect my values or my own identity.  How do I know this?  Because every term I teach A Room of One’s Own to one hundred first-year students.  I teach it because I love it; I teach it because of the fifty students who hate it, and the forty-nine students who come to love (or at least respect) it, there is one student, every term, whose life is changed because of it.  I would suggest that Mr. Gilmour read that book; it might speak to him in his moment of what can only be grave doubt.  But I mean REALLY read it.  Try to empathize.

It’s a difficult text to read; it’s a difficult text to teach to seventeen- and eighteen-year old students.  But it’s a book I love.  And I teach it because I love it.  I teach it because it’s important, not because it was written by a person I admire, or a person I want to be.  In fact, one of the few things I hope my students take away from my introductory class is that we must separate the author from the text; we want to look at the text as a cultural artifact, not as some deep expression of the author who “really” meant to say something else, or “really” meant what was written on the page.  That is not to say that, at more advanced stages, that social, historical, biographical information is irrelevant; it is only to say that I want students in first year to address the text first.

With that said, Mr. Gilmour, I invite you to take my “Introduction to Language and Literature” class, in which I state that we do not need to “identify with” the narrator or the protagonist because they are fictional characters.  I also suggest that we can read to understand and value difference, rather than have our own identities reflected back onto us.  Literature is so much more than a looking-glass.  Really, I suggest you read Woolf more closely.

I have read some responses to Mr. Gilmour's interview and abysmal "apology" that can be summarized with the following manufactured tweet: “So, we can now condemn Women’s Studies profs for not teaching men?” I will not develop this point further tonight, but I will say that this blog post is not relevant if Mr. Gilmour’s courses are called “The Representation of Middle-Aged White Male Sexuality in Literature” or “Old White Guys’ Sexual Hangups” or “I Will Stun You with a Scene of a Man Eating a Used Tampon.”  Somehow, I think my response is still relevant.  Also, I expect that Women’s Studies profs might include a good number of the authors Mr. Gilmour includes on his syllabus.  Mostly as evidence.

Be passionate about what you teach, Mr. Gilmour.  Just try to allow your passion to extend beyond your own skin.  But, Mr. Gilmour, thank you for making me re-examine my course syllabi and allow me to see even more changes that I can make to allow more voices to enter my classroom than just my own.  My book order is over-due because of you.  I and my future students thank you for that.

We also have to remember that film is different from literature.  So, if you will excuse me, I am about to watch the film of me writing this blog post.