Why do students still want Jordan Peterson to
tell them how to live?
I shadowed Peterson at two events in Oxford and
Cambridge, where the anti-woke culture warrior received an unexpectedly warm
welcome.
1 December
2021
By Freddie
Hayward
At 5pm on
24 November Jordan Peterson entered the debating chamber at the Cambridge Union
to enthusiastic applause and whoops of admiration. Such a welcome was perhaps
surprising given the psychologist’s recent history with Cambridge University.
Two years ago, it rescinded an offer of a visiting fellowship after Peterson
was pictured alongside a man wearing a T-shirt that read “I’m a proud
Islamophobe”. The students’ union welcomed the decision.
The
university’s position has since changed. Peterson’s Cambridge Union appearance
was the final event in a successful trip of academic seminars and lectures.
Arif Ahmed, a philosophy lecturer who was involved in the visit, told me that
university proctors attended Peterson’s lecture on 23 November to show support
for freedom of speech. Their attendance was more symbolic than practical – the
only disturbance being from one woman reportedly shouting “feminism” as she approached
the stage dressed as a lobster, a reference to Peterson’s bestselling book 12
Rules for Life.
The student
body also seemed to welcome this scourge of woke culture and uncompromising
exponent of free speech. As far as I could see, there were no protests against
Peterson’s appearance at the Union. The reception was extended to his family,
too. Mikhaila – his adult daughter and a prominent podcaster – was asked for a
selfie, while another young man reached across to shake her hand. As Peterson
reached the podium, a pair of musicians dressed in velvet stood up to give a
slightly surreal performance of Henry Purcell’s “Music for a While” with guitar
accompaniment, which was organised by Peterson himself. With the music
concluded, Peterson thanked the room for coming and acknowledged the warm
welcome. “Pretty good for a ‘magical super-Nazi’,” he joked, to resounding
laughter.
Questions
were opened to the audience and people shouted to catch his attention. Their
interest in Peterson’s opinions approached reverence. When the microphone
eventually came to them, some students began by thanking Peterson for the
positive impact he’d had on their lives. One man sitting in the chamber’s
gallery asked: “What’s your most important advice to someone who’s going to be
a parent soon?” Earlier, a woman had asked for his strategy on goal-setting,
while another wondered what Peterson wanted to be remembered for. Peterson
delivered his answers in his characteristic style: so meticulously precise that
it risks becoming convoluted. (At one point, he used the word “habit” before
correcting himself with “habitual inclination”.) As the event progressed, he
warmed up. His gesticulations became more pronounced. He’d swivel in his chair
to address those behind him. By the final question, Peterson’s voice was
cracking with emotion as he spoke about the joy of having children.
At the end
of the talk, I hurried upstairs and slipped into a room with Peterson before
his bodyguards closed the doors on the crowd amassing outside. Dressed in a
suit, waistcoat and closely-knotted tie, Peterson said he couldn’t see how his
trip “could possibly go better”. He said the last time he was in Cambridge in
2018 the atmosphere was also friendly. “I don’t think it was as friendly as it
was today,” he said. “But it was a very small number of people who disinvited
me [last time].”
Peterson
came to prominence in 2016 after challenging a Canadian law that proposed to
protect “gender identity or expression” from discrimination. He argued it
threatened free speech. Discussions about freedom of speech on campus often
conflate North American campus politics with those in Britain; Peterson thinks
“the same malaise, in some sense, affects the West everywhere”. “There are
local differences, but… the issues have become globalised in some sense. And I
do think that a fair bit of this has to do with the postmodern conundrum.”
The
postmodern conundrum?
“The
postmodern conundrum is a problem of perception,” he replied. “We don’t know
how we reduce the infinite number of things we could perceive to those things
that we do perceive.”
“I don’t
like where we’re located here,” interrupted a bodyguard stood by the door.
“It’s getting more congested in that hallway.” We moved to another room where
students lined up grasping copies of Peterson’s book Beyond Order: 12 More
Rules for Life. Contrary to reports that his followers are mostly young men,
there was an equal mix of men and women, each effusive in their admiration and
respect. “Is it always like this?” I asked his wife, Tammy. “Yes, he’s a very
compassionate person,” she said. Later, I asked Peterson whether I could join
the post-event dinner. He said he had no objections. Keir Bradwell – the
affable president of the Union – obliged. I sat in the Cambridge Union’s old
dining room beside Tammy and opposite Mikhaila. Jordan was at the head of the
table.
In some
ways, it felt like any family dinner. They discussed future work plans and
Jordan told Tammy about that morning’s seminar. The Petersons eat only meat –
in part because of the diet’s supposedly miraculous effect on Mikhaila’s
autoimmune disorders. Jordan had two steaks – nothing else – covered in salt.
Mikhaila and Tammy had lamb. I don’t usually eat meat, but I thought it was a
bit late to start specifying dietary requirements. Peterson asked his friend
whether he’d like to say grace and a short Latin version was uttered.
Peterson
said to me that religion is a feeling or experience rather than a statement
about the existence of God. Religion manifests in the deep sense of awe and the
infinite one might experience when reading literature or gazing upon a sunset,
he said. He thought that technically there was no difference between great
literature and religious experience.
If religion
is about deep biological experience, couldn’t you say that sex is religious,
too? It should be, but it depends on how well it’s done, he said. As we
chatted, Peterson appeared so absorbed in the conversation that he didn’t seem
to notice as the table emptied.
The next
day, Peterson was in Oxford to speak at the Union. When he entered the chamber,
the applause was met with a boo, joined by another, then another. In response,
the defiant crowd – many had queued for two hours to see him – stood up and
applauded with greater intensity. With his hands clasped in front of him,
Peterson stood on the podium with his eyes cast downwards. For the next 30
minutes, he expounded on “the imitation of the divine ideal”, elucidating some
of the themes we’d discussed the previous night. “Men and women are not exactly
the same,” Peterson responded to one question on whether his more trenchant
views distracted from his academic work. “On average, and you may have noticed
this, women are slightly shorter than men. Well, is that controversial? Is that
a social construct?” This was met with laughter. “It’s not funny. It’s not
funny,” he protested. “That’s sexual dimorphism.” One woman told me afterwards
that she was frustrated that no one had asked Peterson why he was a “racist and
sexist”. He has many detractors, yet as I left that evening’s drinks reception,
Peterson was perched on a table, surrounded by students. They did not want to
ask him about politics but something more profound: how to live their lives.
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