Jordan B Peterson is professor of psychology at the University of Toronto and "internet controversialist". He is very macho and was raised in "the frigid wastelands of Northern Alberta". He enjoys flying stunt planes and has little time for snowflakes, Marxists, postmodernists or gender fluidity. The subtitle of his book, 12 Rules For Life, is An Antidote To Chaos – for him, order is masculine and chaos is feminine – and 80% of his online following is male. He is 55, married with children, and Christian. Canada’s media have called him an "intellectual snake oil salesman" and "prophet for profit".
His book, which his publishers say provides “profound and practical principles for how to live a meaningful life”, has been likened by one reviewer to "being shouted at by a rugby coach in a sarong ". But could this be what we need? Do we need to pull ourselves together, stop quibbling, and get a grip? Having ploughed through almost 400 pages of -ologies – psychology, theology, anthropology, mythology, zoology – allow me to road test the 12 Rules for you. How does the world according to “YouTube’s new father figure” work for a feminist?
The brains of loser lobsters dissolve. Don’t be a loser lobster – stand up straight, project dominance. Women love dominance, says Peterson, which is why Fifty Shades of Grey was a bestseller. “To stand up straight with your shoulders back is to accept the terrible responsibilities of life, with eyes wide open,” he writes. “It means deciding to voluntarily transform the chaos of potential into the realities of habitable order…and accepting the end of the unconscious paradise of childhood.”
I think he is talking to millennial males here, but I have so got this. I stand so straight my shoulder blades almost meet in the middle. As a self-employed freelancer balancing a single parent household on my nose, my entire existence is not so much transformation of chaos into order, but ongoing chaos management; the second I stop accepting the terrible responsibilities of teenagers, dogs, tax returns and gas bills, everything collapses. So don’t talk to me about responsibility, Jordan B Peterson. When it comes to manning up, I am a silverback gorilla. With ovaries.
The pursuit of happiness is futile. You need to consider instead "what would be truly good for you". "Don’t underestimate the power of vision and direction," he says, quoting Nietzsche: "He whose life has a why can bear almost any how."
Understood. I should choose direction and meaning over cash and glory. So I shall continue to write novels that may or may not sell, because there is more personal satisfaction in these pursuits than being an arms dealer or a hedge fund manager. Although far less money.
This is almost self-explanatory but Peterson's argument in a nutshell is surround yourself with people who will support your "upward aim", not people who want to do the opposite of what you want.
Basically avoid the type of person that would offer a former smoker a cigarette, or a former alcoholic a beer. They will drag you down. Did we really need to be told that?
Peterson urges us to avoid the compare and despair loop. “You no longer have to be envious…you no longer have to be frustrated, because you have learned to aim low and be patient… You are less concerned with the actions of other people, because you have plenty to do yourself.”
Fifteen years ago I was a fat, depressed, celibate, unpublished, alcoholic smoker. Today I am a fat, happy, non-celibate, published, non-alcoholic ex-smoker. That’s all the comparison I will ever need. As you can also see from the words ‘fifteen’ and ‘years’, it didn’t happen overnight – transformation, unless you’re a werewolf, takes time. You don’t get it from reading a book of rules promising to deliver you from ‘chaos’.
Peterson dislikes free-range parenting and says that "parents should come in pairs". Don’t, he says, be the mummy “out to produce a little God Emperor of the Universe.” That, he suggests, is "the unstated goal of many a mother, including many who consider themselves advocates for full gender equality". Today’s parents, who should be "agents of discipline, order and conventionality" are "terrified by their children".
As a mother AND a lone parent, my initial reaction contains many swear words. Although the core idea – don’t let your kids be brats or everyone will hate them and they’ll grow up to be unself-aware losers – is basic common sense, the idea of being “an agent of order and conventionality” sounds like something straight out of Stepford. No thanks, pal. This does not mean my kids have ever been allowed to run screaming through Tesco, throw homework out the window, or smoke weed in their rooms (mine have done all of these things, but never more than once...as far as I am aware).
I’m starting to lose patience here. Perhaps he is using the word ‘perfect’ ironically, although I doubt it. Plus it’s all so damned biblical – “do only things that you could speak of with honour" – well, yes. Or as we’d say in the 21st century, don’t be a dick.
My house – literally and metaphorically –is very far from perfect order, and I am perfectly happy about this, being entirely aware of the corrosive paralysis of perfectionism. Perfect order sounds like something Captain von Trapp would advocate, along with standing up straight. Perfectionism is a disease. Give me lively, affectionate chaos any day. And from my position of functioning chaos, I will criticise the world all I damned well please, while following up the criticism with personal action. (Otherwise it’s just whining.) Be the change you want to see is not a Spotify title, but a way to live your life – imperfectly AF.
See rules one and two.
Peterson’s repackaging of the old cliché about the truth setting us free is that truth "will keep your soul from withering and dying while you encounter the inevitable tragedy of life". With epic grandiosity, he writes: “Truth builds edifices that can stand a thousand years.”
As a journalist, “at least don’t lie” is always a good place to start, especially in this era of fake news, elected liars and pretend-fabulous online lives. Of course tell the bloody truth. I also recommend vigorous swearing, as studies show that people who swear a lot are more trustworthy and authentic. Unlike this evangelical bollocks masquerading as a self-help book.
Peterson is not talking about advice (“when the person wishes you would just shut up and go away”) but the “genuine conversation” of psychotherapy. And away from the therapy room, the importance of being a good listener.
Listening means shutting up while simultaneously offering your full attention; I have learned not to butt in with sentences starting with ‘you should’ and ‘why don’t you’. Because of that people tell me their problems all the time. For one sentence at least I agree with Peterson when he says "listen to yourself, and with those whom you are speaking".
This is a rule gloriously disregarded by the author during hundreds of pages of dense verbosity, despite its innate soundness: “You have to consciously define the topic of a conversation, particularly when it is difficult – or it becomes about everything, and everything is too much.”
So when my significant other has done something to make me want to explode, instead of me incoherently screaming “Everything!” when he asks what is wrong, we sit down and have a concise, civilised discussion, where he immediately sees his error and apologises unreservedly. I may have flouted rule eight here.
Peterson means boys – whom we need to stop socialising to be "girlie men". He sees “compassion as a vice” and believes females need to be more aggressive, rather than males being less so. He blames the Terrible Oedipal Mother, paraphrasing this mythical creature addressing her son thus: “Never leave me, In return I will do everything for you, as you age without maturing, you will become worthless and bitter, but you will never have to take any responsibility, and everything you do that’s wrong will always be someone else’s fault.”
As we speak, my kids are out skateboarding in the traffic. Or maybe they’re getting drunk in a bus shelter. I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy avoiding being Oedipal, while contemplating the sheer misogyny of this esteemed academic, and his reactionary gender bias.
Life is suffering, and you need to grab joy where you can find it. Even by petting a cat in the street: “It’s a little extra light on a good day, and a tiny respite on a bad day.”
Really? I am delighted to report that my days – full to the brim of chaotic, glorious female energy – do not rely on chance encounters with unknown cats to imbue me with fleeting sensations of joy. As a long-term cultivator of gratitude, cats in the street can hurl themselves at my ankles all they want – my moments of joy come from somewhere far less random. From inside myself. You want rules for life? Make a daily gratitude list. Help others. Go outside in nature. And ignore false prophets.
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