My brother often jokes about me becoming the next big writer, writing brilliant books, and winning all the major awards, including, of course, the Nobel. His ambitions for me are unrealistic and, let’s just admit, farcical. When the news of Alice Munro’s death came, we mourned that loss. Words like “extraordinary writer”, “genius”, and “empath” were thrown around. While talking about one of her short stories that deeply impacted his life, my brother said, you could write this story, you could be the next Alice Munro. “I wish!”, I responded, scoffing at his ridiculous suggestion.
Roughly two months after this conversation, Munro has fallen in our estimation significantly.
In an article published in Canada’s The Toronto Star, the daughter of the Nobel laureate, Andrea Robin Skinner, disclosed that her stepfather sexually abused her as a child and Alice, her mother, chose to stay with him despite his admission of the abuse. I felt the wind knock out of my lungs when I read this.
The American novelist and essayist Jess Row aptly summarised the irony of the situation in his tweet, stating that: “she evoked in her stories — all those young people betrayed and sabotaged by adults who were supposed to care for them.”
To say that I don’t know how to process this news is an understatement. But to say that I am completely shocked to the point of disbelief is also a lie. As a child who grew up in the shadows of abuse, I am never surprised by the betrayal of those close to you and the people you looked up to.
Since this morning, my mind has been grappling with conflicting emotions about Alice Munro and others like her who we hold in high esteem. First: Do we, myself included, unconsciously hold female artists to a higher standard? Would the disappointment be as profound if the perpetrator had been male?
As a young 20-something emerging poet, when I found out that Pablo Neruda, the writer of the greatest love poems, the brave Communist leader, raped a Sri Lankan woman, and abandoned his only child who died at the tender age of nine, I was beside myself. But, and it is a difficult thing to admit, Neruda was a man. And my experiences taught me to never trust a man. I was angry, but not surprised.
However, when the news of Tarun Tejpal assaulting a young woman brought forth a wave of support for him or when during #MeToo, accusations against Jatin Das all but disappeared into the ether, I felt gutted. When the Harvey Weinstein story made headlines, and people questioned Meryl Streep’s silence, I felt cheated. When J K Rowling’s undoing happened on social media as she revealed herself as a TERF (trans exclusionary radical feminist), I felt deeply ashamed.
Second, when Munro reportedly told her daughter that expecting her to sacrifice for her children and “make up for the failings of men” was a product of misogyny, it felt contradictory. Her writing often challenged these very societal expectations. Did she, perhaps, use this as a convenient excuse, a defence that mirrored the very misogyny she critiqued? After all, the reason Skinner finally opened up to her mother was that Munro showed grave empathy towards a character from a story who was a victim of sexual assault.
Third: When Skinner’s stepmother, Carole Munro, spoke to The Star about the assault, claiming “Everybody knew”, it raised a chilling question: Did people, Skinner’s father included, simply choose silence because of Munro’s stature? If so, how do we break this pervasive culture of silence that allows such abuses to go unchecked?
And finally, what do we do about the stories we have loved?
I don’t have the strength or the column space to dive deep into a debate about art versus artist. But all I can say is that Rowling’s stand against trans people online made it difficult for me to return to her books. And while I will still read Munro for her craft, I will constantly question her empathy. I will always question her motivations behind writing what she wrote and wonder if she actually felt this deeply or just knew how to lie with great finesse.
It is true that all our artists, all our idols, are flawed humans. But when the mighty fall, their wreckage destroys so many with them. It takes away a bit of a light that keeps us going.
When Munro couldn’t attend the Nobel ceremony due to her frail health, instead of a speech, she gave an interview. In response to a question, she said that while writing dominated her life entirely, she “always got lunch for my children.” It made me wonder if Alice ever thought about doing a bit more than getting lunch for her children. If she thought about standing up for her daughter, who went hungry, anyway?
Ultimately, I want to change the answer to my brother’s question. I don’t want to be the next Alice Munro.
Indurkar is a writer, editor, and poet from Jabalpur. She is the author of It’s All in Your Head, M
