I teach an introduction to interdisciplinary studies, which has been one of my favourite classes for the past three years that I have taught it. It is a group of students who want to design their own majors because while we offer courses, they are not configured into majors that provide students a path to what they want to do (Environmental Studies, Media Studies, Area Studies, Women's and Gender Studies, and so on). The students are really interesting, creative thinkers, and curious, curious, curious about the world around them. In addition to a series of assignments, including writing a proposal for their individualized interdisciplinary major, each year I assign them three text"books" -- one novel, one non-fiction, and the New York Times, which is available free of charge at newspaper racks around campus.
The books are designed to get students thinking about interdisciplinary evidence and ways of approaching problems through discussion and writing. Last year, for example, we used Manahatta, a stunningly beautiful book presenting an ecological study of the island of Manhattan. Three days were devoted to discussion of the volume (split roughly into thirds), and then students had to write about a natural history and geographical aspect of their home towns. This year, for the non-fiction book, I decided to use an interesting epidemiological and socio-political study of the early years of the epidemic, And the Band Played On. This was a book I remembered being fascinated by when I read it in the early 90s (it came out in 1987). I thought it would be a good entrée into a variety of disciplinary approaches, and presented a "problem" that was not possible to understand without coming at it from many different directions. I thought it might be something they would enjoy (it is well-written, if rather longer than I would usually assign in this class), and which would bring up many interesting issues. The first day of discussion was on Thursday, and it was not remotely what I had expected. I love it when my students surprise me.
Follow me below the twirly orange octopus of doom for more.
I was in college on the east coast during the early years of the epidemic, and I remembered hearing about it, and knew people eventually who were HIV positive. But I look at the students in the class, perhaps the oldest being 22, and none of them knew a world without AIDS, and certainly none of them knew a world where AIDS was inconceivable. People have always lived with AIDS; they did not necessarily die because of it.
The other main reason I thought they would read the book with a different approach than I had was that for them homosexuality is much more "acceptable" and it is certainly much more open than it was in my college years. In fact several of the students in my class have identified themselves as children of a gay parent, something that is just a part of casual conversation as they talk about the experiences that have interested them in one thing or another for their majors. I know many of my high school friends have come out since they graduated (I was part of the theatre and choir crowd) but it was not discussed in high school (in fact sex generally was not discussed among those I hung out with), and I didn't know their sexual orientation until well afterwards.
By the time I read And the Band Played On in the early 90s, I certainly was much better informed and much less sheltered, with colleagues and friends who were as open about their same sex relationships as others were with their relationships with the opposite sex. The details were not discussed in polite company, of course. The book, however, does go into specifics about gay sex in the 1970s, because the way that AIDS spread through the first major population to get ill in large numbers (i.e. the gay communities of large American cities) was through sexual practices where blood was exchanged. Some practices were more dangerous than others, and Shilts does not shrink from describing these.
I was worried that there might be some resistance to the reading, to the book, either because of discomfort with the details or with the subject matter itself. It was possible that the students would be much more exposed to open discussions of sex acts and wouldn't flinch at specific descriptions of what to me were not topics to discuss publicly. I was really looking forward to hearing their reactions to the book, but I was also a bit nervous that I would get push-back from the class. But I hoped students would be able to discuss the subject matter dispassionately.
The class is split into small groups of two or three students to lead discussion and I try very hard not to interrupt, the only exception is if everyone runs out of something to say. On Thursday they did not run out of things to say; the discussion took up more than the hour I had required of them, and we had to stop twenty minutes later, when the next class started to come into the classroom.
They were not dispassionate or academic in their discussion of the book. But they didn't bat an eye about the sex or the homosexuality, they were angry about other things.
The students' complaints about Randy Shilts' book were largely focused on the non-representation of minorities within it. Not necessarily racial minorities (although there was no discussion of skin colour at all, and only one of the "characters" was identifiable by name as of east Asian family origin), but sexual orientation, social status, financial backgrounds, etc. Almost all of those discussed in the book by name were white upper class males. The major characters, both the heroes and the villains were part of the dominant culture, which was white and male and well-educated, and homosexual, not bisexual, not trans, not lesbian. And that is indeed the case. Shilts does not spend much time discussing the AIDS epidemic in Africa, either. Some of this is of course because this was published in 1987, but there is a decided focus on his own community, the San Francisco Castro-centered gay community and, on the other coast, the gay community that vacationed on Fire Island during the summers. The students were angry, but not because of what was discussed; they were angry because of who was left out of the story.
The vast majority of the class had not yet finished the book (it is over 600 pages). But those that had done so argued that the book was more inclusive of different social strata and specifically discussed intravenous drug users. But it is indeed a minor part of the narrative Shilts presents. No Haitians (who were another risk group for reasons not understood at the time) are given names.
Students were also frustrated with the portrayal of some individuals in the book. Was Gaetan Dugas (the French Canadian flight attendant identified by the CDC as "Patient Zero") really responsible for the spread of the virus? Was he evil? sociopathic? naïve? And was Shilts right in placing significant blame on him? There were sufferers in the US earlier than the 1980s, as early as 1969. How much leeway can be given an author who is suffering a disease himself in his attempt to place blame? Although Shilts himself was HIV-positive and died from AIDS in 1994, he did not learn his diagnosis, by choice, until after he had finished writing the book. But the blame for the destruction (or at least existential threat) of his San Francisco community was placed on a few people throughout the book, whether justifiable or not. I am fascinated to see what the students have to say about the Reagan administration, Margaret Heckler, and Robert Gallo, who are also painted as responsible for the treatment and survival of those with AIDS.
The book, which I was worried might be too sensitive for students to comfortably engage with, not only engaged them, but also inspired them to investigate other sources for additional information much more intensively than any other book I have assigned in the class. They all had gone to YouTube and had watched documentaries and interviews, most had read articles in the archives of the New York Times. I had clearly chosen well a book that would engage my class, and inspire their passion. It was not a dispassionate scholarly discussion, but the conversation was intense, full of evidence drawn from the book and from outside sources, and effective in bringing everyone into the melee. Every single student talked, in a class of 18, over the 80 minutes we had together on Thursday. I hope it is as involving this coming Tuesday and the next two days we have for this book's discussion.
So, to broaden the topic at hand this Saturday afternoon, how do I encourage this intensity of class participation in future days, weeks, and years? The book helps, and this one has engaged students through their personal experiences as well as their political and social views (and because no one did not speak, I have a good sense that no one was shocked or had problems with discussing homosexuality). And it is partially that. The group of three who were leading the discussion also had good specific questions that required an answer and more than a yes/no one. I had told them to avoid questions that began with "I was wondering what you guys think of X" and they did a good job with their first two questions. After that, the class took over, and I don't know how much it really needed guidance from those at the front of the room. And the other part of the equation is the class itself. I may have a particularly active involved group of students. Lucky me! If that is the case, I will take it!
In other words, the great discussion and promising involvement of the class is really inspiring and I have my fingers crossed that this will continue throughout the semester. I hate to think I cannot automatically replicate this feeling every class period or every semester, but I am going to watch what happens this semester and look at ways to generalize this and broaden my success in a class based on discussion of readings.