“I’m sure, I’m sure.” Titus puffed again. His eyes, framed by those impossibly bushy white eyebrows, stared at nothing in particular. “It’s just that this comes at a sensitive time, what with this ‘content’ committee being formed. Plus there’s talk of a down year for the endowment, and the Board of Governors is watching matters closely.”
“Respectfully, Professor, I’ve done nothing wrong. And how can I teach when my class is canceled?”
“I know, I know. But here’s the rub of it. President Strauss is concerned about how this looks, particularly at a time when we’re competing with Yale and Harvard for the best minority high school students. You didn’t hear it from me, but really we’re fighting every year over the same few hundred candidates.”
Titus paused to puff some more, creating a small cloud over the couch. “Here’s what’s going to happen. There’s going to be a hearing conducted by this ‘Bias Response Team,’ which I’ve never heard of, if you want to know the truth. Ten years ago—hell’s bells, five years ago—this would have been a nonevent. But it’s out there, you understand? The university can’t be seen as doing nothing. In the meantime, you can still teach. The university will be posting a security guard, just in case.”
“A security guard, in a classroom?”
“It will be discreet. You should know Strauss wanted to shut the class down. I argued it’s too far into the semester and it wouldn’t be fair to the students.”
“What about fair to me?”
“You don’t have to convince me, but I’m afraid the matter is out of my hands.”
That doesn’t sound good. “Who will conduct this hearing?”
“Martika Malik-Adams, dean of diversity and inclusion. The Bias Response Team is part of her department. You’ll want to step carefully around her.”
“Thank you for the advice, Titus.” Eph had heard of Malik-Adams but had never met her.
“Bit of an agenda, that one, I fear. She’s also fond of wearing these pants—spandex, I think they are—which are a clear violation of the university’s dress code for employees, but she’s been heard to say it’s a cultural choice. Naturally, no one will say anything.”
Eph flashed back to the woman at Blue Nation Coffee earlier in the year. Could that…?
“Don’t worry too much, my lad. I’m sure this will work out,” Titus said, not sounding convinced at all.
Riding his bike back to his apartment, Eph thought, No wink today.
NOVEMBER
(Don’t) Speak Your Truth
IT WAS PEAK leaf season in southern New England, the time of year many campuses looked like calendar photos. Devon’s tree-lined walkways glowed with reds and yellows. It was a Saturday, and late enough in the morning so that much of the campus had risen from the previous night of drinking or late-night video game sessions. A small group played touch football on Goodwin Green.
Eph and D’Arcy made their way across campus toward the farmers’ market held every Saturday on Havenport Green. With the hearing coming up in a couple of days, Eph was in an uncharacteristically sour mood and walked quietly at D’Arcy’s side. Passing Forbes Hall, he asked D’Arcy to hang on while he ducked into the vestibule. He grabbed a copy of the latest Devon Daily from a pile. Back outside, he scanned it quickly, relieved to not see anything about his case. Flipping back to the front page, he examined the lead story.
Devon Daily
November 2
Costumes Spark Outrage
Thursday night’s Halloween revels were marred by several incidents surrounding the alleged insensitivity of some costumes, with one incident resulting in violence. Accusations ranged from racism and sexism to cultural appropriation.
One student, dressed as prominent transsexual Caitlyn Jenner, attended Wolcott House’s annual “Inferno” event and was confronted by a number of other students from the Devon LGBT Coalition who were angry that the student in question was not, himself, LGBT and was possibly making light of Jenner and transsexualism. The confrontation grew heated and drew the attention of some campus Democrats, also in attendance, who were offended over Jenner’s coming out as a Republican. This precipitated an angry exchange between the two groups, described by one observer as a “fight over who was more offended.” Sometime during the exchange, the student dressed as Jenner left the party without ever being identified. Adding to the disruption, another reveler was bitten by a small terrier, later identified as a “comfort animal.” Although pets are not allowed on campus, the university now makes exceptions in cases where students feel undue stress.
Elsewhere, a partygoer at the Beta Psi fraternity, dressed as the Frito Bandito, drew the ire of members of the Latino House. Seeing a post of the offending costume on the fraternity’s Instagram page, members of the Latino House demanded entry to the party to confront the student wearing the Mexican-themed ensemble. When told they were not on the party’s list, a fight ensued, prompting an appearance by the Havenport police. No arrests were made.
“This is an outrage,” said Vincent Lopez, a member of the Latino House. “The Frito Bandito plays into the worst sort of Mexican stereotypes. And even if it didn’t, what right does this white person of privilege have to appropriate a Latino character?”
Beta Psi president Tug Fowler stated, “It was a private party, and besides, people should just lighten the f**k up.”
Asked to comment, Martika Malik-Adams, Devon’s Dean of Diversity and Inclusion, stated she was “troubled,” and that her department was forming a committee to set costume guidelines going forward.
“You know, I’ve always thought myself a progressive, but sometimes I think there’s a different definition up here,” said Eph, tossing the paper in the garbage as he and D’Arcy walked.
“What do you mean?”
“Where I come from, I’ve seen racism. Real, make-your-skin-crawl racism. If there’s racism at Devon, I sure can’t find it. This is a liberal place and I don’t think anyone would tolerate it. And seriously, have we really devolved into fighting over Frito Bandito costumes?”
“You’re white.”
“What?” cried Eph. He pulled up his sleeve, examining his arm. “Sonuvabitch, you’re right!” He turned and looked at D’Arcy. “Is this going to be a problem for your parents?”
D’Arcy honked, but was still determined to make her point. “No, I mean you can’t understand.”
“Don’t give me any credit, or anything.”
“No, I mean you can’t understand your own privilege.”
“I grew up on a dirt farm in Alabama.”
“Still, you get treated differently, more deferentially, because of your skin color. Even here. You just do.”
“So you’re saying Devon is a racist institution?”
“Not exactly, but this place was built by white people, for white people.”
“You mean in 1704?”
“Come on, as recently as the 1950s, Devon was ninety-five percent white.”
“That was sixty years ago! Don’t you think the place has changed, maybe just a bit? The student body is only half white now, plus poor and lower-middle-class students get a complete free ride.”
“Sure it’s changed, but the place still feels white to some people.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, just look around.” D’Arcy made a sweeping gesture at the manicured lawns and stately spires. “This isn’t an environment many students are used to.”
“Hey, it doesn’t look like a peanut farm, either, but that’s what I like about it. Would you feel more comfortable if they made the place look more ghetto?”
“I’m from Montclair, New Jersey, asshole.”
“Okay, a bland suburb?”
“Stop it, you know what I mean,” D’Arcy said.
“I do know what you mean, and I’m choosing to make light of it.”
“I’m just telling you how people feel.”
“And they feel that because Devon looks like an Anglican fantasy camp—whic
h it totally does, by the way—that it’s also somehow racist?”
“Yes … no. I don’t know, but it’s there. Can we please talk about something else?”
“And since when do feelings trump everything else?” Eph continued, ignoring her. “I had a student the other day tell me that something was wrong—something that was a historical fact—simply because he felt it was wrong. No supporting evidence. He had on a T-shirt that said ALWAYS SPEAK YOUR TRUTH. Isn’t there only one truth? Since when are we entitled to our own? This kid thought it was history’s obligation to validate his feelings. He then went on with all this Descartes drivel about how you can only know yourself, and therefore the only objective reality is what you perceive. It wasn’t the first time a student has served that up.”
“But with something as serious as racism, I don’t think you can totally dismiss how the community feels. People come by those feelings honestly.”
“Do they? Sometimes I wonder.”
“I think so.”
“Sweetheart, I love you, but I think the definition of racism is being defined down, and it’s going to bite everyone in the ass when the real stuff happens. It will be the boy crying wolf.”
They walked on in uncomfortable silence.
The Farmers’ Market
“EVERYTHING IS LOCAL. We are part of an urban farming collective,” said the man in the small tent. He was shirtless under denim overalls.
Every Saturday, scores of vegans, organic-food buffs, and just plain old hungry people descended onto the Havenport Green to sample the goods at the farmers’ market. Rows of tents held a multitude of vibrantly colored produce as well as spices and baked goods.
“Where do you farm in a city?” Eph asked the tent’s proprietor.
“Abandoned lots, mostly, increasing the city’s green-space footprint. We call ourselves guerrilla farmers.”
“Huh.” Eph wondered what Big Mike would make of this.
D’Arcy picked out a few tomatoes. “That’s amazing. So good for the community.” She handed the tomatoes to the man, whose gray ponytail reached the small of his back. “We’ll take these.”
They wandered the stalls, shimmying through the crowds of people carrying shopping totes made of recycled material. They walked past tall stalks of brussels sprouts, pots of virgin hand-pressed olive oils, and trays of vegan samosas. Eph noticed that just as many people were photographing food as buying it. Everywhere he looked, people were lining up batches of arugula or colorful rows of peppers just so and capturing the images on their phones.
“Why are people photographing vegetables?” Eph asked.
D’Arcy had to think about this. “Because they’re pretty?”
Eph grunted. Back on the farm, the last thing that might have occurred to him would have been to take pictures of a pile of peanuts. “But when would you look at them? Are you going to be sitting around a year from now and suddenly have the urge to look at some rutabagas you saw twelve months ago?”
“No, I think it’s more that people like to post photos of food on Instagram.”
“I don’t follow. Do other people want to look at your food pictures? That seems even less compelling.” Eph watched as a nearby woman took out her phone and photographed a stacked pile of organic corn. “Seems vaguely snobby. Food snobbery!”
“Excuse me, but isn’t that small-batch Guatemalan coffee you are drinking?”
“I’m drinking it, not digitizing it. Besides, it was all they had.”
“I think you are losing your mind.”
“You may have a point.”
Finding a bench under a large elm tree, they sat down against the trunk and snacked on some scones. “Okay, let me give it another shot,” said Eph, nodding at D’Arcy’s kombucha. He took a swig and winced. “Yeah, no.”
“Your loss. Probiotics are so good for you.”
“And what are those again?”
“You know, these things … they’re in your gut … they do healthy things.…”
“While I’m at it, these scones are a bit dry, aren’t they?”
“That’s the way scones are, my dear.”
“Then why do people eat them?”
“They just do. Jesus, could you be any more of a dick today?”
“But I’m your dick.”
“Yes, you are.” D’Arcy smiled and leaned into Eph’s shoulder.
They sat in silence for a minute, letting the beautiful New England fall day distract them from the events hanging over Eph’s head. Eph inhaled deeply, trying his best to relax. The aroma of autumn’s sweet decay was in the air.
“The whole thing is so damned silly,” D’Arcy said. Eph didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. So much for relaxing. “Most of those kids weren’t even in your class.”
“I know, but I’m getting the distinct impression that’s beside the point.”
In the two weeks since the “incident,” Eph had continued to hold class. Attendance was down by a third, with Ifeellike and the other agitants noticeably absent. A small crowd of protesters picketed outside the entrance to Grafton before each class. They chanted and generally harassed those entering the building. The one with the red hair was always there, chanting into a megaphone. The assigned security guard prevented them from entering, but they were quite content outside anyway. Better exposure, Eph assumed. The chanting could be heard inside the building, which not only disrupted his class, but also no doubt annoyed the entire English Department. Except for Toes, Eph thought. He could swear Toes was enjoying the whole thing.
“Hey, ho, racist profs have got to go!”
One morning, WELX, the local television station, showed up with a reporter. She logged a short piece, but it thankfully never made the air.
The video from the class, which Eph knew had been carefully edited to put him in the worst possible light, emerged in social media channels. @FakeUncleMiltie even tweeted a link with the comment:
Racism is everywhere, even here at progressive Devon U! #DevonShame
Eph noticed the #DevonShame hashtag had started trending both locally and statewide. He also noticed he now had forty-two ratings on Rate My Professor, and that his average had dropped to 2.6.
It had not been a good week.
“Listen, you need to be careful with Martika Malik-Adams,” D’Arcy said.
“Yes, I’ve been warned not to look at her pants too closely.”
“No, I mean it. You don’t want to be in her crosshairs.”
“Why, exactly? I’m sure she does valuable work. I know what I said before, but I agree this school needs diversity.” Eph firmly believed diversity was a noble pursuit, even if he was concerned it had become a game of “check the box” on skin pigmentation.
D’Arcy smiled. “Eph, I love you, sweetheart, but sometimes you can be so damned naïve. Do you know how much Martika makes? Five hundred and seventy thousand dollars a year. I’ll kill you if you share that with anyone, but I see the papers that cross Milton’s desk. Martika is the third-highest-paid employee at Devon after Milton and the AD. She has to show something for that. Think of her as a hammer looking for nails, and right now, white boy, you are a nail.”
“Yeah, Titus said something along those lines, although without the nail part … and without the white part. Say, you’re suddenly sounding a different tune.”
“I don’t take back anything, but I’ve seen her operate. She spends a lot of time in Strauss’s office, and I think even he’s afraid of her. I just need you to take this very seriously. I know I don’t have to remind you what an important time this is for you.”
Eph had been trying not to think about tenure. “Can we go back to organic food and guerrilla farming? This is depressing, while that was merely annoying.”
Just then, they spotted Toes emerging from a nearby aisle. Eph groaned quietly and lowered his head, hoping not to be spotted. Too late.
“Now, now, I’m sure he means well,” D’Arcy whispered.
“Eph!” Toes cried. �
��Fancy seeing you here.”
They stood. D’Arcy smiled while Eph looked dyspeptic, as if the effort to keep pretending this was just another pleasant day was just too much.
“Hello, Barrett.” They shook hands. Toes had these really small hands, smooth and hairless, and his fingers wouldn’t wrap all the way around Eph’s. It was like shaking hands with a little boy. Eph waited to see if Toes would continue on his way, but he just stood there. Reluctantly: “Barrett, you know D’Arcy, don’t you?”
“Sure, I think we’ve met. You work in Stockbridge, don’t you?”
“She’s President Strauss’s assistant,” Eph said.
“I’m impressed. That must keep you busy!”
“It does,” D’Arcy replied.
“Hey, have you guys tried these small-batch plum muffins? They’re unbelievable.”
“No, we missed those somehow,” Eph said.
“Well, here, try one!” Toes pulled one out of his bag and offered it to Eph.
“That’s very nice of you, but I’m still working on this tasty scone here.” Eph gestured to the puffy yellow pastry, which was missing only a single bite.
“How are those? I’ve been meaning to try them.”
“They are excellent, if you also like shredding the Sunday New York Times and eating that.”
“Oh, ha, funny. Okay, no scones.”
They stood there for a few moments in awkward silence. Eph wondered how much work it took to maintain a man bun. When the hell is Toes going to move along? C’mon, just put one bootee after the other.…
“Ah, Eph, I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
Here we go.
“I feel just awful about what happened.… I’m sure this will all get sorted out.” Toes was practically oozing sincerity. Or not. He was definitely oozing something.
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