Eph’s eyelids grew heavy. Someone else droned on.
“I understand it’s a hunger strike, but the man seems to be enjoying the whole thing. Selflessness can’t be an enjoyable act or it ceases to be selfless. From a strictly Kantian perspective it can’t be called a moral act at all!”
Gradually, the faculty prattle became white noise, and Eph, stress and sleeplessness catching up with him, dozed off in his forest-green leather club chair …
“Well, glad to see you’re a man who can still relax!”
Eph bolted upright, discreetly wiping drool from his chin. It was Titus. “Forgive me. I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately. I must have nodded off.”
“Out like a light, I’d say. Well, what of it? Half the fossils around here do the same thing every time they pretend to read The New Yorker.” Titus laughed heartily at his own joke while Eph was trying his best to process being awake.
Sitting down in the next chair, Titus lowered his voice. “Listen, my boy. It was touch and go there, but you’re in the clear.”
“What?” That wasn’t what Eph expected to hear.
“I’ve just come from Dean Malik-Adams’s office, so I’ve got it right from the source. I got the distinct impression she wasn’t entirely happy about it, though.”
“About what?”
“About the lack of consequences.”
“But I did nothing wrong, and this trigger policy, or whatever it is, isn’t even in place yet.”
“I know, I know, and that’s fortunate for you, because then they might have had a way to construe this as a violation. You introduced Twain into the class without a content warning.”
“Oh, come on!”
“You’re preaching to the choir, my boy, preaching to the choir. But as it is, you can’t be held responsible for violating a policy that doesn’t yet exist, although, that being said, the good dean wasn’t entirely deterred. She was still pushing to have you placed in some sort of workshop or other on privilege and racism.”
“I’m not a racist, Titus.”
“Of course you’re not, but what’s that got to do with it? Was it Beria who said, ‘Show me the man and I’ll show you the crime’?”
Eph recalled that Beria was Stalin’s secret-police chief.
Titus paused, weighing how much more to say. “There’s more you should know … entre nous, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Other factors that weighed in your favor.” Titus leaned in closer. “President Strauss got involved.”
“Jesus!”
The room suddenly quieted, and the Nobels turned and looked their way. The two men stayed silent until the others went on with their conversations. This wasn’t how Eph imagined coming to the attention of Milton Strauss.
“Now, now, let me finish. While Milton is certainly sympathetic to issues of race—we all are, naturally—he also thought any further publicity around this would not be in the best interests of the school. It seems he came to this conclusion when an unedited version of the incident came to light, an audio recording. You turned out to be absolutely right—someone doctored the video.”
Eph leaned back in his chair. “Thank God. Where did the audio come from?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Whoever it was captured the whole thing and came forward. Strauss and Malik-Adams listened to it in its entirety, and it was pretty clear what happened. Not that it deterred the good dean, mind you. She said she didn’t like your whole attitude. But Milton realized that making this an issue might not play well with the alumni, at least the ones who write checks. God knows, Breitbart or something would write a piece and it would get emailed around God’s green acre and Milton would have had to answer phone calls all day.”
“So that’s it?”
“Where you are directly concerned, yes.”
Eph leaned back, breathing a sigh of relief, but it was half a sigh at best. “I don’t understand. Is there something else I should know?”
“Well, yes. You’ll find out soon enough. As a result of all this, a group of students, many of them in our department, are making demands about the curriculum. They have circulated a petition over the last few days. The incident in your class was the spark, not that any of this falls on you.”
“What sort of demands?”
“They insist that we decolonize the English curriculum. Yes, that was the word they used. Decolonize.”
“I’m sorry, but what does that mean?”
“It means less Chaucer and less Shakespeare and more, shall we say, exotic authors?”
Fred Hallowell would not be pleased, thought Eph. “Sir, if I may ask, will all this affect my position, I mean, with regards to my … prospects?”
Titus reflexively raised his hand toward his mouth, as if to draw on his pipe, before realizing he wasn’t holding one. He reached for his teacup instead and took a sip. “I’ll be frank, because you deserve it. My own view is that this incident was nothing but abject silliness. You’re still my choice, but understand that I’m not the only voice. Our department’s tenure committee must vote, and I don’t know if you know, but the third spot on the committee, the spot opened by David Atkins’s retirement, has been filled by Professor Blue Feather.”
“Blue Feather?” That was the second thing Eph wasn’t expecting today.
“Yes. With everything going on, there’s been pressure on us to present a different face, you see.”
Eph knew exactly what this meant: not white, not male, and in this case not exactly female either.
“Professor Blue Feather is an interesting one. She—er, they—have been trumpeting the works of Kishwar Naheed, a feminist Urdu poet from Pakistan. Can’t say I ever heard of the woman, but they want to bring her in as a poet-in-residence.”
“Excuse me … they?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? There was an email from HR the other day—I thought everyone got it? They were very adamant on the point of personal pronouns where Professor Blue Feather is concerned. Hold on, let me read it to you.” Titus took out his phone, holding it at arm’s length like some foreign object. Eph remembered he might have gotten an email about Blue Feather, but the HR Department had taken to sending out so many emails he tended to ignore them. “Here it is.” Titus began reading:
Professor Sophia Blue Feather, having self-identified as pangender, will correctly be identified by the pronouns “they,” “them,” or “ze” in all matters. Self-identity is a right universal to all, and as such we will respect Professor Blue Feather’s right as well. Furthermore, Professor Blue Feather will be heading up a newly formed committee to be called the Gender Violence Prevention and Support Group, which will focus on matters of gender communication within the Devon community.
“One wonders when this woman has time to teach!” said Titus, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I’m not sure I totally understand any of this. Why would we use the plural? That’s incorrect English!”
“I could hazard a guess.” Eph had just done the research, after all. “Pangenderists believe they embody all genders within themselves, so I guess you could say there are a bunch of people in there.”
“In where?”
“Inside their heads?”
“Isn’t that what they call multiple personality disorder?”
“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person, but I see Professor Potts over there from the Psychology Department, if we want to ask.”
“And give him an opening to talk about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs? I think not!” Titus sipped his tea. “You didn’t hear me say that.”
Eph smiled, but Titus suddenly looked tired. “You know, it’s getting harder for old farts like me to keep up. I suppose that must be increasingly obvious. Anyway, Ephraim, back to you. We usually look for a unanimous vote from the committee. Right now, you have mine, and I think Hallowell likes you, but I don’t know that you fit the, uh, profile that Professor Blue Feather has in mind. Honestly, I don’t know that Smallwood does either, a
lthough he might be a little closer to the mark.”
“Do votes have to be unanimous?”
“Technically, no. But once our committee makes a recommendation, it gets passed to the University Committee on Tenure. Generally, they’re a rubber stamp, but they may wonder if our house is in order if we pass along a non-unanimous candidate. I don’t think it’s ever been done before. If I may, do you have a good relationship with Professor Blue Feather?”
“I can’t say we know each other that well, but I think we get along.” Eph cringed, thinking about how they first met.
Yes, I’m pangender.
“Well, you might try some old-fashioned sucking up, lad. And consider joining some committees. I think they’re a pox, but the administration likes them. Gives us all the illusion of action.”
Titus paused, as if pondering whether he should say what he was about to say. He leaned ever so slightly toward Eph. “Are you still seeing Milton’s secretary?”
Eph knew what Titus meant, and he shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He couldn’t claim to be innocent in this regard. One of his keenest fantasies was to take D’Arcy back to Ashley. He imagined parading her around town on his arm. It wasn’t the Jim Crow South anymore, but cages would still be rattled.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Professor” was all he could manage to say.
Friday at the PSA
THE DEVON CAMPUS had a different hum on Fridays, one with a higher pitch. Students had a gleam in their eyes and greeted one another with gusto as they walked the campus corridors and courtyards. It didn’t matter what clique you ran with, what gender or race you identified with, or what team you played on; Friday was about the promise of the next two days and nights … the parties, the protests, the games … the hookups. The Devon weekend lay before its people like a vast open field of possibilities. Any and all wonderful things could happen.
It was mid-afternoon at the Progressive Student Alliance. Red and the others were already comfortably high on a particularly pleasant strain of cannabis called Trainwreck. Someone said it was Snoop Dogg’s favorite. Rufus was playing tunes.
They deserved a little relaxation after a busy few weeks camped out in front of Grafton. Passing students had given them raised fists of solidarity or finger snaps of approval, and the PSA even grew its ranks by four members. Rufus, who handled the PSA’s social media accounts, pumped out constant links to the Russell video on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Snapchat, and the group’s social metrics grew considerably. #DevonShame even trended regionally for a while. Red was particularly pleased that they’d managed to trash Russell’s rating on Rate My Professor. That redneck piece of shit totally deserved it, Red thought.
He smiled as he thought of how they’d deliberately placed themselves in a randomly distributed pattern around Russell’s class to make it appear they didn’t know one another and that the whole thing had been spontaneous. That move was straight out of Red’s dog-eared copy of Rules for Radicals.
“Good couple of weeks, man,” opined Robbie Ochoa.
“True dat,” Red replied.
“The PSA snaps its fingers and shuts that motherfucker down,” said Robbie, giggling.
Snaps its fingers … it had almost been too easy. Not that Russell’s class had been canceled entirely, but the dude looked like he was going down. Gaia came up with the idea for the petition to fire Russell, which she circulated using the website change.org. They had already collected 372 signatures. That was gonna get some media play, for sure.
With all the social tools they had at their disposal, it had become a simple thing to tap into a wellspring of progressive anger that extended well beyond the borders of campus. A retweet from the right person or a video that went viral and a whisper became a thunderous roar, truth to power, impossible to ignore.… They had the world’s biggest megaphone at their disposal. How much more could they accomplish?
“Roof, how many more followers this week?”
Rufus examined his phone. “We are up to twelve hundred, double a week ago.” Everyone snapped their fingers. Amen, brother. “You know, with a little effort, we could really get these numbers up there.”
“You wanna take lead on that, bro?”
“Oh, no, man. No time.” Rufus leaned back after another hit. “Gotta make time to get my DJ on.”
“How’s that going?” Gaia asked. She slung an arm around Red, who stiffened noticeably.
“Awesome. Got another gig tonight. Gonna make some coin.”
It’s always about money, Red thought. Money, money, money. That he had millions locked in a trust occasionally left him feeling conflicted. He told himself he would so give it to the Struggle, if only he were allowed to, but he had no access to the trust’s principal. Instead he was forced to live on the several hundred thousand that the trust threw off every year in interest and dividends, and with that he was expected to cover his tuition, at least when he was enrolled. Those little Eichmanns who controlled his trust just didn’t understand …
“Where’s the party?” Robbie asked.
“Beta house,” Rufus replied. “Bunch of assholes, but should be a smoke show.”
“That is so sexist,” Gaia fumed.
“Whatever.”
Red’s thoughts then shifted gratefully away from grubby pecuniary matters. He’d been having sex with Gaia on and off for the last year, but that was getting old. She was down with the Struggle, sure, but a guy like him couldn’t carry extra weight. Gaia was turning out to be a bummer. It was time for some fresh. He wished she hadn’t put her arm around him.
Henry Schott, a sophomore member, burst through the main door, out of breath. “Guys, Russell’s off the hook.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Red said.
“I just ran into Chris Huffman from the Daily. He told me.”
“I can’t believe that fuck didn’t call me. We gave him the story!”
“He said he only just found out.”
“Okay, so what else?”
“He didn’t really know anything else.”
“Fuck.” Red got out his phone and dialed Jaylen Biggs. They needed to plan. “You hear about Russell?”
“Yeah, word’s out.”
“We need to escalate.”
“I don’t know, man. I’m not sure this Russell dude is the best play.”
“He’s white. Isn’t he? And from the South somewhere. Asshole has privilege written all over him.”
“Man, shut the fuck up.”
“What?” said Red, taken aback.
“Seriously, just shut your hippie white ass up. You notta nigga, get it? You a rich cracker, so don’t motherfuckin’ talk to me about privilege.”
Red was momentarily speechless, a rare event. “Hey, asshole. I set the whole thing up.”
“And for that, we black people thank you. But this is our issue. Stay out.” The connection dropped. Red was glad the others couldn’t hear any of that.
“So what now?” Rufus asked.
“Send out some pissed-off tweets,” said Red.
“Got it. That it?”
“I don’t know, man, just let me think.” Trainwreck was starting to make the task problematic, though, so Red leaned back, allowing himself to be swallowed by the enormous couch. He gave himself over to the steady beat of Rufus’s EDM tracks. The words kept repeating … love you, love you. The effect put him in a mild trance. Then, another thought … not wholly crystallized, more like swirling brain dust trying to organize itself, but then forming, coalescing … another deep toke … ahhhh … wait, what?… oh, right, the thought … an idea … music, a bit of timing … the right social channels … yes, it just might work.
“Ah, hey, Roof,” said Red. “Can you get me on the list for that party?”
“I dunno, dude. Those fraternity guys can be dicks.”
“Just get me on that list.” Red smiled, keeping his own counsel for the moment.
Friday, Eph’s Office
EPH RETREATED TO his
office. He put some Tom Petty on his phone and connected to a Bluetooth speaker. That Tom Petty was the apogee of American music was the one thing on which he and Big Mike always saw eye to eye. Petty was from Gainesville, a stone’s throw from southern Alabama. One time, Big Mike piled everyone into their old Jeep Wagoneer and drove them the two hours to Pensacola to see the Heartbreakers. It was one of Eph’s best childhood memories.
Eph knew rock music wasn’t in sync with the rest of campus. Students favored hip-hop, while the faculty leaned toward jazz and classical. But this particular part of his upbringing he refused to surrender. Popular music standards, in Eph’s view, had been declining since roughly 1982, before he was even born. Where was the amped-up adrenaline of Led Zeppelin, the glorious menace of the Stones, or the soaring harmonies of the Beach Boys? There was some good country, which he liked, but today’s pop dribbled like treacly syrup from the radio, written by soulless algorithms never programmed to understand interesting chord progressions or complex harmonies. And where did the guitar go? He would never tire of Petty’s jangling, Byrds-like Rickenbacker. Rap music—ubiquitous in every dorm—struck him as a forced marriage between a rhyming dictionary and a drum machine. He thought it all sounded alike, a view he kept to himself in case anyone thought it racist.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost five. He reached into his lower drawer and retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He wasn’t a big drinker, but somehow listening to Petty always gave him the urge, another vestige from his younger days. He poured a couple of fingers into a glass he kept in the same drawer and took a sip. The warmth slipped down his throat, all the way to his gut. It was easy to understand why people made this a habit.
He wasn’t sure how to feel right now, and he was hoping the Jack would help sort it out. Getting by the Bias Response Team had been a great relief, but he knew the cloud that followed him would not blow away so easily. His colleagues were treating him differently. It was subtle, but there. They were unduly solicitous, as though he had an illness or something. And if he was being honest with himself, Blue Feather was going to be an issue. He had to win her favor, but didn’t have the slightest notion how, or if he even wanted to try.
Campusland: A Novel Page 11