Burning Down the House

by Lev Raphael

  “Are there any other comments or questions?” Serena

  asked, her voice severe.

  The answering silence made me realize not just how

  cowed and beaten down EAR faculty were, but how angry the provost must be about the reception-gone-bad, and how determined she was to rule SUM with an iron fist, gloved in velvet or not. No wonder the EAR faculty looked shocked and confused now. LOCK was more than just a stupid acronym; this new initiative completely broke with academic tradition at SUM. I could mock the name, but the reality was bitter. I glanced at Stefan and read the same question in his eyes: Should I say something?

  Was it wiser to wait and see if this initiative actually flew, if it survived any possible challenges from the faculty senate or the board of trustees? Did it make any sense to stick our necks out so early?

  Stefan shrugged, looking somewhat embarrassed. I felt ashamed myself to see the department roll over and play dead, but there wasn’t much I could do facing the administrative juggernaut. As writer-in-residence, Stefan had far more clout than I did, but that was all relative, and if he wasn’t going to say anything public yet, I sure was keeping mum.

  Then Juno spoke up, with the silky deference of Lucretia Borgia inviting a guest to have more wine. “Isn’t it somewhat irregular to discuss the presence of an administrative observer in the presence of the administrative observer? How can you expect an open forum?”

  Serena rolled her eyes, but Tyler Mooney-Mauser

  answered, turning around in his chair: “I’ve been instructed to observe all proceedings.”

  “What else have you been instructed to do?” Juno

  inquired calmly. Everyone was so used to her high-volume presence that these subdued comments were electrifying, far more so than even Summerscale’s reasonableness.

  “That’s confidential,” Mooney-Mauser said, turning his back to her and making some kind of signal to Serena, who took over. “Juno,” she said spitefully, “I can’t imagine you holding back anything. Even if you tried.”

  “I’m speaking for other faculty whose positions aren’t as secure.”

  “Why not speak for yourself?” Serena said through

  clenched teeth.

  I expected one of the department’s old boys to hiss,

  “Catfight!”

  “Juno’s right,” Cash said, amid a chorus of approbation.

  There were calls for Tyler to leave, and the loudest came from an unlikely source. Rusty Dominguez-St.John stood and said, “Dudes, we need to create a safe space.” Then he blew his limited credibility by adding, “We should find a retreat center where we can all unwind and get to know each other in an uncompetitive, nurturing environment. Trust walks, guided imagery, drumming—”

  A few faculty members laughed, and Juno raised her

  voice to be heard as Rusty sat back down: “There’s no need to go anywhere. This is our fucking conference room, and no one invited that bloody intruder.”

  “I did,” Serena shot, and then shook her head quickly as if to deny any association with Juno’s insult. “He’s here at my invitation and—”

  “Send him home!” Rusty warned. “He’s got bad karma.”

  Serena turned red. “Will you—”

  Juno cut her off. “How can you expect to run a

  department when you can barely control a meeting?”

  “Why don’t you ladies ease up?” Summerscale rumbled.

  “Scratch each other’s eyes out someplace else. This is a serious crisis.” Les Peterman, Martin Wardell, and Larry Rich guffawed at Summerscale’s sally. Unrepentantly boorish, they were EAR’s answer to the Weird Sisters. Grizzled boozers and jocks, the three of them had been so rude for so long, they took pride in being members of what H. L. Mencken called The Booboisie. I suppose they adopted this manner to show they were just regular guys even though they had Ph.D.s. They were the kind of men you could find at The Club, harassing teenagers on the court in pickup games of basketball, sooner or later blowing out a knee or collapsing with a heart attack, having forgotten they were no longer young.

  As EAR had become more cliquish and embattled, the

  three had seemed to band together as a sort of old guard, snarling about the way things should be and cackling over dirty jokes. I rarely saw them except in the decrepit coffee room or at meetings, where one of them was bound to say something ridiculous. Until now, though, they’d been pretty quiet.

  But they were outnumbered. After a shocked pause, the room erupted with boos from women and men, repeating the taboo word Ladies. Summerscale didn’t seem at all bothered —he basked in the attention.

  Serena cut off the noise with a karate-like hand chop.

  “There is no question about the provost’s observer leaving.

  That is not an option.”

  “Then why bother with a discussion at all?” Stefan

  whispered to me, clearly not wanting to get drawn into the conflict. I shrugged.

  “Let’s move on,” Serena said briskly, as if there had been no flaring tempers, no controversy, nothing—not even

  Summerscale’s sexism. For all its surface amiability, her response had the off-putting feel of “Take a hike!” Would anyone vote for her as chair when the elections were held over break? Or would the animus most faculty had for Juno be enough to secure her a win as the lesser of two evils?

  Before she could deliver her next pronouncement,

  Summerscale asked, “Given your access to the halls of power, can you tell us whether the rumors about Comerica are true?”

  Serena looked sharply at Mooney-Mauser, who spread

  his hands out in a quick dismissive gesture. “We’re not here to talk about rumors,” she said briskly.

  “Is it true now that Comerica’s name is on the stadium in Detroit, they’re in negotiations with SUM? That they’ve offered SUM half a billion dollars?”

  The room was hushed in that academic mix of outrage,

  envy, and alarm at the mention of serious money.

  “Half a billion for what?” Juno guffawed. “To rename the university? What will they call it? Comerica University of Michigan? C-U-M? CUM?”

  Nobody laughed.

  Very stiffly, Serena said, “I will not comment on gossip.

  Let’s move on.” There was a visible easing of tension at that point, since I’m sure nobody—except perhaps Juno—relished the idea of becoming a national joke.

  “The provost and President Littleterry are dedicated to seeing the Whiteness Studies Task Force take shape—and to that end, they have asked department chairs to solicit self-nominations for representatives from each college.”

  It took me a second or two to untangle the last bit of bureaucratese, but I wasn’t sure I completely got it. How was someone self-nominated, and if he or she was, did it mean anything? But before those questions could get sorted out, Cash Jurevicius erupted. “I can’t believe you’re bringing up that bogus bullshit! There’s no such thing as Whiteness Studies—it’s without any merit whatsoever.”

  An illogical position, but that didn’t matter much. I studied the room and could make out some clenched fists— the people who disagreed—and gleaming eyes—those who

  supported him.

  He held out a hand and ticked off his points, finger by finger. “Where are the respected journals?” he asked. “The conferences? The departments or programs at major

  universities? The endowed chairs?” That phrase produced some gasps, since EAR had recently seen trouble with an endowed chair. But Cash didn’t relent. “SUM cannot possibly foist this idea on its students or faculty when there’s absolutely no legitimate scholarly foundation.”

  Serena kept her cool and replied, “Similar complaints have been made in the past across the country about women’s studies. And black studies. And gay studies. And Jewish studies.”

  “But those are established fields,” Cash argued.

  Serena grinned. “They are now. At one time they

 
; weren’t.”

  Both Kinderhoeks spoke at once, saying, “Count me in!”

  Then turned to each other and laughed gently at having been on the same wavelength. It was heartwarming in a putrescent kind of way.

  “Thank you,” Serena said to them. “I’ll pass both your names along to the provost and the president.”

  “That’s it?” Cash said. “No vote? No discussion?”

  Serena dutifully asked, “What else would you like to

  say?”

  Cash looked around the room as frantically as a revolutionary in Les Mis. “Are you all going to give your approval to this racist garbage?”

  Juno sighed melodramatically. “I wouldn’t worry about it. The whole fucking thing is a joke, and it’ll never happen even if there is an actual task force—which I doubt.”

  She had everyone’s attention, especially Mooney-Mauser.

  “It’s a fucking public relations disaster. There’s already been several demonstrations on campus. There’ll be dozens.

  Hundreds. Every minority group in the state will have something to say. They’ll be busing in supporters from all over the country. Leaflets. Pickets. Strikes. A boycott. SUM

  officials will be heckled at speeches. SUM teams will be harassed when they travel, and the away games will be disrupted. Nike may even want to remove the swoosh from SUM uniforms.” The room was utterly still. Juno continued in the rapt silence like an oracle: “And anyone associated with the idea will damage their career beyond hope.”

  The Kinderhoeks glared at Juno; then their eyes dropped, as if they were calculating the chances of Juno being correct.

  At the front of the room, Serena had moved to Mooney-Mauser’s chair and was bent over it, listening to his harsh whispering. She nodded and regained the floor. “There have always been naysayers any time this university has sought to move forward, to claim a bold new vision. This is a chance for our department to have a say in what could become a stellar program that brings SUM honor and national attention.”

  The Kinderhoeks sat a bit taller.

  I felt like a coward. Stefan and I both thought Whiteness Studies was a terrible concept, shallow and divisive; it could convince white students that they were a historically oppressed minority. Yet neither of us had the courage to speak up at a department meeting, now that the provost’s spy was here. I suppose that was the point of Tyler Mooney-Mauser’s presence—to quash dissent and identify troublemakers in advance. It was an insidious policy, and already damnably effective. I felt as paranoid as if I alone were the target of the provost’s surveillance. No doubt most of the faculty felt the same, which explained the general torpor in the room despite the rumblings of dissent.

  Serena was explaining something to the Kinderhoeks

  about how the task force was to be constituted and when, but I tuned out as Stefan tapped my arm. “If this is what Glinka wants, it’s going to happen,” Stefan whispered to me.

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “But why would it be a priority?” I asked, sotto voce.

  “What’s in it for her?”

  “Something new? Something with her stamp on it?”

  “Stamp” was right. Merry Glinka was determined to

  stamp on the faculty that had attacked her with brownies, humiliating her as much as themselves. The whole episode was ludicrous. Faculty Food Fight. And the EAR department was already giving way under Glinka’s pressure, I thought.

  That wasn’t surprising. Too many lost causes over the years —too much dissension—too little respect from the university and for itself. I pictured people sulking in bars after the meeting, or drinking quietly at home, cursing their

  powerlessness.

  Avis and Auburn Kinderhoek were thanking Serena and the department for the honor of being chosen. But Avis hadn’t even received an appointment to the task force. “I’m so grateful for your trust,” she burbled.

  “And confidence,” Auburn chimed in.

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’re thrilled.”

  “It’s an honor.”

  It was pathetic. Avis and Auburn Kinderhoek were

  published authors with decent enough reputations in the small world of writers who made the circuit teaching summer writing workshops, yet they were groveling to Serena and the provost’s emissary. But would Stefan have felt as grateful for similarly dubious recognition if he hadn’t felt his career rescued by the chance of seeing one of his books made into a movie? Would I, if I hadn’t been lucky enough to wind up with not one but two Wharton projects in press that could flesh out my meager tenure application portfolio? Probably.

  God, EAR turned people into bootlickers—even after

  they’d been kicked by those boots. Quoth the craven, “Give us more!”

  But I was wrong to think there wasn’t any fight at all left in EAR. Just because EAR wouldn’t stand up to its

  administrative tormentors didn’t mean it couldn’t turn on itself like jackals. Like the witch’s chorus in Dido and Aeneas, they could easily have joined hands and sung, “Destruction’s our delight/delight our greatest sorrow.”

  7

  SERENA clasped her hands together as if about to launch into a fervent curtain call and said, “We need to speak about the Diversity Tree.” That’s when I realized that I hadn’t even seen the source of controversy, I’d been so rushed. It would have been rude to ask for an adjournment, I suppose, even though the tree must be the main reason for the meeting. The most important agenda item was always saved for last. Still, it was bizarre to be right across the hall from the tree and not have any idea what it looked like. Should I just slip out as if I were going to the john? But then I’d miss EAR’s own theater of the absurd.

  Before Serena could continue, Avis Kinderhoek said, “I think it’s shameful, a disgrace!” She seemed emboldened by the attention she’d received from Serena. Auburn nodded vigorously and clucked his tongue.

  Treading carefully, Serena asked her what she meant.

  “Well, it’s just an itty-bitty tree. Who’s it gonna hurt?”

  “But it’s a Christmas tree,” Cash said.

  “Nonsense! Didn’t you bother to read the e-mail from

  Dulcie? It’s a Diversity Tree. It’s celebrating the diversity of our department.” Avis grimaced even as she said these words, unable to hide her distaste for the concept, and I looked around the room. It was an amazingly undiverse department— mostly white, male, and WASP. Lucille Mochtar was the only black female, and whatever credibility she gave the department was painfully absent now that she was visiting at Duke.

  “The provost and the president are always talking about diversity,” Avis said. “Everybody at this university is always talking about diversity until you’d think they didn’t know any other words, and now, suddenly, you’ve got something

  against diversity? What is your problem?”

  “My problem is that it’s a Christmas tree!” Cash insisted.

  “Did the e-mail mention Christmas in any way? No!

  Can’t you let someone do something nice without ripping it apart? Leave the poor woman alone.”

  Stefan and I glanced at each other. Dulcie Halligan was anything but a weakling deserving pity.

  Auburn raised a new point. “Shouldn’t Dulcie be here if we’re talking about her?”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with Dulcie,” Cash

  countered.

  Serena informed us that secretaries never attend faculty meetings. “After all, someone has to mind the store.” It was clearly an attempt to make people laugh, or at least smile. It failed.

  “They have eyes and do not see,” Avis intoned

  mournfully at Cash, “and ears but do not hear. This is a time to feel good and share the holiday spirit, to let the things that make us different bring us together.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Stefan muttered to me.

  “Who cares? She doesn’t value diversity, she just wa
nts a tree no matter what it’s called.”

  Auburn put a hand on Avis’s shoulder to quiet her down.

  “Now, let’s face facts, everybody. Christianity is the major religion in the United States, right? Just like Islam is in the Arab countries. And you have to respect the majority. Would anybody here who was a citizen of one of those lands want to be telling those folks how to observe their holidays? That would be just plain rude, and ignorant, and dumb, and bigoted.”

  If I were Cash, I would have wanted to deck Auburn for his condescension.

  “How many Arab states are democracies where people

  get to choose?” Juno asked him.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  Juno snorted. “Not when they chop off your hand for

  stealing.”

  “Then what about Israel?” Auburn said. “Don’t they have that Star of David on their flag?”

  Juno looked incredulous. “And England has several

  crosses on its flag—what does that have to do with

  anything?”

  “It—is—a—Christmas—tree,” Cash said slowly, as if

  counting to ten. “And you’ve just said it’s connected to Christianity.”

  Les Peterson piped up. “But everybody knows that the

  Christmas tree started as a pagan symbol. You could look it up.”

  Avis and Auburn seemed split about how to take this—

  was Les on their side or against them? And the very word pagan seemed to have alarmed them. I imagined they had visions of writhing voluptuaries wreathed in incense and not much more.

  Martin Wardell cleared his throat as if he were about to spit and said, “Why are we wasting all this time about a tree?

  Inclusion, outclusion—who cares? It’s just a tree that makes people smile, makes them feel good. I’m sure that’s all Dulcie was talking about. That’s no reason to call her a monster or anything.”

  Cash was furious. “Who used the word monster?”

  Wardell shrugged dramatically, as if Cash’s vehemence proved the charge.

  Juno launched another salvo. “If everybody’s smiling, then why is the suicide rate so high this time of year?”