by Aaron Thier
I don’t want to ramble about this any longer. Also I’m worried you’ll think I’m giving you a hard time about the football thing. Also I don’t want you to think I’m going nuts. It’s just that all of this demands to be thought about! (Ask Max what he thinks about football. He’ll back me up. How is Max?)
Anyway, I was trying to tell you that the reason I’m so fixated on Kabaka is that he does these things. He calls this man a rapist in front of everyone. Crazy! And he doesn’t give a damn. It’s part of his whole philosophy: Why should we observe the proprieties? Why should we pretend that we want to bring about change within the context of the system that already exists? What we really want to do is change the system.
I need you to understand what I’m talking about! If you don’t understand, then I really am lonely and isolated. Okay? So listen to me. I’m talking about the difference between a liberal status-quo American and someone like Kabaka. There’s a big difference. Some of my other professors, maybe they have the right opinions, maybe they support gay marriage and they’re pro-choice, maybe a lot of them are even people Dad would call pinko nutjobs. Fine. Good. But their lives are soft and simple. They think what a tragedy it is that we have so much racial inequality, but meanwhile they’re the ones who benefit. So it means that hypocrisy is the only political position available to them. They write a little book and then afterward it’s like, Oh no, I’m an idiot, I forgot about black people again! Or else they do think about slavery but they think of it as an “institution,” a subject for scholarship, and meanwhile they’re wearing jeans made in Guatemala by a kid paid thirty cents a day. These are nice people who use the phrase “African-American” because they’re trying to be respectful, and they don’t even think about how insulting it is. How long has it been since our own family lived in Africa? We’ve been here a lot longer than most white Americans. Kabaka says that basically all white Americans arrived after 1850 and before that it was mostly just black slaves and Indians.
You understand what I’m saying? Kabaka is something else. He’s not just a professor who looks good in a suit and teaches us interesting things. He’s like an alternative way of living in the world. I feel like I’ve woken up from the weird dream of upper-middle-class black America and now here I am, in History, which is an even weirder and less plausible dream.
Let’s not argue about anything, okay? Not now. Sorry to be so serious. Does it help if I say I’m sitting here with my jeans around my ankles? I was checking the label and I was right: made in Guatemala. Should I take a picture of myself like this and send it to Kabaka?
Love to you and Max,
M
From
The Narrative of William White, a Fugitive Slave, Who Lived Twenty-Five Years in Hopeless Bondage, Containing Some Remarks on the Practice of Slavery in America and an Account of His Miraculous Escape (1845)
Chapter IX
When I was about fifteen years old, I was sold to Mr. Theophilus Pinkman, who was known, according to the custom in that part of the country, as “Colonel,” although he held no military rank, and, indeed, a coward’s heart beat within his breast. The Colonel was as cruel a slaveholder as Almighty God ever suffered to draw breath, and he used to whip his slaves savagely and indiscriminately, usually where no particle of fault existed, in the belief that frequent application of the tyrant’s lash was beneficial to the body and soul of his chattel.
The Colonel was a most intemperate man, and, for want of other amusements, being as we were almost completely isolated in that feverish and pestilential swamp, he used to become intoxicated most nights, and in this condition walk among the slave cabins. The Colonel was himself a slave to licentiousness, and many was the poor son, brother, husband, and father who was forced to bite his tongue, and check every impulse of love and fidelity, while his mother, sister, wife, or daughter was compelled to submit to the grossest and vilest indignity.
I knew of one slave, called “Platt,” of pure African descent, considered one of the most loyal slaves on the plantation, and so strong he could do in three weeks the work another slave could do only in six weeks of the most backbreaking labor. Platt had a young wife named Milly, as virtuous as she was beautiful, and together they had a son. But this happy family was born into bondage, and every slave knows that his happiness may be taken from him at any moment, and sold to the next slave trader who happens by, because his wife and child, and indeed his very self, withal the blood and the sinews of his body, are not his own. And so it was with Platt, who was sleeping together with his wife and infant son in their cabin, when he heard the Colonel approaching, almost helpless with intoxication, whispering the most foul and base indecencies.
In the months of July and August, when the heat becomes so intense in that place that the dew never falls for months at a time, the Colonel was in the habit of wearing only a sort of cloak or loose robe, soaked in cider vinegar to keep off the mosquitoes, and woe to the helpless bondsman and bondswoman who smelled that astringent vapor on the night air! The Colonel stumbled into the cabin and began shouting, saying that Platt had not finished with some piece of work or another, although there was no justice in the accusation, and, indeed, Platt knew very well what the Colonel intended and for what purpose he wished to be left alone with poor Milly.
Reader! Can you imagine the feelings of this young husband and father, as he listened with bowed head to his oppressor, who was wrapped in a winding-sheet and stank like all the dogs of blackest Hell? Platt did not move to leave, and the Colonel, maddened by the frustration of his licentious passions, produced a knife from his boot, and lunged at his slave, intending to kill him. Platt was more than a match for this villain, and he stepped aside and caught the Colonel’s arm, twisting it as he did so, in order to bring the soft-bellied man to his knees with pain, and then dealing him such a blow with his hardened fist that the white man’s life was nearly extinct.
A slave knows that the penalty for defending his honor and protecting his beloved spouse is death, and accordingly Platt fled to the swamp, where he lived for three weeks in the most wretched conditions. Another man might have run for the Free States, but he was reluctant to do so while his wife and child yet remained in bondage, and so, for want of an alternative, at the end of this time he returned to his work.
At first the Colonel seemed to have forgotten the events of that night, and Platt supposed that he had been saved by the workings of that very demon, corn liquor, which had brought on the attack of licentiousness in the first place. But, O Reader, he was wrong! One day while he was working in the field, he saw three white men approaching with pistols and shotguns at the ready. Platt knew that he could not run, lest he be shot down in the field, never again to see his wife and infant son in the light of this world, although, in truth, he had little hope of seeing them again if he should allow himself to be taken. But he put his faith in Almighty God and suffered himself to be led to the barn.
The manner of whipping on Colonel Pinkman’s plantation was to bind the victim by his hands to a high branch or roof beam, pulling the rope tight so that only the toes scraped the dusty earth. Then a rawhide whip was used, this weapon being favored over the bullwhip, with which a careless or drunken man might whip the life out of his victim after only a few strokes, thereby preserving the slave from hours, and perhaps years, of anguish, which was considered to be his due, and this for no crime other than that of his birth.
The Colonel was too cowardly to administer the punishment himself, and still fancied himself enfeebled by the blow dealt him by the husband and father whom he had sought to defraud of the rights that every white man knows to be his by natural law. These three men, contract laborers who would be considered mercenaries in any Christian country, undertook the responsibility, and Platt was whipped from morning until noon, when the men charged with executing this punishment, taking it in turns so that two might rest while one plied the whip, were exhausted by the heat. They cut Platt down and left him to bleed in the dust, and I saw him ther
e, as the blood, which was the same bright red as the blood of any white man, turned the dust of the barn to mud. His back was lacerated so deeply that the flesh could have been turned back to expose the living entrails beneath. Platt was washed in brine, which was thought to prevent the lacerations from festering, but he survived only until about three o’clock in the afternoon, when he died of his wounds. If there is any justice in this world, he waits in heaven for Milly and his son.
All of this was common practice among the slaveholders in that part of the country. Platt was the only slave I ever saw challenge the Colonel’s right to commit outrages so vile that they offend against every sacred principle of Christian society, and he paid for it with his life.
This, then, dear Reader, is the price of your cotton shirt, and of your wife’s Sunday dress.
Minutes / October 2009 Faculty Meeting
The president called the meeting to order and wished everyone a happy Halloween. Before we got started, we should all help ourselves to a Big Anna® brand Banana Bran Muffin®. As we already knew, Tripoli had concluded its partnership agreement with Big Anna® Brands, a corporation that had been “revolutionizing food products and services” for over a hundred years, and together we hoped to do great things. The president wanted to thank William Beckford, professor and acting chancellor of the English Department, for his role in facilitating our discussions with Big Anna®.
John Kabaka, visiting professor of history and self-styled “enemy of globalization,” looked as impassive as a chess piece, but the secretary had not forgotten his passionate rebuke at the first faculty meeting, and he was interested to see what fresh mischief the professor had up his sleeve.
Most of the faculty, at least 80 percent, had retrieved a packaged muffin from the table by the door, and for a moment the crinkling and tearing of wrappers was the only sound. Then the president once again expressed her enthusiasm about this new partnership and observed, with the expressionless equanimity of one fulfilling a contractual obligation, that Big Anna® brand baked food products retained their glisten and freshness for months and months, even when they were removed from the package.
It pains the secretary to admit that he failed to take any notes during the first part of the meeting. All that remains to him are impressionistic memories: a monstrous image of Professor Beckford, who seemed, like an iguana, to blink without closing his eyes; Malinka West in a low-cut green blouse; Dean Benmarcus congratulating Hugo Ortega, who had just been named the first Big Anna® brand Professor of Arts of Sciences™; Matilda Yu choking on her Banana Bran Muffin; Malinka West again; Malinka West with her bright white teeth.
Indeed, the secretary had a dark moment as he sat gazing at Malinka West, unattainably beautiful as she was, and reflecting on the tawdry circumstances of his own life. For context, he had been fleeced by a car salesman just that morning.
But there was no time to worry about this. It was time to discuss the Pinkman Scandal.
Most of us were familiar with the details of the case, but the president gave a brief summary for anyone who hadn’t been paying attention. Following the death of Bish Pinkman Jr.—father of our own Bish Pinkman III and one of our most generous benefactors—Greeley Baker, professor of history, who did not seem to be present today, had written an article revealing not only that the Pinkman fortune derived from cotton plantations in Mississippi, but also that Tyrants wide receiver Depatrickson White was descended from a slave—a man called “Ned,” later William White, who subsequently escaped to the North—once owned by the Pinkman family.
All eyes were on Bish Pinkman III, who remained motionless, staring at his hands with a fixed watery glare.
Obviously, the president said, this was not a matter we needed to resolve on our own. The trustees and the senior administrators were already discussing it, and the Public Relations Office had issued the first of several press releases. What we needed to decide here was what action, if any, the faculty itself would take.
David Herring, professor of physics, laughed cheerfully and moved that we “stage a demonstration.” Perhaps Depatrickson White could strike Mr. Pinkman III with a bullwhip! He could do it on the lawn in front of Pinkman Hall.
The president treated this motion as a joke, although Richard Carlyle, professor of English, had risen to second it. Mr. Pinkman III did not react at all. He sat with his soft hands clasped, his head inclined, his rounded belly rising and falling at regular intervals.
Broward Chamberlain, professor of religion, wanted to explain that there was extensive justification for such a punishment in biblical law. The phrase “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” which was usually dismissed as an ancient barbarity, was actually quoted out of context. The biblical passage was a revision of contemporary Near Eastern laws, which stipulated that perpetrators of violent offenses would be punished in kind (an eye for an eye) only if the victim was of an equal social class. Under biblical law, the idea was expanded to protect victims of a lower social class as well. It was actually a progressive measure, and one that obviously had a particular resonance here, where questions of slave and master were at issue. There was also a lengthy biblical precedent for the punishment of an individual for the crimes of his ancestors.
There followed a period of tense silence. The president frowned and looked at her hands. Was Professor Chamberlain joking?
Professor Herring was joking. He laughed again and asked us to consider how “cathartic” it would be to watch Mr. Pinkman III whipped savagely in front of the building that bore his name.
Professor Kabaka, on the other hand—the so-called conscience of Tripoli College—was not joking, nor perhaps did he ever joke. He summarized his own position as follows: He was furious. We were making a show of outrage over a trivial coincidence. More importantly, however, we were behaving as though slavery were a matter of individual rather than societal guilt—a crime that could be avenged by calling responsible individuals to account. Slavery was in fact only one expression of an ethos of exploitation that had preceded the invention of the plantation complex and the creation of distinct racial categories. That ethos persisted to this day, and companies like Big Anna® were only one of its present manifestations. We could not pretend to condemn slavery at the moment we allied ourselves with such a corporation.
The president, an honest person in an impossible position, thanked him for his remarks. She agreed with him. Unfortunately, we were not in a position to change the world, nor was ancient Near Eastern law “germane to the case.” Once again, all we had to decide this afternoon was whether the faculty would take any action. She thought it would be good if we could be seen to act in concert with the Athletic Association, which had its own interest in the matter, and toward that end she now called on Glenn Forrest, assistant to the deputy director of the Athletic Association, whom the faculty greeted with scattered applause and subdued murmurs of “Go Tyrants.”
“Obviously,” Mr. Forrest began, “we all want what’s best for the Tyrants.” He then expressed his hope that the whole problem would “just vanish,” adding that the Tyrants were a “postracial” football organization.
Jennifer Wilson, professor of biology, slapped the table and rose to her feet. “Here is the problem,” she said, and now she addressed herself directly to Mr. Pinkman III: “Your sinecure was paid for in blood.”
Mr. Pinkman III, rubicund under normal circumstances, turned beet red. “I cannot disavow,” he said, “the beliefs, principles, and convictions of my great-great-great-grandfather. It is feasible that it could be disputed that the strategies, procedures, and manner of the implementation of those beliefs and convictions were unobjectionable in some respects. However, I believe in heritage, not hate.”
This was understood as an endorsement of slavery, and Professor Wilson nodded sharply and said, “Case in point.” Perhaps we remembered her suggestion, at an earlier meeting, that we lock him up?
But now Professor Kabaka stood up once again. As he did so, there was at least
one audible groan. The faculty had grown weary of hearing from its conscience.
Professor Kabaka had removed his Banana Bran Muffin® from its package. Now he lifted it above his head and solemnly crushed it in his fist. Bits of glistening muffin were squeezed out between his fingers. With his fist still raised, he said that he would like to resign his position, effective immediately. He meant to return to St. Renard and take up arms against the corporation that had degraded his countrymen and despoiled his island home. That was all. He let the muffin fall to the table and left the room.
This was a troubling development, to be sure, but the meeting had acquired a fiendish momentum, and the embarrassment occasioned by Professor Kabaka’s abrupt departure only reinforced the general feeling that something had to be done. And yet what could be done, now, this afternoon, about the legacy of American slavery? It was impracticable to dissolve our partnership with Big Anna®, which was conceivably the responsible thing to do. We were thus prevented by economic necessity from addressing the problem—whatever the problem was, for indeed the whole thing had become nebulous and obscure, and even supposing that the problem, whatever it was, could ever be addressed by anyone—in its larger dimensions. In all that followed, therefore, we proved Professor Kabaka correct and justified his criticism of us. There was no alternative. Our hands were tied.
Professor Beckford stood up and said that he agreed with Professor Wilson: It would be advisable to remove Mr. Pinkman III from public life until a solution to the problem of his existence could be found.
The president, looking glassy-eyed and sick, rose and remained standing for some time without saying anything. Then she sat down.
Professor Wilson said that there was a vacant office in Ulster Hall where Mr. Pinkman III could be imprisoned. What did we think of that?
