I paused as Rob digested this.
“I understand I have much to learn from you,” I continued, “but, I’m pulling my weight and doing my share. I deserve to be treated as an equal partner, not kept in the dark.”
Uncle Rob was unfazed. “We need to find out more about our enemy. To the extent you can do so safely, to the extent you can handle the truth, I have no problem. I am responsible for you and for your safety, though, and I am the judge of that extent. You still have no appreciation of the risks you are running and the dangers you’re facing. I do, and I will remain in charge. The time is not yet right to move openly against the enemy. We are in a phase of building our strength and our resources, and we will not take direct action against the enemy prematurely.”
I may have figured out the library fire, but here I was, right back where I started with him. “I understand revealing the secrets from Tolliver Library would lead back to us, but we can and should at least warn the Circle’s targets – protect them if we’re able.”
“I know you were bothered by the LeChevalier business,” Uncle Rob acknowledged. “Maybe we could have tipped him off. Maybe he could have done something to avoid the Civic Circle’s Direct Action Team. That tip could have led straight back to us, though. If we become too casual with Amit’s intercepts, we risk exposing how he’s penetrated their field operatives’ communications. Anyway, LeChevalier appears to be recovering from what was supposed to be a terminal brain cancer, thanks to the Coley’s Fluid treatments he’s getting at that clinic in Tijuana.”
He seemed conciliatory, so I decided a bit of reciprocation was in order. Maybe I could get him to help me on a project I’d been suggesting for months. “Acting directly may well pose a risk, but the Circle is a big organization with plenty of opportunities for field agents or analysts to develop scruples and decide to leak information. We pose as an insider with a guilty conscience, and if the Circle does get wind of our tip, they chase their tails hunting their presumed mole. Win-win.”
Rob still wasn’t convinced. “It’s only a couple of agents with sloppy tradecraft that make Amit’s penetrations possible. It wouldn’t take more than a handful of your tips before they’d identify those agents as the source. They might even figure out exactly how those agents’ communications were compromised, which would lead straight back to Amit and to us. It’s way too risky.
“You can carry on your research, provided you continue to access the Internet only through anonymous links, but I have to insist: no operations, and no operational use of Amit’s data. Not without my approval.” He fixed me in his gaze.
He had me. I may have been getting my tuition and room and board paid by the Social Justice Initiative, but I was still dependent on him for everything else. I couldn’t agree not to act according to my own judgment, though. “I’ll offer you this. I will not act without first discussing the proposed operation. I will listen to your feedback. In exchange, I expect you will not be unreasonable in withholding your approval.”
Neither of us liked the deal. They say a good deal makes both parties unhappy. I had strained my once-close relationship with my uncle. I spent most of my holiday away from Robber Dell so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of how he’d deceived and betrayed me. I hung out with Amit at his family’s hotel, and I spent time at Kudzu Joe’s Coffee Shop just relaxing, taking a breather from the stress of trying to save the world and getting through my fall classes. I ran into Emma at Kudzu Joe’s, and we had a private chat about our respective college experiences. She’d put Amit behind her and was dating a boy she’d met at the University of Tennessee.
I even connected with my shop-rat friends. We had lunch together. Apparently, Uncle Rob had coached them not to discuss his business with outsiders, and I wasn’t on the cleared list. Fair enough – I could hardly tell them about my own struggles with the Civic Circle. They were all happy to be out of school and making money. A couple of them were still living with their folks, the others had modest apartments. Rick had already bought land and a trailer up in the hills around town. They were carefully banking their salaries and getting on with their adult lives under the guidance of Uncle Rob, Mr. Garrety, and some of the older truckers and contractors in his crew. I felt a bit left behind – still a dependent as a student: not earning my own way and not carrying my own weight. It was a humbling experience.
On my way back to Atlanta, Sunday morning, I went by my old house. The ruins had been removed and bulldozed over. The land was still tied up in the forfeiture and probate proceedings. I visited my parents’ graves, sitting by the tombstones Grandma Tolliver had insisted upon, marking the site where we laid two coffins to rest, empty but for a small urn of wood ash in each. I smiled, remembering how my sister Kira had deftly stolen the urns with my parents cremated remains so she, Rob, and I could defy the Tollivers’ plans and have our own private remembrance up at Robber Dell. I wished I could tell my parents how I was doing, see their supportive faces, and hear their encouragement and advice. I was going to have to live my life and avenge their death without the benefit of their counsel and wisdom. They’d done their fair share and more to make me who I was and to prepare me for the demands of adult life, even if those demands were far more extreme than any of us could have imagined. Now I was on my own – I couldn’t count on Kira, and I could no longer count on Rob
The rest would be up to me.
Chapter 6: The Secret Kings
Amit and I got a couple of surprises in our first social-justice class after the Thanksgiving holiday. The first surprise was when Professor Gomulka returned a backlog of graded essays.
I was used to getting an occasional A, but more usually B’s or sometimes a C. “Check your heteronormativity,” “uncover the depths of your internalized racism,” “engage better with your identity,” and “deconstruct your unearned privilege,” were a few of the nicer things he had to say about my attempts to parrot back his social justice rhetoric. The opaque jargon of social justice was designed to resist easy interpretation by outsiders. Mastering the argot was the secret recognition handshake by which one member of the collective could recognize another and assess the other’s moral status. In this latest batch of graded essays, I’d aced them all. True, I had been working with Amit to hone my rhetoric, but the enhanced “quality” of my social justice propaganda hardly justified the improved grades. At this rate, a good performance on my finals might boost me to an A in the class. With my B in differential equations and C in programming, it would be nice to have another A to pull up my average.
The second surprise came after class. Professor Gomulka invited Amit and me to an off-campus lunch. A couple of days later, we found ourselves dipping chunks of bread in melted cheese at a fondue restaurant with an unexpected guest, the dean.
“Glad to meet you in a less formal setting,” the dean said, shaking my hand. “Ah, and you must be the Amit Patel I’ve heard so much about,” he added, shaking Amit’s hand. “I’m not sure you realize what you’ve accomplished,” he said, turning his attention back to me. “The way you handled Professor Muldoon was masterful – gave him enough rope and let him hang himself. I thought I was going to have to save you from Muldoon, but you set him up and took him down by yourself. Very cleverly done.”
“Thanks,” I replied neutrally. It was hardly a clever scheme on my part – more a combination of Muldoon’s arrogant stubbornness and the slow-moving academic integrity review process – but I wasn’t above taking the credit for it. “I appreciate your decision to drop the charges,” I acknowledged.
“How is everything working out with Professor Fries?” the dean asked.
“Very well,” I answered. “He’s graded the homework Professor Muldoon refused to accept, and given me a couple of additional assignments. And he’s going to prepare a final exam for me.”
“Excellent,” the dean beamed. “You probably don’t know what a service you did to the university by so embarrassing Professor Muldoon,” he added.
“I suppo
se I may not appreciate all the implications,” I noted, dryly.
“Indeed,” the dean nodded his agreement with a smile. “You see, Professor Muldoon is on the faculty senate. He’s one of the leaders in the reactionary movement opposing the Social Justice Initiative. You’ve seriously damaged his credibility among the other faculty. Soon, we may be able to force his resignation and replacement with someone more forward-looking.”
“Happy to be of service,” I replied, trying to keep the inner turmoil out of my voice. Had I dealt a fatal blow to someone who was actually an ally? “I’m surprised that my little run-in with Professor Muldoon could possibly have such significant consequences.”
“You’ve helped alienate him from potential allies and supporters,” Professor Gomulka interjected. “Another pebble. A particularly shiny and worthwhile pebble, but still just a pebble. Alone, it means little. Enough pebbles, however, and before long you get an avalanche.” He turned to the dean. “You were telling me about the other little surprise in store for Professor Muldoon?”
“Yes,” the dean grinned. “I understand Professor Muldoon is upset that his research funding does not cover all the lab equipment he’d like. He brings in his personal equipment from home to supplement the meager resources of his lab on campus. He feels justified in borrowing some of the lab equipment to use in his ham radio station at home to balance the scales. That’s not the way the auditors will see it, though. When the time is right, we will discover exactly how much university property is missing from his lab, file a complaint, and secure a warrant to search his house. If it’s anywhere near the amount I suspect, Professor Muldoon will find himself suspended and facing criminal charges, not to mention disbarment from any future research grants or contracts. It will be the end of his career, and the end of his interference in our plans.”
I smiled and nodded in honest, wholehearted approval. I really approved of villains who wanted to boost their egos by bragging about their exploits in front of me.
Amit interjected, “I’m delighted to see you taking such an activist approach to social justice. I was afraid it was mostly just words.”
“Never underestimate the power of words,” Professor Gomulka smiled, “but ultimately, power in civil society derives from money and people. We provided our backers with an update on the progress of the Social Justice Initiative just a couple of weeks ago. They were very pleased at how much we’ve accomplished.” He turned to me with a big smile. “Your uncle’s support for our initiative has been most helpful.”
Ah. I began to understand why my grades had improved so dramatically after Thanksgiving. Professor Gomulka only just now realized my Uncle Larry was one of his principal benefactors.
“We have a modest amount of money to serve our needs, and we’re using it to fund our people. You two are my star pupils,” Professor Gomulka said approvingly. “You have the potential to become more than just social justice ambassadors, you’re on track to be…” he paused as if struggling with a new concept “…social justice ‘warriors,’ to coin a phrase.”
“That means a lot to me,” Amit replied, “but surely there are others in class who’ve made even more significant contributions to social justice. Marcus and Ryan made national headlines by standing up for their rights and exposing government surveillance of text messages.”
“We certainly took credit for their accomplishments,” Professor Gomulka admitted. “But you’ll recall how reactionary they both were at the beginning of the semester. You were right, Amit. Marcus’ existence, like that of any student-of-color, is protected and made possible by the rules and laws we have set up. We own him. He belongs to us. For him to spout this self-made nonsense undercuts and sabotages all the good we’ve done for him and others like him. Besides, his conversion is… suspicious. Ryan, too. The way in which their little stunt rapidly escalated into national headlines suggests they have some undisclosed backing and support. They’re dangerous. You’ll find there are always reactionaries trying to infiltrate their own stooges into revolutionary groups. There’s nothing wrong with a government keeping a close eye on its citizens – provided, of course, it’s the right kind of government.”
“What can we do about them?” Amit asked. “Can’t you just drop them out of the program?”
“No,” Professor Gomulka acknowledged. “It’s not that simple. There’s a certain decorum we must maintain. If I just kick them out, questions will be asked. If they happen to be out of class the day we review for the final, miss certain critical hints and instructions, and then fail,” he added with a satisfied smile, “why then I will have to regretfully revoke the scholarships of two of my most favorite students.”
“Madison’s been spreading the word through her column in the student paper,” I pointed out.
“Madison? She’s an effective tool for spouting feminist propaganda, but she actually believes what she’s saying. We can hardly include her in our little patriarchal cabal here,” Gomulka pointed out. “We men, however enlightened in social justice, are the ‘enemy’ in her perception. It colors her perspective and limits her utility.”
“Well then, what’s the program?” I asked. “What are we doing to advance the cause of social justice, and how can we help?”
“Our power on campus is limited. We have friends and allies in key places,” Professor Gomulka said, gesturing toward the dean. “We pick a target, like Professor Muldoon, who stands in our way. We cut him off from his support network and destroy any sympathy for him. That’s where you’ve been most helpful, Peter. Then, we attack the target personally. People hurt faster than institutions, and to get an institution to do what we want, we have to attack the people who are blocking us. Part of that is making sure our enemies live up to their own rules. When we catch him breaking the rules, we make sure he’s forced to live up to them and that he suffers the consequences for his refusal to do so. That’s what the dean has in store for Muldoon. Saul Alinsky laid out these “Rules for Radicals” in a book we’ll be studying in the spring semester.”
“It’s not as easy as it was in the old days,” the dean added.
“How did it work in the old days?” Amit asked.
I saw the dean look to Professor Gomulka for guidance. The professor nodded, “It’s mostly public now, anyway. You can tell them.”
“Every student entering an Ivy League school for a generation, between the 1940s and the 1970s, was required to strip and be photographed in the nude. ‘Posture and scoliosis study,’ they were told. Amazing what the more puritanical among our elite will do when threatened with an intimate public exposure. Unfortunately, attitudes began to change.” The dean looked to Gomulka.
“Apparently, someone approached Bill Clinton in 1992 to withdraw from his campaign as the rumors of his womanizing began to spread,” the professor explained. “They threatened to reveal the picture to the public. Rumor has it he laughed in their faces, ‘Hell, I haven’t looked that good in years! Go ahead. That’ll get me an extra five points from women voters.’ The problem was, the threat was empty, because the first time someone actually released a picture the entire elite would unite against the leakers, and the victims would be objects of sympathy. The Clintons arranged for the Smithsonian to take possession of the archive and ‘destroy’ it back in the 1990s.”
“You can bet they have copies squirreled away somewhere,” the dean speculated, “just in case.”
“Power is not just what you can do,” Professor Gomulka concluded, “it’s what your enemies think you can do. Unfortunately, once the bluff is called, the threat becomes ineffective. We have to devise more sophisticated means of influence and control for the younger generation.
“We recruited our first social-justice class by soliciting applications,” Professor Gomulka described the process. “A couple hundred students applied and we selected you dozen. Next year, every applicant to Tech will have to fill out our social justice questionnaire. We’ll be able to screen the entire incoming class for their social con
sciousness and select a larger group, maybe a hundred or so. Eventually, we’ll have mandated social justice classes for the entire student body, using the results of the survey to individualize and optimize social justice education for the masses, while continuing the specialized training in social justice activism for the elite.”
“If the social justice curriculum replaces all the humanities electives in the curriculum, won’t that leave a lot of professors out of jobs?” I asked.
“Who do you think we’re counting on to teach the social justice curriculum?” Gomulka responded, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Most of the humanities faculty are on board already. In many cases, their teachings are already well-converged with social justice ideals. Study literature, you’ll learn about the misogyny of dead white males, and be introduced to more modern, more enlightened books and thinking from more diverse authors. Study history, you’ll be introduced to the narrative of oppression through the ages. Faculty that aren’t on board with social justice won’t be able to stand against the enlightened example of their peers. The real challenge lies in getting STEM to converge toward social justice.”
“STEM?” I asked.
“Science, technology, engineering, and math,” the dean helpfully added. “We’re looking to hire a new head for the College of Engineering. She’s a real creative gal. She’ll shake up the curriculum, make it more relevant to our diverse student body. She’ll see to it that our faculty move beyond superficial measures of equality as statistical analyses of headcounts, and toward addressing justice and the genuine engagement of all students as core educational challenges.”
“Professor Muldoon stood in our way,” Professor Gomulka explained. “Now you’ve helped us extinguish his opposition. As we expand the program for next year, I’ll need teaching assistants to help me. That’s how you two fit in. In addition, our backers want to recruit our top students for summer internships. I’ll be passing on the details in class, and I encourage you to apply.
A Rambling Wreck: Book 2 of The Hidden Truth Page 14
