The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Rather than becoming disillusioned, Lynn was ecstatic. The movement was well funded. These people were committed. One of the out-of-town organizers, a mid-twentyish woman with pulled-back brown hair, brown sandals, baggy jeans, and a black T-shirt with the image of the Christian fish being swallowed by another fish with feet, came over to Lynn, pulling him aside.

  “Hi, Shelby.”

  “Lynn, this is not enough of a turnout. How close are all the college bars?”

  “Fourth Avenue, just a couple of blocks.”

  Digging into her jeans pocket, she pulled out a wad of bills and handed them to Sheffield, being careful to keep her body between the transfer of cash and the TV crew. “Here, hit a couple of bars. Get some people here to protest.”

  “Pay them?” Lynn was momentarily taken aback.

  “Yeah! You got a problem with that?”

  “Hell, no. It’s cool!”

  Turning on his heel, Lynn took off at a trot toward the Fourth Avenue bar district. The first bar he reached, which sounded as though it had a good crowd, was one of the area’s gay bars. Within fifteen minutes he had nine volunteers at $100 a pop. He called Shelby on his cell, telling her they were on their way, and moved on to the next bar on the block.

  Half an hour later he was out of $100 bills and had sent another twenty-three college kids to the demonstration. Walking back to campus, Lynn stopped at an intersection, waiting for a green light. A silver Lexus stopped at the light, the driver sliding his window down and flicking out a cigarette. Furious, Lynn stepped into the street, picking up the butt and flicking it back into the Lexus before it sped away. He did not think the driver, who was on his cell phone, even noticed the butt fly onto the back seat. ‘Good,’ Lynn thought to himself. ‘Maybe a nice big burn in that leather seat before he notices.’

  Whether it was the growing crowd or the TV cameras, the demonstration had attracted even more people than Lynn had sent. The size of the gathering probably exceeded one hundred when he got back, and the participants were rowdy. The chanting sounded more like taunting. The young men and women, probably with several beers under their belts, violently jerked up and down the signs that Shelby and her people had provided. Lynn was exhilarated by it all: the smell of the grass, the warmth of the August early afternoon, the shouts, the bustle, the feeling that he was standing near a powder keg.

  All four of the network affiliates were present. The videographers, all with the cultivated look of someone who just had a meal at the Salvation Army, followed the “talent” around, waiting for instructions. The reporters, the “talent,” stood out from the rest of the crowd. They all seemed to be well lit, even when the camera light was turned off – perfect hair, amazingly white teeth, clothes of a color that was brighter and more intense than mere regular people could buy.

  Asking her cameraman to set up, one of the reporters approached a protester. Going immediately into a question, she asked, “Why do you oppose Reese Johnson teaching here?”

  Lynn recognized the protester as one of his recruits. The young man’s hair was wild, as were his eyes. He turned to face the blond-haired reporter, staring down at her cleavage. “Who?”

  “Professor Johnson. Why do you not want him teaching here?”

  “Oh, yeah. I don’t know. ’Cause he’s a jerk.” Suddenly looking inspired, he added, “With what he does to female students…he shouldn’t be allowed to teach at all. Ha ha ha!”

  Lynn had worked his way close enough to be able to shove his face between the drunk and the reporter, making sure the microphone was within inches of his mouth. “Reese Johnson is a hate monger! He believes that being gay is a crime! That marriage can only be between a man and woman! He wants us all to go back to the Dark Ages when only creationism was taught, and evolution was just a theory. He wants Muslim children in school to be forced to sit through a Christian prayer every day. He wants us to teach everyone that killing is bad by killing people. He teaches the opposite of tolerance. Instead of a world where we can all live together in peace, he wants us to all be judgmental and quick to condemn anyone who doesn’t agree with his religion. HE WANTS OUR TROOPS TO KILL IN THE NAME OF HIS RELIGION!”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  Both Sheffield and the reporter turned to see who had interrupted. Looking agitated, still in his suit and tie in the sweltering Tucson heat, Dexter Mills stood next to them. Turning his side to Sheffield and directly addressing the reporter, Mills continued, “Everything this man has said is inaccurate or an outright lie.”

  “And who are you, sir?”

  “Dexter Mills. I am the head of the Humanities Department, who hired Reese Johnson.”

  Lynn Sheffield stood fuming but decided to let this administration lackey hang himself on television.

  “And you agree with what Professor Johnson says?”

  “It’s irrelevant whether I agree or disagree. I believe in academic freedom.”

  The reporter pressed, “Isn’t it true that Harvard fired Professor Johnson for what they termed ‘hate speech’?”

  “Actually, no, you are mistaken on both counts: Professor Johnson was not fired – he quit; and Harvard never described anything that Professor Johnson taught as ‘hate speech.’”

  Sheffield cut in, “Yeah, he quit, as in ‘Tender your resignation immediately or else.’”

  “Young man, I’m afraid that you are also incorrect. In fact, when Professor Johnson gave his resignation, the administration offered to truncate the tenure requirements and grant him immediate tenure if he were to stay.”

  Sheffield stood his ground. “That may be, but they muzzled him. They told him he couldn’t teach this nineteenth-century crap anymore.”

  Taking a deep breath, Dexter answered, “At least now you are slightly closer to the truth, although still quite a distance from it. He was never told to cease teaching a single aspect of his course. The only requirement Harvard imposed was that he provide, within his course, a continuing forum for another faculty member to present a differing viewpoint.”

  The reporter asked, “What’s wrong with that? Why did Professor Johnson refuse?”

  Sheffield shouted, “Because he’s afraid of the truth!”

  “Hardly, sir. The very basic concept of university instruction is that it creates an environment friendly to all thought, all ideologies. It would be consistent with that concept to have Karl Marx teaching a political science course at the same college as Winston Churchill. It would not be consistent to force them to co-teach a single course. That would do nothing but create a hostile environment. It has always been the belief that a university gives each point of view its ‘best shot’ at convincing the students, and then relies upon the critical thinking of the students to come to the best conclusion. Anything other than that structure is not a liberal education; it is simply programming.

  “One other point. There is not another course taught at Harvard, by any professor, with the requirement to have an opposing perspective mandated within the course. In fact, I cannot think of a course taught anywhere, at any institution, structured in that fashion.”

  Turning to face the camera, Sheffield said, “Maybe that gives you an idea of how dangerous this guy is.”

  The reporter started to speak but Mills interjected, “Wait. I was wrong. I don’t want to mislead. I can think of several schools, major universities in fact, that have the same requirement.” Sheffield’s eyebrows shot upward, not believing that he would get a moment’s support from Dexter Mills.

  Mills continued, “And all of them are in Communist China. In many of the courses, especially the humanities, economics, and political science, they post a party representative to make certain that alternative ideologies are never discussed, taught, or seriously considered.”

  Lynn, feeling the rug tugged out from under him, was silent. The reporter asked, “Are you comparing Harvard to the schools under a Communist regime?”

  ‘Oh, boy!’ Dexter thought to himself. ‘I may have stepped in it.’ �
�Absolutely not! The administration of Harvard was facing an orchestrated barrage from people like this gentleman, who made themselves heard on campus not only with demonstrations, but also with an organized letter-writing campaign, as well as an e-mail campaign that nearly swamped the capacity of the system. Additionally, their donors were pressured to stop giving funds to Harvard if they did not add their voices to the protest. This pressure took the form of boycotts against retail businesses, malicious and ill-founded complaints against the professional licenses of doctors and lawyers, et cetera. Being a privately funded institution, Harvard had no choice but to attempt a compromise.”

  “Why do you think the same thing won’t happen here?”

  “Oh, I believe it will. These people are too well organized, and they see Professor Johnson as too much of a threat for it not to happen. Fortunately, the University of Arizona is a publicly funded, land-grant institution. We receive substantial contributions from alumni, for which we are extremely grateful. However, our survival does not depend solely on those donations.”

  “But it will cost the University a substantial amount of money.”

  “Yes, it may. However, we have an administration here who believes that academic freedom has a price and that sometimes the price must be paid, or we will lose the freedom forever. We are also blessed with the fact that we are in a state comfortable with its maverick status and not afraid to stand its ground against the opinions of others.”

  Sheffield saw a golden opportunity. “You mean like fighting against Martin Luther King Day until the bitter end?”

  “Actually, sir, I was thinking more of the tradition of Barry Goldwater who opposed discrimination against blacks long before most of the country jumped on the bandwagon.”

  The reporter asked, “Certainly all of this controversy can’t be welcomed by the administration?”

  “Of course not, and no one within the administration wants controversy for its own sake. On the other hand, if a little controversy is necessary to reinstate a lofty goal, so be it.”

  “But is this really the topic where this university wants to make its stand?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Well, Professor Johnson does appear to be against so much of the progress that we have made in the last one hundred years.”

  Dexter paused for a moment, thinking about what she had just said. “It’s Ms. Ryan, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Ms. Ryan,” he started, speaking slowly. “I can’t say that I’m impressed with your journalistic objectivity.” The reporter immediately turned a bright red. Unfortunately, Dexter was the only one to see this, as the camera remained on his face. “May I ask if you attended Professor Johnson’s lecture today? I don’t recall seeing you in the room.”

  Suddenly less comfortable, keeping the microphone pointing toward Mills, Ryan answered, “No, I didn’t.”

  “Perhaps you’ve read one of his books then?”

  Trying to veer away from the obvious direction this was going, she said, “What Professor Johnson actually says isn’t news. If he gave his lecture today, and there was no protest, then we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Indeed?” said Dexter. Turning to Sheffield, he asked, “What about you, sir? Were you in the lecture today? In fact, are you registered as a student?”

  “I don’t need to subject myself to a morning of that mind-rot. I know what he stands for.”

  “And my second question, are you a student here?”

  Sheffield, looking defiant, answered, “No.”

  “Ms. Ryan,” Dexter asked, “if not a single participant in this demonstration had attended the lecture, would that be news?”

  “Not necessarily,” she replied. “If they were already familiar with his positions, they could certainly oppose his presence here without needing to sit through this lecture.”

  “Would it be news if none of the participants had ever read one of his books or papers?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Would it be news if the majority of the kids shouting and carrying these signs had no idea who Professor Johnson was?”

  “Uh….” She realized that she had veered from the frying pan into the proverbial fire. “Yes. I suppose that it would be news.”

  Turning to one of the campus security officers, Dexter shouted, “Your megaphone,” making a beckoning motion with his hand. The officer unclipped the portable amplifier and hurried over. Grabbing it, Dexter trotted up the front steps of the old building. Not quite high enough as far as he was concerned, Dexter hopped onto the wooden railing, balancing himself by gripping a column.

  Flipping up the switch, Dexter held the microphone in front of his lips and shouted, “Everyone, could I have your attention, please.” The chanting faltered for a moment. Dexter could see Sheffield talking animatedly to a woman wearing a black Darwin T-shirt. They started circulating among the group, shouting out the chant “Gods bless everyone – no exceptions!” and prompting others to do the same.

  “Just for a few moments, please.”

  Dexter noticed that the man with the red beard and the black Thirsted woman were stopping occasionally at certain members of the group, speaking directly into their ears. Those people would then start circulating, trying to intensify the chanting. Mills noticed that two of the camera crews had joined him on the porch, their video cams aimed toward the crowd. “TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS IN CREDIT AT THE CAMPUS BOOKSTORE FOR EVERYONE WHO IS QUIET!”

  The effect of his offer spread quickly. Within moments there remained only about eight or nine members still chanting, including “Red Beard” and “Darwin.” The diehards were circulating more rapidly, cajoling more intensely, attempting to counter Dexter’s effect to no avail. Apparently feeling that they were becoming too visible, upon Darwin’s signal, they stopped chanting, as well.

  Turning to face a group of campus police officers and continuing to use the amplifier, Mills instructed, “Officers, please check the Cat Cards of those who are cooperating. Get their names and ID numbers so we can get them their credits.” Turning back to the crowd, Dexter smiled and said, “I want to thank all of you for congregating here today. Civic involvement is a beautiful thing.” Some muted laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “All of you have already earned a credit for your willingness to cooperate. How many of you would like to earn a tuition waiver? Please, a show of hands.”

  Most of the group enthusiastically raised their hands, some shouting out, “Yeah!”

  “Good. We will do this like a game show. First of all, everyone who is a student here at the University and can prove it with a Cat Card or other acceptable form of ID, please move over to my right.” Approximately ninety students shuffled across the sidewalk to the grass on Dexter’s right, leaving Red Beard, Darwin, and about ten others. Almost all of the remaining group were those whom Darwin had conferred with during the chanting. Focusing on them, Dexter asked, “How many of this small group on my left have a valid Arizona driver’s license? If you do, please show it to one of the campus officers.”

  Darwin shouted, “We’re not playing your game. We don’t care about tuition waivers.”

  Mills replied, “I already assumed that. However, since you are on school property, we are within our rights to request to see your ID. Please, all of you produce it for the officer.” One of the campus cops went to the small group. Speaking to the campus officer, Mills said, “Please jot down their names.”

  Turning his attention back to the large group, Dexter continued, “Okay, let’s start with an easy one. Everyone who thinks that Professor Johnson teaches one of the ‘hard’ sciences, raise your hand.” With satisfaction, Dexter noticed that more than half the group had their hands up. “All of you with your hands up, please have a seat on the grass; everyone else, remain standing. Next question, how many of you think that Professor Johnson works in the Humanities Department?” There was more hesitation this time. Some of the students thought that they had the te
st figured out and that it was the hand-raisers who were getting eliminated. Only a dozen raised their hands this time. Smiling, Mills instructed, “Good job. All with their hands not raised, please sit down.” Amidst some laughter and teasing, the majority of the group sat on the grass.

  “The next question is a bit tougher. Can you name a single title of one of the books that Professor Johnson has had published? A show of hands, but you will be asked to prove it.” Three hands rose out of the group. “Everyone who doesn’t know a title, please be seated.” Turning, again to the campus cops, he said, “Would one of you be so kind as to take a pad and pen to these three students and write down the titles they provide, separately please?”