lenny, me, and the “N” word
so it’s the first day of the new semester
the first day of the new semester at the university of immense hubris
the well-endowed, private university that’s received far too much attention recently for its crimes of negligence and indulgence on the football field
and for the appointment of its new greco-roman president and its immaculate new athletic director
—————–
it’s the first day of the new semester
and i’ve returned with immense enthusiasm to meet my colleagues and greet my new students
because i’ve spent the summer traveling the world as a fulbright scholar teaching what i teach and doing what i do
and getting paid for it
yes, i’m a lucky man
——————————————
so we’re sitting around in a large circle in the immaculately empty OJ room in the theater building
about 80 of us of different colors, sizes, and shapes
new students, returning students, old faculty
and the old faculty is going around the room introducing ourselves, one by one, talking about our work
when it’s my turn, i say something like
“i’m trules. this is my 25th amazing year at UIH (university of immense hubris) , and as you can see from my designer black plastic casio watch, i have not yet received my 25th anniversary silver watch band.”
a few laughs.
“but i was thinking the other night. ‘what exactly do i teach? what do i know? what am i expert in?’
and i paused. and i thought to myself… i’m expert in… my self. now that sounds a little pretentious, right? a little arrogant. but you know, what about “know thyself”, and all that jazz?
and since i never studied what i teach with any great expert, or teacher, or who-ha… i just made it up from what i know, i figure, i’m alright. that’s alright. i’ll teach others how to find themselves, find their voices, and follow their own paths.”
and i continue on my rant:
“i know I’m being a little long-winded, a little loose-lipped here, and a little indulgent of your time…”
i look over at my boss, the director of the MFA program, sandy, a keenly intelligent, artistic man – with a sense of humor, and he smiles at me indulgently, and gives me the go-ahead… the gesture: ‘carry on trules’.
so i continue.
“you see when i was in romania this summer, i got to see gypsy people, who call themselves “roma” people. not gypsies. but “roma”… descendants of the roman empire. but in modern day romania, the “roma” people are disempowered, dispossessed, and often homeless. they live in gypsy tents in gypsy camps on the side of the road in colorful rags for clothes, and they beg motorists for spare change. they have a hard life. they see themselves and are treated like the niggers of europe.
“and there was this one roma girl in my class,” i say to the group.
“my solo performance class where i teach people how to make art out of the fabric of their lives. how to tell autobiographical, personal stories that take heart, and courage, and grit to tell. how to effect an audience with the power and truth of a story.
“there was this one roma girl, alina. alina serban. who was brave and courageous and curious and hungry to learn this new story telling technique. to tell… her roma story… about how her father died, and how her mother was sent to prison, and how she was shipped around from foster home to gypsy camp… for years… disempowered. dispossessed. sometimes homeless and hungry.
“and i was able to teach her. and alina did learn. and on our last night together, she read her story in a downtown bucaresti bar, about her pain and her suffering and her pride… of being roma. and the audience listened to her. and the audience cared. and the audience stood up and cheered. and we won. alina won. the gypsies won. and the roma won. for once.
“and that’s what i do. i help the disempowered. the dispossessed. i help the wounded… tell their stories. i stand up for the wounded. the underdog. the long day’s journey-ers into night. the glass menagerie-ers… the willy lomans of the world.”
and i look around the room and i see, my boss sandy, the smart, arty guy with a sense of humor, give me the signal to (gesturing) ‘wrap it up.’
so i do.
“so… nice to meet you guys. bring me your best stories. and we’ll make art out of the fabric of your lives.”
i’m done. i sit down. i feel a rush. of enthusiasm. of embarrassment. of having put myself out… so far. in a room of my colleagues, where i know half of them are just rolling their eyes and saying something like:
“there he goes again….”
———————————–
and i get home that night… and i find an e-mail. from one of my colleagues in the room that afternoon. it says… basically…
“you… used the N word.”
and i’m shocked. stunned. i did use the N word. i did.
i read on.
“i know you were just doing what you do, but did you think about the others in the room? the african americans in the room?”
and i say to myself,
“i did.”
and i read on:
“do you possibly know what their experience has been? how they react when they hear that word?”
and i say to myself,
“no… i don’t.”
and i start to feel bad. really bad. like a loud-mouthed, dyed in the wool, KKK racist. and i read on…
“well, you know i really like you and respect you, trules, but what you did today was not right. it was blah blah blah blah blah…”
and i feel worse. and i write her back right away.
“rachelle, i feel really bad. i didn’t mean to offend you. or anyone in the room. i apologize. but… i do think there’s just a little too much political correctness in academia, and i chose to challenge that by using a metaphor. just like john lennon and yoko ono did when they called women “the niggers of the world.”
click. send.
and within minutes, i get an email back from rachelle who says,
“thanks for your mail, trules. i guess we’re entitled to a difference of opinion.”
ok.
——————————-
and the next morning… i walk into the back to school, all-faculty meeting, where i see rachelle has cornered sandy, my smart, arty MFA program director. she’s talking at him like a embattled wart hog or something, right in the front of the room. she looks over at me as i cross the stage, a little uncomfortably, but she continues, not missing a beat, right in sandy’s face. i sit down on the audience right side of the room… until the meeting starts.
mercifully, there’s no mention of me, the newly branded, “lenny moose.”
after the meeting, i’m feeling really agitated. and guilty. and politically incorrect.
i go right up to ubare, my african colleague from uganda.
i say, “hey man, did i really put my foot in my mouth yesterday?”
he says, “well, you certainly stirred up de pot.”
“is that good or bad, ubare?”
“well, it be more good den bad, trules. don’t worry about it. i know where you coming from.”
ok, one for trules.
i go up to shamus, our blond-haired, yale-educated, politically correct golden boy. i say the same thing, more or less.
“shamus, mon, did i fuck up yesterday using the N-word?”
“oh yeah, trules. that was far out.”
“you mean it wasn’t a problem?” “look at my arm, trules. it’s the color of milk. don’t worry about it, man.”
“really, because rachelle said i was insensitive and hurt some students’ feelings and blah blah blah…”
“listen, trules, this is more about rachelle than about you or anything you said. don’t worry about it, man.”
“really? thanks, shamus.”
then i walk over to sandy, my smart, arty program director, and we basically do the same dance.
“don’t worry about it, trules. i always thought we irish were the niggers of europe.”
so… i walk out of the meeting to my car. and i’m thinking,
“yeah, don’t worry about it, trules. it’s rachelle’s problem. the white, liberal, jewish girl has a stick up her ass. it’s the way she was raised. it’s her thing. she probably sang freedom songs with joan baez. she probably marched to washington with martin luther king and heard his ‘i have dream a dream’ speech. and of course, she voted for obama. yeah.”
but so did i. and i lived with william and dated cindy, and some of my best friends are….
so just for safety’s sake, i decide to send facebook messages to harmon & myeisha, my 2 black students from last’s years class. i invite them to be my “friend” on facebook, and i apologize profusely for any offense i made or any pain i caused them.
harmon, from south carolina, his father a baptist minister, writes back,
“if i didn’t know you, trules, i might have taken offense. but i do know you, so no harm, no foul.”
alright. i’m ok with harmon.
then myeisha writes back… a day later, during which time… i’m sure she’s absolutely burying me.
“don’t worry, trules. i was just surprised how easily the word came off your tongue. but you constantly surprise me. peace.”
ok, i’m done. i covered all the bases i can. i made amends. i’m done.
——————————–
two days later, i get another e-mail. not from rachelle. it’s from the executive director of the university’s “committee on unamerican activities.” actually, from her secretary:
“dear dr. trules. ms. jones would like you to come into her office for a brief meeting with her at your soonest convenience. she is available at the following times.”
oh, mother fucking hell. what did you do now, rachelle? you “like and respect me enough” that you weren’t satisfied with sandy’s brush off, so you had to make a formal complaint about me in front of the unamerican activities committee? grrreeeat.
so i go into the meeting with ms. jones, who… is probably just doing her due diligence in responding to a complaint. she doesn’t want my head. she doesn’t want my job. does she? 25 years down the drain for using the fucking “N word”… as a metaphor! when it was told to me in romania?
“hello, ms jones.”
“hello, dr. trules. thank you for coming in.”
“you’re welcome, ms. jones. it’s just “professor’ trules. no ‘doctor”. although… i often do feel that my job is sort of connected to probing and healing… the human psyche, you know?”
“yes, dr. trules. but would you like to tell me about what happened the other day?”
“you mean at the back to school student orientation?”
“yes, i presume so.”
“do i need a lawyer with me for this, ms jones?”
“not at all, dr. trules. i just want to have a conversation with you about it.”
“thank you, ms jones. you mean i can talk honestly about it?”
“certainly, dr. trules.”
ok. now what do i do? what do i say? do i take the course of least resistance and try to cover my ass? save my job? just say how terribly sorry i am for any offense that my use of “the word” caused in the room that day. that i was insensitive. politically incorrect. inappropriate for our esteemed institution of higher learning. basically, eat crow and move on to a better day.
yes, of course, that’s what i should do. that’s what i’ll say.
———————————–
“well, you see, ms jones, i was using a metaphor for the disempowerment of the gypsy people of romania. a metaphor for the dispossession of the entire roma people. i was actually standing up for the underdog people of the world when i said that “the gypsies were the niggers of europe”. just the way john lennon and yoko ono said that “women were the niggers of the world”. just the way lenny bruce used the words, ‘nigger. niggger. nigger. fuck fuck fuck. nigger nigger nigger. fuck fuck fuck.’ they’re just words, ms jones. understand? nigger, fuck, cunt, pussy. words! just words! but we load them like guns. and we shoot them off at each other. and some of us can use them. and others of us can’t. how are we supposed to know, ms jones? who’s to say who can say which words to whom? i didn’t call anyone a ‘nigger’. i don’t hate black people. i didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings, ms jones. if i did, i’m sorry. i already apologized to everyone i could think of. why won’t fucking white liberal rachelle get the fuck off my case, ms jones?”
ms. jones is staring at me. her jaw has dropped to her knees.
“who is this ‘rachelle’, dr. trules?”
“uh.. what do you mean, ms. jones? she’s the one who filed the complaint…. isn’t she?”
“no, i’m afraid she’s not, dr. trules.”
“it’s just ‘professor’, ms. jones. uh… who filed what complaint?”
“it was someone in your solo performance class who didn’t like the way you spoke to an asian girl who didn’t understand english very well. she said you raised your voice and made her uncomfortable. do you remember the incident, dr. trules?”
fuck. this has nothing to do with rachelle and my using the “N” word. and i just dug myself a giant grave.
“who did i make uncomfortable, ms. jones? the asian girl or the complainee?”
“look, dr. trules. i looked you up on the ‘rate my professors’ website. and what i found is: ‘best professor ever’. and… ‘he’s an ass’.”
“well they go together, ms. jones. i’m demanding. i set the bar high so the students will rise. i believe in the 1st amendment, lenny bruce, and challenging authority.”
“i can see all that, dr. trules. i’d just like to encourage more of the ‘best professor ever’ and less of the ‘he’s an ass’. understand, dr. trules?”
“yes, i do, ms. jones.”
“and one more thing, dr. trules.”
“yes?”
“you seem like a very smart, intelligent, sensitive man. i’d prefer to meet you under different circumstances the next time we run into one another, if you catch my drift.”
“yes, i do, ms. jones. thank you for your graciousness and understanding.”
“have a nice day, dr. trules. i mean, professor trules.”
“you too, ms. jones.”
i walk out the door.
what the fuck just happened? well…. for one thing… i just opened my big fucking mouth and completely incriminated myself. again.
but…. then again….
i DO still have my job.
and my home (60 days notice, anytime, landlord’s discretion).
and my marriage (an entirely ephemeral relationship with a volatile indonesian woman 30 years my junior).
and…
i’m still…
a lucky, lucky man.
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