Alex in Femiland: A Politically Incorrect Novel of Morals

By Gonzalo Munévar

BACK COVER SUMMARY

Alex is a sarcastic South American research physicist who moves from Harvard to teach at The Sound College, south of Seattle, so as to be near his young son. It is 1989, when political correctness is beginning to take over campuses nationwide, setting aside such technicalities as due process and freedom of speech. Alex makes fun of the cult of victimhood, which makes him a target of the Sound political activists, who consider him a traitor because his behavior is unbecoming of a person of color. Soon, they bring him up on false charges of sexual harassment, a favorite weapon of feminists against professors who oppose them. His students, though, stand by him; and he bests Maria, the Affirmative Action officer, who has led a ludicrous investigation. The next time around, however, he is not so fortunate. Alex has fallen in love with a former student, Linda, a glorious affair interrupted by the canonizing of Anita Hill as the matron saint of the Left. Two women, motivated by spite and jealousy, bring new sexual harassment accusations against Alex. With practically the whole Sound College against him, the upcoming new farcical "investigation" is certain to destroy Alex's life. One more step in the takeover of academia, and then of the nation.

Few writers today are prepared to confront political correctness and what passes for progressive ideals. Here is a bold exception that focuses on life and morality in a modern university campus and exposes the totalitarian nature of PC, culminating in a modern tragedy about the perversion of education and human relations. This is a story of our time, with a warning for the future. (Prof. David Lamb, University of Manchester)

A gripping page-turner that offers a troubling window into the crazy, ideological culture of the modern American academic world. (Prof. Michael Huemer, University of Colorado)

An insightful look at the dramatic contrast between real education and politically correct indoctrination on the American campus. (Prof. Ainara Wilder, the Evergreen State College)

A penetrating and very funny novel that makes its most telling points against sexual and political correctness by showing rather than declaring, by letting us see rather than telling us what we are seeing. With understated, tongue-in-cheek wit, in the fashion of Cervantes and Swift, the scenes build, oh so logically, into widening whirlpools of rollicking absurdity. What lifts this Gulliverian journey into academia is its delicious writing. I savored every paragraph. Alex in Femiland is a work of art (Prof. Sheldon Reaven, Stony Brook University)

219

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637102985

Book preview

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Alex in Femiland

A Politically Incorrect Novel of Morals

Gonzalo Munévar

Copyright © 2021 Gonzalo Munévar

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2021

ISBN 978-1-63710-297-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63710-298-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

To Susan

Children of a future age

Reading this indignant page

Know that in a former time

Love, sweet love, was thought a crime

—William Blake

Acknowledgments

Iwish to thank the many friends and colleagues who commented on earlier drafts of the manuscript. I hope they will accept my apologies for not being able to mention all of them. I do think I should make a few significant exceptions. It was Paul Feyerabend who first urged me to write this novel. It saddens me that he did not live to see it in print. Peter Scolney, Barry Knister, and Richard Hillyer were extremely helpful at several stages of my editing. And I thank my wife, Susan Greenshields, for her encouragement and support over the years.

Chapter 1

Two tall South American men joined the faculty of The Sound College in the fall of 1989. One was extremely handsome; the other had a very sharp tongue. The first was given an office with a view of Mount Rainier; the second’s office window overlooked the waters of the Puget Sound with the dreamy outline of the Olympic Mountains on the horizon. On their very first day on campus, each received a letter from the People of Color Support Group congratulating them for being hired and inviting them to a reception in their honor. The handsome one, Raul, immediately picked up the phone to accept the invitation. The other one, Alex, made a paper airplane out of the letter and flew it into the trash can on the other side of the office. He later found out that his action had been inappropriate: He should have used the recycling bin.

At first sight, it might seem that their differences would inevitably become an unbridgeable chasm between them. Raul Vargas was a Peruvian leftist who had barely escaped his country after a military coup. During his exile in the United States, he had received a PhD in philosophy of science at Harvard and had decided to stay. Alejandro Alex Castro was born into an aristocratic Colombian family. He had come to the States to study physics and philosophy as an undergraduate and then had gone on to graduate school in physics at Berkeley. His experiences there during the sixties and the tragedies that kept him from ever returning to Colombia had made him very cynical about political activism.

Nevertheless, their first meeting could not have been more auspicious. It took place the first morning of the training retreat, during which veteran faculty were to initiate the new arrivals into the strange but wondrous ways of The Sound College, the most daring, the hottest liberal arts college in the land. Raul was walking with a football (soccer ball) in the direction of the compound’s sports field when Alex spotted him.

Are you going to kick that ball all by yourself? Alex asked him.

Not if you join me.

Alex ran to his room to put on his football shoes and uniform. I always carry them with me, he said to Raul, in case there is a chance to play.

I am the same way, Raul told him.

There was a shaking of hands, and proper introductions issued in Spanish; after which, they got to the business at foot. As they kicked the ball back and forth, they took the measure of each other. Raul admired the elegance of Alex’s touches with the outside of the foot; Alex recognized the sound of a well-struck ball in Raul’s crosses to him. As they passed each other’s examination, they traded anecdotes about Pelé and Garrincha and Maradona; about other great players and games they had seen; about the time, in 1961, when Colombia eliminated Peru from the World Cup; and about the 1975 Copa America, when Peru defeated Colombia in the final. Afterward, as they drank water and cooled off in the shade of tall conifers, their talk moved on to literature, movies, fine restaurants, and other favorite topics of academics. How could they not become friends? They were both intellectuals from a continent where men have football in the blood and blood is even thicker than politics.

At one point, Raul brought their attention back to the retreat. We are going to have a full schedule of meetings beginning this afternoon.

This retreat is shaping up as a long baptism ceremony, Alex said, at the end of which, we will have become born-again educators.

Raul chuckled. At The Sound College, they do tend to get rather sanctimonious about their new approach to education.

So what did you do before the missionaries found you and brought you here? Alex asked him.

I was a full professor at Ohio State.

Why did you come here?

I needed to get back in touch with science, Raul said. "I am good at what I do, I think. I published quite a bit and became a full professor quickly—the youngest at Ohio State. But after a while, I got the feeling that analytic philosophy of science is just a series of arguments about caricatures of science. Here I’ll have a chance to team-teach with scientists, and perhaps even do some science."

Amazing, Alex kidded him a little, a philosopher who needs to know what he is talking about.

The way I look at it—Raul smiled broadly—is that I will get to be a student again while drawing a professor’s salary. He had additional reasons for taking the job, but he kept those to himself. And tell me, Alex, what position did you have before coming here?

I was a research professor at Harvard. In physics.

You were a—but of course! Alex…Alejandro, right? Alejandro Castro! I’ve heard of you. In fact, I’ve read a couple of your less technical pieces. Raul was really excited by now. You came to Harvard after I got my PhD.

I must have, Alex said.

But what is someone at the cutting edge doing at a college devoted to teaching?

The cutting edge of physics has its own fashions—string theory, to name one—and I just can’t resist exposing them for the fads they are. But that’s being clever, not doing real physics. I needed to remove myself from the temptation to show other physicists how wrong they are, put myself into a position where I can think about the foundations of physics without any pressure to publish until I am ready.

It sounds as if you need a monastery, Raul jested. But why teaching? Why didn’t you go to a research institute?

Having to explain physics from the ground up to unpolluted minds will help me understand my own science, Alex answered. And I like the interdisciplinary approach of this school too. I want to run my new ideas by philosophers, for example.

Is that right? Raul said with a great deal of interest.

Alex also had other reasons for coming to The Sound College. But he, too, kept them to himself.

By the afternoon, all the new and old faculty who were to participate in the retreat had arrived and were exploring the grounds. After a nap, Alex left his cabin in the woods and, in the hot afternoon, naturally gravitated toward the beautiful blue water of the lake. At the dock, he saw Miranda Peniston, an attractive new professor, and struck up a conversation with her.

What a beautiful day, he said. I had been told that it always rains here.

What a gorgeous place, Miranda said. That water looks inviting.

Let’s go for a swim then, Alex offered. I’ll race you to the other side of the lake.

Isn’t that rather competitive? she chided him.

Well, I’ll tell you what. We can make a pact to end up in a tie.

She smiled. I didn’t bring my swimsuit.

So much the better, Alex thought. The Sound College had a reputation for wild goings-on. What harm could a skinny-dipping race between colleagues do? Especially when it was noncompetitive. And especially when the other colleague was a gorgeous young woman like Miranda. In a sweeping glance, as if trying to take in the tall woods that surrounded the lake, he managed a good look at her long black hair, held in concentric circles by pins; at her pretty face and full lips; and at the nice curves under the delicate material of her loose blouse and pants. He tried to imagine her ready to jump into the water.

So what do you do? she asked.

Her question snuffed the candle in his imagination. Physics. And you?

I am a feminist theorist.

That is your job? Really?

What is wrong with being a feminist theorist? she snapped.

Nothing, I suppose. I simply didn’t know that it was possible to get a Ph.D. in that…field.

My Ph.D. is in political science. I just finished my dissertation on feminist political theory.

Oh.

You sound impressed.

Sorry. I just don’t know much about it.

I heard that you were raised in South America. I guess the equality of women was not a hot topic there when you were growing up.

You mean people are already talking about me? I just got here!

Word gets around. I understand The Sound College is like a small town.

Alex shook his head. At any rate, I have always believed in the equality of women.

Always? That is interesting. How so?

Because of science fiction.

What the hell? Miranda thought.

He went on. I read science fiction as an adolescent, a lot of science fiction. My goal was to explore the galaxy one day. But I could not imagine going on a journey to the stars for years and years without women. As you can imagine, however, in starships, space is at a premium. Women could come along only if they were useful. They had to be scientists or engineers or doctors—something. They obviously had to be on a par with the men. And that couldn’t happen unless they were given the same opportunities as the men all along the way.

Are you pulling my leg?

No, I am serious. Alex went on to elaborate his views on the equality of women, but Miranda was by now only pretending to listen; she had caught sight of Raul’s handsome face as he walked toward the lake and had begun to hope desperately that he would head in her direction. The closer Raul came, the more I-sees, hums, and other listening noises she made for Alex’s benefit; but as their frequency increased, so did their inappropriateness, which made Alex feel that Miranda was mocking him, which in turn made him recall his vow to stay away from North American academic women. His attention shifted away from her when he heard Raul’s greeting in Spanish: "Buenas tardes."

Raul came with the news that he had talked the deans into shifting his assignment to Alex’s team, and the two South American men expressed their pleasure at being able to teach the fundamentals of natural science together.

When Alex left to help prepare dinner, a duty he had drawn earlier in a raffle, Raul had an opportunity to make a much better impression on Miranda than Alex had. And he made the best of it. He spoke with passion and eloquence about the need for solidarity between the vanguard feminists and the oppressed peoples of the Third World in general and Latin America in particular; he spoke of his experience as a witness to poverty and injustice and as a victim of persecution; he spoke of his hope for dignity and respect for men and women everywhere.

Miranda wished that Raul would ask her to swim across the lake.

*****

As the retreat went on, the new Sound College faculty were instructed by the veteran Sound faculty on the unusual features of their new academic life: the Sound program, the Sound seminar, and the Sound evaluations. As the instruction advanced, several of the new faculty became visibly concerned about their ability to measure up to The Sound College’s expectations and standards, but Miranda, who—as the least experienced—should have been the most insecure, was taking it all with a growing sense of excitement and joy. In her case, however, the experimental features of The Sound College were mere background for the truly wonderful event of her falling completely and madly in love with Raul.

At The Sound College, there were no departments and no courses such as Psychology 101 or Comparative Literature 314. Typically, a small interdisciplinary group of faculty would decide to teach a program together, say, on the connections between the quantum revolution in physics, the modernist movement in art, and the rise of psychoanalysis in the first part of the century. They would work out the curriculum and present it in a way that would entice a large enough group of students. During an entire year, they and those students would devote themselves to the study of those subjects and the connections between them. At the end of the year, the faculty team would dissolve, as would all the other faculty teams around campus, and new ones would be formed to teach entirely new programs.

Many were the rewards of such a system, but there were pitfalls as well, and it was the veteran faculty’s job to explain how to benefit from the first and avoid the second. Some of the new faculty were worried about not being able to get along with their colleagues in their interdisciplinary teams, others about having to dilute their areas of expertise too much. Alex and Raul, however, were excited. Miranda was ecstatic, although she was hardly paying attention. All her life she had known that eventually the man for her would have to be Hispanic. At the age of four, her mother, a law student, had changed her name from Amanda to Miranda, in honor of the celebrated Miranda decision by the Supreme Court, according to which the constitutional rights of a Hispanic man had been violated by the police.

For her dad, it was the last straw. He could no longer put up with his wife’s attempts to raise his consciousness about an increasing number of issues. Miranda could still remember him, slamming the door on his way out of her mother’s life and out of her life as well, shouting that he was sick and tired of trying to cuddle up to a bullhorn.

Miranda did not trust men, or rather, she felt insecure about them. She had been hurt by men time and again—by men like her father who felt uncomfortable around a strong woman who insisted on having a career and mind of her own, by men who felt uneasy about a woman who was politically conscious, or by men who pretended to be personally and politically sensitive. Of this last sort, there were two kinds. First, were those who paid lip service to the concerns of women but, who deep inside and sometimes not so deep, merely tolerated the new woman thing. She was shocked once in her graduate school cafeteria when she overheard one of her professors, a man she had always found politically impeccable, explain to a friend how at the beginning of the school year he made a point of learning by heart the new list of forbidden words put out by the feminists, so he could keep the activists off his back for one more year. Some men were even worse, though. They pretended to be sensitive and feminists so they could get laid more. Yes, the kind of man who after a few weeks of living together would leave you to yourself to do the dishes… And there was one other kind. Men who tripped over themselves with sensitivity and who worshipped the very footprints left by her feminist moccasins on the ground. There was something icky about them (she even found herself calling them wimps), although she could not quite understand why. Perhaps she felt that their true motivation was not genuine, that they acted out of guilt or because her cause was fashionable, not out of true respect for her. But these were all vague feelings. She could not quite put her finger on why feminist men annoyed her so.

Perhaps she needed someone she could worship and admire as much as she hoped he would worship and admire her. In Raul, she had found him—a strong man, a man who had lived, a man who could lead, and so incredibly handsome.

As for Raul himself, he found Miranda very attractive, but at that very moment, he was trying to make up his mind about the Sound seminar. He was looking forward to working within a team, but he was not sure about letting students choose the format and pace of the seminar.

"It is their seminar," an imposing veteran told them.

But what if all they want to do is bullshit? Alex asked, and Raul nodded in agreement.

They will come around eventually, the man said.

You have to play it by ear, another veteran said.

The more they own the seminar, the more serious and committed they will be, still another veteran chimed in.

You mean I have no say? Alex asked. What of my academic freedom?

Of course, you have a say. It is your seminar too.

We are just giving you suggestions. There are all kinds of seminars actually.

You just have to find the right balance. Get the students to participate as much as possible.

But don’t force anyone. Sound students don’t react well to that kind of pressure.

You have to find out what works best for you and your students.

At this point, a new faculty woman began to complain that doing Sound seminars seemed to require talents that she was not sure she had.

It may take you years was the less-than-reassuring answer.

Oh, come on, Alex said. How hard can it really be? We all have been in countless seminars and have taught many ourselves. We just have to adjust to the idea that seminars are the most common way of teaching here. I am sure we will get the hang of it.

Even though some of the veterans were not entirely happy to let the matter end on that note of optimism—they really enjoyed putting awe into the new blood—the topic changed to the Sound evaluations. There were no grades at the college. The professors were to write evaluations of the students’ performance, of their good and bad points, and to offer suggestions for further improvement whenever advisable. And then the professors were to discuss those evaluations with the individual students. The students were likewise expected to evaluate the professors. And all the members of the team were to evaluate one another.

At that moment, Raul felt the heat from Miranda. Hmm, things were going to be interesting at The Sound College. He smiled at her. This place might be just what he needed in more ways than one. He was still reeling from his nasty divorce from Marcy—the lovely and pathologically jealous Marcy, who went berserk every time she found out about his affairs with other women, lovely Marcy who had threatened to cut up his pretty face with a razor the next time… He bolted out of his marriage right then and there, for there was sure to be a next time. He was as incapable of being faithful to her as she was of keeping a cool head.

She could have threatened to do far worse with that razor of hers, Alex would tell him one day. Well, for now, Raul was relieved to have 2,048 miles of North American prairie and mountains between him and his ex-wife. He felt terrible about his fifteen-year-old daughter; he feared that she might think that he had abandoned her, but he hoped that she would understand. Perhaps she could come and visit him. He missed her.

In the meantime, he really needed someone who could take his mind off his personal problems, someone who could soothe his heart, someone understanding, someone rational, someone interesting, someone sexy, someone with the hots for him.

He smiled at Miranda again.

By that time, the general conversation had drifted back to the Sound seminar. A veteran, a female professor of literature named Katherine, was speaking of the need to honor each student’s heritage, particularly in the case of students of diversity. This was especially important she said, given The Sound College’s commitment to multiculturalism.

Raul was brought out of his contemplation of Miranda by Alex’s voice. Excuse me, Katherine, but I don’t understand what you are talking about.

Well, in essence, she responded, I am saying that, in seminar, we should pay special attention to race, class, and gender issues. A lot of heads nodded agreement. She made as if to continue but was interrupted by Alex once again.

I am sorry, but a moment ago, there were three things I did not understand about what you said. Now there are four.

A murmur of displeasure spread like a wave throughout the room. And then a veteran faculty member spoke, Wait a minute. Here we have a new colleague who is asking a sincere question. I think that the least we should do is try to answer it, not make noises of disapproval.

At once, there were a lot of disclaimers. No one had meant to disapprove. Perhaps they had been insensitive. Katherine suggested that the way she had expressed herself might have been too Eurocentric, and then she added, Please tell me what you do not understand.

Thank you, Alex said. First, I do not understand what you mean by honoring every student’s heritage. Second, I do not understand what you mean by ‘students of diversity.’ What do they study exactly? Third, what is the college’s commitment to multiculturalism that makes the first two so important? And now fourth, all those race, class, gender issues, how is it that I have to watch out for them?

Oh, I see, Katherine said and smiled sweetly. There were many sweet, encouraging smiles coming at Alex. The students of diversity, she continued, are those who belong to the oppressed groups. By honoring them, I mean that we should treat their heritage with respect. For example, we should not treat a Hispanic as if she were a Euro-American.

"As if he were a what?"

Frowns all around this time.

A Euro-American.

What the hell is a ‘Euro-American’?

A white. As you know, Hispanics have not been granted the privileges of most of our students. We can’t now expect them to respond as if they had enjoyed those privileges all along. It would be particularly offensive to apply white male expectations to them.

"Wait a second. You seem to be making two suggestions that I find offensive. There is no such race as ‘Hispanic.’ Many Hispanics are no less white than you are. This distinction by race is odious. But worse is your other suggestion that Hispanic students can’t take what you would dish out to white males. What are you implying? That being Hispanic makes us retards?"

There were several gasps as Alex spoke, the loudest coming at his mention of retards. But Alex continued undeterred, Why should a professor walk into the classroom thinking that just because a student has a different skin tone or a particular accent, that student is not as capable as the others? When I was a student, I sure as hell thought I was as capable as the next guy, white male that he was, and then some.

The meeting was thrown into terrible confusion by Alex’s remarks. Many voices tried to tell him, almost desperately, that they were only trying to recognize difference, not pass judgment on ability. But since all those voices were trying to speak at once, the message did not have much chance. And insofar as some part of their message did get through, it only served to get Alex going again. The terrible suspicion was raised in some minds that they had been, in word or thought, politically insensitive. Others began to suspect that Alex was a reactionary.

The meeting came to an end when the dean in charge declared that it was obvious that communication about these issues was difficult and that more conversation would be necessary by everyone in the college during the year to come. Thus relieved of any obligation to reach a conclusion on the subject, the new and the old faculty filed out of the room in a friendly spirit.

That night, there was a party: first, a bit of dancing, then a considerable amount of drinking. When the drinking had begun to take its toll, the group divided into two. The first went away to play poker, but not before the veterans made loud admonitions to the newcomers about the fleecing they were soon to endure. The second group produced a variety of musical instruments, and in no time, a regular jam session was organized. When the group’s energy began to dissipate, but still at an hour when people did not wish to retire, the bravest or the drunkest or the most gifted musicians put on a show of their individual talent. Alex, who had been one of the noisiest organizers of the jam session and who was feeling melancholy even though he had not drunk enough to be in the least tipsy, took up his guitar and began playing sad tunes from his faraway land. He sang in Spanish with a clear, full baritone: songs of hope, of love, of sorrow—songs that had a great effect on Raul as he looked ever more deeply into Miranda’s eyes. The others probably would have found them too sentimental, nay, sappy, had not Alex explained that they were songs from a time of revolution, which now gave them great multicultural value.

Right after Alex played his last encore and as people came over to congratulate him on his talent and to ask about the meaning of the lyrics, Raul and Miranda made a discreet exit, and no one saw them again that night.

Later, Alex walked by himself along the lakeshore. The party had earned him a few friends. He had probably offended several people earlier in the day, though. But how could he let that nonsense go unchallenged? He looked at the narrow path of the moonlight on the now dark waters and hoped that his coming to The Sound College would not turn out to be a terrible mistake. In the beauty of those woods, of that lake, of that night, he felt very lonely. He thought of his little boy and tried to imagine him by his side at that very moment—his little Eric, trying to make stones skip on the water, or asking him questions about what it would take to establish a colony on the moon, or about how we really knew what happened to supernovas, or telling him funny stories about school. His little Eric would challenge him to a wrestling match or a foot race, would charm him or grow tired and sleepy beside him, and would then go back home carried on Alex’s back. His little Eric would so carefully avoid mentioning his mother or the rich doctor she had married or the Seattle mansion with the view of Lake Washington and Mount Rainier.

Alex had thought that he and Wendy were happy. He had made love to her by a lake much like this one, with a moon like this one, but under the southern skies of New Zealand. They had rejoiced in Eric’s sand castles on the beaches of Indonesia and Spain, in Eric’s playing with the waves… His work in physics had earned him invitations to travel all over the world. Little Eric had grown up thinking that his parents were rich because of their grand lifestyle. Now real wealth could give him what his dad’s cleverness had provided before. Now he was gone from Alex’s daily life—to Seattle. And so Alex had moved from Harvard to The Sound College, just an hour’s drive from his little boy.

The following morning after breakfast, Raul and Alex organized a soccer game to counterbalance the softball game that had been placed on the schedule as a matter of course. Raul captained one team; and Alex, the other, with plenty of shouting and cheering while trying to show by example how to treat the ball with care and respect. They all had a good time, especially the two tall South Americans, who appreciated their colleagues’ effort, an effort made not any less endearing by the North Americans’ handicap of having two left feet.

The game was interrupted by the dean’s announcement of an extra meeting that had been called in response to the serious concerns of several "folks (the word people" was almost out of favor at The Sound College, unless qualified in certain appropriate ways). While the other folks went to the meeting room, Alex ran to get a shower first. Run as he did, however, by the time he walked in, all the seats were taken. There were some folding chairs in one corner, and he picked up one, but there was no place to put it. People, folks—that is, were sitting in a semicircle of chairs, with the speakers against the wall opposite the door. Alex had no choice but to place his chair in front of everyone else in the audience, so he felt in as much of a hot seat as the speakers.

A gawky woman named Andrea, nicknamed Andrea the Dork by some of the most insensitive men on campus, was finishing a little speech on how different the experience of women students in seminar was, how much less competitive they were than the men, how much more sensitive to feelings, and how very nurturing. The problem was that aggressive men tended to dominate seminars, and as a result women would clam up. Andrea concluded with a plea to pay special attention to these and other gender issues. She then introduced a younger woman who would address the theoretical side of the problem.

The theoretician, Lani, was short, chubby, pale, and nervous. Her eyes were directed, when not at her notes, at Alex’s frame stretching uncomfortably in the folding chair stuck in the middle of the room like a giant magnet. And as she could sense his growing displeasure—she was indeed sensitive to feelings—her nervousness increased all the more.

She first spoke of the legacy of discrimination against women in academia, and Alex nodded in agreement, although he could not quite understand the urgency of calling a meeting to inform people of what they already knew. But then Lani began to talk about the need to recognize the different patterns of reasoning exhibited by women and by people of color (that was an appropriate use of "people"). In particular it was important to realize that women and people of color were right-hemisphere folks. And now the important task was to honor right-hemisphere thinking as much as the left-hemisphere thinking so prevalent in patriarchal societies.

By this time, sweat was pouring from Lani’s face and underarms at about the same large rate that acid was dripping from her stomach walls. And her neck hurt from being rigidly fixed in the direction of Alex’s frown. But she went on bravely to suggest that whereas right-hemisphere thinking was holistic and creative, left-hemisphere thinking was linear and bureaucratic. And, of course, it was clear that the world needed a more holistic and creative approach.

Folks were very pleased with Lani’s theoretical account of things, or at least, they behaved in a very supportive way when she finished her talk. They praised her and praised her. Alex sat on the folding chair, staring in disbelief, until someone asked Lani whether her account could be extended to senior citizens like himself. She thought that was likely. At that, Alex snapped, cleared his throat, and raised his hand.

Lani, whose nervousness had not been diminished by all the praise—simply because she knew that Alex’s frown would eventually turn into words, and then who knows what all that praise would amount to after that—was almost relieved to see his hand up.

Yes, Alex, she said with resignation.

"At first, you suggested that women had been treated unfairly. I agree with that. I believe that women teach and do research in physics and literature no less well than men. So it was unfair not to give them the same opportunities that were granted to the men. Eventually I imagine that we will have roughly equal numbers of men and women professors, given equal opportunity. In fact, one of the things, one of the many things that attracted me to The Sound College is that we are pretty close to that ratio here.

But then you seemed to switch gears and suggest that women actually cannot do as well what men can do. That women instead do something called ‘right-hemisphere thinking’. So could you please make up your mind and tell me: Are women able to do what men do or not?

A fly could have gotten stuck in the thick silence that ensued.

Eventually Lani found her voice. I don’t see why you force me to that dichotomy. I was merely suggesting that women and people of color have other abilities that should also be recognized.

Right on, a voice from the rear said in support.

I was just making some suggestions to get a conversation going, Lani said.

I am sorry, Alex said. I didn’t mean to be rude. But unless I know what you mean, it is hard for me to carry on such a conversation.

Lani began to relax a little. I will be happy to clarify things for you.

Thank you. Look, do you really believe that African and Indian men have their brains wired differently from those of white men but exactly like those of white women? Aren’t you being racist when you claim that skin pigmentation has something to do with brain function?

The thick silence returned.

Alex filled the void: And are we also going to entertain the notion that men’s brain function switches from one hemisphere to the other when they get older? At what age do you suppose that happens? Fifty-five? At the mandatory retirement age?

There was nothing much left to do except try to end the meeting in the least awkward way possible. This was exactly the way the dean saw his job.

*****

Afterward, Alex went to the lakeshore again. Jesus, he was saying to himself. I haven’t even started working at the college, and half the people there already hate my guts. The folks there, I mean.

Then he saw Miranda approach him. I hope she doesn’t try to drown me, he thought. But she was friendly.

Not all feminist theory is that simple-minded, she said.

I am relieved to hear that, he answered.

I hope that you will give serious feminist thought a fair chance sometime.

I will try, although I presume that it will not be this coming year. My teaching load looks overwhelming. But perhaps you could give me some suggestions about things I might want to read.

I’ll be happy to do that.

And perhaps we can discuss them?

Discuss them? she asked. We can do better than that. We can debate them in front of the students of a program that you and I can teach together next year.

Now that is an idea worth considering, Alex said, and then he smiled.

She smiled too. I am glad you think so.

Then Alex said, I suppose the others are pissed at me. I don’t imagine everyone is as open-minded about this as you are.

Don’t sell our new colleagues short, Alex, Miranda said. They do think you are a crank but a rather nice crank. They think every place needs a gadfly.

Alex felt better. Perhaps this would be a great place for him after all.

He had no inkling of the furor that he would cause with his first letter to the school newspaper in a few weeks. He had no inkling at all.

Chapter 2

Dark clouds covered the peaks of the mountains and threatened rain. In the cold, humid morning, Kitty, beautiful Kitty, opened the door to the front garden and led the two children out. The motorcycles began to move slowly in her direction. The driver of the Ministry’s car was holding the car door open. Kitty stifled a yawn. Her children, in their sharp school uniforms, stifled their urge to run to the car. Then Kitty looked up and saw the guns. She tried to shout, but it was too late. The terrible sounds whipped through the yards and gardens, through the houses, through the cold morning air, through the mind of Alex, who woke up screaming in the darkness of his room. Kitty, oh, beloved Kitty, his beautiful sister Kitty! He saw now the faces of the children as the bullets raced toward them, the lovely faces of Fabito and Marielita as the bullets raced toward them—the children! Alex sobbed uncontrollably for a long time.

Without turning the light on, he walked to Eric’s room. He yearned to hold him, hug him, reassure himself that his little boy was all right. Alex opened the drapes and let the moonlight in. He could now make out the empty bunk beds. That was the first piece of furniture he had bought as soon as he moved into the small house. Eric had always wanted bunk beds, but Wendy would not hear of it. Alex sat on Eric’s desk chair and looked intently at the lower bunk, trying to hear his son’s even breathing as he slept, to see his head on the pillow, as if he were not in that mansion overlooking Lake Washington in Seattle. Alex moved his hand over the pillow, sculpting the air lovingly… After the bunk beds, Alex had bought the desk and the chair, a bookcase, and a chest of drawers for Eric’s room. In his first visit, Eric had gone with him to all the furniture stores in town—the first time in years either of them had gone on a shopping expedition without complaining. By Eric’s second visit, the furniture had arrived, and they decorated the room with posters of the planets, of spaceships, and of wild animals. Eric was very proud of his room at his dad’s house. He brought with him half his science books and all his books in Spanish. He had definite opinions on the furniture and the bedding. For one thing, he did not want any childish designs on the bed covers. He preferred plain colors, he said. Once he had found a proper place for his clothes, books, and toys, he took out his Legos and began to build one of his intricate starships. He was home.

But now, the visit was over, and Eric was back in Seattle. Alex walked back to his own bed, the one piece of furniture Wendy had left him, more a parting insult than a kindness. He got under the covers, thought once more about Kitty, and with a sad heart, fell quickly asleep. In two hours, he would have to get up to lead the pampered students of The Sound College into the world of science.

*****

For Raul, the beginning of the school year brought a frenzied pace to his life. As the Puget Sound summer lingered into the fall with its splendor of blue skies and green forests, he and Miranda became a couple. He was the beautiful radical man of her dreams. She was a sexy woman he could engage in intelligent conversation after making love. As autumn began to color the leaves with strokes of red and gold, they moved in together. But soon afterward, he began to fear that he had rushed into that decision. At first, it had seemed ideal. They had gotten a cabin on the water, a cozy hideaway in the trees where they could enjoy and nurture their passion for each other. They were a handsome, intelligent couple in the midst of outrageous natural beauty. But even in a setting for a postcard romance, Raul felt uneasy at giving up interesting options.

His uneasiness increased when classes began, and he could not avoid feeling upon the length of his tall body the wanting eyes of the women in the Fundamentals of Natural Science program. As he spoke, they sat there mesmerized by his words and face. He spoke of science’s responsibility to the Earth, and those committed female environmentalists in heat wanted to lick his words right off his lips. He spoke of viewing the value of science within the context of making for a world free of hunger, of oppression, of injustice, and all those female champions of the downtrodden ached to lay their bodies on the line, his line, to bring about that better world. Had there been a Marxist god, he or she could not have bestowed on the political activists of The Sound College a more fitting matinee idol.

Raul’s ties to Miranda, however, prevented not merely his doing anything to take advantage of the situation, but also his enjoyment of the sensuality that shadowed him everywhere in the Fundamentals of Natural Science program. He had imagined that Miranda was a sophisticated woman in regards to sexual relationships, and perhaps she was, but not when it came to her relationships. She was surprisingly jealous, incredibly suspicious. Raul did not fear that Miranda would try to cut up his face, as Marcy had threatened to do. Miranda was not insane. But her jealousy was an impediment nonetheless—an impediment made even greater by her preaching against sex between professors and students. Professors, especially male professors, had power. Female students had no power. There was a most obvious power differential between male professors and female students. Therefore, correct political thinking required the greatest vigilance to ensure that male professors did not take advantage of the powerless female students, and particularly that they did not take advantage of the female students sexually.

This was a message Miranda gave Raul every day, though not in a nagging or irksome way—not at all. She did so casually as part of the political small talk that was so much a part of their interaction with each other. This was a message that the feminist faculty, of which there were many, carried to the Sound community constantly. Sex between male faculty and female students was fraught with danger. There were no rules against it, no explicit rules yet, but the sword of condemnation was sharpened with spite and rage every night and brandished about during the day for maximum deterrence. But subtle as Miranda might seem, Raul felt that her casual comments were meant to douse him like a cold shower. And he secretly, ever so secretly, cursed the Puritanism of American radical feminists. They might be willing to treat him as an ally, as a hero, but they demanded that their heroes behave, unlike most great men of the past, as either saints or eunuchs.

The female students of The Sound College were by no means unaware of the latest correct political thinking. No students anywhere else were as up-to-date as they were. But they also knew that, according to correct thinking, there were no absolutes. There was an exception to every rule. And if a gorgeous radical from the Third World was not that exception, who could be? So they did not discuss Raul’s sexiness a great deal, but they thought about him. They watched him, and they desired him. As time went on, though, they came to know of his relationship with Miranda, and he began to seem more and more inaccessible to them. The fact that he was involved with a woman was perhaps not a serious obstacle, except when that woman was Miranda, the new and eloquent feminist leader on campus, the woman who served as a role model for so many of them. To a woman, they resented references to female beauty, and young beauty at that, when truly important qualities such as intelligence and eloquence should be the only relevant considerations, but Miranda’s youth and beauty added a significant amount to her persona. They rounded out her star image. Eventually, it came to seem impossible to the student folks at The Sound College that things could have turned out otherwise. Raul and Miranda belonged together.

Not that Raul would disagree exactly. He just thought that he also belonged with many others as well. He was the kind of man who could not resist his temptations, and whose temptations could not resist him. It is not fair to say, however, that thoughts about his female students’ bodies dominated his mind altogether. Indeed, Raul was a committed teacher who threw himself into the wonderful opportunities of team-teaching with scientists. Apart from Alex, the team comprised two women scientists in their late thirties or early forties. Ann Olafson, a biologist, was a pleasant, easy-going woman. Had she not been a bit overweight, both Raul and Alex would have considered her rather attractive. Beatrice Miller, a chemist, had made a very poor first impression on Raul. She seemed pushy, inflexible, and possessed of a tongue as sharp as her disposition was nasty. Alex liked her at once.

On the first day of classes, they met in a large lecture hall with the eighty students of their program—the only students they would have the whole year—as the four of them would be the only professors those students would have all year long. By that time, Alex was concerned about the teaching load. The team members attended one another’s lectures, helped in one another’s labs, read the same materials the students had to read in all subjects, and then some, did the homework exercises, and planned and discussed the program’s activities. As a Sound professor, you were always working. And you were dealing with students all day, especially if you were in the sciences.

As for the students, Alex felt trapped in a time warp of his Berkeley graduate student days: the long unkempt hair, the ragged clothes. Chic poor, he thought. Imitation hippies. But when he looked at their feet, he noticed that most of them wore hiking boots. Even the women in the long pseudo-pastoral dresses wore hiking boots.

He was in a room full of hiking hippies.

When his teammates introduced themselves, they mentioned hiking among their hobbies. The three of them also expressed great enthusiasm for the several field trips planned for the year, all occasions for good hiking. The news of that aspect of the program was just as enthusiastically received by the students. So when Alex’s turn to talk about himself came, he decided to meet the issue head on.

I am afraid that I am a city boy, he said. Even so, I would probably like to commune with nature as my colleagues obviously do. My problem is that nature around here tends to be cold, slimy, and wet.