Free The Ghost Apple by Aaron Thier Page B

“postracial” football organization.
    Jennifer Wilson, professor of biology, slapped the table and rose to her feet. “Here is the problem,” she said, and now she addressed herself directly to Mr. Pinkman III: “Your sinecure was paid for in blood.”
    Mr. Pinkman III, rubicund under normal circumstances, turned beet red. “I cannot disavow,” he said, “the beliefs, principles, and convictions of my great-great-great-grandfather. It is feasible that it could be disputed that the strategies, procedures, and manner of the implementation of those beliefs and convictions were unobjectionable in some respects. However, I believe in heritage, not hate.”
    This was understood as an endorsement of slavery, and Professor Wilson nodded sharply and said, “Case in point.” Perhaps we remembered her suggestion, at an earlier meeting, that we lock him up?
    But now Professor Kabaka stood up once again. As he did so, there was at least one audible groan. The faculty had grown weary of hearing from its conscience.
    Professor Kabaka had removed his Banana Bran Muffin® from its package. Now he lifted it above his head and solemnly crushed it in his fist. Bits of glistening muffin were squeezed out between his fingers. With his fist still raised, he said that he would like to resign his position, effective immediately. He meant to return to St. Renard and take up arms against the corporation that had degraded his countrymen and despoiled his island home. That was all. He let the muffin fall to the table and left the room.
    This was a troubling development, to be sure, but the meeting had acquired a fiendish momentum, and the embarrassment occasioned by Professor Kabaka’s abrupt departure only reinforced the general feeling that something had to be done. And yet what could be done, now, this afternoon, about the legacy of American slavery? It was impracticable to dissolve our partnership with Big Anna®, which was conceivably the responsible thing to do. We were thus prevented by economic necessity from addressing the problem—whatever the problem was, for indeed the whole thing had become nebulous and obscure, and even supposing that the problem, whatever it was, could ever be addressed by anyone—in its larger dimensions. In all that followed, therefore, we proved Professor Kabaka correct and justified his criticism of us. There was no alternative. Our hands were tied.
    Professor Beckford stood up and said that he agreed with Professor Wilson: It would be advisable to remove Mr. Pinkman III from public life until a solution to the problem of his existence could be found.
    The president, looking glassy-eyed and sick, rose and remained standing for some time without saying anything. Then she sat down.
    Professor Wilson said that there was a vacant office in Ulster Hall where Mr. Pinkman III could be imprisoned. What did we think of that?
    Mr. Pinkman III rose and was no doubt on the point of uttering another abstruse formulation when Fitzgerald Simon, professor of francophone language and literature and himself the descendant of Afro-Caribbean slaves, came unexpectedly to his defense. Professor Simon reminded us that Mr. Pinkman III had not, himself, ever owned slaves, nor was there reason to believe that he had ambitions in that respect. He also wished to point out that in robbing Mr. Pinkman III of his natural rights, we were ourselves guilty of the very crime for which we were trying to atone. Perhaps we could distinguish the issues of reparation and revenge from the more practical questions of how Tripoli should deal with 1 ) the bad publicity, and 2 ) the gifts we had received from the Pinkman family?
    This was very reasonable, and the secretary was sorry that in all the confusion we had managed to forget about Professor Simon. Surely he would have made a better conscience than the troublesome Professor Kabaka?
    Professor Wilson agreed with him in principle, but she insisted that he was being idealistic. The issue was not