by Patrick Duane
To Whom It May Concern,
There are a few things that I wish to disclose.
It’s true that I once told people I was Portuguese. I did this only because my father used to say, “I think our Irish ancestors mixed in with the Portuguese.” I took this to mean my great grandparents; I guess he meant 600 BC, when the Celts invaded the Iberian Peninsula.
I’ve yet to find an ancestry assessment showing any Iberian heritage at all. All data indicates that we’re solidly Hibernian. There’s a possibility that, upon my story being published, someone with whom I went to high school might say, “Didn’t this guy claim he was Portuguese?”
I promise: I genuinely believed what my father told me when I was still a boy.
Since we’re on the subject, I should mention that my grandmother used to tell me we had “Native American” heritage. I never really believed this. If ever I shared this information, I prefaced it by saying, “My grandmother is a pathological liar, but she tells me that we’re Native American.” I do want to clarify that, early in high school, while taking a standardized test, I once bypassed the bubble for Caucasian and instead penciled in Native American. This wasn’t for any major test that would at all determine my future, but if any record of that bubble-filling still lives in some file cabinet or computer somewhere, someone might, upon seeing my story, say, “Wait a minute, twenty years ago this guy claimed he was Native American.”
Finally, if anyone tells you that in third grade I dressed as Dennis Rodman for Halloween, it’s true. However, I did not do blackface and I have the pictures to prove it. To my knowledge, I have never done blackface.
Sincerely,
Emory Raymond
A Stupid Elevator
by Emory Raymond
Ray Emory worried that if he left too late, he’d be caught in a swarm of children being let out of the local public schools. Six months prior, he’d been walking alone to his volunteer hours when he encountered a group of five students leaving the nearby vocational school. They were spread across the sidewalk, and his only options were to push through them or step into the busy street. He inched slowly towards the curb and shimmied sideways as they brushed past without acknowledging his presence. Seconds later, a half-filled Gatorade bottle struck Ray’s back. One of the boys shouted, “Move out of the way, white boy.” Ray worried they’d seen deep into his soul. He tried to remind himself that they were only kids—they didn’t know anything! But he couldn’t quite shake the sense that they’d identified some aspect of his personality he tried to hide even from himself. He was never quite the same after the incident.
The walk to his volunteer hours shouldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, but Ray suffered from chronic pain. He’d been accident prone as a youth and felt responsible for his condition, so he chose not to wear a pin or placard that identified him as suffering from an invisible disability. While the scoliosis had not been his fault, all his other injuries had—particularly the femur he snapped when jumping out of a tall tree. After multiple surgeries and years of physical therapy, Ray remained unable to maneuver up or down stairs, though he was generally fine crossing short distances on flat ground. The problem was getting out of the English department, which was housed in the eighth and highest floor of the university’s oldest, most labyrinthine building, a structure that once served as the city jail.
Ray packed his things, exited his windowless office, and navigated the long, dark hallway to find his advisor, Dr. Meyers, waiting at the elevator bank. Meyers had once been so excited to work with Ray, but then, during their fall seminar, Ray had implied that he could identify with people of color because he had mixed-race cousins. He was sharply condemned by his classmates, all of whom took turns telling him off while Dr. Meyers stood idly by, doing nothing to deter the verbal barrage. Ray had not since spoken to the other members of his cohort and remained quiet all semester.
The one elevator, if it ever arrived, hardly guaranteed a smooth ride. It alone was responsible for ferrying hundreds of students and faculty members through the eight-story building. Part of an ancient system installed when the building was still a jail, the rider had to first slide open an iron grated door to enter and then latch that door shut behind them before choosing a destination. Meanwhile, the science, business, and engineering programs razed whole blocks in surrounding neighborhoods to build hundred million-dollar developments that looked more like spaceships than school buildings. The university’s marketing materials continued to pay homage to their humble origins as “a commuter school with working-class roots, located at the edge of the neighborhood which was once home to Malcolm X.”
In truth, the university’s board of directors had grown tired of what they perceived as mediocrity yielded by these working-class roots and had hired a new president who developed a formula to rise to the top of the U.S. News & World Report “Best Colleges” rankings. To appear more selective, the university solicited more applications so they could reject more students. To attract domestic applicants with higher SAT scores, they transitioned from offering need-based scholarships to merit-based scholarships. Having raised their average SAT score, they then waived the SAT requirement for foreign students that would happily pay full tuition but might not have scored as high on standardized tests. Next, they turned towards amenities, constructing new dorms that had more in common with day spas than undergraduate housing. Those buildings shot high into the sky, cast shadows across local neighborhoods, and were unavailable to students receiving financial aid. A prominent city councilor took an interview with the Boston Globe to call out the university, accusing them of being a bad actor working to destroy the heartbeat of Black culture in Boston, a place already marred by their label as the most racist city in America. Locals said the city councilor was a hero, the only politician with backbone, the sole elected representative not beholden to ruthless property developers. Unfortunately, it was easy for the university to retaliate. They revealed that the same city councilor had, years ago, not only signed off on their development plan but had received a number of kickbacks for doing so.
Dr. Meyers asked Ray if he was headed home, and Ray explained that he was on his way to volunteer at the local high school. The program had supposedly been developed by the English department, one small attempt to “give back” to the neighborhoods being destroyed by the university’s aggressive expansion, but faculty members seemed oblivious.
“Driving over, then?”
“Walking,” said Ray. “Need some fresh air before I go sit in another windowless cave for a few hours.”
“I’d be careful if I were you. I heard that a few undergraduates were mugged on their way to Dudley Square.”
“It’s called Nubian Square now,” said Ray.
Ray wondered whether Dr. Meyers knew that the nearby neighborhood had been redesignated because its old namesake, Thomas Dudley, had passed laws permitting slavery in the seventeenth century. Did Dr. Meyers know that there were still concerns over the new name? According to what Ray had read online, The Nubians, despite having been enslaved by Egyptians, had their own history of owning and trading slaves—a history as recent as the Second Sudanese Civil War.
“I think undergraduates should be robbed more often,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’re easy targets. Totally oblivious. If I’d grown up nearby, I’d rob them all the time. Especially since they all take this shortcut through the public housing development even though it only saves them five minutes. Imagine spending fifty grand a year for your kid to go to school here and then learning that they were mugged on their way to volunteer at a public high school.”
Until the incident with the Gatorade bottle, Ray had wanted to believe that he hadn’t been robbed because people saw him and knew that he was down for the cause. Now, he worried he’d fail his next test: he’d see a Black person and not know how long to hold their gaze or the right way to nod and say hello in passing. The passerby might then suspect that Ray was racist, call him out, and confirm Ray’s deepest fear: that he was, in fact, racist.
Dr. Meyers didn’t respond. Worried he’d never regain the respect of his advisor, Ray began to panic. He’d intended to condemn the parents paying full tuition as well as their clueless children—spoiled brats who thought they could go wherever they pleased. Not that he thought white people shouldn’t be allowed in the local neighborhoods. He didn’t mean to advocate for segregation. And he didn’t mean to suggest that only white people paid full tuition, either, or that only Black people lived in the nearby public housing.
“Although I do think it’s an important experience to have,” Ray continued. “Being in the minority. The only white person in a crowd.”
The two of them stood there for a while, quiet. Ray considered what he said about being a minority. He analyzed the ways in which what he’d said, to try and show that he wasn’t racist, had possibly been racist. He was about to clarify when he heard the elevator’s groaning, pained approach.
“I always imagine there’s a guy down there in the basement pulling a rope to manually bring the elevator up and down.”
Again, no words. Dr. Meyers slid the iron gate aside to let Ray in first. The space was so snug that Ray had to stand slightly behind his advisor, who closed the gate and fixed the latch. They traveled five floors without stopping.
“The express.”
Ray forced a fake laugh. He hated that joke. The elevator slowed down on the second floor.
“Guess I jinxed it.”
Ray figured that whoever was waiting would see, when the first set of doors opened, that the elevator was full. There’d be no need to slide the iron gate. But, after the first set of doors opened, a man reached for the latch, opened the iron gate, greeted Dr. Meyers, and shook his hand.
“Dr. Dixon,” said Meyers, “always a pleasure to see you.”
Beside Dr. Dixon stood a woman with a stroller. Ray tried to peer inside, to see if there was a child in there. If so, he’d gladly step out, though he was trapped behind Dr. Meyers, who wasn’t moving. Maybe, thought Ray, she’s one of those people that pushes a small, yappy dog around in a stroller. He comforted himself with this thought. She should walk her dog like a normal person or leave it at home. Dogs weren’t even allowed in the building.
The two professors remained stiff, silent. Dr. Dixon kept his hand pressed firmly against the gate. If he had only let us go on, thought Ray, the elevator would already be on its way back up. Ray looked back toward the stroller. The woman stared straight into his eyes. He averted his gaze. The elevator’s bell cried out—it was one of those old, antique alarms. Ray could feel the ringing in his jaw.
“This is your student?” Dr. Dixon asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Meyers said, shuffling aside to reveal Ray, who showed a pained half-smile. He couldn’t determine whether or not Meyers was being sarcastic.
“Well then,” Dr. Dixon said, releasing the iron gate and stepping back.
They rode to the lobby without a word. Dr. Meyers told Ray to be safe and then walked off towards the nearest parking garage.
Ray checked the time. The encounter had set him back a few minutes. Even if he managed to avoid the crowds of students, there was still the problem of the high school’s front desk staff, who every day pretended not to remember who he was or why he was in the high school. He slouched and modulated his voice to appear as unthreatening and friendly as possible, but nothing worked. They made him show his identification, sign in at the front desk, and wait until a teacher arrived to chaperone him. Even the full-time teachers only spoke to Ray to ask if he had a pass, as if he was an intruder or delinquent student.
He turned onto Malcolm X Boulevard. In the distance loomed the high school: a squat, beige, brutalist building. The university’s volunteer program had been developed, in part, because the high school had implemented a STEM curriculum even though many of the students that tested into the school were not interested in STEM. The problem was that those students hadn’t scored high enough on their entrance exams to attend the higher-ranked public schools offering more diverse curriculum. Those higher-ranked schools were filled with students whose parents paid for years of tutoring to ensure that their children aced exams, thus exempting them from paying for private education although they were, of course, the families that would have been least burdened by such expenses. Students that tested into the STEM school, where Ray volunteered, could choose to either attend their local public high school or feign interest in STEM for the sake of receiving a superior public education. And what did Ray do? He helped students with their writing assignments and facilitated creative writing workshops for students interested in the arts but stuck studying science, technology, engineering, or math.
Ray went through the usual process with the ladies in the front office and arrived ten minutes late for tutoring. He wasn’t much use to any of the students. He was busy plotting the best way to prove to Dr. Dixon that he was a good person, not a racist. It wouldn’t be fair for Dr. Dixon to assume Ray was racist—he’d been on his way to work with local public school students. For free!
Usually, Ray took the bus home, but he had a lot on his mind and decided to walk all the way to his studio apartment in Brookline. The farther he walked, the more his bad leg hurt and the higher his fears piled. Did he only think the situation was unsettling because it involved Black people? Wasn’t it racist to think so? Would he even care if the people in the elevator had been white? Would that maybe point towards his not being racist?
At home, though exhausted, Ray couldn’t fall asleep. He lay in bed, leg aching, and determined that Dr. Dixon was busy preparing an exposé. But why? It was only a stupid elevator. One floor. Twelve stairs. Stairs that Ray couldn’t even walk without pain.
Ray decided that his best course of action was to make himself unrecognizable. On Saturday morning, he had his long hair cut short, shaved his beard, and purchased non-prescription glasses. On Monday, in class, Dr. Meyers said nothing about Ray’s new look, but that afternoon, when they once again arrived at the elevator bank, Meyers declared that he was going to take the stairs.
Ray knew then what he’d suspected. Dr. Meyers was in on it. He’d probably reached out to Dr. Dixon over the weekend and revealed every dumb thing that Ray had ever said in class. He was probably stopping at Dr. Dixon’s office to put the finishing touches on whatever email or article would end Ray’s life.
That evening, around six o’clock—after Ray had arrived home from tutoring—Dr. Meyers sent an e-mail to the department listserv asking for help with his research. It was a habit that bothered Ray. Dr. Meyers asked questions about subjects in which he was supposedly an expert, and no one seemed to know that you could simply reply rather than reply all, so the cascade of messages in response, most of them unhelpful and unrelated, clogged Ray’s inbox.
Help with Course Material (Seriously)
Meyers, Stephen
Humanities-Faculty, Humanities-Grads
At the risk of embarrassing myself (I should know everything, no?) I’d like to ask for some help with teaching my undergraduate class. I have an upcoming lesson on the history of the Electoral College, particularly the “three-fifths compromise,” which allowed each of the southern states to count each slave as only three-fifths a person. I want to make sure that I’m getting all of the details correct. If this is an area of expertise for you, please let me know.
Regards,
Dr. Meyers
The reply arrived a few hours later.
Help with Course Material (Seriously)
Dixon, Greg
Humanities-Faculty, Humanities-Grads
The “three-fifths compromise” is when two white people in an elevator won’t let three Black people in the elevator with them.
Be Well,
Dr. Dixon
Ray sat down on his couch and read the email again. Dr. Dixon said three Black people, not two. Had there, in fact, been a small child in the stroller? Both messages had gone out to hundreds of faculty members and graduate students—not only in English, but across all humanities departments. Ray left his phone on the other side of his studio apartment and tried to distract himself, but he couldn’t help getting up, grabbing it against his will, sitting back down on the couch, staring at the device, and hoping a new notification would clarify what had happened. Surely, the responses, as they always did, would begin to roll in. But for the first ever time, no one replied. Ray stayed there on the couch through the next morning.
On Tuesday, Ray could not summon the courage to show to campus. Come Wednesday, he emailed Dr. Meyers to say he was ill. His advisor never responded. The rest of the week passed. Ray did not stray far from his couch. He did not so much as step out his front door. There were no calls, texts, or emails asking after his whereabouts. No one checked on Ray. No one seemed to notice, or mind, his absence.
Ray did not die. Not right then. But he never again returned to the university.
Patrick Duane lives in Richmond, Virginia. He has written a few book reviews for Full Stop and his fiction is forthcoming in Post Road Magazine and Gulf Coast Online.