IT TOOK TWO days to remove the graffiti on the base of Stockbridge. The paint had seeped deep into the pores of the building’s limestone, and several applications of borax had been required, followed by blasts of heated water at high pressure.
Milton Strauss longed for a return to normalcy. It didn’t seem an extravagant request. He hoped things had blown over and he wouldn’t have to open the next Board of Governors meeting discussing the video and the graffiti.
Sorting through some paperwork on his desk, he heard some distant chanting from outside somewhere. It grew louder as he listened. He looked out his office window to see several dozen students, all African-American, in an angry knot making their way up Mathers Walk. Some pumped their fists as they poured into Bingham and steered right toward Stockbridge, a peloton of inchoate rage. Milton knew his longing for quiet was shot to hell.
What were they chanting? He strained to make it out, but couldn’t. Despite the cold, he opened his window to hear better.
“We are through with Racist U!”
He watched them file in downstairs. Sitting down, he had a pretty good idea of what was coming next. The chants echoed inside the marble halls, coming closer.
Moments later, D’Arcy rushed in. “Sir, I tried to stop them!”
“I know. It’s all right. Let them in.”
They streamed around D’Arcy into his office, still chanting. Milton tried to speak but was drowned out. He knew he was just going to have to wait them out.
“Should I call security?” D’Arcy was doing her best to be heard.
“No, I’d like to hear what they have to say.” More streamed in, perhaps thirty in all. After a few more chants, they stopped, as if on cue.
“President Strauss. My name is Jaylen Biggs, and I am president of the Afro-American Cultural Center. We are here to occupy your office until our demands are met.”
Milton spread his arms wide. “Oh, welcome, welcome! It’s great to see everybody. Really great. And please, call me Milton.”
“We are through being Devon’s second-class citizens!” declared Jaylen. The protesters, who now occupied every square inch of Milton’s office, many sitting on the Persian rug, snapped their fingers repeatedly. It sounded like the clucking of many tongues.
“I understand, I really do,” Milton said in his most solicitous tone. “Would anyone like some coffee? It must be very cold outside. D’Arcy, would you be kind enough to round up some coffee for everyone?”
“Oh, sure, let the woman of color play servant!” said one of the female students.
“Oh, well, we can all get our own coffee, if that would be better. Or tea. Please remember to use coasters.”
“We are here to be heard, sir!” More snapping. “As a white person of privilege, you will never know what it’s like to walk by a building named after a slave owner, or into a dining hall surrounded by portraits of dead white people, no people of color at all. You don’t know, and you can’t know.”
“You’re so right. How can I know? Why don’t you help me? I’m here to listen. D’Arcy, you’d better cancel my appointments.” Milton adopted an expression of intense interest, one that said, I’m here for you. Share with me.
One of the female students took up the reins. “This place, this place you call Devon, is white, white, white. It’s violent, in your face, everywhere you go. You, the university president, you’re white. It’s oppression. But know this: we owe you nothing. It’s Devon that owes us everything. We built this. This is ours. This place was built on the backs of our people, and yet we are second-class citizens on this campus!” The girl was so worked up tears were now steaming down her face.
Milton nodded, as if in profound agreement, deciding not to point out that slavery was largely nonexistent in eighteenth-century New England when Devon was founded and was completely abolished by the time most of the current campus was constructed. But surely the girl was speaking metaphorically, and her pain was plainly real. “Please, tell me how I can help.”
Jaylen Biggs produced a sheath of papers. “We have a list of forty-seven demands. First, the fraternities…”