by I. Bismuth

November 10:  It should have been a productive morning. At nine o’clock I was due to chair a meeting of the Over-Whiteness Monitoring Panel, at ten to act as facilitator in a workshop on the standardization of difference celebration, and at eleven to give the Board of Governors my latest recommendations on the Hidden Attitudes Self-Accusation Guidelines. It should have gone all the more smoothly for taking place in the inspiring setting of the newest university building, the Tolerance Tower, fifteen storeys of hope not hate, its design by the leading architects Peter Schlemiel Associates meant to suggest the soaring tip of a gigantic assegai. However, Sunlit Uplands and society as a whole were robbed of those three hours of equality-promotion. A chilling incident was to propel the morning in quite another direction.

It was ten minutes to nine and I was about to enter the Tolerance Tower when my attention was caught by a long streak of studiousness topped off with a crest of startled hair. He had paused to contemplate the statue of Jambo Owambo that stands before the main entrance. There was something troubling about the angle at which he was holding his head that made me watch him. True, any admirer of the bronze statesman at close quarters must have an elevated chin, but it should not be elevated so as to suggest a 1930s propaganda poster and a hero fixing his gaze on the resurgent Aryan future (though admittedly this hero’s heroism was compromised by his resorting to styling gel).

Never one to rush to judgment, I waited for Gel-Head’s next move. And how unsavoury his next move turned out to be! After only a few curt seconds he grounded his gaze, and I was horrified to see him quit the presence and lope away in the direction of the library, setting his coiffure aquiver with each stride.

I may have alluded before to my prime physical condition, a visual bonus for all the young women lucky enough to attend my lectures (and also, I believe, for two of the young men). But no matter. It is worth alluding to again. It was my prime physical condition, maintained by my punishing aerobics regimen, that allowed me to take off after Gel-Head, draw level with him, and gasp only slightly as I asked him the way.

“Ex ... Ex ...” I said, “Excuse me ... I’m look ... looking ... for the Tol ... the Tol ... the Tol ... the Tolerance Tower.”

He stopped and slackened his jaw at me.

Now, I confess that my pretext for accosting him was not well-conceived. All around us there were dozens of sitting students and standing students and a few tottering students, all of whom were manifestly endemic, and yet, in search of a creature to ask directions, I had chosen to power after this specimen of swift, though uncharismatic, megafauna. Nevertheless, given the urgency of the situation, I defy anyone else to have come up with a better story. (If anyone can, please contact me at Sun-Up and I shall file the most convincing suggestions in case I ever find myself in similar circumstances.)

“Is that it back there?” I said. “Is that the Tolerance Tower?”

“Yeah.”

“Rising meaningfully over the statue of Jambo Owambo?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I see you just now looking at the statue?”

“Yeah.”

I was all but sure I detected a dark undercurrent in Gel-Head’s tone of voice, but he was young and Yeahing and I thought he deserved a chance to prove me wrong.

“In that case, may I offer you a little friendly advice?”

No Yeahing this time, but no other sound either, merely a further slackening of the jaw, so, assuming implied consent, I proceeded.

“Each of us has responsibilities to society as a whole. We can’t go around saying and doing whatever we like, without regard to its social effects. I’m sure you appreciate that.”

“Yeah.”

“These responsibilities to society as a whole delimit the extent of our rights as individuals.”

“Yeah.”

“We must never forget that millions have fought and died to secure the rights we enjoy today. They are the most precious things we have.”

“Yeah.”

“And because they are so precious, we must be careful not to abuse them.”

“Yeah.”

“Rights are called rights for a reason. They allow us to do and say what is right. They can never be used as a justification for doing and saying what is wrong. There is no such thing as a right to damage the fabric of society. You do see that, don’t you?”

“Well ...”

I took this sudden doubling of his vocabulary as evidence of my rapid success as an educator.

“Just come back with me to the statue,” I said, “and I’ll explain what I mean.”

“Well ...”

“It won’t take long.”

During the return journey we walked side by side in silence, and I had the disconcerting sensation of being eyed askance. This young man had apparently not yet grasped the seriousness of his position and that he was the one who was being eyed askance.

Once we were back where we started, I asked him to pay attention as I re-enacted the incident.

“It came in three parts,” I said. “First, there was your facial expression. Are you watching? This was your face.” I did the face. “It really was. This was your face. Disturbing, isn’t it? And then, quite abruptly, you looked at the ground like this.” I did the looking at the ground like this. “Like this, do you see? Quite abruptly at the ground. Now, anyone who witnessed that abrupt look at the ground could be forgiven for interpreting it as an expression of disgust or rejection, don’t you think? And, for the finale of your unhelpfulness, you suddenly took to your heels as if you couldn’t get away fast enough from this symbol of hope.”

“I’m sorry,” whimpered Gel-Head. “I didn’t mean to be unhelpful.”

He grasped the seriousness of his position now.

“That the statue of this great Anti-Racist should be found here in the former capital of world racism is poignant. I find it poignant. All decent members of society find it poignant. Do you find it poignant?”

“Well, I…”

“I’m sure you do. But not only must you find it poignant, you must be seen to find it poignant.”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

“That is why your behaviour was so unhelpful. Whatever the appropriateness of your feelings, you showed no outward sign of them. We are social beings, so everyone who noticed you looking at the statue would have been uncomfortable not to see confirmation that it was a moving Anti-Racist experience for you.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“This is where you abused your rights, or let us say that you simply misunderstood what your rights are.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“Well, now you know. You know that in a decent society no one has the right to be unhelpful.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“Being sorry is all very well. But it is only a start. When you have damaged the fabric of society, you need to take a good long look at yourself.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“May I offer you a little more friendly advice? Once you have taken a good long look at yourself (and you will not like what you see) the best thing you can do is to sign up for a short helpfulness course. There is an excellent one run by the Department of Sensitivity Studies here at Sun-Up. All are welcome. I happen to know that there are a few places still available for next week’s session, ‘Empowering Your Tolerance’. The fees are reasonable and there are easy payment terms for those on low incomes.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“The helpfulness course will lift you out of facial poverty. It will give you the confidence to register appropriate feelings when you hear the names of significant figures in Anti-Racism or when, as now, you see their images; to breathe appropriately when certain dates and places are mentioned; and to stand, sit, walk, turn your head, lie down, and roll over without damaging the fabric of society.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“Well, I think I’ve done about all I can for you. So, unless you have any questions, we’d better be going our separate ways.”

“I do have one question.”

“Yes.”

“Who was Jambo Owambo?”

“One of the earliest lessons you will learn on your helpfulness course is how not to indulge in inappropriate humour.”

“But I’ve never heard of him. I’m really, really sorry.”

“You must have studied history at school.”

“I never paid much attention. I’m really, really sorry. I was only interested in science. ”

“To refresh your memory, history is divided into three parts: Dinosaurs, Racism, and the Holocaust. Jambo Owambo is to be found in one of these. I shall give you a clue as to which one: his memoirs devote very little space to discussing meteoric impact or the importance of not asking too many questions.”

“Really, really sorry.”

“But you knew already he was in Racism, and not as a racist. I have referred to him as a great Anti-Racist as I’ve been talking to you. Yes, Jambo Owambo was one of the greatest Anti-Racists of all time. Google him. I find it difficult to believe that you have never even seen him before. Take another look at the statue. Are you quite sure you don’t recognize that face?”

“Nah, I don’t, I‘m really, really sorry. Nah, I… Wait. Yeah, yeah, maybe I do. Yeah, I think he’s on my girlfriend’s shoulder blade.”

“He’s on what?”

“She has famous Anti-Racists tattooed all over her back. I think he’s at the top left. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s him. I’ll be seeing her tonight. Top left. Yeah, I’ll check on that.”

“Tattoos of famous Anti-Racists?”

“She can make some of them wiggle.”

“Oh, my God!”

“But the thing is, I never really thought it mattered who they were, because she said they were mostly just politicians. And, well, politicians are all the same.”

“You are a student of engineering, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“And you believe Jambo Owambo was just a politician and politicians are all the same!”

I was shivering uncontrollably. Objects were dancing around me in an apoplectic frenzy. Psychedelic colours streamed down my face as if I had been dipped in a lake of hippies.

“Jambo Owambo was just a politician and politicians are all the same! Do you really expect to get away with that?”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

“I should have trusted my instincts when I first saw you. There is only one way you could have more blatantly advertised yourself for what you are: by doing this.”

I stood to attention and gave my best Hitlergruss.

Gel-Head’s jaw slackened again, his eyes saucered, and he turned and ran.

“Nazi scum! Nazi scum! Nazi scum! Nazi scum! Nazi scum!” I shouted, going after him and maintaining my salute like a mobile crane on an emergency call. “Nazi scum! Nazi scum! Nazi scum! Nazi scum! Nazi scum!”

At this point my way was blocked by four bulging persons from Sun-Up security. Before I could tell them that by delaying me they were letting some Nazi scum escape, I was flat on my face and they were sitting on my arms and legs and calling me “Nazi scum”. Hired apparently for their imperviousness to reason, they handcuffed me and took me to the explanation suite on the fifteenth floor of the Tolerance Tower.

I tried to convey to these bulgers how utterly bizarre it was to detain me.

“Not only does your biometric database tell you I am Professor Bismuth,” I said, “I tell you I have friends in the government, and one of my current projects is to help with the drafting of new legislation which, among other tightenings of the law, will introduce the specific offence of running while heiling for the wrong reason. So I would hardly be likely to go in for running while heiling for the wrong reason myself.”

I repeated this a dozen times and then it dawned on me that they were no longer listening, not because they did not believe me, but because they did, and they were continuing to hold me now only because they felt constrained by professional pride not to let me go until I had been thoroughly inconvenienced.

Once they had lost interest in me they talked among themselves about whatever it was they needed to ingest to keep bulging, and I deduced that as soon as lunchtime was on them, they would consider my sentence was up. And so it was. Just before midday they contacted the Department of Sensitivity Studies to verify my story.

They assured me they were glad the misunderstanding had been cleared up, and, all gathering closely around me, suggested that before I left them I might like to sign a declaration that during my three hour stay in the explanation suite I had received the highest possible standard of customer service.

And that was how my morning went and went awry. My diary is my witness. What, I wonder, will future historians make of a time when a decent member of society could be harassed for behaving like a decent member of society?