An Open Letter to Phen

Phen is 17 now and will start his last year of high school in two weeks. How on earth that happened since he was a lap child about six months ago is a mystery for the ages. As the adage goes, "The days are long, but the years are short." 

I wrote this letter to him after the verdict came back in the Trayvon Martin case, because he was angry and scared and talking about getting a gun. Sigh, 17. I couldn't pull my thoughts together without putting them on paper first--twas always thus--and he is used to getting notes and letters from me. So this was a letter to him, never intended for public consumption.  My friend Rémy believes it should be read by more than Phen, though he is the audience who matters most. But I have succumbed. The letter follows.

Dearest child o’mine,

During the Zimmerman trial, I often found my eyes drifting to two framed photos of you on the bookshelf. In one of them, you are about ten years old. You are asleep in my bed in your soccer jersey, clutching my old teddy bear. You are still wearing the green wristband that meant you had successfully swum the length of the swimming pool and were allowed to go down the big slide. Your top teeth have just come in and your face still has the soft curves of childhood.

Phen, age 10

In the other, taken a few months ago, you are tall and lean, your six-foot frame draped over a chair while you play on your phone. The baby curves have melted away, leaving the angular face of a young man: high, chiseled cheekbones, a strong jaw, clear dark eyes. You’re wearing a hoodie.

Phen, 17

You are 17 in that photo. You are Trayvon Martin’s age.

It is not possible to have observed this case without some measure of emotion, I think. What I want to talk with you about—what I hope this will spark as a series of conversations—is the specific elements in this case, and the bigger sociopolitical issue around it. You are angry. That in itself is rare; you are sometimes petulant, occasionally angst-ridden, but rarely angry. You are actually quite even-tempered. It’s not that I don’t want you to be angry; I want you to be angry about the right things, and to direct it in the right way.

First, the case. The hysteria surrounding it has obscured all nuance, and legal cases rest entirely on nuance. Remember that because of our federalist system, the legal system is different depending on what state you live in. We live in Texas, which means you can get the death penalty for crimes for which other states would only give you a life sentence. Similarly, Florida’s laws are unique unto Florida. Zimmerman claimed self-defense. In most states, someone who claims self-defense must prove that he was indeed under threat. This means the defendant would have to take the stand and the prosecution would have the chance to cross-examine him. In Florida, if a person claims self-defense, the burden is on the prosecution to prove that it was NOT self-defense. It has to prove a negative. The defendant does not have to take the stand. Those cases are virtually unwinnable, which is why the state generally declines to prosecute them.

You have heard the phrase “beyond a reasonable doubt.” That is what the prosecution must prove: that events happened in a particular way beyond a reasonable doubt. It’s a high bar, as it should be. Taking someone’s freedom is a grave thing, so we tilt the system in favor of the defendant: the right to counsel, not to incriminate himself, to have the state prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. It should be hard to convict someone. A liberal justice system rests on the presumption that it is a graver offense to convict an innocent man than to let a guilty one go free. The truth about this case is that there is a lot we don’t now. We don’t know who threw the first punch. We don’t know when Zimmerman pulled his gun. The only person who could have contradicted Zimmerman’s story is dead.

This decision was not the result of a racist jury. It’s not Medgar Evers’ trial replayed 50 years later. It was the illogically logical outcome of Florida’s laws and the way self-defense is defined there.

You may have noticed the prosecution didn’t talk about race. They made some opaque references to “profiling,” but race was not central. Most white people do not now how to talk about race. And we have the privilege of choosing not to if we so choose; we can choose not to think about it at all. When forced, our speech is labored and our tongue sticks to our mouths. Try not to hate us for this. We were taught very early that race was not to be spoken of, that it was far too volatile a topic to be broached. We do not have a vocabulary for it. It is one of our great failings.

Phen in his unfortunate cornrows period, circa 13. But SO CUTE, no?

A lot of people hoped the jury would ignore the law and follow their conscience. It sounds nice, but it’s a dangerous proposition. It’s called jury nullification, and it means the jury chooses to ignore the law. That might sound appealing in a case like this, but the face of jury nullification has far too often been the 1960s civil rights cases in which all the evidence was ignored because a white jury just didn’t believe it was right to convict a white person for killing a black person.

But the specifics of this case are not why you are angry and why I cried. That is a much broader, more complicated, more painful picture.

At its heart is the fact that the justice system has not worked well for black people. That black bodies have not been counted as worthy as white bodies. Our heavy history, particularly in this Southland I love so much and which is the only home you remember, infuses every aspect of our lives and, therefore, of this case. We are a land swimming in blood. It is our original sin. And I use that word intentionally: I want you to know, Phen, as the person who first carried you into a Sunday School room and who cried at your baptism, that our country’s racism is a grave, grave sin, one that should drive us to our knees. It is a sin against you. Don’t ever let anyone call it something less or cheapen it. Zimmerman’s racism—the thoughts and preconceptions that drove him to follow Trayvon, to pursue him, to confront him—was a sin. But so is the socialization that led him to believe that was true without questioning it or perhaps even being aware of it. In the South, we all have bloody hands.

Phen, left, age 6, with brother Cesar, 9.  I CAN'T EVEN.

First time at sleepaway camp. Yes, he labeled himself in the photo.

When you were about 12, the fine-boned features of your adult visage just starting to emerge from your baby face, I talked with you for the first time about growing up. This wasn’t the “your body is changing” speech or “you will start to feel strange new feelings for girls” speech. This was the talk about how you were reaching an age at which people would stop seeing you as a charming little boy and start seeing you as a menace. About how it didn’t matter that your hoodie said “Harvard” on it; they would see a young black man in baggy pants and a hooded sweatshirt and they would not see the young man who excelled at math and played a mean game of chess, whose intricate footwork on the football field was a byproduct of a childhood spent on soccer fields, who still watched cartoons and could deliver a killer line without cracking a smile. Certainly they wouldn’t see what I saw when I looked at you, all your earlier selves, like a Russian nesting doll: the tiny boy who brought his church craft projects to me, the child who wanted to be carried on my hip, who stomped on the sidewalk so his Buzz Lightyear shoes would light up; the first-grader with missing teeth, the sturdy fullback on the soccer team, the kid who slept every night curled up against my back, the 11-year-old sick with a fever who nevertheless leapt barefoot into the backyard when Boston got its first snow and then screamed at the unexpected cold. They wouldn’t see any of that. They would see a potential troublemaker. They would see a menace to society, not the extraordinary gift I know you are.

Phen, in Harvard hoodie on the Wellesley grounds, age 12.

Talking to you about that felt like stealing your innocence. You hadn’t had much experience with injustice at that point. You were in a high-performing school in which all of the students and most of the teachers were black. The white people you knew were friends of mine. Your world had been a pretty friendly, welcoming place.

But it would have been at best naïve and at worst negligent not to let you know that the world will see you differently, judge you differently, because you are black. I needed to be sure you were prepared. I wanted you to know how to deal with the police if you were ever approached by them: be courteous, don’t run, always keep your hands in view. These behaviors are second nature to you now.

What is so terrifying about this case is that it demonstrates that it’s not just the police I have to worry about anymore. Now it’s anyone who might think you look daunting and who might be carrying a concealed weapon—which is to say, anyone. Thirty years ago, Zimmerman would have been convicted simply because he was illegally carrying a weapon, and he would have gotten the stiffest possible sentence because that gun acted as an accelerant in a confrontation that ended in death. Concealed weapon laws didn’t exist. Lax gun laws and laws that encourage people to escalate rather than diffuse a confrontation ensure tragedies like this will happen.

This is worthy of your anger, Phen. This toxic combination produces lynching under another name. Was Zimmerman racist? Probably not in the KKK-sense, but in the sense that almost every white American is racist, of having absorbed on a cellular level the idea that black men are dangerous, I’m sure he was. That in itself is only part of the problem. The fact that he had a gun in his hand and could pursue and act on that impulse, one that he may not even have been consciously aware of himself, is the real problem. That is worth fighting, Phen. That is worth struggling and donating and VOTING (you can register on your 18^th birthday).

I don’t want you to hate Zimmerman because I don’t want you to give him the power to warp your character. You are an open, confident, trusting young man. You are trustworthy. You are honest. You give people the benefit of the doubt. You stick up for the underdog. Someone like Zimmerman can’t be allowed to make you less than you are.  In “Letter from Birmingham Jail” (which I know you’ve read, but you should read it often—like Les Miserables and Anna Karenina, you will see something new every time), King talks about watching racism warp his children’s sense of their own worth, damage their character as they learned to hate and distrust. I want to keep that poison away from you. I worry about keeping your body safe, but I worry about your spirit just as much.

My wild child

 With all that said, Phen, know that what I have always said still holds: there are no excuses. Things are not fair; you will encounter obstacles others will never know. It’s not an excuse. Rise up, work tirelessly, live passionately. Much of life is not in your hands, but who you are—you get to choose that.

As I watch you move with feline grace, notice how long and graceful your fingers are, how tall you’ve become, I’m reminded of the Maya Angelou line: “I am the hope and the dream of the slave.” You are indeed. You are also the hope and dream of parents who risked everything to try a new place in the hopes it would be better. And you are the answer to a prayer I wasn’t audacious or imaginative enough to pray when I was 24. You are so wildly, lavishly loved by so many people, and there are no excuses for not being your own marvelous self.

I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

Christmas Eve service

I Love the Smell of Victory in the Morning

As some of you may remember, the World Cup was held in South Africa this past summer. South Africa was justifiably proud of itself for pulling off a major tournament, although perhaps that was only because the expectations were so low; after all, a number of developing nations, including Brazil, Mexico and Argentina, have hosted the tournament successfully. And South Africa is now faced with several stadiums built for the World Cup on which they spent billions of rand and the upkeep of which is likely to be in the millions annually, making it virtually impossible to recoup the cost. The stadiums in Cape Town and Johannesburg may be able to do so; Nelspruit and Mbombela, I think we can agree, are screwed.

But it stirred up a fresh wave of support for the national team, Bafana Bafana ("the boys"), which is good in that sports here tend to break down along racial lines: cricket and rugby are largely followed and supported by whites, and soccer by blacks. But for a brief halcyon moment, everyone rallied behind Bafana, which is nice because you don't have to be here long before you realize that under a thin veneer of courtesy people here actually freaking hate each other, and I'm all for anything that postpones the race wars, if only for a time.

It only took about a week for the bonhomie and good will to wear off and the sniping to start again, but it was nice while it lasted. So people were really excited when they heard Bafana would be playing a match in Cape Town against the US national team. Maybe it would resurrect the World Cup spirit.

But no one was more excited than I was. Because no one likes to win, and on the opponents' turf no less, more than I do. Look, I am all for global citizenry. I am a polite and courteous guest in this country. I try to confine my venting about the postal service, poor internet connections, crime and generally shoddy service to my American friends. I watch rugby; I don't really bother with cricket, it's a less refined version of baseball. I can greet people in Afrikaans and Xhosa. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to explain to people how the American electoral system works and the phenomenon of Sarah Palin. But I draw the line at sports. You are allowed to be every inch the Ugly American when your team is playing. In fact, it's your patriotic duty. And when you win, you tell everyone to suck it, because we are GLEEFUL winners, we are EXUBERANT winners. It is part of the American charm.

So I readied myself for the game, wishing I had a really obnoxious American T-shirt that said something like "these colors don't run" and listening to Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue," which you may remember for the delicate phrasing of this line: "We'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way." I was a little dicey about our chances, because we were fielding a very inexperienced squad that had only three members of our World Cup team.

Walking to the game was like being swallowed by a bright yellow whale. Yellow (Bafana's color) everywhere you looked; people in jerseys, face paint, wigs, wrapped in the South African flag. And the singing of the South African national anthem, which is in several languages, was truly beautiful. Just as beautiful was the American anthem, with all 15 of us Americans representing in the sea of 51,000. But we stood and put our hands over our hearts and sang and though some of the South Africans looked at us funny, like they weren't sure where we had come from, they were gracious and respectful of the American anthem.

The game itself was not really a promotion for the Beautiful Game. Our team looked young and raw; theirs could string some good passes together but couldn't dominate in the air or in the midfield and couldn't get many shots. And then, in a golden moment less than 10 minutes before the end of the game, a 17-year-old American reserve player who had just been called up from the junior team for this game knocked in a goal from about 7 years out. Oh it was fantastic. And there is something surreal about screaming and shrieking when everyone around you goes quiet. And by surreal, I mean awesome, because they were so cocksure that they were going to win this game. YES WE CAN. UUUU-SSSSS-AAAAAAA. WE ARE SPARTA. I might have yelled all those things in my euphoria whilst jumping up and down in my seat.

I then proceeded to heckle everyone from the dejected passersby on the street to my doorman, because that's the beauty of sport: it is the last arena of sanctioned aggression. Look, I am tired of unreliable internet, of not being able to go places by myself at night, of having my cell phone stolen, of crappy customer service, of spotty postal service, of segregation, of arrogant attitudes about Americans and American culture as they play on their iPhones and wear Levis, of instant coffee. I would like to start fights, but I don't. I just let that game be the catharsis I have needed for three months.

WE ARE SPARTA. YES WE CAN. AMERICA HELL YEAH. Brilliant.

I know, I'm late but I'm here!

I've been in South Africa about six weeks, and am happily settled into my apartment with its pay-as-you-go electricity (seriously, you buy electricity at the 7-11, which I had to do at 7 pm the other night when suddenly all my lights went out and I realized I hadn't checked the meter in a week or so) and capped wireless. That's right, American friends, you pay by the megabyte here. None of your crazy limitless-free-wireless-in-coffeeshops-and-parks nonsense. We're obviously dealing with a finite commodity here and it must be rationed.

Welcome to the Third World.

I'm in Pretoria for the week, although I'm based in Cape Town, and I'm gaining traction on the research, things are good, I'll write more later when I'm not falling asleep.

I like South Africa. This isn't my first trip, it's about my sixth. South Africans always ask me eagerly, "how do you like South Africa?" Honestly, I have never seen a country so desperate for affirmation. That's really what the entire World Cup was about: spending billions of dollars that you'd spend years paying off so the cool kids would come, drink your beer, and like you, at least for a little while. It is panting to be liked, to be cool--even though, as every cool kid knows, the essence of coolness is not caring (or at least acting like you don't care) if you're cool. If a 15-year-old insecure freshman were a country, it would be South Africa.

So I tell them: lovely country, lovely beaches, lovely people. And--here's what I don't tell them--people who are inadvertently hysterical. Like the South African blogger in the US I read the other day who mentioned the foolishness over whether or not Obama was Muslim and said "don't people here understand the concept of reconciliation? Mandela could teach them a thing or two." The irony is too much for me, I rolled around on the floor and wished I could call friends in the States. With all our problems--and I'm the first to admit we have them--we've elected an African-American president; if African-Americans were to form their own country, their economy would be among the top 15 in the world; and yet a WHITE SOUTH AFRICAN, apparently oblivious to the seething anger and disdain I regularly hear voiced by black and Coloured South Africans who tell me with relief that they can talk freely with me because I'm a white American and not a white South African--is going to tell us about reconciliation? Do tell, we eagerly await. Until then we'll go on being the *real* Rainbow Nation (check the demographics, we're way more diverse). Oh, same blogger said Americans don't talk about race as freely as South Africans. Certainly this has everything to do with where you are and who you hang out with, but again--rolling on the floor clutching my sides. I grew up in integrated schools, had African-American teachers and friends from the earliest days, had an African-American mentor professionally, have worked, lived and worshipped in majority-black environments. A generation like that has not yet come of age in SA. Meanwhile South African schools don't really look much different than they did pre-1994, very few people have cross-racial friendships of any depth, and the surface politeness hides the fact that most black people will commute back to the townships in the evening and whites will return to their monochromatic neighborhoods and monochromatic friends. As a black American friend of mine said, "I didn't really appreciate Arkansas until I lived in South Africa." ARKANSAS, Y'ALL. Exactly.

So: I love being in SA, I really do. It's an absolute blast, I love the work I'm doing, I love traveling, I love meeting people and hearing their stories. But the very best part is that I don't have to stay here. Someday I will return to a place where people don't routinely get killed for their cell phone (I called my hostel from the street the other day because I was lost, and the guy said carefully, "you really want to avoid talking on your cell phone on the street"), where books and laptops and cell phones and blenders and software are cheap because that's what happens when your countrymen actually produce things, and where the people at fast food restaurants put enough ice in my cup without me having to send it back three times (which I do, because I'm the Ugly American).

Save me a peppermint mocha from Starbucks, kids, I'll be home for Christmas. (And then back here for another 9 months.)

More later on more substantial things, but really, the reconciliation comment demanded a response, no? I mean we can't just let absurdity go unchallenged, that's how civilization crumbles. That, and inadequate amounts of ice in the Coke. (Seriously, is there a shortage?)

World Cup Woes

One of the great things about being a country which plays so many sports is that no single sporting disappointment can linger for very long. I was bummed for about 15 minutes when the Celtics lost to the Lakers, but then the World Cup started. Then I was kinda disappointed when the US lost to Ghana, but I didn't actually watch the match--I had a training all day--and anyway Argentina is my pick to win it, plus baseball is in full swing and there was that crazy Wimbledon match and the NBA draft (do we think Lebron James will stay with the Cavaliers? I say yes).

So what is souring the World Cup for me is not the US performance, but the round of commentary on why the US doesn't play "global sports," with the implication that it's because we're arrogant and don't care about the rest of the world. News flash: not being soccer-mad is not the equivalent of pulling out of the UN. Perspective, people, perspective.

It does not help that I regularly read a South African newspaper along with its comment section. I'm going to have to take a break from it, because I find the kneejerk anti-Americanism and misconceptions to be so exasperating that now I'm grossly overreacting. I realized this about myself the other day when someone said that he was glad to see the English and Americans cry when they lost because they thought they owned the soccer field, and the Americans need to start playing global sports and stop saying they are world champions at sports only we play.

Well. And then I lost my shit.

First of all, of the many places we are arrogant, soccer really isn't one of them. Americans always come in as underdogs, at least in our own heads. But here's the thing: soccer is now the most popular youth sport. We're going to be a force in global soccer very soon. And all the people whining about how Americans won't play their sport may soon have reason to regret when we do. As Time magazine said a couple of weeks ago, "Face it: the US is going to play, watch, market, manage and own your sport sooner or later." We have 300+ million people; we can have soccer be our fifth or sixth most popular sport and still be a top-10 team.

However, let's talk about this whole not-loving-soccer thing. We are hardly unique in this. As writer Matt Iglesias noted, "It’s worth pausing for a moment to note that the USA isn’t really that much of an outlier in terms of its relative lack of enthusiasm for soccer. For example in China the most popular team sport is basketball and there’s tremendous passion for table tennis. The most popular sports in India (and Pakistan and Bangladesh) are cricket and field hockey. I’m told that in Indonesia badminton and tennis are the most popular. In Russia and Canada it’s ice hockey. Which isn’t to deny that many people in those countries may enjoy soccer as well—many Americans like soccer. But 'the world' is not the same as 'Europe and Latin America.' Indeed, I believe the countries I’ve just been naming account for about half the world’s people."

So let's put to rest once and for all the canard that we are the lone nation resisting the siren song of soccer on which all future world peace and interdependence relies.

Secondly, why do other people care what sports we play? Do they know what they sound like? It sounds like a little brother whining "Come plaaaay with me, I wanna plaaaaaay with you." Dude, we're not bothering you, let us play what we want. Why do some people take it as an affront? It seems to speak to an inferiority complex: this strange seething resentment that the superpower doesn't think your sport is so super.

And third, if you honestly still think American sports are exclusively that--American--then you're far more provincial than the Americans you're criticizing. American football is the only American sport that is still uniquely American. Basketball is global. Eastern Europe has some of the best teams, European leagues are popular, and the NBA is packed with international players--German, Slovenian, Serbian, Chinese, Italian, you name it. We still win the Olympics but it's no longer by the 50-point margins it once was, it's a fight, because the rest of the world is catching up, and it's hugely popular. Baseball is less so, but even that is global--Japan, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, etc. Cuba has won the Olympics more times than we have. And if basketball is an Olympic sport and cricket isn't, then arguably one is more of a "global sport" than the other.

What gets me is that aside from soccer, the sports people always point to as "global sports"--cricket and rugby--are English sports. This comes back to my theory that most former English colonies don't know how to decolonize themselves and give the middle finger to England, and that part of our success was a very clear and decisive break with the mother country. We don't want your soccer, England; we took your rugby and made American football, and took your cricket and made baseball. (Then we changed how everything is spelled, and just for fun and because we can, we make sure American English is the default setting on computer software that we sell all over the world. Ha.) Other former colonies seem to maintain this weird love-hate adolescent relationship that we just don't have. But those are not global sports, they are English sports, Commonwealth sports. Let's call it what it is.

So clearly I care way more than is normal about what some halfwit said on a message board, and I need a break from South African media to regain my sanity. So, back to the soccer: good luck, Uruguay, represent the Western hemisphere well against Ghana; may the best man win in Brazil v. Netherlands (I think that will be a great match); Paraguay, I'm afraid you're outclasses by Spain but greater upsets have happened; and Argentina, I look forward to the clash with Germany but my money and my heart are with you, Lionel Messi. And I'm going to Austin tomorrow to see aunt and cousins (17-year-old cousin: "Nelson Mandela is like an adorable koala bear." Which a) he kind of is, and b) I was just relieved she knew who Mandela was) and a friend who had a baby a couple of months ago.

It's the first time in four years I'll be in the US for July 4. You will not believe this, fellow Americans, but July 4 is actually *not a holiday* in other countries. I KNOW. MADNESS. So I'm particularly excited to be home to celebrate all of us.

M.Div.

And it's done.

Master of Divinity degree conferred, May 27 2010.

A Week From Today

A week from today, I will be drinking mimosas and getting facials with my friend Naomi (congratulation on your MBA from Penn!) and my little sister (congratulations on being a cog in the giant corporate machine!) in Philadelphia.

And two weeks from today, I will be at the beach in Texas with my godson Torian, whose picture adorns this blog. (He is the one not wearing a cowboy hat and bikini.) Side note because it's funny: he was recently overcome with fear of "little people." I can understand that, it would have to freak you out if you were 4 and there were suddenly grown-ups who were your size. Tori saw his first little people in Target and was simultaneously terrified and mesmerized. He dragged his mom after them and, when he couldn't find them in the aisle, whispered earnestly, "Maybe they were magic."

Magic little people in Target. I would love to live inside that kid's brain.

Anyway, the most notable thing is that before I make it to Philly and then Texas, I will graduate from Harvard. All the graduates from every Harvard school will gather in the Yard on Thursday. Someone will give a speech in Latin, professors will show up in their colorful regalia, there will be pomp and circumstance, and you can mock it for pretentiousness but I will be part of a ceremony that is older than this country, part of a tradition that goes back to a mere 16 years after the first Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. For all the "liberal elite Ivy League" reverse snobbery that the Sarah Palins of the world like to throw at Harvard, there is no more American place, and I am proud to take my place among the ranks of its alumni, who are present in every field of endeavor and every corner of the globe.

Here's a glimpse of where I've spent the last three years:

In Harvard Yard in the Fall

Widener Library, where I spent more time than I care to remember.

This is the statue of John Harvard.  You're supposed to touch his foot for good luck.  You're not supposed to know that drunken undergraduates routinely have contests to see who can make their urine arc elegantly onto John's foot.

This is the view from the steps of Widener Library, across Harvard Yard to Memorial Church.  It's  a sight that makes an all-nighter at the library almost bearable.

Veritas.

What Price Freedom?

Harvard has experienced its own tempest-in-an-ideological-teacup of late. Because anything that happens at Harvard seems to have traction beyond our ivy-covered walls, it has made the news and various blogs, and has me thinking about how free we really are in this place that makes such lofty claims to academic liberty and freedom of inquiry.

A third-year law student sent an email to some dinner friends following up on a conversation they had had at dinner. In it, she suggests that she is open to the idea that African-Americans are genetically predisposed to be less intelligent than whites, at least in such quantifiable ways as standardized testing.

She also indicates that she could be persuaded that cultural and social factors account for the achievement gap, but that so far, she doesn't find the science on either side to be conclusive. That's her big statement: she is unpersuaded by the studies coming from either direction, and she wants to stay open to all the possibilities. (As it happens, she did undergraduate research at Princeton with sociologist Thomas Espanshade, whose research focuses on race and achievement, so I'd wager a guess that she's actually given more serious thought to this topic than her dinner guests.)

The predictable happened. One of her "friends" forwarded the email to the Black Law Students Association, which then forwarded it to what seems like every Black Law Students Association in the country. It made it onto widely-read blogs like Jezebel and Gawker, invariably with headings like "Harvard Law Student's Racist Diatribe." Now various groups are putting pressure on the federal judge she is slated to clerk with to rescind her clerkship, the dean has condemned her statements, and one can safely assume she is persona non grata at HLS these days.

My concern here is not for Stephanie, who I'm sure will come through this just fine. My concern is for the message sent when the dean condemns a dinner conversation amongst bright, inquisitive students who have the gall to question the accepted orthodoxy. It is for the right to question the things that we assume we know, the right to be wrong even, the right to say "I'm just not persuaded."

The truth is, there is nowhere where this kind of debate and discussion should be more welcome than in the academy. We should be the absolute safest place for this kind of boundary-pushing. There should be nothing, absolutely nothing, that is off-limits; there should be nothing sacred, nothing that cannot be reinvestigated and criticized and examined. And it is intellectual death when we stop being that place.

At least Stephanie had the courage to say it out loud. That allows other people to argue back: to rebuke, to criticize, to challenge, to lay out their own position and the evidence supporting it. Because I promise you: for every Stephanie who has the balls to actually verbalize her misgivings, there are a hundred white kids who silently wonder, "But why *is* it that Africa is so underdeveloped and can't seem to get their act together? Why is it that even when you control for income and parents' educational level, there is still a racial gap in SAT scores?" They don't say it out loud; saying it out loud gets you branded a racist and that's the end of any career aspirations you might have had (not to mention any social life you had), as Stephanie's case has so starkly reminded us. But the questions will sit there. And if we're not willing to have those conversations in academia, with the best minds and best resources, we should not be surprised when the questioners find other people with whom to have those conversations. And you won't like who they're talking to. Rumor has it that various white-supremacist groups have already contacted Stephanie to offer their support. "Come to a meeting"--that's not where you want the conversation to be happening.

The tamping down on any line of questioning that violates our social orthodoxies should be chilling to anyone who cares about intellectual rigor and freedom. For one thing, it calls into question any studies and conclusions drawn from them that may emerge down the road: after all, if you were an academic investigating racial inequity and knew that having an undesirable data set would jeopardize both your professional and social standing, wouldn't you at least be tempted to make sure your study comes down on the "right" side of the discussion? And even if you didn't, doesn't the fact that I'm even asking the question throw doubt on the integrity of your research? Because if we can't ask the questions honestly, we can't trust any of the conclusions that follow.

In Stephanie's email, she wrote, "I think it is bad science to disagree with a conclusion in your heart, and then try (unsuccessfully, so far at least) to find data that will confirm what you want to be true." In other words: it's intellectually dangerous to decide what you believe and then manipulate the data to confirm it. We should all be able to agree on that, whether or not we like the particular questions Stephanie is asking. At least by asking, she's giving people the chance to answer. The next bright, questioning kid with an eye on a federal clerkship or a plum job at a firm won't ask the question, after seeing what's happened to Stephanie. He'll just quietly wonder, and draw his own conclusions.

And that's not good for any of us.