Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

:::::GOD’S YUCCAS:::::GOD’S YUCCAS::::: Hoyt Thorpe looked over his shoulder, smirking coolly at Camille as he retreated.

Others in the lineup of placard bearers were turning this way and that, talking to each other excitedly and casting glances in the direction of the departed frat boys. Adam took advantage of the moment to slip away. He strolled nonchalantly toward the library, letting the shaft of the placard lean against his shoulder at the angle of a rifle…looked about…laid the placard facedown on the plaza…and walked as casually as he could into the library, through the front entrance. Just what to do next…he had no idea. Stop standing out on the Great Yard holding a sign above his head saying QUEER, that was the main thing.

He stood in the lobby, just stood there, looking up at the ceiling and taking in its wonders one by one, as if he had never laid eyes on them before, the vaulted ceiling, all the ribs, the covert way spotlights, floodlights, and wall washers had been added…It was so calming…but why?…He thought of every possible reason except for the real one, which was that the existence of conspicuous consumption one has rightful access to—as a student had rightful access to the fabulous Dupont Memorial Library—creates a sense of well-being. But as one fear subsided, that gave another fear room to rise. Adam’s deep worry rushed to his forebrain. The plagiarism case. It wouldn’t disappear. He didn’t want to see Jojo again, and he dreaded seeing Buster Roth again. Getting out from under the corrupting pressure of “the program” had proved to be an enormous relief…except that he really wasn’t out from under it yet…Jojo and “his” paper on the psychology of George III…Just how did they think someone like Jojo was ever going to write a paper on the psychology of anything…unless somebody wrote it for him? A wave of paranoia…he was following a strategy laid out for him by Buster Roth. He could see Roth right now, as if he were right in front of him. What did Roth care about the fate of Jojo Johanssen’s ex-tutor? Nothing. Roth would impale Adam Gellin’s carcass on a spit if he thought it would benefit “the program”…He began to drive himself crazy…trying to imagine how Buster Roth could use his statement…that he hadn’t helped Jojo on the paper in any way…to improve Jojo’s chances in this case. He closed his eyes. So there he was, standing in the lobby with his eyes closed, torturing himself with his thoughts, listening to a thousand footsteps echoing off the stonework of the grand space—

“Adam, what are you doing? Why aren’t you out there?”

It was Randy Grossman. He had a frantic, accusing look on his face. Adam knew the more pertinent question was why wasn’t Randy out there, why he had disappeared—but Adam was too overwhelmed by guilt to even mount the argument. The truth was, he did want to get away from the demonstration. Randy and the Gay and Lesbian Fist were 100 percent right in their cause. Gays and lesbians deserved not merely to have equal rights, they deserved also to be welcomed, embraced, hugged to the bosom, as sisters and brothers, the moral and social equals—in many cases, the moral superiors—of straight people. Absolutely no question about it! But to be labeled as one of them? Yuchhhh. The thought made his flesh crawl. He couldn’t imagine anything more ruinous or disgusting. That made him feel even guiltier as he stood here in the soaring sanctum of the Dupont Memorial Library looking at Randy’s appalled expression. Randy had done a brave and noble thing. He had come out. He had put his reputation on the line. He had overcome many fears and limitations and girded his loins…even unto the task of ascending to a podium in the Great Yard to lead the people on Stand Up Straight for Gay Day. And he made Adam’s flesh crawl, which made Adam feel guiltier.

He began sputtering and making imaginary snowballs and trying to explain to his moral superior, Randy, that he wasn’t leaving—by no means!—it was just that he…uh…he’d had a…muscle spasm, yeah, a muscle spasm, from holding the placard in place for so long, and he’d had to put it down for a moment and he was heading right back into the fray and so forth and so on.

Thus morally cowed—by Randy Grossman!—he sheepishly left the library and picked up the placard—Randy Grossman, his superior here at the Masada of our times, watched him suspiciously every step of the way—and headed back to the ruckus, the rhetorical mayhem of the sound system, which made twerps think they were leaders of the people, to the battle-ground—for that was what it might become! Suppose Hoyt Thorpe had retreated merely to regroup and—attack!—assault! He could see the cool smirk on his face! Yet shame proved to be more powerful than fear. Adam found himself back in the line of Praetorian guards in front of the dais, with a big sign over his head saying QUEER.

“—not even by pushing the envelope of their at once bulked-up and refined hypocrisy can they find a basis in case law or morality or simple human decency for their opposition to same-sex marriage. Not only that—”

This time it was the voice of a man, not a student, thundering out of the speakers and the Great Yard and echoing off the stone façades of Dupont’s most venerable buildings. Adam put the placard over his face so he could look back up over his shoulder at the podium and see who it was. It was a fat man in his fifties, probably, wearing a V-necked gray sweater that was too tight and brought out many unfortunate folds in his flesh. Adam didn’t recognize him, but considering his elocution, it was a good bet that he was on the faculty.

“—so that the religious right chooses to stress the premise that marriage is all about children. But if we look at their own holy text, how often does their own holy prophet, Jesus, dwell upon children? He doesn’t dwell upon children…at all. In fact, he only mentions them once, and that’s in response to a question. It’s in what the religious right refers to as the New Testament, the Book—their name for a chapter—the Book of Mark, verse forty-two, in which Jesus says, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.’ That’s their own prophet on the subject of children. That’s it! Let’m come shake hands with me here in public! That’s it! It’s a photo op! On the basis of that they’re telling us their religion is opposed to same-sex marriage? They don’t know their own religion! We’ve got a knowledge gap here, and we’d have to build a bridge for them to ever get across it!”

Whoops, howls of laughter, as the wise man outed the philistines.

“Now, my wife and I have two children, and we love them, we’re extremely close to them, and we’d do anything in the world we could for them. But do we think our marriage is ‘all about’ them? We both have careers, and we happen to think our marriage is also ‘about’ our work. I’ll go further. We happen to think our work is meaningful. My wife is an attorney, and she is always on call, by her own choice, for the court to appoint her to represent indigent defendants in criminal actions. I teach here at the university, and I happen to think—of course, I can’t guarantee that my students don’t think otherwise”—big smile, hearty chuckle—“I happen to regard teaching as—to use words I hope the religious right will be comfortable with—a ‘holy calling,’ and our marriage is ‘about’ those things, too. Is there any reason why partners in a same-sex marriage could not rear children, could not adopt and raise children from among the literally millions of children in this country who are without parents, with the same love and dedication my wife and I try to give our children? Of course not. The two things, the gender composition of the marriage and the rearing of children couldn’t have less to do with each other! Couldn’t have less! To have to deal with such a nonsensical argument at all…stuns the normal mind!”