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You could have made a quiche out of the scum on the window: egg, flour, tomato. The university custodians were too scared to touch it. Esther had scrubbed it off herself the first few nights, but it built up again when the pickets returned every morning, and she’d finally given up. The slop did serve as a replacement for her broken blinds, after all, diffusing the light in the office and warding off migraines. It was bearable, barely.

The chants outside the building were louder than usual today, the slurry on the sill thicker. She checked the time. It was eleven. It had taken her an hour just to respond to one email about her upcoming research trip to Iraq. At this rate, it would take her all day to book a hotel room.

Couldn’t they pelt her with something more dignified? If she was killed by a flying brick or shot on her way through the parking lot, she’d at least be a martyr.

Dark, Esther! She shook her head, pushed her keyboard away, and stood up. Time for a glass of water. As she left the room, she heard a muffled splat from the window. A tomato – you could tell by that distinctive meatiness. Eggs and paint balloons were a little sharper and higher-pitched.

There was a television on in the lounge. She studiously avoided looking, but couldn’t help catching a glimpse. The Chief Strategist to the President was pushing her way through a flock of reporters, her plastic lips pursed. Esther shook her head and walked on. She’d stopped watching the news when she became a news item.

Civilizations in Comparison had been adopted for high school history classes in the fall of 2003, and it had taken only a few weeks for the kooks to notice. Her personal details had been posted online soon afterwards. It hadn’t gone beyond the occasional hate letter, though, until Chief Strategist Knight got the President’s ear and he started harping on the issue. All of America now knew about the bias, the bigotry, the elitism in Civilizations in Comparison. There was a grassroots movement spreading from state to state.

It wasn’t just the Republicans, either. She hadn’t checked her personal email in months. She’d lost friends. Even Angela, lovely, loyal Angela, had suggested that she should have expected all of this when she started writing textbooks.

It was better now than it had been during the initial media circus, when her hair had been falling out and she had called in sick for five days straight. She had resolved to fight. But every now and then, in the middle of work, she would be smacked with a wave of terror, or anger, or simple exasperation. The students had noticed. Everyone had noticed.

Who would have thought, even twenty years ago, that ancient history would become so fraught? When she was in graduate school, the conflict was all focused on science textbooks and the US civics curriculum. Evolution versus design, celebratory versus critical history, Masonry among the Founding Fathers. Now the nuts were trying to rewrite the deeper past. Even calling Sumer the first urban civilization was politically suspect.

Tlön, Uqbar, Orbus Tertius,” she sighed, filling her water glass. “Lord preserve us.” Borges himself couldn’t have invented this shit.

She drank three cups, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, said a short prayer.

When she returned to the office, Tim Gerber from McGraw-Hill was waiting for her, standing awkwardly at the door and fingering his tie. Bad news, no doubt. The geometric tattoos on the backs of his hands warped and twisted as he fidgeted.

“Good morning, Professor,” he said. “I’m sorry, I should have called ahead, but I was in a bit of a hurry. Would you mind speaking for a moment?”

She looked at him warily. “Mr. Gerber. Yes, come inside. I was just at the water cooler.”

Gerber didn’t say anything more until he was perched on her sofa. His gangly frame seemed too big for the office, even with his legs crossed below him. Esther wondered if his height had gotten him where he was. Maybe his strong chin. It certainly hadn’t been his knowledge about publishing; he was supposed to be a senior editor but she’d had to go over his head quite a few times during her contract with the company.

“I received a phone call from Mr. McGraw yesterday,” he said, finally. “He wanted to discuss your book.”

Esther’s stomach began to churn. The odd patterns of light shining through the sludge on the window suddenly looked sinister. The company’s president had decided to weigh in, had he. Terry McGraw had stayed above the fray so far, keeping busy with the financial arm of the firm and his work with the Ronstadt Foundation. Staying off camera. Letting the textbook division – and their hired writers – take the blows.

“We talked about our company’s dynamism. You know, we’ve been around for more than a hundred years. Our mission of educating America’s youth hasn’t changed, but the consensus. Consensuses.” He stopped, licked his lips. “The way we teach and discuss academic subjects is constantly adapting.”

How long had it taken him to memorize this?

“It’s the shared belief of the president and the rest of the board that in light of the current national conversation, some adaptations will need to be made.”

When they start speaking in the passive voice, you know you’re fucked.

“Tim,” she said, standing.

He went on reading from his mental script, looking at his sandals. “Several of our textbooks, for instance Our Physical World, have already been adapted following requests from communities we serve. Since you have been unwilling to adapt your text, and since your name has become controversial after your public dispute with the Chief Strategist – ”

“Look me in the eyes, Tim.”

He did, and she saw his shame.

“Understand me. I am a teacher. I don’t just do research here – I could have written how many articles in the time it took me to write Civilizations? spent how much time preparing for my undergraduate classes? – I teach young people. I respect young people. I believe in being honest with them. I am not going to sign my name to a weaselly disclaimer like the one the Californians put in their physics books. Yes, you own the work I’ve done for you, but if you want to put a sticker on the back of my history textbook saying that human consciousness originated in Atlantis, I don’t care if the President is breathing down your neck, I will have my lawyers and the university’s lawyers look at every word of it.”

“Professor. I know. We’re not planning to revise your book. We would like to terminate your contract.”

Something large and wet hit the window – a diaper? It slid down, wiping away a streak of schmutz. A ray of light hit the desk.

“You’ll be hearing from our lawyers very soon,” Gerber said. “I came here to tell you as a courtesy. We’re planning on withdrawing Civilizations in Comparison from circulation next school year. We sincerely hope that we can work out a satisfactory compensation for lost royalties or any inconveniences we may have caused you.”

Through the gap in the window, Esther saw the crowd. The indignant parents with kids on their shoulders, and signs: HONOR OUR LEMURIAN HERITAGE and THINK OF OUR CHILDRENS THIRD EYES. The partisans: clean-cut kids in Hagelin/McLeroy 2004 caps, frowning suspiciously at passing students. The cordon of Federal Yogic Flyers, keeping back the demonstrators, meditating for McGraw-Hill’s peaceful surrender.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, when should I expect these lawyers? I’ll need to speak to my own counsel. Before I discuss this with anyone.”

“By Friday. Here, I’ll give you Linda’s card. If you don’t hear from us before the weekend, give her a call and work out a good time to touch base.”

Gerber stood, adjusted his tie. Esther wanted to say something. “I don’t – I won’t let you get away with this,” she blurted. It sounded faintly ridiculous.

“Namaste,” he said, and left.

She sat down. Took a breath. Said a prayer.

Counsel might be cheap if she got a referral through the university. The textbook was side business, not university business, though. It would ultimately have to come out of pocket: her own money and time.

She could probably afford it. She wasn’t that hard up for money these days, exactly. Thank the Lord for tenure. The advance on Civilizations had just been a pleasant bonus.

The sulfuric smell of rotten eggs suddenly made her gag.

Our world will be Tlön,” Esther said aloud. She set aside the business card for later and turned back to the Baghdad hotel listings.
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