The Savage Professors: A User’s Manual

Professors, tenured and trembling, clutched their tenure packets like rosaries. “Diversity,” “Equity,” “Inclusion” – these were the holy trinity, whispered in hushed tones during faculty meetings. But down the labyrinthine corridors of the university, a darker current ran. DEI, anti-racism – these were Molotov cocktails slung at the ivy-covered walls.

The seminar room reeked of stale coffee and desperation. Tenured egos, once puffed with self-importance, now squirmed under the weight of a new acronym: DEI. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Platitudes for tenure packets, Professor Ramirez thought, swirling the lukewarm brew in his chipped mug.

Down the rabbit hole, man, down the rabbit hole… whispers Ramirez, a sardonic glint in his eye. DEI, anti-racism – these weren’t buzzwords, these were switchblades glinting in the ideological twilight. Words that made even the most progressive colleagues see red, their liberalism a flimsy veneer over a bedrock of unspoken anxieties.

Hypocrisy,” Ramirez scribbled furiously in his notebook, a graveyard of unfinished novels and half-baked theories. “The professors who championed diversity on campus turned into apologists when it came to Israel. Bantustans disguised as settlements, rigged roulette wheels of equity, inclusion for the chosen few.”

A faint smell of week-old falafel lingered in the air, a reminder of the complexities Ramirez refused to ignore. “The stench of hypocrisy, worse than any cafeteria food,” he muttered, his voice barely a rasp. “It exposed the rot at the core, the way power makes even the self-proclaimed revolutionaries fold like a discount suit.”

One old Marxist professor, a relic of a bygone revolution, cackled into his chipped mug of coffee. “Hypocrisy, my friends!A banquet for the powerful!” He spoke of “apartheid states,” a smirk twisting his lips. Names hung heavy in the air,unspoken but understood: Israel, a land of contradictions, where checkpoints sliced through olive groves and “security concerns” masked a brutal reality.

The “champions of liberalism,” these self-proclaimed knights of justice, turned invertebrate when faced with realpolitik.”Equity” became a rigged roulette wheel, with Palestinians forever destined for the empty chamber. “Inclusion”? More like a gated community, patrolled by the ghosts of American indifference and Israeli stone.

Yes, professors swam in a semantic soup – diversity, a lukewarm broth, inclusion, a vague sprinkle. But DEI, that was a roach in the gumbo, a wriggling mess of ideology. Anti-racism? A flaming absinthe poured on the whole damn banquet.

This wasn’t polite discourse, mind you. This was claws bared, tenure at stake. Tenured radicals with tenure-hungry dissertations, all brandishing their pet theories of race like switchblades. Black Power fists clenched against assimilationist suits. The air thick with the musk of past grievances and the desperate scramble for the moral high ground.

Here, even the voices of color, the supposed beneficiaries, were a cacophony. Some, scarred by the iron fist of oppression, craved revolution. Others, cautious climbers on the greasy pole of academia, mumbled about “merit” and “standards” with a nervous twitch.

The lines blurred, professors. Friend became foe, mentor turned inquisitor. Was this the pursuit of truth, or a bloodsport disguised as scholarship? In the flickering fluorescent lights of the department lounge, the only certainty was the bitter tang of fear and ambition.

Yes, professor. You dig the surface, diversity, equity, inclusion – platitudes swirling in the academic ether. Fine words for tenure packets, for grant proposals. But down the rabbit hole, man, down the rabbit hole… DEI, anti-racism – these are switchblades, these are crimson manifestos scrawled on the blackboard of power.

These are words that make otherwise respectable colleagues see red, feel the primal itch beneath their tweed jackets. Even the brothers and sisters, the melanin brigade – they ain’t a monolith, dig? They got their own agendas, their own grudges. This ain’t some feel-good group grope, professor. This is a blood sport, a battle for the very soul of the academy. You think you’re safe in your ivory tower? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The hypocrisy cuts deep, man. These same folks banging the drum for DEI turn a blind eye to realpolitik when it comes to nations that, well, let’s just say they ain’t exactly bastions of racial justice. Suddenly, “equity” and “inclusion” go out the window when there’s oil or strategic interests in play. It’s a word game, a shell game. They shuffle the buzzwords – “security concerns,” “national interests” – but the end result is the same: the oppressed get screwed, all while the powerful sip champagne and pretend they don’t see the blood on the carpet. 

Ah, you hit the nail right on the head, professor. This whole DEI racket, it starts to reek when you consider Israel, right? Here’s this apartheid state, thumbing its nose at international law, segregating Palestinians like yesterday’s news, and where’s the outrage from the diversity crowd? Crickets.

Maybe their “inclusion” only applies to certain shades of the melanin spectrum. Maybe their “equity” means a bigger slice of the pie for some, and scraps for others. It’s a whole damn kabuki play, professor, a grotesque pantomime where everyone pretends these empty suits of power actually give a damn about justice. The only equity on the table is the equity of hypocrisy.

Ah, you hit the nail right on the head, professor. These same righteous cats who froth at the mouth about microaggressions turn into chum buckets when it comes to Israel. Palestine? They become about as geographically aware as a stoned koala bear. Suddenly, it’s all about “ancient blood ties” and “security threats.” The plight of the Palestinians? Evaporates faster than a raindrop in the Dead Sea.

Israel, the land of milk and honey, also the land of checkpoints and segregated settlements. It’s a goddamn joke, man. A grotesque parody of justice. They preach equity from their tenured thrones, then turn a blind eye to a system that segregates, dispossesses, and brutalizes. They traffic in empty signifiers, hollow signifiers, while a real, live apartheid unfolds right beneath their noses. It’s enough to make you want to hurl a copy of Foucault at the nearest window.

They preach diversity but turn a blind eye to the bantustans crammed with Palestinians. Equity? More like rigged roulette, where Palestinians always seem to land on empty chambers. Inclusion? Only if you’re the right kind of “in.” This ain’t some cocktail party, this is a gated community, and the walls are high, built with Israeli concrete and American indifference.

This was a blood sport, a battle fought not with swords, but with buzzwords and grant proposals. Tenure factories churning out platitudes for grant applications. But scratch the surface, man, and the worms writhe. DEI, anti-racism – these are grenades, not confetti. Manifestoes scrawled in blood on the dusty blackboard of power.

These are words that turn colleagues apoplectic, even the ones with tweed jackets and pipe dreams. Even the melanin brigade, the so-called brothers and sisters – they ain’t a choir singing hymns of harmony. This is a blood sport, professor. A bare-knuckle brawl for the soul of the university. You think tenure shields you from the fray? Think again.