Read Online Daughters of the Revolution by Carolyn Cooke - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn Cooke
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will acquit yourself modestly and be a credit to—and be a credit to the institution.”
Her hand literally crackled when he shook it, as if a bone had broken. “I might be a little tense,” Carole said.
The boys erupted in sympathetic laughter and burst into applause. Wasn’t everyone a little tense?
Mrs. Graves addressed the problem of Carole—which God perceived as a women’s problem—by grouping her with the international boys, who came from Paris, Cairo, Hyderabad and Frankfurt. All the “different” students, she reasoned, would feel more comfortable together. She resolved the question of propriety by putting one of the unmarried female faculty (Julia Singer, Art Department) in charge of International House.
After the first dinner, which Carole ate with the international boys, she went into the courtyard, where some upper-formers were handing around a package of Winstons. Carole pulled out her own pack—of Kools. “The ghetto cigarette,” she told them.
Out of respect, the boys called her by her surname, as if she were one of them. She was never Carole, only Faust. But she was not one of anything; she was singular. Because of her, girls had to be brought in at the second semester. Because of Carole, the whole world changed.
In her first year, Carole watched, adapted and generally did what one might expect of a teenager. She took some pains to differentiate, to assert and accentuate her otherness, which God and Mrs. Graves found perverse. (Goode was already integrated, God insisted—23 of the 370 students were Negro—but still Carole chose to wear her difference, her blackness and femaleness, like a banner.) The Rebozos family—Aileen Rebozos was a trustee—had taken a special interest in Carole, who had spent part of the previous summer with the Rebozos family on Capawak Island. The Rebozoses had somehow found Carole in Brooklyn, New York—the bright daughter of an ambitious immigrant from the West Indies, some old family connection.
When Carole returned in the fall, she refused to read the book that every Goode student read. Why would she not read the book that every student read? asked God. Because it bored her. And how could this book, which contained all the seeds of humanity,
Heart of Darkness, bore
her? It just did. She liked some other books by white men—for example,
Moby-Dick
. A book about a whale—a book that took on the separateness of a species. “If only someone would acknowledge that ‘some of us’ are whales!” “Whales?” “Yes, fearful symbols.”
“And what are you a symbol of?” asked God.
“I just said. Of your fear.”
She was supported in her rebellion by some of the female faculty—Julia Singer in particular—and by many of the boys, black and white, and even by the new girls, who had no basis to complain.
The Goodeman
ran a front-page photograph showing the awful rally of protest, students carrying crude placards that read ANGRY BLACK WHALE, WHITE WHALE and SPERM WHALE and WHO IS MOBY-DICK?
It was, finally, her stance, hands on hips, her face, the placid look, when he was accustomed (from the boys, from everyone but his wife) to slightly glazed expressions of admiration. God’s famous equipoise suddenly cracked open like an egg.
“What makes you think you know what art is? What makes you so sure that you know what is real and what is false, what is good and what is not?
What makes you think you know the answers?
”
She just knew, she said, and she knew what she knew. She didn’t remember a time not knowing. She flunked chemistry; she never turned in her final paper on the
Odyssey
because, it turned out, she was interested only in the
idea
of the book, the hero’s journey; she couldn’t actually read it; she couldn’t, actually, stand it.
“It takes discipline to be a scholar,” God thundered to Mrs. Graves. “It even takes discipline to be an artist. Who the hell does she think she is?”
“Carole lacks discipline; she is casual and
Her hand literally crackled when he shook it, as if a bone had broken. “I might be a little tense,” Carole said.
The boys erupted in sympathetic laughter and burst into applause. Wasn’t everyone a little tense?
Mrs. Graves addressed the problem of Carole—which God perceived as a women’s problem—by grouping her with the international boys, who came from Paris, Cairo, Hyderabad and Frankfurt. All the “different” students, she reasoned, would feel more comfortable together. She resolved the question of propriety by putting one of the unmarried female faculty (Julia Singer, Art Department) in charge of International House.
After the first dinner, which Carole ate with the international boys, she went into the courtyard, where some upper-formers were handing around a package of Winstons. Carole pulled out her own pack—of Kools. “The ghetto cigarette,” she told them.
Out of respect, the boys called her by her surname, as if she were one of them. She was never Carole, only Faust. But she was not one of anything; she was singular. Because of her, girls had to be brought in at the second semester. Because of Carole, the whole world changed.
In her first year, Carole watched, adapted and generally did what one might expect of a teenager. She took some pains to differentiate, to assert and accentuate her otherness, which God and Mrs. Graves found perverse. (Goode was already integrated, God insisted—23 of the 370 students were Negro—but still Carole chose to wear her difference, her blackness and femaleness, like a banner.) The Rebozos family—Aileen Rebozos was a trustee—had taken a special interest in Carole, who had spent part of the previous summer with the Rebozos family on Capawak Island. The Rebozoses had somehow found Carole in Brooklyn, New York—the bright daughter of an ambitious immigrant from the West Indies, some old family connection.
When Carole returned in the fall, she refused to read the book that every Goode student read. Why would she not read the book that every student read? asked God. Because it bored her. And how could this book, which contained all the seeds of humanity,
Heart of Darkness, bore
her? It just did. She liked some other books by white men—for example,
Moby-Dick
. A book about a whale—a book that took on the separateness of a species. “If only someone would acknowledge that ‘some of us’ are whales!” “Whales?” “Yes, fearful symbols.”
“And what are you a symbol of?” asked God.
“I just said. Of your fear.”
She was supported in her rebellion by some of the female faculty—Julia Singer in particular—and by many of the boys, black and white, and even by the new girls, who had no basis to complain.
The Goodeman
ran a front-page photograph showing the awful rally of protest, students carrying crude placards that read ANGRY BLACK WHALE, WHITE WHALE and SPERM WHALE and WHO IS MOBY-DICK?
It was, finally, her stance, hands on hips, her face, the placid look, when he was accustomed (from the boys, from everyone but his wife) to slightly glazed expressions of admiration. God’s famous equipoise suddenly cracked open like an egg.
“What makes you think you know what art is? What makes you so sure that you know what is real and what is false, what is good and what is not?
What makes you think you know the answers?
”
She just knew, she said, and she knew what she knew. She didn’t remember a time not knowing. She flunked chemistry; she never turned in her final paper on the
Odyssey
because, it turned out, she was interested only in the
idea
of the book, the hero’s journey; she couldn’t actually read it; she couldn’t, actually, stand it.
“It takes discipline to be a scholar,” God thundered to Mrs. Graves. “It even takes discipline to be an artist. Who the hell does she think she is?”
“Carole lacks discipline; she is casual and
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