Cancel Culture

The feeling of dread he had so successfully overcome in the intervening years returned with such force that it was as if those years were nothing but a dream. He was still trapped in the spotlight of that university lecture hall … the rhythmic chants of the ANT activists pounding in his ears … his eyes flicking desperately from placard to placard, trying to find some sense in the messages to which he could form a rational response … the microphone amplifier howling … the fire alarm (set off by the activist ringleaders) screaming across campus: “White men’s math is dead men’s oppression!” “Facts lie!” “Facts make fascists!” “Out, out, out with McPhee!” “Kill white privilege now!”

Jordan closed his eyes, breathing into the depths of his abdomen and listening to the erratic rhythm of his heart. The pounding in his chest became the pounding of feet down the corridors of the faculty wing, the pounding of fists on his locked office door, the pounded-out words that couldn’t be taken back as rage and confusion had spewed from his mouth and spilled from his fingers onto the campus website:

Ignorant, immature snowflakes. Fevered, unbalanced seekers of nonexistent oppression. Flag-wavers for victimhood. Primitive thugs imbued with the anti-intellectual prejudice of left-wing rantings. If this is what this wretched university aspires to, then I want no part of it. DEPLATFORM ME!

                                    Professor Jordan McPhee