6
“Hi Alma! How are you doing,” Sebastian suddenly appeared in front of her.
“I’m fine,” she responded, somewhat hesitantly.
“I was really impressed by your presentation yesterday. You know so much about indigenous tribes in Ecuador. Really hot topic. And I was wondering how you’re able to write so fast? Are you paying these Ecuadorians $1 per hour so that they write it for you? I mean, there must be something. You’re younger than me and already a postdoc, and my thesis is going so slow.”
“Sebastian, I really don’t know how to respond to that. What’s your aim with these questions?”
She was suppressing her tone of voice. She wanted to sound poised, looking around to find a way to escape this embarrassing encounter. She realized that she could escape the conversation because they were approaching a crossroad.
“I’m going that direction. Goodbye,” she snapped.
It was not the first time that this German Ph.D. student was insinuating that she was a fraud. She had been thinking about his situation that must have explained his snide remarks. She guessed that he was probably the victim of his own failure to pursue his dreams.
***
The professor was figuring out how to use the latest technology provided by the sponsors. Suddenly, Mr. Masky appeared in high fidelity projected on the wall.
“We are safe here. The conversation is encrypted. We are using an enhanced security technology not available for the broader public. I have some things to talk about. You remember, we have signed a transparency agreement. Recently, we have become alarmed by our tracking devices. We have tracked a contact between Miss Rodriguez, one of your postdocs, and one of our employees. We don’t have any recordings of their interaction. We don’t know whether they have exchanged any words because nothing has been detected on their audio record. One possibility is that they might have left their phones and gone to talk somewhere. Another possibility is that they happened to be in one place for a suspiciously long time. I’m apprehensive about this. As far as we understood, she was supposed to do research on the oil industry in order to make a good rap for new technologies. So why would she be in contact with someone from the cesium industry? They are not Facebook friends. We don’t have any track of a longer friendship. My assistant has conducted a deeper background check. Her mother comes from Kenora, which is relatively close to our pegmatite,” the voice spoke without pause. The professor worried about his facial tic.
“Ah, I don’t know about research on cesium. She’s still doing research on Ecuador. At least she has not told me anything else. But, of course, I understand that we need to be cautious,” the professor’s voice trembled slightly.
“Remember that your salary depends on us. I hope that there won’t be any transgressions. I hope that you can take care of it in the most invisible way possible,” the voice warned.
“I will make sure that nothing impedes our collaboration. The world deserves to know about the struggles of indigenous people in the oil industry, and we are committed to this focus. Your money is going to a good cause, the professor said nervously.
The projected face looked skeptical.
“We work with the media on this,” the professor added, to fill the silence. “We have developed a very conscientious strategy centered around the mobilization of public opinion against the oil industry.”
“All right. We have not decided yet whether you will get a bonus from the grant this year. We will see later. And I want you to talk with our surveillance manager. You need to explore the possibility of implementing other surveillance measures for your team members. You are a research institute. You need to be more innovative,” the projected face was smiling.
The professor forced his tense expression into a smile back at the screen.
“Of course.”
“Excellent. I look forward to seeing how you innovate. Goodbye.” The face on the screen disappeared without waiting for the professor to respond.
The professor was shaken and anxious. This was a management task that he had never had before. He realized that he could not do it on his own. He dialed the number of Sebastian Buller’s phone.
“Professor Beauchamp?”
“Are you available now? It’s urgent. And confidential.”.
“I’m on my way,” Sebastian replied.
***
Alma woke up and reached for her smartphone. She realized that the battery was dead. After she found the charging cord, she plugged it in and switched on the phone, which instantly began beeping with notifications. She was surprised with the number of notifications after only a couple of hours of the absence. A picture of her popped up with 167 comments and 83 shares. She did not recognize the photo. Judging from the decoration in the background, someone had made it in the campus corridor. Looking closer, she was startled. She looked at the T-shirt on the photography. She did not recognize it. She hated having brands or messages on her T-shirts. She wore black T-shirts because she did not want her breasts to attract any attention. And this one had an entire sentence: “Trans women are trans women.” She read several times, not knowing what it was supposed to mean. She was sure she had never had such a T-shirt, but it looked so convincing. She started to feel dizzy. She doubted her sanity. She went to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. She wanted to be sure that she was not dreaming.
She went back to her charging phone. The picture was posted on the “Just Students” fan page. She read a couple of comments:
“TERFs have no place at the uni! I’m going to complain to the administration.” MyLola Ola wrote.
“Alma Rodriguez, your career is finished! Prepare your CV.” Gemmie B wrote.
“People like Alma Rodriguez should stay in Ecuador. Human rights abuser! Canada is a civilized country.” Fro Ule wrote.
She was glued to the screen, trying to make sense out of it. Suddenly, she realized that she would be late if she continued reading. She had only thirty minutes for a shower and breakfast.
***
She entered the Institute. She spotted Maggie, a Ph.D. student. She wanted to start a conversation, but Maggie turned around, avoiding contact with her. Friday Update – the weekly meeting of the Institute – was about to start. She went directly to the meeting room. It was still empty, but people began to gather in front of the room. Finally, the meeting started. She could not pay attention to what was happening around her. Suddenly, she realized that the meeting was over. Professor Beauchamp was addressing her.
“Ms. Rodriguez,” he repeated.
“Oh, I am sorry. I was carried away by something,” she pulled herself together to answer.
“We need to talk about your conduct. The administration has notified me,” he said.
“You want to talk now,” she asked.
“Of course, it is urgent. You are damaging the public image of our Institute. We should talk in private. Let’s go outside. I see that you have your jacket with you,” he said.
“Of course. But you should know, I have no idea what happened. I don’t even own one T-shirt with words on it.”
They went to the back exit. Professor lit up a cigarette.
“We need to act fast. Our Institute is in danger. The administration is worried about the graffiti on our walls your fashion statement may soon usher in. I already informed the student union that you are on disciplinary leave. I am sorry to say this, but we will only pay you for this month. Your fellowship is not like a job contract. We can rescind it on short notice. This type of news spreads quickly. Given the atmosphere in Canada, I am not optimistic about your career here. I am not sure you will get a position in the Anglo-Saxon world, but you speak Spanish, so you can still try there,” he said dryly.
***
Alma played several different scenarios in her head on the way home from the Institute. She wondered whether it was possible to get out of the situation. Once she finally was at home, she dialed Jeff’s number. He picked up the phone.
“Hi,” she said.
“Alma, I can’t talk to you, sorry,” he said.
“What? What do you mean,” she asked.
“Sorry, I just can’t.” He hung up the phone.
It was the final straw. First, Maggie was avoiding her. And now Jeff. She realized that being friends with benefits did not mean anything to him. She wondered whether he was with a woman, which would have explained his behavior.
Her mind reeled painfully. She took a nap just to numb all the inner turmoil. Sleep was the only state when she would not be so overwhelmed. Suddenly, she was woken up by something hitting against the window above her bed. The wild thought that they might have found out where she lived passed through her head. She was afraid that their online attacks may have mobilized into physical action.
She got out of the bed and peered discreetly through the window from the side. Fortunately, there was no one there. She looked once more, and she saw Jeff. She opened the window. He was giving her signs. He put his hand next to his ear, which was followed by making a cross with his hands. And then he made the cue “come” with his finger. She understood. He didn’t want to have a conversation in the presence of phones.
“The way you talked to me on the phone, you hurt me so much,” she said when she finally came downstairs.
“I did not want to be overheard. You know they watch us through our phones. The situation is tense right now. Look, I’m really sorry for what has happened to you. I don’t know why you had this idea of wearing this T-shirt, seeing the atmosphere now in Canada,” he said.
“I never wore that T-shirt! I don’t know what has happened. I’ve been fired. I want to write a petition, mobilize people. You cannot just throw out someone like this,” her voice rose angrily.
“No, I don’t think you should do anything about this. And I don’t think anyone will support you in this,” Jeff said calmly.
“You mean you wouldn’t support me.” She frowned at him.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I am relatively independent. I have my own business and see academia as a sort of hobby. Still, I do not want to be put into a box and seen as a radical. You do not know how things will unfold. I need to take care of my digital track record. One wrong step and competitors may use it against me. I do not want to meddle in politics. I don’t understand political stuff. I want to be as far away as possible from it. Supporting people nowadays is very dicey. I just need to mitigate the risk and have the freedom to construct my image without having any labels from the past,” he explained as if he was talking about choosing one product over another.
“You disappoint me, Jeff,” she lowered her voice. “I’ve always admired you for your courage.”
“I’m just being rational. Well, I can afford more courage than others because I come from a wealthy family and have qualifications and a competitive business. Think about people in humanities. There are no objective criteria in humanities, so anything that suggests that you are not submissive is a social and professional suicide. I do not think anyone in the humanities will help you, especially the people who want to pursue an academic career,” he said.
***
She tried to forget but could not help but watch Beauchamp’s statement on Facebook. He also posted a summary on Twitter: “Wearing disrespectful messages in a university setting cannot be tolerated. Our Institute is a safe space for people of all gender orientations. We did not intend any harm to the trans community at our university. Dr. Alma Rodriguez been removed from her position as our PostDoc Fellow.”
Her mother called. She forced herself to respond.
“Talk to your boss. There must be some way out of this.” Her mother was never one for small talk.
“What are you talking about, Mom? How could I possibly apologize or discuss? They have already made the decision. I learned about this after the decision. They didn’t ask me about anything,” Alma raised her voice.
“But you could say that you are sorry and that you will never do it again,” Alma’s mother insisted.
“No, this is not how things work nowadays. We are living in a post-relational era. You learn about their decisions through Facebook or Twitter. And there is no discussion about it. Suddenly you just get cold treatment. We are living in a different reality than what you know from your student years.”
“I just do not want you to lose all your dreams. You have worked so hard. Anytime you need a place to stay, you can count on me,” the mother said.
“Workers have struggled for employment rights and now the mob has gained them without even making any effort. Thanks anyway and don’t worry. I still have some savings. And I decided to spend some time in Cambia.”
“What?”
“I hosted a guy, Ramon, on BeWelcome.org. He told me about this community in Virginia. He said that they live together to share resources and lower the cost of living. Some of them also have an academic background. They’re kind of intellectual refugees from our society. I will hang out with them until I can find my feet.”
“Are you sure? It may turn out to be a cult.”
“We are indoctrinated every day. We are in the middle of a cult and witch-hunting. You just don’t see it. You can check their website, cambiacommunity.weebly.com. There is a description of how they live. You don’t have to worry. I need a couple of months to figure it out. I’m blacklisted in Anglo-Saxon academia.”
All resemblance to real people and events in the academic setting is coincidental in this fictional story.