The Scammer(45)

I flash Nick a deadly glare and sit. Dr. Barnes’s smile is almost infectious, eyes childlike.

“I received a letter from a student in my African American Studies 101 class,” he says, holding up a printed email, about ten pages long. “Nick mentioned you might know this young lady. Ms. Kamara Young?”

I swallow. “Yes. She’s my roommate.”

“Mmm. Well, she sent a rather long letter, cc-ing deans and the provost, in an effort to correct what she considers a misunderstanding of historical events. She believes I am teaching a whitewashed version of Black history and demands my resignation. It was quite illuminating.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Most of the letter read as a manifesto of sorts. An attempt to course-correct principles and foundations with propaganda.” He points at the letter. “I’ve graded all of Ms. Young’s papers so far. And I have reason to believe that this letter is not in her own words. But I am quite familiar with the rhetoric.”

I sit back in my seat. Devonte had a hand in this letter. If he didn’t write it himself, he funneled the script directly into her mouth.

“Nick has told me that you may have some questions about things you’ve been reading . . . or being told. Things he thought I could provide some clarity on.”

I clear my throat, trying to ignore the sense of panic floating through my veins. Am I going to let this man, this brilliant professor, think the worst of me? That I’m just some girl who believes what she’s told, that I’m gullible, fresh for the picking.

Well . . . I can at least ask a few clarifying questions.

“Have you ever heard of the Lynch papers?” I ask.

He smiles. “Yes. I’ve heard of them.”

“What do you think?”

He shrugs. “They are not without merit. But in recent years they’ve been exposed as a hoax. See, stories, typically passed down through our ancestors, are large brushstrokes on a canvas. It’s a scholar’s job to investigate and add context details. Could someone have given a speech that taught slave masters how to control their slaves with brainwashing-type tactics? Absolutely. But the speech they are referencing does not correlate with the time and date in which it was supposedly given. Imagine reading a speech given by President Obama and it’s dated 1777.”

I glance at Nick, who doesn’t meet my eye. Embarrassment and humiliation mix a toxic cocktail through my system, and I explode.

“Okay. Well, what about vaccines sent to poison and control the Black population? Or food that has toxins in it. Or the chemtrails!”

Nick shifts beside me, crossing his arms tight over his chest. I breathe in deep, waiting for him to scold the side of me that knows that none of this makes sense. But he just looks sad. Is that pity?

Dr. Barnes stares at me, his smile never wavering.

“Ah yes. The chemtrails. I’ve heard of this. Why wouldn’t you believe that they are spraying pesticides in the sky? No one believed that Italian mobs were targeting Black communities with crack and now live in expensive mansions paid for with the blood of our people. It sounds just as crazy yet only one of those stories is true.”

He leans forward, folding his hands on the desk.

“You know, I have my own theory. I believe that conspiracy theories have done an equal amount of damage as racism has to our Black communities. From enslavement until now, we, above most others, have earned the right to be suspicious of white people’s intentions after our history with one another. But our paranoia has rendered us frozen in our own imaginings. When you uproot and strip humans of their culture, you leave them vulnerable prey, easy to attack with stories rooted in believable truths. All it takes is to add a bit of fiction into the narrative you want a person to follow for it to be gospel. It doesn’t mean we’re gullible people. It means our collective generational trauma has us questioning everything. My honest advice is to continue the practice of skepticism with a critical eye. For example, if someone says they have a source or an example, tell them to provide three more. The ancestors gave us sharp instincts for a reason.”

I lower my eyes. Kevin always said I didn’t have the best instincts.

“I’m not saying that we should trust recklessly,” Dr. Barnes continues. “But our rightful mistrust does not give license to forgo common sense and practicality. Ignoring science to our own detriment based on irrational principles. That doesn’t protect us. That gives the people who planted these conspiracy theorists in our communities, these covert terrorists, these snakes in the grass . . . exactly what they want. To eradicate us from the inside out.”



* * *




“Hey, you okay?” Nick asks.

Nick and I walk out of Webber Hall in silence, ambling over to a free bench next to a cluster of trees, marked with different fraternity and sorority symbols.

“That was . . . a lot,” I admit, still processing. “What made you think I needed to talk to him?”

“Rat, cat, and dog,” he says. “I heard that before. I didn’t know . . . well, what that guy has been telling you.”

Why can’t he just mind his business? “Nick, I told you I—”

“Yeah, I know what you said, but I know what I saw.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, I’ve been asking around about that guy. Everyone says he gives them the creeps. He’s been trying to seduce other students to his cult.”