AT 10:50 A.M., I strolled around the curve of Circle Drive toward McClung Museum, where my eleven o’clock forensic anthropology class met. An event of some sort seemed to be taking place outside the museum. The small plaza at the museum’s entrance was filled with people and banners. As I got closer, I realized that the event was a protest, and what I had thought were banners were actually neon-hued picket signs.
I took mental inventory of the museum’s current exhibits, wondering which of them could have sparked controversy. The exhibition of nineteenth-century Samurai swords, prints, and other artifacts? Surely not. “UT Goes to Mars,” photos, videos, and models documenting the role several UT faculty played in NASA’s Mars Rover landings? Doubtful; I’d not read of fans of, say, Venus lobbying NASA for equal time. “The Origins of Humanity,” a show that included fossil remains from human ancestors, as well as two life-size reconstructions of early hominids? Hmm. That could fit, I realized, judging from my own recent brush with the hornet’s nest of creationism.
As I drew near enough to read the picket signs, I spotted a disturbingly familiar word on many of the signs. It was my own name, and I realized with a jolt that the picketers weren’t protesting an exhibit; they were protesting me, Bill Brockton, Darwin’s loudest local mouthpiece. DR. BROCKTON HAS NOT EVOLVED, read several of the signs. BROCKTON MONKEY’S WITH GODS CREATION, read a few others, combining dubious theology with appalling apostrophe usage. Some simply bore a stylized drawing of a fish, an ancient symbol of Christianity. And one, carried by someone wearing a gorilla costume, even featured a life-size photo of my head pasted atop the cartoonish body of a chimpanzee. A television news crew was on the scene, getting close-ups of the picketers as they marched in an oval, blocking the doors to the museum.
A half dozen UT police officers were arrayed a tactful distance from the protesters. I sidled up to the closest one to learn what I could about the group. “When did this all start,” I asked him, “and who are these folks? They don’t look like UT students.” Except for the gorilla suit, their clothing was more conservative than anything I’d ever seen on UT students in de cades. The boys and men wore dark pants, white shirts, and ties; the girls and women wore long dresses and clunky shoes, and there was not a pierced navel or tattoo anywhere in sight.
“They showed up about twenty minutes ago,” the officer said. “They must have known your class schedule. A church bus pulled into Circle Drive and unloaded, then drove off to park, I’m not sure where.”
“Did you notice what church it was from?”
“Nothing I ever heard of. ‘True Gospel Fellowship,’ or maybe ‘True Fellowship Gospel’? I never heard of the place, either. Some town in Kansas.”
“Kansas,” I said. “Why am I not surprised?”
“That guy in the monkey suit seems to be the cheerleader,” the officer said, “but I’d say the fellow off to the side there is calling the plays.”
I followed his gaze. Standing apart from the knot of protesters, his hands clasped in front of a double-breasted gray suit, stood a well-groomed man of middle years. His hair was dark, going to silver; it was swept back from an imposing forehead, and either it was naturally wavy, or it had been carefully styled to look that way. I noticed French cuffs and gold cuff links peeking out the ends of his jacket sleeves, and his trouser cuffs draped over sleek black shoes that spoke of money in an Italian accent.
I took a wide detour so as to come up behind him. “Nice signs,” I said as I eased alongside. “My favorite is the one with the picture.” He gave a brief, practiced chuckle, then turned toward me to make conversation. When he saw my face, he looked startled but quickly recovered his composure. “I’m Bill Brockton, anthropologist and evolutionist,” I said. “I’m guessing you’re Jennings Bryan, attorney and creationism activist?”
“Not creationism,” he said pleasantly. “Intelligent design. Please.” He smiled slightly, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary. “The famous Dr. Brockton,” he said. “Please forgive me for not shaking hands. It would complicate things for me, for the cause, if the newspapers or TV captured a handshake on film.”
“Well, I’d hate to complicate things,” I said. “I struggle even when they’re simple.”
“I hear otherwise,” he said.
“Well. For what ever it’s worth, I am sorry I embarrassed that boy in class.”
“I’m not,” he said. “You did us a huge favor.”
“So I see,” I said. “I’m sorry about that, too.” He gave me the little smile again.
A crowd numbering a hundred or more had gathered at the edge of the protest, and the TV crew was dutifully capturing their images as well. Some were mere onlookers, but I recognized most of them as my forensic anthropology students. I checked my watch; it read 10:59, and I had always drilled punctuality into my students. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Bryan,” I said. “I have a class to teach.” I stepped forward, toward the museum, toward the protesters. I hadn’t gone more than ten feet when I heard Bryan call from behind me, “Here he is!”
Every head, every camera, swiveled in my direction. I kept walking, closing the distance. When I was perhaps twenty feet away, the protester in the gorilla suit began screeching like a chimp. It must have been a prearranged signal, because when he did, his comrades reached into pockets and bags and fished out overripe bananas, which they began lobbing at me. Most of them missed, but a few caught me on the shoulders and chest, and one splatted open on my head. Banana mash dripped down my face and into my collar. My feet had stopped moving when the banana barrage began; I felt rooted to the spot. Someone in the crowd of picketers produced a cream pie from somewhere and handed it to Gorilla Man; he scampered forward, monkey-style, and ground it into my face. It, too, was banana, and I was surprised to find that it wasn’t half bad.
As I took out a handkerchief and wiped pie from my eyes, I saw the UT police officers racing toward me. They formed a circle with their backs to me, their arms and hands outstretched. The TV cameraman scrambled to the edge of the circle, zooming in on my dripping face. I looked at the protesters, their expressions a mixture of joy and hatred, and then I looked at the crowd of spectators and students, who now far outnumbered the picketers. Suddenly a young woman pushed through the crowd and jogged toward me, holding a crudely made sign high over her head. It was Miranda Lovelady, and the sign bore a hand-drawn image I recognized from a bumper sticker on her car: a stylized fish, its body filled with the word DARWIN; below the body, the fish had sprouted legs.
A cheer erupted from the students, and they fell in behind Miranda. The officers fanned out into a wedge, and we walked forward—the police, the students, and I—through the picket line and into the building.
I made a quick stop in the restroom to clean the pie off my face and neck. Then, for the next ninety minutes, I taught, and I’d never felt prouder or more privileged to be a teacher.