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The Fall of Rome by Martha Southgate 
Chapter 1
I have served this school since 1974. For most of that time, I have been the only Negro on the faculty. (A note: I am fully aware that Negro is no longer the fashionable term. It is, however, the term I prefer to use.) I have always been, and remain, the only Negro in the Classics Department. Given the waning interest in the classics manifested by today's young men, the fathers of the school have seen fit to render me the only classics teacher. It could be worse, I suppose. When I first arrived here, there was some serious talk of eliminating the entire department in the name of "relevance." Only an impassioned plea by the then- department head and some grumbling from our more conservative alumni preserved the few classes that are left. Fortunately, I have enough students to fill them, but there is not much demand for my knowledge of Greco-Roman culture outside of those classes. The vigorous and lengthy discussions that I imagine used to take place regarding matters of the classical mind are all in the past now. When I was hired, John Hays, who was headmaster at the time, said that I was exactly the person they were looking for. I remember his words from my hiring interview quite distinctly. "It's time that the Chelsea School took note of the advances your people have made," he said, rearing back on the legs of his wooden chair. "Our boys will benefit from your fine example." He paused. "I know you'll take this in the spirit in which it's intended -- you're truly a credit to your race." I smiled briefly. I did take Hays's comment as the compliment he meant it to be -- though I suppose many would not have. So it is that in more than twenty years of faculty pictures here, you see me -- or rather, you don't see me, a quiet, dark space among all the bright, pale faces, my heavy-rimmed glasses catching the light. There was a time when I was not alone. I was hired to teach here along with two other Negro men. Dexter Johnson was one. The other was Hugh Davenport. They had stellar credentials -- Amherst and Yale -- as did I, with my degree from Harvard. We spent time in one another's cramped apartments, discussing this or that student or, more often, the issues of the day. However, a few months into our acquaintance, I began to feel a rift growing between us. More and more, I had become convinced that the way to effect the greatest good was to toil within the system that Chelsea had long had in place. I believed our very presence could begin to create change as long as we behaved honorably. My colleagues did not. While they started out full of hope, as soon as one or two of their proposals were dismissed out of hand -- such as the one about having every Chelsea student take one course of Negro history -- they began to complain about "the Man" and about how "a black man would never get a break" at this school. One day, after yet another litany of unhappiness, I said to them, "Some would say that we got a break by being invited to teach here. It is up to us to make of the opportunity what we will." My colleagues stared at me, then looked quickly at each other. "So it's like that, huh?" said one. "I thought you were slipping over to their side." We completed our meal but never spoke again about anything but class schedules. Within a year, they had both left the faculty. I have no idea what became of them.
The Fall of Rome:Part 1 | The Fall of Rome:Part 2 | The Fall of Rome:Part 3 | Order The Fall of Rome |
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