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2 ATerribleTale AFTER THAT HAPPY AFTERNOON at Teresa’s apartment, Rodrigo and I saw each other only once over the next three months, an unusually long interval for us. Our next meeting took place in his city, where I had gone for the funeral of a onetime colleague of mine. I had dropped in on Rodrigo’s law school unannounced, having a little time on my hands, and found him pinned down in his office by counseling duties. In between students dropping off course registration forms or asking Rodrigo his advice on what classes to take, we talked about the career of my friend, Yancey, an old- line civil rights litigator who was immensely popular in the black community, hundreds of whose members had turned up for his funeral. We discussed Yancey’s growing disenchantment , toward the end of his life, with the course of the civil rights movement to which he had devoted his entire life and which he considered had been almost entirely stalled for some time, if not moving backward. We talked about the potential for a racial cataclysm in this country, another stage of extreme violence triggered by right- wing attacks on affirmative action, the welfare net, HeadStart, and other programs of vital concern to minorities. We discussed how even some liberals had turned to the right, starting conservative think tanks that bankrolled snappy position papers, sent speakers around the country spreading the neoconservative gospel, and training a new generation of right-wing youth for positions in journalism, academia, and government.1 Rodrigo reported a conversation with his friend, Laz Kowalsky, in which the devoted freemarketer had told him that the West sees social life as one round of unceasing warfare and social competition after another , with peace the exception, and that whenever two people of radically different kinds meet, one is destined to conquer and subjugate the other.2 Kowalsky, who admired the principle of competition in the 39 marketplace of commerce and inventions, deplored its extension to international and domestic relations. He thought that some of our greatest judges were social Darwinians who embraced an adversarial approach to justice because they believed that courts could not, in most cases, find the truth but could only determine which party had the stronger argument. A bleak, unattractive view of judging and human affairs, with the strong bound to dominate the weak and little role for love, sharing, kindness, or the arts.3 I mention all this because it contrasted so sharply with the ebullient mood that marked our meeting that glorious day at Teresa’s apartment, and because it explained, in my mind, some of the events that followed. Toward the end of our short session in his office, Rodrigo and I had discussed whether current liberal and radical thought, including Critical Race Theory, offered any hope for redemption. Again, Rodrigo was uncharacteristically downbeat. Although the movement had demonstrated tremendous energy and creativity in its early years, developing ingenious theories and approaches, in recent days it had softened its stance and adopted an ingratiating manner toward the white establishment , emphasizing coalition, making friends, and talking more about racial discourse—the terms and language with which we discuss issues of race—than about race itself.4 He considered all this an evasion and commented somewhat offhandedly that what was needed was a program of reform and resistance. I recalled that he said the movement might have to go back to W. E. B. Du Bois, Martin Luther King, Cesar Chavez, and Mahatma Gandhi. He mentioned as well Antonio Gramsci ’s prison writings and the work of Oscar “Zeta” Acosta, the radical lawyer-novelist whose life apparently ended in an accident off the coast of Baja California in l972. Afterward, we drove to his and Giannina’s apartment for a quick bite. Laz was there with his new partner Enrique, a documentary filmmaker and playwright, and we spent most of the evening learning about the film industry. During the course of it, I learned when Giannina ’s baby was due and also observed her husband taking out a pad of paper from time to time and writing on it. I thought the latter unusual, for the quick-witted Rodrigo had never struck me as weak of memory or at a loss for words or ideas. Yet he was obviously compiling a list of some kind. The evening ended with warm embraces and vows all around to get together soon. But as luck would have it our paths did...

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