Deconstructing the Professor

"Pardon?"

"You were just now checking out my legs, Professor Jefferson," she asserted confidently.

I stammered, trying to defend myself, even though I had no reason to be defensive, "I-I-I was most certainly not."

Smiling, she quipped, her tone speaking to me as if I was a child, "Come now, Professor Jefferson. I've noticed you checking me out ever since I began this experiment."

"I have not," I protested adamantly.

"Don't worry, Professor Jefferson," she continued, ignoring my protest entirely, "You aren't the only one who's been visually sexually harassing me." She let her heel fall to the floor. She asked, her tone that of a white Mistress addressing her maid, "Can you get that for me?"

Mortified, but not wanting to offend her, I walked over, reached down and retrieved her heel. I handed it to her.

"Could you put it back on, please?" she asked, her tone deceptively polite.

I don't know why, I knew this was a complete power play and that by obliging her I was giving into her little game, but my body was moving while my head was still considering the consequences. I touched her stocking foot and an electric spark slid up my back, surprising me completely. I hastily put the heel back on and retreated back to my desk, a location where I felt back in my comfort zone.

She smiled, "Thank you, Professor Jefferson."

"You're welcome," I replied, trying to get back to the topic at hand, her essay. "Now back to your essay."

She interrupted me, "Professor Jefferson, I need an A in this course, and thus also for this paper."

"How can I possibly give you an A, based on what you've handed in?" I asked, assessment being the only power card I had left.

"I get A's in all my other classes, and I've always gotten A's."

Even though she hadn't included it in her research paper, I knew there was some basis for visual sexual harassment creating a hostile workplace, including in the classroom. But if I gave her an A, I'd be devaluing the work her peers had done while writing and researching their papers. "I can't give you an A based on what you've submitted Ms. Adams, but I do think your topic has merit. I'll give you another week to write a personal reflection paper."

She shook her head in the negative and divulged, "Professor Jefferson, your staring, leering and panty-peeping has made me very uncomfortable in your class. Being treated like a sex object and being drooled over by my lesbian teacher was very distracting and..."

"I am not a lesbian," I interrupted.

Madison snapped, "If you don't mind, Professor Jefferson, I was speaking, and I'll thank you not to interrupt. Trust me, you are a dyke. You haven't stopped staring between my legs since I began this experiment. I bet you've even dreamed about me at night, haven't you?"

My face flushed, luckily since I was black she couldn't notice, and I stammered, "I-I-I have done no such thing."

She mocked me, "Y-y-you have done no such thing. Nice cover, Professor Jefferson. The truth of the matter is that the real reason I didn't finish writing my paper is because in class you treated me like a sex object, and I felt uncomfortable writing about you and your nasty thoughts."

Defeated and worried she could go public with her false accusations... she'd been flaunting herself flagrantly throughout her so-called experiment... that nevertheless were potentially damaging, I ended up giving her a completely undeserved A. "Fine, Ms. Adams, against my better judgement, I will give you an A."

She immediately stood up and proclaimed, "Thank you very much Professor Jefferson, I may reward you one day for your obedience."

Obedience? Before I could respond to her final word, she bounced to her feet and swayed her ass out of my office. (I'm sorry to be crude, but that's exactly what she did.) I left home early, furious at myself for being manipulated by this stuck-up, manipulative bitch. I replayed the conversation in my head and tried to see where it went all wrong. I decided to ensure I was never alone with her again.

That night I woke up in a cold sweat, my hand in my panties, the dream the same, but this time I was sucking Madison's stocking-covered toes while she told her friends about how I'd become her Nigger servant. (Her word not mine, except I was the one dreaming it.)

My dreams were getting more and more subservient, and this time hearing her call me a Nigger in front of Miko, Ashley and her sister Emily, was a mortifying new low. I tried to fall back to sleep, but my churning thoughts became obsessed with the humiliating way Madison was treating me, both in my dreams and in real life.

I promised myself I would have to talk with her and deal with this once and for all.

5. COLOURISM

I spent extra time getting dressed for my planned confrontation with Madison. I wore a black no-nonsense business suit with matching black stockings and garter belt. I felt both powerful and sexy; if nothing else, my altercations with Madison had awakened my dormant sexuality.

Topics that come up in my classes include race and gender stereotypes, and cultural differences in how sexual promiscuity is viewed between various racial and ethnic groups. Also, there is colourism, which means valuing not only white over black skin, but also lighter over darker skin. This social malady is virtually a cultural universal, common in Africa as well as in North, Central and South America, and even in Asia. It's also common within individual families of mixed race, including my own. This has been a particularly frustrating power struggle in my life with my three children. My students now knowing more about me as an individual, I discuss my children and our unique racial gradations in colour.

My oldest daughter LaKeisha (we always call her Keisha) is twenty-five. She's not related biologically to either of my ex-husbands: she was a product of my being raped by a black friend of my mother's. I don't want to get into it, but this traumatic experience played a pivotal part in my almost complete lack of trust or faith in the men I've loved, or who have allegedly loved me. Keisha has graduated from law school, has just passed the bar, and is working for a law firm that's hired exclusively by the NAACP. (She interned with them during the years she attended law school, so she's already been with them for some time.) It's a position, a calling even, that makes me very proud of her. Keisha is very similar to me both physically, with her dark black skin, and also in her personality. She's always been very studious and serious. She dresses relatively conservatively, and behaves a bit older-styled, kind of stuffy, again like me, compared to other women in her generation. Keisha is taller than me standing at 5'8", and she's slimmer and more athletic (she was on the track team and the tennis team in high school). She has a 36D bra size, and, though I'm don't know the numbers for her waist and hips, I'm sure both are narrower than mine. She's also a bubble butt like I am. Both her tits and ass are perkier and firmer than mine, no matter how much I work out, just because she's younger and more athletic. She also follows in her mother's footsteps by being self-conscious about how large her breasts are, a concern going back to middle school (like her mother, she developed before most of her friends... which was painful to watch since I knew how she felt... and she got embarrassed about bouncing and jiggling, even in sports bras, when she was running track or out on the tennis court).

While Keisha looks and acts amazingly like I do, the twins don't. They're a lot less serious and less driven than either Keisha or myself. They're spoiled (much more so than Keisha ever was), more than a bit bratty, with an entitled, presumptuous, rambunctious attitude, Nicole even more so than Nicholas. (He's always been fine with being called Nic, though Nicole has for years insisted on people, even family and friends, using her full name.). Both are eighteen, and, in contrast to me and their older (half) sister, are very light-skinned with virtually white (Caucasian) features. In contrast to Keisha, who always attended public schools, the twins always went to private ones, almost exclusively white schools, and have been thought of and treated as white by almost everyone. In fact, there have been many awkward occasions through the years when the twins' teachers, or their friends or friends' parents were astonished to discover that their mother and/or older sister were so unmistakably black, or they mistook me for my children's maid. Keisha and I have even on occasion have been perceived as a potential threat to the twins, as if she or I were from the ghetto, because of the contrast between their skin colour and racial features and ours. This sometimes error was all the more ludicrous given the way Keisha and I typically dressed, acted and presented ourselves, looking and talking like white people in all respects except for our features and skin colour. The twins' father is McMillan Forbes; he comes from big old white money, and thus the twins have always lived a rather easy life. He treated Keisha well too, but she always resented his white money and desperately wanted to make it on her own. So although it's never been discussed between my children and me, colourism has indeed played a major factor in my children's relationships in society and between themselves.

I gave the class time to read an article and discuss it in small groups until class ended. I chickened out and didn't confront Madison, and I returned to my office to assess papers.

That afternoon Miko knocked on my office door. I invited her in, and she cautiously entered with fear written all over her face.

"Miko, is something wrong?"

"No, ma'am," she almost squeaked, nervously.

Curious why she was here and even more curious about her essay, I probed, "What can I do for you, Miko?"

She refused to make eye contact when she revealed, "My Mistress ordered me to drop off a package to you."

I couldn't believe she'd said that: 'My Mistress ordered me to...' From her essay I knew she had a Mistress, and from their interactions in class I assumed that Mistress was Madison, but I couldn't see how any of this connected with me. "Your Mistress?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am," she whispered, her cheeks flaming red with embarrassment. She opened her bag and timidly placed a medium-sized box on the nearest (to her) corner of my desk. Still not looking up at me she mumbled, "I have to go now."

"Would you like to talk about this?" I asked solicitously.

She shook her head in negation and bolted out of my office before I could probe any deeper into her embarrassment and shame.

I stared at the box for a few minutes, trepidation filling my soul. This package had to be from Madison. Partly because of Miko's behaviour just now, partly because of the way Miko always hovered near her shoulder, and partly because I couldn't fathom from whom else it could be.

I tried to focus my attention on an insipid paper by some rather clueless boy, until my suspense about what might be in the box finally pushed me to the edge. I reached across the desk for it and opened it. Inside was an envelope addressed to 'Professor Jefferson', and something else wrapped in tissue. I opened the envelope and read the letter.

Dear Professor Jefferson,

Your lecture today fascinated me. It proved all my theories about you to be true. You discussed earlier your reasons for dressing as you do, and I knew those reasons to be untrue, even though it's likely that you believe the fiction. I knew then that the reason you dress as you do is because you're attempting to be white; you wish to distinguish yourself from the rest of your race. You are ashamed, you've always been ashamed of your colour, and you're therefore jealous of white girls like me. You long for the privilege and the respect white women receive, and you attempt to achieve it by spewing your jargon of equality and racial understanding. Yet every time you look at your two white-appearing children, an (ironically) dark place inside of you burns in fury and jealousy at the privilege they receive automatically and without any effort, while you and your dark-skinned daughter have had to work for everything you have.

The irony of it is beautiful. You talk about colourism, yet you are yourself wilfully unaware that you're part of the problem, not the solution. You want to be white. You want to hide who you really are. I can see that this struggle to deny the truth about yourself is painful for you. So I am giving you a little present that I think will help you come to grips with who you really are.

Sincerely,

Your White Mistress

P.S. I expect you to wear this present to class tomorrow. Any disobedience will result in punishment.

I was aghast. I was appalled. I was mortified. Yet I was curious. I opened the rest of the box and was surprised to find a pair of white stockings, very nice ones. I pondered the significance of these stockings. Obviously, they were white. White stockings on black women are seldom seen except in porn movies. By wearing them, I would be agreeing with this girl's assessment of my basic motivations and my character. Anger burned inside me: at this condescending analysis, particularly one based on a lesson that was intended to point out the varying degrees of racism in society, not to provide someone with fuel for disparaging my approach to life. I cursed to myself. No longer in the mood to assess any papers, I went home.

That night after I'd simmered down, I tried to figure out what was happening. I was 99.99% sure it was Madison behind the whole thing. Miko hadn't ever said Madison was her Mistress, and Madison's name hadn't been on the letter, so until I was 100% sure, I couldn't go to the Dean. Yet just before bed, I felt my hands going into my school bag, taking out the stockings and drawing them onto my chocolate-skinned legs. Once they were on, I looked into the mirror and was drawn to the sharp contrast my black skin made with the white silk stockings. Unable to resist, I felt myself falling back onto my bed and my hand sliding down to my privates, which were surprisingly wet. Why were they? I couldn't figure it out. I closed my eyes and let go of all my questions and anger, and I pleasured myself.

As soon as my eyes were closed, Madison emerged in my fantasies. She had that ubiquitous smug look on her face as she beckoned me towards her. I brought myself to a quick but powerful orgasm. Once I'd come, I was furious with myself for once again being so weak. I'm a powerful woman. A mother who has raised three children, for the most part on my own except for some significant financial help from McMillan, primarily for the twins. I'm a woman who has overcome adversity to get my law degree, my Master's and Ph.D., and who is now a highly respected professor at a prestigious university. I was more determined than ever to deal with this once and for all. I pulled off the white stockings, this symbol of servitude, and tossed them in the trash. Content with my resolve to end this silly charade, I finished getting ready for bed.

That night though, no waking decision could resist the twisted dream that overcame me. This one was different from before. I was wearing all white: white stockings, white heels, white skirt and a white blouse. I also had a white collar fastened around my neck and was on all fours on a white leash, being led by a white woman dressed all in black. I never saw the woman's face, but her blonde hair, her voice, her confident, condescending and ruthless manner were unmistakable.

the woman's face, but her voice, confident, condescending and ruthless was unmistakable.

6. PANTY-SNIFFER

In open defiance to the so-called order from my wannabe Mistress, I wore dress slacks instead of a skirt. I arrived early and assessed a couple of papers before class. I was startled when I heard a knock on my open door. It was Miko. She was dressed all in white, and she looked sheepish.

I invited her in, and she sat down and asked, "Professor Jefferson, are you wearing your stockings?"

"No, Miko, I am not," I replied.

"Oh," she said, a fresh fear beginning to grow on her face.

"Why does that worry you so much, Miko?" I asked, genuinely concerned.

"Mistress will punish me if you disobey," Miko informed me, her eyes blazing with fear.

"Why?" I asked, shocked.

"I don't know, but she made it very clear that if I didn't convince you to wear white stockings today I'd be punished," Miko explained, once again not making eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Miko, I didn't even bring them to school."

Miko surprised me by reaching into her book bag and retrieving another pair of identical white stockings.

I asked, "How will she punish you?"

"I don't know ma'am, it's never the same," Miko whispered, her shame clearly visible.

"Miko, I don't know what to tell you. I can't wear the stockings or Madison will see it as my complying with her demands," I explained, throwing Madison's name in there to see if I was correct about the identity of her Mistress.

Tears began forming beneath the lovely Asian's lowered eyelashes as she continued gazing downwards. "It's okay, ma'am, I understand. You must do as you must." She was standing up to leave when I felt my heart breaking for her.

"I'll think about it," I promised.

She turned to me, a ray of hope in her eyes as she looked directly at me for the first time since entering. "Thank you, ma'am." She scuttled out as she'd done yesterday.

I looked at the stockings for a while, pondering what to do. I knew deep down that submitting to this task, no matter how trivial it appeared on the surface, would be acknowledging both my weakness and Madison's strength. On the other hand, protecting Miko appeared to be imperative. I closed my office door, removed my slacks, and reluctantly put on the stockings. My subtle victory, my statement that I wasn't rolling completely over, was that I was wearing pants. There would be very little evidence of my obeying this self-styled Mistress.

I had just finished putting my flats back on when I was again startled by a knock on my door. I opened it to see a wild-eyed Emily, Madison's younger sister. She darted into my office and urgently closed the door behind her. She blurted out, "Dr. Jefferson, please don't wear the stockings today!"

I looked down, directing her attention to the fact I was already wearing them.

Even more frantically she continued, "Professor Jefferson, you have to take them off. They're a symbol. A symbol of her power over you."

"But you're wearing them too," I pointed out. She was wearing a white outfit similar to Miko's.

"I don't have time to explain, but all her slaves are wearing white stockings today as a symbol of their obedience to her."

"To Madison?" I asked.

"Yes, to Madison. She's our Mistress, and her next target is you."

"But you're her sister," I pointed out, bewildered, my roller coaster ride of shocking revelations continuing.

"I know, I know, I don't have time to get into any of that now. If she knew I was in here warning you, she'd punish me like she did earlier in the term when I disagreed with her in class," she divulged, her body language conveying her nervousness.

"What can I do?" I asked, meaning how could I help her.

She walked over to me, fear in her eyes and insisted, "You can take off those telltale stockings. It's too late for me, but you can still be saved."

"But Miko was here earlier, and she said she'll be punished if I don't wear them."

She sighed, "Figures. I'm sure we'll all be punished if you don't obey her, but that's our problem; we got ourselves into this irreversible mess, you didn't."

"How many of you are there?" I asked, curious.