A few years ago, after 9/11, my dean called me for a meeting.1 It was a Vijay Prashad pleasant enough day, a little chilly and overcast, but nothing dramatic. I walked across the beautiful campus of the private liberal arts college where I teach in Connecticut. Along the way, I greeted and was greeted by students, staff, and other faculty. My geniality felt a little forced, because I was anxious about what awaited me at my walk’s end. The dean and I had a fractious relationship, although it was neither personally unpleasant nor professionally threatening. This time, the dean’s call had been brief and the summons immediate. His expression was grave. I sat in one of the plush chairs in an office that seemed unusually empty of the books that normally clutter the shelves of an academic room. He was polite, and he asked how I had been. Then he told me that he had received a few letters that accused me of being a communist and an agent of foreign powers. He laid out the facts in the letters, then leaned toward me, touched my wrist, and asked if the college could do anything to ensure my safety.
