After I had finished my presentation, a colleague and I sat rocking on
the hotel porch to discuss its merits. It was a picture-perfect fall day
in Jekyll Island Georgia, and he was a friend. Yes, he explained, what I
was saying seemed to be true. And yes it probably needed to be said, but
why did I want to be the one to say it? Wasn't I, after all, a tenured
professor who didn't need to make a fuss in order to retain his job?
Didn't it make sense to just kick back and enjoy the easy life I had
earned? The topic of our tete-a-tete was my speculations about race
relations and he was certain that too much honesty could only get me in
trouble. Given my lack of political correct- ness, people were sure to
assume that I was a racist and not give me a fair hearing. This was a
prospect I had previously contemplated. Long before embarking on this
volume I had often asked myself why I wanted to write it. The
ideological fervor that dominates our public dialogue on race guaran-
teed that some people would perceive me as a dangerous scoundrel who had
to be put in his place.