The Old Blog in the Desert

Written by a most unremarkable but attentive observer of Men and Follies, from the comfort of a rocking chair with a jug of sweet tea and a wary eye on the headlines.

Now it comes to pass in the Year of Our Lord Twenty-Twenty-Five—or thereabouts, for I never did put much stock in exactitudes—that a most confounding uproar did arise from the learned hills and hollers of Oregon. The state, known better for its hemp than its history, has found itself the stage for a drama of collegiate concern and protestational fervor that even the squirrels at Portland State began to wear little paper hats of resistance.

Word got ‘round by wire and whisper that more than a dozen foreign students—scholars imported from lands where vowels run long and consonants run together—had their golden tickets to the United States plucked from their trembling hands like apples off a low tree. Now, some folks of the ink-stained and spectacles-polishing variety rushed to their typewriters—or whatever contraptions they use these days—and declared this the end of liberty, the death of decency, and the beginning of fascism.

That word—fascism—which in some towns is used to describe everything from paying rent on time to asking someone to hush in the library.

Well, at Oregon State, the University of Oregon, and Portland State alike, young folk of the activist persuasion gathered in tight circles like disgruntled beavers in a dammed-up stream. They hollered chants that rhymed poorly and marched in large, enthusiastic circles, though not one among them could recite a single line from the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952. But that didn’t stop them.

“Say it once, say it twice, we will not put up with ICE!” they shouted, though to my ears, it sounded a bit like they did intend to put up with a lot—so long as it involved skipping class.

Now, I won’t claim to know what every student did or didn’t do, nor do I bear any particular grievance against any fellow trying to learn his letters or earn a degree. But if a fellow comes to a country by invitation to study and starts treating the place like a revolutionary summer camp–there might be consequences.

At least, that’s how Secretary Rubio—a florid man of firm opinions—put it.

“If you come to this country as a student,” said he, “we expect you to go to class and study and get a degree. If you come here to like vandalize the library, take over a campus, and do all kinds of crazy things, you know, we’re going to get rid of these people.”

I don’t always agree with men who wear suits without dirt on their boots, but in this case–the logic was as plain as cornbread.

Portland State’s President Ann Cudd—though I reckon she was more for chewin’ than cuddlin’—called the whole affair “deeply troubling.” That’s college talk: “We’re upset but don’t know how to stop it.” She, along with other dignified university types, demanded explanations from Washington, and Washington, in return, sent back mostly silence and a few sternly worded documents, the kind that smell like bureaucracy and coffee.

Meanwhile, one Diego Duarte, a young man with the gall of a congressman and the mustache of a Spanish poet, declared that this was all fascism again. He hoped the international students “see this as the show of support that it is.” I’ve seen many shows of support in my time—bar brawls, pig roasts, Fourth of July parades—but never one that involved yelling at government agents while skipping Chemistry 102.

Of course, there were whispers of “unspecified criminal charges,” a fancy way of saying something happened, but nobody’s talkin’. The universities claim they know nothing, but I know that a man can’t sneeze on a college campus without someone filing a Title IX report, where a trio of diversity coordinators gotta meet.

And then there was Ms. Cano of “Portland Contra Las Deportaciones,” a group whose name sounds like a war and whose purpose is to fight invisible enemies. She said folks “weren’t angry enough,” a strange complaint in Portland, where anger seems thicker than nine-day-old coffee. She also linked the whole thing to Palestine, which is sort of like blaming a thunderstorm in Omaha on a sneeze in Jerusalem—but these days, every grievance ties to every cause, no matter the geography or logic.

Some say this is Trump’s doing. And I say, well, perhaps it is.

For all his bluster, orange hue, and fondness for capital letters, that man did seem to think America ought to be a country with walls and rules. He wasn’t much for apology tours or academic handwringing. If a student comes here on a visa and uses his time to riot instead of recite, well, I reckon President Trump would say, “You’re fired.”

And so, dear reader, this tale has no neat ending. The students will protest. The administrators will bloviate. And Washington will do what Washington always does—act slowly, speak rarely, and forget promptly.

But in the meantime, the lesson is clear–if you come to America for school, perhaps it’s best to crack a book before you try to storm the Dean’s office.