Bienfang goes to college

by David Benjamin 

“Meritocratic systems, with objective grading scales, are critical to that belief [that “blacks can achieve in every avenue of American life without the meddling of university administrators”]. Such scales have always been a great equalizer—offering a metric for achievement that bigotry could not alter.” 

—Justice Clarence Thomas

 

MADISON, Wis.—When I dropped in on my friend, “Professor” Wilhelm Bienfang, he was dancing a sort of jig, while laughing maniacally and pausing, every few second, to add scribbled numbers, letters and symbols to a whiteboard covered with what appeared to be some sort of numerical hodgepodge.

“What are you so happy about?” I asked.

Bienfang bounded over to me. “Shake the hand,” he demanded exultantly, “of the founder, president, chancellor and bursar of America’s newest, greatest seat of higher learning!”

As everyone knows, Bienfang has long held sway as America’s foremost “idea man.” But despite his lofty credentials, he has always steered his ingenuity away from academia. Bienfang perceived my skepticism and sat me down. Clutching my shoulders, he said, “Johnny Roberts and the Supremes have set me free!”

Bienfang was referring, of course, to the decision, written by Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts, outlawing virtually all considerations of race—“affirmative action”—in selective college admissions. 

“Look at that!” he said, dragging me over to the frantic glyphics on the whiteboard. “You know what that is?”

I confessed ignorance. 

“That, my son,” said Bienfang, “is a mathematical formula that codifies a meritocratic system for colorblind admission to the university of the future.”

Bienfang paused for dramatic effect. “My university!” he proclaimed.

“Bienfang U?”

“No, no, no!” Bienfang flipped the board, revealing the conceptual map of a rambling college campus, dotted with buildings, intertwined with walkways, punctuated by an ivory “tower of learning” and flanked by playing fields, arenas, stadia and theaters. Students looked like little ants carrying books. “I call it—”

“Wait! I smelled a rat, a familiar sensation in conversation with Bienfang. 

But he was still talking. Returning to the dizzying cryptogram, he pointed to a cluster of numbers, letters, slashes and dinkuses. “I’ve worked out an equation that defines the elusive concept of merit. It’s mathematical, empirical, statistical, objective and downright kickass gorgeous. Just look at that baby.”

I looked at that baby and scratched my head. “How?” I began. “Why? … I mean … it looks like spider tracks.”

“Of course, son. If you’re not a childhood math prodigy—as I was!—this is gibberish. However, by concatenating—on this humble whiteboard—the abstruse calculations that make space travel, nuclear fusion, generative artificial intelligence and parthenogenesis possible (with a dash of Einstein’s theory), you’re looking at a meritocratic admissions system that will not merely pass muster with the six antebellum sophists on the Supreme Court. It will have them playing ring-around-the-rosie with Sonya, Elena and Ketanji in the middle.”

“How does it—”

“I’ll translate the numbers for you,” said Bienfang. “This equation proves, unassailably, that the greatest possible ‘merit’ in U.S. higher education accrues to young boys (and the occasional girl, if she’s pretty) born into white Christian families with wealth, position and several huge houses (ideally with servants) and at least two attorneys on retainer. This series of numbers right here—ending with an em-dash followed by e-squared over t+1, and a monkey tail, y’see?—reveals that the most meritorious college applicant in America today is a kid who has attended a prestigious prep school with private tutors since kindergarten, owns at least two late-model cars including a Porsche, has a set of monogrammed golf clubs and several squash tournament trophies. He conveys to his peers—and to admissions officers—a pathological conviction of ethnic and social superiority along with an insufferable sense of entitlement.”

I risked a comment. “Seems like a pretty narrow definition of worthiness.”

Bienfang shrugged and pointed at his board. “Hey, I was surprised, too,” he said. “But the numbers don’t lie. You gonna argue with Einstein?”

“Bienfang,” I said, “in this day and age, I can’t imagine a college that would follow this sort of formula to put together a student body.”

Bienfang had a glint in his eye. “That’s the beauty part. This formula requires a whole new sort of university. one that measures students not by their grades, SATs or criminal record—which would be irrelevant. This innovative school wouldn’t judge applicants by the content of their character or the color of their skin, but only by the contents of their dad’s wallet and the color of their money.”

He paused. “I call it St. Caucasius University.”

I saw the implication. “Doc,” I said, “you can’t do this. You’re not a racist.”

Bienfang laughed again and patted my head. “You’re right, kid. I love the coloreds and they love me. But I am a capitalist.”

He reminded me that America’s devoutest—and richest—capitalists are old white Republicans who associate only with old white Republicans. “These guys are desperate to sustain their racial hegemony and forestall America’s demographic slide into a non-white majority society,” said Bienfang. “St. Caucasius promises these tyrannosaurs and their issue an obscenely expensive sanctuary of white privilege unspoiled and untouchable by the swarthy masses. Our sole pedagogic mission will be the illiberal arts of denial and delusion. Four lovely years of frat parties, football and formication will keep the students, parents and donors of St. Caucasius blissfully unaware that the cloistered curriculum of their chosen college cannot prepare its graduates to re-enter a society where hip-hop is the soundtrack and the 48th president of the United States will probably be a lesbian Jew who shaves her head and doesn’t eat anything with eyes (except potatoes).”

“But,” I said, “you’ll be sued— a lot! Sure, the Roberts Court is a closetful of bigots, but I don’t think even Judge Amy would swallow your formula.”

Bienfang winked. “Well, perhaps. That’s why we’d collect all our tuition up front—in Swiss francs,” he said. “And then, after we’re sued, think of the millions in donations  (convertible to Swiss francs), to the St. Caucasius Defense Fund, from all those Trump cultists and GOP sugar daddies. After ten, twenty years in court, the jig could be up. We might have to plead nolo contendere and admit that maybe our magical merit equation is just gobbledegook smeared on a whiteboard by an absentminded professor.”

“By then,” I said, “I guessing the professor would be gone?”

“Well you know what they say,” said Bienfang. “Follow the money.”

“Swiss francs,” I said. “And the school would have to close its doors?”

“Breaks my heart. All those rich but stupid white kids wandering clueless into the demographic jungle,” said Bienfang, “forced to compete—unshackled from privilege—against the mud people, the Choctaws and the Yellow Peril, begging for a spot on the wait list at Pivnik Tech or Panhandle A&M. Oh, the humanity.”

“Bienfang,” I said with a note of admiration, “this might be the most spectacularly cynical idea you’ve ever had.”

He waved my praise aside. “Hey, it’s a judge-eat-judge world out there” said Bienfang, “and I’m just tryin’ to keep up with the Kavanaughs.”