Lenny Bruce, Roma(nian) Gypsies, & the "N"-word, Part 1

Political Incorrectness on the American Campus

Apr 25, 2025

April 25, 2025

Another re-publish of an older post - from September, 2010.

I hope you won’t be disappointed and will read on.

And be…. entertained.

Because, seen through the lens of the authoritarian Trump regime’s pervasive challenge to the academic freedom of American universities, ordering them who to hire and what to teach, at the cost of losing the essential support of their federal research grants, I hope the post might just be relevant again.

Although this story is, as usual, a personal one, about my own experience with freedom of speech and political correctness, under the long judgmental arm of modern-day, American institutional academia.

With a shout out to Harvard University and its President, Alan Garber, who bravely declared that

The school had no choice but to fight back against what it believes is federal overreach and an illegal attempt by the government to withhold funding as leverage to control academic decision-making.

september 27, 2010 (again posted in its original lower case)

“so it’s the first day of the new semester

the first day of the new semester at the university of immense hubris

the well-endowed, private university that’s received far too much attention recently for its crimes of negligence and indulgence on the football field

and for the appointments of its new greco-roman president and its powerful new athletic director

—————–

it’s the first day of the new semester

and i’ve returned with immense enthusiasm to meet my colleagues and greet my new students

because i’ve spent the summer traveling the world as a fulbright scholar teaching what i teach and doing what i do

and getting paid for it

i’m a lucky man

——————————————

so we’re sitting around in a large circle in the immaculately empty theater of the department’s administrative and performance building

about 80 of us, coming in all different colors, shapes, and sizes

new students, returning students, old and new faculty

the “old” faculty has been asked to introduce ourselves, one by one, talking about our work

when it’s my turn, i say something like

“i’m trules. this is my 25^th amazing year at the UIH (university of immense hubris) , and as you can see from my designer black plastic casio watch, i haven’t yet received my 25^th anniversary silver watch band.”

a few laughs.

“but i was thinking the other night. ‘what exactly do i teach? what do i know? what am i expert in?’

i pause.

and i thought to myself…
i’m expert in… my self. although that sounds a little pretentious. a little arrogant and self-centered. but then again, what about “know thyself”, and all that jazz?
and since i never studied what i teach with any expert, guru, or great world-renowned “who-ha”, i guess i just made my courses up from what i know and experienced in life. i figured, “that’s alright, i’ll just teach students how to find themselves, discover their voices, and follow their own paths, like i did myself.”

i continue.

i know I’m being a little long-winded here, a little indulgent of your time…

i look over at my boss, the director of the MFA program, sandy, a keenly intelligent, artistic man – with a sense of humor, and he smiles at me indulgently, and gives me the go-ahead… the gesture:

carry on, trules.

so i continue.

you see when i was in romania this summer, i got to see gypsy people, who call themselves “roma” people. not gypsies. but “roma”… descendants of the roman empire. but in modern-day romania, the “roma” people are disempowered, dispossessed, and often homeless. they live in “gypsy” tents in “gypsy” camps on the side of the road in colorful rags for clothes, and they beg motorists for spare change. they have a hard life. they see themselves and are treated like the niggers of europe.
and there was this one roma girl in my class, i say to the group.
my solo performance class where i teach people how to make art out of the fabric of their lives. how to tell autobiographical, personal stories that take heart, and courage, and grit to tell. how to affect an audience with the power and truth of a story.
there was this one roma girl, alina. alina serban. who was brave and courageous and curious and hungry to learn this new story telling technique. to tell… her roma story… about how her father died, and how her mother was sent to prison, and how she was shipped around from foster home to gypsy camp… for years… disempowered. dispossessed. sometimes homeless and hungry.
and i was able to teach her. and alina did learn. and on our last night together, she read her story in a downtown bucaresti bar, about her pain and her suffering and her pride… of being roma. and the audience listened to her. and the audience cared. and the audience stood up and cheered. and we won. alina won. the gypsies won. and the roma won. for once.
and that’s what i do. i help the disempowered. the dispossessed. i help the wounded… tell their stories. i stand up for the powerless. the underdog. the “long day’s journey-ers into night”. “the glass menagerie-ers”… the willy lomans of the world.

i look around the room and i see my smart, arty boss, sandy, the one with a sense of humor, give me the signal to (gesturing)

wrap it up, trules.

so i do.

so… nice to meet you guys. bring me your best stories. and we’ll make art out of the fabric of your lives.

i’m done. i sit down. i feel a rush. of enthusiasm. of embarrassment. of having put myself out… so far. in a room of my colleagues, where i know half of them are just rolling their eyes and saying something like:

“there he goes again….”

Thanks for reading Santa Fe Substack! This post is public so feel free to share it.

i get home that night… and i find an e-mail. from one of my colleagues in the room that afternoon. it says… basically…

you… used the N word!

and i’m shocked. stunned. i did use the N word. i did.

i read on.

i know you were just doing what you do, but did you think about the others in the room? the african-americans in the room?

and i say to myself,

i did.

i read on:

do you possibly know what their experience has been? how they react when they hear that word?

and i say to myself,

no… i don’t.

and i start to feel bad. really bad. like a loud-mouthed, dyed-in-the-wool, KKK racist. i read on…

well, you know i really like you and respect you, trules, but what you did today was not right. it was blah blah blah blah blah…

and i feel worse. and i write her back right away.

“brenda, i feel really bad. i didn’t mean to offend you. or anyone in the room. i apologize. but… i do think there’s just a little too much political correctness in academia, and i chose to challenge that by using a metaphor. just like john lennon and yoko ono did when they called women “the niggers of the world.”

click. send.

and within minutes, i get an email back from brenda who says,

thanks for your mail, trules. i guess we’re entitled to a difference of opinion.

ok.

——————————-

and the next morning… i walk into the back-to-school, all-faculty meeting, where i see brenda has cornered sandy, my smart, arty boss with a sense of humor. she’s talking at him like a steam engine, right in the front of the room. she looks over at me as i cross the stage, a little uncomfortably, but she continues, not missing a beat, right in sandy’s face. i sit down on the audience right side of the room… until the meeting starts.

mercifully, there’s no mention of me, the newly branded, “lenny bruce.”

after the meeting, i’m feeling really agitated. and guilty. and politically incorrect.

i go right up to ubare, my african colleague from uganda. i say,

hey man, did i really put my foot in my mouth yesterday?
he says, “well, you certainly stirred up de pot.
is that good or bad, ubare?
well, it be more good den bad, trules. don’t worry about it. i know where you be coming from.

ok, one for trules.

next, i go up to shamus, our blond-haired, yale-educated, politically correct golden boy. i say the same thing, more or less.

shamus, man, did i fuck up yesterday using the N-word?
oh yeah, trules. that was far out.
you mean it wasn’t a problem?
look at my arm, trules. it’s the color of milk. don’t worry about it, man.

then i walk over to sandy, my smart, arty program director, and we basically do the same dance.

don’t worry about it, trules. i always thought we irish were the niggers of europe.

so… i walk out of the meeting to my car. and i’m thinking,

yeah, don’t worry about it, trules. it’s brenda’s problem. it’s the way she was raised. she probably sang freedom songs with joan baez. marched to washington with martin luther king and heard his “i have dream a dream” speech. and of course, she voted for obama. yeah.

but so did i. and i lived with william and dated cindy, both black, and some of my best friends are….

ok, stop, trules. you’re done. you’ve covered all the bases. made amends. done!

TO BE CONTINUED.

formerly academic trules

Lenny Bruce, Roma(nian) Gypsies, & the "N"-word, Part 1

Political Incorrectness on the American Campus

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