‘Butter’ deconstructs incident of race

On the second night of first-year orientation in 1983, John Grace returned to his room in Allen Hall to find a threatening note on his door: “die nig***.”

It seems relevant to note that he was African-American.

The harassment continued, culminating in a broken window, a stunned and angry student body and an embarrassing scandal for the administration of a liberal arts college that believed it had left its past reputation as an enclave of New England’s moneyed (white) elite well enough behind.

An agonizing month later, it was discovered that victim had turned perpetrator; Grace had left the threatening notes on his own door, and had even broken his dorm room window. He voluntarily left the college.

A native of Alabama, Rebecca Gilman briefly attended Middlebury during the John Grace scandal before transferring to Birmingham-Southern College. Over a decade later, she drew on her memories of the event to write the play “Spinning into Butter,” intent on exposing the hypocrisy of northern racism.

While some considered the work a nuanced portrayal of race, others decried it as overly simplistic, bogged down by the author’s agenda.

On April 9, Women of Color’s “What is Color?” series sponsored “Deconstructing Butter: A Staged Critique,” an interactive staged reading of selected scenes from the play, interspersed with opportunities for discussion and a parallel reading of Boston Globe articles tracing the real events of that fall.

“Here’s the plan,” director and Visiting Assistant Professor of Theatre Dana Yeaton explained to the audience. “We’ll read a few scenes and pause a few times. We don’t really know what all this means, but hopefully we’ll see these issues in a different way.”

The audience soon discovers that the play is set in Belmont, Vt., at a liberal arts college where Winter Term includes courses on wine tasting and the films of Brigitte Bardot and skiing remains the main attraction for over half the student body. One administrator quips that it won’t be long before “Aristotle As He Applies to Seinfeld” is included in the course catalog.

Scenes revolve around Sarah, a well-meaning administrator hired under the somewhat ambiguous job title “liaison to minority students.”

Her position puts her in the crossfire following the discovery of threatening notes on Simon’s (read: John Grace’s) door.

Among the faculty, blind spots abound. Sarah wants to get Patrick a scholarship under the door-opening designation of “Puerto Rican” or (at the very least) “Hispanic.” Patrick insists he considers himself “Nuyorican” ­— he’s never been to Puerto Rico — but eventually caves.

In another scene, the administration remains unaware that “minority” has been replaced by the more innocuous “person of color.” In a play dealing with race, such appellations take on greater meaning.

Actors swap characters each scene, and the cast is color-coded; white shirts represent white characters. It quickly becomes clear that Patrick is the only multi-racial character represented. Simon is curiously absent. Who talks and who remains silent begin to take on familiar — if no less disconcerting — patterns.

Simon’s ordeal inspires several open forums, and one white student is inspired to start a diversity group. He says the forums have successfully inspired a dialogue — of sorts. The black student union has chosen to boycott what it perceives to be an insulting and patronizing attempt to smooth ruffled feathers.

The white student and his friends stayed up all night talking about their experiences with racism (or lack thereof). He wants to change things up, but is worried that starting the club may hurt his chances applying to law schools.

Showing interest in diversity issues may no longer hurt grad school applications — quite the opposite — but nearly 30 years after these issues visited campus in one fell (and wholly unexpected) swoop, students asked to comment on their first impressions of the play still called its content “very familiar.”

The question remains: what has changed, what has stayed the same, and for whom?

Sarah represents the do-gooder, intent on “helping,” plagued by white guilt, but unable to eliminate deeply ingrained race consciousness. In one emotional scene she admits that every time she rides the train she carefully chooses where to sit — first with white women, then white men, then black women and possibly black men.

After discovering that the 1983 acts of vandalism were self-perpetrated, the Boston Globe quotes Erica Wonnacott as saying that they were all so relieved “it was over.”

Well, it may not be over — but is it possible that “it” has taken on a new guise? Sarah’s train ride admission reminded me of taking the subway in New York City. I’ll admit it, I do the same thing, but not along race lines. Almost sub-consciously I avoid any guy with too-baggy pants, a maybe-shifty look, whatever. It’s not race consciousness, and it’s certainly not racism. Rather, it’s a difference consciousness — and I doubt that will be leaving me any time soon.

Sarah does not act on her awareness of differences. She is attempting to do the elusive “right thing,” but when asked to develop a ten-point plan shifting enmity to harmony, she is stumped.

However, she knows more than she thinks. We all do. Talking — deconstructing “Butter” — seems an obvious remedy, but it may just be enough.