When you’re on the outside baby, and you can’t get in I will show you you’re so much better than you know When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again I will find you darling and I will bring you home
There used to be this joke at Yale, that in order to get tenure in the Anthropology Department you had to have an Oriental wife. Mostly it was the Oriental wives who told this joke and found it funny, but everyone knew there was truth in it. After the war, many of the tenured anthropologists had married Asian women, and if you included all the graduate students and untenured teaching staff—the assistants, associates, and adjuncts who, by accident or design, had mimicked the marital predilections of the senior faculty—their numbers achieved some statistical significance.
The anthropologists were all white guys.
They were tall white guys with stooped shoulders and sunburned necks that they protected from the rays with folded kerchiefs. Their skin, turned leathered from years in the field, had the crosshatched texture of plucked chickens. Their thin, sand-colored hair was matted with sweat, and it stuck to their high receding foreheads when they took off their pith helmets. Some of them worked for the CIA.