In this amphitheater-like classroom, many white students sit. Celine White is here, too; she's among the few black ones here.
The classroom grows dark. Its back wall lights up. With visions of history, it teaches the class. Celine can't help but sigh, once she sees that the past was just as white-dominant as the present, here at Heckler University.
"On all five of the inhabitable continents," the visions narrate, "Eurasia and Africa are still at war. Religion has done much to fuel these wars...as have nationalism, capitalism, conservatism, monarchism, and some kinds of fascism."
The narrator sounds like Stephen Fry. Cecile sighs; centuries after Wilberforce, the British are STILL taking this issue too lightly...
Celine yawns. These visions make her want to go to sleep just as much as they make her want to go to war with the white majority she always has to put up with at the polls.
"In Oceania," the vision continues, "these wars are small...but hardly apolitical. The aborigines are not black...but have been known to be treated that way by the white outlaw colonists. The white race here owes the aborigines more. If not for their ancestors, after all, a lot of them would've perished, and become the very tragedies their banishers often hoped they would.
"The white race here has even learned anti-government hatred from the aborigines. In Australia, voting has been made compulsory...simply because everybody hates the government so much, that if trusted to vote on election day, no one would.
"Even so, Australia has yet to elect its first aboriginal premier. Meanwhile, over on their rival's islands, New Zealand has yet to elect its first Maori premier. Atheists have become premiers of both countries...but that's a different debate entirely.
"Once upon a time in Western Australia, an African immigrant worked at a winery. He was very loyal to it. He did more work on it than its owners did. The owners threw a lot of parties. And naturally, being a conservative-type family, many white guests were often invited, thus belittling the black man's presence at the party.
"The black man loved this winery. He loved it so much, that he once told himself that when the owners die, he'll pick up where they left off. He even offered to do that for them. Not having the will to make tomorrow's decisions today, they told him to wait.
"Alas, one day, another garden party happened. And a rising country music star performed at it. Everybody loved her. The owners did, too. Rather than waiting to die and leave their legacy to their trusted servant, they sold the winery to the country music star. A conservative herself, she saw the black man as a distraction from everything she loved. And so, Africa's brother in viniculture was forced into the unemployment line...where he died, because he kept refusing the gold mines' efforts to recruit/"enslave" him."
Cecile sighs. She's always hated this story.
"In South America, Africa still votes in parts of the Argentinian States, the Brazilian States, and ALBA. Even here, black folk still feel like dwarves among giants.
"Brasilia is a very conservative capital of South America's largest federation. It's said that here, for every one black person, there are six whitefolk. Now, we've all seen Slam Dunk Ernest...even if the racial table was turned, in that movie. But if you're a black person, you've heard this story before...and while it's better than some, it's still far from 'one white man for every black man..."
Cecile listens to every word. She probably shouldn't. Every now and then, it feels like her campaign to make black people feel more welcome at Heckler University is a war that can't be won. It's just as well. Whites and blacks are fighting on all five inhabitable continents...and not even the centrists can put an end to it.
The class ends. Cecile gathers her things, and heads off to her next one.
A fellow black student drops her books. Cecile bends over, and helps her recollect everything.
She wears a shirt. It's all black, except for a caption on the front that says, BLACK; NO CREAM, NO SUGAR.
Cecile smiles, and laughs. "I love/hate that shirt!"
"What's there to hate?!"
"I can't wear it! I have cream!"
With that, they part ways. Cecile stands in the hall, and watches her leave, in amusement.
From behind, she's approached by a white male student. He gets bigger, as he approaches.
He stops behind her. "Excuse me? Are you Cecile White?"
Cecile turns...and looks up, at one of the most marvelous creations of Eurasia ever. His name is Holsten Mitchell...and he's a photographer.
"I've been told you have a talk show, here on campus. Would you like to narrate a documentary I've been asked to do?"
With that, Cecile faints. Her newfound crush on him is just too much for her to take in.
She wakes in her dorm room. Her roommate attends to her.
"Where am I? What happened?"
"You saw a guy," they tell her. "He made you faint."
"Shit," Cecile swears. "He wasn't a dream..."