| << Back 8/14/02 A true tale is hindered by the lack of factual basis By Lee Shelton Confederacy of Silence by Richard Rubin. Pocket Books, 2002. $18.90 — 400 pp. Richard Rubin’s recent first book, Confederacy of Silence, strains for a purpose and sense of relevancy. The underlying premise of what happens to a poor, black athlete when a “sinister plot” derails his hope and future, on the surface, certainly affords a platform for such (even though that plotline is well-worn); however, there are little factual underpinnings for this in Mr. Rubin’s attempt, which doesn’t seem to get in the author’s way. His problem is that he is constrained — or should have been — by the underlying facts. He also suspends objectivity, reason and fairness in his quest to create an interesting plot that he can sell. Fiction would have afforded him much more latitude with the subject matter and the development of the plot. Even Thomas Wolfe (among many others) realized this. But equally, it would have avoided the ill-conceived hypotheses that he left hanging, as well as the unsupported allegations, assertions, inferences, innuendo and character assassinations. A number of these are quite troubling. In a lot of cases, Rubin is just plain wrong — period. He has no apparent understanding or grasp of college football, but that doesn’t prevent him from speaking authoritatively on the subject. Rubin peppers his writing with inflammatory, condescending and self-righteous rhetoric. Here’s one example out of many: “My distaste for Ole Miss hardened into contempt, then disgust, and I found myself wishing that the riot sparked by James Meredith’s arrival on campus had not been suppressed by National Guard troops, that it had been allowed to rage until it consumed the place, burning down the lovely old Lyceum building, and all the rest of it, so that the ruins could be bulldozed away ....” The backdrop is that Rubin is from New York City. He is 21 years old and in 1988 has just graduated with honors from the University of Pennsylvania. He is also Jewish. He has decided not to attend law school, but has been unable to get a job since graduating. He responds to an ad in a magazine for a sports editor at a small town newspaper in the Mississippi Delta. He takes a job in Greenwood, Miss., for 12 months, working for The Greenwood Commonwealth. He returns five years later for a murder trial involving a high school football player that he had met while in Greenwood. He feels that this player, Handy Campbell, had been treated unfairly, was unfairly accused of a crime and Rubin becomes his primary advocate beyond all fact and reason. When at the end, he concludes that Campbell was not the person that he thought he was, he is incensed at that outcome. In fact, self-righteous indignation is the tenor of the entire book. Rubin (repeatedly throughout the book) tells the reader that he graduated from an Ivy League school with a prestigious degree and with honors. “I took enough history classes for two majors.” “And I always opted for term papers rather than exams — because, as I had discovered, I was also beginning to develop a real passion for writing.” That is interesting, as Rubin confesses that he couldn’t type and that is why he couldn’t find a job after graduation (“I am not even getting any second interviews. And all because I can’t type.”) and had to accept a job in Mississippi (“I was pretty sure that I was going to Mississippi because I couldn’t type”). Let me get this straight, a history major (and one with a passion for writing and who had opted for term papers) who couldn’t type, especially in the age of computer text writing. Interesting. Rubin writes on page 19, “But, what did I know of Mississippi? I knew about twisters and trailer parks, rednecks, and the rebel yell, speaking in tongues and burning crosses.” How typical — all stereotypes — having written about Mississippi extensively while in college. It figures. That is who typically writes about such topics — those who don’t have a clue about what they are writing about. The front inside panel of the dust jacket states: “But Greenwood’s welcoming face hides darker secrets and ultimately Rubin must leave it in order to preserve his own sense of right and wrong.” Good spin to sell books, I guess. Rubin was an adult and he came with his own sense of “right or wrong,” which appeared to be built on a foundation of expediency. Let Rubin’s words speak for themselves: “Sure I lied. The truth was ....” “And again, I said yes, even though I knew full well I never had...” (pp 15-16). Rubin’s sense of “right and wrong” was off track before he ever arrived. He dealt with situations based upon his convenience. Rubin shares how he was contacted by a member of the Jewish Community in Greenwood. “It never occurred to me that I might not be the only Jew in Greenwood. To learn that there were other Jews here — enough of them to form a community — well, it was almost too much to believe.” Well, the two synagogues in such a small town may have tipped him off. But then, where is that prestigious history degree when you need it? The number, presence, influence, and contributions by the Jewish Community in the South are generally well known. The only Jewish U.S. senators prior to the Civil War were from the South, as was the only Jewish governor. It would have seemed that Mr. Rubin might have done a little research and information gathering on the area to which he was headed; after all, he was a history major and pursuing a career in journalism — and of course, he had written “... extensively about Mississippi ...” while in college. To provide a “bookend” summary perspective for the reader to consider:
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