Actually, My Brothers Nicknamed Me “Tar Baby.” There Has Never Been a Day I Have Not Been Aware of My Blackness

Lots of folks have asked me, “Baruch, what's it like to be the first Jewish president of Harvard Law Revue?” Oi! This has gone a bit too far. It's true that my background is a bit convoluted, but let me try my luck at clarifying these matters once and for all. I was born in Oslo, Norway, the son of a Volvo factory worker and part-time ice-fisherman. My mother was a backup singer for Abba. They were good folks. As you folks all know, I am extraordinarily mature, and at the age of fifteen I went off to California to enroll at Accidental College. After a couple of years, I decided to go to Colombia, but when offered a position as a judge in Bogota, I fled to Chicago. There I discovered I was black, and I have remained so ever since.

I remember the day I discovered I was black, too, Baroque. I wasn't alone at the time. I was fortunate that some skinheads were there, who had discovered I was black first. I caught on quickly shortly afterward. Although denying the obvious by burying one's head in the sand can keep one securely oblivious to most unpleasantness, nothing pierces the veil of cluelessness like a curb stomping, and my blackness came to me like a blow to the head. Good times, good times.

I wonder what the guys are up to now.