Author's Introduction

One evening in the early summer of 2022, I settled in to watch Inherit the Wind on YouTube. Not the 1960 film starring Spencer Tracy, but rather the 1988 television movie version starring Jason Robards and Kirk Douglas. I got a few minutes into watching it, and I had a sudden epiphany. This would make a great story set in the present day, featuring a high school biology teacher caught up in the transgender craze arrested for teaching the facts of biological science in defiance of a state law requiring unquestioning gender affirmation. I turned off the movie, and instead, I hunted down the transcript for the Scopes Monkey Trial.

And so, The Wise of Heart was born.

He that troubleth his owne house, shall inherite the wind:
and the foole shall be servant to the wise of heart.

Proverbs 11:29

What’s it about?

Biology vs. “Gender”

He wanted to test the new Gender Awareness in Academia (GAIA) Act, but high-school biology teacher, Mike Andrews got more than he bargained for.

Arrested and thrown in jail for the crime of teaching the biology of sex determination and for refusing to affirm a student’s gender identity, Mike faces a show trial amid a media circus.

Who can he trust?

The school superintendent who set him up?

His defense attorney who shares a secret history with the prosecutor?

His girlfriend who may not have his best interests in mind?

Her mother who is out to destroy him?

Mike will have to learn that winning the game sometimes requires writing your own rules, and success comes only to The Wise of Heart.

Illustrations by Elin Chancey further bring the events of The Wise of Heart to life. However, the illustrations significantly increase the costs of producing the book. To offset those costs, I’ll launch a crowdfund campaign giving you the opportunity to support the basic program of illustrations and additional illustrations and features in stretch goals. For now, enjoy periodic installments of The Wise of Heart free.

Episode 1: A Conspiracy is Born

“Two poached eggs on toast.” The mayor handed his menu to the waitress, adjusted his “Clark” ball cap and crossed his arms in front of his overall bib.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor,” the waitress acknowledged.

“Adam and Eve on a raft!” she called out to the cook.

“I’ll take the two-egg special with bacon and toast,” the bespectacled young educator at the end of the table ordered.

“Two eggs with bacon and toast on the side. Gotcha, honey,” the waitress acknowledged.

“Two dots and a dash with a board in the alley!” she called out to the cook.

“And you, sir?” the waitress asked the balding older gentleman in a suit and tie.

“Scrambled eggs with an English muffin.” The school superintendent handed his menu to the waitress. “Well-buttered.”

“Yes, sir. Scrambled eggs, English muffin, extra butter,” she confirmed.

“Wreck the cackleberries and burn the British with extra axle grease!” she called out to the cook.

“What may I get for you, dear?” the waitress asked the short-haired older woman at the end of the table.

“I want avocado toast,” President Buchmann demanded.

“I’m sorry, honey. That’s not on the menu,” the waitress replied, “but I can ask the cook to see what he can do.”

“Fine,” the university president acquiesced, her tone belying her reply. “And stop calling me ‘honey.’”

“Sure thing, dear.” Apparently, the diner lacked a slang term for avocado toast. The waitress took the table’s order behind the diner’s counter to the cook.

“She is SO not getting a tip,” the president fumed.

“Well, it’s a good thing breakfast is on me, then” the superintendent observed.

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch – or breakfast for that matter,” the mayor replied. “So why DID you call us all here on a Saturday morning for a meeting of town and,” he gestured to President Buchman, “gown?”

“We have ourselves an opportunity,” the superintendent explained. “Meet our high school biology teacher, Dr. Michael Andrews,” he gestured toward the fourth member of the breakfast party, the bespectacled educator sitting beside him.

“We’ve met,” President Buchmann acknowledged coldly.

“Oh?” the superintendent inquired. When neither elaborated, he continued. “Well, Mike pointed out something very interesting to his principal at County Central High School, and his principal passed Mike’s concerns on to me.

“You may recall that the legislature, after considerable lobbying by the… academics… in our state, passed the ‘Gender Awareness in Academia Act’ a few months ago.” The superintendent pulled out a sheet of paper to read the text:

“That it shall be unlawful for any teacher in any of the Universities, and all other public schools of the State which are supported in whole or in part by the public school funds of the State, to teach any theory that denies the gender definition adopted by any person, and to teach instead that gender identity has a biological meaning independent of any person’s chosen preference.”

“The GAIA Act is a great leap forward,” President Buchmann confirmed.

“Well, the problem is,” the superintendent continued, ignoring her, “every biology textbook in this state, including the ones we use in our own local high school, still teaches the… traditional, well… the biological viewpoint. I’ll let Mike explain.”

The biology teacher pulled out the textbook. “Sex is defined as ‘either of the two main divisions (male and female) into which many organisms can be placed according to their reproductive function or organs,’” he read from the text.

President Buchmann started to object.

The superintendent held up his hand. “Yes, I know. Exactly. That’s the point. If Mike teaches his biology class out of the current state-approved textbook, he’ll be running afoul of the new law. Now eventually, someone, someplace in the state is going to challenge that law in the courts.”

He paused dramatically, looking at the rest of the party.

“I think that someone should be us, and that someplace should be here,” the superintendent concluded.

The mayor raised an eyebrow. “You want us to arrest young Dr. Andrews?”

“I’ve assured Mike that the school district will have his back. He’ll be placed on paid leave for the duration of the trial. There are only a few weeks left in the semester, anyway. If he’s found guilty, there’s a $1000 fine, but I’ve made sure we have that covered. And we’ve lined up a lawyer from the Family, Faith, and Freedom Foundation to represent him.”

“I’m on board, Mr. Mayor,” Mike confirmed.

“I also spoke with Judge Connor,” the superintendent elaborated. “His Honor declined to meet with us all this morning – judicial decorum, appearance of impropriety, and whatnot – but he’s on board, too. The problem is our district attorney refuses to be a party to ‘this tomfoolery.’ However, I got him to agree to indict and prosecute Dr. Andrews on condition we found another attorney to lead the prosecution. That’s where she comes in,” he pointed at President Buchmann.

“They,” corrected President Buchmann. “My pronouns are they/them.”

Just then the waitress brought their food. She handed out the egg breakfasts to the men. “And some toast with guacamole.” She handed President Buchmann two pieces of toast coated with a sickly green looking paste.

The conspirators assemble.

The food did not improve the university president’s mood. They frowned. “You’re trying to attack and tear down the GAIA Act. Why should I help you?”

“As it is, the law is not enforced,” the superintendent pointed out, his mouth half full of scrambled eggs. “Everyone’s ignoring it.” He swallowed and sipped some coffee to clear his mouth. “If you want folks to pay attention to your law and follow it, you need a test case and a conviction for people to take it – and you – seriously.

“As for me? And my friends at the Family, Faith, and Freedom Foundation?” the superintendent continued. “Sure. We think it’s a bad law. But we need the same kind of test case, so we can get an appellate court to take a closer look at it and hopefully repeal it. Then, if you win, it’ll be enforced. If we win, it’s repealed. Whether you’re for the GAIA Act, like you, or against it, like us, we both need a test case to get what we want.”

President Buchman wasn’t convinced.

“OK. But why are you asking us?” they enquired.

“You have a law school full of social justice warriors, champing at the bit to change the world,” the superintendent noted without a trace of irony in his voice. “I’m confident you can find one willing to lead the prosecution. And you have a faculty full of ‘woke’ academics eager to share their ‘expert’ opinions on the law. Assuming you don’t want to be in the spotlight as an expert witness, yourself.”

“But why should we?” they reiterated.

“Because your precious GAIA Act doesn’t do you any good if everyone’s ignoring it.” The superintendent waved the high school biology text to make his point again. “Because you were involved in lobbying for the law, and you’ll want to be involved in the inevitable court challenge. It’s going to happen somewhere. May as well be here. Because if it happens someplace else, you might not be able to play a leading role.”

The superintendent picked up his coffee and took a sip. “And because your enrollment is down, and without publicity to draw in more students, the state may cut your funding. You may have to shut down whole departments, including your precious school of gender studies.”

The rest of the party dug in heartily to their food while President Buchmann nibbled thoughtfully on their toast.

“Supposing we could find a lawyer willing to take this on,” they replied at last. “The judge and the district attorney will allow my choice to prosecute the case? I mean, some of my professors haven’t set foot in court in years if at all, and may not even be admitted to the State Bar.”

“The skids are already greased,” the superintendent reassured them. “His Honor will extend the same privileges to your choice that he would extend to any local counsel. Officially, the D.A. remains the prosecutor of record. But he will defer to your choice and let your chosen champion run the show. Of course, it hardly matters how the judge rules here. One side or the other will appeal, and with all the publicity, we may be able to go all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.”

The mayor hastily swallowed his last big bite of grits. “A free exchange of ideas in a public forum is a great thing. But what’s in it for the town? Why should I back your play?”

“The Chamber of Commerce will love it,” the superintendent assured him. “This could be national news. It could put us back on the map. Tourism took a major hit these past few years. An influx of visitors, spectators, and reporters would do this town a world o’ good.”

“Notoriety cuts both ways,” the mayor cautioned.

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” the superintendent assured him. “And all those happy businesses mean not just happy voters, but also more money in their pockets for campaign donations.”

“And perhaps more name recognition for a certain community leader who aspires to be the next mayor?” the mayor gazed knowingly at the superintendent.

“I mean, we have a super working relationship, sir,” the superintendent assured him, “and I wouldn’t dream of running for YOUR office until or unless you decided to retire back to your farm instead of pursuing your own re-election.”

“Very well.” A grin swept across the mayor’s face. He slowly nodded. “I’m on board. At least, I won’t stand in your way. To be clear, this is YOUR show, not mine. You want the credit? You want the glory? Fine. But yours is the blame as well if anything goes wrong, and I expect you to take care of everything. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” the superintendent confirmed.

“Then, I leave the matter in your hands,” confirmed the mayor, “and I trust you to run your show. Keep me in the loop on your plans, though. If we do get hordes of folks showing up for this event of yours, I’m going to have to work closely with the county and the sheriff to be sure we’re all ready to handle the influx of visitors. And I’ll spread word this might be happening so folks around town can get ready for the crowds.”

President Buchmann looked cagily back at the superintendent. “Naturally, I’m going to have to find a lawyer willing to go along with this little production before making a commitment.”

“Naturally,” the superintendent nodded.

The waitress cleared the table and handed the superintendent the check.

“You let me know when you find your champion,” the superintendent told them. “I’ll put the wheels in motion.”

The party rose from the table. The university president stepped aside as the rest of the party left and then resumed their seat at the table. Served that waitress right if they occupied the table for a while longer without any additional tipping. The president sipped their ice water and scrolled through the contacts on their smart phone. A smile slowly crept across their face.

They pushed the call button. “Hello!” President Buchamnn exchanged greetings with their caller.

“Beautiful speech Roxy gave last month at the Gender Affirmation Medicine & Media Association meeting in Cancun…. Yes, I was there at GAMMA as an invited keynote speaker, too. Wouldn’t have missed it…. What I’m calling about is we have a situation here that might interest Roxy. You know that endowed lecture honorarium we were going to give her next spring? We need to move it up. Can she get up here next week?”

President Buchmann paused, listening to their caller.

“I know it’s short notice, but we need a ‘gender-identity champion’ to step up and defend the GAIA Act from some locals who are trying to challenge it.”

“Uh-huh,” the president grunted an affirmation and continued listening.

“Yes, exactly,” the president confirmed. “They have a local biology teacher all set to be the fall guy. He’s perfect. The judge agreed to allow whatever lawyer we pick to lead up the prosecution….

“No, that shouldn’t be an issue. Officially the D.A. will be prosecuting, but he’s agreed to let her run the show.”

They listened, nodding, their face breaking out in a smile of genuine pleasure. “Exactly….

“We’re on the same page, here….

“Right…. Right….

“They’ll have no idea what’s coming.

“And it gets even better than that. Let’s just say Roxy’s not the only ‘ace’ up our sleeve.

"They’ll never know what hit them.”