Years later, when I was a grown woman, the small daughter of a friend showed me her doll. I managed to stand up quickly and get out of the house. I didn't scream or thrust the doll away. I just ran. I panicked at the sight of a little girl's doll—real panic. I had to think and remember for a long time before I understood why.
The purpose of Christian America was to make America the great, Christian country that it was supposed to be, to prepare it for a future of strength, stability, and world leadership, and to prepare its people for life everlasting in heaven. Yet sometimes now when I think about Christian America and all that it did when it held power over so many lives, I don't think about order and stability or greatness or even places like Camp Christian or Pelican Bay. I think about the other extremes, the many small, sad, silly extremes that made up so much of Christian American life. I think about a little girl's doll and I try to banish the shadows of panic that I still can't help feeling when I see one.
from
wednesday, march 28, 2035
We have found Justin Gilchrist—or rather, he has found us. In the weeks we've been at Georgetown, this is the best thing that's happened to us.
We've been working for the Georges for room and board while we regained our health, tried to find out where our children might be, caught up on the news, and tried to find ways of fitting ourselves into the world as it is now. Because we've worked for our keep, we still have most of the money we arrived with. I've even managed to earn a little more by reading and writing for people. Most people in Georgetown are illiterate. I've begun to teach reading and writing to some of the few who want to learn. That's also bringing in a little hard currency. And I sell pencil sketches of people's children or other loved ones. This last, I must be careful about. It seems that some of the more rabid Christian America types have decided that a picture of your child might be seen as a graven image. That seems too extreme to catch on with most people even though Jarret is much loved in Georgetown. Many people here have sons, brothers, husbands, or other male relatives who have been injured or killed in the Al-Can War, but still, they love Jarret.
In fact, Jarret is both loved and despised here. The religious poor who are ignorant, frightened, and desperate to improve their situations are glad to see a 'man of God' in the White House. And that's what he is to them: a man of God.
Even some of the less religious ones support him. They say the country needs a strong hand to bring back order, good jobs, honest cops, and free schools. They say he has to be given plenty of time and a free hand so he can put things right again.
But those dedicated to other religions, and those who are not religious at all sneer at Jarret and call him a hypocrite. They sneer, they hate him, but they also fear him. They see him for the tyrant that he is. And the thugs see him as one of them. They envy him. He is the bigger, the more successful thief, murderer, and slaver.
The working poor who love Jarret want to be fooled, need to be fooled. They scratch a living, working long, hard hours at dangerous, dirty jobs, and they need a savior. Poor women, in particular, tend to be deeply religious and more than willing to see Jarret as the Second Coming. Religion is all they have. Their employers and their men abuse them. They bear more children than they can feed. They bear everyone's contempt.
And yet, whether or not extreme Jarretites say it is a sin, they want pictures of their little ones. And I charge less than local photographers. I'm kinder than photographers too. I've never drawn a child's dirt or its sores, or its rags. That isn't necessary. I've made older plain boys handsome and plain girls pretty for their lovers or for their parents. I've even managed after many tries to draw the dead, guided by the loving memory of a relative or friend. I don't know how accurate these drawings are, of course, but they please people.
I think I'll be able to earn a living sketching, teaching, reading, and writing for people as long as I stick to squatter settlements and the poor sections of towns. And mere is a bonus to my becoming acquainted with the people in these places. Many of the people in the squatter settlements work in the yards and homes of somewhat-better-off people in the towns and cities. The squatters do gardening, housecleaning, painting, carpentry, childcare, even some plumbing and electrical work. They serve people who have houses or apartments to live in but can't afford to support even unsalaried live-in servants. Such people pay small sums of money or provide food or clothing to get their work done. Squatters who do this kind of work get a chance to see and hear any number of useful things. If, for instance, new children have appeared at an employer's home or at a home nearby, regular day laborers know of it. And if the price is right, they'll tell what they know. Information is as much for sale here as is anything else.
In spite of my efforts, though, we found Justin not by buying information, but because he escaped from his new family and came looking for us. He's 11 years old now—old enough to decide for himself what's true and what isn't and too old to be told that the woman he's called mother for eight of his 11 years was evil and worshiped the devil.
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