Mercy

the ones I struggled for mean nothing, I looked for raped, was

it real, was it Nazis, could it be; how much did it hurt; what

did it signify; I wanted to say, it destroys freedom, it destroys

love, I want freedom, I want love, freedom first, freedom

now; rape rape rape; fucking 0; I found the word, it’s the right

word; fucking 0; no one cares; enough to stop them; stop

them. I will never have easy words; at my fingertips as they

say; but I will stake m y life on these words: Stop them. They

don’t stop themselves, do they? I’m Andrea, which means

manhood, but I do not rape; it is possible to be manly in your

heart, which I have always been, and not rape, I’ve always

liked girls, I’ve made love with many, I’ve never forced

anyone, don’t tell me you can’t, save it for them that don’t

know what it’s like, being with a girl. I was born in 1946, after

Auschwitz, after the bomb, I never wanted to kill, I had an

abhorrence for killing but it was raped from me, raped from

m y brain; obliterated, like freedom. I’m a veteran o f Birkenau

and Massada and deep throat, uncounted rapes, thousands o f

men, I’m twenty-seven, I don’t sleep. They leave the shell for

reasons o f their own. I have no fear o f any kind, they fucked it

out o f me some time ago, it’s neither here nor there, not good

or bad, except girls without fear scare them. I was born in

Camden, on M ickle Street, down from where Walt Whitman

lived, the great gray poet, a visionary, a prophet o f love; and I

loved, according to his poems. I was poor, I never shied away

from life, and I loved. I had a vision too, like his, but I will

never write a poem like his, a song o f myself, I count the

multitudes and so on, the multitudes passed on top o f me,

sticking it in, I lost count. For the record, Walt was wrong;

only a girl had a chance in hell o f being right. A lot o f men on

the B o w ery resemble Walt; huge, hairy types; I visit him

often. It was the end o f April, still cold, a brilliant, lucid cold.

Y ou could feel summer edging its w ay north. Y ou could smell

spring coming. Y ou would sing; if your throat wasn’t ripped.

Y ou r heart would rise, happy; if you wasn’t raped; in

perpetuity. I went out; at night; to smash a man’s face in; I

declared war. M y nom de guerre is Andrea One; I am reliably

told there are many more; girls named courage who are ready

to kill.

Not Andrea: Epilogue

It is, o f course, tiresome to dwell on sexual abuse. It is also

simple-minded. The keys to a woman’s life are buried in a

context that does not yield its meanings easily to an observer not

sensitive to the hidden shadings, the subtle dynamics, o f a self

that is partly obscured, partly lost, yet still self-determining, still

agentic— willful, responsible, indeed, even wanton. We are