Am erika always was a killing machine; but this is m y
statement to the secret police and I like having a Golden A ge
rooted in Whitman. I put his patriotism against theirs. The
War is wrong. I will tell anyone the War is w rong and suffer
any consequence and if I could I would stop it right now by
magic or by treason and pay any price. I don’t think he know s
who Walt Whitman is precisely, although Walt goes on the
list, but he is genuinely immobilized by what I have said—
because I say I hate Am erika. I’ve blasphemed and he doesn’t
recover easily though he is trained not to be stupid. He stands
very still, the tension in his shoulders and fists m aking his
body rigid, he needs his full musculature to support the
tension. He asks me if I believe in God. I say I’m Jew ish— a
dangerous thing to say to a Deep South man who will think I
killed Christ the same w ay he thinks I am killing Amerika—
and it’s hard to believe in a God who keeps murdering you. I
want to say: you’re like God, He watches like you do, and He
lies; He says He is one thing but He is another. His eyes are
cold like yours and He lies. He investigates like you do, with
the same bad faith; and He lies. He uses up your trust and He
lies. He wants blind loyalty like you do; and He lies. He kills,
and He lies. He takes the very best in you, the part that wants
to be good and pure and holy and simple, and He twists it with
threats and pain; and He lies about it, He says H e’s not doing
it, it’s someone else somewhere else, evil or Satan or someone,
not Him. I am quiet though, such a polite girl, because I don’t
want him to be able to say I am crazy so I must not say things
about God and because I want to get away from this terrible
place o f his, this sterile, terrible Amerika that can show up
anywhere because its cops can show up anywhere. He has a
very Amerikan kind o f charm— the casual but systematic
ignorance that notes deviance and never forgets or forgives it;
the pragmatic policing that cops learn from the movies—-just
figure out who the bad guys are and nail them; he’s John
Wayne posing as Norman Mailer while Norman Mailer is
posing as Ernest Hem ingway who wanted to be John Wayne.
It’s ridiculous to be an Amerikan. It’s a grief too. He doesn’t
bother me again but a Greek cop does. He wants to see my
passport. First a uniformed cop comes to where I live and then
I have to go in for questioning and the higher-up cop who is
wearing a silk suit asks me lewd questions and knows who I
have been with and I don’t want to have to leave here so I ask
him, straight out, to leave me alone and he leaves it as a threat
that maybe he will and maybe he w on ’t. I tell him he shouldn’t
do what the Amerikans tell him and he flashes rage— at me but
also at them; is this ju st another Am erikan colony, I ask him ,
