Mercy (53 page)

crime, a shadow that covered the whole earth every day from

then on. We just were born into knowing w e’d be totally

erased; someday; inevitably. M y daddy used to be beat up by

other boys at school when he was grow ing up. He was a

bookworm , a Je w , and the other boys beat the shit out o f him;

he didn’t want to fight; he got called a sissie and a kike and a

faggot, sheenie, all the names; they beat the shit out o f him,

and yes, one did become the chief o f police in the Amerikan

way; and then, somehow, an adult man, he knows he’s worth

all the Japanese who died; and I wondered how he learned it,

because I have never learned anything like it yet. He was

humble and patient and I learned a kind o f personal pacifism

from him; he went into the A rm y, he was a soldier, but all his.

life he hated fighting and conflict and he would not fight with

arms or support any violence in w ord or deed, he tried

persuasion and listening and he’d avoid conflict even i f it made

him look weak and he was gentle, even with fools; and I

learned from him that you are supposed to take it, as a person,

and not give back what you got; give back something kinder,

better, subtler, more elevated, something deeper and kinder

and more human. So when he didn’t mind the bomb, when he

liked it because it saved his life, his, I was dumb with surprise

and a kind o f fascinated revulsion. Was it just wanting to stay

alive at any cost or was it something inside that said
me
,
la m
; it

got sort o f big and said
me.
It got angry, beyond his apparent

personality, a humble, patient person, tender and sensitive; it

went
me
,
I am
, and it said that whatever stood between him

and existence had to be annihilated.
I
would have died.
I
might

have died. As a child I was horrified but later I tried to

understand w hy I didn’t have it— I was blank there, it was as if

the tape was erased or something was just missing. If someone

stood between me and existence, how come I didn’t think I

mattered more; w h y didn’t I kill them; I never would put me

above someone else; I never did; I never thought that because

they were doing something to annihilate me I could annihilate

them; I figured I would just be wounded or killed or whatever,

because life and death were random events; like I tried to tell

m y father, maybe he would have lived. When someone pushes

you down on the ground and puts him self in you, he pushes

him self between you and existence— you do die or you will die

or you can die, it’s the luck o f the draw really, not unlike

maybe yo u ’ll get killed or maybe you w o n ’t in a war; except

you don’t get to be proud o f it i f you don’t die. I never thought

anyone should be killed ju st because he endangered m y

existence or corrupted it altogether or just because I was left a

shadow haunting m y own life; I mean really killed. I never

thought anyone should really die just because one day he was

actually going to kill me, fucking render me dead: inevitably,

absolutely; no doubt. I didn’t think any one o f them should

really die. It was outside what I could think of. Is there

anything in me, any
I am,
anything that says I will stop you or

anything that says I am too valuable and this bad thing you are

doing to me will cost you too much or anything that says you

cannot destroy me; cannot; me. If someone tortures you and

you will die from it eventually, someday, for sure, one w ay or

another, and you can’t make the day come soon enough

because the suffering is immense, then maybe he should die

because he pushed him self between you and existence; maybe

you should kill him to push him out o f the way. Do you think

Truman would have bought it? M y daddy wouldn’t have

either. At best he’d say w hy did this tragic thing happen to

you— it would never be possible to pin down which tragic

thing he meant— and he’d be bitter and mad, not at the bad one

but at me; I’d be the bad one for him. At worst I’d be plain filth

in his eyes. I don’t know w hy I can’t think all the Japanese

should die so I can stay alive or w hy I can’t think some man

should die. I’ll never be a Christian, that’s for sure. I can’t

stand thinking Christ died for me; it makes me sick. I got some

idea o f how much it hurt. I can’t stand the thought.
I am;
but so

what? I’ve actually been willing to die so none o f them would

get hurt, even if they’re inside me against what I want. N o w I

started thinking they’re the Nazis, the real Nazis o f our time

and place, the brownshirts, they don’t put you on a train, they

come to where you are, they get you one by one but they do

get you, most o f you, nearly all, and they destroy your heart

and the sovereignty o f your body and they kill your freedom

and they make you ashen and humiliate you and they tear you

apart and it ain’t metaphor and they injure you beyond repair

or redemption, they injure your body past any known

suffering, and you die, not them, you; they kill you some-

times, slow or fast, with mutilation or not; and you are more

likely to murder yourself than them; and that’s wrong, child o f

God, that’s wrong. I can never think someone should die

instead o f me; but they should if they came to do the harm in

the first place; objectively speaking, they should. I think

perhaps they should. M y reason says so; but I can’t face it. I

run instead; run or give in; run or open m y legs; run or get hit;

run, hide, do it, do it for them, do whatever they want, do it

before they can hurt me more, anticipate what they want, do

it, keep them cooled out, keep them okay, keep them quiet or

more quiet than they would be if I made them mad; give in or

run; capitulate or run; hide or run; hide; run; escape; do what

they say; I used to say I wanted to do it, what they wanted,

whatever it was, I used to say it was me, I was deciding, I

wanted, I was ready, it was m y idea, I did the taking, I

decided, I initiated, hey I was as tough as them; but it was fuck

before they get mad— it was low er the risk o f making them

mad; you use your will to make less pain for yourself; you say /

am
as if there is an I and then you do what pleases them, girl,

what they like, what you already learned they like, and there

ain’t no I, because i f there was it w ouldn’t have accepted the

destruction or annihilation, it w ouldn’t have accepted all the

little Hitler fiends, all the little Goering fiends, all the little

Him mler fiends, being right on you and turning you inside

out and leaving injury on you and liking it, they liked seeing

you hurt, and then you say it’s me, I chose it, I want it, it’s

fine— you say it for pride so you can stay alive through the

hours after and so it w o n ’t hit you in the face that yo u ’re just

some piece o f trash who ain’t worth nothing on this earth. N o

one can’t kill someone; h o w ’d I become no one; and w h y ’s he

someone; and how come there’s no I inside me; how come I

can’t think he should die i f that’s what it takes to blow him

loose? I’m a pilgrim searching for understanding; because

there’s nothing left, I’m empty and there’s nothing and it takes