Mercy (27 page)

only boys are named it. I was born down the street from Walt

Whitman’s house, on Mickle Street in Camden in 1946. I’m

from his street. I’m from his country, the country he wrote

about in his poems, the country o f freedom, the country o f

ecstasy, the country o f jo y o f the body, the country o f

universal love o f every kind o f folk, no one unworthy or too

low, the country o f working men and w orking women with

dignity; I’m from his country, not the Amerika run by war

criminals, not the country that hates and kills anyone not

white. I’m from his country, not yours. Do you know the

map o f his country? “ I will not have a single person slighted or

left away. ” “ I am the poet o f the B ody and I am the poet o f the

So u l. ” “ I am the poet o f the woman the same as the m an. ” “ I

too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, / 1 sound m y

barbaric yaw p over the roofs o f the w o rld . ” “ Do I contradict

m yself? /V ery well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I

contain multitudes. )” He nursed soldiers in a different war and

wrote poems to them. It was the war that freed the slaves.

Who does this war free? He couldn’t live in Am erika now; he

would be crushed by how small it is, its mind, its heart. He

would come to this island because it has his passion and his

courage and the nobility o f simple people and a shocking,

brilliant, extreme beauty that keeps the blood boiling and the

heart alive. Am erika is dead and filled with cruel people and

ugly. Am erika is a dangerous country; it sends its police

everywhere; w hy are you policing me? I loved his America; I

hate m y Am erika, I hate it. I was the first generation after the

bomb. D idn’t we kill enough yellow people then? M y father

told me the bomb saved him, his life, him, him; he put his life

against the multitudes and thought it was worth more than all

theirs; and I don’t. Walt stood for the multitudes. Am erika

was the country o f the multitudes before it became a killing

machine. In m y mind I know I am leaving out the Indians;

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 ,

and who does he work for, and I thought the people here had

pride. He is flashfires o f rage, outbursts o f fury, but it is not

just national pride. He is a dangerous man. His method o f

questioning starts out calm; then, he threatens, he seduces, he

is enraged, all like quicksilver, no warning, no logic. He

makes clear he decides here and unlike other officials I have

seen he is no desk-bound functionary. He is a man o f arbitrary

lust and real power. He is corrupt and he enjoys being cruel.

He says as much. I am straightforward because it is m y only

chance. I tell him I love it here and I want to stay and he plays

with me, he lets me know that I can be punished— arrested,

deported, or ju st jailed if he wants, when he wants, and the

Am erikan governm ent will be distinctly uninterested. I can’t

say I w asn’t afraid but it didn’t show and it w asn’t bad. He

made me afraid on purpose and he knew how. He is intensely

sexual and I can feel him fucking and breaking fingers at the

same time; he is a brilliant communicator. I’m rescued by the

appearance o f a beautiful woman in a fur coat o f all things. He

wants her now and I can go for now but he’ll get back to me if

he remembers; and, he reminds me, he always know s where I

am, day or night, he can tell me better than I can keep track. I

want him to want her for a long time. I’m almost wanting to

kiss the ground. I’ve never loved somewhere before. I’m

living on land that breathes. Even the city, cement and stone

bathed in ancient light, breathes. Even the mountains, more

stone than any man-made stone, breathe. The sea breathes and

the sky breathes and there is light and color that breathe and

the Am erikan governm ent is smaller than this, smaller and

meaner, grayer and deader, and I don’t want them to lift me

o ff it and hurt m y life forever. I came from gray Am erika,

broken, crumbling concrete, poor and stained with blood and

some o f it was m y blood from when I was on m y knees and the

men came from behind and some o f it was knife blood from