Distorting Mirror
When I worked for the high-school paper,
they sent me to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho
to interview members of the Aryan Nation
youth. They met me in a park
beside the lake and they agreed
to answer my questions. There were
two of them, a boy and a girl, both
my age, seventeen. The girl had buck teeth
and a plain face, unremarkable;
but the boy was tall and had a
blond crewcut, a nice tan, bright blue eyes
and wore tight jeans, combat boots
and a fashy-boy haircut. He was and remains
the handsomest boy I had ever seen.
We sat at a picnic table and the boy
asked me if I was Jewish, or knew any
Jewish people, and I admitted that I didn't.
They talked, mostly the girl with the boy
interjecting at various junctures, about
their lives, their community, their beliefs.
Everything they stood for and worked for
and believed in nauseated me, and I tried
very hard to dislike the boy who looked
like an angel when he said
things like "race traitor" and "white heritage",
and "Christian nation" and was so friendly
and smiled so wide. But I couldn't,
not completely, and so I left Idaho
sick in my heart and wrote the article
and won an award for it
and mailed a copy to the boy and the girl
and received a letter back that said
I had been fair and showed them
in an unbiased light, and when I
got that letter I quit the newspaper
and took a black girl to prom
partly because I felt guilty but
mostly because she was beautiful.
I am still ashamed of that article,
still wonder every time I date a blond girl,
still feel a horrific electricity in my nerves
at the sight of a blond boy speaking
and smiling. Whatever atom
in me that was not repulsed by him
that day I pray - though I am
not religious - will detonate in
my heart and blink out. Even though
it was the messenger,
not the message, it is no difficulty
for me to see that day beside the lake
as the first step downward
into the tantalizing beauty of evil.