At the end, she told a weeping, brutalized, raped, bleeding nine-year-old girl that she had brought it on herself by touching herself Down There.At the end, she told a weeping, brutalized, raped, bleeding nine-year-old girl that she had brought it on herself by touching herself Down There. She saw the expression on my face. "So, now you are angry with me." I shook my head, brought myself under control. "Not with you; never with you. But with him -- and with your mother." "She was right!" "She was wrong. You were doing what every normal kid does." "But -- " "But -- " I laid a finger on her lips, gently. "Suppose she was right. Just pretend she was right. Doesn't love and understanding and mercy and tenderness have any place? She was damned for saying it was your fault and doubly damned for not being loving to you!" I wanted to do murder at what she was telling me. I know -- it happens all the time and not just in Third World countries. Little girls and little boys get abused -- a polite euphemism for "assaulted" and "raped" -- by grownups. Life Goes On, Ooobla-Dee-Ooobla-Dah. Little kids get abused. Little kids get beaten. If they're white and in the media capitol of the world, there's a tremendous hew-and-cry. Front page. Lead story. Marches and petitions. But the same day Lisa Steinberg was beaten to death in the Greenwich Village apartment she shared with her mother, father and brother, some little black kid was being scalded by an angry guardian in the ghetto and some little latino kid was being starved or whipped and some little oriental kid was being beaten and some little -- It goes on forever. How to stop it when it's everywhere? Call the cops. If that doesn't work, go over and get between the sonuvabitch and the kid and make him or her do you in before they can get to the kid. They may do it, too. But can you think of a better reason to die? It beats the hell out of buying it because somebody had one for the road before they got in the wrong lane on I-80 and hit you head-on at 110 m.p.h. collision speed, doesn't it? (St. Peter: Well, how did you buy it? (You: I fell asleep on the sofa with a cigarette. (or -- (St. Peter: What's your story? (You: I heard a kid screaming and tried to help. (Pete: No shit? Let me shake your hand. You'll find a better class of people here.) Of course the uncle came back and of course he apologized and said he didn't mean to hurt her and to show he was sorry, he'd brought her something. |