It Really Is Their Fault

To a disbelieving, scoffing
soul, he simply states that it
starts small, tiny even, im-
perceptible, the desire. He
thinks of the story of the
little girl sitting in a circle
of little girls on the side-
walk playing a game when
she spies the doll of another
girl and wants it, wants it
more than anything else
on the face of the earth
and grabs the doll from
the other girl’s arms and
twists off the doll’s head
and throws the pieces back,
shouting, “Here’s your
pretty, little doll. It’s
not so pretty any more.”
He thinks that it was a good
thing that the little girl
wasn’t attractive and pro-
bably couldn’t command
an audience when she grew
up and that the world at
the time had to contend
with a despot in Germany
or the little girl could
have grown up to be a female
Hitler. Yes, my unbelieving
friend, it starts in a dark,
hidden, empty place in the
heart in a not so hidden
place of economic inequality,
despair and desperation, or
maybe just a place of want,
want, want and grows expon-
entially into conflagrations
too horrible to imagine.
Denial, deception, callousness,
projection: it really is their
fault is the phrase to be re-
peated over and over and over
until the lie is truth and
the rest is horrible history.
Hitler was a little kid at
one time, too.

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