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This is also because once a war begins, the facts surrounding the genesis of that conflict are often devoured by the ether of hot emotions.

” I am a resident of the former camp, for numerous reasons. The diversity of the accusers juxtaposed with the similarities of the accusations.

The country in South America is a famous business destination.

Therefore a lot of foreigners visit the state and eventually meet Chilean brides .

It feels like intoxicating myself on pretty things in a time of war — it feels like the fangs of a beast resting against my neck, and me telling myself that he only intends to kiss.

And surely this is why I resent the notion of compassion.

For the last few days, I’ve been haunted by a months-old article about Toni Morrison published by The Guardian and penned by Hermione Hoby.

The piece considers Morrison’s lofty stature as “the conscious of America,” an acknowledgement gracing Morrison — perhaps as a necklace, perhaps as a noose — for her body of work’s fearless gaze upon American racism with what Hoby describes as a “steadiness of rage and compassion.” For me, the rage comes easily — a gnarled bat resting on my shoulder like bluebirds do for Disney princesses singing in forests. More directly, the idea of confronting American racism with compassion has left me dragging rigid fingertips not so much through my hair but against my scalp, kinesics indicating less a need to hold onto something as much as a need to break through — possibly American racism for freedom of the soul, or possibly my skull for freedom from this idea of compassion as a necessity for killing beasts.

Initially, I believed this was because I personally needed multiple streams of information to secure my belief in a hero’s culpability. Perhaps that’s why I felt compelled to add one more Bill Cosby article to an already prodigious stockpile which would mean, sadly, that I am no longer just a bystander in this ersatz civil war.

Lately, I’ve also found myself applying this piece of fiscal advice to the moment when I finally accepted the sexual attacks I sustained as a teenager. And perhaps, without the constant streams and bombardments, it is near impossible for anyone involved — victim, attacker, or bystander — to truly grasp the unsightly realities of sexual violence.

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