Friday, February 04, 2005

Broken Hearts and Purple Genitalia

Top of the morning gents,

Any lad that puts on a uniform is exercising a
de-selfing process. In this field of work, you gotta
forgo your own selfish needs and wants to serve the
betterment of the many.

Ego reduction, teamwork, and the ability to unleash
unlimited violence is what placed you bastards in my
world. If you were a pussy, I’d tell you. But you
ain’t so I don’t. You simply need reminding that cops
and medics are God’s chosen few.

Now you know my reasoning in reassuring you sons of
fucks in uniform, at least in my emerging book, that
you are forever one of God’s children.

Those in other professions are intentionally shielded
from viewing the broken, torn, or burnt bodies of
their loved ones. What you’ll discover; long after
you take off the uniform, your community will continue
to seek safety from you.

Over the last 2 years in Barrow, the Mrs. has offered
refuge for battered wives, locked out kids, and beaten
and raped girls. The most frequent late night visitor
was Lueava Hopson, cute 19-year-old girl, deprived of
a sober family. Some evenings, better phrased, some
mornings, she’d arrive at our doorstep with no shoes,
jacket, or hope.

Just last month, she fled unspeakable trauma and
pounded on our front door until I awoke and greeted
her at gunpoint. Poor kid, crying and sobbing,
pleading for me to open the door. Shit, after
discovering it wasn’t the normal drunk cunts, but only
Lueava, the Mrs. and I pulled her in.

What I suspect is Lueava ran across town in bare feet,
at temps near 27 below. Purple is the color that
comes to mind: purple bruising, purple feet, likely
purple genitalia too.

I served her hot coffee (my Finnish chocolate
espresso) and fresh baked bread. Bunnik queried her
the 5 WTF’s: who the fuck, where the fuck, when the
fuck etc, but when she asked Lueava if someone had
raped her, the little girl clammed up.

You see, a properly raised Eskimo girl takes her
beatings and rapings like a soldier, no crying, no
medical help, and no telling. Zero response to such a
line of questioning speaks volumes to this burnt out
narc.

Refusing to reveal intimate details of culturally
promoted child rape is a real goddamn stonewall. The
shame of explaining Inupiaq incest is likely more
painful than the temporarily torn tissue, but not the
shame or guilt.

Eskimo women are systematically programmed to shoulder
this traditional aspect of adolescence, in silence,
and forever. We’re talking life mates.

We haven’t seen pretty little Lueava in a while.
After cutting her down this morning, none of us will
see her again. Poor kid hanged herself late last
night.

So I spent the morning riding my mountain bike around
town visiting relatives and delivering baked bread,
baked fresh by the author.

The Mrs. is now battling feelings of inadequacy. I
assured her that she did, and does, a wonderful job as
a child’s advocate.

With numerous suicides in Alaska EVERYDAY, odds are in
favor of children close to us killing themselves. Do
the math assholes, 800-1000 suicides a year in Alaska,
the daily total should disgust you.

Thank God I didn’t get nominated to cut her down. If
Mashburn or Marvin are helping me, I don’t mind
handling suicides. Shit, it’s fun to see loser drunk
natives off their own asses, but it sure sucks when
it’s a pretty girl you’ve grown fond of.

Jaded? Fuck you. It’s called mental health fellow
motherfuckers, merely a healthy reaction to an
unhealthy environment. Ya see, natives been lynching
themselves for 10,000 years. My efforts will total up
to squat, so why fight it?

In my advanced stages of PTSD, I’m discovering I
possess a new objectivity in these affairs. I’m
cautious not to care so much anymore, but I can still
scream abusive encouragement to my troop of uniformed
comrades. Roight mates?

If any of you are friends or relatives of the Hopson
clan, send your regards, but keep your children at
home.

In our battle to eradicate evil cultures, some
children may slip through your fingers.

Carry on gentlemen.

Karl.



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