After the Pledge of Allegiance

Once, when I was eleven years old, I came down early in my pajamas before my parents had gotten up. Half stumbling to the kitchen, I turned aside and stood at the head of the cellar steps. Without thought, and as naturally as could be, I began to urinate down the steps. There I was, my brain shouting, “What in the hell are you doing?” and my body unable to respond, exactly the same feeling of helplessness I get when I see George W. Bush, or anyone, ripping apart the fabric of this nation—or worse, my lifelong perception of it.