And as he imagined his forefathers must have done--while watching their own people brutalized--he would bite his own tongue until it bled. He figured, every time they were cornered and forced to choose between themselves and those others (that were really their own) something somewhere inside of them bled--it had to. Wasn't he also "those others"? Wasn't he now cornered and being asked to choose between his dreams and her reality? Wasn't that the same as being forced to watch and participate in his own mutilation? Even though a monsoon of emotion swelled inside him, he had learned, as his forefathers had learned, to wear a look of indifference. Even while that monsoon desperately searched his soul, commingling and conspiring with anything on its way out; and promising to gush past any and all boundaries, his eyes would stick to their story; his Grandfather had showed him how to do that by, simply, surviving Alabama. And now, so many years later, he had found his own Jim Crow, holding her whip between her legs, while aggressively and methodically thrusting her full body to her own syncopated rhythm; grinding away his resistance and his outrage in measured strokes of 1, 1-2, 1, 1-2, 1. She had become his limitation; his oppression; his low-hanging iron ceiling; his racist judge; his jury; and his castration. It was her body that blocked the Sun from shining on him. And now he knew he hated her with all the intensity and contempt he was certain his Grandfather must have had for the Klan. As he held her in his arms, he grappled with the notion that what he had mistook for love all this time, was really hate; and how thin the line must be between.