194. Our Struggle

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Adolf Hitler was a character.

I mean, I didn’t know him
But I read his book –
That book called “Mein Kampf.”
That book called “My Struggle.”
That book that was mein own kampf to stay awake through –
But, still, I read it.

I know full well: Adolf Hitler was a bastard.
I don’t know how much of his writing was true.
Still – although he was a bastard,
Although he was delusional –
I stand by what I say:
Adolf Hitler was a character.

A character like any other conqueror
One to learn from mistakes and victories
That, perhaps, lends comprehension
When delusion goes too far
And from whence it blooms.
And yet-

And yet, I almost didn’t check out this book
After the Jewish girl at the register
Sported a sour sort-of sneer –
“What kind of person reads this thing?”

But still I took the book.

I sympathize with her heritage –
Horrible as the experiences of her ancestors –
I sympathize, yet empathize not with her
Whose empathy would destroy interaction;
She who would have me ignore what has happened as something to be forgotten
Or avoided from unconnected outrage.

I do not know her, and will not pretend I ever could,
Since desiring to learn our history
Is unappealing to her feelings,
Which secretly tickles mine
When all I sought was cerebral pursuit
And did not expect a joke
From researching so somber a subject.

But whose fault is that?

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