Who knows, maybe after the girl stepped off the bus, she could have said something a little different (worse?) to this new friend of hers. Maybe after she went into her speech about religion, and he said "Well, I am Muslim," she might've said "You're Muslim? I thought you were Mexican." Maybe. Maybe if she'd gone home and told her parents, "I made this new friend and he's Mexican," they would have said "Oh, okay." Maybe they would have assumed he was Catholic.

Years later, in South America, she'd be walking with a rainforest guide, giving her views on patriarchical religions, "like, I could never be Catholic and maybe he'd say "I am Catholic!" But anyway. No one objected to that. Her (West Pointer) stepfather and mother went to Catholic church. Her (West Pointer) Protestant father said "Oh, thats okay if he is Catholic," because a Catholic was still a Christian. No one had any objection to him.

There was that white van that used to always be hanging around the house, for some reason, after her father was sent to Korea. La de da. She'd run outside and play in the sandbox. Her mother shut herself inside her room for hours. The house was very dark. Her father sent tapes of his voice, reading stories to her from Korea. He went away, he came back, he went away again. One evening while she was listening to these tapes, she listened to one about a puppy in a dog house. She wanted to be like that puppy, so she backed herself into the high chair, in such a way, that she was stuck. Then she screamed and cried. Her mother could not figure out the way to get her out. Why not? Maybe she needed someone to show her how to take apart the chair? She called a policeman. He took apart the chair and the girl was set free.

God Bless Them All. The policeman, the little girl, the high chair, the mother, the father, the army, the academy at West Point, and the driver and the white van.