Adair had never given her parents any guff. It wasn’t only that, though. It was her perfect record, as a good, sweet, loving girl, which could only lead to her being, or better put, becoming, a good, sweet, loving woman.
Her parents didn’t know why, but when the declaration Adair be sent to kindergarten came, they all of a sudden became mellow, compliant, ready to sacrifice to the altar of the Corn God.
A declaration. Okay, a declaration. The parents knew of The Declaration of Independence, and its offer, of — Independence? If merited, and earned, through– what is it called– reason?
Adair’s parents sent her to school, while a very young child, lovingly, with cinnamon rolls, flowers, an apple for the teacher, pencils– equipped, lovingly, with erasures– you can correct an innocent mistake– if graphite– not lead, smears on white paper, for contrast.
It wasn’t to Molloch, though empire beckoned. A loving idea is never addressed to Molloch. America was, and is, a loving idea. Equality is a good idea, so let’s give birth to it, if we can combine it with liberty and fraternity, which we will, in labor, do so.
Spam of Human Affection 
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