Choosing Not to Fear

It was fear, he sup­posed, that lay at the bot­tom of it. Fear of change. Fear of the unknown. Fear of loss of con­trol and auton­o­my. Fear, as the eggheads would say, of the Other.

He could remem­ber the pho­to­copied newslet­ters they brought with them every time they came to vis­it, the murky pho­tos sup­pos­ed­ly depict­ing Unit­ed Nations armored vehi­cles some­where in Nebras­ka, prov­ing that the New World Order was already at work, set­ting up con­cen­tra­tion camps for any true Patri­ots who resist­ed the impend­ing switch to the One World Gov­ern­ment. Grand­pa kept his old hunt­ing rifle handy, ready to go down shoot­ing when the ZOG storm troop­ers came for him and his hoard­ed gold.

After the total­i­tar­i­an thug­gery at Ruby Ridge and Waco, it was easy to believe that the clam­or for gun con­trol in Wash­ing­ton was iden­ti­cal to the gun con­trol in Ger­many that Hitler had insti­tut­ed ear­ly in his rise to pow­er. It was easy to believe that the black heli­copters could appear on the hori­zon at any moment, that black Sub­ur­bans could roll up to their door. But even at fif­teen, he could make the leap past the easy fear. He could decide that this was no way to live.

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