How Communist Did You Have to Be to Be, You Know, COMMUNIST?
You didn't have to be a communist, you didn't have to have friends who were communists. All you had to have was the whiff of possibility—you said something to someone, you complained about your job, you cheated on the wrong girlfriend—if the Committee decided you were a communist, the power of public opinion and the scrutiny of those self-righteous fear mongers using hyperbolic language to paint you as a communist, you were guilty of being a communist.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?