Although it has been going on for so long, I only recently grasped that I sense a constant inner tension. When chatting with friends, washing dishes, brushing my teeth… Stress in the belly that looms when I perform the most trivial tasks. Even when watching television, my breathing is shallow: I’m perpetually on the lookout. Is it due to that Nazi-officer gaze I still feel on me?
Of course, the word “Nazi” is excessive. I’m using it anyway, because I was set off by a scene in Quentin Tarantino’s film Inglourious Basterds. In this nerve-racking episode, a Nazi officer is convinced a man is guilty. An absolute, icy conviction. It doesn’t matter that they’ve never met: He. Is. Guilty. From prying questions to foul innuendo, the officer will find a reason to incriminate his prey.
I didn’t think to myself, Eww, what a jerk, he sounds like my mother. No. It’s my body that recognized the emotion. That pressure in my lungs, the sudden damp palms. Without doubt, a resonance.
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