Hatred

HATRED

THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO was out walking down the street one day, as he did everyday. But this day, the words he spoke to no one in particular (as well as to no one in general) were, "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
He passed people on the street, and the people he passed on the street were thinking their thoughts, thoughts they did not utter, thoughts they kept to themselves, where they thought they were safest.
But The Man Who Loves Provo kept walking and kept with his message: "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
Finally, Lulu Toast passed him on the street, recognized him, heard the message, and turned as if to listen: "The governor hates me. . . ."
She stopped. "Why does the governor hate you?" she said.
"The governor hates me; the governor hates me," repeated The Man Who Loves Provo.
"But why does the governor hate you?" Lulu persisted. "Does the governor know you?"
"No, but the governor hates me," he replied. "The governor hates me."
"But how can the governor hate you if he doesn't even know you?"
"The governor doesn't need to know me," he said. "He just hates me. He says that I sin; he says that I am immoral; he says that God will punish me with a vengeance. The governor hates me; the governor is not Jesus. The governor says that I live an unnatural lifestyle."
Lulu Toast took the words of the Man Who Loves Provo and applied them to her own life. She turned from The Man Who Loves Provo and continued her walk down the street. But as she walked, she carried these principles of thought to their logical conclusion: The governor hates me too. But she kept this thought to herself, where it was safest, where it could do no harm. Until at last she could hide it no more. Then she said it aloud, quietly at first, but nevertheless aloud, as she walked down the street: "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."