When you are introduced as “Goddess of Sin,” people tend to have expectations. They think sinuous or voluptuous. They think hedonist and erotic.

These are not sins.

The Goddess of Sin borrows your car, and returns it with the gas tank emptied.

She uses the last piece of toilet paper and doesn’t replace the roll – even though she knows where the rolls are.

Your smart phone wallpaper is a photo of her face, lips stretched like a duck’s bill.

There are greater sins.

She excludes.

Get out, she says. Foreigners, queers, bleeding hearts. Get out.

Build a wall.

Those people can’t stay here, as she drives past a suburb of makeshift tents, tarps on strings. In her car it is warm, climate controlled. The air outside is freezing. She turns the volume up and listens to a song about Freedom.

You should have kept your legs closed, to a terrified young person. No free lunch, to a child in desperate poverty.

We must, she says, provide the best possible environment for Business.

Trickle-down economics.

Absolutely no free health care. Higher education? Work two jobs. If you were better with money, it wouldn’t be a problem, she says, her trust fund well-managed.

Seeds of fear and uncertainty, carefully nurtured, bursting into bloom with deeply seated terrors we’ll never admit to that drive us to distrust each other.

The fear that makes a fully armed grown man kill a harmless child with a toy gun.

The Goddess of Sin wears women’s suits with a-line skirts and strings of sterile pearls. Her stockings are never torn. She walks in three-inch heels across impossible terrain as though she walked on water. Her haircut says, “Can I speak to your manager?”

She is here and she is among us and she is within us and we must fight her and fight her and fight her and struggle not to become her.

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