A freedom: by taking theirs: but a real freedom: born
From the wild and open land our grandfathers heroically stole.
But we took a wound at Indian hands: a part of our soul scabbed over.
We learned the pious and patriotic art of extermination
And no uneasy conscience where the man’s skin was the wrong
Color; or his vowels shaped wrong; or his haircut; or his country possessed of
Oil; or holding the wrong place on the map–whatever
The master race wants it will find good reasons for having.
–Thomas McGrath, Letter to an Imaginary Friend, Part Two