NAFTA, but this time around they do not even have the excusernof international communism. Like the old internationalistsrnwho were willing to betray their country for the sake of an ideology,rnthese new internationalists—that is, those who are notrnsimple opportunists—are ideologues who, in the name of freerntrade and international order, are eager to throw young Americansrnout of work and into a U.N. peace-keeping force to makernthe worid safe for the Fortune 500, and they are the proper objectrnof the popular outrage that is so far confined to venting itselfrnon radio talk shows and Perot love-ins.rnHere is the best scenario that we can hope for, that is thosernof us who love our country. If Clinton can continue to drivernthis country down at the same brisk rate with which he has begunrnhis administration, and if the Republican internationalistsrncontinue to support his efforts to erase the border between thernUnited States and Mexico, then we can expect an upsurge ofrnpopular nationalism that will reform or destroy both politicalrnparties. The Italians are, as usual, way ahead of us. They werernthe first country to go national-socialist back in the 20’s; theyrnwere the first country to ship immigrants en masse back wherernthey came from; they are the home of the first articulate movementrnthat aims at breaking up a modern state; and nearly 50rnyears ago, when one of their leaders sold out his country to arnforeign power (Germany) and an internationalist ideologyrn(Nazism), he found himself hanging upside-down from a windowrnwith his female accomplice, spat upon by a jeering crowd.rnPrayers for Jacob WetterlingrnAbducted on October 22,1989, St. Joseph, Minnesotarnby Jane GreerrnThe mirror dwells on the damage done.rnYou, always your mother’s son,rnyour father’s, a grinning, comely, brashrnboychild, teasing brother, a wishrnaway from twelve, bright as a penny,rnsmart as a whip, as normal as anyrnother normal child, wild tanglernof happy cliches, unruly angel,rntoo much (for comfort) like my own child,rnare now forever eleven, a coldrndescriptive specter: five feet tall,rnseventy-five pounds, one perfect molernon the left cheek, brown hair, blue eyes,rnNike high-top tennis shoes,rnred hockey jacket, orange vest,rnblue sweat pants. And so you twist—rnunchanged, unnatural, ungrown—rnon dwindling notices in the wind.rnThat first Christmas we praved you home—rnwe all did—how we wished you’d slamrnyour kitchen door (o, to recallrnmy petty rage from down the hallrnwhen my son slams doors is worst of all!)—rnwe wished you’d slam the door and stamprnsnow from your boots, and toss your damprnparka upon its hook, callingrnhey mom and what’s for supper. Look,rnchild: they have begun to balance:rnour obstinacy and your silence.rnLater we prayed you were somewhere else,rndoing math, discovering girls,rnmaking the team, going home to—what?rnThat part didn’t bear much thought.rnWe watched the sordid docudramasrnabout those other boys whose promiserndisappeared before your taking.rnAnd sometimes, Jacob, sleeping, waking,rnthinking of how that nameless manrnforced you to shudder behind his van,rnthere at the Mini-Mart, face down,rnyou and your brother and your friend,rnand shone his flashlight on your faces,rnand liked yours best—so help me Jesus,rnsometimes—I’ll tell you something bad—rnsometimes, Jacob, we prayed you dead.rnBut now the Minnesota winterrngrinds at our bones, and our breath’s vaporrnclarifies into panes of ice.rnThree years later, we’ve made our peace—rnor not—with how you fade and crumblernon all those posters, how you resemblernnothing so much as our own past:rnwasted, stolen, hurt, dim, lost.rnNearly (but not quite yet) resignedrnto what we fear, still we unbind ‘ournfrom the cold burden of our terror.rnRise to whatever grace is yours,rndo what you can with what you have,rninventive boy, wherever you live:rnwe let you go but hold your name,rnJacob, ]acob, beautiful son,rnlost child, lost childhood of us all.rnWe pound the gates of Heaven and Hellrnas we grow older, quieter, grayer,rnholding your name in our fists of prayer.rnNOVEMBER 1993/1 5rnrnrn