"If I held them out to save Peeta because I knew I would be shunned if I came back without him, then I am despicable. If I held them out because I loved him, I am still self-centered, although forgivable. But if I held them out to defy the Capitol, I am someone of worth."
~ Catching Fire
I don't know when I began looking forward to President Paylor's bi-annual visit to District 12, but I did, and this year is no exception. I guess it's because her routine check-up of each of the districts is one of the things I admire most about her – it shows she cares, that she's actually concerned with the state of our nation and how our people are faring rather than just how much power she has. When I see her patrolling the districts for signs of trouble or neglect instead of lolling around a luxurious mansion in the Capitol, I feel I can trust her.
I'm coming back from the woods with a game bag full of rabbits and fish that I can carry out in the open without fear of arrest anymore when I see Paylor and her entourage standing and talking where the electric fence used to be. Maybe they're considering using that spot for a new memorial I heard they're planning.
"Good afternoon, Miss Everdeen," Paylor says in the polite, austere voice expected of the President. "Nice to see you again."
"Nice to see you, President Paylor," I reply sincerely.
I receive more warm greetings from her crew, some of them evidently starstruck to be meeting the mockingjay for the first time but doing their best to conceal it. I end up walking back with them and eagerly listen to their updates on the status of the other districts, having learned years ago that the informal comments and details shared in casual conversation always tell you more than the official reports. Paylor starts answering all my questions herself, and we end up trailing behind the rest of the party (I guess respecting her privacy is part of their job), except for her bodyguards, whom she doesn't even seem to notice (I guess doing their best to seem invisible is part of their job).
"How are you doing, Miss Everdeen?" she asks me in a voice slightly but unmistakably different from the formal tone she used in front of the others.
"District 12 is doing fine," I answer, even though I know that's not what she meant.
"I see," she says without pressing me before changing the subject. "Have you read Plutarch's latest book?"
"Some of it," I say with an angry sigh.
She doesn't mean a book Plutarch wrote, of course, but the latest one put out by the publishing house he established specifically to publish books about the war and the dark days of the Hunger Games. I know that everything they say about the need to document everything so that future generations can learn from the past and make sure it will never be repeated is true, but I still take issue with their interpretation of history sometimes. For example, one biography of Alma Coin actually posed the theory that she was an extremist with good intentions if questionable methods, who was determined to defeat the Capitol and free the districts by any means necessary and did everything she did for the greater good. And one popular historical account of the 74th and 75th Hunger Games and my role in the start of the rebellion left out all mention of Madge Undersee, my best friend besides Gale, the girl who gave the mockingjay her symbol in the first place. When I objected to this, Plutarch explained that portraying the wealthy mayor's daughter in an admirable light wouldn't have gone over too well with readers who believed poor=good and rich=bad: "They wouldn't understand." I didn't understand how encouraging this dangerous delusion could help anything. It certainly hadn't helped Gale...
Paylor, of course, has no more control over the press than I do. "I thought it could definitely use some improvements," she says with disapproval.
"At least they mostly stuck with the truth this time," I can't help saying aloud.
"Mostly?" she asks, probing for details.
"Except for..." I almost begin but stop.
"Yes?"
"Just some assumptions they make," I say evasively. When she doesn't say anything, I add, "About me."
"About your vote before the execution?" she guesses.
"No," I answer truthfully. My goal was to make Coin believe I was on her side; if others believed it, too, I can hardly blame them, despite my shock that anyone who supposedly knew me and Haymitch better than Coin did could ever think we would truly agree with that.
"Plutarch's still hoping you'll agree to write your own account someday," says Paylor. "I'm working on mine right now. A lot of us are."
"It's tempting," I admit.
"A chance to set the record straight," she observes.
"I can't do that until I know it myself," I involuntarily whisper.
"What do you mean?"
It's crazy, the thought of confiding in the President. But I have to tell someone. Gale and my mother are far away, Haymitch loves me, but he's too drunk to be a helpful confidant, and I can't talk about this with Peeta, whom I've only just started to love for real a few months ago. It's when things weigh on my mind like this that I miss Cinna more than ever. He would have understood how I felt about something in this new book, how it's been eating at me ever since it happened years ago in the arena. He would have known what to say to help me put it behind me. I need a mentor like him now, but who do I have left?
"If you have any questions about what we did, I'll answer them as best I can," I hear Paylor say.
"No, it's not like that," I assure her, but it sounds evasive, insincere, so I try to back it up, foolishly blurting out, "Actually, it's about something I did."
I tell myself I'm being silly. Why would President Paylor be interested in the problems of a mentally-disturbed ex-rebel anyway? She has a country to run; if I don't tell her, she might get curious and keep pressing for more, but if I tell her, she'll probably lose interest immediately. In the back of my mind is the thought that maybe a woman who can handle the responsibility of running and healing a badly troubled nation just might make a good mentor for a young ally, but it passes quickly.
I'm still debating whether I should open up or not when she guesses, "The berries?" and makes me turn and look at her with wide eyes and a gasp.
Well, there's no point in denying it. "How did you know?"
"You always hate it when people discuss it at dinners or assemblies or interviews," she explains. "Even though everyone considers it your greatest moment."
"That's the problem," I tell her. "That book talks about it like it was the greatest act of rebellion ever committed against the Capitol. My way of fighting back against our oppressors, of taking away their power and control, of undermining their authority, of showing everyone else that it could be done. The example that gave everyone the courage to risk it all and inspired them to fight for their freedom. The spark that started the revolution. They don't understand..."
"Understand what?"
"That I never meant for any of that to happen. That I never intended for breaking the rules and forcing them to let us both live to inspire people to rebel."
"I'm sure you didn't, but that doesn't matter. It did inspire people; you didn't have to intend to do that."
"Fine, but it's still not what they think," I say, shaking my head.
"What was it, then?"
"I don't know," I confess, and before I can stop it, everything – my personal torture, my greatest anxiety, my secret shame – starts pouring out. "I really don't know. I thought about it once after the whippings started here again. I could have meant to defy the Capitol because I hated them and refused to obey them. But I also could have just meant to save Peeta because I cared about him and didn't want to lose him. Or I could have meant to save Peeta because I knew letting him die meant I'd be a pariah when I got to back to District 12. I've tried to remember what I had in mind when I pulled out those berries, but I just can't. I remember desperately wanting to get us both out of the arena, but I didn't have time to examine why. I have no idea what I wanted or why I did it."
"Well, I know," is Paylor's surprisingly confident answer. "And I can assure you, you have nothing to be ashamed of."
"I'm not the selfless hero they think I am," I insist. "I wasn't being some admirable rebel. I was probably just a selfish girl in love. Maybe even just a selfish girl who worried what everyone would think of her if she got home without saving her partner."
"Miss Everdeen, I don't know you very well, so pardon me for asking this, but, before the 74th reaping, when did you ever worry about what others thought of you?"
"Never," I answer instantly. My classmates could certainly testify to that.
"And anyone who knows you or has heard or read as much about you as I have would say the same."
Paylor's words make sense, but I shrug, unconvinced. "Then why was my first thought when we got the announcement of the rule change that neither Peeta nor I could ever face District 12 if we went back without the other?"
"Either denial about the real reason you wanted to save him, or projecting your own judgment of a tribute who would kill their district partner onto others. But it doesn't matter because it doesn't apply to how hard you worked to save him at the end."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Even if you'd been the type of person who couldn't bear the thought of being shunned by District 12 for killing Peeta, why would you fear being shunned for letting him die? You both refused to kill the other, so Peeta just planned to let himself bleed to death and let you outlast him. Even if they could blame you had you killed him, no one could blame you for failing to save him. You'd already done everything you could to save him. No one could question that you tried as hard as you could. Had he died in spite of that, it wouldn't have been your fault (except in your own mind, I'm sure) but the Capitol's. You had nothing to fear from your district if Peeta died and you couldn't save him – you didn't kill him. You were completely safe on that front. So that worry could not have been your motive at the time – morality aside, it wasn't even necessary. It wasn't an issue."
I'd never thought about it that way before. Failing to save Peeta wouldn't be the unforgivable crime that killing him would have been. She's right – regardless of my priorities at the time, I had no reason to worry about his death under such circumstances damaging my reputation in District 12. Knowing that couldn't have been my motive makes me feel a little better, but not much. "Then what was I? A selfish girl in love or an honorable rebel?"
"It's the same thing," Paylor says in that same confident tone.
"No, it's not. If all I cared about was saving Peeta for my sake..."
"... Then you were willing to defy the Capitol to do so. Since when is risking your life to save someone rendered dishonorable simply because you care about them and don't want to lose them? You think it would be despicable, or selfish, simply because you wanted him to live? If you cared about Peeta, the only way to act with no shred of selfishness, with no concern for what you desired, would have been to let them kill him – would that have been noble? What if you hadn't cared about Peeta at all but saved him purely to defy the Capitol? If your only goal was purely to defy the Capitol, not for Peeta's sake but for your own satisfaction, it still would have been 'selfish' in some degree. Don't worry about love for Peeta tainting your act of defiance as 'selfish,' Katniss; the act of defiance in and of itself would have been tainted by a 'selfish' desire to defeat your enemies, a refusal to let them beat you. How is caring about Peeta less noble or less admirable a motive than hatred of the Capitol?"
"But which is more admirable?" I can't help asking.
"Neither," is Paylor's answer. "They're both honorable motives, and there was no conflict between them at that moment in the arena. If Peeta had meant nothing to you, would you have been willing to defy the Capitol to save him? If you didn't have a rebellious streak in you, would you have been willing to stand up to them to save the boy you cared about? The girl in love couldn't have saved the boy she wanted to save if it weren't for the rebel, and the rebel wouldn't have had any reason to risk everything in a daring, unspeakable act of defiance if it weren't for the girl in love."
"The rebel would have wanted to defy the Capitol even if she weren't in love," I say, but then I recall her words. "Which would have been selfish, too, then..."
"Exactly. Katniss..." It feels strange to hear the President call me by my first name but also right, in a way. "Never doubt your courage in that moment, or your worth simply because you might have been more primarily concerned with saving Peeta than with deliberately defying the Capitol. You wanting to save him and being willing to take them on to do so was an act of defiance all on its own. If you didn't care how rebellious the ploy with the berries was as long as it saved Peeta, you were still defying them. If saving Peeta mattered more to you than obeying the Capitol and saving yourself, you are a hero. If your love for him was stronger than your fear of them, you are a hero."
My love was stronger than my fear... I don't know if it was romantic love or friendship or something in-between or greater than both that I felt for Peeta at that point yet, but it was some type of love – I couldn't bear to let them kill him. It's true – there was no conflict between my desire to save Peeta and my refusal to let the Capitol win. That was why I could never distinguish if it was one motive or the other – it was both, but they're so closely interwoven that they're one and the same.
I never realized my love and my defiance were the same thing. "Love is defiance," I muse aloud.
"Now you've got it."
As I think about everything she's just said and marvel at how much lighter I feel without the burden she's lifted from me, I understand why Paylor was elected President. I turn to her again and ask, "Where did you learn that?"
"I'll lend you the book sometime, if you like..."
"Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act."
~ George Orwell, 1984