“I really love my White people!” she says.

“They’re so clueless, cute, well-meaning.

They’re like pets, in one way—pampered.

No idea they’re Masters of the Universe!

And that’s what makes them dangerous.”

 

Now, I’m a White person. I couldn’t say if

I’m one of the contingent she calls ‘hers,’

but it seems possible. So I don’t answer,

I just look at her. She doesn’t blink either.

“See? You’re my dawg,” she vows at last.