“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.