There’s nothing to disagree with, sir.
Monsieur Obi.

Okay. “There’s nothing to disagree with, sir.” What does that mean? That disagreement is not an option for a thinking person, because whatever someone feels is validation for that feeling? “Her piece has nothing to do with your opinions or thoughts?” What does that mean? I’m not allowed to challenge her comments? “Real life events that you are incapable of going through?” Like what? Like life? Like getting beat up and getting up again? Like having been broke and homeless? I’ve been there. You apparently know of my life of privilege, including the summer when I literally shoveled literal bullshit on a farm for a dollar an hour. Pitchfork. Bull pen. Manure spreader. A dollar. Ike, I’m only saying that the list of complaints and victimhood that is angry “because they forgive themselves without atoning” does nothing to heal the wound between blacks and whites. What atonement would you require? How do I have to repay the author for having had someone insult her in fourth grade? Would a million dollars do? A dollar an hour? Voting for a black man in the White House to heal the country?

Look. Seriously. I’d love to meet Domonique and have coffee or drinks with her, and because I’m white and rich (haha) I’d be happy to pay for her Starbucks or the beverage of her choice at Applebee’s. I’d like to see if I could make her smile. I think I could, and I’d be happy to extend the same offer to you, Ike.