I have often denied that I am white for the very reason that when I hold my hand next to a piece of copy paper, it is many shades lighter, and that I am, during the summer months at least, as dark as the proverbial paper bag.

I am now stricken with guilt, not for the grim plight of those millions of driven souls that I once wronged deeply, but for those innocent whites of today, who drove me to Megan's house this afternoon, sparing me the very march of woe, the veritable trail of tears that I once placed countless wailing souls upon. You see, Ellen and Jerry, both work for a large corporation which is putting them through racial reeducation camp: paying them to be purified in the white cascade of their own invisible privilege, as well as paying the golden-skinned daughters of my once insatiable lust to lay blame upon them for my sins.

Books like White Fragility, must be read, and guilt must be implanted into the minds of these young folks who have known nothing but toil and cannot even afford to purchase a home but rent like sharecroppers of old.

Jerry sir, Ellen dear, I am sorry. Getting away with the crime of the millenium is one thing. But to have my past deeds haunt not me, but punish such kindly folks...well, according to a great and not yet late poet:

“That shit ain't right! That shit ain't right!”

It is about time I took responsibility for the crime of slavery, the first and only time in ten thousand years of human history in which a people, a race, was held in bondage.

Okay, time to come clean.

In about the year 740 B.C., I appeared near Carthage and adopted the name of Hanno. I had invented my time machine in 1964 out of guilt. I just liked the companionship of black women so much, I up and raped at least one each week. They could not complain, it being my privilege, and all to take what lies sacred to woman kind, especially to the women of Africa, to whom chastity is the norm. I suppose it was my unsatisfied desire for a virgin in my arms that drove me to the natural born nuns of humanity.

But, as my prima nuptial rights were being redacted by the rising political lights I yet could not keep my hands from the fair flowers of Mother Africa. Thus, I made my time machine, based on plans my Uncle Robert had stolen from H.G. Wells, disguised as a carpetbag, and journeyed back to ancient Africa. And don't you know, Pharaoh said, Hanno, sail your smart ass around that place and find me a slave race for my reed yacht to row.

Imagine my guilt as I gathered the flowers of Africa and ravaged them until they did wilt.

So, after that savage cruise about Africa and my return to Pharaoh, I took sail once more for these shores, where not a black maid would dwell, it being known by all antiquarians that only men colored red lived here from earliest antiquity. Imagine my surprise when I found that the Civilization of the Olmec, black scientist of great renown, but barely held back the savage tide of the invading red men. I should have helped them, but instead, thirsting for their maidenhead, I allied with the red men and eradicated the men and made the women my many-wailing wife.

Once the last of these black women were impregnated, I got bored, and sailed off east, known as the Feathered Serpent..and more atrocities, like the trickery of Cortez, pretending to be me returned, would compound my dastard sins.

In sorrow I came back to the future on mathematical wings and here skulked, in this iniquitous time, swearing to myself never to touch another dark damsel in distress for my own crude pleasure.

But I could not keep the thirst at bay. And so, deciding that I could not afflict those of my own time, I soared back an age, to the 1830s and afflicted those maidens already to bondage consigned—at least not raping no free woman of color, but one already done wrong by another.

From 1965 until 2017, from my base in Northeast Baltimore, I used my time machine, kept folded as a carpetbag don't you know, to thirst back into the past after the fairest lass, until I had knocked up the last. I have here bragged about being the ancestor of near every black man. But that is a lie, I hereby do confess—but not because I failed to try!

To that inviting brillo I could never muster the courage to say, “no.”

As near as I can determine, I was merely able to rape every negress of Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, Jersey, Pennsylvania and—even though they was free they was all the more fine—Ohio. So, I estimate, that my sons and daughters number a mere two-million of the some 75,000,000 souls marooned here at the end of Privileged Time due to the vile deeds of me and mine.

My real reason for this confession, is to credit the man that ended my rampage, a certain Daryl Baxter of Sefton Avenue, all of sixteen and a straight-A student, of Northeast Baltimore, Maryland who when he came a skulking into my land lord's back yard, found my old carpet bag and rode it I'm afraid to his own woe—back in time. For that old bag was set for only one destination, the Plantation of Wade Hampton, Grandee of Carolina fame, where I had planned, but not been able to commit, the rape of his entire female staff, selected for their fine features as they were.

I can only surmise that hero though he was, Daryl was bound and sold to his dismay. For that old carpet bag never did return, taken as it was by some nefarious Yankee who used it upon Wade and his ilk in their turn.

That is it, the true and honest confession of a master of sexual dispossession, Daddy to millions and homeless to boot, having gained my just deserts at last.

James LaFond, 7/17/21, Baltimore Plantation