This morning I was having a discussion on the phone with my editor, D. L. a speaker of numerous languages, who, despite these many words—and perhaps due to my less than masterful command of French, the language of my ancestor’s Canadian slave masters—was having difficulty describing the behavior of a man that was “kind of stalking” her, but was such a wimp, threatened to reduce the horrific capital of TV serial killers as well as jealous, pencil-dicked, wife-beating rednecks, by the application of this august modern term to his sorry person.

To her hesitation, I called, “Stop right there! Our much maligned “people without a language,” the “Oppressed American of African Ascent,” has, thanks to the rampant emasculation of their men-folk, provided the English language—although it is not your favorite—with the perfect term.”

The groan of the usually twittering word bird was audible, and I thought I heard a coffee cup overturn—at least that is my interpretation of the brief, harsh swear word, as I stood imagining coffee burning a pale Euro-thigh—as she recovered her dignity and inquired with feigned sincerity, “Oh, I can’t wait.”

Wait no more, “He was lurking on you!” You have inspired a book, after the spirit of How the Irish Saved Civilization.”

“Oh, God, help me,” she pled, to no apparent avail.

Never fear, readers, I have already contracted Webone Shoop, expert of the Africa in American Experience, to compose this mighty rightful tome to his people’s struggle “To get up in there!”