This morning I stood outside a woman’s home—a three-sided, plastic bus shelter in Baltimore County—as she sat with her bags, shivering and crying in the pre-dawn cold. It is enough that I stand in the cold wind and rain as she stays dry. I owe her nothing and resist the urge to give her some cash. She is nearly my age, holding onto some final possessions, piled under a tarp behind the shelter. I leave her to her white privilege and take out my change for the bus—white trash on the move.

Robbed, beaten and chased in stages by the thug-youth agents of the State, from Old Eastern Avenue, on the other side of the police station, to this safer redoubt, she huddles miserable in her extremity, tall, well-formed, straight brown hair cut to her shoulders, about 45-years-of-age. A beanie hat and scarf assist the hood of her windbreaker to no avail—she shivers weakly. As I try to stretch out my sacrum against the street sign post she cries, her pain muffled under her breath, “Oh God!”

A big man in jacket and cap, pulls over behind the shelter in an old, mint condition, red corvette, gets out, walks over to the woman, takes a knee and holds out two bananas and two apples.

“Here you go, honey, something to eat.”

She cries, “Thank you, sir,” clutching the fruit to her chest, as he walks off, visibly shaken at her condition and my indifference.

This scene, this morning, brought to mind a weeks-deceased conversation with a Christian woman who dislikes me greatly—who would hate me if not for the collective memory of her beloved Jewish heretic nailed to an ancient pagan cross.

She is the administrator of a homeless shelter, which houses 20 permanent residents and can feed 200. The men and women are housed separately, the women having it much, much better—as is their need—many of the men preferring the street and only using the facility for hygiene, emergency cold weather shelter and food. The shelter is located in rural Pennsylvania, most of its male patrons veterans, the vast majority white. One of her patrons was found burned alive in a park in a small New York town—Albany, I think. She is getting underway to expand veteran services.

She would surely be properly disgusted with my shunning the woman who keeps me out in the rain as I struggle to stand on a bad leg, in between going about the dull business of avoiding her predicament. She is a poor, pitiful soul, the more so because the painted priests of her materialistic society deny she exists. This nameless, suffering woman is merely collateral damage in the war to eradicate men like me, the White Devils who raped a world—and if this sullied world still deserved our attention we’d rape her still, lighting our way with torches made of Her pallid, mourning witches and their earthy-hued, jabbering pets.