White-supremacy, the original American Spirit, just won’t let us go. I get it. I used to smoke too. It took me a dozen tries over fifteen years before I quit for good.

Every time, I would start out committed, self-righteous, reciting the evils of the devil divine: “Gives you a false sense of security. Addictive. Lining the pockets of the filthy rich. Hurts the people around you. Toxic. Will eventually lead to death.”

Until one day, I’d be stressed, and a ubiquitous hip-height concrete outdoor ashtray full of half-smoked butts would whisper to me, “You need us. We’ll make you feel good. Strong. Like life is easy again. No one has to know.” And so, without a thought, I’d put my lips on someone else’s lipstick-smeared cancer stick and suck in deep.

For a moment all felt right with the world. A pretty lie, on an ugly day.

White-supremacy, that oldest of American Spirits just won’t let us go. I get it. I do. Really, we just needed one more pull.