Someone tells you they want to help, and they understand your alienation, so you offer them your gratitude before understanding that their allyship is every bit about their image of themselves, far outweighing your well-being or dignity, and they’ll yeet this cumbersome ballast the moment they sense ingratitude, the very instant you obstruct their protagonism. How there’s nothing special in what they want from you, only license; and, like any license, they can always fake one.
