Being an African American, even an upper-middle-class African American, often insulates you from the guilt of empire. After all, “we,” in any collective sense, have never been the ruling class. “We” have stood on the moral side of things, dominated and marginalized, often searching for solidarity with colonized and dominated people elsewhere. But the truth is that relaxing in a multinational hotel makes me part of the problem that women like Olive have to manage, and for too small a compensation. I become her monster, and she is mine, though she is blameless. Because just a generation ago, my
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