As I looked into the sphere, an oddly familiar image of a silver-haired white woman began to form.
“Buckwheat,” I gasped, “That’s Paula Deen!”
“Yes, it is!” Buckwheat squeaked, continuing to wave his wand over the light-filled orb. “She giving a lecture on Southern cuisine and explaining how she don’t have a prejudiced bone in her body at an event sponsored by the New York Times.”
“But that really happened,” I declared. “Getting rid of affirmative action doesn’t seem to have changed anything.”
“Keep watching and listening,” Buckwheat admonished.
As I stared in fascination, the celebrity chef began talking about race relations. “I have a young man in my life, and he’s black as that board,” Deen explained, gesturing toward a dark-colored backdrop. “I’d trust him with my life! He’s just like part of my family! He’s standing right over there!”
“C’mon up here, Clarence, and take a bow,” she continued. “We can’t see you against that dark board.”
A mist began to form inside the orb, obscuring the image of a grinning, broad-shouldered black man bounding onto the stage as the audience applauded.
“Stop it, I can’t take anymore,” I shouted, as the images faded.
“Then I guess we better not show you what would have happened if he’d had the chance to rule on segregation and slavery,” squeaked Buckwheat, breaking the spell by putting down his wand and removing his turban. “Believe me, you don’t want to know!”