A way about me.  In my young mind, Way translated to ‘power’ or ‘magic.’  The fairy tales I read were full of such things, and they inspired hope.  An ugly princess might possess such goodness as would grant her the gift of Beauty.  I was certain my powers, such as they were, did not run to literally making myself beautiful, but I now knew that they would allow me to wring compassion out of the kind, and tolerance out of the surly.  Perhaps, in some sense, my Way was a veil behind which I could hide my repulsiveness, and if I could not transform myself, perhaps I could transform the way others saw me.

As I grew older, I discarded the idea of magical powers, of course, but I still recognized that what Mother had said was true -- I did have a way about me.  By the time I was in junior high school, I had concocted the theory that what I had exercised on Bobby Bane and countless others since, was a shrewd understanding of the human psyche.  Everyone needed acceptance, even the seemingly needless.

The history of my religion provided me with a totem for my ability to parry the mindless, visceral hostility toward the alien: The White Dog.

It is recorded of the Son of the Founder of my faith that when He, in His twilight years, journeyed through the United States, He would travel the neighborhoods of New York in a carriage accompanied by a handful of believers.  In one of the affluent neighborhoods on His accustomed route lived an elderly woman who had shown such hostility for the Master, as He was called, that the believers avoided her at all costs, finding other paths for Him to take to His appointments. 

The Master, on the other hand, would seek her out, making certain that His carriage passed her house every morning where she could be seen taking the Sun on her front porch.  While the believers cringed and prayed, the Master would smile and wave at the dowager, who would only glare at this Persian ‘mystic,’ then avert her gaze, her hands stroking and smoothing the silky fur of the small, white dog in her lap.

One morning, after He had been rebuffed repeatedly by the hostile old woman, the Master bid the driver stop before her home.  Over the protests of His companions, He debarked and strolled up the path to the front porch.  Seating himself across from His enemy, He noted how very beautiful was the little white dog and inquired as to what kind of dog it was.  Well, the woman loved that dog above all things, as the Master obviously knew.  His praise of the animal unleashed such a flood of delight from her that she regaled her unwelcome guest with tales of the little animal’s cleverness.

The Master was late for His appointments that day, but He had made a great friend.  When the believers begged to know how He had transformed the forbidding harpy into a welcoming angel, He told them about her beloved pet.  “Everyone,” He said, and I imagined a twinkle in the deep azure eyes, “has a White Dog.”