In this statement, "it" = "the National Review's dominant racialist perspective":

East St. Louis, Ill. — 'Hey, hey craaaaaacka! Cracka!White devil! F*** you, white devil!" The guy looks remarkably like Snoop Dogg: skinny enough for a Vogue advertisement, lean-faced with a wry expression, long braids. He glances slyly from side to side, making sure his audience is taking all this in, before raising his palms to his clavicles, elbows akimbo, in the universal gesture of primate territorial challenge. Luckily for me, he's more like a three-fifths-scale Snoop Dogg, a few inches shy of four feet high, probably about nine years old, and his mom — I assume she's his mom — is looking at me with an expression that is a complex blend of embarrassment, pity, and amusement, as though to say: "Kids say the darnedest things, do they not, white devil?"

That's a hot take from a guy who dresses like he's tired of the sideshow life and wants to put Orson Welles in talking pictures:

Kevin Williamson still has it