The "N" Word: What We Prefer To Be Called

My former boss cornered me in my cubical, looked into my eyes and asked me what I preferred to be called. She is a tall, lanky, pretty white woman whose hair curls in the southern humidity. I hesitated before responding to her question. My childhood facial expressions told on me, moments later when I still hadn’t responded. “Called?” I said. My frown lines deepened in-between my un-plucked naturally shaped brows.

Bashful but determined she whispered in my ear “Black” or “African American?” I could tell that she had summoned up the courage to ask me this very important question. I couldn’t bear to see her sweat any longer and replied, “Either is fine, just don’t call me a Negro.” I flashed my right dimple and smiled. Unexpectedly, she became stiff; while I became confused. “I’m just kidding,” I said and calmed her nervousness. She exhaled from relief.

She was undoubtedly nervous, but in retrospect also brave. Many times people are too afraid to ask questions regarding the touchy subject of “race.” Little did she know that her question lifted the veil of pain from my childhood from being called the wrong name.

Everyone remembers the first time that they were discriminated against. Whether it was because of your race, sex, class, or sexual orientation. My first encounter with racism was when I was five years old at a magical theme park in Anaheim, CA. While crossing the juggle gym, I encountered another child head-on. He was about my age, white, with red freckles and matching hair. Unable to get around me he yelled in my face with an evil snarl, “Move Nigger.” We both knew the history of that word’s pain. I grasped onto the net and held on tightly trying not to brush his shoulder as he crawled pass me. I wanted to defend myself, but was left speechless.

I am a daughter of a former field worker. My mom picked cotton just 45 minutes outside of Atlanta in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. My straightened hair, shaved legs and Master’s degree fool people about my roots. My hardships are no where like my moms and my memories of childhood segregation are not the depictions of “Black” and “White” drinking fountains and bathrooms. However, it is the feeling of subtle and invisible racism that plagues my past.

Being called out of your name at a young age is unbelievably painful and memorable. Truthfully, the terms African American and Black are so interchangeable that most Blacks won’t be offended which term you used to describe them. As long as you don’t refer to them as a Negro or God forbid the N-word.

Children talk about race and the color of their pigmentation, as they hold their arms up to one another’s in comparison. My son will know what’s in a name, in the history and meaning of terms used to describe his ethnicity. He will also have the wisdom, like his mother to educate those that are fearful to ask the questions about race.

Originally published 2/19/2010. 

Every place should be like Adams Morgan.

I can remember distinctly in graduate school, driving from Happy Valley to Pittsburgh, on my way to interview for Teach for America. At the time, I wasn’t knowledgeable about the invention of navigation systems, and even if they were available, I couldn’t have afforded it on my salary. Anyhow, it would have probably cost more than the Kia Sephia that my Granddad selected for me at a Cincinnati car auction. After learning how to drive stick shift, I claimed thee as my own and endearingly named her, “Snowflake.”

The twists and turns of the mountainous highway, and fear or hitting an Amish family’s buggy, caused Snowflake and me to nearly swerve off the road. I quickly grew impatient with my crinkled paper map and pulled the car over at a small store to ask for directions. While waiting in line to talk with the cashier, a young white girl no older than 5 years old, stood directly in front of me. Out of curiosity, she kept turning her head around to look at me. Then, she turned around and began starring at me. I acknowledged her curiosity and smiled back at her. Finally, she touched my hand with her pointer finger, rubbed her fingers, and peered down at her fingertips. She was amazed that my blackness did not rub off.

I quickly checked myself before showing that I was alarmed by her reaction, and continued to smile. I imagined that I was the first black person that she had ever seen, and wanted my encounter with her to be a positive one.

My family had lived in many different states, prior to settling at the foot of the flatirons in Boulder. I felt the harshness of racism as an adolescent, having my locker vandalized and being called out of my name in middle and high schools. In the mid-90’s at my high school, there were only two openly gay students, both of whom I admired and supported for being out.

As a society, we are slowly progressing in valuing diversity. I’ve lived in the South now collectively for over 10 years. My most recent encounter of being uncomfortable came just a week ago, when I greeted a woman with a handshake and she opted not to shake my hand. My experience years ago in the Pennsylvania store came back to me, and like then, I smiled and acknowledged her being uncomfortable. Inside I was perturbed.

I’d like to hope that the more diverse our society becomes, the more inclusive people will be. I think we should have a “Step Out of Your Comfort Zone Day” in America, where people become more open minded to other cultures, ethnicities, and sexual orientation. Let’s rally in the spirit of Adams Morgan, a place where all people accept one another and party in unison.

Published in Elephant Journal.
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