Nothing Compares to the N-Word

It drips of blood and drags a brutal history. No other term can cause as much harm.

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The beating death of Arthur McDuffie reminded me in a bold, public way that regardless of my job as a reporter, I was still a nigger to some people. I knew that if I managed to assimilate into the white world, neither my brother, my husband, my nephew, nor any black men in my life could ever follow me, because America feared a black man more than it feared anyone or anything.


I read this -- and then I went home to sit and watch the trial of George Zimmerman. I had traveled back to 1979, and yet I had returned to 2013 still feeling that the lives of black men and black boys are devalued and debased.

I read about the days following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and how, as I watched with my friends the TV images of riots, we screamed, "Burn the [expletive] down! Shoot those crackers!"

Yes, I was hurt and angry at the time, and it seemed to me that I had very little choice when it came to expressing my pain. I was pregnant and living in a suburban Maryland neighborhood, so I wasn't going to light up the skies with my rage. But at least, at the very least, I could shout my rage to my friends.

Meanwhile, as I record, Paula Deen has been explaining that she used the n-word out of fear and anger after a black man robbed her. Though it was long ago, she was talking to her husband, and she believed at the time that the use of the word was justifiable because of the situation she had endured. But the word drips of blood and drags a brutal history with it. There is no word a black person can conjure up about a white person that can cause as much harm as "nigger" has. (And Deen, at her age and raised in Georgia, had a front seat to that history.)

I have my own history, which makes me care more about what Zimmerman did that was "creepy" than Trayvon's mumbling "cracker."

On another day in the studio, I recounted the time my friend Gaile and I went to meet a Realtor in front of an apartment she was renting. The woman, who was white, drove off when she saw that we were black. Eventually we sued her. This was Charlotte circa 1975. An investigator found that she rented her worst properties to blacks, but never the type of apartment that Gaile and I wanted.

Furthermore, in court the woman referred to each white tenant with the title of "Mr." or "Mrs." while calling black tenants by their first names. She didn't even understand that she had internalized this racist practice or what it said about her beliefs about the difference between blacks and whites. Still, we lost our court case. All we had wanted was a small amount of money and the woman's management company to be forced to open up all of her properties to all people.

I had forgotten how hard it was to lose, until I read this aloud: