Thoughts on Being Called a "Nappy Nigger" in "Post-Racial" America

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From streettherapymagazine.com

All the world was white.

A cold, quiet, calm night. I tilted my head back to capture snow flakes on my tongue in the dark, and I felt like a kid again, giddy over what was sure to be an impending snow day. I had to walk in the street because for some reason, they just can’t seem to shovel the sidewalks in South West, D.C., but I was fine with it. I felt young and free, walking in the snow with a clean slate. Like I had my whole life ahead of me, and that life would be just as beautiful and wonderful as freshly fallen snow.

And then, a revving engine snapped me out of happy. Visibility was low, and I couldn’t tell from where it came. And then, headlights. And tires swerving on the icy street. A white woman inside of a white pick-up truck. Could she see me there in the street? I was wearing a long black peacoat, black snowboots, black face. Couldn’t she see me? When she swerved dangerously close I threw up both of my hands, “HEY!” COULDN’T SHE SEE ME?! The wind she kicked up blew strongly against my face and body as she sped past me and I was infuriated. I wanted to throw something at her stupid truck, I wanted to yell something after her, but as fast as she came, she was gone, down the street to the red light. My heart pounded and I was out of breath, but I kept on walking.

And again, a revving engine, screeching tires. But no one was in front of me. But the sound grew closer and closer. I glanced behind me to see that white pick-up truck had backed up, the window had rolled down, and the white woman had leaned across to her passenger window just to make sure I heard her: “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING NAPPY NIGGER!” And she sped off again.

***************

I thought if I waited to discuss this incident, in a few days’ time I would have some clarity, maybe even something profound to say about race and race relations in what someone who I do not know, and definitely don’t agree with, has dubbed: “post-racial America.”

I decided to discuss the two-time-near-death experience to get my thoughts out in the open. Reactions ranged from horror to laughter to anger…at me: “well what did you do? Did you just stand there, like a ‘nappy nigger?'”

It was immediately clear that I wasn’t going to have any sort of meaningful discussion regarding this incident, after all.

So, I just sat on it for a few more days. But the week wouldn’t let me escape it. What with Rush Limbaugh calling Obama an “uppity” negro, and John Mayer gushing about his “White supremacist” penis, resulting in a disdain for Black women (who are all either: successful yet single, lonely, sad and depressed; or trifling welfare queens a la Precious, if you let the mainstream media tell it).

For a salary, I listen to Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh spit their race-baiting and dangerous vitriol day in and day out. I watch the tea baggers practically foaming at the mouth because their President is Black. I am not so privileged to turn a blind eye to the reality that dangerous prejudice exists. I do not get to be blissfully ignorant to the fact that racism cuts beyond nasty words that hurt feelings, but is safely cemented in centuries of physical and mental enslavement, heinous murders, brutal rape, and constant fear of terrorists.  Racism is institutionalized, abandoning 1/3 of Black children to a life below the poverty line and leaving “Black men with a clean record no better [prospects] than white men just released from prison” when seeking employment in this economy. I don’t note these things in a vain attempt to convince the Deniers; these are just incontestable facts.

Growing up in Nebraska and Virginia, and campaigning for Obama in Middle Georgia, this was not my first experience being called a nigger, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. And as much as I hate to admit that it stung to hear it, there was no new revelation in that experience; I have always known that some people will shovel dirt upon my law degree, my law review editor position, my summa cum laude, my scholarships, my great job, my great apartment, and all of my talents. Those things will be buried under my skin, and to some, I will always be Nigger.

I don’t say this to gain pity or to give anyone a “glimpse” into what it is like to be Black. I’ll leave that to Soledad O’Brian and CNN. I say it because it is a simple fact.

I was not placed on this earth to seek out validation or dispel any stereotypes. I will not stand in the middle of the street waving my hands trying to be seen. I’d sooner die.  Whether I am seen or not seen, it doesn’t change the fact that I am here.

And while I have gained no clarity from this encounter, I did receive a needless reminder: I am a Black woman.  I cannot escape it, even if in some demented world, I might want to. As a writer, my perspective is dominated by my experience as a Black woman. And as such, any platform I am blessed to have will be carefully used so as not to denigrate that. Some see such a responsibility as a burden, some an honor, and some don’t see it all.

A Black female writer I follow tweeted about a “compliment” she received on her writing:

“Someone recently said I “write like a white girl” and meant “without abandon and without the pressure that some  black writers feel;” [the pressure being] worrying about what the black image police might say. […] Otherwise your creative process will be stifled by the weight of expectations of you as a woman, a black person or a single lady.”

Pardon me, but some foolishness—>like this right here<—begs to be stifled.

I choose not to feel that luxury of unabandoned writing. There is, apparently, a plethora of writers, entertainers, politicians and the like, dutifully filling that role. But I am inextricably bound to being Black and female. If that means my writing is limited to topics that don’t perpetuate negative stereotypes or disparage Black women, consider my writing so stifled.

Life and death lay in a bed of words. In full acknowledgment of their power, then,  it is my sincere ambition to always write with a purpose, and to be ever-conscious of the impact my words can have.  They may not tear down the prison of racism or lift children out of poverty, or break centuries-old chains; but if, in my lifetime, I can help one mind be free, it is my duty— and my honor— to try.

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