Experience and Assessment of the so-called N word
Gwendoline Fortune, EdD
www.virtualcitizens.com
2007-03-08

http://www.virtualcitizens.com/articles/Experience_and_Assessment_of_the_so-called_N_word

Americans of African descent, if we are fortunate, know of our ancestor’s captivity under European domination. The Middle Passage, chattel slavery, the successful and unsuccessful efforts to escape the horrors of the slave system are woven through our history and the history of us all.  We, of the Diaspora, also, have inherited the experience of one-hundred-fifty years that has followed the American Civil War that many believed would end prejudice, discrimination, hostility and denial.

            Freedom, in its complete comprehension, would include the realization that a person can be enslaved in ways that are not only physical.  Taking the power to dominate others with weapons or by intimidation might suggest that limitation of freedom is absolute and total.

I assert that language is a major factor of domination as much as weapons. Weaponry can be disarmed and defeated.  Psychological and social domination and control are more subtle than weapons and as real. Individuals and communities, that view themselves as deprived, as victims, whether by the physical limitations and  denial of education, housing, employment, advancement and “racial profiling” have a deeper level of freedom to be excavated, explored and resolved.  We must, I submit, be freed from our anger and fear of words, as much as we must rise beyond the effects of actual discrimination in all its ugly forms.  In childhood, we were told, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” We said the words while crying inside at the power the words thrown as insult, brought excruciating pain. The psychology to undo the hurt we experienced can be risen above when we look into the intent and  attitude—as well as tone and demeanor by whom ever hurls the word “nigger”  with a need and desire to inflict pain.

I could make my younger sister cry by telling her that, because she was not born in the same state that I was, I was better than she.  By intent, tone and demeanor could make little sister feel demeaned, sad, hurt.  Because I felt that she was our father’s favorite, I teased her and made her cry.  I was not allowed to hit so words became my weapon of dominance and inflicting pain.  As we grew, my sister learned and accepted her own value.  I lost power to cause her pain.

As children, we lived in a “mixed” neighborhood.  Two white playmates, Dan and Shirley, and I had a disagreement.  Later, I rode my bicycle past their house.  I heard from behind a pillar of their front porch, “You ol’ brown nigger.”  I remember being curious, no anger no pain.  I wore glasses then.  If they had yelled, “You ol’ four-eyes,” I would have been more hurt and angry.  But the words of Dan and Shirley had no power over me.  I was larger and had more toys.

Listening to conversations among the grown-ups, stories of their encounters with racism, I recall hearing the word, “nigger.”  The following story is expresses how we understood the word nigger.  

One of my father’s friends spoke of a Negro (not black or African American for this was prior to 1960) who had achieved a Ph. D. and who had returned "home" to the south.  His proud community persuaded him to go to the local courthouse to try to register to vote.  After having to give a full interpretation of the U.S. Constitution and translating it into and out of several foreign languages—as was demanded—the scholar was told that he was not qualified to vote.  The Ph. D. politely, asked why not, as he had succeeded.  The White registrar, in desperation, sent a clerk next door, to the Chinese laundry to obtain a Chinese laundry ticket. The clerk rushed back, gave the ticket to the registrar who handed the list, written in Chinese, to the would-be voter and asked him to read it.  The Ph. D. studied the list briefly before relying “Yes, this paper says that White folk ain’t gonna let no nigger vote, no way.”  The story was accompanied by laughter among the assembled Negroes of physicians, dentists and educators.

I learned to comprehend the smoldering anger surrounding this “joke.”  The release valve for bias, ignorance and the futility in their experiences was laughter within the small community.  The acknowledgement of the levels and layers of meaning in their lives of denial were necessary to maintain sanity—a sense of their worth, and the absurdity of such a situation—apocryphal or real. This lesson was committed to me, a child.  I do not think that I was ever under the impression that the term “nigger” “fit” me, my family, our friends and acquaintances, to any Negroes or “colored people,” as we said in those days.  

When my father, a physician, told how the administrator of the local county hospital told him that “no nigger” could come through front door; when the maid at the house of the White, female doctor next door, told our cook that her employer referred to Daddy as “that nigger doctor,” I became angry—but not cowed.  I knew that my father had written “perfect papers” when he stood for his state medical examination, that whatever her words, second-hand as they were, he was superior to our White neighbor.

When my husband, a decorated Korean War officer was told by an office clerk, that the engineering job advertised in the Chicago Sun-Times was not for “niggers,” I was angry, as was he.  I understood that the approbation demonstrated a mind-set and regardless of any word, prejudice and stupidity were the operational modes.  The “n” word was and is often, not voiced.  It was not needed.

Thoughts and actions are the denial and harm.  A denier can smile and utter innocuous words while thinking “nigger.”  I’ve heard people of color, in anger, call one another “nigger.”  I’ve heard it said in affection with a hug.  No word is appropriate as an epithet under any circumstances.  We are human, and emotional responses are natural.  At seven I remember being spanked for calling a friend a “fool.”  Verbalization is immaterial when the power of action is the reality.

I have read Dick Gregory’s “Nigger,” and Randall Kennedy’s “nigger, the strange career of a troublesome word.”  As a social scientist-historian, I found Kennedy’s study an interesting investigation into U.S. history and the legal implications and results of “THE word.”  I’ve read essays, such as J. Clinton Brown and E. O. Hutchinson.  I assert that the right of each writer to reach her and his conclusions on all matters of great and small importance and to write, eloquently, of their conclusions.  Values, for good or ill, are deeply entrenched.  I would like to think that with intelligence and knowledge, particularly of the fears and reactions that produce behavior, each individual can achieve the goal of self-awareness, self worth, as well as sadness for those who are unable to do the same.

 I do not defend nor demonize words, nor anyone who utters or writes any word.  If someone calls me a “bad word” I will avoid the person—for there may be a danger in lingering.  Hearing and knowing would have something definitive on which to base my desire to avoid or escape—or call the police.

When I decided to write a story that had been in mind since I was a fresh-woman, at Bennett College for Women, in Greensboro, NC, a fictional account of growing up as a daughter of privilege, during segregation, my goal was to offer a contrast to the preponderance of stories that depicted my people—as I saw it—“barefoot, pregnant, in-the-field, can’t speak English,” I devised the working title “Growing up, Growing out.” My youngest son said, “That’s a dull title.  Nobody’s going to pickup a book with that title.  Why don’t you call it “Growing up nigger rich,” because that’s what you were?”  He referred to his grandparents, a physician and a pharmacist.  I thought that no one would buy a book with that title.  He replied, “That’s to get the attention of an agent and a publisher.  Publisher’s always change titles.”

When an agent was found, and she was able to place the manuscript, I told the publisher that “I was not wedded to the title.”  The publisher chose to keep the title.  Later, having to write an essay explaining that I was called “nigger rich” by childhood friends, who wanted to hurt my feelings,” and the phrase spoke to how I was “put-down” by children who looked like me, but felt that I had something they did not, I used the word as descriptive of class, not of race.  My usage was like teasing my sister about her being born in the “wrong” state.

I find it sad to reject the work that I spent forty years in conceiving and composing because of an adjective modifying a noun in a four word title; Growing Up Nigger Rich. A few people have rejected my novel, refusing to stock and sell it in their bookstore, even after calls were made to buy it.  Most people smile when I give them a business card.

During the controversy over the title, which incidentally has sold better than my second work with a non-controversial, but uninspiring title, Family Lines, I began, for the first time to think about “the ‘n’ word.”

Is there any other word that we are afraid to say or write?  We say and write many vulgar words without calling them “the‘s’ or‘d’ or ‘b’ word.”  An erasure which generates ignorance has been carried to an illogical extreme.  

Being respectful and thoughtfully non-offensive is desirable and valuable—good manners, the elders would say. .Engendering fear around a particular word arouses fear—hostility.  Words are designations, the result of human thought, created by humans, with intent and purpose.  No word has meaning or power to harm or heal until it is given power.  Fear and anger engendered by uttering or hearing a word or phrase is under the control of the person on the receiving end.  No one can harm me by calling me a word, for I am an emotionally secure adult.  I can interpret intent, attitude, tone and demeanor.

My creative work of informed ideas, thoughts and comprehensive experience was denied and rejected in fear of an adjective modifying a noun on the cover of a book.  The ‘n’ word has hurt me, a retired educator who spent all of her small advance and more to promote a work that can open the eyes, minds and hearts of millions, but has been seen and read by a few thousand.  I was not hurt by “the ‘n’ word,” itself, but by the thoughts and actions of people who ignore, deny or avoid doing anything about the damage that continues to be done to people of color in hiring and promotion without “the n word” ever being heard.  Paraphrasing an old English story, a kingdom was lost—for want of a rider, a horse, a horseshoe, a NAIL.  “Nigger” may be a nail to a struggle that revolves on much more important issues for which energy should be expended.  We have millions of poorly educated children, mal-nourished mothers, fathers with no jobs, non-existent and sub-standard housing, and a base culture of info-tainment at the mass level.  These are more important to our survival and success than a campaign against any particular word—or any specific letter.

I have gentle “other race” friends who are petrified to even look at the cover of my novel.  A radio announcer would not say the title.  He would lose his job.  Others would not interview me, or allow me to read at their bookstores.  We say Nazi and KKK. These are not sought to be abolished and their proponents are known enemies to people of color as anyone who sys “nigger” as a derogatory noun.

When one refuses to give power to a word, the weapon languishes.  A word may give the person who uses it in anger a sense of momentary power, but when the projectile carries no charge, it is a dud, a blank.

I strongly dislike vulgarity as used in the so-called popular entertainment culture of rap, hip-hop and comedy skits without social relevance.  This is because I do not care for vulgarity in general.  I object more strongly to demeaning words used to describe women than the use of the word “nigger.”  The self-hatred inherent in the intent and use of pejorative words such as “ho” and references to someone’s maternal parent as “bitch” reveals gross ignorance and ugly violent urges.  Nevertheless, remember who gives power to a word.

Has anyone, seriously, considered banning “whore” from the language?  The issue is focused fear, pain and ignorance.  Power has shifted from those who have power to harm, to those who have NO power to harm.  We give power to words: Power to hurt and power to heal.  We can use a case of awareness, intelligence, insight and power to heal ourselves.

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This piece cannot be duplicated without permission. A longer version of this article will be published in Reflections on the N word: A Black Feminist Anthology, edited by Amie Breeze Harper.

Gwendoline Y. Fortune, Ed. D. is a writer, and generally enlightened human who looks to find unity and commonality among us.  She has taught people of all ages, in a number of settings, schools, work shops, houses of worship, retreat centers.  She is author of Growing Up Nigger Rich and other books, essays and poems.  She currently lives in Gainesville, Florida (largely upon the recommendation of her younger cousin), and can be reached via e-mail at:  gyfort@eartlink.net.  See more about her at:  http://xenarts.com/gunr

Gwendoline Fortune, EdD
www.virtualcitizens.com