My N-Word Moment

In the wake of the Paula Deen fallout I have been inspired to self reflect and get to the heart of what the f is wrong with race dialog in America. I have come to the realization that the problem is simple. The discussion is dishonest and secretive-not so much a newsflash, I know, but stay with me. White America is so afraid being labeled racist that we lie about actually BEING racist. We also keep deep secrets in an attempt to shield or minimize our own participation in racist behavior and systems. Not only does this help keep racism alive and well, it also enables the shame of racism to reside deep in the hearts of white people who sincerely want change. The dishonesty and secrets make the fuel that motivates white strangers to assume that a fellow white face permits racist comments and descriptions of "black" people in whispers. If you are white, you know exactly what I mean. In response to this reality, I would like to offer an example from my own life to show people how to be honest, self reflective, and hopefully transformational when it comes to overcoming racism. What I am about to share requires immense vulnerability on my part. As I share my experience, I hope it is met with grace and understanding. I can't remember exactly how old I was, but I think it's fair to say I was in ninth or tenth grade, so 14/15 years old. I was with two girlfriends of mine and the three of us were headed down town on the "T"-Pittsburgh's public transit rail. The three of us hopped on and were excited to head to our destination. Immediately upon grabbing our seat we noticed a group of girls, about the same age, who were staring at us like we did something wrong. All of the girls were black. We carried on as if we didn't notice the glares, but the group of girls started verbally making fun of us. We were paralyzed with fear. Not just because the girls were black, but because we had no idea what the hell was going on. None of us had ever been taunted by strangers for no reason, and even though we were usually pretty capable and confident girls on our own accord, we were simply outnumbered. Instead of responding and making an uncomfortable situation worse, we sat there powerless and took the taunts. The girls made fun of the way we dressed, and mocked us by talking like valley girls. Because of my own baggage, I never took well to the feelings of powerlessness. I sat there frozen, but wanted so badly to regain the power I felt like I was losing. But I had a plan. The girls who taunted us relentlessly, got off the "T" before we did. As they got off, they continued to stare, poke fun, and intimidate. All the while, I kept my eye on the doors, and just as they closed to the point where they couldn't be reopened, I distinctly, and with great pronunciation mouthed the word... N I G G E R. Two of the girls locked eyes with me while I said it, and their response was swift. They both tore for the train and began beating on the glass where I sat. Then the train started moving with me in it, and both of my middle fingers in the air. Looking back on it, I was very aware of my actions and equally aware of how much power that one word had. And at the tender age of 15, I had an innate sense of the historical hatred I was channeling just to regain my own sense of power. It was intentional. I wanted to hurt those girls for making us feel powerless for no reason. No other word would have accomplished that feat. Interestingly, my friends never knew what I said, and I never told them. In fact, this admission may be the first time I've ever admitted to this, ever. I also didn't grow up in a house where that was an acceptable or frequently used term, unlike other white people. The only time I can remember ever hearing a relative use the "N" word was when an uncle used it during a football game as he yelled at one of the players, and I remember being aghast at the witnessing of it. I clearly knew better. What I knew regarding right and wrong, didn't matter. What mattered is that I needed a weapon to fight back, and that word was all I could find in my arsenal. It has been over twenty years since that exchange and I still think about it often. I wonder if that one exchange means I am a racist for life. In my heart of hearts, I don't believe that is the case. I do acknowledge that in that exchange I was for sure an active participant in the racist, oppressive culture that attempts to judge individual actions of black people as indictments upon the entire race, and I have since spent the better part of my life trying to undo the white supremacist fabric of who I am as an American. You might be thinking, "But those girls were bullying you. You had every right to fight back." I do think I had every right to defend myself, but let's remember, no one physically hurt me. I struck when the threat of physical violence was gone. I can't help but think that if the girls were white, I would have responded differently. For one, I probably would not have been as afraid to verbally defend myself. I had some experience witnessing girls fight, both white and black, and from what I saw black girls fought way more aggressively than white girls. I was afraid of welcoming an ass whoopin I couldn't handle. So I remained silent. But why did I SAY it? What was the motive? The motive was reclaiming power based on race, and power based on race is the lifeline of racism. So now what? What can my exchange do to make a difference in racial awareness? First, it provides a framework for white people to reflect, be honest, and work it out. It's not about making apologies either, because frankly apologies are insufficient. It is about making changes to the way we think, and it is about being honest in regards to how painful that process can be. It is about traveling to the dark places of our historical legacy, owning them, and redeeming them. Second, being honest about what I've experienced is something I've been very candid about within myself. I've taken responsibility internally and have made changes within myself to ensure that who I am, and what I strive for as a human being is far better than that incident. But making my journey a public one is necessary for two reasons. It helps similar people release the shame that such actions harbor in oneself, and it hopefully brings accountability to those who have no regret. I am glad to say that since then, I have never said the N-word from my mouth or my heart, the latter being the most important. May we strive to speak words that come from our hearts, and may we strive for our hearts to be good and just.