This Is the Way the N-Word Dies
To kill a word, you first have to kill an idea
The last time somebody called me a ni**er, I was on holiday.
I’d just landed in Skopje, North Macedonia, innocently searching for something to get the taste of airline food out of my mouth, when I heard a shout from across the street:
“Hey! You! Uh… you are ni**er.”
I looked over and saw a boy, no more than 18 years old, sitting on his bike. He waited for my reaction, his foot poised on the pedal in case I decided to chase him. I hadn’t provoked him. He was half my size, his English was barely up to the task of expressing his racism, yet he’d decided to do this with his time. It was so absurd that I started laughing.
It wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.
Something had obviously gone wrong. Why hadn’t I been crushed by the weight of 400 years of oppression? Where was the primitive rage he expected from someone he considered only three-fifths of a man? Why hadn’t I been overwhelmed by his “power plus privilege?”
He tried again.
“Uh, you… I don’t like you. I don’t like Black person.”
“Oh really?” I replied, still chuckling. “Why not?”
