My Seventy-Two Year Relationship With the N-Word

I was six-years-old, the first time I heard the N-word. That year my mother and I lived with my grandfather on Vernon Avenue in Venice, California. I think I was at school when I heard the N-word and I asked my Grandad if that was a bad word

My Grandad

What My Grandfather Taught Me About the N-word
I was six-years-old, the first time I heard the N-word. That year my mother and I lived with my grandfather on Vernon Avenue in Venice, California. I think I was at school when I heard the N-word and I asked my Grandad if that was a bad word (or how I should relate). He sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms that if someone (especially a White person) called me the N-word, I should immediately take them to fist city. It was my solemn duty; yes my obligation to beat the hell out of them. No matter who they were or how big they were, I had to at least try to beat them up.

A few weeks later, I started second grade. On the way to school one day I walked by a house about three blocks from where I lived, two little White kids ran up to their chain link fence and yelled the N-word at me. I was so enraged that I tried to tear down the fence. After watching and enjoying my fury for a couple of minutes, they ran back into their house.

It was only two more blocks to school. After walking into the schoolyard, I would punch the first little White face that I saw. Sometimes there would be the glimmer of confusion and surprise on the faces of my victims, but I didn’t care. They had to pay for the little kids who had pelted me with the N-word.

Violence Ensued

This happened almost every day, except for those rare days when it rained or when it was too cool for the little kids to come outside. It wasn’t long before I earned the reputation of a schoolyard bully. I was a “bad” kid and I spent a great deal of time on the “bad” kid’s play ground bench. My teacher’s did not trust me to interact peacefully with my peers.

My Move to Lebanon, Missouri
About half way through my second grade school year, my burden was lifted. I was suddenly shipped from Venice to a little town called Lebanon, Missouri, near the Ozark Mountains to live with my Dad and my wicked stepmother. I call her “wicked” because she did everything possible to show me how much she resented my intrusion into her comfortable life.

What I thought was a bizarre vacation turned out to be a permanent living arrangement.

A definite misfit at my new, all Black, one-room, school; I was the skinny little kid that talked funny. I was also the one whose father didn’t belong in this town, where most of the Blacks were cousins.

One day to my total disbelief, one of the big kids called me the N-word. I was confused. I felt that I had to fight him, but he wasn’t White. I thought only White people used the N-word to be mean. Since my name caller was so much bigger than me, I decided to postpone my instinctive fight or flight reaction and seek some war counsel from my Dad.

What My Dad Taught Me About the N-Word

When I got home, I explained the situation to my Dad and asked him what I should do. To my surprise, instead of telling me to go to battle, he sat me down and gave me a new perspective on the N-word. He told me that if I looked up the N-word in the dictionary, I would find that it meant a trifling, ner-do-well, who was good for nothing. He went on to say, that since I was not that kind of person, the N-word didn’t apply to me.

Although that word still made my blood boil, what my Dad taught me made a great deal of sense. Besides in my new environment it was a lot smarter to not find excuses to fight. At home we never used the N-word unless we were talking about a nor-do-well person. The N-word was an equal opportunity title. Anyone could be the N-word. My Dad’s commitment to this definition of the N-word was powerfully demonstrated one Sunday afternoon on a crowded streetcar.

The Street Car Incident

By that time, our family had moved to Kansas City, Missouri. It was a warm spring day, and Dad decided to take me to the zoo. It was a long distance from where we lived and we had to take two different streetcars. When we transferred to the second streetcar on the main line to Swope Park Zoo, it was very crowded. I pushed through the crowded streetcar looking for a seat. Dad was right behind me. I stopped and stood near two little White kids in a seat. Their parents were sitting the seat behind them. One of the little kids stood up on the seat to look out the window leaving a big chunk of the seat available. After a minute or so of seeing this empty space, I plopped down. As soon as I did, the mother reached over and started pushing me out of the seat. Dad appeared from out of nowhere just as this was happening. He touched my shoulder to reassure me and help me stand up. As he did that, he spoke out in a very loud voice so that everyone on the streetcar could hear him. “Son, remember I was trying to tell you what a “nigger” is? He said. “Well, that lady is a nigger!! She is messing up. Take a good look, because that's what a “nigger” looks and acts like.” The mother and her husband sitting next to her, turned several shades of purple. However, neither one of them got up nor said a word. They were either too embarrassed about being called a nigger by a six-feet tall, dark skinned Black man or they must have seen the fiery rage radiating out of my Dad’s eyes. They must have decided that there was no way that they were going to mess with this crazy Black man and his skinny little kid.