Da Spinback

By jimi izrael

Not since Iceberg Slim's lost novel Doom Fox have I been so anxious about the release of a book — but Randall Kennedy's Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word promised to be an event unlike that of any literary release I am aware of. Kennedy's book caught a lot of press and Diane Rhem-ing on public radio, and even found its way into an episode of the popular Fox drama Boston Public.
At 176 pages (subtracting endnotes and acknowledgments) Nigger is a quick read, even for black folk. Kennedy writes with a smooth, scholarly erudition that engages the reader to consider the word thoughtfully. He starts with a cursory history, the various appearances of the word in our hallowed halls of justice and finally our use of the word in popular culture. At one point, Kennedy suggests that white folks should be able to use "nigger" as black folk do. Says Kennedy:

There is nothing necessarily wrong with a white person saying "nigger," just as there is nothing necessarily wrong with a black person saying it. What should matter is the context in which the word is spoken – the speaker's aims, effects, alternatives. To condemn whites who use the N-word without regard to context is simply to make a fetish of nigger.
Here, Kennedy and I can't agree. There is too much variation about the mean of "nigger" and that variance is fluid and dependant on too many factors for white folks to grasp. It's their paternal, entitled need to dissect, dominate and disintegrate other cultures that has them crying "double standard." "Why can't we use it," they wail. But they did — for hundreds of years. In fact, they may have worn it out. Enough blacks have bled and hung to earn the right for the community, not white folk, to adopt this word and apply any idiomatic meaning they deem fitting. All peoples reserve the right to define themselves through their own lenses and not that of the dominant culture — why should black people be any different? Italians, Jews and other Europeans use words like "wop" and "kike" among themselves, and couldn't imagine a world where black people were demanding equal access to these terms. Only one white person has ever called me a nigger to my face, and that was enough for me.
I was eight, and Jonathan was my best friend at summer camp: we met at summer camp and became inseparable. On a hot summer day, perfect for a cool drink, his camp credits had nearly run out: naturally he turned to me. But my credits were low too, so I suggested we share. Dairymens Orange Drink was the nectar of the Gods at Centerville Mills. Cartons were traded like jailhouse smokes. In lieu of bartering my stockpile of candy and insects, I'd just spend the credits. As I calculated my credits, we ran headlong to the commissary and copped a carton.

The container was sweating, dewy to the touch. The humidity was suffocating, and the thought of the frosty elixir on our parched lips found our faces anxious. We sat under the shade of the Big Tree, and I folded open the carton melodramatically, like I had seen Billy Dee open Colt 45. We looked at each other with overdone relief as I stood up dramatically, poised to take a sip.

"Whey' a minnit," Jonathan interjected at the critical moment.

"Whut!?" I countered, holding the carton nearly to my lips.

"Mah daddy say a why'man always drink a'fore a nigger. Er'yone knows that."

I lowered the carton before my chest, looked away for a moment…slowly and uncertainly…handed him the carton.

He opened his mouth and poured without swallowing. He wiped with his sleeve, belched and thrust the container at me with a smile. The carton was light: merely a corner and some lumps of concentrate on the bottom. His pallid face was lit with smirking orange lips: drink up, boy, it said.

I didn't know much about inflection and intonation at that age, but I knew enough to know that the nigger that Jonathan thought I was differed from the nigga I was on my block. As a kid, I wore nigga among my friends like a fresh afro, a member of a proud and exclusive fraternity. I wasn't just a member…I was the president, B. I was yo' nigga, he was mah' nigga, thems was mah niggas, and dat nigga must be crazy to think otherwise. My moms used to ask where I learned the word, but I didn't know. Probably from the same people who taught me how to arm fart and draw naked ladies: my niggaz.

Who knows where the "-a "suffix emerged in the history of the word — Kennedy seems reluctant to entertain the different connotations given to different spellings. Lately, this has been attributed to black youth culture, affectionately referred to as the hip hop generation. Well, since that includes anyone born after 1965, that includes me — and I say, the kids are alright. "Nigga" denotes a commonality, a bond in struggle that makes me comfortable in a way the Afro-American, African American and all the rest of those monikers-of-the-week don't. I see this quiet movement among some in the black community to eradicate the word as an attempt by the black "haves" to distinguish themselves from the black "have-nots." I have a few hoity-toity friends that rebuke me and rebuff me and my usage of the word, and them niggaz get on my gottdamn nerves. Them niggas eat ribs and greens easy and greasy — just like you — and the BMW they lease doesn't make the police baton upside their heads swing with any more grace or attention to technique. We're all in together, Delacroix — live it now or learn it later.

Kennedy notes that other cultures have taken "nigger" as term of endearment as well, using it in much the same way that black folks do. Kennedy:

Whites are increasingly referring to themselves as niggers . . .and miscues are bound to proliferate as speakers and audiences mis-judge one another.
Miscues? That's the understatement of the year, Jack.
White folks want to join the club, so they embrace other terms they consider affectionate and duly familiar. I've been called "holmes," "homie," "boy," "homeboy" and "bro" more times than I care to mention. I think Kennedy's secret agenda is to pick up where Colin Ferguson left off — because there would be a trail of dead honkeys wearing FUBU from here to Johannesburg if white folk get it in their mind that they can ever again in the history of humanity form their lips to utter this word in mixed company. Even Eminem — as crazy as he is — knows better.

I teach my son that there are no "bad words," but a time and place when he will know how to use and abuse the English language thoughtfully and with due care — just like his Daddy. White folks are just like children — they have no concept of propriety and way too much attention to proper enunciation.

I wondered if Nigger would be a usage guide, a detailed etymology or something of an owner's manual: after all, these kind of books aren't written for black folks. Despite the refusal to acknowledge the important meanings attached to the varied -a, -uh and -az suffixes (a gross, inexcusable fumble) it is all of these things, and an intriguing, important read. Still, it bears mentioning that much of the content of books like Kennedy's, Lawrence Graham's Member of the Club and Lena Williams' It's the Little Things just reiterates home truths. We already know how f----d up white folk can be. These books are for largely meant for well-meaning white folk looking to get invited to your next barbecue, hoping to get in and out of your house alive without making any egregious faux pas. Buying these kinds of books makes white folks think that at least they are trying, and there doesn't seem to be any shortage of brothers and sisters trying to cash in on their guilt. Right On — I got next.


First published: April 25, 2002