When I heard Mark Fuhrman’s voice saying the word “nigger,” I heard a lynch mob. I saw the grim and gleeful faces of murderous white men. I felt the coarse, hairy rope. I smelled the sap of the hangin’ tree and saw Billie Holiday’s “strange fruit” dangling from its strongest limb.
What a wickedly powerful word, nigger. So many other slurs could have slithered from Fuhrman’s tongue and revealed his racism without provoking those images.
Jiggaboo.
Spade.
Coon.
I hear the hatred in those words, but I don’t feel the fire’s heat the way I do when this white former policeman says nigger. Somewhere in that visceral reflex is the reason news organizations had to use that word this time around.
Somewhere in the sting of seeing it, hearing it, feeling it is the reason they should think hard before using it the next time.
In context, there is no other way to report what Mark Fuhrman said. “Racial epithet” doesn’t quite get it, does it? “Spearchucker” is a racial epithet, but it doesn’t make you see burnt crosses and white sheets. Just rednecks.
The “n-word” sounds silly, childish, something you’d say when you don’t want your 3-year-old to know what you’re talking about. And “n—–?” What does that accomplish other than to allow newspapers the dubious out of saying, “Well, it’s actually the reader who’s saying nigger, not us.”
When Mark Fuhrman or any person armed with a club or a gun or a bat or a judicial robe or a teaching certificate or any measure of power says “nigger,” it’s more than an insult. It summons all the historic and modern-day violence that is packed into those six letters.
Nigger is “Know your place.”
Nigger is, “I am better than you.”
Nigger is, “I can frame you or flunk you or beat you or kill you because …”
Nigger is, “I own you.”
You just can’t convey that definition with n-dash-dash-dash-dash-dash. You can’t communicate it with bleeps or blurbs or euphemisms. The problem is that sometimes the only way to do your job as a journalist is to say or write the word that furthers the mission of racists.
I’d like to believe that there’s some lessening of harm every time the word sees the light of day. I once fantasized about a day when a group of black rappers or comedians would appropriate the white sheets and hoods of the KKK and go gallivanting across MTV or HBO and forever render that image so utterly ridiculous that no self-respecting racist would ever wear it again.
But then, Richard Pryor tried to appropriated nigger, didn’t he? Took it right from the white folks and turned it into a career before he thought better of it. So did the rappers NWA (“Niggas With Attitudes”). So did my friends on the streets of New Orleans. So has a generation of young black people today.
Still, the definition didn’t change.
Dick Gregory tried it. In the dedication of his autobiography, “Nigger,” the comedian-turned-activist wrote: “Dear Momma — Wherever you are, if ever you hear the word ‘nigger’ again, remember they are advertising my book.”
He wrote that 31 years ago, but if Lucille Gregory were here to hear Mark Fuhrman, she’d surely know he wasn’t talking about her son’s novel. The definition doesn’t change. It doesn’t hurt any less after three decades. No less after three centuries.
It’s the same word, spiked with the same poison, delivering the same message of inferiority, degradation, hatred and shame. The same word whether it’s Fuhrman saying it or Huck Finn or Def Comedy Jam or Snoop Doggy Dogg or my old friends from Touro Street (Because, they do call themselves nigger, you know).
It hurts every time it’s in the paper or on the air or in the street. Every time. Sometimes there’s no way around using it in the media, but only sometimes.
Could there come a day when you see it or read it or hear it from the homeboys so much that you hardly notice? When your eyebrow doesn’t arch as often or your jaw suddenly drop when the six o’clock anchor plops the word onto your living room coffee table?
Maybe. And you might even say, that day, “Oh, they’re just talking about niggers again.”
Are we better off then?
