I was reading George Saunders’ debut short story collection, CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, when I came across the n-word. It was on the second page of the second story. On page two of any given Saunders story the reader will find themselves dropped into a just unfamiliar world without enough context to know the rules. Language is probably a little sideways; a nice enough person is likely experiencing a terrible exploitation rendered so monotonous it becomes kind of funny. Having never encountered this slur in any of Saunders’ other work, when I came across it (in all its -er glory) I was surprised and disappointed. Was this 1996 George? Flexing literary jurisdiction like a hall pass?
Growing up in Kentucky I allowed my white friends to use the n-word with impunity. Blessed them even: I don’t care! See I’m just like you! I wanted straight hair and blue eyes; I wanted boys to like me and for boardwalk henna tattoos to stand out on my skin as well as they did on others’. I was referred to as Oreo—white on the inside, black on the outside—and I wore my Whitest Black Girl moniker with pride. Yet even while I stewed in unconscious self-hatred, every time “nigga” was casually tossed between white preteens, I knew something was wrong. It was so unlike all the other bad words we tested out on the bus. I could tell it was different, that I was implicated in its use, because each time a new white girl said it in my presence she would look at me, a flash from the corner of a cornflower eye. When I would say nothing—laugh, repeat it louder, more accented, faster, manic in my acceptance—she would unclench her moon-white buttcheeks.
Then we moved to Philadelphia and I joined a slam poetry team. Needless to say, all previous permissions were revoked. It’s impossible for me to overstate the role the Philly Youth Poetry Movement (PYPM) played in my racial healing. Think: when Dorothy touched down into technicolor, or in The Wiz when everyone unzips their skin suits and sings Brand New Day looking resplendent in yellow. I am lucky to have experienced that again this summer, the weightlessness of an all black space.
I’ve mostly been home for the past month, celebrating the engagements of two of the five girls I am still friends with from elementary and middle school. We’ve grown separately and together. They have houses and fiancés and still tease me about the boy I “dated” when I was eleven. They are all white. We do not use the n-word. They are family, but I can’t help but feel in their group how I feel when I read anything by a white author. Braced for impact. Sometimes I try to explain the feeling of existing in white spaces to the white people in my life. I have never quite found the words, it feels untranslatable to a certain extent. I’m primed, coiled, running regressions on the stream of social data—for me, nothing is worse than the surprise.
I thought I would have to address the n-word at some point during the bachelorette weekend—I was outnumbered 19:1—but it never happened. I made it home, exhaled and opened my book. It felt like a cosmic gotcha. Of course given the narrative Saunders’ use of the word was justified. The story as a whole was an honest condemnation of hate with a bloody, tender ending. Very George. Yet the story was soured for me. Justified, but alienating. If I still envy anything about whiteness it would be this: that a book is never a minefield.
xx
Mia
Mia, it's been a long time since I've responded to one of your posts. One of many reasons is that I finally had my back surgery and have been a little down for the past 3 months. I really do enjoy all your post, and although I may not comment I do read them and enjoy receiving them so much. This post was just beautiful. Growing up and being in dance I was exposed to blacks, asian, indian etc.k Never gave a thought to their color or anything, they were my friends and I loved them regardless. I"ve never used the "n" word, never really gave it a thought. Thank you so much for this post and letting me see things through your eyes. I've subscribed, so I'm looking forward to seeing a lot more of your beautiful work. Much Love, Lola