Why I Don’t Use the Word Nigger
Amber Edwards
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2020 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Tom Howard, Poetry
I don't say nigger because I didn't grow up saying it.
I don't say nigger because, in elementary school, I learned it was a bad word, like bitch, like faggot, like cunt.
I don't say nigger because, growing up, my [black] mother said, enunciate like the black woman on the weather channel.
I don't say nigger because, growing up, my [black] cousin said, no one will take you seriously if you pronounce the letter -r.
At the grocery store, when my [black] great aunt wants to make a point about other [black] people behaving badly in public and messing it up for everyone, she calls them negroes.
While listening to music in the car, my [white] friend says, I'm just singing it because it's in the song.
While listening to music in the car, my other [white] friend says, let's not say it, just to be safe.
While listening to music in the car, my [black] friend says, I'mma say whatever I want, bitch nigga! And then she jerks the wheel an inch, as if to pitch us into oncoming traffic. Everyone laughs.
I don't say nigger because it sounds unconvincing coming from my mouth.
My [white] coworker asks, is it possible for my dog to be racist?
During a poetry workshop, the [white] instructor looks up from the poem and says it's unclear why the dogs are barking at the speaker of the poem as he walks down the sidewalks of Connecticut.
I say, the author's name is Hanif Abdurraqib. It's abundantly clear why the dogs are barking at him. Everyone laughs.
The [white] instructor says, we can't assume the author is the speaker of the poem.
I want to say what bitch ass nigga white man created this rule?
I want to say, what heinous acts and admissions have we overlooked in literature by separating the speaker from the author in the name of plausible deniability?
I want to say, dogs take on the characteristics of their owners.
This is not my first encounter with poetry, I say.
At the hardware store, when my [black] great aunt can't think of the name of the item she's looking for, instead of whatchamajigger, she says whatsamynigger. Everyone laughs.
My [black*] husband looks at the results of his DNA test and says, no one ever told me I was half Mexican.
I say, I can't watch another video of a black man being lynched on Twitter.
My [black*] husband looks at the results of his DNA test and says, race is a social construct.
I say, I am in favor of reparations, and yet, I think reparations would tear this country apart.
My [black*] husband looks at the results of his DNA test and says, but race doesn't feel like a social construct.
I say, I think we're talking past each other.
I don't say nigger because one time, my [black] grandfather who grew up in Arkansas saw another [black] man roasted on a spit.
I don't say nigger because at first, when my [black] mother told me this story, I didn't believe her, but then, after a little while, I did.
I don't say nigger because, even after watching all 14 hours of "Eyes on the Prize" in history class, a [Japanese] [white] [?] classmate turned to me and said, every time we talk about slavery, I just imagine you working in the fields. Nobody laughed.
I don't say nigger because I want to be careful about invoking history in the present moment.
Now that I'm an adult, it seems like everyone has reclaimed the words bitch and faggot and cunt.
You're such a fucking faggot my [black] friend says lovingly to his [white] boyfriend, and I twitch involuntarily.
All of my latinx students call each other nigger, my [white] friend who teaches in Austin says. At first, I tried to stop them, but it's so widespread, I just gave up.
It means friendship, so long as you don't pronounce the -r, my [black] student tells me.
In Ariel, Sylvia Plath writes nigger-eye and I feel let down.
I'll let you lead this meeting. You know how to speak their language, my [white] coworker says, and I feel let down.
Take you for example, you're white-passing, my [black*] husband says, and I feel confused betrayed let down.
How do you know if your son is a racist, my [white] coworker asks.
After a black girl called my son a pussy, he called her the n-word.
Now I have to pick him up after school because he has to stay late and take an extra class. They call it "restorative justice."
I don't get it, he has a lot of black friends. They've been over to our house.
He only said it because he felt emasculated and he wanted to hit her where it hurt.
My [black] mother says, believe people when they tell you who they are, so I always assume the speaker is the author.
You have at least one black poem in you, my [white] friend says.
As you read this poem, feel free to assume the speaker is the author.
Looking down at our [Black] [Mexican] [White] [Native American] [multiracial] daughter, my [black*] husband asks, what should we mark for her on the census?
Probably all my encounters are existential jambalaya, writes Terrance Hayes. Which is to say, a nigga [girl] can survive.
