ESPN’s Sports Journalist, Steven A Smith is under scrutiny for “accidentally” mumbling “niggah please” under his breath on national TV. He’s African-American. Whether it was an accident or not his story has led me on a path down memory lane to a time when the word had a specific, emotional meaning. America has become so desensitized to the N-Word, it is my belief the so-called scrutiny will subside and be long-forgotten before this post is freshly pressed.
For me that time was in the late 1970’s. After finishing a typical, stress-free high school freshman day, I was invited by a group of male and female classmates to hangout at the Jack-In-the-Box located directly across the street from the school in Sun Valley, California. Sun Valley was considered a working-class, predominantly caucasian community back then. They were all white kids. From my perspective some of them thought it improved their cool points with me as a friend and others may have just had a case of jungle fever. Either way you look at it, I was game.
After attending a predominantly African-American junior high school where as a graduating 9th grader I received the citizenship award from the Daughter’s of the American Revolution I was placed in high school classes in which I was the only black kid. This was largely attributed to the fact there was approximately an 8% population of black kids. The classes were considered advanced placement back then but not quite called the same thing. Even though I experienced slight culture shock, I fit in with my new group of friends, maybe because my elementary school was predominantly in a white community or maybe because my neighborhood was predominantly caucasian prior to white flight. I was comfortable holding intelligent or not so intelligent conversation. I held my own academically but usually sat by myself in class and didn’t say much. They may have sensed my loneliness. It never dawned on me that I was just a normal high school kid.
I had a thing for Jack-in-the-Box lemon pies and Jumbo Jacks. After enjoying my lemon pie and chatting about typical high school teenage stuff, it was time for us to go our separate ways. They walked home. They lived in the neighborhood. I was bused into their neighborhood. Every morning I took the yellow bus into their neighborhood. Ironically, I picked up the bus in front of my former junior high school. This day I decided to pay public transportation and get a ride home with the Rapid Transit District (RTD). If you grew up during the RTDÂ heyday you might recall there was nothing rapid about the RTD. They always ran late. The bus stops back then were just that, stops. No covered lounge areas, no trash cans and no landscape unless you consider the patch of dirt around the pole aesthetically pleasing. If you were lucky you were first to the pole, held on and leaned to rest your body. Facing west, the bus stop was covered with advertising that was barely legible. RTD bus stops and graffiti went hand in hand back then particularly when they upgraded to actual benches.
The sun was going down by this time. The beautiful Southern California sunset is something to behold when facing west. Orange, red and purple clouds swirl in front of the sun and create a rainbow effect without the rain. It never rains in Southern California.
At this very moment of utter bliss something happened that changed my life for ever. As I was leaning on my RTD bus stop a car of teenagers swooped by the curb. It wasn’t the speed or recklessness in which they drove that alarmed me, it was the words they spoke: ” Nigger Go Home !!”, they shouted. There was nothing I could do about it. The car sped off into the sunset as easily as it rolled up on me. I no longer noticed the setting sun and purple skies. A red anger rose up inside of me that evening that was never again duplicated internally. I wanted to punch someone. I had never been called nigger before until that moment.
Now to put things in perspective, I had been called and used the word niggah on several occasions. Growing up in a transformed predominately african-american community, you had to say the “N” word as a teenager to each other in multiple ways. My parents never said the word…never. But for survival outside of my home, to punctuate your story or to illuminate your joke you had to say it. Richard Pryor said it. We said it among ourselves. The use of the N-Word never left our community. I now consider it lack of maturity. You may consider it a double-standard. We didn’t. On this day, however, It had a whole new meaning to me. It was said in hate.
Later that day, or week I made a vow that I would never allow myself to be in position to be verbally abused again. I always felt it was the result of economic similarities that brought about this type of hate. White-trash hate niggers mentality. I swore I would never live in a community where anyone would even consider saying the word. Afterall, no one has called Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods “nigger” to their faces and told them to go “home”. Economically they belong in their neighborhoods. I would never be homeless or car-less. While I hadn’t physically arrived yet, I made up my mind Sun Valley, CA. was not where I wanted to be economically. Mentally, the word had a life-altering effect on my decisions.
Niggas is the same as niggers is the same as nigguhs. No matter how you spell it the root of the word has negative connotations of hate in my opinion. It is not neutral if you’ve been black all your life.
In the summer of 2012 while sitting in the stands at my son’s football game I was surrounded by a group of high school students. The school is located in upper-middle class to high-class Westlake Village, California. They appeared fairly young, probably freshmen or sophomores. The ethnic makeup of the group would make the UN proud of the progress America has made. Then it happened. One of the boys referred to his male friend in the group as niggah, the other kid yelled back and called the black kid, “my niggah”. One of the latin female girls said it. It went on for a few seconds during normal conversation inside the group. I was appalled. Am I outdated to the point where this is now considered taboo, and cool to say? When the young black kid used the word during the conversation for maybe a dozen times and received it back just as many, I finally had it. I turned around, made eye contact with him and just tightened my eyes in anger. He got the hint and proceeded to apologize to me for saying the word. His apology came across as respect and reverence for an OG. At that moment, I told him he did not need to apologize to me.
Steven A. Smith’s slip up is just a product of the times. The N-Word is now used by the young generation, black, white or anything in-between, as an everyday noun. Just check Facebook. Young, African-Americans are not troubled to hear another culture say the N-Word to them. Have they accepted that they are niggas?  While being called nigger motivated me to make something of myself, It is now a term of endearment adopted by this generation.
The boys that yelled out the car at me, I knew who they were. My difficulty now lies in not knowing where the hate comes from. To quote my son, “after your generation dad, the true meaning and emotion of the word will be forgotten. It will be common-place”.
Do young African-Americans love themselves?
Mortimer George Creations 
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