The 2-Syllable Solution: Lessons Learned From Reciting the N-Word as a Non-Black Hip Hop Fan
“Do you feel comfortable saying that word in front of black people?” It was a yes-or-no question that I didn’t have the answer to at first.
My friend Cyrus was the one who had asked me this question. It was early on in our friendship, and resulted in a lesson that has stayed with me.
Cyrus and I share a love of hip hop, and one of our favorite things to do is to debate the greatest MCs, dissect lyricism and wordplay, who the dopest producers are, and who’s twitter beefing (or “tweefing”) with who. We regularly spit our favorite bars and fawn over J. Dilla sample flips. If there’s anything that unites us besides our personalities, it’s hip hop.
Though we’d had many a discussion on rap up to this point, we hadn’t recited raps back and forth often. This was the first instance in my adult life where I’d openly overstepped the cultural bounds of language and had been called out for it:
“Do you feel comfortable saying that word in front of black people?”
At the time, I did feel comfortable saying That Word, but not in the way one might think. To me, my Black music nerd friends were hip-hop fans first, and Black second. My own understanding of The Word in this lyrical context was far removed from the turbulent historical use of it. This, of course, was flawed thinking. But still, I rationalized: I was “woke,” after all. I had read Ta-Nehisi Coates and James Baldwin and had listened to X’s “Ballot or the Bullet” countless times. I had studied the politically charged history of hip hop and its parallel to the Black Power movement, how Chuck D called his music “CNN for black people.” I knew who Ab-Soul was referring to in the title of his song “Huey Knew Then.”
Hadn’t I, a Non-Black man, “earned” the right to say that Word with the full understanding of my independent research of black literature and culture? Hadn’t I risen above the “ranks” of White People through my journey?
But in that moment, these flawed, unconscious assumptions evaporated as I realized that, despite all my reading and all my fandom, I couldn’t experience what my Black friends had gone through in American society, and the sting of The Word that conjures those very struggles. And in that moment, I answered, truthfully.
“No.”
Knowledge is one thing, empathy is another.
I recently discussed this issue with my other friend Herschel, another hip hop head and artist. He posed a more subtle question to me, but one that tried to get to the root of why Non-Black people defend their use of The Word:
“Why do you want to say it so badly?”
I like being a lyric completionist. I like being able to “keep up” with a poetically complex verse. It’s kind of a rush. To me, saying The Word was a testament of my admiration—no, dedication—to the genre. But I realized that I had never been adamant in my desire to use The Word. It was a word I took for granted in my desire to complete lyrics, history be damned.
A popular defense of this thinking is rooted in the ironic concept of Constitutional “Morality”¹: it’s my right to say whatever I please according to the First Amendment, and those that can’t handle that right don’t deserve my company.
I’ve come to realize that I value the feelings and experiences of my friends more than I value my legal right to say The Word, regardless of the context. Friends whose parents I’ve met, who’ve taken me in and allowed me the hospitality of their homes, friends who’ve given me gifts, wished me a happy birthday, drove me to the store, and taught me how to sample and scratch records. Why would I want to alienate my friends who have been nothing but kind to me? Why should I sacrifice my friendship for such a small word, when omitting it is as easy as saying it?
Ta-Nehisi Coates recently discussed the Non-Black “right” to say The Word, and put the conundrum in terms more brilliantly that I ever could:
The experience of being a hip-hop fan and not being able to use The Word [sic] is actually very, very insightful. It will give you just a little peek into the world of what it means to be Black.
These days, I substitute That Word in my lyrical recitals for other 2-syllable words. “Brother,” “people,” or “rapper” are all words that communicate similar concepts without sacrificing flow. I can still show my appreciation for the genre and be included within it, which is all I really wanted in the first place. Just ask Eminem, inarguably a Top 10 emcee who has both defined the genre and has skirted the use of The Word in his art for decades. His career alone should serve as an example of harmony to look to within the hip hop culture.
It’s my right to not say The Word. I do not want congratulations or admiration for this. I only wish to communicate to others that haven’t made a similar switch to consider the sacrifices they make in their relationships with their friends, and to show respect for the culture they love.
[1] You know, the moral Constitution that defines “all men” as land-owners of the fairer skin.
