Excuse Me While I Ugly Cry

by Joya Goffney

“My parents never warned me about the fact that the way I talk and the way I act might lead people to call me white.” “Yeah, I get that,” Carter says. “My mom taught me about stereotypes, but she never taught me about the dangers of being the exception to stereotypes.” “Being the exception to Black stereotypes automatically means that you’re not as Black.”

It isn’t until the crowd sings along that I realize how much of a minority Carter and I are here. How most of the crowd is white, and how they have no problem rapping every word, even the N-word. I know that it’s just the lyrics. I know they’re not calling me the N-word, but every time I hear it chorused, I recoil. And I can’t do anything about it. I’m not supposed to be, or even allowed to be, offended by it. My blood boils because I am offended by it. My skin slicks with sweat because I’m also scared.

“I don’t think white people should say the ‘friendly’ version of that word, knowing that somewhere, someone is still using it as hate speech. Doesn’t seem fair to Black people that every time they hear it, they have to figure out whether or not they’re being insulted.”

that wasn’t the first time they’d said racist shit, but that was the first time I realized they could be talking about me. You know what I mean?” “I know exactly what you mean.” He takes his time choosing his words. “I believe there comes a time when you have to learn what it means to have our skin. It’s like an awakening.”

There’s something about having Black friends that makes you feel . . . whole.”

She doesn’t understand that she can’t talk about Black people without talking about me too. She doesn’t understand that using the N-word in any context is never a joke. Not for me, it isn’t.

That word hurts me.” “I didn’t know that. I mean, we’ve used that word before, and you never said anything. I wish I knew. I wish you’d told me.” I look down with a sigh. “I just wish I didn’t have to tell you. I wish I didn’t have to have this conversation with you. It’s exhausting.” She looks offended. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk. I wanted to understand.” “I know that.” I tilt my head. “And I appreciate it. I just hate that it has to be explained. But, Destany”—I turn to her—“please don’t stop asking questions. I’m glad you care enough to ask. And I’m willing to talk, if you’re willing to listen.”