The Hilt of My Sword
“Everyone there was Black. I fought every day. Many times I lost. This is the story of my life. I could stop here, but I am just getting started.” — John Lee Fisher
I remember the last time I was called ‘nigger’ by a white person. Vividly. It happened just a little over a couple of months ago. The kid could not have been more than twelve. I handled the situation. The word, to me, rolled off my back like water. Because the kid could have heard the word in his headphones just as much as he could have heard it come out of his parent’s mouths. And based on our interaction I am certain he’ll think twice — I was supposed to be scared in his eyes and when I spoke to him as an adult should to any misbehaving child he revealed in the immediate lowering of both his eyes and his voice that he was still just a very little boy.
The thing is, I cannot for the life of me remember the first time I heard a black person call me nigger. Not any more. Not the exact very first time. And I would be lying through time, space, and my teeth if I said some foolishness like, “I don’t use that word.” But to be called that and much worse by black folks is when words makes tears pour down sticky like blood. To have to fight my own is what confuses me. In the midst of all the madness people are afraid to talk about “black on black” in public. As though at this late date, so early into the start of another century and counting, we are not still pitted against each other as young as four in the school yard. I ain’t goin’ down that road anymore. We are here now. How do we learn to treat ourselves more kind? I know that is what I now look for, especially when talking to myself and to others who, when they were small, were all kinda just the same for a while — kids who wanted to play in the sunshine and be loved. Oh a sister knows how to fight, let me assure you. But when asked to turn the sword on my own? Because their parents ain’t teach ‘em no better still? What would we all be left with? We are all in this here fire.
A sister gets tired of fighting. But ‘tis a strange strange thing the experience with words teaches you when at a young age you learn how to use words, above all else, to defend yourself. How we defend each other? I would like to think I defended that little white boy I just told you about from himself and whoever it is that he may have encountered who might not have been so kind had he bypassed me and met them first, and they met him first with a fist.
