Am I writing like a n-word?

How I hide from my basest n-word thoughts.

Photo by Unseen Studio on Unsplash

Prologue: This is based on a true story and the excellent essay by

Arden Yum

, “Am I writing like a white woman?”

About six years ago, I used to ride my bike to a Gramercy office to work a shitty job that I had no choice but to swallow hard and accept. A friend had laid out the terms of for me and they were simple. I just had to hide that, inside, I’m a bad-minded n-word.

“You’re going to write a newsletter for a small personal finance company. The CEO and her husband are crazy but they need good copy. It’s 20 an hour but I can get them to 25.”

I’d been making 55 an hour with benefits so it was one of those adult life gut punches you have to breathe through so it doesn’t cave you in.

The CEO had an air about her that I recognize from living in the Northeast so long. Dumpy pantsuits propped up lip-service politics, but I knew she’d be afraid to walk on my side of 5th Avenue at night. She drank a lot of Folger’s coffee and jumped in her seat whenever I entered her space, no matter how long I’d been there or how much I’d arched my neck in submission. I paid that no mind because a check is a check, after all, and my last job, working with all Black people in media, had dried up.

I wasn’t a perfect copywriter, nor was she a perfect editor, but she recognized my more-than-20-an-hour ability and immediately did what bosses do. She gave me more work for more hours and money. I took it because I was ashamed not to, and afraid to strike out on my own. I didn’t think I’d get work like this or any.

But I could write white. I could write properly. Not just for her dumb newsletter on how to save a few bucks on groceries while re-investing your 401K. I could write white on Slack, where I reassured her the young white copywriters liked her. (They didn’t; they insulted behind her back.) I could write white in emails, where I complimented her long career in newspapers while gently reminding her my invoice was outstanding. Just like my bills.

I used comforting white phrases like “regret to inform.”

“Doria, I regret to inform you that my March invoice remains outstanding in Bill.com. This is unfortunate and I’d hate to cause you strife over a clerical error. Can you check that the money was remitted to my account when you indicated delivery on February 15? Thank you so much in advance.”

I thanked her in advance for paying me late. But I could write white, and I had to because the job wasn’t about skills. It was about not scaring Doria with n-word feelings and n-word thoughts.

Then, out of nowhere, she decided to launch a podcast. There’s no art better at attracting those who like to hear themselves talk. I say this as an egotist writer. I had written and produced podcasts, as had my friend. She asked us to set up a portable studio and outline the segments she could do.

Really, she wanted to use our earned knowledge while she acted as ringmaster, puppeteering our hands and feet into the shapes she’d need to record the episodes. She also wanted my n-word opinions (but not too many) on how to make the show—one on women’s entrepreneur stories—more authentically diverse. This is when writing white came in handy. I played a wicked n-word on camera, of course, but on the page, you couldn’t quite tell.

“Well, Doria, I found an existing podcast of the same name of you’ve invented, but it’s by someone…diverse. I’ve drafted a letter you could send asking to use the name. It’s been dormant since last year so maybe she’d be open to collaborating?”

“It’s been dead for over a year? Do you think I have to ask her to use the name?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s any kind of moral offense but the liabilities. You don’t want to get into some public back-and-forth if yours takes off and she decides she wants it back.”

“That’s a good point. We should reach out. Can you email her and CC me?”

With that, we went into the business of podcasting. She’d brief me on the upcoming guests and how she knew them. I’d write a series of questions she could use to guide the conversation. My friend would splice the edit and—voilà!—an interview was born. At some point before the second interview, I wrote some pillowy white words suggesting she omit a hackneyed question.

Can you name a woman you wish you were?

I hated this question because I predicted it would yield the same responses from every guest: Michelle Obama and Oprah. Something about these Northeast effete CEOs performing TedX-ed versions of themselves necessitated that they signal to Doria (and the world) that they liked n-words, that some women n-words made them feel safe, guilty, and comfortable, and that there was only one answer to such a question. When the first guest issued her cloying “Michelle Obama, obviously!” I decided I’d had enough. I would not have another GirlBoss declaring Michelle their Fairy N-Mother.

“Doria, I’m having a lot of trouble with one of the questions, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something feels off,” I wrote in a Slack message. I went on to explain how that question wouldn’t give rare insight into their “personal journeys,” how some would default to answers they felt were socially acceptable, and how that could lead to an inauthentic exchange. She defended the question. My inner n-word growled.

Around 7 episodes—5 Michelles and 2 Oprahs—in, I broached it again in a whiter email.

“Hey, Doria! Great episode (again!) After much thought, I’m seriously wondering whether or not we should cut that one question. It feels like—and stop me if I’m out of bounds here—people keep giving the same answer. I worry how that will strike the audience.”

“Andrew, I think you’re worrying a bit too much about this. And it’s not your jurisdiction to make that kind of call. Besides, it’s a real compliment to those powerful women that they’ve made this kind of impact on so many. Who am I to censor them? I’m starting to doubt your commitment to this project and to me. To my creative judgment!”

Then, she called me into her office, gulping back whimpers. This was a few minutes after sending the above email. I knew then that I’d have to back off my n-word defiance. The brimming tears warned me she’d been hit.

---

Recently, I’ve been reading Percival Everett’s James, a sadly uproarious satire about the tale of Huckleberry Finn told through the eyes of Jim. He’s affectionately called Nigger Jim in the original, as if to say, “We know who you are and who you’ll always be.” Jim has the dual challenge of freeing his family and keeping Huck safe, despite his best judgment saying that being a savior could kill him.

I realized when I pushed back on Doria’s flat question that she’d been playing my n-word game all along. That was the ultimate insult to both of our experiences. I hadn’t been writing white. I was merely surviving. She hadn’t been cowering in her n-word fears. She’d been calling me out of my name loud and clear. With the low wage. With the late payments. With the lip service.

I love how writers of color assume the role of tricksters because it gets us closer to our conscience and further from white truth. Yet it would be writing like a [redacted] to admit that too much.