The dean came by. “Son, is there any particular reason you are using profanities?” He asked me gently.

‘I’m just mad about something,” I answered. I didn’t want to talk about it yet. “Well, please, do not use profanities. If you have any issues, you can talk to the counselor, George Green,” dean riley said gently.

“Thanks, Dean Riley,” I answered.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, and left.

I went back to the dorm. I was sure my thoughts were showing on my face. (They sometimes do).

Dave asked me what had happened. “Dave, two guys called me a Nig,” I said, fuming, almost exploding. I wanted to choke those guys (are at least pimp slap them). “I feel awful. I want to beat the shi out of those guys.” I was visibly shaking.

Dave put his arm around me. “It’s okay, Darryl, it’s okay,” he said, trying to comfort me. I looked at Dave. Dave was really a good friend, even though I hadn’t known even known him for five days.

“Dave, thanks, “I said.

“You’re welcome,” Dave replied.

I called my mom. “Mom, these two guys called me a Nig. They told me to go home.” My voice was breaking. I was really affected by this. I needed to speak to my mom. She was my rock. I could tell her anything.

“Honey, I’m sorry that happened to you. I know words hurt,” she said gently.

“Mom, I feel awful,” I confessed. “I want to beat them up.”

“Don’t beat them up. You don’t want to get expelled from a great school like Johnson for fighting,” Mom said.

“But mom, they degraded me. I want to get even with them,” I said.

“Remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said? ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent’,” mom reminded me.

Mom was right, and I do always try to heed that quote, but I had trouble heeding that quote.

“Mom, Eleanor was never called a “Nig””, I reasoned.

“Nig is just a word. They are the ignorant ones for calling you that,” Mom said.

“Mom, were you ever called a “Nig””? I asked softly.

Mom paused for a while. Finally, she spoke. “Yes. I was called a nig before,” she answered me softly.

“And how did you feel?” I asked her softly.

“I wanted to kick those White kids’ asses. My own mother, your grandma, told me that violence was not the answer. She told me if I fought those White kids, I would just be giving them the satisfaction of seeing that they had me in the palm of their hands. So I didn’t beat them up. I put them in their place by acting like I couldn’t care about them less. They stopped harassing me,” Mom recalled.

“Thanks mom,” I said, feeling better. “You’re welcome,” she answered. We both said, “I love you,” and “Goodbye,” and then hung up.

I was still mad about them calling me a nig, even though I was going to heed my mom’s advice.

Dave asked me if I wanted chocolate-chip cookies to make me feel better. I said, “Sure,” and he went into our minifridge and pulled out 4 Nestle Tollhouse “Ready” cookies. He popped them into the microwave and when they were ready, we both got two cookies.

The cookies were so delicious, moist, and warm that I savored every bit of my first cookie. Dave watched me closely, while eating his own first cookie.

“Darryl, I am sorry that you were called a Nig. I would never call you a nig.”

“Thanks, Dave”, I said. I wondered something. “Dave, have you ever called someone a nig?

Dave paused before answering me. He looked hesitant, reluctant, regretful, and embarrassed. “Yes,” he admitted finally, and very softly, looking at me sheepishly.

“When did you?” I asked. “And why?” I also asked, not with hostility, trying to get him to know I wasn’t mad at him, I just wanted to know.

“When I was little, about 9 or 10, I thought that Nig a good word to call Blacks.” He blushed. “I didn’t mean it offensively. I called black people Nig because I heard them calling each other that all the time. I also heard White people calling them Nig too. I thought that Nig was an okay word for a White person to call Black people” He laughed self-depreciatively. I went up to blacks saying, “Hey Nig!” He laughed self-depreciatively again.

I was perplexed when they would give me angry scowls, and I would have a big question mark in my expression. Wasn’t Nig a good word to call Black people? Why were they angry with me? I had questioned in my mind. When an 11-year-old boy kicked me in my shins after I said, “Hi, Nig”, to him, I ran home crying to my mom.

I asked, “Mama, what’s a nig?” with my lip trembling.

“Why? Did you hear that somewhere? “She had asked me.

“I called Black people that word, and they got mad at me. Someone even kicked me in my shin when I called him that,” I had answered her. My mom said, “That’s a VERY bad word! Black people hate that word when White people call them that! Don’t you dare ever call another Black person that!” She was so adamant and vehement, I was scared. But she still hadn’t told me what it meant.

“Mama, what does it MEAN?” I emphasized.

“It means, ‘We White people are better than you Black people. You Blacks are ignorant and stupid. You are like dirt to us. We are superior to you Black people.’ “Is that what you meant when you called them Nigs? “ She asked me, trying to get me to see the point.

“No. I thought that Nig was a good word,” I had answered her.

“Why did you think that?” She asked calmer now.

“I heard Black people calling each other that, and I heard White people calling them that too,” I answered.

“Blacks can call each other Nigs, because when they say it to each other, that’s just their way of communicating with each other. When a White person calls them Nig, that’s usually said in a degrading term.,” she told me. Did the Black people like it when the White people called them that?” she asked me.

“I never paid any attention to the Black peoples’ reactions to the White people calling them that,” I confessed sheepishly.

“Now that you know you are not supposed to call Black people that, will you still call them that?” She asked me, staring at me hard.

“No, mama, no. I will never call Black people that again!” I promised her, and I still haven’t called Black people Nig to this day,” Dave concluded.

I (Darryl) felt better after Dave told me his story. I even laughed while he told me his story. “Thank you Dave for telling me that story,” I said with a smile.

“You’re welcome,” Dave replied. “Just pretend that the guys who called you a Nig just didn’t know any better, like what happened to me,” he advised me.

“No, I can’t “pretend””, I said, my expression turning serious again. “They really meant it. They sneered at me, Dave. They SNEERED,” I repeated again for emphasis.

Dave said, “Those guys are idiots. They didn’t know you. They just saw a skin color. You’re a great guy Darryl, and you are also very smart.”

I thanked him again, and he said, “No problem.” I did some homework, and Dave and I went to the dining hall again. As we were eating our chicken fingers, fries, and drank orange soda, I saw the Sneerys again.

I asked Dave if we could sit somewhere else. He asked me why, and I answered, “It’s too cold under here.”

We moved to another table, FAR away from the Snerrys. Dave and I finished our meal, and began to leave the dining hall. All of a sudden, the Sneerys stepped in front of us.

“Hey, Dave, you like Cookies and Cream?” Sneery Left asked.

“Hey, Dave, you got Jungle Fever?” Sneery Right asked.

“You like mixing your chocolate with your vanilla?” Sneery Left asked.

“You like the color gray?” Sneery Left asked.

“Leave us alone,” Dave said. I could tell he was feeling harassed.

“We already told your friend to go home, “Sneery Left said.

“And he’s still here,” Sneery Right said.

They were talking about me as if I wasn’t even there.

“Let’s go,” I said, pulling Dave’s arm.

Sneery Left said to me, “No, you didn’t want to “go” home when we told you to “go” earlier, so now you are going to “stay”. He said this, glaring at me menacingly.

He was scaring me.