“Nigger”

I was four years old the first time that I was called nigger. It was my first day at Athens Preschool Academy. APA — who feels like writing Athens Preschool Academy over and over again — was — is I think — located on the Atlanta Highway in my hometown. It had a massive gated field in front of it filled with bright colorful playground equipment. The sun shined off of it and made it glisten. Glisten like diamonds.

Shiiine ooon yooou craaazy diiiamooond. Pink Floyd.

My mother would pass by it and I would gaze out from the back seat of a car that I would soon be ashamed to be dropped off at school in and see little White kids playing, laughing, living. This is a place where dreams come true. I begged my mother to enroll me there. Enroll probably wasn’t the word I used. I was four. I’m writing this in hindsight. She finally agreed.

My first day I walked into a room filled with children who looked nothing like me. I don’t honestly remember if I realized this or not. They did.

“A niiiiggggeeeeeeeeer,” they all looked at me wide eyed and said like kids say things when they see clowns, unicorns, or ice cream.

Three I’s. Seven G’s. A million E’s. A niiigggggggeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was a compliment. They said it with wonderment, reverence, and excitement or at least that’s how it sounded to me. I thought they were simply acknowledging the fact that the smoothest, coldest, hardest muthafucka’ ever to walk on this thing called planet Earth had just walked into the room. I am fucking famous. They all want to know me. I was megalomaniacal at four. Where did it come from? I don’t know. Maybe I was born with it.

The White teacher with her guiding hand on my shoulder smiled the crooked smile that you smile when you see shit on the lip of a person that you hate. They say hello and you smile back, nod your head, and tell them nothing. They will find out soon enough. I don’t know if she smiled or not. I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at the kids. And I’ve never seen shit on the lip of someone that I hate. Whom I hate. Don’t correct me. Just listen.

During recess on heaven’s playground slurred voiced White boys with drawls would say “hey, nigger” as they waved their arms for me to follow them and introduced me to their secret world.

They led me into the woods and showed me animals that they had trapped.

Birds.

Squirrels.

A turtle.

I watched nervously as they tortured them with sticks and lighters. A chill went down my spine as they squealed — the boys and the animals. Squeals of joy and pain.

“Squeal like a pig!” Deliverance.

This is a place where dreams come true. We’re having fun here, right?

Later in the day they took me to a secluded shed where a little White girl with black hair was waiting. She was beautiful and had her back to me.

“Look,” the boys said as they pulled down her pants.

The Black haired girl peeked over her shoulder and stared at me as I gazed at her bare behind. It was the first time that I had seen a girl’s ass. It was round, cute, and interesting. The place where boo-boo comes out? It caught my complete and total attention. There’s something to this. I wasn’t sure what.

Then they turned her around. That’s when my life changed. What the fuck? There was nothing between her navel and her legs. It was a triangle of barren land. A Bermuda Triangle. Where’s her beans and frank? I needed answers. None were given. Just as quickly as it started it was over.

“Beans and frank!” There’s Something About Mary.

The boys from the shed were all dragged into a secret room one by one when we went back inside. Each one exited with a frown on his face. I figured that an explanation had been given as to what exactly had happened to the black haired girl’s beans and frank. It must not have been pretty. I still wanted to know. I was left in the dark. No one said anything to me. The boys’ mothers yelled at them when they came to pick them up.

The little White girl with Black hair didn’t come back to school for more than two weeks. Twelve days to be exact. I know because I looked for her on the playground everyday and counted the days until her return. Five fingers. Both hands. Two toes. No one played with me anymore and upon closer inspection I discovered that the closer you got to the playground equipment the less it glistened. Some of it was rusty in fact and when its metal reflected the sun it often blinded you. Maybe that’s why I went to Howard. No, there was much more to me going to Howard than that.

When the little White girl with black hair came back to school, I announced her return with fanfare. It was and still is one of the most exciting moments of my life. Now I can finally get this whole Bermuda Triangle thing figured out. I ran up to her expecting her to be as excited about our reunion as I was. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The sight of me filled her face with contempt.

“Get away from me,” she said. “My father told me not to play with niggers!”

That’s when I realized that being called nigger was not a compliment. There was something about the way she said it, the way she sucked on the syllables like chewing tobacco and spit them out. My heart sunk. My soul emptied as she walked away. I felt completely and totally alone and also ashamed.

The circle of life and death.

That afternoon I asked my mother what nigger meant. The next week she enrolled me in the preschool in Rock Springs Projects. 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.

Your turn…

John Lee Fisher is a Street photographer and recovering development hell screenwriter. A graduate of the American Film Institute, Howard University, and an American living in China. | Follow John Lee Fisher on Twitter @JohnLeeFisher3

This piece was reprinted by EmpathyEducates with permission or license. We thank John Lee Fisher for his kindness and for speaking of what remains silent — we are affected by what is and is not said. We also wish to express our appreciation for Medium‘s, Culture Club and Curator, Felicia Megan Gordon.