7:45 am on a Manhattan-bound Q train. It's crowded, and M and I are standing. Four or five young men board the train, about 15 or 16 years old. They are talking amongst themselves about something no doubt completely innocuous, but loudly, and it is f__ this and sh__ that and, especially, a more or less constant stream of the n-word.
I stand there trying to tune it out and hoping M is, too. But they get louder and louder, and finally, I turn to the one talking into my ear and say, in what I hope is a reasoned tone, "Listen. She's four. Does she really have to listen to this?"
They were genuinely apologetic: "Sorry miss," and I was prepared to let it go. After all, they really were just chatting to each other, in the way that teenagers do. It is their vernacular. I accept this- just not right in the ear of my four-year-old.
Then M looks up at me and herself utters the n-word, with a question mark at the end.
I said to her, probably much too firmly, "You must never say that word, do you understand? It's a very bad word. Never say it." She looked down and, perceiving that she had done something wrong but having no idea what, began to cry. Hard.
I picked her up in my arms to comfort her. I said to the young men, "I hope you're pleased with yourselves." All of this took less than 30 seconds.
My immediate thoughts were as follows: I should have been more compassionate with M. I should have been more articulate with those boys. Maybe, I should never have opened my mouth. But even had I not, clearly that word entered her brain.
Certainly I don't blame those boys for her distress, but I'm sure they misinterpreted what I said. I blame them for something more important than that. And maybe I shouldn't blame them- I don't know if it's appropriate to expect them to reflect on how what they are saying sounds to someone who does not speak their vernacular. Somehow I can't picture them talking to their mothers that way, but at the end of the day, I am still blinded by my cultural lens. I can't imagine what their words do or don't mean to them.
But I can only think that if ever there was empirical proof that language has an impact, this is exhibit A. To put it in the starkest possible terms, I don't think those boys want to be the ones who taught a little white girl the n-word, regardless of what else I might teach her about the n-word. If I asked them, I bet that's what they'd say to me: I don't want to be that guy- I can imagine that.
The train was full of all kinds of people, of every hue. I have no idea what anyone thought of the exchange, if they thought anything at all. But what a relief that children are children: I was able to cheer M up on the rest of our trip to school, and by the time we got there, she was running down the hill, pretending to be a dog, and anxious to be inside and join her friends, per usual. I went to her classroom in hopes of catching her teachers so that, if she should decide to try the word out again at school, they would know the background.
Her teachers were not surprised, but I was, when I burst into tears while telling the story. And, truly, of the many moments that I wish I could have called my mom in the last six years, never more so than today. Why? I couldn't tell you, not exactly. It was just a harrowing experience.
I know that this will come up again. I only hope that next time, I can be more prepared and less reactive. I hope I can make M understand without making her cry. And most of all... I could really live without the audience. This subject is hard enough as it is.
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