Dear Offended Black People:
I meant exactly what you thought I meant when the word nigger leapt from my mouth. It did not escape. It did not slip out. I launched it with all the force my vocal chords could muster. I wanted it to stick.
If I was sorry for offending you, I would never have said it.
The truth is, the word nigger tastes like absinthe, dark and heady in my mouth. I have swirled it around on my tongue behind the curtain of nightfall, forbidden. It pairs well with other adjectives, like “dirty,” “filthy,” “stupid,” “ugly.” But it is intoxicating solo; I prefer it straight, no chaser.
I called you a nigger because who pulls out a spade when the Big Joker outweighs it? Who brings a pillow to a gunfight? The word is all blunt edged consonants and feral growls. It is a word you stab with and yank back streaked bloody.
And yes, I do have black friends, but we didn’t collaborate on this one. They’re fine people. But if they had done what you did to anger me, the word would still have echoed in my thoughts, manic to be heard.
To be honest, I needed to free nigger from the cage of my teeth, to allow the word to point its blade toward home: the heart of a black person.
Racist? Call me what you will; I have already called you the name I deem fitting for you.
And if ever I repented, it would be for the act of withdrawal, the forcing of men to become mice and retract words–as if a feeble thread of “sorry” could stitch wounds meant to remain gaping.
From my heart,
Every Racist Ever.
*If you hadn’t guessed, this fictitious post illustrates what I think a real “apology” for a racial slur should sound like.