When I was five my father took me to a semi-pro baseball game. I was dropped off in a playground area and headed for the swings. Already high in the air, singing jubilantly to herself, was an African American girl, probably a year or two older than I. I hopped on the swing next to her and pushed off, pumping hard, but unable to compete with her performance. When we finally scuffed our feet against the ground to slow down, we began to talk.
Somehow the conversation led to our identities. I do not recall how we got there, but I do remember telling her that I was “white.” “Then what am I?” she asked. “Well, you’re a “n****r,” I replied. Two seconds later I was on the ground, for she had easily knocked me off the swing with one good punch. I took off running, dirt-stained tears flowing, to my father and his drinking buddies. When he swooped me up in his arms and questioned me, and I told him, he and his friends roared with laughter.
I did not understand..