Negar-Nigger-Niggra-Colored-Negro-Black-African American-Negro?: The 2010 U.S. Census and the Evolution of an Appellation

So the big day finally arrived! For some reason, my children have been anticipating the arrival of the 2010 census form like Christmas. They found out that the census is only taken every ten years, and their schools and television commercials have been hyping it up so much that they saw it as a big cultural and societal event.

So, my wife filled out our part, person one and person two. She put herself first on the form, but it’s all good. Then she passed the form to my son so he could fill in the information for person three. And it went well until he got to the choices for race.

He read off the choices: “African American, Black, Negro. Negro? Wait a minute. Which block do I check?”

I informed him that he should just check that box and move on so his sister could fill out her section, but he refused to move on. Indignantly he said, “I’m African American. I’ll accept Black. But I’m not a Negro. If I check this box, I’m agreeing that I am indeed a Negro.”

Now, I’ve been looking on from the periphery at the whole controversy about “Negro” being included on the census. I haven’t paid very much attention to it, though, because it didn’t seem that much of a big deal. Keep in mind, two weeks or so ago I was called a nigger by a student, so Negro pales in comparison.

But can someone tell me what’s so wrong about the term Negro? And I am aware of the negative connotations surrounding the word; however, that does not mean I understand even after my son explained to me that when he hears the word, his mind automatically conjures up images of a servile, obsequious figure, debasing themselves so that they might receive favor. He says this is not what he seeks to be, and this is not what I’ve taught him up, so he does not understand why I do not understand why he objects so strongly to the word.

But at one time, even within my lifetime, Negro was the acceptable term used for African Americans. Is it generational?

I wonder what those “twenty or something odd Negars” dropped off by the Dutch slaver at Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619, and who were counted as part of the census the following year, thought of being referred to as Negars?

Perhaps because they were Africans, and as such, still held a memory of a homeland, a village, a place, a history—an identity, they resented being referred to as Negars. But then again, the term Negar simply meant black, so they might have accepted it without thought. Nevertheless, they did not possess the power or influence—the agency--to determine the term by which they would be referred.

And only within the crucible of slavery would the term Negar be bastardized to nigger, and because meaning is not inherent in language, the first blacks to be referred to as nigger probably did not think nothing of it at all, but after hundreds of years of degradation and dehumanization, black folk began to attach their treatment and their condition to the word, and the word began to gather the power and negativity still associated with it even until the current day.

I imagine, though, at some time somebody protested against the use of the word because in those old newsreel films and film footage taken of whites in the 1950’s and 1960’s, those “proper” whites who considered themselves more well-bred and genteel began to use “niggra” in place of “nigger” although I’m not quite sure of the actual difference it made; the semantics remained constant.

But as African Americans gained power and influence, where we could we began to define ourselves and part and parcel of defining ourselves was insisting that neither of those terms, nigger or niggra, be used in referring to us. I’m not certain which came first, colored or negro, or if they were even used simultaneously; I do, however, remember be referred to as both. In fact, until my eighty-five year grandmother died last year, she preferred the term colored.

However, now even colored appears to be deemed derogatory. Take a look at the following clip. The reporter inadvertently uses the term “colored” in discussing the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People with NAACP chairman Ben Jealous. A few minutes later he feels the need, or maybe he was coerced, to come back and apologize:


I do remember the Black Power Movement of the late 1960’s and 1970’s rejecting the term Negro for the same reasons my son mentions in favor of the term Black, and that was what we were referred to most often when I was a child—Blacks. However, in the same instance, I remember reading or hearing a speech by Malcom X which pre-dates the Black Power Movement in which he stated that the proper term was Afro-American which, of course, became African American at some time or another.

But I don’t even recall being referred to as African American with any frequency or consistency or seeing it show up as a choice on paperwork until about the late 1980’s. Maybe I will pull out some of my old army paperwork from that time and check there.

But anyway, over the course of my lifetime, I have watched as we have gained the agency to determine who we are and what we should be called. But of course, African America is not a monolith. Every African American does not think the same way or share the same principles and/or convictions, so it is natural that we should differ in the meaning and import of the term Negro showing up on the census.

However, just as I explained to my son, what is most important is who and what you think you are and who and what you know yourself to be and what actions you take toward that ideal; your definition and determination of self is more important than the definition and determination of those outside forces.

So, perhaps in the spirit of self-definition and becoming and the memory of those who came previous, it would be best to simply check the box other and write in “Negar,” and then with our actions and deeds, show the world who we really are.

Flukie, call your aunt!: The Fine Art of the Nickname

So, yesterday I arrive home after a long day, and my children are walking around grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Well, I knew something was up, but I wasn’t going to bite so quickly. Finally, I just had to ask them what was so funny. Then in their best down home southern accent, they begin to say,

“Flukie! Fluuuuukie! It’s your auntie, baby. Call your auntie!”

Then they would erupt in laughter.

Then I realized what had happened. It seems like my aunt from back home that I have not talked to in quite some time had called and left a voice mail message. And for some reason, she thinks that for a voice mail message to be heard, she has to shout at the top of her lungs. It sounded as if she was calling me out of the yard or something.

But they were not laughing at my auntie. They were laughing at my nickname, Flukie. It just cracks them up when they hear someone refer to me by my nickname. But I am proud of my nickname. That nickname was given to me so long ago by my grandmother.

For the first few years of my life, I wore corrective orthopedic braces. Consequently, I was a very clumsy child, always falling. So my grandmother began to call me Flukie. Over the years, some people have remarked that it seemed awfully cruel, but coming from my grandmother, I knew it was all in love.

But back then, everyone seemed to have a nickname. I have known people for years without knowing their real name. When I was growing up, there seemed to be a fine art in nicknaming, and nicknames told so much about a person. They gave them personality.

Of course you had your common nicknames. For instance, James was shortened to Jim. John became Jack, and Henry became Hank, and so on. That was pretty straight forward. But I never could figure out how they derived Dick from Richard. I had a frat brother named Richard who I insisted on calling Dick, and his response was not so fraternal.

And then there were those nicknames which, like mine, were derived from physical attributes or character traits. My cousin Anthony was always small for his age, so he was called Lil’ Bit. Smiley smiled incessantly for no apparent reason. And Happy was interminably happy. A distant cousin out of East St. Louis had three inexplicable lumps on the crown of his head, so we just called him Lump-Lump.

But sometimes those physical characteristics change over time, and the nickname becomes a gross misnomer. I had a cousin who was a rather portly, round child, so everyone referred to her simply as Fat. It didn’t bother her self-esteem any I don’t think. But in her mid teens she began to grow up and not out, and finally became a rather shapely, beautiful woman. But everyone still referred to her as Fat.

And there is the tragic case of my cousin Slim. Growing up, he was always thin as a rail. But at some point he developed a glandular problem which resulted in him being almost as wide as he is tall. It seems like a cruel joke to continue to refer to him as Slim.

Then there were those names that told of your place in the family. My mother is the oldest sister, so she is referred to as Big Sister. My aunt, the youngest, is referred to as Baby Sister. See how that works? My Aunt Lucille’s oldest boy is named after his father, so he is Junebug.

But perhaps the funniest nicknames are those produced by regional accents or just gross mispronunciations. For instance, I had a childhood playmate who everyone called We-mare. Only after we started school did I recognize that We-mare was just a bastardization of William Errol.

And then there is the curious case of my Aunt At-lay. Up until my early thirties, I referred to my aunt as Aunt At-lay. Then at a family reunion, my wife pointed out a name on the program which she didn’t recognize, Adelaide Snipes, so she asked me to point her out. But I didn’t recognize the name either.

But when my Aunt At-lay approached the mike at the time allotted for Adelaide Snipes, my wife had a ephiphany:

“At-lay? Adelaide? You men you have been mispronouncing your aunt’s name all this time?”

Who knew? She had to leave the service so as not to disturb it with her laughter.

For now, yes I am Flukie and very proud of it. It harkens back to a time and place long forgotten. And when the day comes that no one still calls me Flukie, when my grandmother’s name for me is forgotten, it will be a sad day indeed.

I think I will call my aunt back now.

Do you have a nickname from your youth that you are proud of or maybe ashamed of?

What's In a Name?: Does It Really Matter What We Name Our Children?

Okay, enough is enough. Someone has to say something; this thing is getting out of hand.

A month or so ago, the above video had the black blogosphere all abuzz. Because two little snotty white boys did it, questions of racism were raised. However, perhaps this video is not all that off the mark.

I’m sitting here looking at an enrollment roster from an inner-city public school. And it appears that we have gone from just plain making up ish to name our children to naming them just any old thing that comes to mind. We are especially partial to expensive goods in the public marketplace or anything that sounds exotic.

But there are some things you just shouldn’t name your kids. For instance, unless you envision your sweet little baby girl becoming a stripper or a porn star, you should not name her Aphrodisiac. That’s not a good idea no matter how creatively you spell it.

And naming your twin boys Cadillac and Caviar might have seemed particularly clever at the time, but you should have passed on that idea. What kind of name is Casino? Or Gucci for that matter. Perhaps you should just stay away from expensive designer items, expensive cars, expensive foods, or anything that sounds exotic but for which you don’t know the meaning, like Diablo. That means devil in Spanish. I’m not sure if you want that label on your child. Or Capricious either for that matter.

Also, if you are going to name your children names like Precious or Glorious or Exquisite, make sure you also try to teach them to behave before they get to school. There is nothing that puzzles me more than children with such names whose behavior is completely antithetical to what their name suggests.

Finally, when choosing the spelling for your child’s name, please at least attempt to follow the spelling conventions of the English language, or any language for that matter. You can’t get mad at me for pronouncing Jamielle Ja-mi-elle even if you pronounce it like Jamal. There is no way I could have known that from looking at the spelling.

You might say I’m being a little bourgeois about this, but I happen to think that what you name your child matters in the long run. Studies have been done about this.

Not too long ago, a study was done in which study participants submitted two resumes with comparable qualifications to a Fortune 500 company. One resume used one of those made-up or cleverly spelled names we seem to prefer, while the other resume used a more recognizable, mainstream name. Who got the callback?

Invariably it was those whose names were more recognizable and mainstream. The resumes with the made-up or cleverly spelled names were virtually ignored even when, according to their resumes, they were more qualified and/or had more experience.

I know. My sister already pointed it out to me. Names on resumes could just be another racist means of sorting out minority applicants. And I do realize and concede this point. But at this point in time, that is the reality.

I do realize that it is every parent’s right to choose a name for their child. And I do realize that we would like our children to stand out from the crowd. And this is not a bad thing. I’m just saying that in naming our children, we should be more judicious and keep in mind that they will not remain children for long.

Someday they will be adults, and in the long run, a name does matter.

What do you think? Do names really matter?