The world outside Bubbleland was unjust and frightening and sometimes violent, but inside was different. Inside, our futures were brimming with possibilities and our backs were straight and we had as many choices available to us as any of our contemporaries. And that bubble extended seventeen minutes up I-83 to Park, where I was classmates with the daughters and sons of some of Baltimore’s wealthiest families. We rode horses as an after-school activity and I went to bar and bat mitzvahs in every fancy building in the city. I knew I was not the same as my classmates, but I was compelled to believe that my options were just as promising. Demographically, I, a black male growing up in West Baltimore, didn’t have great odds. But inside the bubble, even statistics seemed to work differently.
Not everything at Park was foreign and new to me. Though we couldn’t necessarily afford the resources that some of my classmates’ families could, my parents used everything at their disposal to expand the walls of our bubble. They filled our home with new experiences and ideas; they took every opportunity to expose us to the worlds outside of our neighborhood; they told us about the things they couldn’t yet show us. They crafted new spaces inside our minds and our imaginations just waiting to be filled up with details and experiences. And I brought all of that to Park with me. I didn’t always feel different. I think that’s the point. Most of the time, I actually felt like I belonged there.
* * *
—
These days we tend to talk about bubbles like they’re bad things. A bubble connotes a lack of awareness of what’s really happening, a disconnect from the real world. But bubbles have transparent walls and gossamer skin that allows sound to permeate. Bubbles, like the kind you blow from a wand dipped in soapy liquid, don’t keep anyone out or anyone in. They’re just different environments.
I also like to think of bubbles as transportation systems, the bubble as flotation device, as oxygen, as a sign of life. In Bubbleland, we were separated from forces that sought to harm us and given resources that could expand our worlds. This mobility is the best kind of intention to set for your child, I think. And not only that, it’s what every child should have. It’s what they deserve. And if the world were just, they could have it. And so, if you’re my parents, you do everything in your ability to make that world appear, even if it is partly an illusion, even if the effort is breaking you. You do it, because perhaps if your child can live in this more just world for long enough, it will become their reality.
* * *
—
As is probably the case with nearly all independent private schools in the nation, Park is mostly white. (I have done no research on what other independent private schools are like, but I have a hunch based on literally everything I know about America.) I was one of three black students in my grade when I started, and by the time I graduated I believe there were eight of us. The majority of my classmates were Jewish, which provided an exciting secondary education for me. Much of the first couple of years I spent at Park were comprised of learning by doing, learning by reading, and learning by asking things like “What is Rosh Hashanah and why is no one in school today and does this mean we can watch a movie?”
The exposure to a different culture was invigorating for me. I felt like every day I stumbled into new terrain. I wasn’t a pioneer, of course. I knew that. That was part of the appeal of Judaism—I was not discovering it; it was being revealed to me. And just as I peppered people with queries about Judaism, my classmates were curious about blackness and Christianity. I guess we learned from each other. Sometimes it was awkward—Baltimore has a long history of difficult relations between black and Jewish communities, although that rarely carried over into school—but it was seldom ugly. I think it’s a testament to the school’s ability to create a safe environment that microaggressions didn’t turn into macroaggressions and that students treated one another with respect. Another bubble.
Which is why it was such a surprise when one of my classmates called me a nigger in fifth grade.
* * *
—
It happened, as I suppose these things can, for no reason. The class was briefly unattended, working on a project and talking. One girl was needling a boy. Let’s call the girl Dora and let’s call the boy Prentice because those names are quaint and if we’re going to use pseudonyms, they ought to bring joy. So Dora says, “You know, another word for ‘Prentice’ is ‘nerd,’ ” or something equally toothless. I don’t really remember the quote so much as I remember thinking, This utopia is terrible at shade. Somehow, Prentice thought it might be fun to get me involved in this, which is odd because although we were friends I was definitely not volleying back and forth with the bush-league put-downs. He replied to Dora, “Another word for ‘Eric’ is ‘nigger.’ ”
Everyone fell silent and then I burst into tears. Someone ran out of the room and got a teacher. My thoughts and prayers are with a teacher at a mostly white, very liberal bastion of progressive education who has a ten-year-old run up screaming, “Someone called Eric a nigger.” It sounds like a lot of paperwork at the very least.
Prentice and I got whisked off to the principal’s office and asked to explain. I, understandably, had no explanation. Prentice said he hadn’t meant it. Our parents were called. Betty Grey’s suit came out of the closet.
* * *
—
My first “nigger” was what I think of as a casual “nigger.” (Casual Nigger was the first title of this book but literally everyone started screaming the minute I said it, so I came up with some alternatives.) Even as a child, I understood that Prentice was pushing a button he knew was a button but was unsure of what the result would be. It was an experiment, I think. Testing out language. The way Prentice said it was not at all loaded, unlike the other times in my life I would be called that word.
The point is, this wasn’t a battle between him and me. We remained friends, and I wonder if he even remembers it, or if the people in the classroom that day remember it. I’m not sure it matters to me either way. I was in my utopian bubble and what I learned was that even in a bubble someone can casually toss off a racial slur and go about their day.
There’s no response to being called a nigger. I’ve been called a nigger a fair number of times. (How many times is acceptable? That’s the question of our age. I think it varies by region of the country, but that may be my Mid-Atlantic prejudice showing. Also, does it count if it’s online versus in person? What are the rules?) Every time it happens, I’m like, “I’m not sure what you want me to do with this information.” We’re not engaged in a dialogue; we never have been. And we weren’t engaged in the room in fifth grade. So, the why of the “nigger” is on that guy. I’m not part of it. And the why of the moment is of less concern to me. It’s like Baldwin says, “What white people have to do is try to find out in their hearts why it was necessary for them to have a nigger in the first place. Because I am not a nigger. I’m a man. If I’m not the nigger here, and if you invented him, you the white people invented him, then you have to find out why.” If it hadn’t been him calling me a nigger for the first time, it would have been someone else someplace else. But in the middle will always be me. I am the one I seek to understand.