The Weight of Words

Added January 23, 2025 at 12:10pm by Jalysa Combs
Title: Video

DMU Timestamp: January 23, 2025 13:46

Added January 23, 2025 at 12:13pm by Jalysa Combs
Title: Text

Long Division, Kiese Laymon, Copyright 2013, Chapter 4, 32 - 37

I know the word, but it’s just that my insides hurt when you say that word,”

Long Division tells the story of a 14-year-old boy named City who navigates his relationship with those around him and his identity and language in the world.

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“Citoyen, we’d like to welcome you, too.” “Thanks. My name is City.” “Your first word, Citoyen, is… ‘niggardly.' Before uttering a syllable, I ran back to our dressing room and got my brush. “I just think better with this in my hand,” I told the voice when I got back. “No problem. ‘Niggardly,’ Citoyen.” “For real? It’s no problem?” | looked out into the white lights, hoping somebody would demand they give me another word- not because I didn’t know how to use it, but because it just didn’t seem right that any kid like me should have to use a word like that, not in front of all those white folks. “Etymology, please?” I asked him. “From Old Norse nigla.” “Nigla? That’s funny. Am I pronouncing the word right? ‘Nigga’dly.’ Pronunciation, please.” “Nig-gard-ly,” he said. “Citoyen, you have thirty more seconds.” I kept squinting, trying to see out beyond the lights, beyond the stage. “Okay. Y’all have time limits at nationals, huh? I know the word, but it’s just that my insides hurt when you say that word,” I whispered into the mic. “Is that your sentence, Citoyen?” the voice asked. I sucked my teeth and sped up my brushing. “You know that ain’t my sentence.” “Citoyen. You have ten seconds.” I slowed my brushing down and angled myself toward LaVander Peeler. “Um, okay, I hate LaBander Veeler” I said. “Is this your sentence, Citoyen?” “No. Um, I truly hate LaBander Veeler sometimes more than some of y’all hate President Obama and I wonder if LaBander Veeler should behave like the exceptional African-American boy he was groomed to be in public by his UPS-working father, or the, um, weird, brilliant, niggardly joker he really is when we’re the only ones watching.” I brought the brush to my waist. The judges looked at me for about ten seconds without moving before they turned toward each other. The head judge covered the microphone and started whispering to the other judges. “Noooo, Citoyen,” he finally said. “We are so, so sorry. That is not the correct, appropriate, or dynamic usage of ‘niggardly’ in a sentence. An example of correct, dynamic usage would be Perspiration covered the children who stared incessantly at the woman in the head wrap since she insisted on being so niggardly with the succulent plums and melons. Please have a seat.” I started brushing the skin on my forearm, then pointed my brush toward the light. That’s all I could see. I walked toward my seat, then turned around and headed back to the microphone. “I mean, even if I used the word right, I still would’ve lost. Plums and melons? You see that, don’t you?” The buzzer went off again. I threw my brush toward the light and the buzzer kept going off. “That’s messed up, man,” I told them. “What was I supposed to do?” I saw Cindy offstage to the right, motioning for me to sit down. “Forget you, Cindy! Look at LaVander Peeler over there crying. I hate that dude. Naw, I mean really hate. I be sitting at home sometimes praying that someone will sew his butt hole tight so he could almost die from being so backed up. I’m serious, but look at that nigga over there with tears in his eyes, looking crazy as hell on TV. It don’t make no sense. “Now look at them Mexicans.” The buzzer went off again. I turned around and looked at the Mexican girl on my row. “You think it’s hard for y’all in Arizona? Look at us. Look at us. They do us like this in our own state. Ain’t nothing these white folks can do to make you feel like me and LaVander Peeler feel right now. They scared of y’all taking their jobs and cutting them in they sleep. They scared of us becoming Obama or O-Dawg. I mean, do y’all even call yourself Mexican? Ain’t this a competition for Americans? Peep how they made slots for Mexicans but you don’t see no slots for no Africans or no Indians. When I say Indian, I mean Native American. Where the Native Indian and African players at? Shid.” Stephanie stood up, stretched her back, walked right up to my face, kicked me in my kneecap, and said, “Please sit your fat ass down.” She whispered in my ear, “I’m trying to help you out. Seriously. You have no clue how you’re playing yourself right now.” The buzzer went off again. I put one hand on top of my belly blubber and started going over the top of my head with the palm of my other hand. Short, fluid strokes. “I ain’t playing myself. Shoot. What was I supposed to do?” I said to everyone one more time. “Bet you know my name next time. And I bet you won’t do this to another little nigga from Mississippi. Shout out to my Jackson confidants: Toni, Jannay, Octavia, Jimmy, and all my country niggas: Shay, Kincaid, and even MyMy down in Melahatchie just trying to stay above water. I got y’all. Death to all our opposition. President Obama, you see how they do us down here while you up there calling us thugs? You see?” With that, I walked off, right past my chair, past the Mexican girl who’d kicked me, directly into the backstage area. Then I turned around and walked to the middle of that stage. “And fuck white folks!” I yelled at the light and, for the first time all night, thought about whether my grandma was watching. “My name is City. And if you don’t know, now you know, nigga!”

DMU Timestamp: January 23, 2025 13:46