by Touré
9. Downhome.
8. Soul. The essence of Blackness.
7. Hustle. [Noun, adjective, verb] A dance, a way of making money, and a very constant reminder that all Black life is a race and that Blacks need to continually rush, think on their feet, and get on by any means necessary. To hustle can be “to make something from nothing” or “to do something nefarious.” We had quite a time the day we debated on where this word should fall in the rankings. Proof that a word with a tremendously popular song singing its praises never hurts, Professor Lovejoy-Shuttlesworth brought in a ghettoblaster and played the classic song “Do the Hustle.” By the first chorus we were all dancing, and if you’ve never seen the way she dances, you’re missing an amazing, transfixing, hypnotizing sight.
6. The Blues. There’s a book about the word and its attending concepts by the great Albert Murray called Stomping the Blues. Nuf said.
Before we get into the Top Five, one special citation. The West-African language Wolof includes the word Waaw [pronounced “wow,”] which means “yes.” This is an extraordinary example of how language can be mined to uncover the feelings of the people. Nearly all cultures believe in a Godlike figure who is the Creator — the entity responsible for the existence of everything — who, at some point, said Yes and brought everything into being. It is natural to feel that God is immense. At the same time, the sense of the sound “wow” is naturally immense, which is why that sound has come to be an expression of awe in English. It can be no simple coincidence that while English gave the sense of awe the sound of “wow,” Africans gave the same sound to a simple but profound word that was first uttered by the Creator. Thus, within the Wolof word for yes is the sense that God is great.
5. Swing. An ancient word in African-America, it has moved from the old spiritual to a musical genre to one of the most effective ways to say “rhythm” (as well as an enduring tribute to Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington, who said, “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”) and has encapsulated the universal Black cultural imperative for flavor, or flava, in our cooking, music, sex, and almost everything else. The word is almost certainly popular, meaningful, and ranked this high because of Ellington’s brilliant song; thus Ellington, who is no longer with us, has himself become part of the language, has found a permanent home in the Black tongue.
This is different than the example of people born fortuitously, nomologically speaking. Eddie Murphy, who often plays a contemporary urban trickster, a modern Brer Rabbit, a con man, has the good fortune of sharing his last name with traditional English: murphy is a word that means “to con.” Similarly, Michael Jordan is a Godlike figure, showered with gifts from Heaven, who can seemingly fly like an angel. And, of course, in Afrolexicology we know the word Jordan refers to a river in Heaven or Heaven itself. Or Thelonious Monk, whose two names together have the feel of his music, that first name a splash of melodic sounds, the last name a surprisingly pleasing thunk. Duke Ellington’s last name seems a corruption of the word elegant. Ditto Ralph Ellison, another elegant Renaissance man. Cassius Clay’s birth name is marked by poetic alliteration, presaging the place of poetry in his life. Richard Wright’s family name is a homophone for the thing that made him tick. Miles Davis was that far ahead of his time. These are names so closely related with the talent of the person they describe that if you gave a fictional character just such a name and ability, it might seem a bit too obvious.
4. Nigga. Always a problem word. As usual it had enough votes to be number one, but was held back by a strong backlash from vocal opponents. This is the touchstone word in Afrolexicology, the word that divides scholars most avidly, much the same way war or abortion has divided America in past years. Many scholars see nigga as the word representing an impressive victory, a repatriated piece of lingual real estate. An equal number see an ugliness in its sound and a lack of revolutionary intent on the part of users. All agree the word has occupied an immense part of our history, going from the worst pejorative possible to a modern greeting and compliment of the highest order, though common usage remains something of a minefield. The deep divide among scholars landed nigga here at number four, though no one likes its placement! One camp wants it much higher, the other much lower.
3. Fine. [In extreme cases pronounced “foin,” as in “coin.”] Of all the words in Afrolexicology, there are few that are, to me, as interesting as this one. A compliment higher than beautiful, foin speaks specifically to Black beauty and speaks of self-love. A white woman can be beautiful, but only a Black woman can be foin. And in noting that someone has transcended beauty into that particularly nubian state called foinness, one not only says she is foin, but also that Black is beautiful, that the constant barrage of American propaganda urging the worship of blond hair, thin lips, and skinny frames has not triumphed, has not blinded the speaker to that greater beauty called foin that rests only in the generous derrieres and pillow-thick lips of Black goddesses such as Professor Lovejoy-Shuttlesworth. (God how I wish I were still married to her!) The word, I can say with confidence, will never be adopted into white culture because it is so impenetrable it can be said out loud in mixed company without giving away the depth of its meaning.
2. Motherfucker. [Noun, adjective, verb, conjunction, diss, compliment, and easily the most history-heavy expletive we have.] A person, a place, a situation, a thing. A linguistic mountain: the ultimate emphasizer, attachable to almost any word or sentence to great comedic or serious effect. Like basic black, it goes with everything. From Bobby Seale’s Seize the Time:
Eldridge ran it down to me once....he said, “I’ve seen and heard brothers use the word four and five times in one sentence and each time the word had a different meaning and expression.
“ Motherfucker actually comes from the old slave system and was a reference to the slave master who raped our mothers, which society today doesn’t want to face as a fact. But today, check the following sentences: ‘Man, let me tell you. This motherfucker here went down there with his motherfuckinggun, knocked down the motherfucking door and blew this motherfucker’s brains out. This shit is getting to be a motherfucker.”
Waaw.
1. Eeeeeuhhoowww! The grunt. The wail. The unspellable indisputable king. The first word in Black English. From the slave fields to James Brown to Michael Jackson, there’s a mountain of blues, testifying, and transcendence in this one completely inexplicable, impenetrable, uncapturable Afrolexicological Hope Diamond.
BLACKMANWALKIN
Woooooooooooo my Daddy must be cool or I don’t know what is what I think, while he, along wit little me jus up to somebody’s knee, peacock around Blue Hill Ave in Mattapan Square like he got a crown in his back pocket and wave to somebody every third step like he the center of a big ol’ ticker-tape puh-rade. And Dad can struuut. He learned how at UCLA (the University of the Corner of Lenox Avenue in Harlem) back when they had professors named Duke and Count and Cab, so you know he learned from the best the way to really do Blackmanwalkin. Now, you might say that no people’s style of cookin or talkin or dancin is really better than another’s and you might be right, but once you get to walkin? You got to give it up to Blackmanwalkin. Hands down. Say mos people’s walkin is the color red, then Blackmanwalkin is a brighter, sharper, mo vibrant, sexy, brilliant fire-engine red. Course, them sorta differences is visible only if you can see. But seein as everythin started in Africa the compain’t really fair. We been walkin a little longer than all the rest a them.
When Dad strut he hold his head and torso up hiiigh and do his hands swayin round his hips and keep his motion smooth but compact cuz he been in the Army and he throw a slight straight-strictly-out-of-Brooklyn bounce in every other step (cuz he studied Blackmanwalkin there, too). If you see him you’ll jus know he in control of everythin round him. And if you a irresistible force you’ll get bashful in a quickfast. Every time I sit up in the window at home and watch him strut out the door, from the way he do Blackmanwalkin I jus know he Somebody. So, I know I am, too. W
atchin him I’m a young-ass, know-I’m-somebody Somebody. And then I see my Somebody strut out the door and I ask my little self, What is it about that strut that makes him strut that strut that he strut so baad? What is this Blackman-walkin about? And then, one night, with Dad and his brother Herbie gone out the house, I get a lesson from Mom and my Auntie Wendy.
Mom and Auntie Wendy push aside the livin-room table and the rug and turn up the Earth, Wind and Fire and tutor little me and me little sister to move like them: followin the rhythm. Little me, jus up to somebody’s knee, don’t know I’m gittin a lesson on Blackmanwalkin, don’t see that Mom and Wendy ain’t really talkin bout dancin, they talkin bout everythin in the world yo Black butt might do, cuz everythin in the world yo Black butt might do gots to be done with rhythm.
The next day I start lookin out the window and watchin the big men do they Blackmanwalkin and the way they be smoothin with they top and bottom like counter rhythms and they left and right in a call and response and the whole thing jus rhythm, jus movin down the ave makin visual music. I see you got to do your thing slow like you is somewhere even while you goin somewhere, cuz you so baad don’t no party start til you get there so there’s no rush to get there cuz wherever you is you already is somewhere jus cuz you there.
So after I think that up I sit my little self up in the window and watch Dad do Blackmanwalkin out the door and off to where the wild things are and jus from seein his Blackmanwalkin I know he’ll return and the crown will never fall out his pocket and the parade will never end and little me jus up to somebody’s knee stay up in that window and see the day’s curtain come down and I get to wonderin if maybe I ain’t right. Is he strong enough to stop the men in white hoods on white horses with flamin crosses? Is he big enough to hold back the world that put Martin on his back? Is he rhythm enough to keep his rhythm from never, never stoppin? Then the day’s curtain is all coverin everythin and I’m dragged off to bed not knowin! When the wild things strolled up, had Daddy’s Blackmanwalkin been baad enough?
Then mornin come. And he wake little me up with kisses on my face and his big red robe rubbin on my chest and Mom is callin break-fast and I piece together my clothes and I watch him do Blackmanwalkin out the room and I know that when Dad get to Blackmanwalkin and get to leavin, he gon always, always Blackmanwalk on back to little me jus up to somebody’s knee.
ATTACK OF THE LOVE DOGMA
It was one of those incredible first dates, where the hours seem like minutes and the laughs flow like water and secrets are traded and hands are held and intimacy washes in over the two of you like the tide. Mojo Johnson and Sara Longlocks — Black and blonde — on a tour of Ofay City’s most romantic spots: drinks at Swoon, dinner at Rapture, dancing at Amour. They discovered they had the same favorite album of all time and her favorite movie of all time was his second favorite and her second favorite was his favorite. He was the smartest guy she’d ever met. She was more at peace than anyone he’d ever known. He loved her lips. She loved his hands. It was too early for promises, but promise was in the air. The initial construction of a true connection was under way. Then he suggested ice cream.
It was somewhere in the vicinty of two in the morning and the only place to get ice cream was Peppermint Frazier, the twenty-four-hour ice-cream and hot-wing spot at the corner of Freedom and Rhythm in downtown Soul City. Black and blonde together in Soul City? He knew better. He knew, as every boy who grows up in Soul City knows, that if you were in Soul City with a blonde after dark, the Love Dogma would get ya. They’d swoop in from the dark like ninjas and disappear you into the night. Sometimes you’d come back, sometimes you wouldn’t. What happened to the disappeared? No one ever told. Still, the craving for frozen and flavored sugar and cream can be a powerful master. They hopped in his Rover and cruised to Soul City.
When they pulled into Peppermint Frazier the loudspeakers outside were pumping a smooth Isaac Hayes beat, and Isaac sang, “Do Your Thang,” and a Black girl in red hot-pants roller-skated over and asked for their order. Two cones. Raspberry and rocky-road swirl for her, chocolate chocolate chip for him. The girl in red hot-pants looked him directly in the eye for a second too long, a bit of eye language, a look that said, Watch yaself, brother. Then she skated off.
It takes two minutes to skate back to the counter, lean into the fridge, and carve out a couple of scoops, but it only takes a moment for a concerned citizen to make a call, and by the time the Black girl in red hot-pants had brought their brown and pink icy cream, it was already too late. A pair of licks and a couple of laughs were all he could get in before his door swept open and he was vacuumed out of the driver’s seat by a quartet of black-gloved hands commanded by a pair of black masked heads, thrown into a black truck, and whisked off into the night.
When the blindfold was ripped off, Mojo found himself in a gray interrogation room, sitting across the table from two Black men in long white coats.
“Mr. Johnson,” one of them said, “my name is Dr. Ziggaboo and this is Dr. Furthermucker. You’re in the Love Dogma’s Reassignment Center, where we treat patients suffering from Blonde Obsession. You’ve been brought here for behavior dangerous to your self-esteem. You’ll be here as long as it takes to cure your psychosis. But your recovery cannot begin until you admit that you are powerless over blondes.”
“What?” Mojo said, incredulous.
Dr. Furthermucker took over. “Our studies have shown that the Black man’s obsession with the nonblond white woman is comparable to the relatively mild pull of marijuana — a mere light psychological addiction. But to a Black man blondes are like crack. One taste and he’s hooked. And some of our patients have really bad B.O. But what chance can a Black man have while living under the constant reign of propaganda that sustains white supremacy? Television, magazines, and movies continually bombard us with propaganda designed to educate us to feel that the white woman is the most beautiful woman in the world and the blonde is the queen of white women. It’s an insidious and not-all-that-subtle attack on the Black male’s psyche, a constant saturation bombing.”
“I don’t get it,” Mojo said. “I don’t have a problem. I had a couple white girls before, but don’t you think I might actually like her for who she is?”
“Son, we have a few questions that’ll help us determine how deep your B.O. runs,” Dr. Furthermucker said. He dug into a large black-leather handbag, rummaged inside it a moment, then pulled out a folder. “Mr. Johnson, please try to be as honest as possible in answering my questions. We are here for your recovery.”
“I don’t think I have anything to recover from.”
“Do you experience remorse, shame, or guilt about your sexual activities with blondes?”
“I’ve never slept with a blonde.”
“Have you tried to stop or reduce your sexual activity with blondes but found you could not?”
“I just said that I’ve never slept with a blonde.”
“They’re always in denial at first,” Dr. Ziggaboo said.
“Have you ever dreamt of a blonde ménage?” Dr. Further-mucker said.
“Of course.”
“Does life seem meaningless without a romantic or sexual relationship with a blonde?”
“Wait, are you listening to me at all?”
Dr. Furthermucker whispered to Dr. Ziggaboo, “This guy is going to be really tough.”
Dr. Ziggaboo said, “Let’s play a little game. I’ll name three women and you tell us which one you’d marry, which one you’d have sex with, and which one you’d kill. Kim Basinger, Erykah Badu, and —”
“Guys, it was just a date! Not an obsession! I liked the girl. I wanted to see if she liked me. It was just one little fucking date!”
“Mr. Johnson, there is no such thing as one little date,” Dr. Furthermucker said, banging the table. “Mountains of research have shown us there are lots of ways B.O. begins. Maybe with a harmless but lingering look at the blond coloring products in the store. Then it’s a fixation with Beverly Hills
90210. Then trips to the international Baywatch convention and trekking to Grace Kelly’s grave and stalking Sharon Stone. Then an otherwise sane Black man finds himself in the front row of a Britney Spears concert.”
“The Britney guys are so demoralizing!” Dr. Ziggaboo said. “She’s not even a natural blonde!”
“One of our patients rented ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’ from Blockbuster,” Dr. Furthermucker said. “He was a wealthy investment banker with a wife and a three-year-old. He watched that movie over and over, day and night, until more than a year passed. He lost his job, he lost his wife, he grew a beard, and then the Blockbuster collection department came knocking on his door. His late fee had gotten so high they seized his Jaguar and emptied most of his savings account.”
“As they took his VCR,” Dr. Ziggaboo said, “he begged them to leave him the videotape.”
“The thing you’ve got to understand,” Dr. Furthermucker said, “is that it’s not your fault. The image of the beautiful blonde is so prevalent in society and media it’s a mass-scale Pavlovian training that’s happening. You are being taught, every minute of every day, that the blonde is the epitome of beauty. They probably seem to be following you like unstoppable movie monsters, as inescapable as the tell-tale heart, swarming like Hitchcockian birds. We understand.”
“Perhaps we should give Mr. Johnson a tour of the grounds,” Dr. Ziggaboo said.
“Excellent idea,” Dr. Furthermucker said.
The doctors led him through the highly modernized stark-white building with the starched cleanliness of a hospital. The walls were covered with photographs of Dorothy Dandridge, Janet Jackson, Judith Jamison, Florence Joyner, Josephine Baker, Angela Bassett, Lisa Bonet, Halle Berry, Veronica Webb, Vanessa Williams, Cree Summer, Serena Williams, Lauryn Hill, Jada Pinkett, Alec Wek, Pam Grier, Nia Long, Lena Horne, Naomi, Iman, Tyra, Sade, and black signs with red writing that said BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL AND I LOVE BLACK WOMEN AND FREE YOURSELF FROM MENTAL SLAVERY — NONE BUT OURSELVES CAN FREE OUR MINDS. Dr. Ziggaboo said, “There are all sorts of ways to cure B.O., but if the patient is not ready to accept help, then therapy won’t work.”