Other oppressed communities have similarly reappropriated slurs, seen perhaps most vividly in the gay community’s adoption of terms such as “dyke” and “queer.” But the comparisons between those words and the n-word are imprecise; “dyke” and “queer” have never moved outside the gay community to become universal.

Perhaps more than any other word, the n-word is dependent upon context. Other words may be influenced by context, but this one is totally inseparable from it. It scarcely exists outside of context. Its meaning is never fixed. Was it said by a black man to other black men? By a white person in a multi-racial group? Were they in a locker room? At a rap concert? A change in setting alters the entire dynamic.

“To me, it’s just a word, a word whose power is owned by the user and his or her intention. People give words power, so banning a word is futile, really,” rapper Jay Z wrote in his memoir, “Decoded.” “ ‘Nigga’ becomes ‘porch monkey’ becomes ‘coon’ and so on if that's what in a person's heart. The key is to change the person. And we change people through conversation, not through censorship.”

A Jay Z concert is like a social experiment on the reach of the word in modern culture. At his show at Baltimore’s M&T Bank Stadium in July — where he shared the spotlight and the stage with his wife, Beyoncé, on their “On the Run” tour — the sold-out crowd was a healthy mix of black, white, Asian and Hispanic fans. The rapper invited everyone to sing along to “Jigga My Nigga,” and the lyrics, which helped take the song to the top of the rap charts in 1999, echoed throughout the crowd in melodious unison. Beyoncé joined in on a later track, mouthing the words “I’m the nigga” as her husband performed.

Janeace Slifka, a 27-year-old white woman who self-identifies as a feminist and works as a digital strategist in the District, stood in the upper deck with her husband, swaying side to side as Beyoncé and Jay Z performed. She sang along at times, but when “nigga” appeared in the lyrics she let her voice drop out, while thousands of others kept singing.

“I didn’t find myself uncomfortable at all, but I can’t imagine singing along, either,” she said. “I wouldn’t even do it in my car, let alone in a crowd of 50,000 people — even if I was being encouraged.”

Some artists, including superstar Kanye West, have been known to grant white concertgoers permission to keep singing along even when the lyrics contain the word — an offer that is frequently accepted wholeheartedly.

“He said, ‘Okay, white people — this is your only opportunity. So I want you to sing at the top of your lungs,’ ” Benn, the D.C. educator, recounted about a recent West concert. “And they did it.”

For decades, a debate has raged within the hip-hop community about the extent to which the prevalence of the n-word among youth of all races is connected to its rise in hip-hop — and the debate has perhaps never been more relevant. When N.W.A. — short for Niggaz With Attitude — first appeared on the scene in the late 1980s, its use of the word felt revolutionary. Now, to achieve the same effect, it requires more effort — and more n-words. The 2013 hit song “My Nigga” by YG used the word a whopping 128 times.

“The word has staying power because we keep saying it, period,” said acclaimed African American opera singer Denyce Graves, a Washington native. “The issue of reclaiming the word and taking ownership — I reject that entire idea. My mother used to tell us when we were kids, ‘The shackles had been taken off the ankles and wrapped around the mind.’ And she would say that we were continuing the oppressors’ work . . .

“I know we will never be rid of this word, [but] I would love to see it just vanish.”

But as hip-hop has aged and evolved as an art form, so, too, have its practitioners. They don’t necessarily hold the same views in their 30s and 40s that they did in their teens.

“We have indirectly given a pass to a lot of people — to just say it and sing along,” said Benn, a rapper who, under the stage name Asheru, released a song called “Niggas.” “We let that happen on our watch. . . . The problem is, white people want to be able to say it, and they want somebody to give them that permission.”

It isn’t difficult to imagine how a white teenager, perhaps lacking a deep understanding of the United States’ racial history, could be left wondering whether it is okay to use the word — when it is a constant presence in his generation’s music and in the hallways of his school, and when African American peers sometimes give him a “pass” to use it.

Nathan Brandli, a white University of Maryland senior majoring in African American studies, said he wrestled with those “gray areas” during high school. His three best friends, all African Americans, gave him permission to use the word with them, he recalled, but he never did so. However, he did use the word occasionally, and always privately, with a white friend.

“We kind of used the word to each other as a friendly sort of word, like, ‘That’s my nigga,’ ” Brandli said. “But eventually I became more and more uncomfortable with that . . . just because I was aware that, as a white person, maybe you shouldn’t use that word, [since] that would make people get the wrong idea.”