I was 7 years old when I first heard the word “nigger.” In fact, it was my introduction to the very existence of racism. It happened during an unfortunate event in my school hallway.

I left class to use the restroom. As I proceeded down the cold, empty, sonorous hallway, with its freshly-waxed tile floor and metal lockers, I saw two boys at the drinking fountain. One was a boy in my grade, who I knew. His name was Brad. The other was an older boy. A black boy who I didn’t know by name. He had a huge afro, and wore some colorful, polyester threads. He was a perfect specimen of the late 1970s. I thought he looked super cool because he reminded me of the guys on the Earth, Wind & Fire records in our living room.

They were talking, but I was too far away to hear their words. A moment later I heard a wave of air aggressively rushing through the vocal chords of the white boy, as he was launched into the air, courtesy of the swift thrust of a foot into his midriff. The black boy kicked him so hard that he flew. I was equally confused and impressed. A moment later, the halls flooded with children and teachers.

After a few minutes of bustling near the fountain, the white boy was being walked down the hall by an adult, with care and comfort, while the black boy was being berated during an abrasive interrogation by another adult.

This set the tone for how the event was received by us, the impressionable children in the hallway, in suggesting that the black boy was a monster, and that the white boy was a victim.

The details of the event would never be disclosed to us, and we would be left to craft our own stories of what happened, courtesy of fear-based rumors and judgment-driven fallacies. But given the role drinking fountains played in segregation in years recent to this event, hindsight would suggest some likely transcripts.

The black boy’s name was Rodney, which I didn’t know until later. What I also learned later is that Rodney kicked the white boy in the stomach for calling him a nigger.

I remember hearing this word, and having no idea what it meant. When I found out, it afforded me little clarity about what happened. It was just a word with a definition; a vague, ambiguous, lightweight definition. I was told that it simply meant “a black person.” So, I thought, “why would Rodney be so angry because he was called a black person? I mean…he was a black person.”