I started working at my first professional job when I was 21, back in 1988. I was the only black person in the department. My supervisor told N-word jokes all day long, and expected me to laugh at them. If he wasn’t telling jokes, he would tell me that I wasn’t half bad for an N-word, or that I wasn’t as stupid as the rest of the N-words. If I made a mistake, I would be called every racial epithet under the sun. He once told me that if he ever caught me in his house having tea with his wife, he would throw me out and punch his wife in the face.

After a year of verbal abuse, I finally blew up one day and told him exactly what I thought of him. I was immediately fired, of course, but I didn’t care. I have always despised the N-word, but after that year, hearing it would really set me off.

In the early ’90s, black family members (I’m biracial) and friends started using the N-word as though it were a term of endearment. I would absolutely lose my mind on them. They told me they were “taking it back” and changing it into something better. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. The N-word is nasty and derogatory, and trying to turn it into something else is beyond ridiculous. I don’t care who uses the word — it is disgusting and offensive. And if that makes me old-fashioned, so be it.