Barack Obama Says the N-word by Sandeep Sandhu
"His non-answer is infuriating but expected. He’s never been the best communicator, and it’s only gotten worse in recent months. I wonder if he even knows that’s what this argument is really about."
This story immediately grabbed me in large part for how it is about these big Ideas and Themes but always so anchored to the actual characters and the story at hand. These two people in a relationship, together in a car stuck at a red light, both talking and not talking about themselves and each other and their relationship and the world in the ways that feel so honest and true and real. Really excited to get to share this story today, and already looking forward to getting to share Sandeep’s and my short conversation about the story next week!
—Aaron Burch
‘I don’t want to keep talking about this if you’re going to be emotional,’ says my boyfriend, Rubin.
Some facts about the two of us: I work in digital marketing and he’s an accountant at an event planning agency. We love going to art galleries and deciding what pieces we’d have in our homes, although for me it’s an aesthetic choice, whereas he goes for famous names. I’m a vegetarian, and he’s only recently accepted that a full meal can exist without killing something. We’ve been seeing each other for just over fifteen months, and arguing for around a quarter of an hour, which in his mind means I’ve been emotional for roughly fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds. And, to make it all worse, we’re trapped at a red, behind what feels like an endless column of cars.
I’m sure he knows the connotations of his use of the word emotional. But he’s the one who can’t keep his feelings in check, not that he’d admit it. Because he records his workouts in a color-coded Excel sheet and only reads nonfiction, he considers himself a logical being. However, this is a man I’ve seen cry at a British Christmas commercial. A man who threw his phone at a wall because the Lakers missed an easy two-pointer at the buzzer. A man who once chewed out a waiter for nearly a whole minute for accidentally giving us the lunch menu instead of the breakfast one. I decline to mention all these things and get back to the matter at hand.
‘It’s not about me. It’s about your reaction,’ I respond, my tone on a tightrope.
We’re right near my apartment and he’s driven around here plenty of times, so he knows the particular light we’re stuck at is lethargic. Yet, his hands remain fixed at ten and two on the wheel. I’m certain if he had a beer right now he’d take a hefty gulp, but he settles for a big sigh. The engine of his needlessly large, jet-black SUV sends a rumble through my legs. The first time I saw his car I wanted to tell him it looked like a drug dealer’s, but we were only a couple of weeks into dating, and it was the sort of thing my mom would say without realizing what the comment insinuated. So, I swallowed it down. Now, I’m wishing I’d let my thoughts come tumbling out, inelegant as they might have been. Then I wouldn’t be stuck in this monument to gas-guzzling, tension tightening the air around me like it’s a tube of toothpaste someone’s desperately trying to make the most of.
I consider undoing my seatbelt, getting out, and walking away. I could move to the East coast. Or another country. I could become a painter, or a musician, or get really into psychedelics. This notion of a new life seduces me for a moment. But then I press my hands into my seat. The dead cow squeaks as it gives a little. I rub my palm along the train-track stitching, enjoying its roughness. A mixture of his sandalwood cologne and the lingering vestiges of a long-ago-smoked cigarette wafts up my nose. I’m back in my body, and back in this stupid fight.
‘I just don’t think he should have said it,’ Rubin eventually replies.
His non-answer is infuriating but expected. He’s never been the best communicator, and it’s only gotten worse in recent months. I wonder if he even knows that’s what this argument is really about. Because, to me, it’s obvious we’re not really arguing about Barack Obama saying the n-word. That was just the slur that broke the relationship’s back.
*
The two of us started with a lie anyway, so it’s no surprise we’re rocking this dangerously. The day we met, I’d been loitering outside the bank, waiting for a friend who was having a meeting with an investment manager about a business loan. Her plan was to buy expired – therefore cheap – X-rated candy that was originally meant for bachelorette parties, melt the bundles together into a gooey mess of diabetes, then reshape the ensuing slop into child-appropriate forms to sell on to poor nations with even laxer food standards than ours. I spent most of my wait scrolling through walls of sponsored content, but I glanced up every so often. There was a homeless man sitting to my right, and I ended up watching him for a few minutes.
Not being from the city, it’s taken me a while to develop the cynical hardness that allows me to ignore the unhoused. Even nowadays I’ll give some spare change if I’m looking for good karma. This infuriates Rubin, who always claims these guys are part of an organized network with seedy links, as if the seventeen cents they manage to collect in a day somehow funds Al Qaeda or ISIS or Russia, or whoever the boogie man is nowadays. But, at that time, I’d only been here for a year or so, and being callous for longer than a few seconds was beyond me. After watching the guy for a while my guilt, which normally hums along in the background like white noise, was dialed up to the max.
Realizing I had no cash on me, I offered to buy him a sandwich and drink from the nearby 7-Eleven, although the way I phrased the question was apparently too open ended. From this ambiguity, he parlayed my offer into a meal from the Jack in the Box across the street. It’s not really kosher to offer a homeless person food instead of money then balk at their request, especially if you’re standing right in front of the fast-food joint of their choice, which is how I ended up waiting in line in grease-drenched air, trying to reconcile my vegetarian beliefs with my desire to help another human being.
I collected the Cluck Deluxe meal and turned away from the counter, heading straight into Rubin’s armpit, his limb stretched over my head in a decisive thrust at his order. Thanks to being in the middle of a dry streak, the brief immersion in his musk was enough to send a tingle dancing down my spine and into my pants. I drew back and saw his face, followed by the hard lines of his body under his perfectly fit t-shirt, and the sensation grew into a little shiver. My name and number tumbled out as soon as he asked, pushed by the confidence streaming from him.
When we went for dinner the next week it felt too contrived to tell him why I’d been there that day. Every time I practiced the explanation in my head, it sounded like a story I’d manufactured to make me look like a good person. Instead of giving him the truth about the homeless man and the chicken, I pretended I’d only made the switch to meatless during the previous week.
I want to dig a bit more into Rubin’s bad mood. For once, I want him to explain exactly why he’s acting the way he is, instead of telling me I’m overthinking, or it’s not important, or it’s just how I feel. I used to like his resoluteness, how effortlessly he committed to a course of action. There was something alluringly raw about it, his single-mindedness like a predator’s, but sexy. Nowadays, I mostly roll my eyes at his so-called certainty, sure it’s nothing but a shield to protect him from change. I seem to only find him attractive when we’re in a group and he lets out a web of charm to entangle people who aren’t already wrapped up in his life. I clench the seat again, a little harder this time, letting the stitching engrave a pattern into my palm.
‘There’s not a single person in the world who’s faced the volume of racist abuse he has. Remember Birtherism? If that’s not enough…’ I trail off, mainly because I realize the strength of my point peaked at the mention of the conspiracy theory.
‘But he’s been the president,’ Rubin replies. His hands remain glued to the same driver’s ed approved spots. It’s strange hearing him talk about the subtleties of power in this way considering I’ve heard him unironically use the word snowflake as an insult.
‘And?’
After a couple of minutes of being stationary the light has finally lurched to green. We don’t move because the car at the front wants to turn left, but oncoming traffic won’t stop pouring towards us. The turn-signal of that vehicle reflects against a street pole, bathing it in pulses of orange. They finally trundle forward just as the light cycles to yellow, and we gain less than a car-length. Rubin responds.
‘He was the most powerful person in the world. It feels weird that he used that word.’
‘What about Jay-Z? He’s a billionaire – can he say it?’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
‘Why do you care about this anyway?’
‘I just want you to talk to me about your feelings.’
‘I told you it makes me feel weird.’
Instead of explaining to him why that’s not a real answer, I decide to stoop to his level. I kick out my feet, barely hitting the underside of the glove compartment, and the action makes an unsatisfying scraping sound instead of the resounding clunk I’d wanted. Nonetheless, Rubin finally twists his head to look at me, but only momentarily. A glimmer of success sparks in my core. Ninety per cent of communication is body language, after all. But, then again, for most of our relationship our bodies were the only things that did seem able to understand one another perfectly. That last tenth has always been where the issue lies.
*
The funny thing is, I was excited for tonight. Despite the glitzy nature of the events Rubin’s company runs, the speakers are mostly dull and irrelevant, so I don’t normally bother going with him anymore. He jokes the only reliable way to get boots on the ground is with an open bar, but as I learned in the first few months of our relationship, free shiraz, no matter the quality, isn’t so tempting when you have to listen to someone born into billions prattle on about using their wealth for good. For Obama’s event, however, they’d had to raffle off tickets. Rubin said their initial attempt at a first-come, first-serve method of distribution ended in a shoving match that almost took out one of the office printers.
‘Like in Office Space?’ I’d asked.
‘I’ve never seen that show,’ he’d replied.
The receptionist who was in charge of the draw has a crush on Rubin, or so he often boasts. I think he’s being honest about it, though, because when I used to turn up to his work events she’d glare at me like I’d poisoned her dog. He told me his was the first name out of the hat or box or whatever she used for the raffle, granting him and his plus one the right to see Obama speak. He relayed this information with a wide smile and smug eyes, making sure to mention exactly who had organized and run the draw. I ignored the slight at the time – the tickets were allocated a while ago, before our sex life fell off a cliff and we began arguing about stuff that doesn’t matter to avoid talking about the things that do – but now I’m sure I should have been more combative.
The hall the event took place in wasn’t as grand as some other venues I imagine Obama had spoken in, but it was still quite spacious – big enough that I didn’t cross paths with the receptionist, at least. However, the din of excited chatter made it feel cluttered. When the ex-president emerged onto the stage it was like seeing a God; he seemed bigger and brighter than everyone else. I glanced at Rubin’s face and saw a look I’d only spotted once before, when we’d run into some basketball player called Alex Caruso in the mall.
When Obama began speaking it became so quiet you could practically hear the hatred seeping from the more conservative members of the audience. The talk was inspiring, even though the content was vague in the way speeches by politicians often are. The event was raising money for underprivileged school districts in major cities, so he spoke a bit about Chicago. Then there was the usual stuff about unity and perseverance and overcoming obstacles, as well as a few self-deprecating jokes. It was mostly the tone and timbre of his voice that enchanted me.
The controversy kicked off after the speech, during a brief meet-and-greet we’d been granted. Obama dropped it with terrifying ease, like a bomb over Mosul. I didn’t register it at first, too flustered by his up-close, angelic presence to pay full attention to the anecdote he’d been regaling us with when he found out Rubin’s name (a story about meeting the boxer Rubin Carter). My Rubin tensed up immediately as The Word tumbled out of Obama’s mouth, the power of a president coursing through it.
Seeing Rubin’s demeanor shift so rapidly made it even harder to focus, and by the time my ears caught up with my brain it was too late. Obama had already moved on to the next pair of fawners, his A-Lister aura strong as ever. Rubin spent the rest of the event looking constipated, which meant he was annoyed. When I asked him what was up, he waved me away. As usual, his body spoke to me more clearly than his mouth ever had. But I’m bored of only getting the executive summary of his feelings; for once, I want the details.
It’s been about another minute of being stationary in the car, although it feels like time has been stretched well beyond that. I take a break from the side of Rubin’s head and stare out at the mostly darkened street. The only remotely interesting thing I can see is a puddle under a streetlamp, shimmering like sequins. Rubin sniffs. I resist the urge to face him again, and instead try to pick through why he’s so mad. He once told me that his frat brothers jokingly called him Django for months after the Tarantino movie came out, and he still hangs out with most of them, so I know it can’t just be the race thing.
I wonder if his reaction is rooted in jealousy. I’ve told him before that I have a bit of a thing for Obama, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been feeling deficient in the romantic arena recently. As mentioned, I no longer lay my head on his heart and burrow into his soft, curly chest hair after we’re done with our increasingly infrequent fucking. Nowadays, the only thing pressed to my face post-sex is the eerie blue light from my phone.
To be honest, it isn’t totally his fault. We’ve both slipped into a malaise. I’ve hardly been an enthusiastic participant, only really paying attention on days I’m feeling horny. Other than that, my foreplay is all hands and no mouth, like a cursed puppet. Although, maybe I’m being too generous to him, as my behavior’s kind of retaliatory. His lips seem to have developed agoraphobia, because nowadays they barely wander south to my tits, and never down the once-familiar trail of collarbone to clitoris. Sex has become a duty for me, and I assume him too, like making sure the front door is locked before going to bed. However, I’d hoped tonight, with all the excitement and glamor and free wine, would help us return to the glory days. I even shaved my legs.
With that said, this isn’t the first time Rubin has come out with an intense reaction to something the ex-President has done. Last year, he accused Obama of rampant hipsterism for including Courtney Barnett’s ‘Elevator Operator’ instead of the more popular – and relevant, according to Rubin – ‘Avant Gardener’ on his Summer playlist. He was almost brought to angry tears when he later spotted the inclusion of Manny Chao’s college party staple ‘Me Gustas Tú’.
‘Pathetic hot takes,’ he’d spat out. I thought about pointing out it was probably some intern at Obama’s publicity agency who’d put together the list, but even by that early point in our relationship I’d learned trying to reason with Rubin when he was in a bad mood was like cleaning up glitter. Instead, I lapsed into a safe silence, thinking it would blow over like his other passing hates – although at least they make him talk, even if it’s at me rather than with me. However, now I know he has this thing against the former president, everything he says about Obama has become loaded, like the term long-form birth certificate. I wonder: does Rubin even hate Manny Chao?
The light finally returns to green. We crawl off, rubber inching smoothly over asphalt. An oasis of space sprouts two cars ahead, but the vehicle in front refuses to move in, instead keeping a steady pace. That car is the last to slip through the intersection before the light switches back to red.
‘Fuck!’
Rubin slams his hand on top of the wheel. The horn squeaks out a flaccid half-toot that dissolves into the night. His patience is slipping, so I feel now is my chance to get some kind of truth out of him. I’ve spent months failing to finesse his feelings out, like I’m performing a targeted drone strike, and I’ve finally realized it requires brute force, like the actual outcome of a targeted drone strike.
‘Now who’s emotional?’
His breathing becomes louder but more measured, each sniff and exhale identical to the last. It’s a forced display of restraint, an angry parent counting to ten.
‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’
‘Why not?’
I know why he doesn’t want to talk. He thinks his anger will seep to the surface, and then I’ll have the moral high ground he imagines I gave up when I was emotional – which, by the way, was a designation given to me for the crime of huffing at something he said. I consider not responding, but memories of arguments we’ve had keep churning through my mind, filling me with frothing frustration. Plus, it isn’t like I need him in a good mood anymore, and, childishly I’ll admit, the thought of sending him home alone and pissed off gives me a bit of a kick.
I breathe out some of my resentment. To be fair to Rubin, I do agree that Barack Obama – lightning rod for what the media euphemistically call American anxieties about race – using that word is shocking. He wielded power, the ultimate power, even, and he didn’t always use it well. Then again, the scars of hatred are undoubtedly tracked into his skin. Perhaps that’s why Rubin is itching the back of his neck, fingers rooted in his springy hair, face still turned away. Obama saying it has reminded him that no matter how high he goes, people will still think of him in that way. With that word.
I think this idea could be hard for him to process. Near-impossible, even. But I can’t know for sure if that’s why he’s acting the way he is. I realize that if the length of our relationship was a baby’s age, the child would be able to say a handful of words by now, which is more than Rubin seems capable of without my prodding. This fact fills my mind, rubbing away at the last of my empathy for him until I can’t contain myself.
‘Who are you to be the judge of this, anyway?’
Finally, our eyes meet. His fizzle with a scary electricity. My hands automatically jerk into my seat, like I’m trying to ground myself against his upcoming anger.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he shouts.
The sound pierces the awkward bubble that’s been suffocating me, the car now vast and empty, the space between us barren. Fear makes my blood cold and slushy. I join him in facing forward. I can see his lips quivering out the corner of my eye. His hands slip to a casual nine and three.
Seconds later, however, warm joy begins to spread through me, like the swell of an orchestra filling a concert hall. I fight against the reflexive action of my mouth, which wants to curl up in a victory salute. He’s finally feeling the irritation I’ve been bathed in for weeks. Yet, a small wave of disquiet laps at me. He may have been an awful boyfriend, but perhaps in this case he wasn’t all wrong. I look at him, trying to see if his slipping hands and hoarse shout were the only way his emotions leaked out.
He’s in the exact same position he was when his scream was still ringing in my ears, his words tinged with the anger of a man who’s just had a woman tell him he’s wrong. Fear briefly scrambles through me again, not quite grabbing hold, but nipping at my extremities, just enough to let me know it’s there. I close my eyes hard, trying to press out any jitters so I can look at this from a neutral perspective.
Yes, Rubin used his superior physical power to intimidate me. But I’m a privileged white woman talking about race, so by silencing him I’m also oppressing him. Power doesn’t flow one way like a river, apparently, which I learned during college. Then again, Rubin is policing Obama’s blackness, so with the new math, maybe I am in the right, because there is a hierarchy of these sorts of things. With that said, racism is steeped into this country like some sort of bigot tea, although sexism is a pretty substantial flavoring in the American drink too, so maybe we can call that one a draw.
Obviously, I know there isn’t some simple formula to deduce who’s the oppressor in this situation, even if you’re an Excel wizz like Rubin. But this framework feels like it can help me to decide how bad to feel. How forgiving I can be to Rubin. Before I come to a conclusion, he interrupts my sums.
‘Look. You’ll just never get it. Like, how you get up in people’s faces because you know they won’t do shit to you, without thinking how it affe…whatever.’
Rage swallows my unease.
‘Says the guy who shouts at waiters.’
‘At least I’m honest with people like that and not all phony like you, pretending to care about their lives just so I can feel good about dropping three-times the minimum wage on a fucking salad.’
I suck in some aftershave-tinged air. My brain slows for a moment, giving his words time to slip in.
‘So, standing up for myself is a bad thing now? Calling out assholes is something terrible?’
He huffs. I repress the urge to call him emotional again.
‘Obviously not. It’s the context, it’s…never mind. It’s not important.’
We lapse into silence once more. It digs into me, spiky and awkward. The light finally ambles back to green. The car rolls forward effortlessly. We’re minutes from my place, and I’m yearning for a glass of wine and my bed. He’d probably planned on following me into my building, although now I’m certain he knows tonight is a no-go. I’m unsure if he realizes he’s tossed the whole thing away, carelessly as a slur at a speaking engagement. But he’ll learn soon enough, because like Obama, and unlike Rubin, I’m an excellent communicator.
STORY:
Sandeep Sandhu is a writer from London. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net Award. He was a finalist in the American Literary Review Short Story Contest 2023, is an Assistant Fiction Editor at the Los Angeles Review, and graduated from the University of Edinburgh with a Masters in Creative Writing. He is working on a novel.
*
ART:
Pancho Muñoz, or @greenpotion, is a mexican artist said to be born from the ashes of a cursed playstation 1 controller.
Next Tuesday, we’ll feature a bonus interview with Sandeep about this story!