I was 23 the first time I heard the word spoken with real malice in my physical presence. This was, unmistakably, not the fraternal version—the one ending in the soft “-a” that edgy black comics employ in their bonding moments with outgoing black presidents. No, this was intended effrontery, sharp and menacing, ending in the unambiguous “-er.”

At the time, I was selling custom wall mirrors in Harlem for a grand apiece, often to sweet, elderly matrons who lived in grim tenements without functioning front doors. It’s a long and tragicomic story that, some years later, formed the substance of the memoir that kickstarted my writing career. Driving between appointments that afternoon, I happened upon a fresh crime scene. Lights flashed hypnotically in the right lane ahead of me, where a pair of police cruisers sat parked at an odd angle to the curb. I heard the keening sirens of more responding cars behind me. (These lights-ahead/sirens-behind events were a common sensory spectacle in Harlem during the ’70s.) So, I pulled into an available space, got out, and stepped up on the curb as a third police vehicle arrived and double-parked alongside the others.

Thirty-odd yards ahead of me, a body lay on the sidewalk in a large puddle of blood. I joined a loose throng of locals, mostly adolescent males, walking towards the mishap. A burly black sergeant with a commanding air stood over the corpse of an Asian shopkeeper while several subordinates established a perimeter. It looked like the shopkeeper had been robbed, chased the felon outside, and was shot dead for his efforts. The big cop slowly scanned the young black males who had gathered to watch the unfolding drama. He seemed to pause here and there as if to memorise faces. Then he shook his head and snarled, “If I get my hands on the nigger who did this...”