A porn star, nun and the N-word.

I looked over at the older black man across the table. He stared at me.

I looked back down at the table and spoke aloud.

“Now, listen here, you stupid nigger. You give me any trouble and I will lay you out. And nobody will know any different.”

He was staring at me. I glanced back up at him.

He grinned.

 “Now, how does that make you feel?” he asked.

Like hell. I didn’t have to say anything.

Robert was a mid-level playwright in a minor American city. We were in a college class called Advanced Playwriting where a group of about three to four people showed up once a week to go over our attempts at winning Pulitzers or Tonys or whatever.

Before this day, his play had focused on a group of black women near Cairo, Illinois – which I’d mistakenly pronounced like the Egyptian city, and not the proper Ka-Row. A lesson learned. They were quilting and talking – like “Steel Magnolias” except set in a home with needles. It was a smart, gentle script discussing life and faith in tough times.

And my play was called “Unconditional.” It was born from watching a few too many Kevin Smith movies and attending a high school reunion. It focused on a porn star (Max) saying hello to a nun (Maria) and the caustic, rude ramblings of a buddy-type character (Jon). I liked the concept because it was an interesting mix of discussing sex and religion and people who are in the extremes talking to one-another about why their lifestyles are unhealthy.

In the course, we’d have to read the scripts out loud, to hear out the words sounded and to see if they were realistic … funny … needed. The only girl in class was Maria, the professor was usually Max and that left Robert speaking the words of Jon.

In my mind, Jon was a Jason Mewes-kinda character. He spoke in id about sex and sex and sex and sex.  He was crude and obnoxious.

Robert was far from Jon. Robert was quiet and thoughtful. I could have given him the role of Max (who, oddly enough, is a pretty likeable character), or I could have taken the role of Jon (the professor didn’t like doing that – he wanted the playwrights to hear the words from others), but I always told Robert “You’re Jon.”

He’d slowly read through the obscenities, doing his part for the class and the play, his eyebrows sometimes furrowing low as he did so. He wasn’t comfortable. I never really thought about it. I don’t know if I found it funny – if I did, then it wasn’t a good part of me – but I didn’t care about his discomfort. Using bad words was just how it was going to be.

So it came to pass after about eight weeks of class that Robert brought in some new pages to his quilt script. In it, a black man and his wife are pulled over by “Sheriff.” And the black man is told to get out of the car.

He pushed his script over to me.

 “Scott, you’re 'Sheriff.' And I’m playing the main character. I want to hear how this sounds.”

I skimmed the passages and saw the N-word. My eyes narrowed in on it. I stared at it, honestly hoping it would go away. It’s simply not a word I use. I’ve never liked when others use it and I just simply don’t say it.

I cringed. My heart started beating fast.

We read through the passages as the others in class looked at us. I kept glancing down at the upcoming line. My stomach lurched. I hated the fact I had to say this word.

 “Sheriff,” he read aloud, his eye glasses riding low on his nose “my wife and I are just out for a drive. I was just taking her to her quilting club over in Cairo.”

I paused.

He looked over to me, his eyebrow furrowing low.

 “You have to say it… you have to say it,” he said.

I looked over at the older black man across the table. He stared at me.

I looked back down at the table and spoke aloud.

 “Now, listen here, you stupid nigger. You give me any trouble and I will lay you out. And nobody will know any different.”

He was staring at me. I glanced back up at him.

He grinned.

 “Now, how does that make you feel?” he asked.

Like hell. I didn’t have to say anything.

 “And that’s just how I feel every time I have to read Jon,” he said, somehow smiling while he pointed at me.

I didn’t have any way of defend myself. And I didn’t want to. Some might say what he did was somehow wrong. It wasn’t. It was a reminder that words can do damage. I knew he was uncomfortable with the role, but I chose not to care.

Toward the end of the course, we had a public reading of the scripts. I found some people to read the roles aloud and the first 15 pages of "Unconditional" remain very Kevin Smith-esque. Crude but interesting. But I also watched Robert's script and how he weaved so much in subtlety in his story about a quilt. And, not surprisingly, the Sheriff scene didn't make the final cut. His story was just about a group of quilters figuring out how to mend some of life's problems. It was a quality piece.

"Unconditional" still exists in an initial form. But I never think about it as something everyone should love. It's just words -- and many of them are offensive. It speaks to a certain audience, but it is offensive to some people -- and they are not wrong to be offended -- and I'm not right to push it onto them.