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“My great-grandfather was convicted of killing white settlers, so hell no, we ain’t loyal. I’d rather have my history than some bullshit casino money. But the rest of the family don’t give a fuck,” he sniffed.

I pulled to the curb outside the building that housed the Vital Records office. José stepped out of the car and blazed a Cool Menthol in the raw morning air. He looked at me through the window opening. “I’m gonna kill that fucking whore and that nigger crackhead.”

I was used to José throwing the term “nigga” around. Where I was from any variation of the n-word meant the same thing, and its use was strictly taboo. But over time I had come to understand that “nigga” was used on the streets the same way a middle-class white kid might say dude, buddy, or homeboy. When José finished the word with the hard r in this case, however, I knew it meant something else altogether. This was racial, hateful, and ugly.

I made a feeble attempt to admonish him: “The color of his skin had nothing to do with it.” But the words sounded absurd in the face of his rage, and José turned away dismissively.