There’s a conversation people like to avoid when it comes to literature, and I’m tired of letting it slide. Racism ruins literacy. It doesn’t just exist in the “bad old books” from a century ago — it’s still creeping into modern writing, poisoning the experience for readers who just want to escape or feel something real. And every time I see it, it feels like a punch to the gut.
I picked up a book recently, The Accursed by Joyce Carol Oates, expecting to be pulled into a dark, Gothic world of secrets and hauntings. Instead, in the prologue—before I could even sink into the story—I was slapped across the face with the word “kneegrows” like it was perfectly acceptable to throw around. And then, casually, “n-quarters” like we’re supposed to just nod along and pretend that’s fine.
No, it’s not fine. It’s lazy. It’s hurtful. It’s not necessary for “historical accuracy.” It’s a choice. And it’s a bad one. Writers today have a responsibility to acknowledge the past without perpetuating its worst language. There are a thousand ways to write about racial tension, about segregation, about injustice — without tossing outdated slurs into the middle of a story like they’re set dressing.
I’m sick of people defending it with, “That’s just how it was back then.” Spare me. You’re a writer. You can create entire worlds out of thin air, but you can’t figure out how to describe racial inequality without parroting racist terminology? That’s a failure of imagination, plain and simple. And it shows a deep disregard for the reader’s emotional experience.
Words matter. They are everything in literature. They build the world, they color the emotions, they shape the entire tone of the story. When you use words dripping with historical violence without care or reflection, you don’t just “stay true” to history — you drag readers into trauma they didn’t consent to relive. Especially when you’re doing it in a prologue, where readers are supposed to be drawn in, not disgusted.
And don’t tell me about “artistic freedom.” Freedom doesn’t mean you get to trample over people’s very real pain and call it art. Artistic freedom also means you can create better ways to show hardship, tension, and division — ways that carry the same weight, but with intelligence and humanity. Language evolves for a reason. So should writing.
You want to talk about poverty, segregation, and oppression? Fine. Talk about it. Describe the battered, crumbling neighborhoods Black families were forced into. Talk about the wealth disparity, the social cruelty, the walls built around people just trying to survive. Use imagery that bleeds injustice into the page. Paint the truth without using the old slaver’s brush.
When you choose to say “n quarters” instead of describing the desperation, the beauty, the struggle of Black lives crushed under systemic racism, you’re doing a disservice not just to the people who lived that reality — but to the readers who deserve better. You are flattening complex humanity into a slur. You are making the story smaller when you should be making it bigger.
I don’t care how prestigious the author is. I don’t care how many awards they’ve won or how many academics drool over their prose. If you are so married to outdated, racist terminology that you can’t tell a story without it, you have failed as a storyteller. Period.
And here’s the raw truth: it pushes readers like me away. It robs us of the chance to lose ourselves in a story. It poisons the magic. I went into The Accursed ready to be haunted — not by a lazy reminder of America’s racist past, but by the dark mysteries Oates promised. Instead, the only thing I felt haunted by was the casual cruelty of language carelessly thrown at me.
It’s infuriating because I want to read these stories. I want to get lost in historical fiction, in Gothic horror, in sweeping sagas. But every time an author chooses “authentic racism” over thoughtful storytelling, it’s like being told, this isn’t for you. And if it’s not for people like me, then who the hell is it for?
I am not asking writers to sugarcoat history. I am asking them to do their jobs: to wield language with precision, with intelligence, and with awareness. Write the tension. Write the ugliness. But choose your words like your readers matter.
Because we do matter. And we’re paying attention.
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