She lives behind the curtain of her nice job advising others on the radio.
She lost her temper and did a kind of primal scream at a caller, and the racial slurs cooked cultural fat back in the mind of her listener, and lodged in the greasy neural dump where we store stupid comments and hurtful mistakes. Feral cat calls run wild and breed sad feelings.
She was called on it, and said racial slurs can start a conversation about race. If that is true, where did the conversation go before civil rights? That conversation must have hid in the ground, and we brought it out to see how bad the winter of our racial discontent would be, like a toxic ground hog day.
Those naked mole rat words just seem to cause us to become angry when in the daylight of conversation. Tombstone paragraphs, over historical corpses, resistance to the sweet rot of change.
Words carry deeds on their back. A word can carry a backpack full of history, even if the word like a corporation only points toward the checkout counter of buying into something without knowing it.
Words hike history and start fires with new matches over old ideas. You may have a new kind of lighter but its the same old arson in the heart.
Words start fires.
Words hike history without looking at the roadside of life. Some words are blind enough to only check the mile posts between landmarks of hate.