When news broke that America’s beloved rapper, Snoop Dogg, was headlining the Crypto Ball—a crypto industry bash ahead of Trump’s inauguration to celebrate his re-election—the first thought that hit me was, “What tracks can he possibly perform for this crowd without using the n-word?”
Sure, I wasn’t blind to the obvious—that rappers like Snoop Dogg spent years spitting bars about being Black, broke, and battling the system. But now, here he was, poised to perform for a crowd of crypto bros and MAGA die-hards who likely viewed his music as nothing more than a catchy beat to nod along to, utterly divorced from its original context. It wasn’t just ironic—it was surreal, a collision of worlds that seemed impossible to reconcile. How does a man who built his career on exposing the cracks in the American Dream reconcile performing for a room full of people who either created the cracks, ignore those cracks, benefit from the cracks or pretend they don’t exist?
But there Snoop was, unapologetically dropping the n-word in front of what appeared to be an almost all-white audience. The irony was impossible to ignore: a word steeped in the pain, history, and resilience of Black culture being tossed around in a space where its weight was likely reduced to nothing more than part of the vibe. It wasn’t just awkward—it was unsettling.
Every time he said it, you couldn’t help but wonder how many in that crowd took it as permission to claim it for themselves, emboldened by the idea that if Snoop was saying it to them, then why couldn’t they? After all, if the man who made it cool, who used it as a declaration of identity and defiance, was comfortable throwing it around here, who’s to stop them from following suit?
I am not one of the Black people confused about the n-word’s history in American English. White people used it when we were enslaved, stripping us of our humanity. It was derogatory then, and it’s still derogatory now. The only difference is that somewhere along the way, Black people got sold this idea that if we’re the ones saying it, it magically changes the meaning. Like somehow, it’s less racist when we use it because it’s our word now. Meanwhile, white folks are sitting back, using our music and culture as their excuse to jump in, like we handed them permission to join the party. That’s the real trick—the illusion of ownership over a word they created to dehumanize us in the first place.
Seeing videos of Snoop’s performance with all those white folks bopping their heads and mouthing along to lyrics full of the n-word hurts. But there they were, vibing without a care, in a space already drenched in contradictions. These performances, especially in spaces like this, are exactly what gives white people the idea that they can use the n-word whenever they want. We made the n-word mainstream (again), and now they feel entitled to it—like it’s just another piece of the culture they can borrow, remix, and misuse. Meanwhile, they prop up policies and ideologies that keep the very people who gave them this music fighting to survive. It’s hypocrisy on full display, in bright lights, at a celebration for an administration built on division. A moment that says so much about how some people consume Black culture without ever respecting or understanding it.
We’re handing over our culture—the music, the style, the language, the essence of who we are—to the very people who once mocked it, outlawed it, and tried to erase it. The same braids and baggy clothes they called unprofessional, the music they labeled dangerous, the full lips, wide hips, and curvy behinds they ridiculed and fetishized—they’re now celebrating, imitating, and profiting from.
We’ve turned our culture into a commodity, selling it back to the oppressors who spent generations trying to strip it away from us. And for what? A bag that barely scratches the surface of the generational wealth they’ve built off our backs? It’s not just a betrayal of our ancestors’ resilience—it’s a reminder that even when we’re the creators, we’re rarely the owners. The irony is chilling: we’re giving away the very things they tried to destroy, and they’re laughing all the way to the bank.
And this only applies to us. Snoop couldn’t get on stage using slurs that degrade the LGBTQ+ community, Jews, Latinos, or basically anyone else without facing immediate cancellation. But he can use the n-word all day long and get paid to do it. We’re the only ones who built an industry off of it—taking the same slur they used to dehumanize us and turning it into mainstream entertainment. And in the process, we made the very people who gave us the word in the first place rich off of our pain, our culture, and our use of that word. It’s a cycle that keeps feeding itself, and we’re the ones paying the price for it.
But let’s be real—Black folks aren’t about to cancel Snoop over this. The man’s been part of the cultural fabric for decades, from Doggystyle to Martha Stewart. People will be mad, sure, but I doubt they will be mad enough to put down the blunt and skip “Gin and Juice” at the next function. So the question isn’t about them—it’s about us. How do we balance holding people accountable without wasting our energy on battles we’re not even committed to fighting?
Truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we see President Trump greeting one of his Black supporters with a casual, “What’s up, my n-word?”
