Dr. Laura should realize with all the diplomas she possesses that the use of the “N’ word is more than about exercising ones 1st Amendment rights.
“My contract is up for my radio show at the end of the year and I’ve made the decision not to do radio anymore,” she told Larry King. “The reason is I want to regain my First Amendment rights. I want to be able to say what’s on my mind and in my heart and what I think is helpful and useful without somebody getting angry, some special interest groups.”
Let me understand what she meant by that statement; She wants to be able to say nigger, nigger, nigger around her circle of friends and not be censored. Okay, I got it now. What the good Dr. Laura should understand is that the use of the “N” word by non-African Americans doesn’t have the same meaning when a person of color uses it.
The word “nigger” carries with it the blood of our ancestors. They were called this word while they were lynched; they were called this word while they were hung from the big magnolia tree.
“That word, in the history of America, has always been a degrading word toward African Americans. When they were brought to America, they were never thought of as human beings in the first place, and this word was something to call a thing that wasn’t human.
In the American educational system there were many books that were used in public schools that possessed the “N” word in them and while they were viewed by some as relevant lessons for American History others viewed it as a way of continuing to promote racism in America.
For example, Mark Twain’s novel “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” actually used the “N” word over 200 times which didn’t mean much to me when I was coming up because I like so many others thought since it was in our school system it was okay to read it. It wasn’t until I was older did I began to do more critical thinking about the material I was reading and how it affected how I viewed the world and the people around me. Of course I don’t know what was in her heart when she used the word and I really don’t care because she should understand that the word is unacceptable no matter what she thought was ok.
Kash Patel, I hear you. You wear the title of FBI Director today, but let’s be real—you weren’t even around when Assata Shakur’s name shook the system. You didn’t live through the era when the government put a bullseye on Black revolutionaries, when “justice” was too often just another word for oppression. I did. I remember it in real time. And I know the difference between a freedom fighter and a terrorist.
If America wants to have a serious conversation about domestic terror, let’s start with Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols blowing up federal buildings. Let’s talk Dylann Roof walking into a Black church and spraying bullets. Let’s talk George Zimmerman stalking Trayvon Martin, David Berkowitz terrorizing New York as the “Son of Sam,” or any number of men whose names will forever be synonymous with true terror. Don’t you dare put Assata Shakur in that same sentence.
A Panther With Purpose
Before the wanted posters and FBI most-wanted lists, Assata was JoAnne Chesimard—a young sister from Queens who stepped into the storm of the civil rights era. She joined the Black Panther Party and later the Black Liberation Army, not because it was trendy, but because it was survival.
She fed hungry kids when the government wouldn’t. She set up health clinics in communities the state ignored. She gave political education to the people so they could understand the systems stacked against them. That’s not terrorism—that’s love for your people in action.
The Case That Never Added Up
Fast-forward to 1973, a New Jersey turnpike, and a deadly shootout. A state trooper lost his life, and Assata was arrested, shot, and thrown into the legal grinder. By 1977, she was convicted, but ask anyone who truly studied the case—there were holes big enough to drive a truck through.
Assata Shakur and her daughter Kakuya in Cuba – photo via healer Ola Ronke
Jury bias. Coerced testimony. A courtroom atmosphere dripping with racism. It wasn’t just a trial—it was a setup. Human rights groups worldwide have said it loud: Assata didn’t get justice, she got railroaded.
So when she broke out of prison in 1979 and later landed in Cuba, it wasn’t about running—it was about surviving. And Cuba called it like it was: political asylum for a political prisoner.
The Voice That Won’t Die
Exile didn’t silence her. In 1987 she dropped Assata: An Autobiography—part testimony, part revolutionary gospel. Decades later, it’s still studied in classrooms, still quoted in movements, still moving people who see themselves in her story.
Hip hop never forgot either. Common immortalized her in “A Song for Assata.” Tupac—her godson—carried her influence in his bloodline. Her name gets invoked because she embodies that fight-back spirit that hip hop at its core represents.
Who’s the Real Terrorist?
The FBI slaps her on its “Most Wanted Terrorists” list, but let’s keep it a buck: the word “terrorist” loses its meaning when it’s used as a weapon against someone who uplifted her community.
Real terror was Oklahoma City. Real terror was Charleston. Real terror was Trayvon’s killer walking free. When we talk terrorism, those are the names that belong in bold print.
Assata Shakur? She’s a survivor. A symbol. A reminder that you can cage the body but not the spirit. And whether America likes it or not, she will be celebrated—not as a villain, but as a revolutionary who refused to bow down.
Because in the culture, we don’t just remember history—we correct it.
During her 1976 trial, Assata Shakur testified that she had raised her hands when state troopers stopped her vehicle, yet she was shot in the shoulder and back. A medical expert confirmed her injuries were consistent with this account. Despite the evidence, an all-white jury convicted her of first-degree murder in 1977. She was sentenced to the Clinton Correctional Institution in New York but escaped in 1979 and was later granted political asylum in Cuba.
About the Author: Dennis E. Byron is an award-winning investigative journalist, photographer, and Editor-in-Chief of Hip Hop Enquirer Magazine. With over three decades of experience covering hip hop culture, celebrity trials, and social justice issues, Byron has been on the frontlines of some of the most high-profile stories shaping both the entertainment industry and American society. He is also the founder of Byron Media Group, where his work continues to amplify voices often overlooked by mainstream media.
