1997: The Worst Most Gangster Moment
Booker T (feat. Hulk Hogan) in Two N-Words (Two N-Bombs), Part Three
The Rap ‘N’ Wrestling Connection
We are examining these two WWE no-no word incidents in reverse-chronological order—first 2005, now 1997—as if to excavate down toward the foundation of the subject matter.
The two utterances roughly coincide with changes in the landscape of hip-hop. Their connection, on the surface, may not surprise those well-versed in both art forms. After all, Kevin Nash has repeatedly cited gangsta rap as the direct inspiration for the aesthetic of the WCW’s “nWo” brand1. The nWo (“New World Order”) faction was, in the words of Sean Waltman, “the catalyst that started the biggest boom period in pro-wrestling history”2; and it all was predicated on the most popular type of hip-hop music, whose ascendancy began a few years earlier. The overt influence of gangsta rap on mid-to-late-’90s pro wrestling has been well established. The wrestlers consciously swiped style from the rappers—but beneath that lay a metaphysical relationship between the two art forms. In the subterranean world of creativity pooled by media, a weird alchemical process also transpired.
“A rapper to me is a liar,” said 50 Cent, just as he became enormously famous.3 He declared nearly 100% of them “liars” because they did not go through anything remotely resembling the hyper-violent, hyper-successful lifestyles that their music describes. The parallel with pro wrestlers could not be clearer: Most of the matches are scripted, and most of the personas are fake. For years, gangsta rappers and pro wrestlers alike were incentivized to live out the exaggerated characters that they portrayed before paying audiences: people expected it of them, and should the public become aware of any fakeness, their careers could be over. Clever readers might already sense that politicians figure into a similar sort of kayfabe scheme as well. These are high-impact, lie-based occupations that value the perception of realness, and as such artful interreactions are sure to develop between them, as they push past one another within the media kaleidoscope.
It is no accident that the 2005 Survivor Series event occurred just after the heyday of gangsta rap, with wiggadom in full swing, as promotion was winding down for the last great gangsta rap artist’s last really big hit album. The genre had passed its peak; the signs were everywhere, and failure was in the air. Nas was planning Hip Hop Is Dead, whose message seemed like a lukewarm hot-take by the time it dropped in late 2006. Because its own authenticity and vitality were in question, the dying subculture could no longer persecute outsiders who adopted aspects of it. From John Cena, to Justin Bieber, to Iggy Azalea, to Barack Obama: people with precious little pedigree could start identifying with hip-hop and using it to their advantage.
Because what even was hip-hop anymore, now that its most successful, flagship product (gangsta rap) had been played out? Cena was free to act how he acted for a while, harvest the rewards, and then drop the act later in his career. No explanation was needed, neither in-story nor in reality: Cena wasn’t expected to be hip-hop “4-life”, and neither was his eponymous wrestling character. Cena had to prove himself to the wrestling world and its fandom, but no one expected him to commit himself to hip-hop. He wasn’t called out for vicarious exploitation, as Vanilla Ice had been a decade and a half earlier, when hip-hop was stronger. No, Cena was an actor, a performance artist; there was some self-effacement involved, and it was cool.
Compare Cena’s situation with how, in the early ’90s, Tupac himself started out as “an art student playing the role of a thug”, to quote 50 Cent’s opinion; and he was “so committed that he ultimately paid for it with his life”4. It’s hardly a stretch to say that Tupac Shakur became a true thug at some point in the process, perhaps redefining the term and making it his own. Back then, a real metamorphosis seemed possible. At the very least, there were certainly consequences.
By the mid-’00s, however, hip-hop stylings and lingo had become exploitable and discardable. McMahon was free to spoof the spoofer in 2005, even to the point of saying the no-no word to Cena’s face, and as unique as his antics were, the gag was a one-off, easily abandoned. That is how things were in the mid-’00s, whether it’s how they “should” have been is another matter.
The other wrestling-related incident relevant to this essay occurred eight years earlier, in the aftermath of Biggie and Tupac’s deaths. The posthumous releases of their final studio albums were making the two figures legends, causing gangsta rap to flourish as never before. The attitudinous genre would become not just popular but perhaps the dominant force in American pop culture. This is the setting for what we will discuss below. The very nature of this setting, reinforced by mass media, encouraged the youth to modify their vocabulary and demeanor accordingly. Young [B]lack men in particular were shown what sorts of explicative-laden roles they could play in order to earn extra coolpoints, if they wanted fame.
Misspeaking in Mississippi or, Culpability at the Coliseum
On 6 April 1997 World Championship Wrestling held its second Spring Stampede pay-per-view event. Over 8,300 fans were in attendance at the Coliseum in Tupelo, MS, and another 210,0005 paid to view the broadcast remotely. Before their “Four Corners” match against Lex Luger and The Giant, the members of Harlem Heat were interviewed by “Mean” Gene Okerlund. Sherri Martel, smug and imperious, stood between them. And while Stevie Ray mean-mugged to one side, Booker T—the same Booker T mentioned in the previous chapter—cut the following blistering promo:
Let me tell ya somethin’, Geno, cuz you’re out here talkin’ about a clique. The only clique you need to know about is the Harlem Heat and Sister Sherri! See, because what you dealin’ with here is the Brotherhood. It’s nonstop from this point on in WCW. We take what we want. And after we take down Luger and The Giant, we want the gold, sucka! Hulk Hogan! We comin’ for you, n*gga!
Immediately afterward, as an unfazed “Mean” Gene returned to the mic to continue hyping the upcoming attraction, Booker put his hands over his face and turned away from the camera. He’s clearly aware that he just said one word too many, and there are no do-overs on live television.
In this case the N-bomb droppage was completely accidental, a case of a performer going off-script because he was caught up in the moment. In the years since 1997—particularly in the last decade or so—Booker has repeatedly referred to the slip as the worst moment of his career and/or life.6 At the time he feared that the mistake might cost him his job. In 2022 Booker expressed gratitude not only that social media didn’t exist at the time but also that it didn’t rise to prominence any sooner than it did: otherwise he’d have had to start dealing with repeated questions about the blooper much sooner.7
One gets the strong impression that Booker has received more grief about the incident in recent years than he did when it happened. In truth, WCW management simply understood that accidents happen; executive producer Eric Bischoff considered it “no big deal.”8 For years the incident was almost forgotten. But now, in the current era, anyone on Twitter can confront almost anyone else with certain embarrassing moments from their past. Old wounds can easily reopen and post-traumatic stress can easily reemerge, especially if direct evidence of one’s errors has been preserved, recorded, and uploaded to YouTube. And so time and again Booker finds himself presented with footage of his younger self calling Hulk Hogan the no-no word.
The fact that virtually no one is or was ever angry with him doesn’t matter to Booker. Strangers online actually consider the verbal error to be “the most gangster moment in all of wrestling 🤣”, or they note with sympathy that “He’s so ashamed of it, but everyone thinks he’s a badass for it lol”.9 This doesn’t matter, because the memory itself takes Booker back to the shame and disappointment in himself that he felt so strongly when it happened. Mostly, his remorse is due to a lack of self-control. He understands this. He’s described this. He knows why it happened. But understanding the mistake doesn’t make the mistake go away, especially not when other people keep bringing it back up.
On his own terms, Booker (full name: Booker T. Huffman Jr.) wanted to be a role model. More exactly, he knew that as a performer on television he was a role model whether he wanted to be one or not. Remembering the Spring Stampede faux pas, he noted on his podcast:
[A] lot of young people followed my lead back then. If they felt like it was—if I was cool with saying it, you know, it was cool for them to do it too. I always talk about young people and being able to change your levels. Of course, when you’re in the hood, you are going to talk a certain way around your boys when you’re at the ballpark, you know what I mean? It’s all fair game. But in certain places, you’ve got to know how to change your levels, and I was in that place. […] But none of my [wrestling] peers had ever heard me use that word before, and none of them have ever heard me use it after.10
We should note, as others have suggested, that Booker’s involvement with and tacit approval of the 2005 Survivor Series backstage interlude probably derives from his slip in 1997. Longtime pro-wrestling fans would have interpreted Booker’s presence in the 2005 Vince-says-the-N-Word skit as a “wink”, an oblique callback to the earlier incident. Had social media been as popular in 2005 as it would become a few years later, however, one wonders whether Booker would have still participated in that segment, for fear of immediate blowback and perceived insensitivity to racial slurs.
In truth, Booker was far from insensitive, certainly not in 1997: the Spring Stampede footage documents his instant regret (before INSTANT REGRET was a thing). By 2005 he evidently felt comfortable enough about the past mistake to sign off on McMahon’s antics, but here Booker’s on-screen character has the closing comment, and his contribution is an instructive one. By ending the segment with “Tell me . . . he didn’t just say that,” Booker conveys a message to the audience that they should not try to pull off what they just witnessed Mr. McMahon do, or they’d look just as foolish.
But that was a different era, and eight years later used to be a long time. And time used to heal us. The climate of paranoia had yet to set in; academia had yet to become so preoccupied with identity politics; the media hadn’t yet trained everyone to constantly second-guess themselves and each other. “Are you sure you’re not offended? What does it say about you that you’re not?”
Pot calls kettle, through backlit screens darkly, toward a brotherhood of man
The most interesting aspect of the 1997 incident is what’s barely ever acknowledged, let alone investigated: that here we have a [B]lack man calling a [W]hite man the no-no word—with a soft -a, no less. In our wacky world, many [W]hites would probably feel honored. In fact, in a 2011 interview Booker laughingly recalled that, right after the screw-up, Hogan told him not to feel bad and lightened the mood by basically agreeing with Booker’s off-the-cuff assessment of him: “You know what? I’m a good N-word.”11
The retrospectives of Booker’s gaffe always seem to operate on a simple dynamic: Booker feels bad while everyone else says that it’s okay. It was wrong, they say, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it. The reversal of the stereotypical roles, however—who says the no-no word to whom—suggests that more is going on here. Does this indicate that the word had lost some of its meaning by this point, in 1997? Had it become less pointed? Certainly Booker’s use of it doesn’t seem to disparage Hogan (who as “Hollywood” Hulk Hogan was WCW champion at the time). The word was not spoken in the way that we can imagine a 1800s plantation owner using it to disparage a slave. Rather, it was spoken the way a rapper might say it while putting a worthy rival on notice. One might be forgiven for suspecting that the word had become deracialized—especially in its short -a form—and that therefore anyone might say it to anyone else in order to establish a sort of sociological intimacy. Depending on the speaker’s tone, the bond might suggest either fraternity or imminent combat. Right?
Wrong. The word was far from arbitrary or meaningless, as proven by Booker’s remorseful reaction then and now, and as proven by the shocked and/or amused reactions of fans at the time and still to this day.
But something had changed in 1997. In certain entertainment media the word had lost some ugliness as it gained more edge. On record (on rap records) the word was as mainstream as anything. Booker T’s explanation of having inadvertently “change[d] levels” suggests that he forgot he was on television and spoke, instead, as if he were hanging out with his old friends from the block. But could he really have forgotten where he was while standing next to “Mean” Gene, talking into Gene’s mic, looking into a camera, and cutting an obviously stilted promo about fake wrestling matches? He wasn’t in a “hood” scenario; he was in a television studio, dressed in a costume, giving a prearranged performance. Yes, he did experience a “level” confusion, but it seems more likely that the disorienting agent was the media environment. With respect, I would suggest that Booker was not reverting to his hard-knock, pre-fame mentality when he uttered the word. Rather, his exaggerated braggadocio resulted from a certain state of mind—marketably and almost hyperbolically profane—that the media liked aggressive [B]lack men to be in at the time. That’s what sold and what seemed coolest, after all. Don’t forget the point of the promo: Booker was hoping to get a chance to feud with Hulk Hogan, the company’s biggest star. This was Booker’s chance for maximum fame, and in order to earn it he provided the very word that mass communication technology itself, as a strong underlying force, wanted to hear and carry. Booker was “in the zone” but he had not flashbacked to his younger self; he was “in the zone” of Zeitgeist simulacra, saying the slang term that resonated most, even if the unlikely target was [W]hite.
Booker and Hogan have since discussed the matter at great length, and the instance of a [B]lack guy profusely apologizing to a [W]hite guy for calling him the no-no word stands as one of the great curiosities of modern times.12
Of course, this all becomes exponentially weirder once you realize that the [W]hite man receiving the apologies had his own, much more publicized no-no word scandal. Hogan was briefly canceled for saying the same word, in a different (worse) context, and with a hard R. One denizen of the YouTube comments section even suggested, facetiously, that Booker calling him the word in 1997 had caused Hogan to think “he was initiated and free to say it 🤣”.13 In fact, after the leaked racist rant threatened Hogan’s reputation, Booker was one of the first people to defend Hogan and say that he deserved forgiveness.14 Having been imprisoned for armed robbery when he was very young, Booker explained that he found redemption in his wrestling career, that Hogan had supported him and deserved a similar “second chance” consideration in kind.
The two have remained on very good terms and, against the backdrop of contemporary cancel culture, they commiserated on a struggle-session podcast that, to my mind, seems disarmingly charming and life-affirming.15 We’re not defined by our worst moments. We can forgive and we can find forgiveness. Real people can establish connections between themselves that are too strong for borg handservants to tear apart. As a metaphor for hard-won harmony between the races, the friendship and understanding between Hulk Hogan and Booker T might be “the good ending”. If not, it may be good enough, and a better ending than we deserve.
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This ends the third installment of Two N-Words (Two N-Bombs). This chapter was shorter than usual. The next chapter will be longer. It deals with the similarities between pro wrestling and politics, taking Roland Barthes’ famous “World of Wrestling” article as its lead.
For instance, in the “nWo” episode of A&E Biography: WWE Legends, Nash recalls Hulk Hogan asking him “Where you guys getting this from?” He then explained that “the whole ‘4-Life’ [slogan] was one of Mack 10’s songs during that time.” And further: “The hottest thing in pop culture at the time was Death Row. That’s why I would tie my bandana backwards, like Tupac. Like, we’ll be the cool guys.” The anti-establishment, ganglike attitude ran from rap music to the WCW’s nWo, and then on to WWF’s popular D-Generation X contingent. Sean Waltman, a member of both the nWo and DX, would later call himself “X-Pac” and then “Syxx-Pac”, names that seem like “2Pac” derivatives.
This quote also taken from the Biography: WWE Legends “nWo” episode (S3E1).
See comments under <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEcacqxdvWk>.