These anti-black labels we still use

Far from being just words, some expressions still commonly used in Afro-descendant societies are deeply rooted in the history of slavery, colonization, and structural racism. This article explores how language preserves and transmits the scars of anti-Blackness, fuels colorism, and complicates the identity-building of Black people.

Words, seemingly harmless, often carry the scars of historical violence. In the case of Afro-descendant populations, language preserves the visible marks of centuries of slavery, colonization, and racial hierarchies. Terms such as nègre, mulâtre, chabin, or peau chapée, though sometimes used casually or affectionately, are in fact direct heirs of a system of domination deeply rooted in the slave and colonial past.

This vocabulary, sometimes unconsciously passed down within Black or Creole families, conveys demeaning representations of Black identity. More insidiously, it feeds into a logic of colorism, in which skin tone becomes an implicit social marker, reinforcing prejudice within Afro-descendant communities themselves.

How can we explain the persistence of these terms in everyday language? What are the psychological, social, and identity-related implications of this language inherited from oppression? And above all, how can we break free from this linguistic alienation without denying the complexity of Afro-descendant experiences?

NOFI offers a critical examination of the weight of anti-Black labels in everyday language, from their historical origins to their contemporary effects, while exploring paths to reclaim or break away from this lexical legacy.

Linguistic legacy of slavery

The transatlantic slave trade, colonization, and slave systems left marks not only on bodies, laws, and territories, but also on language. Over centuries, a vocabulary developed around Black populations, not to neutrally describe them, but to assign, rank, and dehumanize them. This language, shaped by a racial logic of domination, endured through time and generations, embedding itself deeply into daily discourse—even among the descendants of the oppressed.

Words like nègre (from Spanish negro, itself from Latin niger) were used in slave sale records, colonial texts, and pseudo-scientific writings to reduce Black people to marketable objects or inferior subjects. These terms, normalized in both colonial settlements and metropolitan centers, became part of Creole languages, popular French, and even the arts, often without questioning their symbolic violence.

The paradox lies in how these words survived the abolition of slavery. They didn’t vanish with the legal end of the oppressive system; instead, they adapted—seeping into humor, casual insults, community nicknames, and even attempts at identity affirmation. This is sometimes referred to as inherited language, much like inherited trauma.

It would be wrong to view this persistence as harmless. These words carry the coded memory of a racial order, and their usage—even unconscious—helps keep alive a worldview in which certain identities are worth less than others. In other words, language becomes the silent vehicle of a social hierarchy that outlives the chains.

Colorism: A racialized hierarchy of skin tone

Colorism, often confused with racism, is in fact a more insidious manifestation, operating within racialized groups themselves. It is a value system based on the lightness or darkness of skin, wherein lighter-skinned individuals are perceived as more beautiful, intelligent, or socially acceptable than those with darker skin. Though deeply harmful, its roots lie directly in the era of slavery.

During the slave trade and colonization, enslavers established classifications based on skin tone. Mixed-race children—often born of rape or relationships between colonizers and Black women—were sometimes placed in intermediate social categories: house servants, artisans, or in rare cases, freed. This differential treatment, based on complexion, created hierarchies within Black communities that still resonate today.

In post-slavery and postcolonial societies, this valorization of light skin did not disappear; it merely transformed into beauty standards, economic opportunities, and media representation. Light-skinned women with straightened hair are often more visible in cultural and professional spheres. Darker-skinned men, in contrast, are often seen as more “dangerous” or “hyper-masculine,” reinforcing damaging racial stereotypes.

Even within Afro-descendant families, colorism can manifest directly: a “too Black” child may hear hurtful comments or see their appearance compared to white-centered aesthetic norms. These attitudes, even when unconscious, reinforce the idea that a Black person’s worth depends on their proximity to whiteness.

Colorism is not merely a remnant of the past—it’s a contemporary reflection of an ongoing mental colonization, a mechanism of division that weakens solidarity among Black people and undermines the construction of a full and proud decolonial identity.

Anti-black labels

Among the most persistent legacies of colonial domination is a racialized lexicon whose terms, often normalized in everyday speech, carry extreme symbolic violence. These labels do not simply describe reality—they fabricate hierarchies, reinforce stereotypes, and confine individuals to rigid categories. Here is a typology of some of these terms still in use today, with their historical contexts and present-day connotations:

1. Nègre

Perhaps the most emblematic (and violent) term in racial history. Derived from the Spanish negro (“black”), it was used during the transatlantic slave trade to label Africans reduced to property. Quickly, the word took on derogatory meanings, associating “Black” with “savage,” “lazy,” “inferior.”

In colonial languages (French, English, Portuguese), nègre became a dehumanizing category used in legal documents, settler writings, and dictionaries to define “Black slave”—not a full human being.

Even after abolition, the word persisted in literature, popular humor, and banal expressions (travailler comme un nègre—“work like a nègre”). It was also politically reclaimed by figures like Aimé Césaire and Léopold Sédar Senghor during the Négritude movement, turning a slur into a symbol of Black pride and resistance.

However, outside of militant or literary contexts, the term remains deeply offensive today, especially in Western societies. Its public usage is now broadly condemned.

2. Cafre

Less known in mainland France, this term is deeply rooted in the colonial history of the Indian Ocean, particularly in Réunion, Mauritius, and Madagascar. It comes from the Arabic kafir, meaning “infidel” or “non-believer,” initially used in religious contexts to label non-Muslims.

European colonizers, especially the Portuguese, adopted the term to designate Black African populations they deemed “uncivilized.” In the colonies, cafre became a racial insult distinguishing Blacks from Indians, Chinese, and whites in informal caste systems.

Today, in places like Réunion, it can still be used as an ethnic identifier or a racial slur, depending on context. Though occasionally reclaimed for identity purposes, it remains steeped in colonial and discriminatory baggage.

3. Black

At first glance, Black may seem neutral. It is ubiquitous in public, media, and activist discourse, especially in English-speaking contexts. In the U.S., it was reclaimed during the 1960s civil rights era (Black is beautiful, I’m Black and I’m proud).

However, in Francophone contexts, its use can be ambiguous. Saying Black instead of noir is sometimes a linguistic dodge to avoid a French word perceived as too direct or uncomfortable. This semantic shift creates a form of cultural distancing, where a foreign word “softens” the racial implications.

But this apparent neutrality conceals complex realities of Black experiences in Francophone societies. It may obscure colonial legacies, erase Afro-descendant diversity, and perpetuate linguistic alienation under a more socially acceptable guise.

4. Chabin(e)

A term typical of the French Caribbean (Guadeloupe and Martinique), referring to mixed-race people—usually light-skinned but with African features (broad nose, curly/kinky hair).

Historically derived from rural vocabulary describing hybrid animals (e.g., a cross between a sheep and a goat), its colonial use for humans was far from innocent—it reflects a utilitarian and dehumanizing racial classification inherited from the “blood purity” system (quadroon, octoroon, etc.).

Today, chabin(e) is sometimes used casually or affectionately, but it remains tied to colorism: it evokes a socially or aesthetically “acceptable” beauty tied to lighter skin. Rather than simply descriptive, it reproduces the phenotype hierarchy rooted in slavery, where lighter was better.

5. Mulâtre(sse)

A term steeped in historical violence. From Spanish mulato, derived from mulo (mule—offspring of a horse and donkey), it implies animal hybridization, applied to children born to one Black and one white parent.

In slave societies, this term was part of an administrative lexicon used to classify people by their “degree of whiteness” in a pseudo-scientific racial purity logic. These categories had real legal and social consequences (freedom, marriage, property rights, etc.).

Though widely used in historical and literary texts, the term is now outdated, offensive, and discouraged—except in critical or historical contexts. It represents an era when racial mixing was viewed as “contamination” rather than richness.

6. Peau chapée

A typical Antillean expression, meaning “escaped skin”—as in “escaped from Blackness.” It refers to those with lighter-than-average skin, often considered more socially “valuable.”

This expression reflects a perverse logic: light skin is seen as a successful escape from Blackness—a bodily “improvement.” By implication, dark skin is a marker of pain, inferiority, or shame.

Even if used descriptively or without malice, it reinforces a culture of self-rejection within Black communities—fueling constant comparison, aesthetic competition based on colonial criteria, and internalized anti-Blackness.

7. Chapé couli

Another colorist expression, used for Black people with straighter hair—often likened to that of Caribbean Indians. Couli is derived from coolie, a colonial term for Indian indentured laborers brought to the colonies after slavery’s abolition.

Saying someone has chapé couli suggests they’ve “escaped” the kinkiness of African hair—again implying devaluation of Black physical traits. It also associates beauty with a lineage foreign to Africa—and implicitly superior.

Like peau chapée, it feeds into an internalized racialized aesthetic where proximity to European or Indian features is prized over African ones. It perpetuates symbolic violence within community and family dynamics.

8. Bata’ Zindien

A contraction of bâtard (bastard) and Zindien (Creolized “les Indiens”), this Antillean term refers to children of mixed Afro-Indian heritage. The term bâtard adds layers of shame, transgression, and impurity.

In Caribbean post-slavery societies, Black-Indian relationships were often surveilled or taboo. Bata’ Zindien reflects these racial and social tensions, expressing a rejection of mixed identity—even though it is widespread.

Rare today, the term still carries a heavy discriminatory charge, especially in intra-community conflicts around skin color, ethnic origin, or colonial social hierarchies.

These terms—sometimes used playfully or affectionately—are never neutral. They reenact colonial history through daily language, reinforcing hierarchies based on skin color, hair texture, or “purity” of lineage. Their use, even unintentional, reflects internalized anti-Blackness and ongoing alienation.

The effects of language on identity and self-esteem

Language is not just a tool for communication—it is a social mirror, a vehicle for values and norms, a transmitter of collective imagination. When infused with anti-Blackness and colorism, it becomes a powerful vector of alienation, capable of inflicting lasting psychological wounds.

Among Afro-descendant youth—particularly in postcolonial contexts (the Caribbean, Francophone Africa, the diaspora)—repeated exposure to terms like nègre, peau chapée, or mulâtre can lead to internalized self-contempt. Through casual remarks, family nicknames, or beauty distinctions between “light” and “dark,” a racial hierarchy operates quietly. These microaggressions, even when unintended, shape self-esteem from childhood.

The consequences are numerous: rejection of one’s skin color, preference for Eurocentric beauty models, skin bleaching, hair-related insecurities, or a desire to identify with a dominant culture perceived as more validating. In the most extreme cases, this can lead to a radical form of disidentification, where individuals seek to “detach” themselves from their African heritage, seen as a burden.

But the phenomenon extends beyond personal identity. It also has social and professional repercussions. Studies have shown that lighter-skinned individuals are often perceived as more competent or attractive in certain professional and media environments. Colorism thus acts as a filter to social recognition, reinforcing racial inequalities even within racialized groups.

At the community level, these linguistic and aesthetic dynamics generate internal divisions, undermining solidarity among Afro-descendants. Distrust, judgment, or condescension between individuals with different phenotypes perpetuate colonial tensions—where collective struggle and affirmation should be the norm.

In short, anti-Black labels are not just a vocabulary issue: they affect psychology, social trajectories, and community cohesion. To heal from these wounds, it is urgent to reclaim the liberating power of speech—starting with questioning the words we use, without always grasping their poison.

What should We Do with these words?

Given the historical, symbolic, and emotional weight of anti-Black labels, a pressing question arises: should these words be entirely rejected, or should we attempt to reclaim them and give them new, liberated meanings?

Some activist movements—especially during the 1960s and 70s—opted for reclamation. The word nègre, for instance, was embraced by thinkers like Aimé Césaire (Notebook of a Return to the Native Land) or Léopold Sédar Senghor through the Négritude movement. They aimed to flip the stigma, turning a hated word into a symbol of pride, resistance, and identity. In the U.S., this process gave rise to expressions like Black Power and I’m Black and I’m proud, restoring dignity to a word historically associated with inferiority.

Yet this strategy has limits. In many cases, reclamation remains ambiguous, and context is key: what may be empowering in an activist or artistic setting can be insulting or hurtful when uttered by a teacher, journalist, or stranger. Furthermore, not all terms lend themselves to this approach. Some—like mulâtre or Bata’ Zindien—are so steeped in the language of animal hybridization and racial hierarchy that reclaiming them risks preserving the harm.

The other option—total, conscious rejection—requires heightened awareness in our everyday language use. This means unlearning reflexes, questioning “family expressions,” casual nicknames, and seemingly harmless jokes. It is a slow, demanding process—but a necessary one to decolonize how we speak, and thus how we think.

Between these two positions—reclamation and rejection—there is a third path: the invention of a new lexicon, one that is more respectful and rooted in uplifting histories and cultures. Many Afro-descendant thinkers, artists, and activists are now forging new, liberated forms of expression by drawing on African languages, traditional spiritualities, or contemporary creations.

Because ultimately, words are tools. And like any tool, they can wound—or build. It is up to each community, each conscious individual, to decide what they wish to pass on to future generations: a language of submission, or one of emancipation.

Breaking the silence of words

Words are not neutral. They carry the imprint of the systems that created them, the violence that imposed them, and the gazes that perpetuated them. In the case of anti-Black labels, every syllable bears the weight of centuries of domination, hierarchy, and dehumanization. Even when used lightly or in ignorance of their origins, these terms sustain a toxic legacy.

To reject, interrogate, or deconstruct these words is not an act of excessive “sensitivity,” as some claim. It is, on the contrary, a demand for linguistic dignity—a fundamental right to be named in ways that are not born of oppression. This effort is political, but also deeply existential. It touches self-worth, how we see ourselves, how we tell our stories, and how we raise our children.

To break with these words is to break with the history that was imposed on us—to better rewrite it. It is to create space for a free Black voice, multifaceted and reconciled with itself. This requires collective effort: of remembrance, education, transmission, but also creation. Because it is not enough to denounce the old language—we must invent the one that will follow.

And that new language begins with a simple yet radical act: to listen, to question, and to choose not to say what wounds—even when it seems harmless. It is through a heightened awareness of our speech that we can chart a path toward a truly equal society, where the color of one’s skin determines neither their worth, nor their fate, nor how they are addressed.

Table of Contents

• Linguistic Legacy of Slavery
• Colorism: A Racialized Hierarchy of Skin Tone
• Anti-Black Labels
   1. Nègre
   2. Cafre
   3. Black
   4. Chabin(e)
   5. Mulâtre(sse)
   6. Peau chapée
   7. Chapé couli
   8. Bata’ Zindien
• The Effects of Language on Identity and Self-Esteem
• What Should We Do With These Words?