Hate is a funny word. Funny as in strange, odd or peculiar. You probably hate the endless line at Holmes Lounge between you and your carvery wrap. You might have overheard someone announce his or her hatred of Bill O’Reilly or Al Franken. We victims of WebWork have hurled more than a few hateful words at it.

Hate is a not-so-funny word. Funny as in comical, humorous or amusing. History is rife with haters: the ruthless German dictator who slaughtered millions, the early U.S. president who was no friend of Native Americans, the three white men in eastern Texas who chained and dragged a black man to his death.

I think what makes “hate” funny is its structural simplicity. It’s four common letters jammed together, two consonants in balance with two vowels. On its face, “hate” is as innocuous as “door,” “kite” and “yeah.” I think what makes “hate” not so funny is its brutal reality. True hate is more than a mere dislike or a fleeting repugnance. I would argue hate is a lasting emotion of hostility, a desire to practically spit on the object that draws your ire. Oftentimes we recognize it by some of its most heinous consequences—the gruesome violence and bitter speech. Hate is so powerful that it is best represented not by one word, but by a thousand words.

This Friday, the 25th, is the 52nd anniversary of the Little Rock Nine’s integration of Little Rock Central High, my high-school alma mater. The occasion will pass relatively quietly; the history behind it will remain relatively forgotten. But what will likely outlive everything else is a picture—no, the picture. On Sept. 4, 1957, the Nine’s plans to integrate were cancelled at the last minute, but one of them, Elizabeth Eckford, didn’t have a home phone and was never informed of the change. She showed up for school in dark sunglasses and a new dress; she left having gained not entry but instead emotional scarring that lasts to this day. In the disorder outside Central High, photographer Will Counts captured a white girl, Hazel Bryan, shrieking at Eckford.

This image is one of the most famous (or infamous) of the Civil Rights Movement. Bryan has since apologized for her actions on that day, but she will probably be forever remembered by her expression of venomous revulsion. If you see this picture, you’ll then know hate. It is etched into her face. Central High’s integration was not the nation’s first, and it would not be the last, yet it received the most national attention because of the hate it unearthed. There was hate that day, with the segregationists’ intimidation and cries of “Two, four, six, eight, we ain’t gonna integrate!” There was hate that year, with coordinated attacks on the Nine by white students using acid, broken glass and scalding showers.

I can tell you that walking the halls of Little Rock Central High is both inspirational and a little unnerving. This is where nine black students sacrificed their innocence for their education. This is also where a little word reared its ugly head. In speech and writing, our notice falls invariably upon the big words—quotidian, lugubrious, mendacity—and we skim over the smaller items. But it shouldn’t be that way for hate; we shouldn’t just throw it into a statement without considering its full weight. Hate goes beyond a little kid’s aversion to green peas and broccoli. As small as it may seem, hate is more than a word; it is an entire concept whose potency is far too great to ignore.