I sent a reader down a rabbit hole regarding my use of “retarded.” I was schooled to use a word that doesn’t insult people with disability, demean them and pain those who love them. She reproached me to do the decent thing (as if I’d done something indecent), so I considered her request and appreciated that she took the time to comment.
Dictionary reference: re·tard·ed, Adjective
Less advanced in mental, physical, or social development than is usual for one’s age.
Informal offensive.
Very foolish or stupid.
“In retrospect, it was a totally retarded idea”
Technically, the word “retarded” shouldn’t have connotations. It ought to mean just what the dictionary says. But it’s an avoid word, so now I avoid it. Certainly, the original definition doesn’t suggest an insult. However, words are powerful and do have an impact.
As Becca coached me, “You don’t want to Windex and squeegee your words, as the color that is yours would be gone. We can always find a better way to say something, but do we have to worry about offending everyone’s sensibilities?”
However, after rereading parts of the memoir I’d written, I squeegeed my father’s references about Blacks, my uncle’s comment about my mother and Monica Lewinsky, and my own remarks about transvestites. They didn’t seem offensive then, but today, they do. Even I cringed.
Race, sex, religion, politics and our language have become land mines. Under the cloak of the internet, many speak in angry or hateful ways they would never do in person. Rather than attack the problem, we attack each other. Name-calling, criticism and contempt are unproductive. The goal isn’t to win, it’s to solve the problem. If anyone goes too far with me or if their anger is over the top, I just block them. Occasionally, I get schooled or scolded about my Facebook posts. I roll my eyes and wonder: “Do they think I’m being misled? Are they of the opinion that I’ll see the light? Do they think I’m eight?” My silent retort of “bite me” is dismissive, so I keep it to myself. Usually. I come from a family of sharp-tongued women; whatever flew into their minds fell out of their mouths, which caused pain. My practice is to pick my battles.
I’m used to getting flak from family. My brother gets on me about swearing, and out of deference, I curb my language, though I have pointed out to him that ‘puke’ and ‘snot’ are not swear words. Compared to the majority of online criticisms, the woman who got her panties in a bunch over my use of ‘retarded’ was mild, and nothing compared to my sister, who threatened to put a hex on me regarding a story she wanted taken out of the memoir. She was dying, and by my clock, I knew she didn’t have enough time to study up on Voodoo, though I’m still ricocheting from that one. In deference to her, I put the book away for five years, and when the coast was clear, I finished it.
If I can move someone to laugh or cry, have them ponder something beyond their linty navel, or heaven forbid – piss them off – then my work is done. And if it goes a step further and we interact, positive or otherwise, I’ll know I’m not just whistling Dixie. The only way to know I’m being read is when someone whistles back.
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