A friend recently alerted me to the fact that my casual use
of the word “retarded,” in reference to some shallow remarks left by strangers
on a Facebook page, was hurtful. Her two-sentence email was a slap in the face.
Shame on me.
I used the “R word,” as she put it, in my Facebook status update. For
all my friends to see. Even as
I sit here, maintaining this blog about identity and labeling and racism and
human misunderstanding, I’m guilty.
My friend, the one who outed me, is a writer and activist.
She is practiced at speaking up and speaking out. She and I know each other
through our joint participation in a long-standing writing workshop. She knows
my work, and shares my compulsion to write personal narrative non-fiction as a
means to broaden the collective understanding of our core topics: hers is
Autism.
The term “R word” out of context doesn’t have the universal
weight of “N word.”
But that’s not the point. Or maybe it is. I don’t use the R word in front of my
children. But I now see that in my adults-only Facebook circle, I use a pretty light
filter. And I’m having trouble explaining that. I didn’t think I had a filter;
I thought I was conscientious all the time.
I’ve been called plenty of names; names that are labels, and
are hurtful.
Here’s a short list:
Oreo
Nigger
Brill-o Head
Half Breed
High Yellow Bitch
Mutt
Kike
Freak
I’ve survived the hurtful names. I haven’t had to struggle
through a hard life of repeated persecution by bullies or cruel siblings or a
fascist dictator. I’m just a privileged, educated American who’s been called
shitty things a bunch of times, by jerks of every size, sex, and color. And until
my recent misstep with the R word, I was feeling pretty righteous. But I
haven’t forgotten the hurt.
So I’m grateful to my friend, Liane Kupferberg Carter, for
calling me out.
Thanks, Liane!
You can read Liane's piece on the R word here:
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