Opinion
JENNIFER CALFAS
EDITOR IN CHIEF
AARICA MARSH
and DEREK WOLFE
EDITORIAL PAGE EDITORS
LEV FACHER
MANAGING EDITOR
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
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The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Tuesday, September 22, 2015
U
nfortunately, insensitivity
is commonplace without
exposure to individuals
with intellectual disabilities. When
I ask my
mom
wheth-
er
she
knew my oldest sister, Selina, had
Down’s Syndrome before she was
born, she always responds, “Thank
god I didn’t.” Even she admits to
not having challenged stigmas
until she raised her first child. I,
on the other hand, have grown up
with a disabled older sister, mak-
ing me very aware of others’ use of
vocabulary pertaining to individu-
als like Selina. The use of the word
“retarded” has changed quite a bit
in the last century, from a technical
to a derogatory term, and I have a
problem with how it’s used today.
It was originally accepted as the
way of referring to people with
mental disabilities, but has since
come to be loaded with a very dif-
ferent connotation. My whole life,
I’ve heard it used as an insult.
Whether used self-deprecatingly
(“I can’t believe I said that. I sound
so retarded!”) or a fun jape between
friends (“Dude, you looked like a
retard!”), for some reason the use
of this word has yet to be curbed.
Unlike problematic terms referring
to other minorities, such as “fag-
got,” I don’t see much backlash to
the use of “retard” or “retarded” at
the University of Michigan.
Usually, if I hear someone use a
slur against the LGBTQ commu-
nity, which is already rare, they are
called out pretty quickly. Despite
my friends and students at the Uni-
versity being relatively forward
with social justice, for some reason,
slurs against intellectually disabled
individuals aren’t kept in check
quite as much. Could it be because
many like my sister don’t have the
option of attending college, and
therefore aren’t worth changing
campus
culture
for?
But then again,
it’s not as if I do a
lot for the cause,
either. Just last
night I was hang-
ing
out
with
some friends and
repeatedly heard
the word used,
but said nothing.
Why do I value
the comfort and
peace of a social situation over the
dignity and respect of individuals
with intellectual disabilities? I have
sometimes in the past called people
out for using the word, and I always
got one of three responses.
The first option is that the person
recognizes their mistake almost
immediately and apologizes, and I
can tell that they sincerely regret
using it. The second response is
that the person who I called out
remembers that I have an intellec-
tually disabled sibling, and I can
tell in their eyes how uncomfort-
able they are. They’ll apologize,
but I can tell that it is a hurried
and awkward apology, done for my
sake rather than out of a desire
to use less offensive vocabulary.
The third response I’ve gotten
is something along the lines of
“I don’t actually mean retarded
‘retarded!’ That’s not even the
word they use for disabled peo-
ple. Stop being so sensitive.”
While it is true “an individual
with an intellectual disability” has
replaced “mentally retarded individ-
ual,” using this slur will always draw
upon connota-
tions of people
like my sister.
And every time
I hear it, I will
think back to
elementary
school,
when
other students
actually would
directly bully
the kids who
had legitimate
developmental
disabilities.
It’s not as if hearing the word
makes me never want to hang out
with those who use it. Part of my
frustration is just knowing how
jealous Selina is of the fact that I
get to attend college and be sur-
rounded by so many friends. It kills
me that my friends — the types of
people who she would love to also
be friends with — use a word so
negatively charged with such a
casual lack of self-awareness. My
sister is extremely sensitive to the
respect and feelings of others. I can
only hope those who use the word
“retarded” might choose to be a bit
more like her.
— Liam Wiesenberger can be
reached at wiesliam@umich.edu.
“That’s retarded”
Defending trigger warnings
W
hen you live in an apartment
occupied
solely
by
English
majors, some interesting revela-
tions are bound to arise.
The first thing you’d prob-
ably notice is the ever-
present opportunity for
generic living-room chats
to morph into moments
of
thought-provoking
literary
discussion
and
analysis. You unintention-
ally begin to acquire full
synopses and major plot
points for books you’re not
even reading, and discus-
sion questions for classes
you’re not even in. Many of my evenings this
past week involved one of my roommates —
as we sat doing homework — recanting grisly
tales of bloodshed and violence from “The
Iliad” while I brought up themes of sexual-
ity and societal pressures within “Giovanni’s
Room.”
These discussions led me to the realization
that English majors — along with a multitude
of students immersed in humanities courses
— read, examine and analyze some of the
most controversial topics out there. Sexual-
ity, gender, race, discrimination, violence,
inequality, injustice, tragedy, oppression and
morality — more often than not — comprise
the bulk of our subject matter. While these
are crucial intellectual matters to discuss, for
individuals who personally experienced cer-
tain forms of trauma, such as sexual assault,
they may experience some difficulty as they
initially engage with them.
Therefore, I was surprised to learn Com-
mittee A on Academic Freedom and Tenure of
the American Association of University Pro-
fessors, earlier this month, described “trigger
warnings” as a “current threat to academic
freedom” and stated the group’s opposition to
the practice of issuing them to students.
While Committee A argues against “trig-
ger warnings” (in particular, mandated ones),
its statement does make a clear distinction
between “academic regulation” and “faculty
judgment.” The report acknowledges the
possibility of scenarios emerging where an
instructor may find it necessary to fore-
warn students about concerning material,
and it asserts the instructor’s personal
right to do so.
However, merely mentioning the phrase
“trigger warning” in the last few months has
prompted an outpouring of critiques stigma-
tizing the phrase. Accompanied by this debate
is a myriad of accusations that today’s college
population is a mass of individuals who are
“coddled,” “over-sensitive” and politically
correct to a concerning degree. A recurring
argument in the vast amount of commentary
is that these warnings don’t exist in the real
world, so providing them to students in their
courses leaves them unprepared to handle
similar issues once their college careers end.
Yet, warnings in the media aren’t a novel
concept. Various media, for years, have been
categorized according to a system of ratings
to provide viewers with information about
the content they’re consuming. Songs are fre-
quently marked as explicit. Labeling on video
games warns of questionable content. Grant-
ed, these ratings were originally instituted
and primarily serve as safeguards for younger
audiences. Yet even content that undisputed-
ly is mainly intended for adult audiences still
retains these warnings. If you go to an R-rat-
ed movie, the film’s rating is still justified by
a list of the potentially controversial images
and themes that adult viewers (including
those only a year away from legal adulthood)
can expect to encounter. Television shows,
such as “American Horror Story,” for exam-
ple, feature warnings advising “viewer dis-
cretion” before the opening credits and still
depict horrific imagery, unsettling themes
and gruesome scenes of violence.
Sometimes, “trigger warnings” happen
naturally, whether we use that particular
term or not. A few days ago, as a friend mes-
saged me about a newly released music video,
he mentioned beforehand that there might be
some potential content issues. Immediately
after sending me a link to an article about the
video, he followed up by saying it was difficult
to watch but told me it was something that
needed to be shared.
Students — regardless of any particular
concentration — encounter challenging and
discomforting topics in their studies. They
personally experience and understand the
reality of the complex and distressing issues
that permeate our society. Rather than shy
away from these issues, students often seek
out discussions about racism, classism, sex-
ism and injustice on their own in order to
prepare to work to remedy them.
Advocating for a brief overview of poten-
tially troubling content doesn’t equate to
asking for an excuse to completely avoid
potentially jarring material or texts one
may not fully agree with. As students ask for
information about particularly disturbing
material beforehand, it’s a respectful request
for the acknowledgement that not every stu-
dent’s experiences are similar, and to avoid
the assumption that every individual in a
classroom will react the same way. The stig-
ma that views these warnings as an extreme
byproduct of an overly politically correct
environment exaggerates their intent.
At the most basic level, “trigger warnings,”
whether you choose to label them as such or
not, are intended as preventative measures
and simple warnings. For those affected by
particular emotional traumas, this foresight
isn’t meant to inhibit discussion. Rather, it
allows students to prepare themselves and
acknowledge any potential personal issues
while they still continue to try and engage
with the material, but in a different manner.
— Melissa Scholke can be reached
at melikaye@umich.edu.
Why the family dog matters
I
didn’t get poison ivy this
summer. I usually get it from
my back yard, which is a
wooded
lot
in
Illinois. Instead,
while I was away
in New York for
an internship, my
dog died and I picked up a violent
variety of Manhattan crabs. There’s
a coming-of-age anecdote there, if
you look too closely.
I’m joking, of course — about the
crabs, at least. My dog really did die.
But the parents are fine — better
than I thought they’d be since my
dog collapsed at the dinner table.
It’s pretty much just them in the
house now — you know the gears of
age are turning when you start wor-
rying about your parents, and not
vice versa.
But I guess they’ve been dealing
with the death of the dog longer than
I have. They called me right after
he collapsed and, yeah, I cried. But
it really doesn’t hit you until you’re
back in the old house and realize
how quiet it is. Or you see the spot
where the dog’s bowl used to be.
This isn’t an obituary for a dead
pet, I promise. But it is a story
about why the death of a family dog
really matters.
I was in Washington Square, near
New York University, when my mom
called — the dog had a tumor around
his heart. There’s no feeling quite
like hearing your mother cry — it
sticks you in the gut and stays there.
I hung up quickly. I didn’t want her
to hear my voice cracking.
Crying is fine in Washington
Square, though; about a quarter of
Manhattan’s crazies gather there
daily. There was one lady chewing
on her hand, and another man with
a dead parrot on a leash, and me, a
hirsute 21-year-old in hysterics over
a golden retriever.
I know why I reacted that way,
and it wasn’t just about losing a dog.
We bought the dog when I was 13.
Mom put the kids in the pickup truck
and drove out to McHenry, out in the
country, to a farmer whose golden
retriever just had a litter. I was going
into eighth grade and it was the sum-
mer my cousin, Allie, came to stay.
Allie’s home life back in Boston
wasn’t ideal, so for the summer she
lived with us in Illinois. It seems sad
now, but back then it was magical:
We had the pickup truck, my older
sister had just gotten her driver’s
license, and every night that sum-
mer we could make it to McDonald’s
before it closed and get ice cream
for a dollar, which we’d eat in the
truck bed while we looked out over
the lake.
But suddenly
it was already
August. Eighth
grade
loomed
just around the
corner, and the
light at the end
of the tunnel
was the puppy.
He ran with
us around the
lake, he slept with us in the bed of
the pickup.
And then, suddenly, I was 21 and
in New York. Eight more summers
had turned to fall and then winter
without me even noticing.
And then the dog was dead. A
tumor on his big, stupid heart. And it
seemed that summer was dead. The
weather was hot, but all it did was
make my suit sticky. After gradua-
tion, there would never be another
summer of freedom. But with the
dog’s death, that summer before
eighth grade came back. I smelled
the tobacco smoke stuck to the
truck’s interior. I saw the progres-
sion of constellations. I heard Allie
crying on summer nights.
Washington Square was getting
dark. I started walking to my apart-
ment, but then kept walking. About
10, I reached Central Park, about
50 blocks north of my place. I don’t
remember getting home. But the
next morning, Thursday, I got a call
from my cousin Allie. She would be in
New York for about an hour the next
day, en route to her home in Boston.
Things with her parents had turned
for the better years ago, so after she
left that summer I rarely saw her.
The call seemed like providence.
We planned to meet at some food
festival in Midtown, before she
hopped on the train at Grand Cen-
tral. If I sprinted to the subway on
my lunch break, I could catch her.
At about noon I snuck out of the
office and loosened my tie. I was
already sweating through my shirt
when I got to the subway platform.
I sweated even more when the train
broke down somewhere between
Union Square and Grand Central.
And then, after a half-hour of wait-
ing, I finally emerged from the sub-
way. Allie’s text came through: She
couldn’t
get
a
hold of me and
had
caught
an
earlier train. Off
to Boston.
It was about
12:45 p.m. I had
to be back to work
sometime in the
next half hour,
but I sat down at
the food festival
and had something to eat. I loved
New York — the culture and cuisine
were palliatives for loneliness and a
low paycheck.
But here I was, crying into an arti-
sanal, gluten-free pork-belly kimchi
taco. Was this worth it? Being half a
world away from home? Did I aban-
don my aging parents in an empty
house for jazz concerts and fusion
street food?
It’s not just about the dog. It boils
down to this: Time moving for-
ward can be a lot to handle, some-
times, and that’s OK. Each year
feels shorter than the last. We lose
people. Whole patches of our lives
can only be remembered through
the people we spent that part of our
lives with. Like Allie, and in a way,
like the dog. It feels like when we
lose them, we lose a whole chunk
of ourselves. But this doesn’t have
to be true.
I wound up getting poison ivy, by
the way, on some cliffs outside Bos-
ton, visiting Allie. I left New York a
little early and made a trip of it. We
had 99-cent ice cream — with beer,
now — by moonlight on the cliffs.
Then, a week later, I flew home,
to my parents’ house. I faced the
place where the dog’s bowl used to
be. And I paid attention to the way
things are today.
— Tom West can be reached
at tkwest@umich.edu.
TOM
WEST
The stigma that views these
warnings as an extreme
byproduct of an overly
politically correct environment
exaggerates their intent.
Crying is fine in
Washington Square,
though; about a quarter
of Manhattan’s crazies
gather there daily.
For some reason, slurs
against intellectually
disabled individuals
aren’t kept in check
quite as much.
MELISSA
SCHOLKE
LIAM
WIESENBERGER
E-mail HEidi at HEidimaE@umicH.Edu
HEIDI LIU
Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Ben Keller, Payton Luokkala, Aarica
Marsh, Adam Morton, Victoria Noble, Anna Polumbo-Levy, Melissa
Scholke, Michael Schramm, Stephanie Trierweiler,
Mary Kate Winn, Derek Wolfe
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