The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
14 — Wednesday, February 3, 2021
statement
F
or most of my life, my
brother Noah’s bedroom
has been connected to
mine. He cannot access the rest of
the house without walking through
my bedroom each morning. I have
had the comforting privilege of
reading Noah bedtime stories and
hugging him goodnight a mere 10
steps from my own bed.
And every single morning, Noah
would quietly creak open my door,
walk into my room in his old-fun-
draiser-t-shirts-turned-pajamas,
stare at himself in my wall mirror
and swiftly exit into the hallway to
start his day. What I could have eas-
ily dismissed as an early morning
annoyance became an experience I
looked forward to with each wake
up.
Thanks to our intimate setup,
almost every day of my adolescent
life began with a reminder of Noah’s
beautiful, unique magic. His quick
“walk through and weirdly stare at
himself” routine was the kindest
personalized alarm clock I could ask
for. Even if it was just for a moment
before I collapsed back into my pil-
low until it was almost too late for
lunchtime, his warm smile and in-
nocent curiosity pleasantly kicked
off even the most dreadful of days.
However, it was not only at the
break of dawn that Noah’s wonder-
ful and compassionate demeanor
made me open my eyes, put on my
glasses and truly wake up.
Noah’s autism has paved the way
for some of the most unusual, heart-
wrenching and glorious memories
of my life. Many of the moments
that have shaped who I am were a
product of his chaotic and beauti-
ful personality. He has thrown my
grandparent’s old books into nearby
lakes, resulting in a chaotic yet en-
tertaining family-wide effort to fish
them out with string and a bucket.
He has been held back by my strug-
gling parents while I quietly cried
as he attempted to jump onto train
tracks during a meltdown out of
desperation for his beloved train to
arrive sooner. He has sung his own
rendition of “You Are My Sunshine”
for everyone at his sleepaway camp
at their last night campfire. He has
been hugged and kissed by fam-
ily members who love him end-
lessly and educated by teachers who
would do anything to simply help
him write his name.
The combination of Noah’s love-
able, engaging character and my
immense compassion for him has
made the empathetic understand-
ing of those different from me a cen-
tral part of my identity. Our bond
has made his metaphorical wake
up calls begging me to be kind and
actively voice my experiences ring
even louder.
The first time I recall encounter-
ing offensive disability language —
language utilized either consciously
or subconsciously to dehumanize
and/or disrespect those with dis-
abilities — was as a freshman in my
high school’s harrowing halls. Class-
mates I had barely spoken to would
casually call a friend “retarded” or
“sped” (shorthand for “special edu-
cation”) for simple actions such as
dropping a textbook or spilling wa-
ter. Hearing these conversations left
an anger in my chest that lingered
with me. I couldn’t articulate it at
the time, but something about twist-
ing words once reserved for people
like Noah into casual insults tied my
stomach in a knot.
As I grew older and noticed these
occurrences more frequently in my
everyday life, I began to understand
why these specific words deeply
frustrated and disappointed me.
Around junior year of high school,
I googled the history of the word
“retarded” in an attempt to under-
stand why and how this form of
hate speech has become so normal-
ized. Unsurprisingly, my discoveries
validated every concern I have ever
had about the word’s harmful impli-
cations.
What was once a neutral medi-
cal term for intellectual disabilities
has been transformed into slang
through the popularization of the
term as a synonym for “unintelli-
gent” or “thoughtless.” The term’s
original definition existed to vague-
ly diagnose those with developmen-
tal and/or intellectual disabilities
in a time before more extensive re-
search on different disorders had
been done. Due to the widespread
use of the word in casual contexts,
“retarded” was subsequently con-
demned as inappropriate within the
professional community. Through
efforts from the disabled commu-
nity and their allies, the word was
legally barred from use in politi-
cal and professional proceedings.
Through the creation of Rosa’s Law,
former President Barack Obama
approved legislation that “mentally
retarded” was to be removed from
all federal documents and replaced
with the more respectful term of
“intellectual disability.” The law
was passed and made possible by
efforts from former Sen. Barbara
Mikulski, D-Md., and the family of
Rosa Marcellino, a nine-year-old
girl with Down Syndrome, and their
supporters.
And that should have been the
end of it.
Rosa’s Law should have set the
societal precedent that “retarded”
and its counterparts had become
so ridden with problematic under-
tones that it was time to move past
their use. The public should have
paid attention to the desires of the
disabled community and respected
their wishes. It should have been
an easy decision to abandon speech
that disrespectfully referenced a
relatively large community. But this
proved to be difficult for a society
that struggles to listen to marginal-
ized voices and often does not ac-
tively pay attention to the cultural
contexts behind word choices.
Instead of listening to the voices
of the disabled and carefully adopt-
ing a more respectful vocabulary,
“retarded” was fully transformed
into the twisted evil twin of its origi-
nal interpretation’s intention.
To gain both an educational
and personal perspective on these
linguistic issues, I spoke to Remi
Yergeau, a University of Michigan
associate professor of English and
Digital Studies. Yergeau specializes
in disability studies and is on the
autism spectrum themselves. They
discussed the reality of this harm-
ful rhetoric and the ways in which
these words reflect our societal and
cultural values.
“The harm is very real,” Yergeau
said. “Those terms are denigrating.
They really serve no other purpose
than to denigrate. But then they also
communicate very strongly what
the culture at large views as human-
ness, basically, because they are de-
humanizing terms.”
Furthermore, Yergeau empha-
sized the offensive societal impli-
cations of these words in that they
subconsciously favor a neurotypical
standard of intelligence. This notion
therefore criticizes and mocks the
disabled community for neurologi-
cal and social differences that are
out of their control.
“They also represent really stock
and horrifying notions of intelli-
gence, or they value like this able
bodied, neuro-typical form of intel-
ligence as if that’s the pinnacle to
which people need to reach their
achievements,” Yergeau said. “It de-
values the human dignity and worth
of people with disabilities”.
The ableist connotations of of-
fensive disability language make
disassociating their historical and
current usage virtually impossible.
The history behind “retarded” and
its similar insulting counterparts
cause them to be much more than
just words. Because of their origins
as legitimate medical terms, their
association with intellectual dis-
abilities appears to be somewhat
indestructible. And when we recog-
nize inevitable complexity, the goal
shifts: Rather than waste our time
attempting to justify adjustable lin-
guistic habits, we need to actively
educate ourselves and each other on
the damaging impact of our diction
and how we can be more inclusive
of frequently silenced communities
in our language choices.
Unfortunately, we know this is
easier said than done. Not everyone
is willing to welcome corrections to
their speech with open arms. Those
stuck in their ways seem to eternally
loop back to their desire to remain
uncensored, and it can feel like an
endless losing battle with the public
at large.
Grappling with this issue has
proven to require long term social
change and cannot be completely
eradicated by a singular law or
voice. Society’s deep-seated resis-
tance to diverging from neurotypi-
cal standards, as shown in our ob-
session with offensive slang, allows
offensive language to persevere
through generations. I continue to
see countless friends, significant
others and even family members
use “retarded,” “autistic” (in a dis-
tinctly slang context) and “sped” in
their everyday language.
And maybe on the surface, I
somewhat understand them. It’s
human nature to seek indepen-
dence and reject unwanted restric-
tions. Moreover, people who may
crave immediately rewarding be-
havioral changes can struggle with
understanding the long term effects
of their language. Upon my recent
discovery that common terms such
as “dumb”, “stupid” and “idiot”
have problematic ties to disability
oppression similar to “retarded,” I
am embarrassed to say that my im-
mediate instinct was to justify my
previous usage with any argument I
could devise. But thinking of Noah’s
kind voice reminded me once more
to improve my actions rather than
defend them to protect my pride —
especially when its impact hurts a
community in a way I will never be
able to fully understand myself.
Regardless of my lack of first-
hand experience with intellectual
disabilities, I do my best to force
myself out of my comfort zone and
confront friends, family and even
strangers about their language use
in front of me. I have asked people
ranging from coworkers to friends to
a random girl in my dorm’s commu-
nal bathroom to refrain from using
“retarded” or “autistic” to describe
someone who is or something that
is medically neither of those things.
It’s terrifying to put myself out there
regarding such a controversial sub-
ject, but my experiences with Noah
remind me that this will always be a
worthy fight.
To dive deeper into the topic
and hear from a more first-hand
perspective, I had the privilege of
speaking to Best Buddies member
Anne Moler, who has a speech pro-
cessing disorder. Best Buddies is a
nonprofit organization dedicated to
creating meaningful relationships
between those with and without
intellectual and developmental dis-
abilities.
As someone with a disability her-
self, Moler vulnerably reflected on
her experiences with hearing offen-
sive disability language in her daily
life.
“It makes me have thoughts in
my head about myself thinking I’m
stupid and dumb, and I know that’s
not true,” she told me. “I know that
everyone with disabilities did not ask
for these disabilities. They just were
born with them or got them later in
life and we want to be treated like
everyone else wants to be treated. All
we want is inclusion and respect.”
LSA sophomore Lydia Goff, Best
Buddies treasurer, shared her expe-
rience with me as both an ally for the
disabled community and an active
force in promoting inclusion at the
University. She emphasized the im-
perative role of highlighting disabled
voices as much as possible.
“It’s so important that we elevate
the voices of people with disabilities
because it’s not about being a voice
for the voiceless,” she said. “It’s about
who has the microphone.”
In order to truly become aware of
the concerns surrounding disability
language, we need to elevate disabled
voices themselves. It is the people
like Yergeau, Moler and Noah who
we need to be listening to. It is the
people who have experienced what I
never have that can wake us up and
guide us on the path to a more equi-
table and inclusive society.
It is time for us to act as if we each
have a Noah of our own coming into
our rooms each morning. It is time
for us to act as if each of us have a
personal vexation for the offensive
contexts in which our words are
used.
It is time to wake up.
Wake up and
smell the rhetoric
BY EMILY BLUMBERG, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Illustration by Maggie Wiebe