Retard

Got your attention?

Good. May that be the last time you see the word displayed so prominently.

Today is the annual Spread the Word to End the Word Day. I've said enough about it, so I'm not going to say anything else. Read this for some perfectly perfect remarks about the word.


And read this, an essay that my ten year old son Oliver wrote all by himself as his submission to the No Name Calling Week contest:

 “RETARDED” AND WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

By Oliver 

The word “retarded.” What is its beauty and what is its downside and what does it mean? The question remains. When I get home from school, I wonder to myself about some of my friends and just anyone in general who says the word “retarded” whether they really know what that word means. And all the times when they say it, are they sure that they know what it means and are they sure that when they say it, they are not hurting anyone's feelings around them? The question remains. People think the word “retarded” means dumb, stupid and lots more hurtful things. All of those words hurt my feelings because my sister is cognitively disabled, which means it's harder for her to learn than it is for people with a normal brain. She can't walk without help and can't talk either, but that doesn't mean she's stupid or dumb. She stills knows how to think and interact with other people; she is just different. When people use the word “retarded” as a put-down or a joke, it hurts me and my sister and all the people like her. I wish they would stop.

Car Talk

I've always thought if I were a child psychologist, I'd conduct my sessions in a minivan or other vehicle. My boys have always opened up to me during our incessant car rides around town, and I'm not sure whether it's the comfort of the ride or the fact that no eye contact is made (other than my surreptitious looking into the rear-view mirror to check out their expressions), but they often divulge their darkest thoughts and ask their deepest questions when I'm ferrying them out and about. Yesterday, Oliver and I listened to NPR on our way to watch Henry play flag football on the other side of town after school and were mesmerized by a story about a woman who was recently caught and arrested in Saudi Arabia for driving without a license. Because of strict Muslim law, this woman was convicted and given the punishment of ten lashes. And not with a wet noodle.

What's a lash? Oliver asked.

A whipping, I replied. Oliver gasped.

Then the conversation veered off into women and the Muslim religion, the United States' relationship to Saudi Arabia and oil and all that stuff in terms that I believed a 10 year old could understand.

That's why I don't like religion, Mom, Oliver said. It causes a lot of problems.


A few minutes later, Oliver piped up that he had been selling popcorn for the Cub Scouts in our neighborhood, and one of his friend's mothers (and my friend), who happens to be gay and is married to another woman, told him that she didn't like the Cub Scouts organization because it discriminated against gays.

My heart sunk. This is an issue that I've long struggled with -- as long as Oliver has been in and relished everything having to do with Cub Scouts. It's sort of paralyzed me, to tell you the truth. I love Oliver's Cub Scout troop and experience -- he's been doing it for nearly four years and thrives there, and I've turned a blind eye to the obvious: the Boy Scouts of America have a long history of discrimination against people of color (now overturned) and homosexuality. I told Oliver these things and confessed that I'd struggled with them over the years.

Why didn't you tell me that, Mom? he asked. Oliver has several friends who have two mothers or two fathers. He's shared the podium with them at our school on No Name-Calling Week when he passionately stood in front of the entire student body and educated them about the use of the word retard.

Does it make you not want to be a Cub Scout? I asked.

Sort of, Oliver said. We were quiet for a bit, and I gathered my thoughts and took my opinions and stuffed them into a tiny compartment and told him that I thought we could work within an organization to educate people about what we knew was the right thing. I told him that I hoped our Cub Scout troop was enormously tolerant, and I told him that our pack leader, an African American, had shared his own story of discrimination back in the day when he had joined the scouts in La Jolla, California. I told him a little about Don't Ask Don't Tell being overturned last week, how long it had taken this country to do that but that I believed whenever people are oppressed, whenever their rights are trampled upon -- whether they are women or people of color (other than white) or homosexual -- they eventually fight and push and right the wrong. I told him that we had to support these things and we should think about how we could support them.

We didn't say much after that, just sat there in the car, thinking.

No Name Calling Week Part 2 - The Older Grades

So many of you commented on my blog post last week describing Oliver's participation in his school's No Name Calling Week, and I thank you for all that support and recognition! This week it's the middle school's turn, and Henry showed his customary grace and bravery by standing up with his peers and explaining his discomfort with the word retard.

Since these were middle-schoolers, I believe the stakes were even higher. One of the main thrusts of No Name Calling Week is bullying, and after three students did a short, personal presentation, several teachers and the principal recounted their own experiences with bullying and name-calling, stressing that these incidences can be wounds remembered for a lifetime. It was a terrific age-appropriate assembly, and once again I was proud and moved that my children attend such an exceptional school and that they participated so openly.

No Name Calling Week

My boys attend a local charter school that has a constructivist philosophy and is very progressive. Next week, both the elementary and middle schools are participating in No Name Calling Week,  an annual week of educational creative activities designed to end name-calling of all kinds, with lessons and activities for all the students. The week was inspired by the young adult novel The Misfits and is "presented in collaboration with more than 50 national education and youth service organizations, including the National Association of Secondary School Principals, Big Brothers Big Sisters of America, the National School Boards Association and the National Education Association."

I was surprised when Oliver came home from school several weeks ago and told me that he might want to be a part of the week's activities and call attention to the word retarded that he said is used constantly on the playground and in conversation even by some of his friends. Of my two sons, I would say that Oliver has been the most self-conscious about having Sophie as a sister, particularly sensitive to the stares that she receives in public and often painfully conflicted and embarrassed. We have spoken for a very long time about all of these issues, and I've always encouraged him to be open about his feelings, even when they're difficult. He has told me before how much it bothers him when people use the word retarded; in fact, he once said in an angry outburst after Sophie had a big seizure that I have to deal with all of this at home and then go to school and hear people call other people retards.


Today, Oliver and a classmate did an amazingly brave presentation on two words whose indiscriminate use  bother them deeply and personally. I crouched in the middle of the play-yard where hundreds of kids sat in rapt silence and watched as these two nine-year olds stood up for what they believed in and educated all of us. Both Oliver and his classmate introduced themselves and told the group who they were. Then they each discussed the name-calling that they had been hurt by. Elizabeth spoke about her gay parents and Oliver spoke about Sophie.

I was humbled and awed (and extremely teary).