I write everything on my to-do lists. If it’s not listed it simply won’t be done.
When I was asked to write this piece, my hand shook as I added “Write about the word ‘Retard’” to my work list. And even now, typing the R-word on my keyboard, a rush of blood surges through my body sending tingles to my fingertips, my throat tightens and eyes water.
So if it’s so hard to write, hearing it spoken feels like a punch in the gut. But I’m a decent actress and don’t react, because it’s often from the mouth of friends. People who are otherwise thoughtful, considerate and caring.
“OMG, he’s such a retard!” girlfriends declare, reciting a frustrating incident with a colleague. Or, “Don’t be a retard” they quip to one another.
“Don’t say that!” I want to shake them. But I know they’re saying it carelessly, without thought. I know, because I used to say it myself.
That was before retard became my life and my love.
I have twin boys with intellectual disabilities or ‘mental retardation’; and yes, they’re the ‘retards’ the insult intends.
Their brains don’t work normally. They can’t do a bunch of stuff. But they’re better than awesome and I love them fiercely – just like all mums raising kids with disabilities. These mums also bristle every time they hear the R-word. As do the kids and adults with special-needs who understand what it means.