How Not to Use the Word "Retard"

Recently I’ve read a couple of articles addressing a topic that is near and dear to my heart: the use, both incorrect and abusive, of the word “retard.”

In one article, a man describes a scene in a restaurant where his autistic son was insultingly labeled with the word by a nearby patron (read it here). In the other, a mother defends the true meaning of the word, trying to separate it from it’s vulgar, common-usage understanding, speaking from the experience of her daughter (here).

Both these articles touched me deeply because of my own experience with clinical, medical retardation. My littlest sister, Laura, was born with a chromosome disorder that rendered her incapable of—well, anything. She never walked, talked, ate solid food (unless baby oatmeal and Jello count), learned anything at school, or otherwise actively participated in life. Her mental ability at the age of 9.5, when she died, was that of a two-month-old baby. She had seizure disorder, severe scoliosis (curvature of the spine), and a host of other problems. She was, in every literal sense of the word, severely retarded.

She was born when I was about to turn 7 years old, and her birth was probably the first time I ever heard the word “retarded”—and in the correct usage. My first understanding of my new baby sister consisted of two pieces of information: that she was going to die very soon, and she was retarded.

There was no derogatoriness in the word; no insult, no anger, no indignation. It was a sad reality. I remember taking it very seriously, though the full implications were incomprehensible to me at that age.

By the next school year (when I entered second grade), my classmates had suddenly, as it seemed to me, had their vocabularies expanded to include the vicious insult: retard! Whenever I heard it used, I would grow concerned; I’d look at the accused person, and in my mind’s eye compare him or her to my sister. Never could I find any similarities. They all looked perfectly healthy, and they had no mental difficulties that I was aware of. At first I probably assumed the angry child just didn’t understand what the word meant; I think I remember trying vaguely to explain it (or maybe I just wanted to). But it was used over and over and over again, and finally it was more than I could take.

In class one day I asked my teacher if I could say something to the class. When she gave me the thumbs-up, I asked them fervently to stop using the word “retard” as an insult. I explained that I knew what it meant to be retarded—that I lived with retardation every day. That it was a serious word, meaning something scary and mysterious and not to be wished on anyone. But that though my sister—whom many of my classmates had seen, as my mom was a “room mom” and would come to read books to the class, bringing Laura in tow—was retarded, and would never have a normal life, she was the sweetest, best baby sister I knew.

I doubt I was anywhere near that eloquent, and probably only spoke for a quarter of the time the above would have taken; but I felt infinitely better, having made my plea. My teacher backed me up, and asked the class to refrain from using the word. That day, I felt, a victory had been gained for children like my sister, who could not control who they were or how they had been born—and didn’t deserve to have their condition, as real and as serious as any other, slung by ignorant children as a slur.

Yet my personal victory was short lived. In the years since that day in second grade I have heard people call each other, governments, ideas, technology, and events “retarded” probably thousands of times. Though it has, with repetition, ceased to strike a knife in my heart with every usage, I still cringe when I hear it.

Retardation is a serious thing. It’s not something that a person can “stop being,” it doesn’t happen by choice, and above all, it has no bearing on the value, either social or innate, of a person. It might denote limitations on a person’s ability to achieve academically or physically, but it cannot put boundaries on the heart. Laura’s condition and care brought our paths across those of many other families with special-needs children, and without doubt those kids are the most loving, accepting, happy, and worry-free people I’ve ever known. They make no value judgments—unlike many of the so-called “normal” people whose insensitive remarks deeply hurt the families, though are (thankfully) unnoticed by the children themselves.

I applaud these parents for taking a stand on this issue, and one that will hopefully have more impact than my small second-grade speech. For much of my sister’s life, I was so young as to not notice when people stared rudely at her, even when her wheelchair made her condition so very obvious. For a child my age, I had no preconceived ideas about people like my sister, or like the children in the stories above. First and foremost, she was my sister; and that was a title that took precedence over any “label,” clinical or otherwise.

I suspect that much of the difficulty we face is that children—or anyone, really—with physical or mental limitations scare us. When you look into the face of someone with special needs, it can be difficult, if not impossible, to read what you see there. It is very human to fear the unknown, and families of special-needs children understand that. (Believe me, no one is more scared than those directly involved!) But rather than shying away from, shunning, cold-shouldering, or simply ignoring them, why not say hello? Treat the child, and indeed the entire family, as if they were sympathetic humans (which we are). Don’t stare. And don’t use a term you don’t understand as an insult just because you’ve heard someone else do it. Would you call out in a heated argument, “Ugh, you’re such a cancer patient!”? Of course you wouldn’t. You’re much more sensitive than that. Yet having cancer is just as scary, unknown, and uncontrollable as having special needs.

Perhaps I’m only saying what has been said, and pleaded, many times before. I like to think I have a unique perspective as a sibling, rather than a parent or a doctor, because the big medical words like “Trisomy” (Laura's syndrome, Trisomy 18), “scoliosis,” “seizure,” and others meant nothing to me as a 7-year-old. I didn’t understand what caused her problems on a molecular level, and I didn’t see her as a “case.” She was my sister, and I didn’t know anything else.

So the next time you encounter a family with a special-needs child, remember that before that child had a diagnosed syndrome, or a three-page list of doctors, that child was first a son or daughter; brother or sister; grandson or granddaughter. And that the family sees and accepts them in those capacities first, with all the doctor visits and clinical tests coming as secondary to those first relationships. Smile and say hello. Get to know them. You’ll find the “label” loses its power, both to attack and to frighten, as you learn.

And the next time you catch yourself about to use the word “retard” incorrectly, remember that child, and the family who loves them, and pick a different word.

Or better yet, use that moment to check yourself and say nothing. After all, “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”