A Delicate Balance

I loved Sam's post the other day about English being a living language.  It got me thinking about something that happened a couple of months ago, something that has stuck with me and made me question whether I did the right thing.

I was on my lunch break, and I decided to walk over the the building next door to pick up some fried crap something quick to eat. Since I work on a college campus, there are several food court style places within walking distance where I can grab something to eat as long as I don't mind being inundated with teenagers and twenty-somethings in faux vintage tees and skinny jeans.  The lines are set up to zig-zag like at an amusement park, so as you shuffle along you are wedged in on all sides by people you don't necessarily want to be elbow to elbow with.  Most of the students were hunched over with the kind of contrived nonchalance that young people have perfected, fiddling with their phones and appearing closed off but somehow also seeming hyper aware of their surroundings.

Two women joined the line and were shunted into position right beside me by the miniature maze of the line.  They looked like me: business casual and heels, big bags that were somewhere between a large purse and a briefcase, the unofficial dress code of young staffers.  And like me, they hadn't mastered the art of the inconspicuous, I'm-too-sexy-for-this-line demeanor of the students around us.  They were talking loudly about some frustration at work, venting about what I can only assume was their boss.

I looked over at them, too old and uncouth to pretend their conversation wasn’t disturbing my reverie, but right at that moment my phone chirped at me from inside my bag.  Pulling out my phone, I saw that Sam had sent me a picture of Linc happily eating artichoke just as I heard one of the women say, “I mean he’s like a re****ed child. Like he never learned the difference between yellow and orange.”

 

 The timing of the moment was that exactly as the women were saying those words, the photo of my son joyfully eating a new food loaded on my phone.  I saw Lincoln's sweet face as I heard this woman beside me call her boss a re****ed child.  

And what did I do?  I took a couple deep breaths and looked at my son on the screen.  I took comfort in the sight of his face and told myself it wasn't worth the grief because it would be my turn to order any second and I would be away from that terrible woman.

But what I wanted to do, what I maybe/probably should have done was turn to that woman and say, "Oh, you think your boss is like a re****ed child? To me, it seems like you are the one having trouble with basic concepts.  For instance, your boss is a difficult man who no doubt gets on your nerves.  And this," I wanted to tell her, holding up my phone to show her Linc's picture, "This is an innocent child who does not deserve to be slandered because you can’t come up with any better vocabulary words."

 I think the only reason I didn't speak up was because I was afraid, given the timing of her comment and the crush of people around me, that I couldn't say something without making a scene.  I cry when I get mad, and I cry when I get nervous, and I cry when I even think about the world hurting Linc because he is different.  So, yeah, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get the words out without crying slash screaming at the women.

The truth is that I react to that word like I've been slapped.  Or, like I've had a bucket of ice water thrown at me.  It kind of knocks the wind out of me for a second, and often by the time that second has passed it often feels too late to react with any kind of grace or tact.  By the time I am ready to respond, I would have to pretty much say, "Wait wait wait, let's go back to three sentences ago when you said the R*word.  I have something to say about that."  It doesn't feel organic; it feels contrived and even more awkward than it has to be.  I think it would make people feel terrible to call them out like that for using a word they don't intend to be as hurtful as it actually is to us.  I don't want to humiliate people who aren't really trying to attack my son even though I do wish people would stop using that word.  I haven't figured out the delicate balance yet.  I feel heavy handed when I ask people not to say that word around me, and like I'm a coward when I let it slide.

The truth is that I can separate the casual use of the R*word and a direct attack on my son.  What bothers me is not that people overuse an inappropriate word.  What bothers me is that I fear people who use that word believe people who are not like them deserve to be ridiculed.  What bothers me is that it seems to be a symptom of the belief that Linc doesn't deserve a place in society, a belief I fear is more prevalent than I first thought possible.  What scares me is that people tell themselves they are just saying a popular word for its shock value, but really they are using it reinforce the belief that they deserve to torture anyone they deem beneath them.  

I am still learning myself, clearly, where to draw the line and what hill(s) I am willing to die on.  For now, I will just say I love this PSA about the power of words (and not just because it has two of my favorite Glee stars).  Words have the power to do so many great things in this life.  Why use them to tear others down?