Growing up, I went to a religious school. On the few days that we would actually learn anything of value, our lessons were always charged with religious values. I’ll always carry them with me—for better or for worse—as poor of a student as I was then. The words almost all evade me, except for a few: John 3:16, John 11:35, much of Matthew. Most of all, Matthew 7:12:
So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.
This is all to preface that it was a shock to hear my teacher call herself the r-slur. It was in jest and in reference to herself, of course, but that didn’t make it any less shocking to me at the time. I had heard that word used countless times on the playground and on the internet by friends and strangers, but this time was different. Aside from being grossly out of character for her, or whatever character she had constructed for 8th grade me, the cognitive dissonance and visceral discomfort I felt then is something I can’t say I’ve felt much in my life.
I have heard and read this word used more times in the past few months than I have in twenty-one years of living. I have heard it from countless mouths, from friends, family, strangers, lovers. Yes, I’ve heard it from those I frankly would expect it from, especially if they fit a certain demographic profile more prone to online exposure. I’ve also heard it from some of the most otherwise forward-minded people I’ve had the pleasure or occasional displeasure of knowing. Most times, I cringe. Every time I feel the same discomfort, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me think differently of my friends to hear it from them every time. Some times, I don’t say anything, yet every time I wish I did.
I could talk for hours about the discomfort. I can talk for hours the pangs of disappointment I always feel when I hear or read that word. I can talk about how little consolation I get whenever my friends stop themselves a syllable in, knowing it’ll upset me. I can talk about how my half-brother is developmentally disabled, and how I think of him every time.
I know that it’s extremely unlikely any words I can write can convince people to not say that word, and given the circles I run in (early-to-mid 20s, masculine in culture if not in demographics) that people will still say it behind my back. And I understand that when they catch themselves saying it around me, they’re doing it for me rather than the untold millions that this word has been weaponized against. I just wish that people cared as much about the power of language as they do about upsetting Faye at the function.