You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August 2008.
Autumn breezes push their way into evenings and mornings now, even when summer still claims the day. Night pops up a little more easily, granting us one last moment to rest while we enjoy what is left of the season.
Under stars early last night, I wandered out barefoot for some forgotten thing, a word, a song left on the passenger seat. The streets were busy, walkers dashing between car lights and street lamps, kids on bikes for one last ride, and the sidewalk still warm, holding tight to the sun. There is still time for porches and balconies, children and trees, flowers and sun and beaches and love. There is still time for time itself.
Another Saturday night, and I find my house abuzz with the sound of… the washing machine. That, combined the Mario theme playing in the background, and I know that when I was thirteen, this is not how I imagined an adult Saturday night. It is not such an unusual way to spend a weekend evening for a busy family with kids home. Still, I am single, and would perhaps prefer not to remain so forever. Single… a funny word with so many people in this house. But yes, I am the only adult here, which in the noise only reminds me more of that fact. Saturday nights are supposed to be nights to be out if you are single, so it seems. In real life, I have had my evenings of dancing and fun, dinners and kisses, but more quiet times, if I were to count them. And quiet nights can be lovely.
Yes, it seems hard tonight to let go of that memory of the “Love Boat” theme and its promise of hair blowing in the wind, finding the love of a life… and then, “Boss, Boss, the plane!” bringing more dreams. Finishing homework on Friday, watching the ABC lineup on Saturday: it was teenage resignation, the stuff that builds character, perhaps, while the popular kids had fun that I imagined to be rich and glorious. Character building was the consolation, but it wasn’t all it seemed, as the song says.
What has put me in this mood? I wonder, and as I head down the basement stairs, it hits me. That scent: sweet, overpowering. It is the smell of darkness, Kiss posters and gag gifts, lava lamps and bubble machines, plastic, sex toys and suggestive greeting cards. It is eighth grade, and being dropped at the mall, wandering through B. Dalton looking at books on the occult (before they started calling them new age) that were frankly a little creepy, but maybe true. It is that feeling of the junior department that had not yet been remodeled at the Famous Barr, with its big peace sign shaped entrance, and the clothes that never fit me right, even a size 13, because in those pre-preppie, pre-punk, pre-retro days, they were all straight, and I was not. (Nothing at Colonel Day’s ever fit right either, which must have been what doomed me to lonely Saturday nights.) It was walking fast past that dreaded popcorn and polyester smell of the one department store I absolutely refused to go to, then looking through Woolworth, buying nail polish in another pink I didn’t have yet, or Bonne Bell lip gloss, or purple eye shadow, then drinking soda in the Orange Julius while I waited for my mom’s car to pull up outside. I was always a little afraid to go into stores that were dark and full of teenage wonder then. I knew some of the stuff would be objectionable to my parents, and I cared. I cared about music and not offending them. So I hid to listen late, late into the night, under the covers, to the songs my parents did not want us to hear, and then to Dr. Demento, where I first heard Serge Gainsbourg and the Sex Pistols, and learned to love Monty Python even more–although that was allowed as my mom let us stay up late even on a Sunday night to watch the episodes in repeat on PBS. I found out my mom actually owned Tom Lehrer records one day when I was looking in her closet for something. She was surprised I knew who he was, and I was surprised she knew who Spike Jones was and Stan Freeburg, and that much was all right with her. I stayed up even later, often terrified toward midnight by the tales forewarned by E.G. Marshall, never more frightened than by one story about a grandfather clock that became a door to Hell–my punishment. I was a strange kid, I was convinced, and maybe I really was. Yes, that was what I assumed, and I wondered what life was all about, and I wonder now, thirty years later, what possessed Downy to create a fabric softener that smells, when it dries, just like Spencer’s Gifts, circa 1978.
Seventh grade French was a good place for the snickers of embarrassment. It was bad enough to be required to speak at all in a class (10% of the grade). In the world of French, words sounded weird, or too much like embarrassing words in English. Imagine being twelve, and being called on to say pu as you learn past participles. Anticipation of the dread word would force hands up early in desperation, just to be called on before pouvoir came up. There were always exceptions, of course, some wise guy who knew that brazenly answering the teacher, intentionally missing the correct way to say u would prompt a fifteen-minute pronunciation exercise. “Étudiants! Say ‘ee.’ Now say ‘oo.’ C’est ça!.” But you had to admit, some of the expressions were downright hilarious, and one of those was what you had to say to the teacher those days when your locker wouldn’t open, and you were still out in the hall when the bell rang: “Je regrette. Je suis en retard.” Back then, that kid in the back of the room would whisper something like, “Oui, tu es un RE-TARD,” and everyone would start laughing. It was funny, right?
I had hoped we had all outgrown these things, and that our world had left that RETARD word and all its nasty connotations behind. It is fine in French, when it is pronounced differently, means something different, and you are truly late, not developmentally DELAYED. Just late. It is not a word I was ever allowed to use in English, even back when I was growing up. I just didn’t say it. I thought it was gone. It was a word I had never heard from my own kids… my daughter asked me last year what it meant. I was happy that day, glad she had not been subjected to the taunting disgrace of comparing a friend’s missteps and mess-ups with a person who has a developmental disability. Here in Massachusetts, the Department of Mental Retardation changed its name, admittedly late in the scheme of things. I remember moving to this state, looking for services for my son, shocked that a progressive state called its department that, and at last, it does not. My own kids were completely aware of the real difficulties their brother had in learning things, his inability to speak, his retardation. But the word itself shocked.
My oldest boy hit middle school, where to my dismay I learned that the word had not been shelved. Oh, no. RETARD is the term for the kids in the support class. Not only that, it is also the general insult from one kid to another, or the complaint about an assignment, or anything a kids does not like (“This is RETARDed!”). It is even a term of understated endearment, as kids call one another RETARD, shooting baskets and missing, acting goofy, but still liking one another all the same.
I banned the word, reminding my older son of his younger brother, and how the word hurts him. So instead, when my older son became clinically depressed and felt friendless, he began to use it on himself.
The word started popping up everywhere–or maybe I just then noticed it–in shopping malls, in school halls, and yes, in movie theaters. Had we regressed this much? I wondered. Have years of special education mandates and inclusion gotten us anywhere? It seemed even worse than when I was growing up!
And later, as my older son learned that his middle school felt they could no longer help him, and he was transferred to a private school that could more appropriately address his mental health issues, he told me that he went to RETARD school, and that was what all the kids who went there called it. My younger son, the one who truly does have an official diagnosis on paper of “severe mental retardation” has never called himself a RETARD. He cannot. No, and it would seem that it is not even an accurate use of the word now. The word seems reserved for kids who are not retarded by diagnosis, but disabled nonetheless by their own self-image. How sad that these kids–my kid!–hate themselves, and how sad that RETARD is the best word that they can find to demonstrate exactly how much.
So, my children, who liked Ben Stiller in “Night at the Museum,” are not going to see his new movie. Nope. I imagine that “Tropic Thunder” really could be just as hilarious as it is hyped up to be, but I also fear that the satire involved–the fun poked at the portrayal of the mentally disabled and African Americans (and even Tom Cruise in a fat suit)–would simply go way above my kids’ head. I will not let my kids laugh at someone imitating the stereotypes that hurt so many people, that perpetuate the habit of calling someone a RETARD.
Of course, I wonder if the satire intended is not going way above a lot of heads. I wonder if the laughs really are at the expense of the intellectually impaired, and not at the finer idea of how horrible it is to use the stereotypes for personal benefit.
The outrage is there for this movie, I know, with statements made by Tim Shriver of the Special Olympics, and boycotts planned along with demonstrations by ARC chapters across the country. I am angry about the pervasive acceptance of discrimination to people with intellectual disabilities. I am angry that the word RETARD is tossed out cavalierly. But I am not surprised that this movie was made. I am not surprised that some people undoubtedly think that watching Ben Stiller act like a RETARD is going to get lots of laughs, and lots of money. I am not the least bit surprised that this pillaging of the self-worth of people with intellectual disabilities would be acceptable, if the slur is even noticed at all. Why would we not accept this, if people with disabilities do not already face discrimination everyday of their lives already?
Reviews of the movie and comments made in reaction to these protests do not encourage me. It seems that there are two sides to this issue that prevail. Either it is completely unacceptable to use the words and stereotypes for any reason, or it is fair game to be mean because political correctness is “so 90s”. Neither, I think, is right.
Indeed, I do wonder, as the protests continue, if this is what Ben Stiller had intended. Reading the reviews, I see that the movie makes fun of the ridiculous measures that actors will go to for that extra edge, that Hollywood will go to for another hit. It seems that there are stereotypes abound in the movie, from the subject matter (Vietnam, complete with apocalyptic helicopter shots and soundtrack) to all the characters. An actor in black face in this day is ridiculous, and yet here we find Robert Downey, Jr. surgically changing his skin color to play an African American. One scene in the trailer finds Downey humming the theme to “The Jeffersons” as an African-American actor questions Downey about his stereotyping of his background and culture. We assume in this scene some understanding that we have learned from “Silver Streak,” where Richard Pryor challenges assumptions himself as he teaches a black-faced Gene Wilder how to act the part. But the RETARD act is still out there, ambiguous. I imagine that no intellectually disabled person offers similar feedback to Stiller, but in so many cases, that person could not.
Some of us become voices for our mentally disabled family members, assuming that we ourselves know best for them. Sometimes we do; we know how to hear unspoken words, and read picture boards or hugs. We want to protect, and we want the people we love to have good lives. We fight for the education, for the medical treatment, for the jobs and the housing, and in the end, we fight just for the right of our family members to be considered as equal human beings. The word RETARD persists, and its associations reach farther.
I wonder, sometimes, in our fight, if we do not do more damage. Our children may be fully included in a classroom, but out of some sense of privacy, or dignity, or legal ramifications, we fail to tell the other children how our children are different, why they behave the way they do, why they talk funny. And they do. We insist on these rights, and yet push for more assistance. And yes, we do have rights, and we do need more help. But we sometimes fail to step back and understand those who have not fought our fight with us. We assume everyone will understand and accept, just because our children are present alongside others, but we speak so much a language of vague acceptance that we sometimes forget to address the specific.
My daughter, exposed as she always has been to disabilities of many sorts, came home in tears one day after a boy cut off a piece of her hair. This came after repeated efforts by adults to address the boys’ impulsivity and distracting behaviors. My daughter was tolerant, and liked this boy, did not think of him as different… and yet, that incident scared her, as it would have with any child. My daughter thought then that he was just mean and unpredictable. The adults in charge apologized–they were wonderful–but I knew the situation all too well. The mother was always trying, balanced between being involved and being overbearing, obvious in her efforts to help her son. The boy himself was full of life, full of questions, quick and bright. Kids may care, if they know, but they may be annoyed if they do not. They probably did not understand how hard it was just for him to sit still with so much else going on. So often we do not understand enough to know how to be a friend, and if the boy continues to annoy his peers, and we continue to avoid the discussion, he will at some point be called a RETARD, too.
My own younger son, nonverbal and fully included in his kindergarten class years ago, pulled hair and grabbed food from other children’s snacks. Yes, his classmates understood something, but he was never truly included, alone in a crowd. Either he was avoided (and this happened more as the year progressed), or he was someone’s “best friend,” not unlike a class pet. In the worst incident, I was shocked to learn–by seeing it in the school newsletter–that my son had thrown the first handful of dirt on the 9/11 tree. What a picture of compassion, my retarded son, sending the school’s tribute to people who lost lives and family, to our inclusive nation. He became the special education mascot, for a school that was not coming anywhere close to meeting his needs. The mental retardation discussion, of course, was off limits for his classmates. And now when he is out, squealing in stores, grabbing, laughing inappropriately, someone may wonder what is wrong with him, but I have never heard anyone call him a RETARD. Maybe people do call him that, but not to our faces. Names can hurt, but they lose their bullying power when the person at whom they are aimed cannot respond. No, the word is rarely used that way now: but we evoke the image of my son and so many others each time we use it to mean “stupid.” After all, what else could be a worse insult?
Most people are not completely insensitive to the humanity of people with intellectual disabilities, but they may not know much about them. They may have a vague sense of the nonverbal outbursts, or the flapping, or the diminutive status assigned to so many, and they have indeed generalized their experience to a Hollywood moment, a Rainman perhaps. Who is to blame people who simply do not know which particular stereotypes are part of the diagnosis, and which are individual traits? The world of disability, of developmental disability in particular, is a world that remains separate, if more common. Self advocates with milder retardation may do well to stand up and tell about their struggles, and demand equal treatment, but the more impaired cannot. Some families are just plain exhausted to do it anymore. And sometimes we thrive on these stereotypes. The rhetoric of retardation is exploited with the best of intentions at times, in advertisements intended to demonstrate compassion, in fundraising efforts, in political runs. A good person includes these people, we say, and we accept the differences. This is the world as it should be… and yet, it is not the world now. Stiller’s performance and use of the word RETARD is sad, perhaps, but not sad because he performed it–indeed, there may well be a greater message here. It is sad because the perceptions and expectations he depicts are true.
If Stiller’s movie is indeed a poke at those who exploit the vulnerabilities and differences of others for personal gain, then maybe Stiller has advanced a conversation about prejudice to a community whose time for human rights has come. If so, rather than condemning the film, we should be engaging in the dialogue it opens, and challenging in our own lives the assumptions we make about people. If so, we should question the use of the word, used not so often directly to the group of people it originally described, as much as to condemn more generally. Why this word? What is the underlying message every time we use it?
We hate the word, but we fear the concept. Even within disability communities, it is not uncommon to defend the intelligence that others just do not see. A person may have autism, but some justification of worth comes from showing some qualities that prove high intelligence. A person with cerebral palsy may have difficulties moving or speaking, but it is all right, if the glimmers of a brilliant mind are only difficult to understand… No, these people are not RETARDs. But strip away all that underlying brainpower. Assume the worst. My child really is retarded. And still I love him, with his huge heart and ready hugs and perseverance when learning is such a struggle. I cannot pretend that beneath his nonverbal exterior he is doing calculus in his sleep. But he is still a person, and unique in the gifts he brings to this earth. He is retarded, but he does not deserve to be reduced to the notion of an unwanted RETARD… and that notion just needs to disappear. Calling someone a RETARD seems easier than admitting, “I cannot understand you.” Calling something RETARDed seems less dangerous than saying, “This makes me mad.” If challenging the stereotypes and our use of them is indeed his intention, Stiller has achieved the Horatian goal to please and to instruct. If, on the other hand, Stiller allows himself simply to be lauded for pretending to be a RETARD in the most crass way possible, and if the best that comes of this movie is for groups of high school boys to imitate Stiller’s performance and feel entitled to abuse people with developmental disabilities because of the example, then not only has Stiller failed in his comedy: we have failed as human beings.
The rainy weather this summer has dampened some things, but not my determination to drive less. Indeed, rising gas prices, despite the recent drop, remain at levels that I considered scandalous just a year ago. I am resolved to stay home more often, to shop nearby when I can, and to walk whenever possible.
As a kid in a nearly unwalkable city, I walked, or biked. In cities with better sidewalks, I walked, with a baby, even when it was inconvenient–everyone else did, too. Rural life was different. Ten miles down a hilly road with no shoulder was just a little too much adventure for me just to go to a general store, especially with four small children. And now, in typical suburban laziness, the hour-long round trips to the store seem extravagantly time consuming.. or maybe I have not always found it entirely feasible to drag everything home on foot–after all, the grocery cart fills faster as kids grow. But when I think reasonably, I do own a push-cart, and I often spend nearly as much time in traffic, badly timed stop lights, and parking, and then I spend time exercising on top of that. Walking to the store really is time efficient!
Of course, losing my job, a forty-five minute car drive away, has helped with this mode of thinking. My new career does not involve commuting except occasionally. This is not to say that walking is always practical. I really wish that I could sell my car, rely on public transportation for longer distances, and find more things more conveniently nearby, renting a car occasionally. But efficient public transportation just is not common in these parts. And while I can walk an hour for groceries, it really is shameful in a place with so many sidewalks that I cannot find most of what I need around the corner. I can buy Fritos, but no apples; doughnuts, but no eggs. There is a problem with that! If only for fresh produce, good coffee, books and a well-swept street, I would feel more connected to my neighborhood. Perhaps now is our time, a new beginning, an invitation to look into our neighbors’ faces, see their flowers in bloom as the seasons change, and breathe.
As I say this, though, I also notice real estate signs in many yards, evidence of empty houses, unsold property, abandoned dreams. Yesterday, Donald Trump–of all people–was on television advising people who have received foreclosure notices not to leave their houses as they have been told, and instead to stay until they can work something out with the bank. Let’s hope that we really can figure this all out, and that people do not vacate in panic. We need our hope. In a car-dependent existence, we are often quick to speed across town, or towns, in search of our desires, while maybe we can have what we need right here, where we live. We need our neighborhoods, now more than ever. We need to reconnect, to build our communities, and to rediscover our homes and our hearts. In times that seem unsure, especially, we need one another.
Words have always been my inspiration, my refuge. Lately something has been missing, and I was thinking about that last night when I was in my car flipping through CDs. My last post, after all, was several weeks ago. Oh, the story in it was true enough, but it felt so unsatisfying on the page. Now I know why:
…You think you’re mad, too unstable,
Kicking down chairs and knocking down tables
In a restaurant in a West End town.
Call the police; there’s a madman around…
Good God. Was my own story such a commonplace to have already been captured by the Pet Shop Boys a few years before it even happened? Maybe the event itself was another example of the violence that comes of underclass frustration, but maybe it was just those Parisian kids’ cheap attempt at entering into the myth created by a pop song.
If that weren’t enough, my youngest yesterday took a helium balloon she had just received, and decided to set it free. As she took it outside, she made a wish and let go. We watched it float above the trees, and I started to cry, thinking of her growing up, floating away beyond my reach. My tearful response to a sappy metaphor made me mad at myself. It just seemed too easy. Then I remembered that this was no fictional account: it was my life, and it was right in front of me, not something I just wrote.
Blogging is a medium like taking snapshots. It may be artfully done, quite nice, but in a quest to get the right picture all the time, I have often felt that urge to chronicle a life I hesitate to live. My snapshots have been words.
The next week I have a chance to pull back a bit from the day-to-day, a chance to reenter a life I have been safely watching and recording. In the truly difficult times, the observatory distance I put between signifier and signified has brought me a necessary solace, and a chance to edit experience, at least for myself. Words can do more. They can surpass the limits of record keeping and even these postmodern ponderings. I can do more.
Here is to living. And here is to writing for the sake of writing. May we do them both well.
