Here's a really fantastic poem. To bad the author is anonymous, so I can't give any additional credit:
You want to know about the word retarded?
You want some Miley Cyrus Hillary Duff PSA or PC talk?
You want some millennial agreement on the words that aren’t cool?
let me make it real.
Let me make it hurt to feel that word.
Let me lay out the ignorance and the stupidity necessary
to form the lips around the r the t and the d
A thrown off statement in an undergrad class
An otherwise loved friend that doesn’t know the pain.
A nasal Jersey joke on a reality show.
You want some Miley Cyrus Hillary Duff PSA or PC talk?
You want some millennial agreement on the words that aren’t cool?
let me make it real.
Let me make it hurt to feel that word.
Let me lay out the ignorance and the stupidity necessary
to form the lips around the r the t and the d
A thrown off statement in an undergrad class
An otherwise loved friend that doesn’t know the pain.
A nasal Jersey joke on a reality show.
The ugly history that made it ok.
The 1947, 1950, 1955, 1958, 1965, 1973 world;
the today
that said: your child is worthless.
your child is strange.
your child is a retard.
When all you know is the 9 months of joy and hope and promise,
and don’t you dare tell me any different when that beautiful girl arrives
So ready for love.
From us. From them. From the world.
And the first instruction to us so powerless in that perfect world
laying raw and weak in that faux sterile 1956 hospital bed
Is that the best thing to do -
no guilt, no attachment, no rejection,
of the stauts quo
is to get ready to get rid of her
Institutionalize her. Thought her mind is clearer than any would admit
and her body is more able than anyone will see.
You have social permission. To take that beautiful child. And place her on a planet reserved for those that don’t fit. And you get to feel okay about it.
And you don’t have a universe, a network of social support that says “you’re going to do it your way, and that’s what’s best for her” BECAUSE YOU ARE HER MOTHER AND YOU LOVE HER.
Instead the best thing you get is pitying eyes
for your burden.
And the worst thing you get is fear and disgust
for your perfect baby girl.
You want to forget something in the microwave and call yourself retarded?
You want to take away the legs of someone else, and say the same?
You want an easy word, when so many others will do the same job?
Without pain. Without indictment. Without ignorance.
The 1947, 1950, 1955, 1958, 1965, 1973 world;
the today
that said: your child is worthless.
your child is strange.
your child is a retard.
When all you know is the 9 months of joy and hope and promise,
and don’t you dare tell me any different when that beautiful girl arrives
So ready for love.
From us. From them. From the world.
And the first instruction to us so powerless in that perfect world
laying raw and weak in that faux sterile 1956 hospital bed
Is that the best thing to do -
no guilt, no attachment, no rejection,
of the stauts quo
is to get ready to get rid of her
Institutionalize her. Thought her mind is clearer than any would admit
and her body is more able than anyone will see.
You have social permission. To take that beautiful child. And place her on a planet reserved for those that don’t fit. And you get to feel okay about it.
And you don’t have a universe, a network of social support that says “you’re going to do it your way, and that’s what’s best for her” BECAUSE YOU ARE HER MOTHER AND YOU LOVE HER.
Instead the best thing you get is pitying eyes
for your burden.
And the worst thing you get is fear and disgust
for your perfect baby girl.
You want to forget something in the microwave and call yourself retarded?
You want to take away the legs of someone else, and say the same?
You want an easy word, when so many others will do the same job?
Without pain. Without indictment. Without ignorance.
Think of the world of beautiful souls that cannot roll that
noun off of their lives.
Think of this word, this invention that has left them outside. On couches. In wheelchairs. In different classrooms. In institutions. But always alone.
Always with the easy excuse to send them away when the strongest love (never given opportunity to be real) screams “are you fucking kidding me?”
Say the word retarded. No really, it’s okay.
Think of this word, this invention that has left them outside. On couches. In wheelchairs. In different classrooms. In institutions. But always alone.
Always with the easy excuse to send them away when the strongest love (never given opportunity to be real) screams “are you fucking kidding me?”
Say the word retarded. No really, it’s okay.
