In order to write the next few paragraphs, I consulted the National Center on Disability and Journalism website, which has a special section titled, “Terms to Avoid When Writing About Disability.” I did that because I am a bad person who often says the wrong thing.
Knowing that, I have taken the necessary steps to avoid being canceled, so some of you can just simmer down.
The truth is, I already knew the important stuff. When describing people with learning disabilities, it is not OK to use what is now called the “R-word.” It’s also wrong to employ cruel euphemisms, like “slow” or “special ed.”
What you’re supposed to say is either “developmentally disabled” or “intellectually disabled,” though to be honest, the latter term seems like a better description for the political science departments of pretty much every American university, so for that reason, I’ll stick with “developmentally disabled.”
A few weeks ago, I went to buy some paper for my printer. I use three-hole punch paper — it’s pretty much the standard for screenwriters — and at the small stationery store I frequent, it’s always on the third shelf across from the creepy inspirational posters.
Here is the sequence of events: I pick up a package of paper, check to see that it’s three-hole punched, and take it to the counter where Edgar, the developmentally disabled man, stands at the ready to place my package carefully into a plastic sack and tell me where and when to insert my card.
Edgar has been working at the store for as long as I’ve been going there, about seven years, and he and I have developed a certain conversational tradition: He asks me if I found everything all right, I say I did, then he says some other pleasantries, and I respond in a cheerful and strained tone of voice, which is what I do when I feel awkward and uncomfortable. As I have already stipulated, I am a bad person.
I place the package on the counter. Edgar looks at it, points to the pink stripe running across the logo, and shouts “Pink! Pink!” I smile. “Yes, yes,” I say, then ostentatiously look at my watch to convey the urgency of the transaction.
“Pink!” Edgar says again. “Yes, pretty pink,” I say, and then, pointing to the plastic cup filled with blue pens, I say “And bright blue,” and then, indicating the display of Post-its, I say, “And pretty yellow, yes, yes. Now, Edgar,” I add, my voice rising in volume to the exact level where strained, cheerful becomes strained, cheerful, irritated, “Edgar, how much will it be?”
He points to the card reader — a bit sullenly, it seems to me — and puts my package in a paper sack. I take it home, and while loading it into the printer, I notice something strange.
It’s pink paper.
The pink stripe running across the package, which I assumed was some kind of graphic design adornment was, in fact, purely informational. It means “pink paper inside,” which is why Edgar, who has seen me purchase white paper approximately 36,987 times, mentioned it.
And on the other side of the package, which, like any nondevelopmentally challenged person, I didn’t bother to look at, it says in thick, black, sans serif print, “COLOR: HOT PINK.”
Obviously, I had to go back to the stationery store and exchange my paper. My original plan, I’m ashamed to say, was to go back to the store when Edgar wasn’t around and present the paper package to the owner with a tolerant, good-natured grin and say something like, “I think Edgar gave me the wrong paper. Can I exchange it quickly? Really, it’s no bother. There were a lot of customers here this morning, and he was really busy.” And then I’d chuckle indulgently, and that would be that. I’d still be the smart guy, he’d still be the developmentally disabled guy, and no one would know that I am, in fact, as I have admitted, a bad person.
But Edgar was there, at his usual perch behind the counter, and before I could explain, he took the package of pink paper out of my hand and held up a package of regular, white three-hole punch paper. “This is white,” he said. “Yes, yes,” I replied. “See?” he said, pointing to the label on the underside that said “COLOR: WHITE.” “Yes, yes,” I said. And then he laughed a distinctly who’s developmentally disabled now? laugh and I slunk out of the store.
It’s a good thing we’ve retired all of those nasty slurs and cruel descriptions for the mentally disabled. Especially in this case, in which the only person they apply to is me.
Rob Long is a television writer and producer and the co-founder of Ricochet.com.
