Politically Correct or Willfully Ignorant?

Language evolved as a tool. Like any tool, be it a hammer, a fork, or a pair of hands, language was a set of pieces that we assembled to serve us. Grunts and hand gestures became patterns and rhythms. These patterns became words and phrases like screws and bolts and washers that held together end products that we wished to give or portray to someone. The purpose of a tool is to make jobs and challenges we are often obligated to complete easier or simply possible to complete. However, it has become apparent in recent years that we have allowed our tools to run away from us, to grow lives of their own. Our words grow personalities or reputations and sometimes these are ugly personalities or reputations paired with sneering faces. We turn away from these words when we realize we’ve made monsters. We let our tools control us and we cringe at the sight of them. What I’m talking about are words that raise goosebumps and receive ample squabbling in academic arenas: words like homeless, gay, feminist, addict, and limitless others. What I’m suggesting is that we reign back in these tools, that we don’t turn away and abandon our creations. I propose that we don’t use discursive language and euphemize truth.

In the name of being politically correct, we are often led away (or turn away ourselves) from the truth that we invented our words to represent. We cringe at words that reveal a downfall in our society. We ignore “homeless” and instead replace it with “experiencing homelessness,” we replace “poor” with “experiencing economic difficulty,” we replace “addict” with “struggling with substance abuse.” What we achieve while striving for empathy and avoiding offense is telling a big, fat lie. When we steer from these words, we euphemize, we shallow, we disenfranchise the adversity people face. We are telling a lie when we ignore what someone without a home, without dinner, without a job is truly going through. We use discursive language to point at something without acknowledging the full implications of its context. Do we know why it stings to call a loved one an “addict” or our previous neighbor “homeless?” My argument is that because we know that when we watch loved ones–or simply other human beings–suffer, we feel pain too, we suffer with them and turn away from our language. We turn away from our coping tool. We turn away from the means by which we communicate the truth and the breadth of our lives.

So what is the solution? Perhaps there isn’t a plausible solution, but what I propose is that instead of talking around, talking in circles and code and euphemisms about the shadows lurking behind our happy fronts, we cast out the shadows. Why change the tool when the tool was meant to cut down the problem? Let us eliminate the reason we have to use these harsh words. Let’s work on eliminating homelessness, supporting those with an addiction, understanding and hearing out our feminist friends. Let’s get rid of the reason we have to use these pin-prick words. Let us use the tool to kill the predator.

The purpose of a tool is to make jobs and challenges we are often obligated to complete easier or simply possible to complete. With this in mind, I vow to use language as a tool to serve me in the job I am obligated to complete as a human being: love and care for other human beings. I vow to use my language for what it was invented for, to explain the circumstances that surround me–be them good or bad–and recognize the volume of darkness that lives with us. I vow to use my words to spread awareness, kindness, and support for those that have fallen victim to the words we turn away from.

I refuse, I refuse, to let my tools turn to demons and rule over me. I vow to reclaim my words, take responsibility for them and take responsibility for the world I live in.