Let’s Say It. Retarded.

Language shapes how we think, act, and relate to others. It has the power to reinforce stereotypes or foster inclusivity. Words create worlds—and sometimes destroy them. So let’s say it: the word retarded.

It’s a term that has been stripped from polite discourse, a term that now stirs unease or outrage whenever it surfaces. But why? Why does retarded carry such a unique taboo, while other words with equally fraught histories—like mad, lame, or even gypped—continue to flourish? This isn’t just about words; it’s about power, advocacy, and the uncomfortable inconsistencies in how we decide what is acceptable and what isn’t.

The Evolution of Words: A Tale of Selective Sensitivity

Language is a living organism, constantly evolving alongside culture and society. Words like dumb, mad, and lame originally referred to disabilities but have shifted over time into casual, almost neutral usage. Today, calling something lame might seem insensitive to some, but it doesn’t ignite the same level of outrage as saying retarded. Why?

The term retarded—derived from the clinical diagnosis “mental retardation”—never got the cultural leeway that dumb or mad did. Instead, it moved from medical jargon to slang, and then to epithet. This trajectory wasn’t inevitable—it was shaped by advocacy. Disability rights advocates fought to remove the term, arguing that its continued use perpetuated harmful stereotypes and dehumanized those with intellectual disabilities.

And yet, this success story reveals deeper inconsistencies. While retarded was erased from professional and public discourse, other words with similar histories—like lame—remain in everyday use, often unchallenged. Is this because society cares less about the impact of lame? Or because no one has rallied a movement against it?

Advocacy and the Power to Shape Language

Words don’t disappear because they’re inherently wrong—they disappear because someone had the power to make it happen. The disability rights movement successfully argued that retarded was harmful, outdated, and demeaning. Their advocacy turned the tide of public opinion and policy, leading to changes in everything from medical terminology to public signage.

But not all groups have the same visibility or voice. For example, the Jewish community has fought tirelessly against anti-Semitic slurs like Jewed (meaning cheated) with remarkable success. The term is now almost universally condemned. Yet gypped—a slur rooted in stereotypes about the Romani people as thieves and swindlers—is still widely used. Why? The Romani lack the same cultural presence and advocacy infrastructure, leaving their struggles largely invisible to mainstream society.

Here lies the uncomfortable truth: our moral standards for language are often dictated not by fairness, but by the visibility and power of those who advocate. This isn’t just about words—it’s about who gets to shape the narrative.

Hypocrisy and the Role of Intent

The disparities in how society polices offensive language raise accusations of hypocrisy. If retarded is offensive, why isn’t mad? If gypped is okay, why isn’t Jewed? Shouldn’t there be a consistent standard?

On the surface, this criticism seems valid. But it ignores an important factor: intent. Words like retarded have been weaponized in recent history to mock and dehumanize people with intellectual disabilities. That history gives the word a unique sting. By contrast, terms like mad and lame—while rooted in ableism—have been largely stripped of their original meanings in everyday usage. But does that make their continued use acceptable? Or are we excusing them simply because no one has launched a campaign against them?

This inconsistency extends to ethnic slurs. Consider the example of gypped versus Jewed. Both terms emerged from harmful stereotypes about their respective groups, yet they are treated very differently today. This discrepancy forces us to confront a difficult question: are we protecting certain groups more vigorously than others? And if so, why?

Visibility and the Cultural Hierarchy of Offense

The unequal treatment of offensive language points to a broader issue: the hierarchy of offense. Some groups benefit from strong advocacy, visibility, and cultural presence, which allows them to push back against harmful stereotypes and language. Others are left to fend for themselves.

Take the Romani people, for instance. Despite centuries of persecution, including genocide during the Holocaust, their struggles remain largely invisible in mainstream discourse. The term gypped—a clear slur—continues to circulate with little objection. Meanwhile, slurs against more visible groups, like the Jewish community, are met with widespread condemnation.

This isn’t to say that one group’s struggles are more significant than another’s, but it highlights the inconsistency in how society responds to offensive language. Advocacy matters, and so does visibility. Without both, harmful terms persist.

The Performative Outrage Problem

Let’s be honest: much of our outrage over language is performative. It’s easier to ban a word like retarded than to confront the systemic ableism that underpins it. It’s simpler to condemn Jewed than to address the stereotypes about greed and financial manipulation that fuel anti-Semitism.

But this selective outrage creates a moral hierarchy of offense. Some groups get protection; others are left behind. This isn’t progress—it’s a patchwork solution that leaves deeper inequalities intact.

Toward a Culture of Respect and Consistency

The real question isn’t which words to ban, but why offensive terms persist at all. If we want a truly inclusive society, we need to stop playing linguistic whack-a-mole and start addressing the systemic issues that give these words their power. That means advocating for all marginalized groups, not just those with the loudest or most visible campaigns.

Language is a tool. It can wound or it can heal. The goal isn’t to police every word, but to create a culture where words reflect respect, empathy, and inclusivity. Some terms will always be harmful; others may evolve into harmless colloquialisms. The challenge is ensuring that the process is guided by consistent principles, not selective outrage that’s very popular among liberal arts schools today.

So let’s stop arguing over whether it’s okay to say retarded. Instead, let’s ask ourselves a harder question: what kind of world do we want our words to build?