Trigger Warning

I want some of my words back.

I love some words, I love saying them, but… I do not love the legacy of pain and suffering that come with them.

I can’t watch certain musicals any more, “Gypsy” being at the top of the list. I can’t listen to some songs anymore, because lyrics like “spooky little girl like you” now stand out like a sore thumb. I refuse to stop listening to Weird Al, but even he apologized for the line “you write like a spastic.”

I don’t even know what to call this. Relexication? De-slurring? Reflexive insults, so the insult is ironically meant for myself?

I have to admit, I admire the Raëlians. For a kooky (there’s another one!) religion, they are delightful in some respects. I admire their drive to take the swastika (close, very close) symbol away from the Nazis (I don’t give a shit, because fuck Nazis) and give it back to the indigenous cultures it was stolen from. I make a concerted effort to call the good luck symbol a fylfot, or a whirling log, and try to reserve the swastika name for the Nazi regime. That’s not fair to the Sanskrits who invented the word, nor to the Anglo Saxons for their word that I’m using as a substitute. I don’t like the implied whitewashing I’m doing, making the distinction.

Maybe we need another category of word? “Earthquake words,” a category that may or may not cause a tremor in the listener or reader? Because triggers can be all over the map, literally and figuratively.

(Sorry, my Brit friends, I also adore the word “fanny,” because over here it’s funny, not naughty. Ditto “bugger,” sorry rest of world, including my Aussie friends.)

Why all this angst?

Because there are some words I really like. There are some words I really like to say, and play with in stories. “Spooky” is a favorite, which I’ve retired in favor of “eerie.” I had no idea about its racist roots. The only spooks I know are spies – no, really, I mean it, one of my best friends from high school became one. I can also never go visit China in any capacity, and yes these two things are related.

And some of my favorite words and phrases, some I use in regular conversations, have disturbing roots. Going down the list I found at https://www.fivecounties.on.ca/wp-content/uploads/2022/11/Racial-Colloquialisms-1.pdf … aw, crap. Numbers five and seven are the only two I don’t use, and number five I can only say I don’t use it in that context. Though that would put a spin on “articulated lorry” that is not at all funny, I suppose.

Now, about the N word: nope. I never liked it in the first place, because when it was used around me as a kid, it already came off as insulting. My husband, whom I love dearly but could cheerfully strangle some days, started using it again about eight years ago. But in carefully curated context, like talking about the original writing of mark Twain, or a comment his father made when he was a child. Don’t worry, I shut that stercum down real fast. I honestly think that he thought he was being clever. His autistic tendencies sometimes manifest in quite bizarre ways, and this would be one of them. Clever, but certainly not wise. There is a distinct difference between those two words.

Why do I want these words back so badly?

I like how they sound. I like how they feel in my mouth, and in my mind. I like the memories I have associated with these words and phrases, and each one has a fun childhood story behind them. As a child of the 80’s, “spastic” doesn’t have nearly the same connotations it does overseas. But, then again, you will barely ever catch me writing the word “cunt,” much less saying it. (I think that’s my once, ever, so let’s savor it – nah, not feeling it, let’s move on). But we took “fanny” and “bugger” from you, and cheapened those, so maybe it’s fair? To me, “tushie” and “hip pack” and “noodge” just don’t have the same ring, sigh.

Laziness? Lawd have mercy (yes, I tone that one down or my grandmothers will come back from the dead to alternately whack me with their purses), I certainly hope not. I guess not, because I have changed my writing and speaking? I just like the words themselves.

But I am also quite aware that my listeners or readers don’t have the same luxury, or the same contextual background that I do. That hurts and sucks. If whitewash really worked the way it should, I would have it scrub away the pain, and the pain of the whole freaking back story. Words aren’t supposed to wound your spirit. Inspire, rally, exhort, show you a change of perspective, but kill something precious at your core? No.

Except Nazis, because fuck Nazis. I’m not going to kill you personally, but if you-all spontaneously combust, well, I hope it happens very, very soon.

(And the self-censor is working. When I’m mad, the “y’all” comes out, and even that can be offensive in the right context. I’m close enough to the Maryland border that it can be used as a pejorative.)

And I know “moist” is also triggering for some, but dangit, if I get a really good piece of cake, you’d better bet your bippy that it will be the first compliment that comes spilling out of my mouth with the crumbs. Is “bippy” now one of them? I hope not.

But, why? Why do I keep going back? Why can’t I let those words go, find new ones, heck, invent some new ones?

I don’t think it’s nostalgia, though there is a slightly resonant connection. It’s more like… a wish for innocence.

Remember back? When you’d play with other kids, and didn’t realize they were boys or girls, or what their skin color was, and languages were a fun thing to learn (trade words like playing cards! Collect the set!), and you worked together to get the person on crutches or in a wheelchair to the inaccessible play site?

Okay, me neither. That may have been a few episodes of Sesame Street strung together, when I could pull in PBS with the rotating antenna. But parts of those were true. I remember asking Mom why there would be a clause named after Pop-pop, what did he do? But I also asked why there was a Mother’s Day, a Father’s Day, even a Grandparents’ Day, where was the Kids’ Day?? Mom got to laugh and tell me they were all the rest of the days of the year, be grateful! She was right…

I have fond memories of the gypsy camp at Ren faire, visiting my friends who sat there telling fortunes. Some had a bit of Romany blood in them, but I had no idea of the racism. Heck, I was in my late teens before learning that it wasn’t just Jews rounded up in the atrocities of World War II, and even later when I learned about the horrible racism against the Irish in my own area. Geez, the Molly Maguire hangings were only one county over!

I still use a fanny pack for my squishie hunts. Oh, lookie there, I have two within eyesight.

And still, “no touchee” or “lookie here” or “heap big medicine” will come out of my mouth. And now I’m wondering about “no see’ums” and “Moctezuma’s revenge.” And I’m actively trying to buy both a real sombrero and Australian cork hat! It’s the anthropologist in me – if a culture uses a hat that everyone else mocks, but all the locals use them, pay attention! There are Good Reasons, and you should learn them.

But, and it’s a big one: my comfy childhood, and halcyon days looked back at fondly through rose-colored glasses, does not get to paper over some very real pain, rooted in a history deeper than mine. I only learned about the racist roots of some of these things… last week… while others have lived their whole lives knowing the back story. Words can do harm, and an invisible wall is not enough to keep them out.

Look at the battleground playing out right now concerning pronouns, and tell me it doesn’t matter. Sure, so my friend, whose culture attempted to shove them so deeply into a binary gender system that they almost suicided under the pressure, is a made-up thing? Go shove it crosswise, ya ignoramus, hop into bed with those Nazis, willya? Because fuck Nazis, and their supporters and sycophants, because also Nazis.

This here camel will darn well go through the eye of a needle.

Sigh. So it means I need to think a little more before I open my mouth.

Or make up some new words, so that they can take their place in my mouth and memories.

Hmm. Swoob? Zwoob? Pockawoobie? Maybe not, sounds like a not-safe-for-work pet name.

If you come up with something better, let me know.

Till then, have a zwooby day.

Except Nazis, you know what you can do.