I was a member of a committee in my town to address the concerns of some in our community for the use of the name “Indians” to refer to our high school’s sports teams. Actually, the image of the mascot hadn’t been used in years, but the name “Indians” was still used by organizations and newspapers to identify the wins and losses of the team. I was happy to participate; I knew there was years of research to support such a change and I—naively—thought it would be an informative and effective review of the data and evidence to remove a controversial mascot and replace it with one that didn’t incur controversy or promote prejudice.
Boy, was I wrong.
Early on, it became clear that there was strong support for continuing with the Indian mascot, from community members and other educators alike. It was the educators that surprised me; I didn’t think that anyone who had chosen a path whose foundation is based in research and data—education—could possibly ignore the implications on student learning with which we were being presented. And then the letters began coming in…letters from long time residents who had grown up with the mascot and didn’t want it to be retired. Some were thoughtful and compelling, but many of them were quite negative and accusatory, demeaning some of us on the committee as “elite” and not even from town!
One day in the midst of this work, I sat down to finally sort through some of the dozens of boxes I moved into my garage when Dad moved in with us. They had sat there for years, collecting even more dust, and I decided it was time. In one of them (and let’s be honest, I didn’t get to too many of them) I was pleased and surprised to find some old collector’s albums of coins and stamps. “Luca will love these”, I thought.
I started with the thick, leather bound album of Commemorative Postage Stamps. It was weighty, with gold foil imprint. I flipped through the pages, celebrating such events as the Moon Landing, SkyLab, Robert Frost and the Boston Tea Party, among others. It was amazing to see the history of the US depicted in postage stamps, each page containing an envelope with the stamp addressed to my grandmother.
Then I got to a page that stopped me cold. The title of the page was, “Retarded Children” and the commemorative stamp indicated that, “Retarded Children Can Be Helped.” It was a bit of a shock to see the term, even though I knew it was from 1974.
No one would use this term today. As award-winning actor, parent-advocate, and Global Down Syndrome Foundation International Spokesperson, John C. McGinley has said, “there is no difference between derogatory words used to label ethnic or religious minorities and the words used to label people with Down syndrome.”
We wouldn’t think of referring to special needs children as “retarded” anymore. But at one time in our country, it was not only an acceptable term, it was used to bring attention to such children.
Even as it became a term of derision and taunts, it took time for new language to enter the culture to describe and bring awareness to the needs and abilities of differently abled people. I try to be aware and almost vigilant about the words and terms I use in my work, so I am surprised when I hear someone refer to a student or an adult as “retarded.” It’s as shocking to me as watching someone litter and I think—”didn’t we stop doing that yet?”
But let’s say—as an educator—I still use the term. Let’s say I use it because since I’ve worked in special ed, I don’t mean anything negative by it…it’s just a word. I know others use the word derogatorily, but I don’t. I’m an educator…of course I don’t mean to hurt anyone. But every time a person is referred to as retarded, it brings a level of pain and dehumanization only that person can know. It doesn’t matter if I don’t think saying retarded means anything bad, it only matters if the person I’m with feels as though he or she has been shamed or harmed. And using words that carry hate or bias or negativity doesn’t have to be directed at a single person. Imagine if I used that word in a conversation in my classroom or casually in the hallway and a student overheard me. Or several. Those students would tuck that information away in their brains and they would know they couldn’t come to me if they had a problem with someone using that term—or any insult--either against them or against someone they cared for.
I feel the same way about using the term “Indian” to refer to a Native American or using a person’s heritage or culture—or image—to represent an organization as a mascot. It doesn’t matter if I don’t use it as derogatory—if I don’t mean anything by it. It only matters to the one or the many for whom it offends or hurts.
As a community, when one of us is harmed, all of us are harmed. That applies to all communities—school, town, work, sports. Taking away a harmful name, no matter how many people are “okay with it” makes a space in the community for everyone to rejoin and begin fresh. Replacing a former mascot for a new one isn’t erasing history, it’s learning from it. It’s evolution. And we’re okay with evolution, aren’t we? That’s why we’re standing upright.
So, cut to the chase: the committee decided to retire the mascot. It wasn’t well-received. This also surprised me (I’m so naïve…). I mean, I knew there wouldn’t be dancing in the streets, but I was surprised at how long they’re carrying on about it. In fact, there’s talk in town of bringing it back. Can you imagine? All that work and research, not to mention that the state of Connecticut has already legislated away the “adopting or using any name, symbol or image that depicts or refers to a Native American tribe, individual, custom or tradition as a mascot, nickname, logo, letterhead or team name for any school…” There are still many people in town who have a visceral reaction to the decision—as if it was done to be mean to them. On the contrary, it was done to prevent meanness. Ironic, isn’t it?
The fields where contests were won weren’t won because of what the mascot was; titles and trophies were earned by the people--the teammates, the coaches, the families in attendance.
It’s not the building or the colors or the uniforms that make up a school community. It’s the people--the friends you made, the teachers that inspired you, the administrators who gave you a second chance, the staff that made you feel seen and heard. No mascot ever did that.
I used to bristle and cringe when hearing the word “harelip.” Thank you, thoughtful world, for making that dehumanizing term fade into history. Thank you, Cindy, for this thoughtful piece.