Our abilities are _______

I’m trying to figure out a good metaphor for our abilities.  Working in a rehab hospital reminds me daily that abilities are neither static nor intrinsic.  But what are our abilities, exactly?  Are they rights?  Obligations?  Gifts?  None of these metaphors seems to quite fit the experience of being a human with limited abilities.

It’s so tempting treat my abilities as rights.  I feel it’s my right to be able to process information quickly enough to drive a car, to run errands, read and follow a recipe, to process conversational language, to read and write, to work quickly and efficiently.  But then my monthly monster visits and I’m drowning in brain fog, barely able to understand simple sentences, unable to remember basic information or even balance for walking.  I never know how long it will last—sometimes hours, sometimes days.  For over a decade, every time I “misplace” my ability to think straight, I wail and cry like a child that’s lost their favorite toy.  It’s my right to think straight, I moan, pounding the ground with the heavy thud of weak uncoordinated tear-drenched fists.  It’s my right to be “smart.”

I’m lucky that this removal of my cognitive abilities is temporary and somewhat predictable.  As a therapist, I know many people whose cognitive abilities have been more severely damaged by stroke, brain injury, dementia….  If abilities are rights, then Someone upstairs isn’t playing fair.  And yet so many of my patients, family, and friends with disabilities find moments of extreme grace, even in their suffering.  This doesn’t make sense if they have been stripped of their rights.

No, our abilities aren’t rights.  Not in the cosmic sense, anyway.

Then come the nagging doubts.  If these abilities aren’t my right, maybe they’re my responsibility.  If I fail, I have to try harder—I’m supposed to be able to do these things.  I have to strive as hard as I can to optimize my abilities until I’m burnt out and exhausted.

This never works.

So are my abilities gifts?  Have I been given the gift of language, the gift of balance, the gift of whatever my IQ is, the gift of breathing?  But what about when these “gifts” are rescinded?  A true gift-giver doesn’t ask for the gift back.

Again, the guilt.  Maybe it’s my fault.  Maybe I’ve damaged the gift/ability through some sort of negligence.  Maybe I deserve to lose the ability.

Of course this is a preposterous and very harmful way of thinking.

Maybe I don’t understand the way gifts work.

Some gifts are long-lasting—a book, a ring, warm socks, a beautiful handwritten letter.  I can keep and cherish those gifts for years to come, their presence a constant reminder of the love of the giver. 

Other gifts are ephemeral—a box of chocolates, a ticket to a show, a kiss, a home-cooked meal.  Are these gifts less important or less valuable than longer lasting gifts?  Is the longevity of the gift the correct way to measure the love of the giver?  (If so, what does that say about long-lasting fruitcake?)

Every day we receive gifts.  Perhaps our abilities are more like ephemeral gifts.  We receive them anew each day, each moment.  The ability to breathe.  The ability to stand.  The ability to swallow.  The ability to speak, to read, to write, to do the things we love to do.  Gifts, all.  Given each day.  Never a guarantee.  Not rights, not obligations.  Gifts.

Some days we receive gifts we don’t want to accept.  The “gift” of not being able to stand.  The “gift” of not being able to think straight.  The “gift” of not being in our healthiest prime.  Should we reject these gifts?

Ann Voskamp, author of One Thousand Gifts, writes often about giving thanks for hard gifts and to find little gifts even in suffering.  I love this idea!  It complements beautifully the writings of St. Therese of Lisieux, who teaches us to embrace suffering.  Both authors take this idea a bit farther—we can offer our gifts to others, and to God—each gift in its own way.

So on days when I find it difficult to do the things I am accustomed to, I can choose to reject the gift like an unwanted fruitcake—or I can try to give thanks.

This is easier said than done.  And to be honest, I’m terrible at it.  But perhaps in time I will learn to receive all the gifts I’m given—even the hard ones—with grace and thanks.

This time of year is filled to the brim with gift-giving (much needed in 2020).  Let’s remember to be thankful for the gifts we receive each day—whether they are long-lasting or ephemeral. 

If our abilities are gifts, we receive them moment by moment, day by day—gifts to be cherished even if they burn bright and brief like birthday candles.  And I trust that the Giver of these gifts wants to surprise us with something spectacular each new day, each new moment.

How our insults betray our prejudices

Name-calling and shame-labeling are popular today.  From major media to comedians to kids on the playground, insults are tossed back and forth like dodgeballs. 

The insults we choose reveal who we disrespect.  I’m not talking about the targets of the insults but rather the descriptors used.  If we say “that’s so sexist,” we are disrespecting the practice of sexism.  Seems reasonable, as long as we don't use the word lightly. 

If we say “that’s so gay,” we disrespect gay folks.  Uh-oh.  Now we’re disrespecting a group of people—the LGBTQA+ crowd.  That isn’t OK because it dehumanizes gay/LGBTQA+ folks.  I don’t care what your views on LGBTQA+ issues are:  it is never OK to dehumanize a group of people.  Everyone has dignity and deserves respect.

You know what I still occasionally hear as an insult, usually uncontested?  The word “retarded” and its ilk.

On the radio, a prominent politician called their political rival a “low-IQ individual,” the sneer in his voice evident over the radio.

I heard a hospital employee refer to a coworker’s mistake as “retarded stuff”—in front of a patient with a newly acquired cognitive disability, a sensitive nature, and perfect hearing.

This is also not OK, folks.  Using “retarded” and related words as a catch-all derogatory term betrays our society’s lack of respect for individuals with intellectual/cognitive disabilities.  When we hear such language being used, we should educate others about how dehumanizing it is.  And we can provide a model for how to provide appropriate criticism.  The insulting words are just a symptom of a deeper problem.  The best way to stop using dehumanizing language is to change our hearts.

Having intellectual/cognitive disabilities does not make someone inferior.  It’s a clinical condition that isn’t even easy to diagnose.  Intelligence is multifaceted and occurs on a complicated sort of spectrum.  And it changes over time.  Having such a disability says nothing about a person’s moral character and is not a chosen condition.

One of my friends self-identifies as being “mentally retarded,” as this was the diagnosis she received in her childhood.  ("Retarded" used to be a common clinical term but has fallen out of use because of its use in insult.)  How do you think she feels when she hears someone say “that’s so retarded” or “you’re so retarded” in an insulting manner? 

Just as with sexual orientation, race, etc., we should not be using “retarded” as a derogatory term.

When we hear such words used inappropriately, we have an opportunity to speak out in a way that can inspire positive change.  If you hear someone using an insult that dehumanizes others, I encourage you to educate that person.  We don’t have to shame them because as Brené Brown, PhD, LMSW says, shame is not an effective tool for social justice.  We can politely tell them that the language they used is hurtful and ask them to stop using those words as insults.

One of the most effective ways for us to effect change in our culture is to model a way of speaking that doesn’t dehumanize others.

Insults that dehumanize people with intellectual/cognitive disabilities use clinical and semi-clinical terms like “retarded,” “special needs,” “resource,” “low-IQ,” “disabled,” etc.  We should refrain from using these terms outside of their clinical context, where they are not used as insults. 

But what about more subtle forms of insult like “slow,” “stupid,” “dumb,” “idiotic,” “imbecilic,” “foolish,” or “unwise”?  Some of these terms are more emotionally charged than others.  Some of them refer to a specific group, like “slow” as a substitute for “retarded” or referring to someone with slower processing time.  “Dumb” traditionally referred to someone who couldn’t speak, perhaps because of an expressive language disorder, but that meaning has been more or less replaced with the same meaning as “stupid” in the common parlance.  How careful should we be with terms like these?

The waters are muddied by this:  it’s important to judge the wisdom of our own (and sometimes others’) choices.  I tell my rehab and executive function patients all the time to evaluate their decisions carefully and learn from them.  An unwise decision with unwanted consequences should be labeled as such to avoid the same mistake in the future, and a wise decision should be labeled as such to encourage similar decisions in the future.

So when is it appropriate or inappropriate to use these non-clinical words?  I’m not trying to be the PC police here—I’m legitimately asking the question.  I’m not really sure where to draw the line.

Maybe instead of drawing a line, we should re-align our hearts.

Let’s stop treating perceived intelligence like moral superiority.  There are plenty of good people who make unwise choices and plenty of good people with low IQs and plenty of good people who are intellectually or cognitively disabled.  And it’s not a sin to be wrong, to make mistakes.  In our current culture, this is radical.

So let’s be radical.

When we stop treating perceived intelligence like moral superiority (and lack of it as moral inferiority), we stop dehumanizing people with intellectual/cognitive disabilities.  We won’t use intelligence words (clinical or not) to label a person in a derogatory way.  And when we criticize actions, we will use words that are NOT emotionally charged.  Yes, even when we’re angry.  Because being angry is not an excuse to dehumanize others.

If we re-align our hearts, we won’t have to think about it.  When you are angry, do you have to think about whether or not you use racial slurs to insult someone or something?  I hope not!  Do you have to think about whether or not you use the word “gay” to insult someone or something?  Again, I really hope not!  So let’s give our brothers and sisters with intellectual and cognitive disabilities the same respect we know we should afford to others.

Let’s value everyone’s dignity.  When we change our hearts, our tongues will follow.