| On the first day of one of my graduate school classes, the professor asked everyone to introduce themselves by discussing one of their identities. On my turn, I lifted my amputated forearm to the Zoom screen to speak about being a “disabled Latina”. The second I finished talking, the professor pulled her glasses down and told me not to call myself “disabled” because I’m “just different.” In every space I’ve been in, I’ve heard many ways of self-identifying as disabled. Two of the most common trends are “identity first” and “person first” language. Although these trends focus on different aspects of a person and their identity, they are both incredibly important in treating all people, disabled or otherwise, with the respect and dignity they deserve. In everyday dialogue, a person may refer to themselves or someone they know as a “person of color,” a “woman with Down Syndrome,” or a “child experiencing homelessness”. These are all examples of person-first language. Person-first language seeks to put the individual person at the front of the conversation, thus focusing on their humanity. This model of language can be seen on many US government documents, including in the title of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Many people, however, use an alternate model of self-referral. This model, called identity-first language, includes terms like “Jewish woman,” “Black man,” and “wheelchair user”. Many disabled people prefer identity-first language because of how it is commonly used to describe all kinds of individuals, regardless of disability status. This language can be seen used by the British government on gov.uk. Regardless of whether speaking of a person with a disability or a disabled person, an individual’s personal preferences matter most. Many autistic self-advocates prefer identity-first language, while someone recovering from cancer may prefer person-first language. My own preference is for identity-first language; I am a “disabled person” or an “amputee”. In ignoring my linguistic preferences, while simultaneously validating my peers who identified as “black” or “working-class” or “Hindi” without calling them “just different”, that professor dismissed my human right to self-identify as I choose. In addition to using a person’s preferred language, we must also be cognizant of outdated language: “handicapped” is a 20th century leftover associated with begging; “special needs” implies that that disabled people’s needs, and therefore selves, are not human. “Differently abled” ostracizes disabled people in a way that would never be used for the “differently raced” or “differently gendered”. “Wheelchair bound” neglects the freedom of mobility wheelchairs provide to those who use them. “Deaf and dumb” is also considered offensive by the d/Deaf community because of the connotations with intelligence/a lack thereof. “Defect” and “suffers from” both imply there is something wrong with our bodies and, therefore, ourselves. Each of these ideas is better expressed with the word “disabled” or by using the person’s specific disability. Additionally, words that were once considered acceptable are now slurs, such as “spaz/spastic” for someone with Cerebral Palsy, “midget” for a little person, or the R-word for neurodivergent folks. Such oppressive language should be avoided in all situations, the way we avoid ethnic, religious, or gender-based slurs. Although this language overview focuses on English words, linguistic choices may vary in other languages. I am a native English speaker in a Spanish-dominant family, I am learning ASL, and I studied Latin. In each of these languages, I have other ways of referring to my disability: in Spanish, I prefer to specifically name my amputated limb as “brazito” meaning “little arm”. In ASL, I use the sign for “disabled”. I will let everyone know how I refer to my disability in Latin if/when I find occasion to do so. Although I didn’t know what to say or do in my graduate class that day, when my then-professor dismissed my language and my identity, I am now volunteering on a committee at that same graduate school to increase access for students like me, and to help other disabled students from feeling as out of place as I did that day. When I arrive for our first meeting of the new academic year, I will make sure to do so in my new maroon t-shirt that reads “proud disabled Latina.” Julia Betancourt |
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