My earbuds were on full blast when I overheard a comment that unexpectedly startled me. Jokingly, a classmate teased another, “You’re so autistic!” I cringed, and then didn’t speak up. This experience inspired deep self-reflection.
In the past few months, I’ve noticed this phrase being propagated in many places around school, from loud hallway conversations to quiet library chats between friends. “Acoustic” and “a touch of the tism,” supposedly friendlier substitutions for “autistic,” are also rising in popularity, especially on social media. This vocab fills in for yet another popular choice: the r-slur, a pejorative slur for mentally disabled, or neurodivergent, people.
When I question people saying these things, they defend themselves, saying, “It was just a joke! I didn’t mean anything by it.”
However, it should mean something to them. It should mean something to everyone, because the language we use establishes a culture of what’s okay to be said. This “joke” is not funny. Neurotypical people have normalized something hurtful and ableist, and it needs to end.
I hope my peers realize that when they say the r-slur, or “that’s so autistic,” they’re equating neurodivergence or a disability like autism with stupidity or inability. How is being autistic an insult?
When using this language, they also often don’t realize its deeper anti-neurodivergent history. The term “mental retardation” started out as a medical term in 1961—for the United States, only officially changed in 2010—but then became an insult for and a way to bully people with disabilities in everyday language for decades after.
Jokes like “acoustic” and “a touch of the tism” have been claimed by some neurodivergent circles as humorous self-deprecation, but the lingo has once again been misappropriated by neurotypical communities.
It’s now used to make casually insensitive jokes, at the cost of a community who are your classmates and friends. Your teachers and mentors. Your neighbors and family.
I have great respect for the neurodivergent and disabled people in this world and in my life, which makes me ashamed to admit my part in the problem. The day I overheard that ableist remark over my earbuds, I didn’t do what I should have done.
When faced with the r-slur, I call people out instantly. But in this case, I made up some lame excuses in my mind. Maybe I misheard, or it would be rude to admit eavesdropping. Selfishly, I considered if it might make them like me less.
I couldn’t get over it. I wanted my classmates to know that their ableist jokes can be just as hurtful as the r-slur, especially when there are so many other words and ways to joke and tease our friends without inflicting harm on a real, diverse, historically disadvantaged, and too often forgotten community.
These past few months, I have personally committed to speaking out when I hear something ableist, big or small, even at risk of “ruining the vibe” or making “something out of nothing.”
I encourage others to do the same. This doesn’t need to mean launching into a spiel about the history of the r-slur or ableism. Just respond: “It’s not cool to say that.”
Another method is even simpler. Don’t laugh. Sometimes, silence speaks louder than words.
