Sticks and stones

short bus
special bus
special
retard, retarded
spaz (which references spasticity; apparently the term has become so entrenched that the origin is no longer widely known)
cripple, gimp--though a friend is helping me understand that it is like the n-word and some within the community are reclaiming it through transformative language, much as our friend Dan Keplinger has done with his title of King Gimp. (As Dan states in the film, gimp also means "fighting spirit".)
wheelchair kid, wheelchair as descriptor for a person who uses one, wheelchair-bound or wheelchair-confined, or anything else that suggests the person is a Transformer and this piece of assistive technology is an actual part of their body
helmet-head
whack-a-doodle, casual reference to a need for meds, any slang reference to mental illness, or reference to behavior that suggests mental illness
I'm sure there are more, and maybe I'll add to this list. And I know it is usually better to speak from the positive perspective, as in "use these words instead", but I'm stacking them this way for a reason. Because these are the words, terms, sentiments that Sekai heard--or worse, felt--over and over and over. So the next time you think using one of these terms is funny, please stop and ask yourself, which aspect of Sekai's being, or that of any number of people who have disabilities, do you find hilarious enough to use it to mock someone else?
This is not a rant. It is a heartfelt plea from a mother who watched these words cut her son down to the point where he felt like there was no place in this world for him.

My son died

I've changed my mind. Or maybe it is just different today than when I wrote about this a few weeks ago. My son died. This horrible thing happened to him. This horrible thing happened to me. The thing is that my son died. And so that's the end? No, that isn't the end at all. My son is dead. My son died. And nothing much makes sense anymore. But I'm trying. For him. For all the others that he wanted to save.

How many children have to die...

...before the system is changed? I was hurt when I thought that the problems were yet to be identified and acknowledged, that maybe people didn't care because they didn't know. Now, I am brokenhearted after learning that the problems have been known, discussed, debated over and over again, year after year, death after death. People know the system is deadly. THE SYSTEM IS DEADLY. Children are dying, and the root cause is known. What is an acceptable number? If one child is just an individual situation, if the aggregate data show that it is more than one child but the issue is not one that is crucial enough or at least not to the powers that be, how many children have to die before the system is actually changed?

Dear friends

People don't know what to say, what to do. They don't know how to help. That's what I've been told. I know people want me to move on, to talk about something else. But really, what is there? My son is no longer alive. My son didn't want to live, was afraid to live, because of what had been done to him, and by people who were tasked to take care for him at that. So, no, I don't really have anything else to talk about. Except, sometimes I do. Sometimes I can talk about what is happening in the rest of the world, what is happening in the lives of friends, what is happening outside of my pain. Sometimes I run off at the mouth about work, friends' upcoming nuptials or new babies, movies, my favorite shows. But sometimes, I cannot. And I'm sorry, but I cannot pretend just so that others feel more comfortable around me. I cannot even pretend so that I feel more comfortable around me. Dear friends, I can be happy for you and sad for me at the same time. I can even be sad for you--it's ok, it won't make me sadder. Well, it might, but that's ok. I pray you never know this pain that I cannot shake, and I pray you can understand that I am doing the best that I can. There is no moving on. There's just...this weird sort of going on. Prayerfully.