I overhead a woman and her friend chatting – one word crushed me --[Reported by Umva mag]

Just a few weeks ago, I was meeting a friend for coffee and running a little late when I heard a woman on the street yell to her friend, ‘You’re such a “r****d.’  

At that moment, the ground felt like it disappeared below me. 

By the time I processed what was said, they were gone. 

I felt sick – not just because the word had been spoken loudly on a busy street – but because it had been intended as a flippant, throwaway remark. It was said instinctively, as though it had been spoken a thousand times. 

It felt worse because it came with the realisation that we have normalised something so abhorrent, to the point that it comes out without a thought. 

My whole life, I have been surrounded by words that slice through me, intended to degrade and dehumanise. Words that imply that I, and people like me, are somehow damaged.  

Slurs have echoed through playgrounds and nightclubs, threaded into the fabric of old TV shows. Each time I hear it, it thickens already thickened skin.  

In primary school, I was called slurs, and each instance on the playground felt like a blow. I knew it was wrong, though I didn’t yet have the words for why.

As the years went on, I would hear those same terms while out on the town and during meals with friends. Time and again, I was told off, often shouted down for being too sensitive, and defensively told that I just didn’t understand or get it. 

The seconds after the slur is uttered always stay with me. I feel every cruel syllable’s weight before slipping practised steel into my composure. 

‘It’s not personal,’ people often say. But in that gut-wrenching, sickening instant when my stomach lurches, I can hardly fathom anything more personal.    

When the knife slips in, it is always personal.    

As the years have gone on, thankfully, hearing the R-word has become a relatively rare occurrence. That was until this year.  

It’s suddenly become more frequent – a reminder of the overwhelming ignorance that still exists. 

I have heard it used more in the street and seen it seeping more fully into online discourse. I’ve seen it used against myself and others, and when you ask why, the answer is that the person wanted to insult or didn’t understand the history. 

It feels like, as a society, we have once again stopped seeing people as human beings. Instead, people have employed an attitude, which tells those who have experienced stigma and marginalisation, that their experiences don’t matter.  

It doesn’t matter that it makes you sick to your stomach; that it hurts and pulls your self-esteem down. It’s assumed to be casual, just language – who cares if it hurts your feelings? If it hits on your most personal nerve? 

I know I couldn’t have, but part of me wishes that in the moment I heard that woman say the R-word to her friend, that I said something. 

I wanted to share something personal, and make them consider what they had done – and take responsibility in their part in the very real pain they caused.  

I wish I had told them about how years of hearing the R-word and other such slurs have left me feeling isolated, impacted my mental health and left me feeling, in some ways, defective.  

Would that have made them pause before using it as a throwaway line? 

I felt like the R-word was becoming a thing of the past and that its usage was waning, and I was eager for a time when outdated, harmful stereotypes would no longer be acceptable.  

I wanted a future where disabled children in playgrounds wouldn’t have to cope with being called slurs, and be shaped by it in the way I was and am. I wanted them to be free from that pain. 

I tried to believe when people would say it was the language of older generations; that they didn’t know any better; that it was language that would die out.  

But now I ask: How can it be a problem of the older generation, when just last month, I heard a teenage boy call his friend the R-word? 

It was a group of boys in their school uniforms. One of them said the slur in a tone often dismissed as just banter. No one around us seemed to look up or react. 

I visibly reacted, and he threw me an apologetic look. But, I wondered – did he know it was wrong? And, if I hadn’t been there, would he have been OK with his words?  

I wonder this because, for years, I have been told that education works and younger generations are more aware. For years, I believed naïvely that things were improving.    

The truth is that we still allow discrimination to thrive. And how we talk about disability in some of our most important places – in the media, politics, and social media – hasn’t fundamentally altered.  

Our existence is still seen as something to be derided.    

As disabled people, we often have to convince others of our humanity and engage in conversations that should be straightforward but are easily ignored.  

This continuous struggle to say: ‘We are human beings who deserve basic understanding’ is exhausting.  

It feels like a cycle of pain and education – and I’m worried this cycle won’t ever end. 

We need this to change, permanently and we need it to change now. 

Because it is always personal.    

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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