For some reason, over the last few months I’ve been disagreeing with my Dad more than usual. There are things we can’t seem to see eye to eye on, and not just because he’s taller than me. I don’t know if he’s always had these contrasting opinions and I’m only just finding out, or if his attitudes to certain things have changed.
Some of these little disagreements lead to healthy, perfectly reasonable debates on moral issues. Our favourite phrases and retorts at times like this include:
“I hear what you’re saying, but you’re completely wrong.”
“How the hell can you say that with a straight face?”
“I think you might’ve just undermined your whole argument there.”
“Statistically, what I’m saying is right.” (always used without providing a single statistic)
And, my personal favourite:
“It’s really hard to have a conversation with you when you’re talking out your arse.”
We somehow made our way onto the topic of offensive and derogatory words. Dad says that you have no right to be offended at a conversation you overhear, if the people talking aren’t offended themselves. If two people talking call each other names and laugh, it’s not your place to say “hey, it isn’t okay to use that word.”
To an extent, that bit wasn’t an argument. I agree you should let people cultivate their own outrage, rather than unleash it for them – unless they’re unable to articulate it. However, I don’t think that should mean free rein to say whatever you like within earshot of impressionable children, or very loudly, or with total disregard to everyone around. It’s bad enough having to hear something that offends my ears leaking from a smartphone on the bus.
But, this is my Dad. His theme song is We Shall Not Be Moved. So to illustrate this point fully, he started calling me…
…well, I can’t repeat the word.
I can’t bring myself to type the word out. He picked the linguistic equivalent of Voldemort to make a statement. Dad reckons he should be able to use this word freely to refer to me, because I’m not offended by it and therefore nobody else should be.
‘Offended’ isn’t the right feeling, I grant you. Technically this isn’t a word I should be offended by when it’s directed at me. That doesn’t stop this word from being widely considered offensive, regardless of who it’s said by.
How I do feel about this is irritated. Annoyed. Frustrated. But offended? Well, no. I know he doesn’t really associate the term with me. It’s entirely designed to get my back up, and it’s working.
I also feel kinda scared that he’ll attempt to prove the point by calling me this name in public. You know those moments when someone calls out a common first name and seven people turn around? I fear that.
The most obvious way to retaliate would be to give Dad a name. Something nice and controversial. But what? Seeing as I’m too shocked, let’s crowdsource it. Tweet me or Funny Women with your cringiest nicknames.
