The list of words you can’t say seems to get longer every year, and rightly so. Words have meaning that runs deeper than phonemes. Our values express themselves in the words we choose.
Some words that were common in my childhood seem obviously wrong in the light of a new century. The word “retarded” comes to mind. I never said that word when I was little, but I heard it frequently. It is a despicable word, and should not be said.
Others words catch me off-guard, because I was ignorant about what they really meant. Last year an astute copy editor caught me using the word “spaz” and flagged it. Until that moment I had no idea it was a slur against people with cerebral palsy. I felt horrible and grateful to my editors for preventing me from unintentionally hurting others. Later I learned that Tiger Woods had made the same mistake.
One of the words I’ve seen kids struggle with recently is “hobo.” It’s been such a big issue, that I promised my son I would write a column about it. He and his fifth grade friends were using the word hobo as a light-hearted insult for their closest pals, until their teacher put a stop to it. I’m sure there were many families who had deep discussions about homelessness after that note went home. We discussed empathy, compassion and the myriad of complex reasons someone might become homeless.
The boys insisted that they weren’t making fun of homeless people at all — they knew better than that. When they used the word “hobo” they referred to happy-go-lucky travelers who rode the rails, ate beans from a can and played the banjo by a campfire every night.
Inwardly I was conflicted. Outwardly I stood with the other adults. The word hobo was not allowed.
It gave me pause though, enough that I Googled the word to find its etymology. According to Wikipedia, hobo means a traveling migrant worker, and it has a different meaning than “bum” or “tramp.”
The history of the word hobo runs deep, even within my own family. I remember my great-aunt telling me how my great grandmother was known across many states for her good cooking. Hobos were regular visitors to their back door, and never turned away. There was a hobo mark by their mailbox, a secret signal alerting men that a hot meal was waiting. As a young girl, my aunt would sit on the porch and keep the men company while they ate, thrilled with their stories of adventures.
Do we welcome homeless men into our backyards now on a regular basis? Do we leave our daughters unattended in their presence? Not usually, and that indicates that the word “hobo” really is different than “homeless.” It also shows that times have changed, and not necessarily for the better.
These words we no longer say are mere syllables, but the history behind them speaks volumes. I need a bigger dictionary to figure them out.
Jennifer Bardsley lives in Edmonds. Her book “Genesis Girl” comes out June 14. Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, Twitter @jennbardsley or at teachingmybabytoread.com.
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