“Retard! Retard!” It’s the shrill call of a vile black bird, a call I hear coming from the treetops and from behind dark clouds these days. I hear it, though others don’t, because I have an ear for it. Call it a gift. I received this gift four years ago, in a hospital delivery room, at the exact moment a nurse turned to me and told me that in all likelihood my newborn son had Down syndrome. He did. His name is Ozzie.
Dad Demands Apology From Ann Coulter For Using 'Retarded' As An Insult
When Will People Stop Using The Word 'Retard'?