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What's at Stake When the President Uses the R-Word
The real question is not whether Trump is allowed to use degrading language, but whether a president who does so honors the dignity of the office—or hollows it out from within.
Dec 27, 2025
When a president uses language that dehumanizes, it is not a matter of legality, it is a matter of dignity, and it signals who our society values. Every utterance from the Oval Office carries weight; it sets norms, authorizes behaviors, and communicates whose humanity is recognized and whose is diminished.
When President Donald Trump referred to Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz using the R-word, defenders rushed in with a familiar refrain: freedom of speech. He can say what he wants. He is protected. End of discussion.
But this is not a freedom-of-speech question. It is a freedom-of-dignity question.
Donald Trump is not a private citizen muttering into the void. He is the most powerful person in the world, speaking through a global amplifier backed by the authority of the presidency. The real question is not whether he is allowed to use degrading language, but whether a president who does so honors the dignity of the office—or hollows it out from within.
A president’s words do more than reveal character; they instruct the nation in who it is permitted to become.
Some defenders argue that only the N-word merits being reduced to an initial, that if Trump wants to use “retarded,” he can—and so can anyone else. They dismiss criticism as cancel culture, another example of Democrats weaponizing political correctness.
This defense is morally hollow. Saying, “Only the N-word counts” is an impoverished standard. Harmful language does not become acceptable simply because it targets a different group. The R-word is not neutral—it has been used for decades to demean, exclude, and dehumanize people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, reducing human beings to a punchline or a flaw.
This is not about partisan loyalty or performative outrage. It is about whether we believe people deserve basic dignity regardless of disability. If you had a child, a sibling, or a close friend with an intellectual or developmental disability, would you really argue that the most powerful person in the country should be excused for using a word that has long diminished their worth? Would that feel like free speech, or like indifference?
Leadership is not only about what one is legally permitted to say. It is about what one chooses to say. Leaders set norms. When they adopt language that punches down, they grant permission for others to follow. Calling that out is not political correctness; it is a minimal ethical expectation of public leadership.
BJ Stasio, a Peer Specialist 2 with the New York State Office for People With Developmental Disabilities, explains:
When national leaders use the R-word casually, it reactivates real harm for people who were once labeled, limited, and underestimated. As someone who has lived with that label—and now leads within the disability rights movement—I know firsthand what the stigma can do.
Nicole LeBlanc, a disability employment consultant and self-advocacy adviser, underscores the emotional and systemic toll:
Seeing the R-word insult return to everyday language is enraging. Many people with autism—especially those diagnosed in adulthood—carry complex trauma histories from bullying and verbal abuse. Research shows they are more likely to be bullied than the general population, leading to high rates of PTSD, anxiety, and other challenges. People with disabilities want respect, love, acceptance, and access to services that allow us to thrive, not just survive. Using hateful language fuels negative attitudes, health disparities, and higher abuse rates. Respect is not optional.
Emauni Crawley, a behavioral health coach and disability advocate, is blunt:
The manner in which Trump articulates the R-word is not a result of ignorance. It is an act of perverseness.
Dr. Gary Schaffer, professor of school psychology, mental health counselor, author, and a person with disabilities, adds historical context:
The R-word is not neutral. It is hate speech, reducing learning and behavioral differences to something laughable and diminishing a person’s value to society. When the president of the United States uses it openly, he gives a green light to discriminate, segregate, and withhold empathy—not only from people with intellectual disabilities, but from anyone with learning or behavioral differences.
This danger is not theoretical. Prior to 1975, many students with disabilities were denied access to education entirely because they were deemed incapable of learning. Language paved the way for policy. It always does.
Max Donatelli, a US Air Force Vietnam veteran, disability advocate, and parent, put it plainly:
The public disrespect shown by this president to people with intellectual and developmental disabilities is unprecedented. Our country deserves better. As a parent and advocate, we have found it challenging to rid our language of the R-word at the local, state, and national levels. We helped New York State end its use of it in the office that administers services to people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. What was once the Office for Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities is now the Office for People with Developmental Disabilities, thanks to significant advocacy. Our wonderful son Craig, who has Down syndrome, deserves the respect and opportunities afforded all citizens. The use of this slur is a stain on this presidency that won’t be forgotten by us.
The R-word entered medical and educational usage in the late 19th and early 20th centuries as a supposedly humane replacement for earlier slurs. By the 1960s and 1970s, it had become an everyday insult. Its harm was so widespread that it was removed from professional, legal, and clinical use, replaced by terms such as intellectual disability and developmental disability. Organizations like the Special Olympics have spent decades urging the public to abandon the word entirely.
Trump’s use of it is therefore not accidental, nostalgic, or brave. It is regressive. It communicates that labeling human beings this way is acceptable—even legitimate. Taboos are ethical boundaries. When a president violates them intentionally, the violation instructs.
Words alone are dangerous. When paired with policy, the harm compounds. Rhetoric that degrades, combined with policies that strip protections, sends a clear message about whose lives are valued and whose are negotiable. Programs like SOAR, which helped people with severe mental health challenges access Social Security benefits and provided housing, healthcare, and stability. Cutting them leaves people exposed. The erosion of special education, weakening of Americans with Disabilities Act guidance, and refusal to provide real-time American Sign Language interpretation at White House events send the same message: Accessibility is optional; inclusion is an inconvenience.
Harm becomes systemic not all at once, but sentence by sentence, joke by joke, policy memo by policy memo. The erosion of dignity rarely announces itself as violence. It begins as permission—to mock, dismiss, reduce. When that permission comes from the highest office in the land, it spreads.
This is not about fragility. It is about responsibility. A president’s words do more than reveal character; they instruct the nation in who it is permitted to become. When language degrades and protections are hollowed out, dignity ceases to be shared and becomes a privilege rationed by power.
The question is no longer whether such language is legal. It is whether we will accept a politics that treats some people’s humanity as expendable, and whether we will recognize, before it spreads further, that a nation willing to bargain away dignity at the margins will eventually find it gone at the center.
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This Disability Pride Month Is About Survival, Not Celebration
This month, skip the slogans. Ask: Who do I know that needs care? Who will I support when the next cut comes? What am I building that lasts beyond this news cycle? Or this election cycle?
Jul 26, 2025
Every July, we’re told to smile for the cameras. Show our pride. Celebrate how far we’ve come.
But what if all we feel is rage?
This year, Disability Pride Month arrives under a government that is actively tearing down the few protections we have left. Programs that kept us out of institutions—gone. Jobs focused on accessibility—eliminated. Community care infrastructure—defunded, dismantled, or disappeared entirely. And somehow, no one’s sounding the alarm. Or perhaps there are too many alarms going off at once, and nobody can distinguish them anymore.
There’s no parade for the disabled workers quietly laid off when Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Accessibility (DEIA) offices were shuttered. No ribbon cutting for the collapse of the Administration for Community Living. No national reckoning when misinformation about disability spreads on federal letterhead and leads to real-world harm. Harm like the little people I know who were harassed in airports after the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) became a political target following the D.C plane crash when our president attributed the disaster to our community.
What we’re seeing now is the result of years of bipartisan disinvestment. It’s just happening louder, faster, and crueler than before.
This isn’t bureaucratic drift. It’s intentional. And it’s happening while the rest of the country posts inspirational quotes about inclusion.
I run New Disabled South with the mission of improving the lives of disabled people and building strong disability justice and rights movements in the South, and I can tell you: This moment is not about pride. It’s about survival.
The Trump administration recently directly attacked a federal employment program that helped place disabled people in jobs across agencies like the FAA. Instead of telling the truth, they called it a “diversity hiring” loophole and singled out specific disabilities, including dwarfism. The backlash from right-wing radical folks was immediate and violent. And still, no one covered it.
And yet, the rollback didn’t start this year. It didn’t even start with this administration. President Ronald Reagan, with a Republican Senate from 1981-1987, launched a major campaign to reduce the size of the federal government. Significant cuts to Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) and Supplemental Security Income (SSI) led to hundreds of thousands of people losing disability benefits after aggressive reevaluations.
And now, anti-DEI rhetoric has escalated into anti-access policy. Entire programs and research centers have been shuttered under the guise of neutrality. Leaders who run centers for racial and disability justice are currently fighting lawsuits claiming that simply existing in these spaces is discriminatory. The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so destructive.
The people affected by these attacks are the ones making our country more livable, accessible, and just. These aren’t abstract programs. These are lifelines. I know, because I grew up on them.
My parents relied on Medicaid home and community-based services (HCBS) to care for my siblings and me at home. We were triplets, all with cerebral palsy. Doctors encouraged my parents to put us into institutions. But because of HCBS and other programs, we weren’t institutionalized—we were raised in our own home, in our own community, with the people we love. I’m here because of that care. And I’m terrified that families like mine won’t get the same chance.
This is the part where I’m supposed to offer hope. But here’s the truth: We are being failed. And it’s time to name that, without softening it.
Disability justice is not a one-month-a-year conversation. It is not a post. It is not a panel. And it cannot be siloed off from broader fights for racial, gender, and economic equity. Being a part of this community, we are not a niche. We are a movement. This affects us all; more than 1 in 4 adults in the United States have some type of disability, and that’s not counting the number of people who have been and continue to be disabled from Covid-19. And we are all deeply, inextricably linked to every community being attacked right now.
When Black students lose access to equity programs, disabled students lose.
When LGBTQ+ protections are stripped away, disabled people lose.
When DEI offices are dissolved, accessibility gets erased too.
And when we talk about disability, we must also talk about race, poverty, gender, sexuality, and geography. Especially in the South, where I live and organize, policy decisions made in D.C. don’t just ripple—they rupture. The South has the nation’s highest rates of disability, and it’s been made clear with recent cuts to Medicaid and other essential programs that the federal government isn’t coming to save us. No matter who’s in charge, disability is too often treated as an afterthought at best or a political liability at worst. What we’re seeing now is the result of years of bipartisan disinvestment. It’s just happening louder, faster, and crueler than before.
We need care webs—mutual aid rooted in relationships, not rescue. These are informal, hyper-local networks where people look out for one another. Not just with money or donations, but with time, attention, and consistency. Someone to check in. Someone to help navigate a job search or bureaucratic nightmare. Someone to drive you to the doctor when paratransit doesn’t show up. Someone who knows your access needs and shows up anyway.
This isn’t about creating a perfect system. It’s about refusing to let each other fall through the cracks.
Building a care web can be as simple as texting a neighbor, posting in a local group, or organizing around one person’s immediate needs. You don’t have to be disabled to start one. You just have to decide that no one should be left behind because a government decided they didn’t matter.
These may seem like small acts, but they are how we survive. They are how we resist.
So this month, skip the slogans. Ask: Who do I know that needs care? Who will I support when the next cut comes? What am I building that lasts beyond this news cycle? Or this election cycle?
That’s the work. That’s the rage. And that’s how we move forward together.
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The Last beacon of Hope Is Failing Refugees With Disabilities
Our work to ensure that forcibly displaced people with disabilities have equal access to pathways to safety and lasting refuge has never been easy, but since U.S. President Donald Trump took office, it has become nearly impossible.
Apr 20, 2025
Hassan’s life was not always confined to a single room. But when he became a refugee, he didn’t just lose his home, he lost his freedom and independence.
Hassan is a young refugee man from Sudan with a physical disability that requires him to use a wheelchair. Before the war in Sudan forced him to flee to Egypt, he lived in an accessible home, which allowed him to move around independently. Now, he is trapped without a wheelchair on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. His apartment is completely inaccessible, forcing him to spend 24 hours a day in bed.
I learned about Hassan’s journey on a call I convened as part of my role leading the Disability Inclusion and Accessibility Program at the International Refugee Assistance Project (IRAP), a global legal aid and advocacy nonprofit. Our work to ensure that forcibly displaced people with disabilities have equal access to pathways to safety and lasting refuge has never been easy, but since U.S. President Donald Trump took office, it has become nearly impossible. This population is under attack for being refugees, people with disabilities, and beneficiaries of U.S. foreign aid.
“He thinks if only the president knows what he is going through, and that all his resettlement expenses will be taken care of by volunteer sponsors in the U.S., he will change his mind.”
The sheer volume of anti-immigrant policies enacted by the Trump administration risks obscuring the harm each one inflicts on real people. The executive orders issued by the new U.S. administration since January 20 have been devastating for many, but especially for refugees with disabilities and their families. It has also been a loss for the local communities ready to welcome them.
During my meeting with Hassan, I met some of the generous families in Ohio who had come together to support Hassan and his family. When they learned about the Welcome Corps, the private sponsorship program which allows Americans to directly support refugees, the families worked day and night to meet all the requirements to sponsor Hassan’s resettlement to the United States.
“Since then, Hassan has been focused solely on how living in the U.S. will change his life. Without a job and unable to leave his home, he has been spending all of his days following the progress of his sponsors. But the complete ban of the refugee admissions program destroyed all his dreams. It was like a tornado demolishing all we had built with just a few words,” one of Hassan’s sponsors told me.
Hassan is just one of millions of people with disabilities forcibly displaced around the world. While the United Nations doesn’t collect data on the exact number of refugees with disabilities, estimates suggest there may be nearly 18 million people with disabilities in need of resettlement. With the end of programs like the Welcome Corps and the cuts to U.S. foreign aid, their already shaky support system has all but collapsed, leaving refugees with disabilities and their families with zero support.
I have learned in my career as a refugee rights advocate and disability inclusion activist that refugees with disabilities are the last group to be included and the first to be excluded. When challenges arise, refugees with disabilities are on the frontlines.
In nearly every refugee-hosting country, refugees with disabilities are denied access to the services available for citizens. Many of them cannot even obtain disability certificates. As a result, refugees with disabilities and their families solely rely on humanitarian assistance provided by the United Nations or NGOs to access medical support, rehabilitation, assistive devices, and many other needs: a tiny stream of support which is now almost dry with significant cuts to U.S. foreign assistance funds.
It is extremely hard to meet the resettlement eligibility criteria set forth by the U.N. and many destination countries. Having a medical need that can’t be met locally can be a factor in being considered for resettlement, but many refugees with disabilities do not have the information and resources necessary to request this consideration. Those who can access this process often get rejected, and even for those who are accepted, the refugee process is long and complicated. This can mean years, sometimes decades, without life-saving healthcare, accessible homes, or any education or growth opportunities.
That is why innovative programs like the Welcome Corps were a beacon of hope for many refugees with disabilities who were left out of the U.N.-based resettlement. And now, Trump’s refugee ban is pushing them back into a situation where even the inadequate support they used to receive has been demolished due to the foreign aid cuts. Even though federal judges have blocked the government from further implementing the refugee ban and the cuts to USAID, the government has done little to comply with the orders.
The dire situation of people like Hassan requires the Trump administration to take immediate meaningful steps to resume the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program. Such a resumption would be consistent with recent federal court orders and congressional intent. Funding for humanitarian and refugee assistance programs, in particular disability inclusion funding, must also be immediately restored. Those advocating for refugee rights also need to prioritize finding solutions for refugees with disabilities and include their voices in their advocacy.
Hassan’s sponsor told me: “I don’t know how to respond when Hassan asks me about the future. He wishes to speak to the president himself to explain his situation. He thinks if only the president knows what he is going through, and that all his resettlement expenses will be taken care of by volunteer sponsors in the U.S., he will change his mind. Hassan wants the president and the American people to know that when given the opportunity in a more accessible environment, refugees with disabilities can flourish and fulfill their potential.”
I couldn’t say it better myself.
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