At the last quarterly gathering of the PEG Gauteng group, the topic of discussion was ‘Conscious and inclusive language’. One member offered a novel solution to the problem of language that excludes – try to not be so sensitive. In response, I owned that I’m unapologetically sensitive about the issue, knowing all too well how it feels to be excluded.

My lived experience

One of my earliest childhood memories is of walking towards the front of our house and being suddenly met halfway up the passage by an unfamiliar beaded curtain. Momentarily startled, I was about to carry on when my grandmother grabbed me and pulled me back. She explained that I could no longer go into that part of the house because other people lived there now.

I simply couldn’t wrap my head around that information. Clearly, I was traumatised by it, because I seem to have blanked out all other memories of being restricted to the back of the house. That was my first experience of exclusion, and where my aversion to it was born.

As I grew into my identity as a lesbian, I encountered another type of exclusion. I had to listen to every possible kind of degrading, ridiculing, condemning, stereotyping, vilifying, dehumanising remark about people with whom I strongly identified, and keep my mouth shut for fear of being stigmatised.

The experience that hurt most, though, was being excluded by the sermons of the pastor of my church. It was a New Thought church, the majority of whose members were queer. We were drawn by the message of acceptance and unconditional love, because all are made in God’s image. Yet no acknowledgement of queer identity ever found its way into the language there.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ the good reverend would preach, ‘what colour, nationality, gender, age, race or religion you are, whether you’re married or single, what political party you support or what you do for a living. We’re all members of God’s family.’ She would list every characteristic you can think of and include every category of person you can imagine – except sexual orientation and LGBTQIA+ people.

Ironically, it was her ministry that eventually gave me the courage to take up the mantle of activism, in which capacity I had to study our Bill of Rights in Jamaica. The omission of ‘sexual orientation’ from the equality clause and ‘sex’ from the non-discrimination clause suggested that, both as a woman and as a queer person, I was not deemed worthy of the protections guaranteed to ‘every person in Jamaica’.

Here in South Africa, of course, I don’t have that problem, but I’ve suffered the effects of non-inclusive and unconscious language in more personal ways. Some years ago, I was part of the leadership of an organisation being set up to advance the interests of older women. Black women had by far the greatest representation among the membership, and so it was not surprising that they would often slip into their mother tongues during our deliberations. Just as often, I’d remind them that there were others in the room who didn’t speak any of those languages. I eventually grew weary of making these interventions and departed the organisation.

My most recent experience of exclusionary and unconscious language was even closer to home. One member of my WhatsApp friends’ group posted a question about a proposed trip that she had been tasked to organise. I made my input. A few days later she remarked that, since no-one had responded, she was going to make a unilateral decision.

When I pointed out that I had responded, her reply was, ‘You’re one person. I’m talking about everybody.’ I protested that her statements made me feel unseen, but she didn’t even bother to engage any further. What was worse, none of the other members could understand what I was on about.

What has this to do with editing, you might ask?

It is precisely that sense of invisibility, of erasure, that is at the crux of the matter. For if you don’t see me, then it must mean that I’m not there, right? Excluding me through your choice of words invalidates my existence, and suggests that my lived experiences are of no consequence at all.

As editors, is it not our duty to ensure that the words we edit for others and use ourselves convey respect, care and inclusion? Do we not have a responsibility to be mindful of what stereotypes and biases are upheld with the thoughtless use or omission of certain words, and so avoid perpetuating hurt and harm?

I’m a language practitioner. But I’m first a human being. And I recognise others as such. So, hell, yes, I’m sensitive about not being included in the discourse around me – because I matter, and I will not let anyone get away with language that says otherwise. For my sake and that of others.

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