“We had to run monsters,” Phoebe said.
“Monsters?” I asked confused.
“Suicides,” Rollie corrected. “They call them monsters now. She means suicides.”
“It’s not politically correct to call them suicides,” my Uncle Phil says.
“That makes sense,” I said.
Rollie and Phoebe are two of my cousins, and we had dinner at grandma’s house tonight to celebrate their birthday. The youngest great grandchild was also there—Emma.
“What do you want?” her mother Kristen asked in a high voice. “You want to play with the dog?”
“Be careful that dog is retarded,” Rollie said.
“Rollie,” uncle Phil said again. “You are sitting between two people who work with mentally disabled people.”
“Yeah,” I chime in. “It’s politically incorrect.”