In 1995, a word entered the media and cultural Zeitgeist: superpredator. John J. DiIulio Jr coined the term in a cover story in The Weekly Standard. His narrative around the “superpredator” predicted that a new wave of young criminals was on the rise. Dilulio labeled these young people as “severely morally impoverished” and stated that their “heinous acts of physical violence” were core aspects of their personhood. He argued that over the next several years, there would likely be 30,000 juvenile criminals wreaking havoc with their total lack of morality.
Dilulio’s warning and the “superpredator” term drew great attention. Over the next few years, the rhetoric of harm-intending youth crept into media, politics, and pop culture. Tragically, the negative impact of the narrative grabbed hold of the national consciousness–making society afraid of thousands of young (mostly black) men. Yet Dilulio’s significant predictions did not come to fruition. In their article, “The Media Myth That Demonized a Generation of Black Youth”, Carroll Bogert and Lynnell Hancock point out this dissonance. “The ‘superpredator’ theory… was not borne out in crime statistics. Juvenile arrests for murder—and juvenile crime generally—had already started falling when DiIulio’s article was published. By 2000, when tens of thousands more children were supposed to be out there mugging and killing, juvenile murder arrests had fallen by two-thirds. It failed as a theory, but as fodder for editorials, columns, and magazine features, the term ‘superpredator’ was a tragic success—with an enormous, and lasting, human toll.” Dilulio actually recanted his original theory in 2001. But, the damage had been done.
Our words have power – lasting, influential power. We coin new terms or latch onto labels because they help us make sense of complex things. They give us a way to attach blame and justify our disdain. In short, words like “superpredator” shape the way we see others. The damage extends well beyond mere unkindness; real harm is done. Harm to the individual and harm to the way we view one another. Labels are sneaky barriers to understanding one another. They tell us a tainted story.
But there is a different way to tell a story. A group of first-graders points out the “bad kid” in their classroom. The teacher begins to have side conversations with her students. She instructs them to adjust their language regarding this fellow student, a classmate who made a bad choice. They are first a “classmate.” This reframing begins to shape the class, and soon, everyone is referring to one another as “having a hard time” or “making a bad choice”. They notice temporary actions and traits, not permanent labels of identity.
Words like “classmate” or “neighbor” are relational words. We use them to remember our connection to one another. In filling our vocabulary with these relational words, we hold tightly to the person’s inherent dignity. They belong here; they belong to this community. In contrast, when we attach negative labels of identification onto others, we create distance and mistrust. And in many cases, like the great injustice of the “superpredator”, we villainize and incriminate. These labels estrange us from one another.
What other words do we use that widen the gap of estrangement?
Where might we adjust our language to see all people as loved and valued?
Names, labels, identifiers – they all have the power to remind us of our value or strip it away. We have the ability to thoughtfully choose how we speak to and about one another. We can ask ourselves whether our words create belonging or provoke alienation. As we adjust our language to words of dignity, we not only help shape how others see themselves, but also how we see the value in one another. The words we use are as significant to our own soul-formation as they are to those hearing them spoken.
