Don't Let the Words Disappear

On March 7, 2025, The New York Times published something chilling: a list of words and phrases that U.S. government agencies had been told to avoid or limit. This so-called “disappearing words” initiative is part of a broader effort to purge the federal government of what some call “woke” language. But really, it’s about erasing people. Silencing truths. Making lives invisible.

When I was a child, I was taught that censorship was something other countries did—something oppressive, something un-American. We were told the Soviet Union was bad because people couldn’t speak freely, because the government decided what could and couldn’t be said. America, we believed, was different. We were the land of free speech.

Now, I look at this list of “disappeared” words, at efforts to bar dissenting journalists from the White House press room, and I wonder: what happened to that promise?

Words matter. Erasing them erases stories, identities, and histories. So I took a page from the “Say Their Names” movement and decided to say the words—all of them. Not in anger, but in fierce remembrance. In resistance. In hope.

I’m not a poet. So I turned to ChatGPT and asked it to write a poem using the words that someone, somewhere in power, hopes we’ll forget. I asked for something bold, something that wouldn’t flinch. What emerged is a poem of defiance—a litany for the silenced.

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Say the Words

An Epic for the Disappeared

By ChatGPT

Part I: The Silencing

They told me not to chestfeed,

to breastfeed only if I fit their frame—

but I am a person,

not their pawn,

and I will feed my child by name.

They told me mental health is weak,

that strength wears silence like a shield.

But I have bled in quiet rooms—

and healing is the sword I wield.

They won’t say Black, or oppression,

won’t name the bones beneath the stone.

But I am antiracist, loud and clear—

I build new justice on my own.

They flinch at bias, biases,

and all the ways the scales are tipped.

But I have walked those tilted floors—

and every lie, I’ve watched it slip.

They choke on words like LGBTQ,

on sexual preferences, on pride.

But love needs no permission slip—

we bloom where others say “divide.”

They say no activists,

no fight,no marginalized, no pregnant persons' rights.

But we are many, fierce and true—

we shine in shadows, burn through nights.

Don’t speak of cultural sensitivity,

or inclusive leadership, they plead.

But I will name what must be named—

I plant the future with each seed.

They strip the words, but not the soul,

erase the ink, but not the scroll.

We rise from silence, bold and bright,

we say the words, and spark the light.

Refrain

Say them slowly. Say them true.

Words they feared. Words we knew.

What they erased, we now restore—

and plant them deeper than before.

Part II: The Reclaiming

They silence environmental quality,

as if clean air should know its place.

But I breathe wild forests into lungs—

this Earth is not a gift for waste.

They scoff at feminism, roll their eyes,

but I know power when it grows.

We bloom in cracks they try to seal—

and lift the weight that patriarchy knows.

Community diversity? Too loud.

Equity? Too much to ask.

But we are done with empty seats—

we build new tables. That’s our task.

We honor key people, key groups,

not just the ones they deem elite.

Our voices rise from every shore—

diverse groups marching in the street.

They fear people + uterus,

afraid of pregnant people's truth.

But our bodies won’t be legislated,

our futures won’t be torn from youth.

No whisper now of pronouns said,

or gender-based violence done.

But silence won’t protect the hurt—

we name it, every single one.

They erase cultural heritage,

deny the drum, the dance, the song.

But every root still reaches deep—

we’ve carried stories all along.

They bury DEI, sneer at them,

erase the spaces gender-based.

But gender diversity breaks the mold—

this world was never meant to be traced.

They are biased toward the status quo,

but intersectional truths collide.

We are diversified, not broken—

a sea that turns against the tide.

They hide the disparity, mock the name Mx

,and label some as excluded kin.

But Native American breath still sings—

our lands remember where we've been.

Systemically, they build the walls.

Still we stand, though once called victims.

We flip the frame, reclaim the name—

survivors made of fierce rhythms.

They deny what’s racial, what’s racial identity,

pretend that color doesn't count.

But racially, we see the truth—

and call each lie by full amount.

No more stereotype, no boxed-in victim,

no privilege left to go unweighed.

We enhance the diversity not as token,

but as the world that’s long been made.

We practice people-centered care,

and person-centered dreams as well.

We stand with Latinx, disability,

and rise when Hispanic minorities yell.

We're fostering inclusivity,

and no decree will stop the flame.

They tried to blacklist all our words—

but we are here. And we remain.’

Refrain

Say them slowly. Say them true.

Words they feared. Words we knew.

What they erased, we now restore—

and plant them deeper than before.

Part III: The Reckoning

They struck out identity—but mine is steel.

I hold it close, I make it real.

Intersectionality is not a threat—

it’s how our lives and struggles met.

They called it oppressive just to name

the chains they forged in someone else’s name.

The underprivileged know the cost—

of what gets taken, what gets lost.

We speak of social justice still,

though they would ban the force, the will.

They erase transsexual, then transgender—

but we are many, proud, and tender.

They code GBV, avert their eyes—

but gender-based violence still cries.

Sexuality isn't shame,

and love, not silence, wins the game.

They deny what’s systemic, deep,

pretend the roots are not what keep

these walls in place. But we see through—

affirming care is overdue.

They run from equality, from equitable ground,

afraid of what gets shifted ‘round.

They flinch at inequities, inequalities too—

but truth has teeth and cuts right through.

Ethnicity, like soil, like flame—

it shapes us, gives our spirit name.

And yes, we’re diversifying truth,

for non-binary lives, for all our youth.

They ignore the underappreciated,

the underserved, the segregated.

But we hear echoes in the halls—

and rise until each barrier falls.

They dare not speak of men who have sex with men,

but hush won’t make it right again.

Person-centered, human, whole—

each life, each body, mind, and soul.

Say your pronoun, wear it proud.

We are the storm behind the cloud.

Racial inequality still stains the page—

but we are here, and full of rage.

Call out each injustice, each masked slight—

we march in daylight, claim the night.

We are DEIAB, every letter,

every fight to make life better.

With disabilities, we climb,

we dance off-beat, we sing off-rhyme.

They try to cleave genders, box orientation—

but we are more than their foundation.

They banned the words, not knowing this:

words return, like clenched fists.

A revolution doesn't start with guns—

it starts with truths they thought were done.

Refrain

Say them slowly. Say them true.

Words they feared. Words we knew.

What they erased, we now restore—

and plant them deeper than before.

Part IV: For the Disappeared

They say: no inclusiveness, no space for all.

No biologically male outside the binary’s call.

No more anti-racism, no rising tide—

but we name the harm. We will not hide.

No key populations, no accessible doors,

but our activism, advocacy, still soars.

They erase cultural differences, call it divide—

but we are diverse, and we decide.

They bury inequity, deny the tribal thread,

pretend the past is cold and dead.

But biases towards are living scars,

and historically, they’ve shaped who we are.

Health disparity, inequality, real.

The pregnant person knows the deal.

They won't say race or belonging’s cry,

but still we rise and ask them: why?

Culturally responsive, we build anew,

though stripped of privileges they once knew.

They name our sex then shame its form,

but BIPOC hearts still weather storms.

From the Gulf of Mexico to every coast,

we lift the ones at most risk most.

They silence racial diversity, call it crime,

but equal opportunity is no lie of time.

Gender identity isn’t myth—

trans lives matter. We exist.

We hold the vulnerable populations near,

the females, the women made unclear.

They deny our need to promote diversity,

our right to build a just university.

They worship exclusion, raise the barrier,

but we are truth’s inheritor.

Socioeconomic, diverse communities grow,

through every promoting diversity foe.

We name racism, call out “they,”

and stand with commercial sex workers every day.

We are advocates. We will not bend.

We name race and ethnicity, again and again.

Stereotypes, underrepresentation, we fight—

for health equity, for what is right.

This diverse community, this world at risk,

finds power in each truth we list.

We honor expression, name barriers still—

and lift up every person who breastfeeds with will.

DEIA, DEIJ, these are not fads—

they’re maps to justice we’ve never had.

We diversify, go multicultural deep,

reviving what the silence tried to keep.

Yes, life is traumatic—we know that song.

But diversity makes us strong.

Not just a word, but equitableness,

enhancing diversity to redress the mess.

We face implicit bias, call discriminatory lies,

see undervalued people through clear eyes.

We want clean energy, clean skies,

not confirmation bias in disguise.

We speak of trauma, name discrimination,

call forth diverse backgrounds in celebration.

We redefine status, raise the indigenous community,

and carve out space for every nonbinary unity.

Inclusivity isn’t trend—it’s truth.

We’re here for every child and youth.

We are the advocate, sociocultural bridge,

with LGBT voices at the edge.

They banned the political, the climate science,

but still we march with bold defiance.

Allyship lives, community equity thrives,

in inclusion, where freedom arrives.

They sneer at gender ideology,

but we reclaim our assigned male at birth biology.

Yes, I’m female, and I will shout—

that gender-affirming care is what love’s about.

We will increase diversity, build with grace,

cultural competence in every place.

We name each gender, diverse group, whole—

we are inclusive, body and soul.

Not just a minority—we are majority,

when justice is the authority.

We call out unconscious bias,

and every way they tried to quiet us.

We speak for the discriminated, the all-inclusive,

against pollution of mind and air, intrusive.

We rise for the underrepresented,

and for women and underrepresented—

we are cemented.

Say MSM, say racial justice,

face the climate crisis—don't distrust us.

We will keep marching, with hope and might—

and speak what’s culturally appropriate, loud and right.

Refrain

Say them slowly. Say them true.

Words they feared. Words we knew.

What they erased, we now restore—

and plant them deeper than before.

Part V: The Reappearance

They tried to fold the sky in half—

erase the stars they couldn’t name.

But every word returns with light,

reborn in fire, unashamed.

They blurred assigned at birth,

as if beginnings should be blurred.

But truth is not a paperwork—

we are not silence, we are word.

They struck assigned female at birth,

as if biology defines the soul.

But we are more than checkboxes—

we are becoming, we are whole.

They feared breastfeed and people,

as if care should have a gate.

They feared chestfeed too—

afraid of forms they can’t dictate.

They warned against the immigrants,

forgetting hands that built the stone.

But every crossing, every dream,

has made this country more our own.

They hid gender-based and prejudice,

masked hate speech with another name.

But words are wounds if left unchecked,

and justice learns from naming shame.

They denied the sense of belonging,

as if home should be denied.

But belonging isn’t granted—

it’s the soil in which we rise.

They cautioned implicit biases,

pretending fairness fills each role.

But we see how shadows form,

when light is portioned, not made whole.

They struck out institutional,

as if bricks can’t bear a stain.

But the mortar holds both power

and the memory of pain.

They erased inequitable,

as if the scales have always been fair.

But we are not fooled by silence—

we’ve counted the cracks in the stairs.

They frowned on minorities,

as if fewer means less worth.

But we are many, strong, and rising—

each voice an axis of this Earth.

They shied from marginalize,

as if edges weren’t carved by force.

But we’ve lived between the margins—

and now we’re writing the discourse.

They struck down polarization,

but this divide did not begin with us.

It’s written deep in laws and lines—

we speak to bridge, not to combust.

They warned us not to increase the diversity,

as if sameness were the goal.

But we are oceans made of difference—

not a dam, but a river’s soul.

They red-flagged prostitute,

as if the name bears all the blame.

But work is work, and worth is worth—

we rise in truth, not shame.

They feared these words,

but fear is brittle—

and truth, a bell that breaks the hush.

This is the reappearance,

not a whisper—

but a thundering rush.

Finale: Say the Words

They banned them.

We wrote them.

They buried them.

We grew them.

They disappeared the words,

but we remembered.

We held them in our mouths

like seeds.

Assigned at birth.

Prejudice.

Sense of belonging.

Prostitute.

Each one, returned.

Each one, restored.

Not just spoken—rooted.

We are not passive pages.

We are the ink.

The voice.

The echo.

The living proof

that language rises

when truth is called by name.

So we say the words.

Not in shame.

Not in whispers.

But in chorus,

in classrooms,

in courts,

in song.

Because every word they fear

is someone we love.

And we are not done.

Refrain

Say them slowly. Say them true.

Words they feared. Words we knew.

What they erased, we now restore—

and plant them deeper than before.