Christopher Jones, Minot

While I think Minot may be a bastion of rationality in a world gone mad, even from this redoubt I do feel a need to draw a line in the sand. Or maybe I should say in the sandbox, given the topic.

I have read recent articles about “cancel culture” and how it is wrong to apply that label to the decision around taking the “Mr.” off of Mr. Potato Head. They end with something along the lines of, “Change is good if it relieves the pain of the past.”

Call me cis-privileged, but I fail to see how that noble conclusion applies to neutering a line of plastic representations of a potato.

Hasbro admonishes us to “just use your imagination, kids” as though that is new advice, but absent the definitive body parts, what do they think we have been doing? The toy never did include genitalia, and I doubt that the 42 accessories in the upcoming “Potato Family Pack” will change that. Even if they did, there’s no standard place to put such parts on the potato unless you bring a Dremel tool or Super Glue to the party. Lack of relevant body parts makes this toy a tool for learning about androgyny and transvestism, which I thought were supposed to be healthy these days.

In fact, cross-dressing of potatoes has gone on ever since Mrs. Potato Head joined Mr. just a year after he was introduced. Brother Spud, Sister Yam and the Spud-ettes followed soon after. I recall playing with all of these, and I don’t recall anyone standing over me enforcing gender, age, or even species norms. Parts were mixed and matched freely and no tears were shed over feelings of exclusion if I chose to stick a Spud-ette kitty cat eyeball onto the face of an otherly-specied body and to call it anything I liked.

My family wasn’t made of money so I never owned Frenchy Fry or Mr. Soda Pop Head or the other more exotic variations, but surely you can see that gender was not and is not the focus of these toys. In fact, I daresay this line of toys was the forerunner of cafeteria-style self-identification. Do you feel like a lady today, with a hand where your ear should be and sunglasses emerging from your hip? Go for it, kid! But what does it say on the box? Who cares?! These toys smuggled a bit of Andy Warhol-style absurdism and John Waters-style transgression into American living rooms, yet now they are called offensively exclusionary.

Supporters of Hasbro’s change were quick to clarify that only the name of the line of toys, not the name of one individual, was changing to drop the “Mr.” Well hallelujah, there’s your change that relieves the pain of the past. But why stop there? What about the name of the company itself? Is there a more exclusionary, cis-gendered word than “Hasbro”? Brace yourself, I’m demonstrating gender critical theory and intersectionality all at once, working without a net or benefit of logic like a true academic. I shall lead with my feelings to dismantle the power structure, and I dare anyone to disagree.

The “bro” in “Hasbro” reeks of toxic masculinity. You feel me, bro’? It is a short form of the word “brother” which implies maleness. Horrors! Why can’t it be “Hassis” for sister, or “Hassib” for sibling? Or “HasThey” with an all-purpose pronoun that has been rebranded as situationally singular or plural? But what about only children? Isn’t “Has-any-kind-of-sibling” just rubbing their lone status in their face? So let’s drop “bro” altogether, shall we, and call the company “Has”.

Oh, but haven’t we become a society of haves and have-nots, thanks to unrestrained capitalism leading to rampant inequality? Thanks, “Has,” for reminding me that I don’t have!

Clearly, no trigger words should appear in a company name. And so “Hasbro” must change its name to “”. That’s pronounced “nothing.” Yes, if you say nothing, then you cannot possibly offend anyone. And so I look forward to the “” line of “”, with 42 accessories, coming this fall.

Where does it end? It ends with us unable to use words to name anything, to even tentatively label anything, to so much as talk about anything, without bringing on a storm of grievance-mongering protests and endless exercises in dissecting words to find, and display with a righteous sneer, the gruesome prize of that-which-now-offends-me.

How tiresome.