Would you like some respect with that dignity?
If you’re part of a marginalised group, you’ve probably had your run‑in with the words "dignity" and "respect." They’re inseparable twins, always arriving as a pair, always delivered with the same soft, reassuring tone. And on the surface, they’re lovely words. Do I want to be treated with dignity and respect? Absolutely. Introduce me to the person who doesn’t.
But like any facade, it falls apart the moment you peek behind the curtain. That's when you realise how little this phrase actually commits anyone to.
By design, "dignity and respect" is as non‑committal as language gets. We use it for everything. A dying man in a hospice deserves dignity and respect. A homeless woman outside a supermarket deserves dignity and respect. Refugees fleeing violence deserve dignity and respect. Even the cattle that eventually becomes our food is supposed to be treated with dignity and respect. (Sorry, vegans.)
If a phrase can apply to everyone and everything, what does it actually mean? Everything and nothing. It’s a verbal warm blanket, comforting, vague, and ultimately empty. It lets people feel like we’re doing the right thing without requiring anyone to actually do anything. It’s a way of saying, "Don’t worry, we’re being kind," while quietly avoiding any specifics about what kindness would look like in practice.
For me, it's personal. When I hear politicians say trans people deserve "dignity and respect," it doesn’t feel like reassurance. It feels like I’m being managed. Smoothed over. Filed under "handled." When politicians say trans people deserve dignity and respect while simultaneously supporting policies that restrict access to spaces, healthcare, legal recognition, or participation in public life, the phrase stops being a promise and starts becoming a shield.
So what does this language accomplish?
For people who aren’t engaged, the ones who don’t follow policy, who don’t know the details, who don’t see the day‑to‑day impact, it creates the illusion that everything is fine. That the sick, the elderly, the homeless, the refugees, the trans people… we’re all being treated with adequate amounts of "dignity" and "respect," whatever that means to the person hearing it.
I can’t really blame that person. They shouldn’t have to shoulder every burden or be experts on every issue.
So what point am I trying to make? When a marginalised group pushes back, not even to gain new rights, but just to hold onto the shaky ground they already have, the language of "dignity and respect" becomes a justification. It subtly implies that we’re being unreasonable. Entitled. Demanding more than we’re owed. Because as far as the unengaged person is concerned, we’re already being treated with dignity and respect. The politicians said so. Why are we complaining? This is how rhetorical reassurance replaces material accountability, and how further demands can come to appear unnecessary or excessive.
"Dignity and respect" says everything a listener wants to hear while committing to nothing. It builds a wall between marginalised groups and the wider public, a wall made of soft words and good intentions that never materialise into action. And that’s exactly when we need to pay attention. Not to the words, but to the gap between the words and the world they’re describing.