I don’t like sugar-coated language. I often use euphemisms to avoid giving offense, but I always feel that I’m being more patronizing than thoughtful. And when somebody uses a euphemism on me, I can feel a snow job coming on.

For example, I’d rather buy a used car than a “pre-owned” one. The used car salesman isn’t soft-pedaling the fact that somebody else has put some miles on the vehicle. “Pre-owned” subtly suggests that the jewel has been garaged since it rolled out of the new-car showroom and the owner just came out occasionally to admire it. You and I know that’s not true. “Used car” is an old and accurate term. The first Model T to pass through its first cycle of ownership was put on the lot as a used car. That’s what your ‘06 Town Car is after you’ve put the first 50,000 miles on it and turned it over to Carmax. Call it what it is.

If “Estates” is part of the name of a subdivision, I don’t want to live there unless the house has maid’s quarters and sits on at least 12 acres of ground. American Heritage Dictionary defines “estate” as “landed property, usually of considerable size.” It doesn’t mean a neighborhood of three-bedroom, two-bath homes sitting on quarter-acre lots.

Same goes for subdivisions with “mews” in the name, unless the houses used to be horse stables and have been thoroughly scrubbed down since their original occupants galloped away. I suspect that a mews falls closer to my price range than an estate does. A genuine mews has probably been pre-owned by somebody who was master of an estate with horse barns.

I don’t like to call a child born out of wedlock a “love child” for the same reason I don’t like to call American Indians “native Americans:” Both terms exclude others who are entitled to use them.

A Cherokee born in the United States is certainly a native American, but so am I. I was born in South Carolina 69 years after it rejoined the Union following the War Between the States. That surely makes me a native American on a legal par with a Cherokee, Seminole or Navajo.

“American Indian” may be ethnically inaccurate, but at least it is specific. American Indians are not, to the best of my knowledge, descended from the people who settled the valley of the Indus River. But for 516 years they’ve been called “Indians,” and once Europeans figured out that the West Indies were a long way from the real Indies, they called them “American Indians.”

So when you say “American Indian,” people know whom you’re talking about. When you say “Native American” you could be talking about people whose ancestors were dark-skinned Africans, fair-skinned northern Europeans, swarthy Mediterranean peoples, brown-skinned East Asians or Pacific Islanders of blended ethnicity.

The American Indian’s pre-Columbian ancestors didn’t call themselves “Americans.” That’s a European word. They called themselves by a variety of tribal names, many of which meant, in their native languages, “the people.” So if you want to be specific, call them Cherokee, Seminole, Choctaw, or by whatever tribal name they now identify themselves. You can also call them Americans, which would indicate their acceptance as part of us.

Back to the love child. Miss Peggy and I have eight children by previous marriages. Their parents were married to each other, but they’re all love children because we loved them, and still do. Not all children are fortunate enough to be love children, regardless of the marital status of their parents. Some are born of lust, not love. But a child is not responsible for the behavior of its parents before or after its birth. And regardless of its legal status at birth, it is a human and that makes it precious. Just call them all children. And for Heaven’s sake, love them.

I don’t like to refer to a handicapped person as “challenged.” Like so many euphemisms, that adjective has lost its good-sounding quality. When you say someone is physically challenged, everyone understands you to mean that the subject’s physical abilities are somehow impaired. The word “handicap” comes from an old gambling game (“hand in cap”) in which participants placed their wagers in a cap. It is not intrinsically insulting. My hearing and sight are defective. I’m left-handed and fumble-fisted, and my knees are wobbly. All of these fit my definition of “handicapped,” which the dictionaries define as a “sometimes offensive” way of saying “having a physical disability.” Please don’t describe me as visually, auditorily, dexterously or ambulatorily challenged. Those terms offend me. “Handicapped” doesn’t.

Don’t call me “chronologically challenged,” either. In a week or two I’ll be 71. That’s not “71 years young,” as some patronizingly put it. It’s old. In biblical times, gray hairs were regarded as a crown of glory. Today they entitle you to Medicare, a little help with your prescription drugs and free coffee at McDonald’s. You don’t have to bow in homage to my age, but don’t think calling me “71 years young” is going to fool me into believing the years are going backward. I’m not yet that mentally handicapped.

When I reach that condition, you can call senility by its actual name. I don’t believe in calling a spade an instrument for manual excavation. Just call it a shovel.

Readers may write Gene Owens at 317 Braeburn Drive, Anderson SC 29621 or e-mail him at WadesDixieco@AOL.com.