“Retard! Retard!” It’s the shrill call of a vile black bird, a call I hear coming from the treetops and from behind dark clouds these days. I hear it, though others don’t, because I have an ear for it. Call it a gift. I received this gift four years ago, in a hospital delivery room, at the exact moment a nurse turned to me and told me that in all likelihood my newborn son had Down syndrome. He did. His name is Ozzie.