“Call you a waitperson?” I asked. What the hell was a waitperson? But that was what a girl told me to refer to her as after I called her a waitress. The year was 1991 and it was my first introduction to the totalitarian phenomenon known as “political correctness” or PC. I had been previously shielded from it, although my friends who graduated from Michigan or Michigan State were already well familiar with its iron requirements. I was lucky to have attended a Jesuit university which, back then, was devoid of a womyn’s studies program or a queer devotional center...