(Language alert)
When I was three or four years old, I remember the phone ringing in the kitchen and, with my mama outside hanging laundry to dry and no one else inside to answer the call, picking up. “Hello?” I asked. My aunt replied, “Is this Sam?” I answered, “No, this is Lucy.” Confused, my aunt hung up only to call back later and share with Mama the details of that odd exchange. “Why did you say your name was Lucy?” she wanted to know. To this day I still have no good explanation for why the name Lucy popped into my young brain at that moment and has remained a special one to me.
Names are important. Words matter. These seem like statements you’d expect to hear from an English teacher. Still, long before I became an English teacher I’ve had firsthand experiences with names and words and the power they can wield. I believe most of us can call to mind words that were once commonplace but now have been removed from our collective vocabularies or replaced by more accurate ones. It’s the nature of language to evolve; it is neither inherently good nor bad but it certainly can be either. “Watch your language” is a phrase I associate with a warning not to use profanity; I wish instead that it were a universal recommendation for people to consider any words they use before uttering them, not just the four-letter variety. And not because people are “too sensitive these days,” but because words carelessly used can reveal our ignorance and even our character.
Years ago I can recall myself saying that something just wasn’t “normal.” It’s common enough to say such a thing. But I couldn’t get it out of my mind for the rest of the day. I concluded that I used “normal” and “correct” pretty much interchangeably. And they are not the same. Consider all that we, at one time or other, considered “normal.” Normal is in no way the same as “correct” or “healthy.” It’s “normal” for men or women to behave a certain way…but is that the same as “healthy?” Do we at times use “normal” as a “get out of jail free” card? I’d have to say yes, at least for myself. I justify exceeding the speed limit in certain places because “it’s normal” to do so. When I was in kindergarten, a classmate informed me that Sam was not a normal name for a girl. His announcement was validated several days later during read-aloud time when I was asked to share with the class a few pages from our storybook. To my horror, I saw that the characters were Sam and his sister Sally. My ears reddened, my eyes were downcast, and my classmate piped up with, “See? I told you, Sam’s a boy’s name!” Prior to starting school I’d loved my name, loved the person for whom I was named, and loved the simplicity of “Sam Kind.” But the unintentionally hurtful words of that student caused me to question my pride. Thankfully that was short-lived. There’s not been a time since then that I’ve cared whether people think my name is normal, whether my preference for hiking boots over high heels is appropriate, or if they just can’t put me neatly into one category or another. But not everyone has it as easy as I did, or received the support that I had for being myself.
As a teacher I’ve had the privilege of seeing people at their best. I’ve also heard language and observed ignorance in young people that I know they learned from outside sources. When a student drops a book or mispronounces a word, only to have another call them “retarded,” sometimes accompanied by a flailing arm beating their chest in what I imagine is an ugly imitation of what they consider “retarded,” I know they learned this from someone. When they see something that they deem “dumb,” or “uncool,” and yell, “That’s so gay,” I cringe, wondering who in their lives made them think that is okay.
I grew up having two significantly older cousins with special needs. I don’t recall anything ever being said about their differences from the rest of us, not because it was one of those things “we don’t talk about;” rather, there just wasn’t anything to talk about. My cousins were who they were, just as I was. They had different needs, and in my mind they weren’t much different from my need only to consume peanut butter sandwiches! All that really stood out to me then (and now) about them was that they were kind, they paid attention to me, and they were honest to a fault. Nothing has changed, either, and I’m glad to call them family. So when I hear people using “retarded” as an insult, my hackles raise because I think about my family as well as all the people I’ve known who deserve better than to have their differences defined as stupidity.
The last three years I was in the classroom teaching, I had an experience unlike any other in that I got to spend three years with the same group of young people, from the time they were entering sixth grade to leaving eighth grade. During those important years I watched them grow into thoughtful, intentional young adults, and anyone who’s spent time with middle schoolers can attest to the miracle of that! Those are the years of struggle, hormones, and fitting in. And yet, this group with whom I worked learned to be supportive of one another, encouraging their classmates and friends to be their best. It surprised me, then, to hear the young men starting to use the phrase “no homo.” They used it immediately following a compliment to a male classmate, such as “Hey, good answer, Keith! No homo.” I had to ask what on earth that meant. Their explanation was that they wanted to cheer on each other, but also to make it clear that there was nothing “gay” about it. Even in the respectful place we’d created in that classroom and school, careless language and inaccurate perceptions found a place to creep in. I feel as though these students were having a typical middle school moment, and I’m confident they moved right out of that phase and into one where they realized that speaking positively and respectfully to anyone does not imply romantic intentions.
I remember a former teacher of mine telling us that she didn’t want us to see her out one day and introduce her as our “old teacher.” She said it jokingly, but I also thought about times I’d said that very thing about my teachers from previous years. Especially now, as a teacher of certain age, when I hear past students calling me their “old teacher” instead of “former teacher,” I laugh and remember Mrs. Campbell. Likewise, for all the times I ever said, “My mama doesn’t work,” when I actually meant that she did not work outside of the home, I deserve a kick to the seat of my pants! If I were to calculate the hours she spent tending to the laundry, yard work, meal preparation, house cleaning, errand running, budget managing, and kid shuttling, I don’t know how she ever had time to sleep. If I’d really thought about it, I’d have known she did more work each day (seven days a week, mind you) than most CEOs.
The words we use reflect our beliefs, whether we’re conscious of that or not. Sometimes we might use language without fully understanding its meaning or implication, but when we learn better, we do better. And I don’t know of many things more effective than a personal experience to strengthen our grasp on the effects of words. Before I speak, I try (sometimes more successfully than others) to consider how I would feel if someone were to say the same thing to me. This practice has helped shape my language, and thoughts, even if I still get it wrong too often. The idiom “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” is pithy and feels superficially accurate. I’ve gotta say, though, that words that reflect the speaker’s disinterest in fair, kind communication might not break my bones, but they sure can break my heart.
PartWolf 