I’m obsessed with words. I work with words. I play with words. I spend my days almost endlessly converting my experiences and thoughts into conversations — with others, with myself, with the page.
On one hand, this immersion in language makes me highly sensitive to it — to shades of meaning, to accuracy of expression, and above all to misusage. I reflexively pick up on shifts in tone, when a better word would fit in a song, when someone makes a rare but meaning-shifting grammatical mistake. I imagine this is similar to how a talented musician or painter responds to sounds and colors. I would venture to say this is more often a blessing than a curse; you have more appreciation for what you are attuned to, even if the smallest discordance stand out more sharply as a result.
It may seem strange, therefore, that I am often so thoughtless about words. As aware as I am of their weight and power, I often toss them about without much regard for how they’ll impact others. They are the water in which I live; I don’t always consider the waves they make.
Part of this attitude no doubt stems from an overconfidence in my linguistic prowess. I assume that because I know words so well, the ones that spring to my mind (or more dangerously my lips) must be the best words for the situation. It certainly doesn’t help if I think the language I’m about to spill forth might come across as witty, and perhaps even bitingly so.
To muddy the waters further, a part of me adheres to the motto that “they’re just words.” They’re simply sounds coming from mouths, or as my freshman English teacher phrased it, “black squiggly lines on a white piece of paper.” We have the childhood chant, “Stick and stones…”, which is meant to dispel the power of hurtful words. We can dismiss someone’s offense at our words with a Gallic shrug, acting like it’s their problem if our words affected them.
With so many philosophical options to choose from, no wonder we have so many arguments about — and with — words. What can we ultimately agree upon? Are they breath and air, carried off by the wind and leaving no mark? Are they scribblings in the sand, washed away by the next wave? Even etched it stone, graven words fade over time. Virginia Woolf observed that any given rock will outlast the works of Shakespeare.
And yet we all carry words inside us, both bright and heavy.
The compliment a stranger paid us on the bus.
The thoughtless barb from a sibling or friend.
The unexpected note from a student or teacher, a coach or colleague.
The hurtful retort we left someone with, too proud to make amends.
And perhaps even the unsaid words,
by us or others,
that roll around inside our hearts,
wearing painful paths that may never heal over.
Maybe they are just words.
Let’s try our best to make them just.
M. J. Lau 