On some level I felt like it was truth. She’d spoken up. She’d said what she believed. “Matt Carter is a loser! He won’t amount to anything. I don’t want you screwing around with him.”
Silence.
I whispered “it’s OK” and stepped out their front door hoping she didn’t know I was at the bottom of the stairs. They looked like young soldiers in a WWII film, privates, in green, greasy hair with a helmet cocked to the side,a little hair around the lip they’d missed while shaving because of a shaky right hand and a broken mirror, a little red in the face but at once, completely white, as if they’d seen the dead walking in the streets begging for their lives back, realizing they’d just been part of a bombing, where innocent children could be found dead in the basement... at the bottom of the stairs.
The tapes played back.
Explicit adjectives and verbs placed all along the sentence. This was not reality. This was only in my head, my loser brain, my won’t-amount-to-anything mind.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but your words may kill me. My teachers had lied to me for years. Words hurt.
They stung like bees. Big bees. Japanese Hornets.
“Way to go mom!” the youngest child yelled back. I’ve often wondered: did she ever find out I’d heard? If so, why didn’t she apologize? Was it true? Was she embarrassed? If she read this now would she apologize or would she denied it happened? Or would she shake her head and think “who could dare say such a thing?”
Well, if you read this, know this, I’ve forgiven you but it doesn’t change the fact that it still affects me. Is that fair to say? You didn’t do it intentionally, after all.
To this day I struggle with words. Words I’ve said. Words that have been received. Words that were too afraid to speak up. Words with French roots. Words with no filter, a missing levee, an open gate. Too few words and more often too many.
My father, a gifted orator, shaped some of my words. My mother, a country girl from Seneca, makes me laugh with her words. For instance, “did you hear Michelle Allen is getting marid?” Marid. What is that? My father says “perfeck” rather than “perfect.” He also replaces “Ackera” for “Acura” and “Criiiist” for “Christ.”
Once, in a heated argument, my father called me an asshole. My horribly baseless self-righteousness and an immediate need to divert all attention from the situation of which I’d been caught wrong in gave way to me saying “How dare you use such language? You’re a preacher!” In perfect time, he volleyed back “what’s worse, for me to call you an asshole or for you to be one?”
These words with which we can slay one another, encourage, correct, tear down or brighten even the darkest day must be chosen wisely. God says that no man can tame the tongue and that it’s a double edged sword. Those are some amazing words. Therein lies truth.
Her words were truthful. Her words were not in love though. Daddy’s words were truth. They didn’t really sting because they were righteous. They were in love. I hope my words will always be in love and truth. Friends, I pray will both understand and hold em accountable.
