It’s Just Words

I have a complicated relationship with words in both of the languages I speak, Polish and English. So much so that when I hear the saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” I have feelings… strong feelings. When you read the background below, you may think that I’ve thought enough about this to get over it, but you’d be wrong. Words continue to cause me trouble, largely because of that stupid saying. Words can hurt. They do hurt. There’s only so much resilience-building a person can do. I think it’s time to admit that words can be just as bad as sticks and stones and we need to take responsibility for the things we say, not just do.

It starts with the first words I ever said, in Polish

In Polish, I can’t pronounce many words because of the hard r’s in them. I literally cannot roll my r’s — the roof of my mouth isn’t shaped to support it. There’s nothing I can do about it. Believe me, I’ve tried. From the very beginning of my ability to speak, this impediment led to a lot of bullying when I was a kid. It also meant a lot of “teasing” and “joking” from my family, which I know was not meant maliciously, but it was constant and it hurt. Even though yes I did become stronger and more resilient in the end, I can trace back to this as the beginning of my anxiety.

I had thoughts to express but I did not have the words to express them because I was always anxious about the bullying that would result from me saying those words. So over time, I spoke faster and faster and faster to basically get the words out and hope that the poor r’s would blend into the background. Or I chose words to avoid r’s, which sometimes meant I didn’t express myself very clearly. All this made things worse because it was hard to understand me. I knew I wasn’t speaking clearly and I wanted to slow down, but I couldn’t. By then, the anxiety had taken over. It often felt as if I had to get things out in one breath or I would not be able to breathe at all.

I cannot tell you how many implications this had on my relationships. Mind you, I was still just a kid then, but already I was making people angry or I was laughed at. All these reactions were always sandwiched between my many academic achievements so I guess the adults thought that the way they communicated with me was OK since there was plenty of praise to balance out anything that may have seemed mean. I don’t know. I’m just guessing here because I know my teachers liked me and my family loved me and I had friends so I was doing something right.

Then I learned English

At the age of twelve, my family immigrated to the United States. We came to Chicago because my dad’s sister had already lived here. We moved into a one-bedroom apartment in a wealthy suburb so that my sister and I could go to a really good public school. In preparation for the move, I took an introductory English course at the community center in my village in Poland. I was always a good student so I did pick up quite a few words, but nothing near what can even be considered conversational. However, my school admission test wasn’t based on a conversation — it was based on flashcards. I got enough of them right that they deemed me ready for regular classes. I never understood that because I know I got a bunch of them wrong. One that is forever imprinted on my mind is a card of a camel, which I said was a kangaroo. Maybe they were impressed that I knew another animal’s name. Who knows.

Because the curriculum was different in Poland than it was in the US, my math skills were way beyond the sixth-grade level, which is what I was supposed to go into. Instead, I was assigned to skip sixth grade and go straight into seventh, and I was put in the eighth grade math class. Ironically, I struggled with math at first because I didn’t understand the words in word problems. I mean, I didn’t even know what “add” or “subtract” meant. Luck was on my side, though, because my teacher spoke just enough Polish to teach me the key words I needed to know to at least stay on top of my math skills.

I got math under control, but everything else was a bit of a shit show. I started school six weeks after arriving in a new country. My parents didn’t speak English. This was before the internet, too, so I literally had no one to turn to for help. I don’t know how I managed to make a few friends, but I did, and I’m grateful for that. I think if I hadn’t, I could see wanting to kill myself.

Kids were mean to me. They made fun of my accent, my low vocabulary, and the fact that I was Polish. I didn’t get the memo before arriving, but Polish people were not welcome here back then. My teachers would make up nicknames for me, which I guess they thought were affectionate. Nothing I could do about that. I didn’t even understand some of them until it was too late and they already stuck. I have a lot of horrible stories about this, but I’ll save them for another blog. This one is on words, so let’s go back to words.

There was one incident that has both scared and motivated me when it comes to words and language and it had to do with a poem I wrote. I actually got lucky that the seventh-grade curriculum at my school covered lots of grammar, sentence structure and figures of speech. This all culminated in a project called “poetry packet,” where all students wrote examples of all the various things I learned. I got a C- on mine. For a reason I can now only guess was cruelty, the teacher had me read my limerick out loud. In it, I tried to rhyme “Louis” with “Levi’s,” not knowing that the two didn’t rhyme. V’s were not common in Poland. In fact, they’re not included in the Polish alphabet (neither is x or q). It’s clear as day to me, how the teacher pointed out that I don’t know how to speak properly and how the class laughed and laughed.

I cried (in private), but mostly I got angry. I decided then and there this was my last low grade in English. This was the last time that words would hurt me. Or so I thought. For what it’s worth, it was my last low grade — in English or otherwise. I got straight A’s the next quarter and it stayed that way. (Save for a disaster with chemistry in high school and a nightmare of an advanced stats class in college where I found out too late that it was for engineers, I’ve had really good grades.)

And then I got good at it

My anger-fueled persistence helped me improve my relationship with words. I used them as weapons, as gifts, as tools. The more I learned English, the more I could deploy this knowledge in other areas. I mean, language is the foundation of all subjects. And that’s how used my words — across all the subjects — much to my success. Until words betrayed me again.

I don’t know how it is now, but we didn’t have standardized testing in Poland. I didn’t know it existed until one day I was told that the PSAT was happening and I needed to come to school over the weekend to sit a long test. No one explained that this was going to be the start of my journey to higher education and even to an eventual career. Still, by then I read a lot and was doing very well in school so the English component of the test didn’t scare me. It should have. I didn’t know enough words. My vocabulary wasn’t up to par.

Side note: Thinking back on this now, this test (and then subsequent SAT, ACT, APs, etc.) is very much a social class segregation tool. I know there are exceptions and I’m being a bit hyperbolic, but think about it. How are obscure vocabulary words useful other than to show that you have the means to learn them? Tutors, practice books, and parental support all cost money. I didn’t have those. It didn’t matter how smart I was. I simply didn’t have access to the resources to help me succeed here. Hell, I didn’t even know these tests existed. I still cringe when I hear people stuff their sentences with “big” words when there are perfectly good normal words to use, ones that we non-elites understand without having to Google them. Grrr.

Many kids have a bit of SAT PTSD, I know. For me, the real trauma came as a result, of when I went to see a career counselor. This was my junior year (11th year of school) and it was part of college prep. I had no clue about anything. At that point, my mom had been the only person in my family to have a college degree, but that was from Poland so none of us knew that we even had something to navigate, much less know how to navigate it. I was excited for my meeting with the counselor because I genuinely liked learning and it was so cool to figure out what I’ll be learning next and what it could lead to. She shoved me back down to the floor pretty quickly, though. She had one look at my scores and decided that I was only suited to mathematics. I didn’t do well enough in her view to pursue any other interests because I would not get into college. And based on my “family situation” (read “poor”), she recommended I check out community colleges because I would not be able to afford a university.

I felt crushed. There was no other data or opinion to negate hers so I had no choice but to believe the one authority figure on this one. Academically, I focused on math and science, which I loved anyway, but it meant I didn’t get to explore so many other things that I eventually discovered and that bring me joy. Thank goodness my parents have always pushed me and told me I could do literally anything, so I still applied to a few universities. Not only did I get in, but I got grants and scholarships and that was enough of a boost to help me start with a fresh mindset. By then, the internet was up and running the world so I was able to research things on my own. Words became a huge asset to me. I used them to apply for many small scholarships. Perhaps it’s just statistics that I got some of them, but I’m happy to say that my third year of college only cost books and supplies, my third year was fully paid for and my fourth year actually helped me save money.

As my academic and English confidence built, I explored more. It turned out that I was a good writer and an analytical thinker. As much as I loved physics, theoretical work was not what I was cut out to do. I like to speak, to think, to write, to inspire. Eventually, my new-found success with words led to me to journalism. I ended up being an editor at my college paper. I did model UN and debate and even fell into internet marketing when that phrase was just invented — all because of my changed relationship with words.

My current relationship status with words

We’re going to skip a couple of decades because this blog post is already becoming more like a chapter in a book. Throughout my career, grad school and all the relationships in between, words have been a main character. An ex-boyfriend used words to abuse and belittle me to the point that I had no self-worth. I got jobs because I’m good with words. I even published a children’s book with words that are able to evoke emotion in even adult readers. Words are how I’m telling you my story now. I love words. Even when they hurt.

I’ve been ruminating on words a lot lately. There was an instance when someone I respect used choice words to describe me and they cut me so deeply and so sharply, that even thinking about them now physically hurts in my chest. I think this will stick in my mind just like the limerick or career counselor’s words have. Let’s see in 20 years :).

Don’t worry; it’s not all bad. It is, however, interesting and challenging. Now that I’ve started writing again, I’ve gotten some lovely messages and comments from people who had a reaction to my words. Some people said I was brave and courageous and that I was empowering others. These are huge compliments, no doubt about that. But because of my complex relationship with words, I frequently examine the words used and their implications.

Am I brave? Sometimes. Am I courageous? I’d like to think so, but not because I’m sharing my feelings or experiences publicly. Why is that courageous? Why is speaking your mind and being vulnerable considered brave? Isn’t this the right thing to be? Are we not supposed to be honest and open and be ourselves? It’s funny that sharing one’s feelings and experiences is an unusual thing to do, but wearing a cloak of words to help you blend in is normal. If you’re always watching your words, that just feels like a poor investment of energy and of the limited time we have on this earth.

I know my opinion is not the popular one. Speaking my mind gets me in trouble all the time. After all my ups and downs with words, I am now more attuned to the connotation and denotation of words used at me. I try to look at face value of words as well as at the possible meanings someone may have. Because there are so many ways to interpret words, I often ask “what do you mean?” which I’m told makes me look defensive or resistant. When I write words, I frequently include a clarifying statement to communicate my meaning if I think there could be ambiguity in how my words are interpreted. That, in turn, also gets me some feedback along the lines of “you’re being aggressive” or defensive. Feels like a no-win a lot of the time. My intent is understanding, clarity and alignment, not malice.

Words are tricky, though. They mean different things to different people and don’t even get me started on interpretations of tone and the cluster-f*** that is email. Language is a fascinating puzzle with many aggravating dead ends and complex, winding paths that lead to fascinating pay-offs. All we can do is continue to learn and try to understand.

Every time I think I have a grasp on words, they surprise me. They reward me and they stab me in the back equally. Point is, they matter. I have pretty thick, strong bones, so most sticks and stones will just bruise me. Words have power beyond the physical hurt. (I broke a bone in my foot once, but to be fair, it’s because I literally had no feeling in that leg and my damaged nerve spasmed and I did this crazy twist and pop thing. I’m of good ol’ Polish farmer build so yeah… I’m solid.)

I wrote all of this in one go and I don’t intend to edit this article. It feels like the right call given the topic. As I was writing, I felt physical pain on multiple occasions. Words can hurt in the moment and they can also leave scars. They have a way of combining into concepts bigger than just their letters so they can deliver an extra strong punch. Don’t underestimate words. Take responsibility for your own. Acknowledge that words have power. “It’s just words” may not seem like anything, but know that words can hurt just as well as they can heal.