I have spent some portion of my professional life addressing name-calling. I have argued (and continue to believe) that it matters what we call one another. The point borders on simplistic in a school setting, when the kid known only by a well-worn slur is found behind the bike rack with a bloody nose, or a concussion. His parents learn that day what he learned a long time before the punch: to be afraid of a word.
Most of us, if we think about it, can name the word. The one that makes our hearts plunge, sends our pulses raising with rage and fear. Over the phone. In the dark. Chances are, mine is not the same as yours. Mine shames me like a friend from the old neighborhood showing up at fancy party. It doesn't belong, and it makes me cringe, and I don't have the courage to speak up and make it go away. And why should I? It's just an uninvited word. My sister's date.
Better to think of other over-used names, like Love. My crossing guard calls me "love." So do several dear friends. So does my husband, but only when I select the wrong knife for chopping carrots, or put my hand in the disposal while its running. "My Love..." he says, as if the name he's called me will be sufficient to ease the blow of whatever comes next. It is. Every time.
Well, almost.
How about, "Love, I'm sorry, but I've killed your iguana." Or maybe, "Love, you really shouldn't comb your hair over your bald patch like that."
ReplyDeleteSeriously, words do mean something. I don't understand when people say they don't. (ie "Hey, I meant dumb ass in a nice way!") It makes me think of all the memoirs that have come out that are false. Some people actually argue that it makes no difference. Obviously they do not understand the power of words, and of the true word. (Like you do, Savvy.Oh yes.)