A few weeks ago, I called a gas delivery company to get a refill for our portable, gas heater. I know enough French to express that I don't know French, and was soon connected with someone who speaks English. The delivery guy would be here within the hour.
That hour passed rather nervously for me, and it's because a man I don't know was going to come to my house, and I was going to have to be present while saying almost nothing because I don't know enough words.
When he arrived, he disengaged the empty tank with his wrench, and installed the new tank while I stood around doing nothing, saying nothing. Those are trying times for me, because if we spoke the same language, a few lines of small talk would have filled in that gap very tidily. I would have woven words around myself, covered myself up with them: a dreamy, big scarf.
As it was, I stood, completely present—a person and present—whether or not I wanted to be. I felt both ridiculous and real. So I've thought about it, and I find I have a few main uses for words:
1. I can hide using words. One day, a long time ago, when I first started to hate my body (it's been a love-hate relationship ever since), I began to think that if I just kept talking, no one would see me. I can make a joke, and suddenly it's not that I'm beautiful, but that you see something other than sweatpants-uncombed-Saturday-morning me.
2. I can make peace using words. Because of my high anxiety about Trump being president, I find myself talking about morals rather more often than usual. I find myself answering long messages on Facebook and on WhatsApp from equally anxious people, but anxious from another perspective. (And the perspectives I trust admit to being complicated.) So far, we've disengaged while remaining friends.
3. I can teach you how to use words using words. But only to a point. Teaching is hard, but it's getting better and better.
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Halloween Story
Prompt: Begin by listing your favorite words... then write a story using ALL of them!
bilious
Ulster
jiggle
unanimous
sylvan
Under cover of night, in the County Ulster, the parent-teacher association was attempting to solve the problem of rebellious teenagers. The problems with rebelliousness were innumerable: drugs, sex, yes, and rock and roll. A storm was rolling in from the sea, and the sylvan country was enveloped in thick cloudfall.
The committee unanimously voted against further rebellious attitudes, and was about to enjoy Ms. Heb's Jell-O mold.
All gave an abrupt start as they heard a great, jarring roar!
"The storm," Ms. Heb said, as she held the Jell-O mold. But when it happened once more, only louder and clearer, she jumped and the Jell-O mold flew upward, jiggled in mid-air, and was soon covering the heads of several members.
A dark creature growled into the window. Ms. Bruin and Ms. Heb gave a scream, but the rest were too startled to do or say anything. They sat frozen. The dark creature burst through the window, all hair and teeth. His claws grasped Ms. Heb, his body filled the room with a bilious stench. Ms. Heb fainted in her terror, and looked as though she were dead already. The dark creature stood in the center of the PTA meeting room and loosed another shattering roar. Ms. Bruin and several other members at this moment could hold themselves together no longer, and also gave way to a faint. The remainder were simply stunned and staring in horror, for the beast, at least 8 feet tall was sniffing Ms. Heb's face. He growled in a small way, and set her down. Apparently he had decided she was already dead. For the first time, he looked around.
What he saw was half a dozen corpses with their brains gushed out (for the creature was, as of yet, unaware of the existence of Jell-O). He thirsted only for live blood. Curse his ill luck for entering the only room in his radius which contained only the already-dead.
He dropped Ms. Heb and climbed back through the shattered window in search of those still waiting to be made victims.
When the committee members finally came to, they all agreed that this had been their most productive meeting yet, however, to this day they cannot stand the sight of a Jell-O mold.
[Update 10/24: Aaaand let's say Ms. Bruin's husband is both an expert hunter and the county sheriff, who took action the moment his wife called with an alert of a blood-thirsty, hairy, toothy monster on the loose. He saw the creature as it was headed down West Grube Street, and followed in his car. One well-placed shot was the end of the potentially long and gory saga that no amount of Jell-O could have fixed.]
bilious
Ulster
jiggle
unanimous
sylvan
Under cover of night, in the County Ulster, the parent-teacher association was attempting to solve the problem of rebellious teenagers. The problems with rebelliousness were innumerable: drugs, sex, yes, and rock and roll. A storm was rolling in from the sea, and the sylvan country was enveloped in thick cloudfall.
The committee unanimously voted against further rebellious attitudes, and was about to enjoy Ms. Heb's Jell-O mold.
All gave an abrupt start as they heard a great, jarring roar!
"The storm," Ms. Heb said, as she held the Jell-O mold. But when it happened once more, only louder and clearer, she jumped and the Jell-O mold flew upward, jiggled in mid-air, and was soon covering the heads of several members.
A dark creature growled into the window. Ms. Bruin and Ms. Heb gave a scream, but the rest were too startled to do or say anything. They sat frozen. The dark creature burst through the window, all hair and teeth. His claws grasped Ms. Heb, his body filled the room with a bilious stench. Ms. Heb fainted in her terror, and looked as though she were dead already. The dark creature stood in the center of the PTA meeting room and loosed another shattering roar. Ms. Bruin and several other members at this moment could hold themselves together no longer, and also gave way to a faint. The remainder were simply stunned and staring in horror, for the beast, at least 8 feet tall was sniffing Ms. Heb's face. He growled in a small way, and set her down. Apparently he had decided she was already dead. For the first time, he looked around.
What he saw was half a dozen corpses with their brains gushed out (for the creature was, as of yet, unaware of the existence of Jell-O). He thirsted only for live blood. Curse his ill luck for entering the only room in his radius which contained only the already-dead.
He dropped Ms. Heb and climbed back through the shattered window in search of those still waiting to be made victims.
When the committee members finally came to, they all agreed that this had been their most productive meeting yet, however, to this day they cannot stand the sight of a Jell-O mold.
[Update 10/24: Aaaand let's say Ms. Bruin's husband is both an expert hunter and the county sheriff, who took action the moment his wife called with an alert of a blood-thirsty, hairy, toothy monster on the loose. He saw the creature as it was headed down West Grube Street, and followed in his car. One well-placed shot was the end of the potentially long and gory saga that no amount of Jell-O could have fixed.]
Thursday, December 6, 2012
In Defense of Poetry and Weddings
A man (or woman, for that matter) would never compose an essay to tell his beloved of his affection. Or perhaps some would. But it's my sense that many have tried to write an essay on such a subject, and it has merely resulted in poetry. Poetry has arisen out of a desire to say something, just so, when it really matters, without saying any more than is absolutely necessary. As evidence of the poetic economy of words, I present E. Barrett Browning's “Sonnet of the Portuguese XLIII”: "How do I love thee?/ Let me count the ways. / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach [...]." She would not have, could not have better displayed her deepest sentiments in an essay; these thoughts are so laden with emotion that they cannot be researched, and cannot be taught, but are worth relating nonetheless!
Artist Ibiyinka Alao believes that “art is frozen music.” He often writes a poem alongside his artwork: something that could be set to music, or that carries a rhythm of its own, to give another dimension to his work. All people know volumes untold of what good poetry is, because all socialized people have a thousand songs stored in their memories. Music and poetry overlap, intertwine, and become inseparable. But no one suggests that music is clichéd, only that there is good music and bad music, according to taste. And so it is with poetry.
I begin to sound redundant when I say that weddings have also arisen out of the very best parts of humanity, out of the peak of civilization. One may ask what is the point of a ceremony at all? One sociologist explains that "[r]ites of passage often reinforce religious principles for the individuals taking part in them and for the community members witnessing them" (Esposito). He goes on to claim that “[r]ites of passage provide members of a community with an opportunity to reflect on the meaning and purpose of life” (Esposito). Attending a wedding is a physical reminder of life’s transience and beauty.
Every civilization I have ever heard of has some sort of ceremony to unite two people, a universal acknowledgement of union. Despite such thin evidence as that, it is clear to me that the union derives significance from this acknowledgement. Even cursory attendance at a wedding is very meaningful to the bride and groom. Who but their community of friends and family should bear witness to and affirm, thereby validating, their commitment to each other? Showing up to a wedding is saying that you have witnessed this pledge, and you'll do your own part to ensure its continuation. Though the ceremony itself differs across the globe, the one thing that remains the same is the need for witnesses, the communal aspect of a wedding.
Having said this, why make long trips or go to great inconvenience to attend weddings, when it is possible to visit with the friend(s) at a time and place when both can benefit more directly from the interaction? Firstly, visiting is quite different from witnessing. One goes with different expectations, but both interactions have a value all their own.
The stipulation of geography is notable, however, in that it begs the question of whether the bride/groom are indeed a part of my community. Secondly, then, I might travel across half the country for a family member’s wedding, for the couple will always be part of one’s community, being united by blood and law, as it were. But traveling so far for a friend is a different bag of pretzels entirely. If the friend is bound to remain in that location for an indefinite period of time, it is more possible that he or she will fade from my community, making my attendance at said wedding less important, indeed, little more than sentimental.
Works Cited
Alao, Ibiyinka. “The Music Party.” Visions of True Colors: of Art, Infinity, Eternity and our Hearts. n.d. Web. 4 Dec. 2012.
Barrett Browning, Elizabeth. “Sonnets from the Portuguese XLIII.” Cummings Study Guide. 2005.
Ed. Michael J. Cummings. Web. 1 Dec. 2012.
Esposito, John L.. "Rites and Rituals." The Islamic World: Past and Present. Dec. 1 2004: n.p.
SIRS Issues Researcher. Web. 02 Dec 2012.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Just Writing
This year I have significant overlap between students in the residence hall and students in class. One such young man came up to me while I was on in the residence hall office to ask about a homework assignment I had given his class: we had already created outlines for the essay, and the rough draft of the essay was due the following day.
Regi: How do I do this? How do I change from outline to rough draft?
Me: That's one of the hard parts of writing.
Regi: Do I just write it?
Me: Yeah, you just write it. You have to sit down with your computer and your brain, and just begin.
Regi: So, I write sentences from the words in the outline.
Me: Yes.
Regi: So, okay, I just write it.
This conversation seems silly to some. But I think I understand the difficulty he was going through: how do I make my thoughts comfortable on paper? How do I breathe life into letters on a keyboard? It looks so impossible, so big. And my only answer as of yet is to respond with sympathy, and tell the people who ask, "Yes, it is as hard as it sounds. That is the work of writing."
Regi: How do I do this? How do I change from outline to rough draft?
Me: That's one of the hard parts of writing.
Regi: Do I just write it?
Me: Yeah, you just write it. You have to sit down with your computer and your brain, and just begin.
Regi: So, I write sentences from the words in the outline.
Me: Yes.
Regi: So, okay, I just write it.
This conversation seems silly to some. But I think I understand the difficulty he was going through: how do I make my thoughts comfortable on paper? How do I breathe life into letters on a keyboard? It looks so impossible, so big. And my only answer as of yet is to respond with sympathy, and tell the people who ask, "Yes, it is as hard as it sounds. That is the work of writing."
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