The Power of Words

I attended bartending school after my freshman year of college. During the training, the instructor shared advice that I have lived by up until this post. He said: “Remember to avoid the R.R.P. — Never bring up race, religion, or politics at the bar.” Wise words for most situations, and doubly so at a bar where alcohol may lead to more easily inflamed reactions to opinions on race, religion, or politics.

I haven’t written anything for over a month for two reasons. One, I was sad and disgruntled over a job search that was turning over no leads. Two, in light of the sweeping Black Lives Matter protests worldwide, I didn’t feel that my opinion on race relations would add anything of value to the conversation. As I’ve written and spoken about: I am a white, heterosexual male, raised in an upper-middle class family. I wanted for nothing growing up. I missed no meals, got an expensive education, and never experienced anything that could even remotely be called discrimination (let alone hatred) for the color of my skin or to whom I was attracted. Because of all this, I chose to fall back on the advice I received almost ten years ago and remained silent.

This was not the correct course of action.

In my presentations I observe that the phrase: “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” are lies that parents tell their children. Words last. They cut deeper than any knife, and the scars never fade. I’m certain that every person reading this can think back on a bitter comment they absorbed in their youth with the same clarity as the day they felt it scrape against their awareness. I know how we speak to ourselves matters. My inner monologue of self-loathing led me to put a loaded gun in my mouth. I also know how we speak to each other matters just as much. This is why process group therapy asks participants to be as non-judgmental as possible about what another participant discloses. It’s hard enough to unpack your own deep and possibly distorted self-judgments while also sifting through new judgments piled on by someone without your life experiences.

If I’ve learned anything in my time at treatment centers it is that every person carries some pain with them. What I carry, someone else may believe to be an easy load. I’ve heard stories about abuse and trauma that make me reflect on my life in amazement that nothing so terrible happened to me. The only common factor is that we all experience pain. The only responsible thing to do is to act in a manner that, if the pain cannot be minimized, then at least we do not add to it.

I’m still ashamed that I told a fellow student when I was in high school that I didn’t think he, as a gay man, had the right to get married according to what I believed. As if whatever he did with a consenting human being had any effect on my life whatsoever.

I’m still ashamed that I penalized a black lacrosse player for contact that I had allowed a white player to get away with in an earlier quarter. As if I could distinguish nefarious intent between two humans based solely on a difference in melanin.

I’m still ashamed I waited this long to lend my voice to the cause of equality. As if my silence was anything more than hiding out of fear of what others might think or say.

Just by being human we have a tendency toward tribalism. This makes sense. We lived in small bands of a few hundred people for far longer than we’ve been living in cities. Our ancestor’s daily lives were more homogenous. Our lives are more diverse, and more must be expected of us.

Years ago, I came across a story of a Jewish woman who survived the Holocaust. She said something mean to her little brother while on the train to a concentration camp. She never saw her brother again. After the war, she made this vow: “I will never say anything that couldn’t stand to be the last thing I ever say.”

That story, my experiences with my own mental illness, and the relationships I’ve made across years of therapy led me to my guiding philosophy of just being kind to people. I cannot make right that which I did or said in the past based on my own ignorance. What I can do is commit to learning, adapting, and being open-minded to the lived experiences of those different from me.

To work to be a better person, not only for myself, but for my fellow human beings.