The Power of Words

This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com

There are many people in my life that I emulate and whose words I value. My husband, for one.

On the other hand, there are two people (Dr. Snow – and Dr. Dalson, whom you will meet in this excerpt) in my life who have served as non-examples. Their words were so damning and hurtful that I, all these years later, will be reminded of them on a regular basis as I’m going about my day. I can say with pretty good assurance that their words will continue to haunt me for the rest of my life. That’s how powerful and life-altering they were at the time. Since I’ve devoted time to working through this trauma, they don’t have the same visceral, I-think-I-might-throw-up effect that they once did.

I know I’m not alone in having these non-examples in my life.

I want to do better than they did. I’m sure I don’t always hit the mark, but their failure and the consequences of their failure give me courage to keep trying to be mindful of my words. Every. Single. Day.

__________  

The excerpt below is from “The Man in the Khaki Pants.” I finally have matriculated back to our neighborhood school, North Junior High.

It’s now February and the weather has become exceptionally cold. I’m sitting in Mr. Dalson’s class in my usual place in the front row by the projector. I still hate sitting here, but it’s a price that I’m willing to pay so that I can keep up on my notes.  

Mr. Dalson is explaining the economics simulation activity we’re about to do. “I’m going to assign half of you to be buyers and half of you to be sellers for the first round,” he says.  

“Sellers, you’re going to sell these keychains.” Mr. Dalson holds up a bag of keychains that have neon-colored plastic coils attached to them. “Buyers will want to purchase the keychain for as little money as possible and sellers will want to sell them for as much as they can.”  

As Mr. Dalson explains more specifics of the activity, he paces back and forth in front of the room, his docksiders squeaking on the tiled floor when he pivots and turns. He’s an average-looking guy in his mid-40s with brown hair and brown eyes, and he wears khaki pants year round.

Once Mr. Dalson finishes with the instructions, he passes out the keychains and the pretend checkbooks with xeroxed checks. He then says, “Go!” and kids start running about the room in search of the best deal they can find. It’s chaos. I’m assigned to be a buyer, and I don’t know who to approach. When Mr. Dalson sees me standing by my desk, he offers to help.

He calls over Andrea, a girl whose hair is so long it almost touches her waist. “Andrea” Mr. Dalson says, “how about selling a keychain to Megan?”

“Sure,” Andrea says.  

Once we reach an agreement on the price, I start to fill out the check, painfully aware that both Mr. Dalson and Andrea are waiting by my side while I do this. I tilt my head so that my hair becomes untucked from behind my ears and I can hide my face. Being leered at by Dr. Snow and all those White Coats has left me scarred for life, and I am determined to never let anyone see me write again for as long as I live. How I wish I had hair as long as Andrea’s so I could hide even more. I just want to disappear. I’m halfway through filling out the check when Mr. Dalson starts tapping one of his docksiders.  

I am horrified. He’s growing impatient with how slow I am. 

Who am I to think that I’m ready for this? I can’t help but think. Everyone knows you don’t belong here. With all these thoughts rattling in my head, color creeps up my cheeks and my hands start to shake.

Tap, tap, tap. He’s at it again.

You’re a teacher, I want to shout. One who knows my story. You, out of anyone in this classroom, should be patient with me.

I fight off the tears, sign my name, tear off the check, and hand it to Andrea with a shaky hand. I would do anything to get out of here as fast as I could. Never to return again. I’m not accepting help from you ever again, Mr. Dalson!

Just as I’m about to turn around, Mr. Dalson’s eyes and mine connect. Oh. My.God. I swear he’s sneering. He’s literally sneering. I’ve never paid attention to his lips before, but now I stare at them, these two little parallel lines.

You know what? I want to shout at the top of my lungs. I’m disgusted, too. I don’t get why my body doesn’t work the way other people’s do. I would do anything to trade it in for anyone else’s. The kid with the broken arm? The kid with the limp? The kid whose face is pockmarked with pimples? I’d take their body 365 days of the year over this one.

I’m about to make my way to the other side of the classroom, open my notebook, and make it obvious that I’m too busy for any of this and can’t be bothered by anybody when Mr. Dalson takes the sneer off his face and starts to speak. “You know what, Megan?” he says. “At this rate, you’re never going to college.”  

I take a gulp of air. And then another. I swallow down the tears. I hurt so much. All over. It’s crazy how much shame can hurt. And burn. I feel it everywhere. It leaves no place untouched.  

When I see my mom after school, I can only get a few words out about what happened before I start to sob. How can I explain to my mom how humiliated I feel? How full of rage? And desperation? All these different emotions. They’re all knotted up inside of me and leave me gasping for air. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

“Megan? Megan?” my mom asks. “Are you okay?” She rubs my back vigorously.

I finally catch my breath and tell her the rest of the story. 

“I’m going to call him right now,” my mom says, her body poised for action.

“No,” I sob. “No way!” 

I start crying again and cry for a solid 15 minutes. I then wipe the tears from my eyes and head downstairs to start my homework. I’ve got to learn to persevere through these setbacks if I expect to get where I want to go.

__________  

I know I’m biased, but I think my husband Dan is an approachable, non-judgmental guy. I’m clearly not the only person who feels this way. Dan recently met someone who felt comfortable sharing a big piece of his life story with him.

Dan later told me about this man, whom I’ll refer to as Sam. Sam was teased mercilessly in high school during the 1980s for being “different.” Sam is gay. He ended up moving to a new state and feeling as though he needed to keep this part of his identity a secret. To this day — 30-plus years later — Sam continues to feel traumatized by the way he was treated when he was younger.

When I heard this story, I immediately felt sad. Here is an individual who was trying to live his authentic life, but so many people belittled him in the process that, all these years later, he continues to be impacted. I can’t imagine the words that must continue to haunt him.

I am among the fortunate. Yes, I had major health challenges when I was younger and later dealt with post-trauma in my early 30s. Yet I also had people in my life who encouraged me to seek out a therapist, and I had the financial resources to pay for these appointments. Had I not had the support and means, perhaps I wouldn’t be in a position to contribute to the community and common good to the degree I do today.

To what extent do those non-examples in your life impact your adult self? To what extent have you been able to address the residual left behind by these words and move forward?