Building Worlds With Our Words
How we build and break down worlds with the words we speak.
“Hannah it’s your turn.”
I left my small school desk and made my way to the back of the class where our 1st grade homeroom mom was helping one student at a time sign our name on each of the 15 field day t-shirts that we would be wearing for field day the following week. We collectively chose “Bretz’s Bananas” as our class team name. This mom ironed each velvet letter of our team name onto 15 children’s t-shirts and laid each shirt delicately across the floor at the back of the class, waiting for our signatures.
I knew this moment was coming. My heart began racing. I was excited to sign my autograph 15 times. I spent days practicing my signature, trying to make it as unique and artistic as I could, like the elaborate signatures on the Declaration of Independence that hung on the wall of our first grade classroom.
But when the moment arrived to sign my first t-shirt, my anxiety over the permanence of my handwriting and the potential lack of its perfection overwhelmed me. I forgot the pattern my hand had practiced and I haplessly scribbled an H in the armpit of the first t-shirt. The homeroom mom swiped the sharpie out of my hand and through gritted teeth in an exasperated whisper said, “If you can’t do something as simple as sign your name, you’ll never amount to anything in life.”
Harsh words to a six year old. I felt like a failure as I took her words to heart and filled journals over my elementary years practicing my signature and penmanship, resolved to make something of myself, as if my handwriting was the facilitator of my reality like this woman had warned.
As an adult now I wonder what kind of story she lived that would make her say such heavy words that would crush the spirit of a 6 year old’s heart, leaving an indelible memory that exists to this day. I no longer believe those words she said to me, but it took much undoing over my adolescence to heal the scab she left.
Since as young as I can remember, I’ve had a subconscious belief that words hold immense power. I was a shy child, often choosing silence over filling the air with language simply to resolve quiet tension. I refused to use words unless I really meant them. Part of this was learned behavior from trauma, as being raised by a malignant narcissist, who twists words to fit their narrative like it’s an art form, can subconsciously torment another human’s basic need for communication.
Besides the CPTSD of that trauma, I’ve always had this sense that words could build worlds and create reality. The books I enjoyed projected their stories onto my mind’s eye using words deliberately fashioned together to create a visual experience in my imagination. The television shows and movies I enjoyed were built by dialogue between characters. The songs I listened to from my favorite musicals were lyrics glued together with a melody. An insult could crush a person’s spirit, while a compliment could top off an emotional gas tank to fuel someone’s esteem.
Perhaps part of my obsession with words is rooted in being autistic. I hyper focus on words and their meaning. For example, earlier this year I was working on an art project for a friend’s birthday. It was taking me longer than I anticipated, but I enjoyed each stage of the process. One night as I was hunched over my iPad working on it, Aaron passed by and innocently said, “You seem to be spending a lot of energy on this project.” Regrettably, I became defensive, projecting that he was making a judgement about the intensity with which I was working on this singular project and snapped back, “I’m not spending energy on it. I’m spending time.” He made a simple comment in passing but yet the nuance was important to me. I wasn’t depleting my energy on it; I was enjoying the process. What it was depleting me of was my time. To him, there was no difference between the two. But to me, they were completely different. (I apologized for snapping and he was able to validate my reality)
I get tripped up on these nuances frequently. A simple question like “Where are you from?” isn’t as simple as most people intend. Do you mean, where was I born and raised? Or do you mean where do I live now? Even though I want to ask for clarification, I spend a small dose of energy masking by filing through 38 years of data from studying and learning social context for these questions to understand that most people don’t care about where I was born and mean, “Where do you live now?”
“What do you do?” Is a common question we ask one another. Do you mean how do I make my money? That’s an odd, invasive question to ask when we really think about it. Or are you asking what I do that fills my soul? The Venn diagram between how we make our money and what fills our soul doesn’t always overlap. What do I do? You ask? I exist. More specifically, I do a ton of things and it’s too much and too vulnerable to explain to an acquaintance in this social situation.
“I’m a writer.” I answer simply, leaving them oblivious to my obsession over the layers of nuance I experience from their innocent question because I know they are just trying to make conversation.
My clarifying questions can make me seem stupid to some, but I know that I’m not. Just like I don’t believe people are stupid for not caring about the exact detail and meaning of these colloquialisms for humanity. I’m just inundated by nuance when it comes to language and those nuances aren’t a priority to everyone. There’s so much pulling on us in life, that so many people just want to take words at face value and not deliberate over the minutiae of communication because life is already hard as it is. I understand. There are things that some folks hold as a priority that I don’t. We all have our things.
However, my obsession over linguistic detail leads to crippling social anxiety, but I’m also desperate for human connection. I don’t want to be annoying with my obsession over language but I so desperately want to connect with my fellow humans. So I have to constantly navigate others’ intended meaning when they speak or write and fight the fear of how my language in return is perceived.
This means that every single time I open my mouth to speak or type words in public spaces, I’m actively engaging in the practice of letting go, allowing myself to be seen, embracing imperfection, and choosing to exist in this flawed human form in which I exist.
Being human and relying on words and language to communicate with other humans is absolutely wild and fascinating. There can be so many connotations to the words that we say depending on context, tone, culture...Pair those many variables with the individual perceptions of the person we’re communicating with and it seems almost impossible that we are able to communicate at all! Words and language are a thick substance, sticky and convoluted. The nuance is exhausting and maddening to my autistic, neurodivergent brain…
But yet, I love words. I’m moved by many, many things in life but there’s nothing like being moved by the miracle of communication. There’s nothing like reading or hearing a phrase that makes me want to lay prostrate on the floor. It’s the overwhelming feeling I get from articulation that makes a concept or a feeling or an object of matter come alive on a cellular level through language.
The satisfying feeling from crafting a perfectly worded sentence…
Or creating a complex metaphor to explain the inexplainable…
Or writing a line of dialogue between characters that’s dripping with unspoken subtext…
Or seeing a person’s response when I’m able to craft the perfect encouraging phrase that moves them somewhere deep and unseen…
There are few things in life that are more satisfying than when words flow freely into the shapes they are meant, as if the Universe had curated the words themselves and made us the vessel from which they flow. The feeling from being that vessel is otherworldly, as if I’m merely being of service to something bigger and greater than myself.
I’m honored to be a vessel.
Though I get caught up in the nuance of language, how we engage in social communication, and how absurd it can seem when we really examine it - and my obsession can be exhausting; but yet, my appreciation is also a gift. I’m aware of the power that words wield. I wish that in every interaction I could express the intensity with which I mean what I say.
“I’m so proud of you,” means that I am radiating pride from the bottom of my heart and I wish I could wrap it around your neck like a thick, knit homemade scarf that keeps you warm in the chilliness of life’s harsh emotional weather.
When I say to a service worker, “I appreciate you,” I mean it with my entire soul. I want this stranger in front of me to know that, even though they are simply doing their job, I appreciate their service and notice their humanity.
When I see a woman living authentically, from integrity, and fiercely doing the things she’s put on this planet to do, I wish my sincere words “I’m cheering you on” could inject flames of encouragement in her bones.
“You are so creative” I tell a child. “You have so much to offer this world, you are worthy of love, and you matter just because you exist.” I want those words to mix with the oxygen in that child’s blood so that if some homeroom mom tells them they’ll never amount to anything, that kid will know it’s a lie and remember that they matter and are worthy of love without ever having to strive for love and acceptance.
Our words have the ability to create life, to shift reality. On the flip side, our words have the capacity to crush spirits and break hearts. Know the power of your words and the worlds you are able to create both in your life and the lives of others. And choose words rooted in love and care for your fellow humans.
How will you use your words?