Even though I was growing up in a nice suburban community, with nice parents, nice neighbors and so forth, I somehow managed to get myself into a few situations that were so impactful that I never forgot them. Considering I was between the ages of five and eight when these things occurred, they still come to mind on occasion, making me believe that somehow deep down inside they have had a lasting impact on who I am.
I was standing out near the edge of the road one day watching the cars go down our neighborhood street. For some reason I can’t explain, and don’t understand, I decided it would be a good thing to pick up the little stones, the little gravel pea sized stones, and thrust them at passing cars. So I did. The sound of pebbles against some innocent driver’s paint job was kind of pleasing. That is, until the car stopped and the driver got out. The man was not happy, but I was just a little child and certainly meant no harm. I just liked the sound of pebbles on metal. I don’t remember what he said to me, or if he told my parents, or exactly what transpired. I do know that I never did do that again.
When I was growing up there was a popular sing song poem that our parents taught us as a way to ignore negative things people might say about us. I guess its purpose was to teach us to let insults roll off our backs and to continue living in a positive state of mind. Maybe you’ve heard it, “Sticks and stone can break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” The idea that name calling could never be anywhere near as harmful as a physical attack was clear and learned easily. It was a favorite response when an older brother, or neighbor might try to belittle a little fellow. A way to keep one’s self image intact. Say the poem and your verbal attacker was instantly disarmed.
The problem with the poem, and what it was supposed to do, was that not everyone believed it. Some people took hurtful words to heart and scars that could last a lifetime were formed.
One summer day a young boy, about twelve years old, came to our house. He was visiting everyone’s house asking for whatever the occupants could spare. A few dollars or coins, shoes, shirts, anything. He was obviously very poor, and he wasn’t from our neighborhood. I had never seen him before. As he was leaving our driveway, an older neighbor boy whispered something in my ear and told me to say it loud. It was one word. I had never heard the word before. My older brothers had never said it, my parents had never said it, and I had no idea what the word meant. So with youthful abandon I shouted out “Nigger!” loud and clear. The young boy who was at that time only a dozen feet away from me stopped, turned, and looked at me. I knew instantly that I had said something horrible, something I never should have said. I didn’t know why it offended the young boy, but I knew it did, and I was instantly terrified that he was going to hurt me, or worse, tell my parents. He didn’t do either. After staring at me only a moment, he turned and was on his way.
I had said that word in innocence, but after seeing his reaction I knew it was a hurtful thing to say. I’m sure the young boy to whom I said it carries the scars of that and perhaps many other painful words that were spoken throughout his life. Like so many things we do wrong, we can’t change the fact that we did them, but we can certainly prevent ourselves from ever doing so again. We can only hope those we’ve hurt can forgive us.
