Traces of Love
When I was a kid, I went to school with this one particular boy whom I just couldn’t get along with at all. I don’t know why we clashed so horribly; we were in most of the same classes from about the second grade on up through most of high school, until he moved away. When we were older we learned to ignore each other, but when we were young kids we used to be nemeses, making fun of each other, calling each other the most insulting names our eight-year-old minds could conjure (four-eyes, bucktooth, cheese-head, and the like). I was always pretty sure he had started the cycle of meanness, not me. Not that it really mattered then, or matters now.
We lived in a small town where it was common for families to root themselves for decades, and his parents and mine knew each other fairly well. My parents used to ask me from time to time (as wise parents should) who I liked to hang out with at school. I remember one evening when I was about nine years old, my parents, my sister, and I were all eating dinner together, and I was talking about the kids I knew at school. Perhaps wondering why I never listed this one particular boy among my friends, my parents asked me, “What about S—–n? Do you ever hang out with him?” Stirring my mountain of mashed potatoes around my plate with my fork, I replied with an air of utmost nonchalance, “Oh, no, I never hang out with him. We hate each other.”
My dad has always been the most laid-back, mild-mannered of men, and when I was a kid he rarely ever said anything that wasn’t in jest; it required a highly grave matter to cause him to turn serious. After I made my declaration at the dinner table that evening, my dad turned his eyes on me, and though I knew he was not angry, I also knew that he was not playing around when he said quietly, “You may not like him, Laura, but I don’t want to hear you say that you hate him or anyone else. Hate is a strong word to use.”
Even though the better part of two decades has passed since that dinner conversation with my dad, I have never forgotten his words, and I am fairly certain that was the last time I ever said that I hated anyone. My dad was right – I didn’t hate that kid from school, and I can’t really imagine that he hated me either, despite our inability to forge a friendship all those years. A word like “hate” has a dramatic effect when we want to express a passionate dislike for something or someone, and it is a simple word to use – it just takes one sharp syllable to utter the word, and the sound of that syllable only lasts for an instant. Then it’s gone – we can forget that we said it, if we like. Sounds do not exist in physical form. There’s no concrete evidence against us, should anyone wish to confront us about what we’ve said. All that’s left of our utterances is the memory they have created.
I think we often discredit the power that exists in the words we say. Despite what the old adage may say – “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” – we all know that words can indeed hurt. We would be foolish to take to heart every every insult and every slander that gets hurled our way, of course. But who hasn’t been stung by the words of an angry parent, or a careless friend? Who hasn’t been told things that, years later, are still deeply woven into their understanding of their own identity, for better or for worse? Who hasn’t been moved by an inspiring speech or an a propos song lyric? Who hasn’t ever said anything that they later regretted, because someone else took it the wrong way?
Far from being “just” words, I believe the things we say build the foundation of who we are. Words have deep influence over our mental states, a truth to which I can personally attest. I’ve found that when I utter some declaration about myself out loud I am far more likely to believe it than if I think it silently. If I wake up in the morning, get dressed, look in the mirror, and say, “I look really nice today,” I will have more bounce in my step as I walk out the door than if I had not said anything. By the same token, if I am feeling depressed, I find that saying “I hate my life” or something equally condemning serves to perpetuate my despair. And the same can be true for what we say about other people. If we frequently use our words to express hatred for our fellow human beings, even if we don’t really mean it… Eventually, we will have repeated it enough that the idea begins to take hold of our mental states. Eventually, we will believe it. We will talk ourselves into meaning it.
So often I hear people declare things that begin “I hate people who…” and every time I hear it, I take it to heart. Do you really? I want to ask. Do you really hate people who let their dogs bark at strangers? Do you really hate Republicans? Christians? Vegans? People who are arrogant or stupid or let their babies cry in the supermarket? If someone has a habit that annoys the hell out of you, fine. Despise the habit, if you must. If someone has a particular value that grates against one of yours, then disagree with the value. But even if you can’t respect the value, don’t let yourself hate the person because of it. And if you don’t hate the person, don’t declare that you do. The simple utterance of such an attitude can do more to harm than any of us might imagine, to the speaker, to the subject, and to humanity at large.
Whenever I hear someone declaring hatred, whether directed at any one particular person or as a blanket sentiment, I think instantly of that Burt Bacharach song. “What the world needs now / is love, sweet love…” It might be a flower-child song, and I’m sure it’s overplayed. But so many of the problems we face arise from hatred, from the perception that the world is divided into “us” and “the others,” and we don’t like them because they did this to us, or they believe something we don’t agree with, so let’s fight about it. We as a species do not often tolerate the actions of the “intangible other” with grace, whether those actions are trivial or monumentally destructive. We don’t always have to repay wrong with wrong. We don’t always have to “get even.” Think about it – we spout off hatred as if it is nothing, but if we were really looking that other person in the eyes, would we feel hatred for them? We might claim to believe that the world would be better off without this kind of person or that kind of person. But if we are the one holding the gun to their head, are we prepared to pull the trigger?
Our words are not trivial, no matter how much so they may seem to us when we use them. Every time a word falls upon a human ear, whether another person’s or our own, it leaves a trace. All those traces eventually begin to construct something that is obviously not trivial – they construct identities, attitudes, paradigms. I try to live with that awareness every time a word is on my tongue. I would never want to build upon a foundation of hatred. I try to choose to leave traces of love.
