I love words. When I was small, my mother would read to me when I was sick. Safely tucked in on the couch, I would listen to her tell of magical beings and far away places, my fever enabling my visits to these unknown realms in my mind. I nearly regretted getting better.
One of the perks of growing up in the West is the vast public libraries that are crammed to the rafters with books of all kinds. My free time was divided between playing outside with my friends and devouring every book I could get my hands on. Daytime TV and electronic games were still a thing of the future, so I had to rely heavily on my imagination to entertain myself.
Being exposed to so many different stories as a child made me want to be a writer. I remember well composing my first ever story at the age of six. It cannot have been longer than eight sentences but it made me feel like I owned the world—I had created something that was not there before! When I proudly handed my masterpiece to my teacher, she got out her red pencil to correct the numerous mistakes in the spelling of my compelling tale. This is when my pomposity saw the light of day for the first time. I stood in front of her desk and primly informed her: “Please put your pen down, this is my story and in my story this was how the words are spelled.” To be honest, I often still feel this way.
In day to day life, my boundless imagination sometimes gets me into trouble; my state of mind, perceptions, and wishful thinking often colour the meaning of what is said to me. I find I seldom settle on the most obvious, which leads me to be offended for no reason or to believe in good intentions that were never there.
Living in a culture so different from what I knew tends to confuse matters even more. Add to this the well-documented directness we Dutch people are known for and you can see the pitfalls opening in front of my feet. Conversing in English, in what is not my first language, tends to muddle matters more.
Years ago I noticed my good American friend’s shoelaces were undone. Since my command of the English language was not perfect at that time, I literally translated what I would have said in Dutch: “You have to tie your shoelace”. His answer startled me. “Woman, stop telling me what to do!” A heartfelt thanks would have been the response from a fellow Dutchie.
I like to think that the intention I have will counteract any clumsy choice of words, but that is often wishful thinking. I remember a mortifying moment when I was a student nurse. I was trying to cheer up a young man who was rapidly sinking into a depression over the leg he had just lost to cancer. It took me a while to convince him to get out of bed and come and sit in the garden. As I positioned the wheelchair next to his bed I uttered the phrase I used countless times every day, “Just swing your legs over the edge of the bed.” Needless to say no sunshine was enjoyed that day.
Lately I have been unpleasantly confronted with the malicious phenomenon of gossip in this society. Some of it is completely harmless—a funny faux pas will be retold time and time again for sheer amusement. You know you are in for trouble when the teller of tales will justify tattling by claiming it is for your benefit to know these things about your co-workers, friends, or loved ones. I have listened to reputations being ruthlessly dragged through mud, seen honest friendships receive the kiss of death, and heard the endless speculation of who is sleeping with whom—resulting in jealous arguments that cause irreparable rifts in loving relationships.
It baffles me—and not because I am above listening to a juicy story. What amazes me is that the time and effort spend on carefully highlighting certain aspects and wilfully omitting others in order to show someone in the worst light possible. It seems to me to be such a waste of energy.
I believe in the power of words. Over the years there have been people that have made chance remarks that changed the course of my life. The casual mention of the phrase, “If you do not ask, you will not get” changed my attitude of believing in the trusted saying, “All good things come to those who wait.” Sitting at the bedside of an older lady who was fighting a lost battle against cancer, I felt so helpless that I lost my composure and burst into tears. She smiled at me and said, “the fact that you care helps.” It taught me that some things cannot be changed, but that kindness can always make a difference. It gave me something to strive for.
I often fail in this—my irritations, impatience, and inclination to be cynical have stopped me at times from extending kindness when I could have. Overall, I do make an effort to be nice, or at the very least honest, especially when I write. In that respect, I have not changed from the pompous little six-year-old I once was.
