Children
have this irritating habit of telling the truth. We are, at this age,
still somewhat primal. We are genuine beings, and the idea of
tempering our tongue has not registered with us yet. In fact, for all
of our early years, “You must tell the truth!” was imprinted in
our brain's neural pathways. Our mothers and grandmothers drilled it
so deep into our consciousness, it broke through to our very
subconscious. We children are so excited by life, we know nothing of
decorum. Our truth telling builds confidence and character; yet, it
also leads us to dangerous places. Like the boy who boldly walked
naked into his parent's dinner party and declared, “I have a
penis!” Our the girl who jumped up into her grandfather's lap and
said, “Your breath stinks!” After a few embarrassing situations,
our parents adjust course and begin teaching us restraint. We learn
we must govern not only our choice of words, but there time and place
of delivery as well. Some people learn it brilliantly. These amazing
verbalists can, in an instant, say an appropriate insightful comment
or refrain from mentioning a hurtful or offensive one. They
accomplish this with grace and ease. I marvel at them, for I am not
such a person. My words must be thought over and edited with caution
before I speak. If not, the worst could happen. My gift of gab was
somehow corrupted. I open my mouth, regardless of the thought in my
head, and what comes out is—well—adverse. My mind's teleprompter
reads, “Hey! How are you? You look nice today!” My mouth
translates this into, “Sporting that corporate look, today. Have an
interview?” This was, obviously, not my thought or intention. It
is, however, what I once said. My sentiment was complimentary, but my
words were insensitive. A subtle insult without the gentle underbelly
of subtly. Painfully, I have dealt with this sort of
ill-chosen-word-demon my entire adult life. My daily conversations
and greetings are, shamefully, incongruous. Anything which requires
me to vocalize my thoughts is subject to the perverse contortions of
my mental translator.
As a boy, one of my infuriating habits was
not to talk. Even when my father yelled at me, I refused to respond.
“Why did you do such and such?” he would demand. I would just
stare at him. My younger brother would have to beg our mother to
force me to speak with him. Most of the time, I just did not want to
be disturbed. With my dad, perhaps, I knew discussion was futile
because punishment was inevitable. I have no defense really. My not
speaking seems to have had the opposite effect of what happens when
most children do speak. They say the wrong thing, and their parents
instruct them on its incorrectness. They, therefore, learn to
communicate politely and appropriately. I did not speak, so, I had
less corrective teachings; hence, I did not learn to speak politely
and appropriately. When I finally did give into speaking regularly, I
failed to notice how disrespectful my words were. It literally was
years, before I realized how many times I had offended others. In
almost all cases, offense or slight was not my intent. I could not
understand why, until I realized what I thought I was saying was not
what I was saying. Seeing I had no natural talent for diplomacy, I
forced myself to be more aware of my daily speech.
Since, I have
acted in plays, taught a class or two and spoken in front of
different groups. These activities are not so difficult, as long as
you plan and prepare. Public speaking has helped my conversation to
evolve into a less atrocious ordeal by helping me to stay focused.
Unfortunately, this is not always easy. For most of my neural
activity is predominantly centered elsewhere. I can be doing one
thing, while my mind is in several other places. It will stay there,
until my inner radar reminds me I need be social. Pulling me away,
however, proves difficult for I need my far away places. My sense of
balance needs it. My writing craves it. What tends to happen is I
speak before I completely leave this state. In so doing, I might say
anything. It is likened to talking from a dream, where all your
thoughts and images are simultaneously darting to and fro. You reach
for meaning, only what you get is not a logical string of words but a
jumbled mouthful of perception—or misperception. For me to
communicate well, I must keep my topics straightforward and specific.
This, like any medicine you may take, has its side effects. It can
make me seem more different than I actually am: guarded, aloof or
distant—possibly even strange and crass. This personal reformation
of mine—this learning to integrate my various strata into an
authentic representation of self—is an ongoing project.
Luckily, my writing seems to act as a form of therapy. If I
have been constant in my writing efforts, I tend to have greater
control over my spoken words. The practice helps me smooth out most
of my misshapen phrases. Still the other place calls. Even with the
work, it is nearly impossible to slow down the thoughts which bombard
my mind. Nor do I want to, I suppose. Hiding behind altered meaning
may mean something more than a broken tongue. It could be a mechanism
for me to cope with the exposure caused by writing, thinking and
sharing in the world. Maybe my awkward phrases are a metaphorical
growl to remind myself, as much as the world, “I am alive!” So
what happens to all the true sentiments left unsaid? Where do they
go? Do they disappear? Have I lost the opportunity ever to say them
again? Most do not matter in the context of mine and my listener's
life. For the ones which do matter, I wish I could send rewrites of
what I said. “Here's a better version, replace the old one with
this one. Have a good memory of that time.” Well, no Undo,
Redo, Overwrite or Stop button exists in the
physical world. To those painful memories, I can only apologize for
not saying what I meant to say, and strive to communicate better next
time. And to my future conversationalists, should I seem uncommonly
quiet, please forgive me. I have either mentally disappeared or
chosen—for the good of us both—not to speak.