The Ugliness of a Word

As an English major, we are often times taught to – both actively and passively – love language, sometimes even fetishize it. The beautiful, languid sound of a word like “voracious” or “pristine” comes up through the neck and slides off the tongue with an elegance of a seasoned ballet dancer. But for every beauty, there is an evil.

           For every God, there is a Satan.

           For every Martin Luther King JR, there is an Adolf Hitler.

           For every loving relationship, there is a heartbreak.

           For every George Floyd, there is a Derek Chauvin.

           And for every “voracious”, there is an “inaction.”

The word is clunky, “inaction.” It does not slide off the tongue but rather sticks to the roof of your mouth like a caramel, fumbling and bumbling as it eventually flies out of your mouth and passed your bulging eyes. Inaction.

           It is funny, actually. Have we ever noticed that beautiful words not only sound beautiful but are, in essence, beautiful?

           Pristine: Unspoiled, in its original form.

           Royal: Having the status of a king or queen in their family.

           Shimmer: Shine with a soft tremulous light.

           The list goes on. If it is beautiful to say and beautiful to hear, chancer are it is beautiful by definition.

           But what about inaction?

           Inaction: Lack of action where some is expected or appropriate.

           Ugly to say, ugly to hear, and guess what? Ugly to apply, too. And yet, we have all played around, been a part of, or witnessed inaction in the personal. For something so ugly and egregious, inaction is a part of all of us, whether we realize it or not.

***

           When I was young, in middle school, my parents always taught me to never bully.

           “You can have faults,” they would say, “maybe you aren’t the best artist, the best athlete, or the best public speaker…but never, ever bully another child.”

           And I listened. Like a blind sheep following the herd, I grasped onto the words and never let go. For all of my faults, I was never a bully. I never stuck my knee into another boy’s throat (I went to an all boy’s school, so don’t be surprised when I say this stuff did happen), never knocked a boy over and stole his books, never punched, never hit.

           Flawless? No. I made bad jokes, made fun of where people came from (Canada, seriously?), even broke off a friendship out of pure jealousy, but my parent’s line of bullying (physical violence towards another person) was never crossed. 

           And yet, here is a scene.

           My friends and I were at the local pizza place, ordering our classic Tuesday afternoon meal (2 pizzas, sodas, etc.) with a newcomer, let us call him Brandon, with us. Brandon never really quite fit our bill of what it meant to be “cool.” He was athletic, sure, but he talked too much. He did not understand the hierarchy of our group dynamic. Bobby and Alden were the top dogs, followed by Egor, Smith, and Walter, with me, Alex, and Carlson on the third level. The third level folks never messed with the second level folks, who never challenged the top dogs. For Brandon, who was not even in our hierarchical structure, his job was to stay quiet, appreciate being there, and Do not. Say. A. Peep.

           Naturally, he did not listen. To make it worse, he stuttered. Which definitely, positively, 100%, clear as day: was not cool.

           Following a lunch full of eye rolls from Bobby, Alden, Egor, Smith, and Walter, the top dogs held a brief meeting with the 2’s and decided we were going to “ditch” Brandon.

           For those of you that did not have a traumatic childhood and were never “ditched,” consider yourself lucky, A, and B) let me explain it briefly. Being ditched is the worst possible punishment for a middle schooler. The rest of the group lures you into a trap, usually consisting of walking into a weird area to find something or run a task, before sprinting, at full speed, around a corner. You can chase after them, sure, but the damage is already done. The power of the “ditch” is not in the impossibility of reaching your “friends” again, but rather the idea that you now need to wrestle with the fact that your “friends” did all this to not hang out with you. The ditch is the most brutal of the middle school punishments, so rolling it out on a really sweet, genuine, and kind soul like Brandon seemed harsh to me.

           But, as a 3, my say in the matter was to not have a say. Keep your mouth shut and let the top dog’s sort it out.

           Let Chauvin handle it.

           Needless to say, our “bill” was passed, and Brandon was ditched. I am sure if I turned around, he would have had tears in his eyes, wondering to himself: “What did I do to deserve this?” The answer to that question is simple for Brandon, and simple for anybody that goes against the “status quo”: You broke the formation.

           You were a 4, a measly little 4, and you tried to stand up to the 1’s, the folks that had all the power, without a base to stand on.

           It was flimsy, impossible, and borderline stupid and yet: this is how change happens.

***

           We are a world full of 3’s and 4’s. You and I, we are 3’s. We 3’s are in the “right” biological subgroup. White skin, enough money to support ourselves, a well-paying job, access to the internet, etc. 3’s are life for the average white person, so average that we weren’t even thinking about it as a subcategory until 10 days ago.

           4’s have it a heck of a lot harder. In fact, it seems unjustified to have the difference between a “3” and a “4” be just one, so let me add a little more space. 4’s are now 20’s, and 20’s are now 60’s, and 60’s are now 100’s. Is that gap close enough? I wouldn’t know, we 3’s prefer to stick to ourselves and pretend that we are “woke” and “allies” simply because we are supposedly not racist and that, that, is inaction.

           Seeing a 4, Brandon.

           Or a 20, an average black man.         

           Or a 60, a Breonna Taylor.

           Or a 100, a George Floyd.

           And not doing anything because you are afraid to disrupt the system is inaction. It is contentment in the system because we are so close to the top. The gap between 1 and 3 is so, so much smaller than the gap between 3 and 4.

           Or 20.

           Or 60.

           Or 100.

***

           We were taught about it as kids, but we were not taught enough.

           Simply being a 3 that doesn’t physically abuse 4’s is not enough.

           Not even close.

           You need to be a 3 that goes against what the 1’s and 2’s push forward.

           You need to join the 4’s, the 20’s, the 60’s and the 100’s in the fight.

           You need to be more than a 3.

           And that is the antidote.

           The only antidote.

           To inaction.