The Means to Meaning

I ought to have been happy. The sun had just begun to sink in the cloudless June sky, casting golden light and long shadows across the Vanderbilt campus. The Program for Talented Youth, a college-like summer camp run by the university, was in its second week; my chosen class, Shakespeare In Film, had thus far proven as fun as it had looked in the brochure. To cap it all, I had just come from an Irish dance lesson. I expected a perfect end to a perfect day.

Coming into the other building used for "Arete" afternoon classes to find my best friend in tears as she removed her jazz shoes understandably altered my mood.

To be honest, the exact insult used slips my mind. Neither of us were popular, even in what had historically amounted to Nerd Camp, but that day one of her Capoeira classmates had crossed the line. It's very likely the word "witch" came into it somehow; both of us loved fantasy and dressed in slightly medieval ways, dangerous practices in the Bible Belt. But the exact wording doesn't matter. This friend had impressed me from the start with her confidence and lack of regard for others' opinions; to see her red-eyed and sobbing over someone's words was a shock. Contrary to what I'd spent years telling myself, words COULD hurt.

She recovered with a 14-year-old's normal resilience and we resumed our happy conversations and adventures. However, a few days later we had to confront the program's most notorious bully. As I recall, the point of contention was the right to watch a movie on the TV lounge's big-screen; while he wanted to watch "Tenacious D," a counselor had promised that we could watch "Bridge To Terabithia." We won, and he stormed off down the hall with a promise to "take photos of us and post them on his blog with the label, 'The Worst Bitches In The World'."

It stung; I won't pretend it didn't. But my primary concern was for my friend. Would this be the killing blow to her confidence, finishing the work of the Capoeira-class tormentor? She merely ignored him, though, and led the way back into the lounge. We didn't get to watch our movie without further interruption, but that's another story.

Within a space of three days, it would seem that I'd learned conflicting lessons about words: that they had infinite capacity for harm and that they could not touch a truly self-confident person. However, upon closer examination, these lessons resolved themselves into one coherent fact. Words could hurt just as much as blows, but as with physical harm, that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.