My mother always said, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words can never harm me.” Of course, in many ways that is not true. Words do hurt–especially those words that are not true. But mom was just trying to help me grow up to be a man and not a wimp.
I have been called names all my life. Even some of you who read these blogs are very good at that. You’re apparently unable to hear an opinion that may differ from yours, think about it, expand on it, or even disagree with it without lowering yourselves to the maturity level of an elementary student.
There is that apparent need to not only express your thoughts–which is encouraged so that we all may grow, but to also add insulting words that lead to derision and hate. Welcome to elementary school.
But unlike a child who wears his feelings on his sleeves, I have learned to ward them off like water off a duck’s back. As my mother also taught me, they depict the immaturity of the person saying them rather than any necessary weakness of my character.
Our press has apparently now decided that the black race is no more mature than a group of elementary kids. They race to the rescue and worry far more than the Blacks actually do about people using the N word as they say today.
I’ve had the privilege of growing up in a very multicultural society and I’ve been called a Cracker, Honky, WASP, and a few other names–usually in Spanish, that I never even understood.
That never bothered me because I was taught that these are just words that reveal the character of the one speaking, not the ears of the one receiving them. How hard is that?
I can hardly wait until the press finds something else to grab hold of so we can get on living life and not dwelling on petty words. Racism will never go away so let’s stop thinking that we can legislate it.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but wouldn’t you like to have a stick in your hand when a member of the self-righteous press showed up.