“Words are just words, son.”
Always that line. Always that same damn line. When I returned home after a day at school, upset at what the other kids were saying about me, this was what my father would say.
But he was wrong. Words can make you feel things. Think things. Alter reality. How unfair is that? That it doesn’t matter what we truly are; that it doesn’t matter what the truth is. All it mattered was what people were saying.
Okay. I’ll concede. Perhaps my father was right. Perhaps some words were indeed just words. Some words you find it easier get used to, simply because they hurt just a little less than others.
“Fat.” “Ugly.” “Stupid.”
Fine.
But then there was that incident in school, where I’d accidentally bumped into a female student on my way to class. A reflex smile, uncertain, and a hand laid on her shoulder to stop her from falling into the lockers. Her jumping back, eyes wild, fingers pointing.
“Pervert!”
There are some words that create waves so high you wish you would drown for real.
Words travelled, fast. I quickly went from the fat, ugly, stupid guy to the pervert. There were many other things, each crueler and harsher than the last, but this story isn’t about that. This story was about how some words aren’t just words, so let’s stay on track.
I told my father what had happened, on the same day, and the days after. I’d looked to him for help and advice; I needed what a child would need from a parent - the right words. If you’d been paying attention, you’ll know it didn’t quite work out.
When the other kids started shoving me into lockers, pouring my belongings into toilets, throwing small bricks into my room window wrapped in pieces of cloth labelled “pervert! slut!” on them, I learned that some words weren’t just words. They were action.
It intrigued me.
You see, I never knew the power of words. As a boy, living alone with my father, I was taught about the power of silence. Of keeping quiet. Saying nothing.
I went to the police station the day after the bricks fell. But it wasn’t about the shoving, or the pouring, or the throwing. I’m sorry if you thought it was about that. This story is about an entirely different word.
My father was arrested that same night. I sat with the policemen all night, answering questions. Many questions, all about one single word.
“Paedophile.”
There are some words that create waves so high you wish you would drown for real.
I’d been drowning for about five years.
Things happened quickly after that. But this story isn’t about that. Like I said, this story is about words.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever see my father again. Or if I want to. But if I ever do, I know what I’ll say to him.
That some words aren’t just words.
Some words are action.