Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Growing up, my mom said it fairly frequently. Likely, because I was a bit whiny, and it was a nice way to tell me to quit crying.
I was talking to a friend last week. Her sister recently retired after decades of teaching. She was taking a writing course at a local university. The professor, not so kindly, told her that she wasn’t much of a writer. Hmm, way to encourage someone just trying to make her life more interesting. Unfortunately, this sent me back in time to 1978, my freshmen year at Washington University.
For long time followers, you know I went through 12 years of Catholic school education. I was taught at St. Mary Magdalen by the Dominican Sisters and then at Nerinx Hall by the Sisters of Loretto. Those nuns were no slackers. They demanded your best, and if they didn’t get it, you were often greeted by your parents at the kitchen door when you arrived home. Most of the sisters were smart, demanding and compassionate. My point, I was not some pampered kid who could not take ‘constructive feedback.’ Whiny, yes; overly protected, no.
I was excited to go to Washington University. For the first time in my life, I didn’t need to wear a uniform at school. I was looking forward to meeting new people from different places, and since there were guys attending, I might actually go on a date! I knew the school’s reputation for being rigorous. I wasn’t phased. I felt fully prepared and started classes with confidence. Big mistake.
I was in the business school, but one of the requirements was English composition. I thought I would do just fine. I might lack creativity, but I understood how to write an essay. Apparently, I was wrong. I remember the day like it just happened. The professor wanted to have a chat. He told me it was hard to believe I had graduated from high school given how poorly I wrote. I needed to get a tutor so I could write coherently. A 30 second conversation and all I could do was think, my mom was wrong, words really can hurt you. So, I went to the tutor, passed the class and thought some words that can’t be printed.
I had a successful career in the financial services industry and got this gig writing, but I’ve always had a bit of doubt that I was not ‘good enough.’ This is the part in the movie version of this story where I find the professor, show him exactly how I turned out and make him read one of my columns out loud. No. Instead, I told my friend to tell her sister that one person’s comment does not make it true. I don’t remember the professor’s name nor do I want to track him down via my Washington University transcripts. The guy did me a favor. That little bit of doubt always kept me hustling to be just a little bit better. So maybe my mom was right, words can never hurt me. Peace my peeps.