Of all the bits of dubious folk wisdom floating around, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me” has long been the one I’ve regarded with the most suspicion. I’ve been pummeled, and I’ve had tongue-lashings; I know which produced sore spots that lingered longer. But now I have the final, missing piece, the definitive proof.
Brothers and sisters, I am here to testify: the old adage is bullshit.
In the month just ended, I broke my wrist, and I witnessed the disintegration of two personal relationships that had meant something to me. No points for guessing which hurt more. Give me cuts, bruises, scratches, and contusions, and watch me smile as I bleed. Just don’t give me angry words and freezing silences.