Gossamer.
Demure.
Elixir.
Each of these words symbolize something. They each create meaning, and a picture in your mind. Words are powerful; indeed, much more powerful than the sword. They can inspire, break, destroy, and conquer. They are weapons given to each person at the moment of their birth, whether spoken, written, or otherwise. Why is it that people don't use them, and pretend they don't feel the way they feel? Too often we do not say what we mean. Too often that power is taken from us.
When I was in the eighth grade, my class was given a persuasive article assignment. Write about anything the teacher said, take on any argument you want. I chose the legalization of same-sex marriage, an issue I felt very strongly about. I wrote what I felt was a good article and was careful not to “step out of line” and say something that would be considered inappropriate. I did, however, cite a Bible passage that most people use to verify the claim that being gay is a sin. I explained that many people believe this verse is being interpreted wrongly and in fact has nothing to do with homosexuality. In retrospect, this was probably my mistake.
My teacher stood in front of the class, an annoyed look plastered across his face. “You don't have to be so serious with this assignment,” he said. “You don't have to be all gay marriage or no gay marriage.”
I was floored. Completely crushed. I looked up to this man; he was by far my favorite English teacher. I began to feel as though I was stupid and ridiculous. No one wants to hear about that. No one cares what I think.
Now, it's important to mention that this man was a first year teacher. Maybe he was worried about his job. After all, I wouldn't be surprised to see a teacher get reprimanded because his student wrote something controversial. But a friend of mine chose to write about whether or not gay couples should be allowed to adopt children, and no one said anything about the validity of her topic. In fact, she was asked to read her article aloud to the class. I don't understand what made these two subjects so drastically different, or why the teacher chose to single me out. Maybe that's a question for another day.
Anyhow, I don't think this teacher realized what he was doing, or the effects his words had. To thirteen-year-old me, these words took on an entirely different meaning. Don't be so serious. Don't talk about what matters.
To have something like this spoken in a school, a place where we're supposed to be learning new information as well as new points of view, is unsettling. Why avoid serious things? If we are made to feel insignificant then we cannot grow as people. Schools have a responsibility to let students see both sides of an argument, to let them talk about these things themselves and form their own views. We're going to become leaders whether they like it or not, so why not let us speak about what sets our blood on fire, and start forming those opinions now. God help us if we continue mindlessly repeating what we're told. What we have to say is important, and I say screw keeping things neat and safe. Whether it's feminism or Ferguson that gives you your voice, religion or who you choose to love, speak out, and don't wait until you're older. Age does not determine you validity; in fact, I've only seen it mellow out the flames into quiet acceptance. Fire is catching with this generation, and I'll be damned if I ever let it go out.
To my old English teacher, whom I still love dearly despite what he said, this is the message you send to your students: Don't be so serious. Don't say what needs to be said. Make sure that when you speak, it is passively. Make sure that when you write, those words stay neatly between the lines, trapped where they will make no one think or feel differently even for a moment. Where they will change no one. Make sure your voice is heard, but make sure your words are trivial.
And to that I say never. Never will my words have no meaning.