Notes from the Neighborhood – Words

And words . . .
We use them all the time. We speak them and we often forget that words have meaning. We know this. At least we know this is true from an intellectual standpoint. But sometimes, either haphazardly or unintentionally or perhaps in a moment of frustration or anger, we say words which we might not see as stinging or painful; however, we tend to forget that our words do have an impact.
This is certainly true when talking about the people we love the most. Yes, I am guilty of saying things that I shouldn’t have said. I am guilty of putting my foot in my mouth, so-to-speak. I am guilty of hitting below the belt or saying things in a fight without thinking and later on I have to face the aftermath of what I said. 

Next, I have to apologize for what I said. Typically, we often hear people say things like, “I didn’t mean it like that,” when the truth is, it doesn’t matter how we mean it.
Words hurt, so in the case of hurt feelings, interpretation outweighs intention all the time. Whether we meant it or not, words can hurt far worse than a bump or bruise. 

Now, I am not sure what it was like when you were a kid. I don’t know if you had “comeback” jokes or went back and forth with Momma jokes in your neighborhood. But we did.
I remember there were certain kids that I would never want to get into it with them.
There were kids in the class who showed a real talent for being exceptionally cruel.
I used to hate them for this. I used to think back about the times when I was picked on or laughed at in class . . .
First off –
The name that I go by is Ben. However, it was Benjy when I was a kid. I never asked for this name. I never asked to be named after a dog. And to add some color, my last name is Kimmel, which sounds awfully close to kibble, as in Kibbles and Bits, which was a dog food back in the day. I used to hear this all the time.
Then there were the jokes about Benjamin Franklin. I was called Ben Dover. I was called Ben Kenobi, which, now that I think about it, wasn’t so bad. 

I was skinny. I was small. I looked much younger than the other kids my age and yes, I hated this. 
I hated not fitting in. I hated being picked on and yes, this was brutal.
Absolutely!
It was brutal when rumors spread or when I found myself in the gears of the gossip mills because let’s face it, the rumor factory is always open for business. There’s always someone willing to work overtime. 

I used to hate bullies. And I still do. Only, I see them now with a different regard.
I see them as people who taught me a lesson. I see them as people who showed me that while not all people are bad, not all people are good either.
I see them as lessons from my past which taught me that while the world can be unkind, I have the right to stand tall, to defend myself, to rise above and to move away and better myself by spending time with better people. 

Now . . .
One would think this type of behavior would end in grade school or middle school, or maybe high school or perhaps even college. But no, I see the cliques are still alive and well in different sections of corporate America. I see the posture and the bullies in both the white collar and the blue collar sections. I see the need to fit and to “be cool” or validated. I see this in all different walks of life. To be clear, this is why I am grateful for my past and the lessons I learned. 

First, I learned that there are people who are not meant to be tangled with. Just like there was that kid who runs with scissors in kindergarten class; there’s the same craziness that goes on in the adult world and especially the working world. The rumor factories are alive and well.
We know this is true.
We know there are different echelons of popularity and social influences. There’s cool people. There’s the pretty and then there’s the common and the peasants. Of course, there’s always someone who claims to not have any biases. There’s always someone who claims that they don’t judge. They have no prejudices. And that’s fine.
I am not here to prove them right or wrong.
I’m only here to say that words have meaning and I do know that words can hurt. 

I also know that when we hear words enough, we tend to believe them even when we know the words are not true, 
So . . .
I think back to when I was a kid at school. I think back to some of the kids whom I chose to call my friends. I think back to the kids who I called my friends yet, deep down, I knew they really weren’t my friends at all.
I used to look back at some of my previous bullies with hatred.
I used to envision myself getting revenge on them. But, not anymore.

First, I’m not that same kid anymore. I’m not small or weak or anyone’s punching bag. I’m not codependent over anyone and I don’t have that same need to find my spot in the crowd anymore. I don’t need a clique and anymore outside validation. But, it’s nice to find the right crowd and it’s nice to find the right people to spend my time with. 
I learned this and perhaps, some might say I learned ths the hard way.
But me, I say I learned this the old fashioned way.
I earned it.

I see these kids today . . .
I see them as somewhat reclusive. I see them as quiet and hardly ever outside or social and yes, I get it.
The culture today is not the same as the culture in my day.
I get that the world has changed; however, I also understand the importance of socialization.
So, while I would never wish bullying on anyone, I can say that because I was bullied and had a hard time as a kid, I learned how to navigate my life in a better direction.
I learned who to invest my time with and who I should stay away from. 

I say this often too.
I learned more in the hallways and outside of the classrooms at school than I ever did in class with any of my teachers.
For example, I have no memory of algebra or anything from my science class. But I do remember the rules of engagement when it comes to learning how to socialize with others.
Most of all, I learned more about my own value because it wasn’t until I realized that I was worth more than my surroundings that I understood – to hell with the momma jokes and the back and forth bullshit. None of that matters. We’re all just a bunch of crazy kids on the playground. Everyone’s looking for their own place in the circle. No one wants to be the kid who gets picked last. No one wants to be the kid who gets picked on. And no one, and I mean absolutely no one, wants to be the kid that gets wedgied by the bully until they cry and the rest of the class laughs at them.
(Yes, that happened to me.)

Oh . . . by the way, I remember seeing someone who used to pick on me when I was little.
I saw him out when I was picking up a few tacos and a burrito.
It turns out that he was much shorter than me.
Put simply – I grew. But him, not so much.
I thought to myself, “I was afraid of him?”

Now, I want to be clear. The version of me has changed since then and while I do not condone violence or the need for revenge, this person did not recognize me.
But I recognized him.
I introduced myself. I told him that I remember him.
I told him that he used to kick the shit out of me when I was a kid.
He told me that I was better off leaving the past in the past.
He used to torture me.
And he used to laugh at me while doing it.

“Yeah . . well, I’m not little anymore!”

I admit to my smile as I tell you about this. And no, if I saw this person now, I’m sure the conversation would be much different – if at all, because there’d probably be no conversation in the first place. However, I did not reach this level of growth back then. I was still somewhat young and still fueled by different intentions.
Yes, let’s get it straight: I punched him . . .
. . .  right in the face.
I don’t think he was expecting that.
Neither did anyone else at Taco Bell.
“Go ahead, laugh now!”

I’m telling you –
Words have meaning.
They have an impact.
This is why I want to learn to speak kinder to myself and to the ones I love because their value to me is worth everything and because words can leave a mark.
So does a good punch to the face, by the way, just above the bridge of the nose.

But again, I don’t condone that sort of thing
(anymore).