Say What You Mean And Say It Mean.

For over half of her four decade career, my mother taught fifth grade. A span of that length allows one to view societal trends and social constructs in detail: one class morphing into the next, bringing new behaviors, pressures, and responses.

The perfect in-situ scientific laboratory to observe these shifts and changes was open every day - the playground. She shared an observation that early on, a few of the saltier children would insult each other during recess. “ Your Mama …” the jibes would start with, or something similar, leading to a bout of impromptu oneupmanship… …but as reading and writing became less important to the school district, a different exchange would occur - one child would begin with the customary opening remark, and then the other would punch them.

Often very hard. The addition of physical violence brought this tradition to an abrupt close, and while no fan of rudeness or impropriety, my mother expressed that this made her a bit sad, as the talking did hold a bit of creative integrity.

But some children were no longer trained in that kind of thing, and a true battle of wits requires that both combatants are well armed. As her son, I was never allowed to insult or hit anybody.

The only time I tried was on a bus trip back from a high school vocal contest, where a class bully called me names related to the size of my forehead. That gave him, no pun intended, a lot of ground to cover, and my reticence to engage with him intensified his attacks.

Until I did engage with him, offering a slightly off-color response clever enough that the entire bus went “Ooooooooooo!”. I knew I was going to get it the second I left the bus, and sure enough when I stepped off the stairs he was waiting, hand outstretched to shake mine.

When I reached for his hand, he sucker-punched me in the stomach. Another “Ooooooooooo!” from the crowd.

But because I was a magician, I had long studied Houdini’s method of training abdomen muscles to rock hard consistency. Also, I was 15.

The boy’s fist met a (then) immovable mass, and he shook his hand in pain. I slowly walked away, wincing only inwardly, enjoying what I knew would be the only time that being a magician would be high-school-cool.

America is not afraid to speak its mind. Clarity isn’t a… hard rule, really: ours is a language of intent, rather than transparency.

Take for instance the example of a woman, smiling, nattily dressed, superbly coiffed, smelling of lilacs or vanilla, just after Sunday service and before the football game, looking you directly in the eye and saying the most spine chilling phrase in the English language (as it spoken by Americans): “Well, Bless Your Heart! ” We all know what that means. It does not mean what it says.

It is not pronounced the way that it is spelled, as it is neither a religious well-wish nor a genuine concern as to one’s cardiac welfare. It is a direct statement where individually none of the words hold their traditional definition, yet in combination they create a new communication, where a direct insult - in most cultures expressed in two words - is somehow sharpened and thrust deeper into the belly by using four .

There is no response. The dialogue preceding the comment has now ended, with whomever is on the receiving end of the statement is left to painfully grimace, and take an extremely slow / extremely deep breath through their nose.

Or punch the person very hard, which almost never happens probably. It’s understood here that the words are the punch, with the punch-ee left to get in their car and screamily complain about whoever said this to them on the ride home. “How dare they!” we might say, but we know the answer to that: America is not afraid to speak its mind .

However, the worm turns, what goes around comes around, and Americans do not enjoy revenge. We’re not “a dish served cold” culture - much more a kingdom of steam tables and hot wings.

Suspense is unbearable here in any form… watch: Shave and a haircut… ten… … … … … … … … … cents. Horrible.

Absolutely. I do apologize.

But think of waiting for an insult to be returned - expecting a snappy remark or harsh look and only getting open kind handshakes and grins week after week. Terrifying.

Each meeting without response increases the tension - then come the sleepless nights spent wondering when it might occur, knowing full well that a response is as inevitable as it is deserved. Yeah.

America doesn’t like that. My personal favorite American insult is “ You speak so well! ”.

It was first said to me when I was about eight - I gave a speech at a school function and afterward a very fancy woman came up to my mother and I. “ Goodness !” she effused, “You speak so well! ”. Then she looked at my mother, “It’s just so wonderful to see that!” I stood a little taller and said “Thank you!” enthusiastically, but my mom didn’t respond, but bristled.

She is not an easy bristler. “That wasn’t a compliment.” she said later in the car. “But the lady said I did a good job!” “No she didn’t. That wasn’t what she meant by that.

She meant that she was surprised one of us could speak proper English.” I was confused. “But you always make me speak proper English. You’re a teacher.” “I know that,” Mom said, “but she didn’t.” She turned to me at a stop light. “You did a good job, and she did acknowledge that by what she said… it’s not the good job that’s the problem, it’s the SURPRISE.

She underestimated you when you stood up to speak because of what you looked like. She complimented you not for what you did, but for not being what she assumed you were.” “Aw.” I was disappointed. “Don’t be disappointed,” she said, “you did wonderfully well.

You just keep on doing well for you, not for other people’s compliments. And if you want an honest opinion, you can just always ask me or Grandpa.

We’ll tell you the truth, good or bad.” And they did, which was great because I solicited a steady chorus of “speak so well”s in my youth, and far after. Let’s see: I’ve been “one of the good ones” and “just like us” and “you know…different” and “very unique” and “just, special ”, and in each case the circumstance, tone, and casting made clear what was meant atop what was being said… sometimes they’d double down and ask me about “the other ones”… you know, just to bond .

But I never lashed back, never punched anybody (good heavens no)… just smiled and nodded and took slow, deep breaths through my nose. Though, on the exhale, I may have thought to myself, “ Well, now… … … … …bless your heart. ” Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe