VOICES: STICKS + STONES BY CHANCE FISCHER

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” 

I’d like to accept that statement as fact, that words are powerless when ignored. The truth is words have harmed black people more than any bullet or fist ever could. Laws find power in words and words mean things. Words define a life we perpetually misinterpret and misunderstand. Words provide justification for police firing their weapons at me when I am unarmed, helpless, hopeless. 

The unsolicited martyrdom of Black folk should not be what I recount in my final moments.

Maybe COVID-19 opened the eyes of the majority. Maybe now it’s convenient for fellow humans to reflect on injustice because they have nothing more to occupy their time. Maybe the change will happen because the world is watching. 

Maybe.

I do not have the luxury of placing faith in “maybe.” These days I am bereft of faith in any others but myself. Have I smothered myself in cynicism or awakened my soul with the Ghosts of Racism’s past? The root of my hesitance changes nothing. Hesitating to believe in a false sense of equality, in infinitesimal change, is the only safety net I know. I am empowered by my skepticism, and my lack of hope nurtures my tenacity. 

Words will adorn my tombstone. What will they say? Will I have died in vain? Will I have died at the hands of someone who dehumanized me before they took the time to learn my name? I hope my headstone captures my life as more than a hospitality professional – more than a rapper. I hope that my etched stone says I was a brother, son, boyfriend, friend, peacemaker, advocate. I hope the person chiseling finds inspiration in my postmortem elevator pitch. 

I hope we will choose our words more carefully. I hope we will manage our internal conversations before impulsive actions. I hope we find the foundation of our strength in the words we use to change our perspectives. I hope we change our perspectives. 

I hope we listen to the words of others. I hope we challenge them. I hope we hold them accountable for what they uttered, even if they claimed they misspoke. Words serve as the only medium amplifying our individuality. I hope we know when to keep the safety on. 

Still entrenched in my hope for the world, I find myself fighting mirages. Intangible dreams spreading wings in my hallucinations become death sentences. I deserve more. We deserve more. We deserve dreams over insomnia. We deserve to pen new chapters instead of editing wills. We deserve to establish our own terms – words that amplify our power.

For years the words of the unchallenged majority contextualized my existence. I had no choice in being colored, negro, African-American, or the other “n” word buried in the argument of the letters used to end it. I had no choice in not being a man, in being three-fifths of a man, or being a whole man. I’m still using my words to justify that my existence matters.

I implore each of us to question our diction and its impact. I beg we apply the same focus on our word choice as we would surgery. I beg we internalize the power cavalierly relinquished through self-doubt.

I can manage the sticks. I can manage the stones. I can even manage one or two broken bones. But words, especially ones ignorantly laced with venom, could very well be the end of my life.