I started associating words with meaning when I was riding
wedged between my parents on their motor scooter in Viet Nam. As we coasted
slowly through the Saigon streets, my mom pointed out the word “Pho” to me,
illuminated in a green neon glow, a luring lantern in the muggy and bustling night
scene. Such an awe-inspiring three-letter word, and my three-year-old self
immediately grasped the concept that a building bearing this sign would house
the comforting, homey smell of rice noodles in beef broth.
My cognitive world took a shift after my family immigrated
to the United States. The tonal, monosyllabic Vietnamese language on which my ears had been trained suddenly made way to
something foreign called English. Thrust into a kindergarten where everyone
spoke and understood it, I tried learning through observing actions and body
language what I was expected to do. I counted colorful blocks to learn my
numbers, traced dotted letters to study my alphabet. Strung together, the
letters made words. Strung together, the words made sentences. Strung together,
the sentences made meaning. I traced my hand under the big block words of an
illustrated Rabbit and Panda book, finally able to read my first sentence, “The
sun went up.”
Beyond the basic addition, subtraction, and multiplication,
numbers continued to be elusive to me in their infinite mystery, but I latched
onto words, following thrilling worlds in books and shows like “Reading Rainbow”
with LeVar Burton.
In fifth grade, my teacher had us write stories from our
imagination, any theme at all. When he handed my draft back to me, penciled in
a blunt No. 2 about a cowgirl and her horse, he mentioned, “You have a way with
words.” I knew even by then that I was hopeless at math; I was so pleased to
hear that I may have undiscovered talent elsewhere.
In middle school, there was an essay contest in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. It was a school where nerds were made fun of and jocks were cool. Secretly, I wrote an essay and entered. Weeks later, along with morning announcements over the intercom, the three winners of the essay contest were also announced. I held my breath in that split-second before the names were read...and exhaled when one of those names was mine. The prize was a trip to Red Robin burger restaurant with the teacher sponsoring the contest, Mr. Lewis. I had never been to a "fancy" burger restaurant before--my family subsisted mainly on home-cooked meals and rarely ever ventured into American restaurants to dine. The two other contest winners were amused at how much I marveled over the huge menu of burgers in so many combinations. My eyes glossed over the words, but my mind wasn't really paying attention. Instead, I was touched by the triumph, that a pen, a few pieces of paper, and the words I learned to shape were the things that brought me to this winner's table.
In high school Spanish class, my teacher posed a question as
we were learning the vocabulary for the human body: “Cual es la funcion de la lengua?” What is the function of the
tongue?
We threw out Spanish words from our physiology repository in
attempt to answer the question: “To talk.” “To taste.” “To swallow.”
“What else?” the teacher asked, and when we all seemed
tongue-tied, she offered, “Isn’t it possible that the tongue is one of the most
powerful parts of the human body? It shapes words, and words can heal, words
can wound.” Strung together, words are powerful. They can inspire. They can
destroy. They remain immortal, passed down as literature through centuries
after everything corporeal has turned to dust.
In college, I chose a creative writing major after working
up the guts to venture away from my “undeclared” start. I spent my undergrad
and graduate years reading, writing, studying, and living in stories. I refined
my understanding of what makes things worth reading. Studied sentences and their
mechanics. Developed an ear for
documenting dialogue. Learned to shape what my heart was feeling and lay it
bare on a sheet of 8.5x11” paper.
I ventured into the corporate world, armed with a Technical
Writing certificate. It was different from writing stories all day. I wrestled
with the meaning of complex technology and gave up pen and paper to fumble my
way through sophisticated authoring software. I confided in a friend of mine
that in this left-brain/right-brain transition, I was afraid of losing my
ability to write creatively. “That’s a part of you that no one can take away,”
she assured. And in the end, taming the incomprehensible to make intended
meaning clear to a given audience, I realized that I was still playing with
words.
There’s nothing like the discombobulating feeling of being
alienated from writing. It’s like your air gets cut off. You lose sleep from
want of it. “All you writers are afflicted,” a college professor had said to us
during a lecture, “by the sheer need for creation. The lust for wanting to put
words on a page. You don’t just want
to do it. You have to do it to
survive.” Writing gives me purpose and direction. Without it, I feel like a
husk at the mercy of an indifferent wind, a dried up shell housing only
emptiness where once there was substance and heart.
They may not be much, only words. But I cling on to them
with all I have, for they shape and define me. As the Bee Gees say,
“It's only words
And words are all I have
To take your heart away.”
