Words

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.”