Galvanic Memory (2002) — At Principle Gallery
Why Bother
Because right now there is someone
Out there with
a wound in the exact shape
of your words.
–Sean Thomas Dougherty, from The Second O in Sorrow (2015)
I came across this short poem recently and get a strong reaction to it every time come back to it.
Do you ever think about words that you have spoken to others that might have hurt them, scarred them even? Word spoken then quickly forgotten by you?
I know that there are people out there with wounds in the shape of my words. They may not even have had ill intent, but they cut someone, nonetheless.
I know this because I have wounds of my own in the shape of words from others. Most came when I was younger, a school kid. Most were words that were not meant to hurt or humiliate but they still managed to d0 damage. And I am positive that those people who left these scars are unaware in the same way I am unaware of my own damaging words to others.
I had a math teacher in junior high school who took some pleasure in humiliating me. I think there was something in me that simply bothered him. Probably my absolute disinterest in algebra at that time. There was one incident in particular that applies here.
One day as he was preparing to hand back our papers from a test we had taken the day before, he stood up and said, “I’m going to change thing up today. Instead of handing them back from highest scores to the lowest, we’re going to go from lowest to highest” and, without missing a beat, added with emphasis, “MYERS!”
I sat at the back of the classroom, as far away from him as I could get, and had to trudge with head down to the front of the room to collect my paper, red-faced as my classmates laughed with great glee, probably with the relief that it wasn’t them.
The incident makes me chuckle now, but it didn’t always have that effect, obviously. The fact that I carry it with me still is proof of that.
I had one other significant incident with this same teacher. Before classes one day, I was heading my homeroom walking down a long hallway that led from the gym to the classrooms. This teacher was passing by me in the other direction when he suddenly grabbed me by my collar with both hands and violently slammed me against the lockers.
“Myers, what the hell is wrong with you?!”
That is all he growled at me before releasing his grip and storming away. I sure as hell had no answer for that question. I was a confused fourteen-year-old who asked myself just that question every day with little success in coming up with an answer. I was kind of shock from this sudden and unexpected outburst that came for no reason for my teenage mind then. I still can’t quite understand his anger at me in that moment. I am fairly confident that the memory of this incident left his mind not long after he walked away from me.
But the memory lives with me still as a wound in the shape of his words.
In relative terms, especially when compared to the wounds of others, it is a small wound. But it is still a wound, one that cut me deeply then and lingered as a festering sore for a long time after.
He’s still around and I sometimes see his name come up on Facebook posts. He seems like a decent guy in his comments. I bear no ill will toward him though I do think his conduct toward an awkward and uncertain kid back in the day was kind of dickish.
If anything, noticing his presence now reminds me that there are people out there who may view me in the same way, carrying memories that linger of things and words from me that left wounds on them. It reminds me to measure my words and actions, taking a moment to consider how they might come across to others. Even so, I am sure I still occasionally wound others, though usually without intent or malice.
And that bothers me because I don’t know how to make up for it, outside of consciously trying to be a better person and trying to respect the wounds of others.
I guess that goes back to the title of the poem– why bother.
Oh, I have to add, I later came to greatly appreciate algebra and geometry on a practical level.
This Sunday Morning Music is from the Skinner Brothers, an independent band for the UK that has toiled in relative obscurity for years. They recently did a collaboration with Ren, who is also a famously independent artist, that has brought deserved recognition from much larger audience. I am not going to go into them except to say that this is an older song from them. This is Stupid Much? It always catches my attention when it comes on while I am painting. Maybe that comes from its feeling reminding of that wounded 14-year-old me.