Word Choice

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Driving around aimlessly, I listened to a friend try to explain their theory on instinct. They told me, “We don’t think when we speak, we just do it.” I don’t entirely agree— I hope I’m not the only one thinking before speaking— but there is always an element of reflex in how we speak; we reach for what is nearest to us: familiar words, sentence structures, and concepts.

There is a sort of rhythm and convention to our words. To put this into perspective, think of the way that sentences are structured in English as opposed to other languages. In Spanish, adjectives are found after the noun, making “casa roja” the correct structure in contrast with English’s “red house.” Or take Mandarin, where there are no verb conjugations. Basic structures, even at the fundamental level of the language itself, formulate how we think.

Beyond structure, there are also conceptual differences in global communication, specifically words from other languages that don’t exist in English. These deficits might be as superficial as a word for weight gained from stress eating (German: kummerspeck) or run as deep as ideas and feelings that we don’t verbalize culturally. Consider the longing for somewhere that cannot be returned to (Dutch: hiraeth), the bittersweet awareness that a moment will end (Japanese: aware), and the beauty of imperfection (Japanese: wabi-sabi). English can be manipulated to summarize the meaning, but the translation lacks the cultural connotation and spirit that would otherwise be intrinsically linked with the word.

Having words to validate your thoughts or feelings makes a world of difference. In the dystopian book 1984 by George Orwell, the government strips citizens of their voice and capacity for thought with each edition of its “Newspeak” dictionary. Without the words and ideas to formulate their feelings, the citizens cease to have the means to comprehend and respond to their environment, leading to a loss of independence of thought and individuality.

This concept applies not only to words we lack but also to words we are reduced to. Social media produces trends, including those in language. The rapid development of slang is entertaining, but I open comment section after comment section to only find recycled lines. I deleted TikTok when I noticed myself struggling to think of a response other than “Slay” to anything and everything; I was scared of losing my voice.

I look to others for inspiration. My interest isn’t limited to grandiose word substitutes, like using pulchritudinous instead of beautiful; everyday mannerisms are just as noteworthy. I keep an ongoing record on my phone of words, phrases, and ideas that I like, ranging from March madness terminology (“How’s your bracket?”) to words I stole from reading (ennui), and everything in between.

The way we communicate speaks volumes about who we are. In understanding different mannerisms and seeking to diversify my own, I strive for growth, however subtle.

Literacy Narrative

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Before reading was a hobby, it was a chore. My mom decided to teach me to read before I entered kindergarten. Bob books were my first texts, where simple words like Mat rhymed with “sat” and “pat.” I resented the task, struggling through the sentences, and the simple content did 

not reward my imagination. My first sentiments towards reading were obligation and burden.

Listening to stories was different. My little brother and I would crowd my mom’s lap as she sang of snowmen that came alive and narrated the tales of boys with too-long names.

Eventually, my personal reading gained inspiration. The sentences acquired depth beyond Pat talking to Mat, and my head was soon filled with tales of witches with too much spaghetti, boys born from peaches, and maids that took everything literally.

In first grade, I remember my teacher calling out to me to sit with the class on the story mat after independent reading time. Looking up from my book, I realized I was the only one still at my desk: the only one still reading. My teacher laughed at my surprise, saying that I had been too immersed in the book to notice that everyone had moved.

In elementary school, I was a voracious reader. I consumed hundreds of books, keeping my mom on a constant visitation schedule with the local library. I read solely fiction, devouring stories of magic, high school, and mythical creatures. I stayed up late into the night and read through the morning, emerging from my room starved when I finished the book. When my mom started chastising me for staying up too late, reading became a clandestine operation. I hid miniature flashlights behind books and in my drawers, smuggling them out once my mom came by as a final goodnight. I hunched over the book with my little light, listening for her footsteps. Usually, I got away with it.

School-wide, reading became less and less popular as a hobby. In sixth grade, my English teacher made us fill out reading logs, tracking our weekly minutes and requiring that we reach a minimum amount. A classmate of mine complained to me about the unreasonable nature of the task. “How can we read this much?” she griped. I nodded in agreement, pretending that I hadn’t easily surpassed it myself.

Then I became her. Reading, once one of my most consuming hobbies, fell out of relevance to me. In middle school, the required reading suddenly became an obstacle.

At the end of junior year, I was tired of my phone, repetitive pop culture language, and unoriginal thoughts. I was losing myself, I thought. I checked out a book on a whim. I liked the feel of the paper and the weight in my bag; I liked how it grounded me. The following summer, I got my own library card for the first time since elementary school. I went weekly, and the faces of the library employees grew familiar. I revisited my dated Goodreads account, connecting with some of my friends that read and finding inspiration in their relationships with books. I aggressively devoured new texts, seemingly trying to compensate for wasted time.

My mom has always been an overarching tie to the literary world. Besides fostering my relationship with books, she nourishes her own. As the busiest person I know, she listens to audiobooks while multitasking. She started a book club with the neighborhood moms, and every few months I hear them in the kitchen laughing over their wine or see the remnants when she brings home the leftover snacks.

Now here I am at the beginning of senior year, trying to find the time to read the book on my nightstand and snagging recommendations from my mom, friends, and the internet for later pursuit.