I’ve been doing a rather intense amount of processing in the past couple of weeks. Both on my blog and in my often busy mind, the resulting purge of thoughts have been doing the work I believe they are intended to. We are supposed to feel the emotions inspired by our reflections. Those feelings are supposed to guide us in our actions moving forward.

Lately, the topics that have been taking up space in my brain (and on my blog) are complicated, to say the least. The weight of the words we speak, the ways in which we define our individual sense of safety and final farewells with loved ones are life events that consume my days; and the hours in which I attempt rest.

The power that the words we choose to speak hold wore heavily on my heart as I sent my son off to school each day this week. After an eye-opening weekend spent with two sixth grade boys, I felt more aware than ever of what he was facing as a social being at school. As a result, I felt more frightened for him. At times, I was sick to my stomach over the thought of him navigating the flurry of hate-speech that seems to flow from the mouths of adolescents like projectile vomit.

“Joey isn’t dating Lily anymore.” My son said to me one afternoon this week. “He got dumped by her.”

Now I know little Joey. In an attempt to empathize and keep the conversation going, I asked how little Joey was feeling following being “dumped.”

“He’s cool with it. He doesn’t even like her anymore. He says he wishes she were dead.”

I’ve had several perspectives offered to me regarding the speech patterns our children use with each other and the way they interact with each other. Reactions from other parents range from shared horror at what our youth are exposed to before they even hit junior high to, “we had it just as bad back in my day.”

In my opinion, us “back in the day folk” are only half correct. True are right, kids still had a tendency to be hateful towards one another in the 80’s and 90’s. I can recall a handful of memories built by some ill-meaning kids from my school years; but I won’t do that here. Not today.

The difference between the kids we were then and kids today, is that I did not fear the students who were making my days at school more of a challenge. My biggest concern was if the guy that went around barking in all the students faces was going to bark in mine, today. (looking back, maybe we should have been concerned.) He wasn’t going to put his hands on me. He hadn’t called me on the phone the night before, trying to arrange a fight for the next day. Never once did I fear he was going to shoot my classmates and I.

Not for one second am I attempting to over-simplify what is clearly a multi-level problem. Know that. What I can confidently say is that to compare the system we got our education in to the one our children are attending is a massive oversight in perspective that we cannot afford to make. Children today are facing what we did, much more; all in the age of the intranet where none of our words or actions can be escaped. Ever.

Saying “I wish she were dead,” will never again hold the same weight or meaning that it did in the 80’s and 90’s. To me, saying these words in the same flippant, gossip-ridden manner one would have said them twenty years ago is to rub our right to life in the faces of those we have lost tragically in learning spaces that have become war zones.

What can be done? For me, it has become about changing the focus of conversations with my child. That change began last weekend in the company of two sixth-grade boys who clearly craved guidance back to a path that felt more natural to them: kindness.

“He wishes she were dead?” I asked my son. “What do you think that means? What does it mean to wish someone dead?”

For my son, being asked to stop and think about the words he had just so easily uttered, was enough. “To wish someone were dead would mean that they weren’t here anymore. You would never see them again and no one else would, either.”

I didn’t have to explain to my son what that loss meant. At age eleven, he has felt the loss of a close family member three times, now.

“Wow, that would be sad,” I said to him with geniune empathy in my voice, “do you think that is what your friend really meant?”

“No,” my son said thoughtfully, “Joey may just be embarrassed that he got dumped. He may just not want to hang out with Lily or see her anymore because of that.”

Later in my son’s life, I hope that these conversations bring the true meaning of the words we speak, the attention they so deserve. The words we speak have the power to either reveal or cover up (no matter how temporarily) the feelings we are experiencing. If we can learn to express ourselves accurately and pointedly through the words we speak, we stand to avoid miscommunication and to get our needs met more effectively, in life.

The gift of language, both written and spoken, is one that has been handed down in my family through generations. Growing up, my parents shared their version of the worlds most beautiful language in musical and written form. As a result, my brother and I harbored a deep appreciation for literature and music of all genres. We also both became writers who never turned away from public speaking opportunities. Growing up, we were given endless avenues to explore and fall in love with, all of the ways we could express ourselves with words. What modalities do you use to explore the wide world of language? How do you share these opportunities for growth and learning with your children?