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To be honest (ah, and I didn’t mean the irony, but here it is) I am afraid of honesty. I am afraid of the commitment and the work that it takes to be fully honest, afraid of the way you might look at me if I lay it all down, real: I want this relationship but I don’t want to have to work so damn hard at it, I want to be able to reach over and kiss you when I feel like it without all the little worries, the snag of jealousy, I just want us to keep using words like fun when we describe each other and I don’t need it to graduate into words like beauty and only.

The other day I read an article that suggested that people create a lot of misery for themselves by speaking in ways that are too vague, by pussyfooting around things, evading, all noncommittal pauses and generalizations. Instead of explaining why you don’t want to do something, just speak one word, no. They even had an example: Mary asks, “do you want to go to a movie after dinner?” You can reply, “I really have a lot to do before work tomorrow, and I haven’t gotten as much done as I expected, so I think I shouldn’t.” Or you can say, “No.”

I will confess that I was stunned. Imagine: no apology, no explanation, no hedging around, just one word, flat and true. No. And I will admit that it terrified me a little bit, too. More than a little bit, just thinking about it. How can you abandon the explanations and the apologies? What will people think? And as well, I was sort of turned on; thrilled, at least. Somewhat grandiose images of great, if minor, ethical stands began to materialize. Do you want another beer? No. Can you drive me to the store? No. Do you still love me?

They also suggested the elimination of words like should and could and ought: make them will or will not, and quit the half-asseding. I should go to the grocery store soon. I will go to the grocery store this afternoon. I should exercise. I will go walking for twenty minutes after dinner.

Most people don’t put that much commitment into their marriages, much less their sentences.

We talk about intentional language; things we speak that are taken for granted, that perpetuate problems that we are all the time pretending to try to solve. Don’t talk to me about equality and then use the word gay when you talk about something you don’t like. If we use the terminology of economics when we talk about ecological systems – the water budget of a desert rodent, the efficiency of a plant, gross resources or net loss of calorie – then we had better not act surprised when the ecosystem itself is viewed as an economic commodity. It can all be measured for profit or loss. We weaken ourselves when we qualify, add in a hundred iterations of I think and it seems to me and you know what I mean? Why are we so afraid to say something, anything, just say it? Not soft, not “I feel like this isn’t a good idea right now, you know?” Just say: “No.” The commercials had it right all along.

Words have power: that’s the purpose of this all, isn’t it? That’s why it matters if I say the words out loud: I love you. Or: I’m sorry. It matters if I describe her as struggling or if I say selfish instead. It matters for the people who speak out, who form real sentences out loud, about rape or harassment or cancer, there’s a reason that you stand up at the first AA meeting and say the words: I am an alcoholic. Sticks and stones have got nothing on them: words are where the real pain lies, the possibility of deception, of redemption, of that bare blaring honesty that I can’t seem to keep away from.

I am not nor will I ever be able to say everything I mean.

Without a doubt, the most terrifying, frustrating part of living in a Spanish-speaking country was language. I am a person of words, and my personality, my sense of self and self-worth are tied to my ability to communicate. It is maddening in English to be unable to find the word I want in any given sentence: counting is not the same as enumerating, red is not the same color as scarlet, and encapsulate does so much more than surround. To flail my way though a single day in Spanish, reduced to merely contar, rojo, sobre, knowing that I never ever was able to say quite what I meant and never really how I meant it, knowing that when I wanted to say I am drowning in the heavy scent of rain, the best I could communicate was el olor de lluvia me mata: the smell of rain kills me. They are not the same.

I want to tell you: I am drowning in the heavy air that has filled your absent place, I am submerged in the vacant, pale loss of your voice, my liquid eyes pleading, the shadows of loneliness refracting serenely across my face as I thrash madly to find the surface, to find a place where I can smell you still.

That is not a thing that I could have said in Spanish. The best my scrabbling, pathetic Spanish can pull off is: te extraño y este me mata tambien. I miss you and this is killing me, too.

Ani says it: Words are vitamins and life is short. So I find the pull to make the most of them, to decide that everything I say will be honest and worthwhile. No fucking around, now, here we go. But it’s hard because I like being vulgar. I like the startled look in people’s eyes when I speaking using words like cunt. I like breaking the expectation – here I am, hippie girl with these days long hair and blue eyes that I’m pretty sure I can say are pretty, maybe even pretty all around, and nobody seems to think that a pretty hippie girl will call you a cunt – though to be honest I suppose I enjoy the reaction just as much when I use words like avuncular and mycorrhizae. Because nobody expects a pretty hippie girl to be smart, either.

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