In my youth, I came across a professor who became particularly vexatious one day in employing what most of us consider profanity. Making the point that words don’t hurt, he asked us students, “How would it hurt you if — hypothetically — I called you a — (because this is a family newspaper, I can only imply the sexual and scatological tenor of his quote).”
Actually the words, directed at me, didn’t hurt, but I explained, even back in the dark ages, when a professor’s word was law, that if he were to use and intend such words, I wouldn’t like it. My point, as articulately as I was allowed to express it, was that words reflect attitudes. Ergo, if you refer to me as someone with aberrant sexual tendencies, you are likely trying to instigate trouble.
That unexpected demonstration of how semantics works has caused me to marvel at the power of words. I emphasize that nothing inheres in words that is harmful; words are merely a manifestation of feelings, love or hate or things in between.
The level and tone of the language often escalates. Monday, I got clobbered while attempting a left turn on my way to work. A large pickup with a horse trailer and Texas plates rear-ended by car, sending it 40 feet forward and flattening the back of the driver’s seat. Not fully aware of what had happened, I pulled over, performed the customary inspection of the rear panel and waited for the driver to check his front bumper.
I feared what might follow. How long before my parents’ marital status gets called into question? Instead, the other driver and his passenger, probably his son, approached me with considerable concern. They wanted to make sure I wasn’t hurt or that they hadn’t damaged my car. “Amazing,” the son said as he noted no obvious damage to my car or to me and reached out to give me a reassuring hug. No harm, no howl.
I’ve always believed that anticipation is usually worse than the event itself. Because I’ve witnessed and participated in confrontations over even smaller collisions, I expected the Texas duo to have some harsh words for me, like, “You shouldn’t have stopped where you did,” or “You would have been in trouble if our prize stallion had been in the trailer.” Instead, the occupants of the other vehicle made the coming together almost pleasurable. I was tempted to say, after I shook my head to make sure I really had a headache, “Nice running into you.”
Contrast that with other confrontations you witness daily. Invariably, people start off with purr words which grow stronger: “You should watch where you’re going, sir” festers to “You #@*!@#%, you don’t belong on the road.” And a full-blown discourse becomes, “Wanna step outside?”
Words are a prelude to action. They represent what people feel inside but in and of themselves denote nothing.
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In many places, writing a check won’t cut it. Count the number of restaurants in town that won’t accept them. Several places, stung by customers who wrote bogus checks, display those checks on the counter. That serves double duty: to reinforce the restaurant’s no-checks policy, and to discourage the dead-beat from doing it again.
Until recently, I believed a money order was a safe, guaranteed alternative to a check. How can one go wrong? The m.o., written for an exact amount and issued by a bank or other business is a guarantee that the buyer is above board.
That’s what my youngest son Ben believed as he accepted a Western Union money order for a mint-condition motorcycle he’s kept polished up but seldom rode. A color photo of the cycle even appeared in a recent issue of “Cycle” magazine.
Handing over the keys, Ben felt good about the transaction, until the next day when he tried to cash it at his credit union in Albuquerque. It seems the buyer had stopped payment on the money order before handing it to Ben. Apparently, the man who absconded with Ben’s bike had reported the money order lost a day or two before. That way, while keeping the original, the buyer was apparently able to get his money back.
Carlos Lopez, manager of Lowe’s on Mills, where Western Union money orders are sold, said that in his experience, few people ask for refunds on “lost” money orders, and even then, the decision on refunds is made at a higher level. And for money orders larger than $1,500, Lopez said, the buyer’s name and I.D. are required.
Christine Ludi, branch manager at State Employees Credit Union, commiserated over the way my son got cheated, and she explained the way to handle a money order from a stranger is to require the buyer to accompany the seller to the bank.
She added, “Technology today is so sophisticated that anyone can print up checks to himself that look just like the real thing.”
Good point. Ben’s anguish is not solely over the loss of the motorcycle but over the unmitigated gall of some con artists. Ben looked up several other cycle classified ads in the Journal for that week, made some calls and discovered that two other people had been offered a money order for their cycles, possibly from the same person.
What happened to the cycle? Police located it in the back of a stolen pickup truck the next day. Ben wonders if the con artist issued a bogus m.o. for the pickup as well. Ben reclaimed the slightly damaged bike, but only after paying an impound fee steeper than spending a weekend at the Hilton.
Should Ben, now sadder but wiser, ever see the con artist again, I wonder which non-hurtful words he’ll be tempted to use on him.