Express Yourself

I was seven or eight years old. It was the Fall of whatever school year my age lined up with. I honestly don’t remember because I have dissociative amnesia. (I was diagnosed with this about seven years ago. I don’t usually label it as such. Typically I say, “I don’t remember a lot of stuff from growing up” because it makes me feel less crazy.) It’s a protective device that my brain deployed in my childhood as a response to the stress and trauma of my upbringing. I can remember some things, some times, and other things not at all. I often remember parts of things and some random physical details and feelings. I remember my feelings vividly. 

My parents and I approached the entrance of my elementary school, dusk swallowing us as my dad jarred the door open. I was nervous. A plump child, I had rosy cheeks that ballooned when I smiled and engulfed my eyes into tight slashes. I was trying to overcompensate my nerves by smiling and beaming positivity as if I could change the weather and moods of those around me. 

My mom had been frantic before leaving. We were heading to my parent-teacher conference at the time my rigid father expected dinner on the table. He was extra cranky at this inconvenience and resented missing his routine repast and the subsequent six o’clock news for this, “stupid shit.” 

They’d been bickering before leaving and I'm sure I felt it was my fault for having been assigned this conference time or, probably most likely for simply being born. By the time my mom slashed her cheeks with Avon ruby red lipstick that doubled for blush and, rubbed it into her skin, Dad was already in the car. He leaned into the horn and bellowed into the backseat “Domenica! Go get your mother! She’s always late!” I bounced out of the station wagon and ran into the house to find my mom straightening her shirt and spritzing herself with perfume. My presence was enough for her to know what frigid angry silence awaited her in the car. 

As we made our way through the halls to my classroom, I prayed in my head that they'd act like normal people or, what I perceived normal people to be. (You know, the Brady Bunch standard. People who argued with a mere head tilt of disappointment and then got back to being unnaturally happy.) When we got to the classroom door, the student ahead of me was inside with their parents. I wanted them to finish so I could get in there and do what needed doing and get my parents back home where everyone at the school would be safe from their potential dysfunction. Plus, I wanted to show off the work I’d been doing and overplay that so we could focus less on the inevitable comment of “she talks too much in class.” 

The doorknob slammed open and high-pitched pleasantries escaped the classroom. We were up. I don’t remember much of the whirlwind of entering other than that my folks performed brilliantly as normal people. The part of the conference that is emblazoned in my memory is when my teacher used the two following words to describe me; conscientious and diplomatic. I was gobstopped. These were big words. I know for sure my parents had no clue what they meant but, they nodded their heads affirmingly reading her pleased tone. 

These words were long to seven or eight-year-old me. They sounded delicious and certainly meant incredible things about me. I remember sitting there, mesmerized by the soft and measured voice of my elegant and intelligent teacher. (In full transparency, the image in my head of her is a blurred amalgamation of about four teachers I had in elementary school. I can’t remember the exact teacher but, I’ll never forget those two words and that striking, empowering feeling hearing her say them felt. 

As the conference wrapped up and we neared closer to the end of my father’s seething hanger, I asked my mother for the progress report to keep. She obliged. I neatly folded it and gripped the paper as we walked through the now dark Autumn night sky as though a raven would swoop down and steal it from my hand. I needed that paper because it held the words the teacher had used to describe me. I needed to find out what they meant and what they meant about me. 

Upon returning home, I set the table and ate fastidiously. I was on a mission. Eat and get to a dictionary.

I wanted that dictionary from the moment those scrumptious-sounding words took flight into my ears. I knew better than to rock the already unsteady boat of my parents' mood than to ask for permission to look at it before we fed the angry King of the house and his indentured subjects. I was not going to do anything to upset the delicate balance that kept the drama from spewing in every direction.

Table cleared and dishes underway, I charged into my parents' bedroom which held an entire set of the Encyclopedia Britannica that my mom bought in installments from a door-to-door salesman. I plucked the dictionary off the shelf, excitement coursing through my little body and energy flicking into my brain. The smooth plumped cover felt cool under my fingertips. I unfolded the progress report and found the first descriptor, “conscientious”.

 Con·sci·en·tious kon-shee-en-shuhs Britannica Dictionary definition of CONSCIENTIOUS [more conscientious; most conscientious] : very careful about doing what you are supposed to do: concerned with doing something correctly She has always been a very conscientious worker. He was conscientious about following the doctor's orders. 

 Oh, wow! I thought. I sounded it out slowly and carefully. I was teeming with excitement at understanding the meaning of this word. I sucked in a calming, grounding breath. Oh, that smell! That heady chemical scent of paper and ink and…mmmmm…knowledge. I plunged my nose into the spine of this thick, magnificent tome and let the smell fill my small but increasingly strengthening spirit. “I am…con-schee-enschus.” I said this out loud. 

It was--to my young, curious and, exhilarated self--an absolute boon and badge of honor to have been described as this complimentary word. Next up?

Diplomatic. Dip·lo·mat·ic di·pluh·ma·tuhk Britannica Dictionary definition of DIPLOMATIC 1 : involving the work of maintaining good relations between the governments of different countries: of or relating to diplomats or their work Negotiators are working to restore full diplomatic relations. diplomatic credentials a diplomatic career 2 [more diplomatic; most diplomatic] : not causing bad feelings: having or showing an ability to deal with people politely We need to find a diplomatic [=tactful] way to say no. 

What a discovery! I was not only one amazing word, I was *another* amazing word. I splayed my right hand open and sounded out both words. Four syllables each. Index through pinky finger pointing out as I pronounced each syllable deliberately. Me. Domenica Pacitto was described as two, four-syllable words. 

I breathed in the smell of the dictionary one more time and marveled at the sheer wealth of information contained between the covers of this miraculous book. That was the night my love affair with language ignited and my obsession with the dictionary (and, not too long after) the thesaurus began. Inside those books lay the keys to the freedom of expression. The absolute total of everything you could need to decipher and describe the contents of the whole world. The ability and privilege to use all of the gorgeous words in our language to speak and write what I was feeling, seeing, and experiencing. 

I also learned that night about the power of perception and how some people (great teachers to be exact) boast the ability to see the capacity that lies inside other people. My teacher saw in me qualities that I had not understood I possessed. Her defining those characteristics freed their potential in me. Inside that freedom she granted me by sharing what she saw--beyond me celebrating these newly identified traits--she encouraged my ever present curiosity to understand and learn. The glory of the freedom of expression was born in me that very night. 

As soon as I could toss together a few dollars, I asked my parents to take me to Kmart to buy my own soft cover, Webster's dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus.

I wanted to have the whole arsenal of expression at my fingertips at all times. I carried them in my bookbag to and from school. Read and re-read them like works of fiction. Recited pronunciations like poetry. I basked in the privilege of this autonomous expression. 

I carried those soft cover guides to words throughout my elementary, middle school, high school and college years. Like a devout believer that carried their bible with them for reinforcement of faith, I, too, carried my "holy" books to bolster my vocabulary and language use. I carried them to curate my verbal creativity. The feeling I got when I reached for those books was truly one of freedom. I was no longer hindered or restrained from expressing myself (or, even understanding what it was I needed to express.) I was free to learn and use every word in those books. I was free to create with words. 

Renowned linguist Noam Chomsky said: 

“Language is a process of free creation; its laws and principles are fixed, but the manner in which the principles of generation are used is free and infinitely varied. Even the interpretation and use of words involves a process of free creation.” 

Years after my love affair with language blossomed, I found myself in a Journalism class, learning about the intricacies of freedom of speech.

Again, I cannot pinpoint the exact year of study but I lived for that class. I lived for the lectures of the brilliant scholar who schooled her students in the First amendment and the legal battles surrounding it. 

On another Fall day, in that college class, we were given a writing prompt and an hour to complete it. In my black leather, lovingly weathered book bag, were my beloved dictionary and thesaurus. I reached for them along with my pen and lined paper. I set them on my desk and beheld them like the beautifully bound Britannica of my childhood.

Inside those books--and, in the many other editions of dictionaries and thesaurus’ I began collecting--I was free to explore, learn and master the vast expanse and capacity of the English language. To me, the freedom to express yourself and to explore the art of words is amongst the greatest of our freedoms.