Yes, Please, Thank You: The Value of Words in Social Activism

Alex Granato, 2016 Ideas Incubator Fellow, USA

I am standing in a children’s playroom...tiny chairs, hand-painted posters, a cabinet packed with board games in softened, well-worn boxes.  I look around and in my head I count the words I know how to say in Polish: thank you, excuse me, yes, no, please, one, two.  I list them over and over again, forgetting pronunciation and practicing until they sound right again. They feel so meager, these scraps of language. I wonder how they could ever be enough to bridge the gap between my foreign, 22-year-old self, and the kids I am about to meet- the ones who consider this classroom a kingdom of their own making, who participate in this program (aptly called “Aim High”) after school every week, learning from each other and finding inspiration in all sorts of special projects.  The leaders here glow when speaking about them, showing off the latest bits of artwork and pointing to the equipment where the kids have been practicing circus routines (acrobatics and unicycles, to my amazement).  But they remind me, as well, that this organization was meant to serve a particularly underserved community.

“The kids probably will not know much English,” I am told at least twice.  Some come from difficult circumstances, some from homes with violence, others with parents working so many hours they barely have time to spare at the end of the day.  I am warned that some of them might be closed off to me entirely, and that their trust is hard-won.  I stare at a homemade poster that keeps track of birthdays in neat marker script. I count my Polish phrases one more time. Yes, please, thank you. One, two.

In the years that I have been surrounded by activists, I have developed a near-religious appreciation for the power of language.  I have learned to read the nuance in every phrase, how to dig through ordinary sequences of words for traces of micro-aggressions, how to dissect connotations and denotations and note their relationship to the ever-elusive concept of inclusivity.  I have spent this month here with HIA considering the power of hate speech, historically and contemporarily.  And at the same time, this past week, I watched as the heartbreaking words of a rape victim, shared in the now-infamous “Stanford letter,” started a national conversation about the need to challenge political and cultural systems of my country.  In short, I believe in words.  I believe in their power to bring beautiful change. I believe in their power to bring incredible harm.

So today, standing in the Aim High playroom, I cannot help but feel at a loss. Today, I am without the double-edged sword I’ve spent a lifetime learning to wield.  Thank you, please, one, two.  This is all I have to offer now.         

But then the door opens. The door opens and three girls tumble in and I realize that childlike laughter is a sound that is neither English nor Polish. It needs no translation. The squeals, the rushing, the hugs and petted hair are all so familiar to me. I breathe out a little. I smile, remembering that this, too, is universal. 

They are curious, bright-eyed. They find a map and I show them home. We trail our fingers across a printed blue sea and we count together, in a Polish/English blend, the number of hours it took my plane to bring me here to them.  I hold my hands to my heart. I laugh. I speak with sounds…gasps and excited squeals and a tone of voice that says, “be careful.” I find a board game from my own childhood on the shelves. I learn the word for “cookie.”  I get a makeover with juggling scarves. I play Twister in a pair of borrowed jeans.  I am hugged, in earnest, and I learn that in Polish, the word for “hello” also means “goodbye.” 

And when I leave I feel lighter, walking in the sun with the other fellows, turning over in my mind a phrase I heard once but cannot recall where…childhood is universal. That it certainly is.

And of course, I still worship at the altar of language. I still believe in words to comfort, protect, empower, and heal. I still believe activists should exercise deliberateness and the sometimes exhaustive patience that thoughtful speech and writing require.  This is how we reshape attitudes. This is how we make lasting change.  But every now and then I believe we would also do well to remind ourselves that connection does not rely solely on language.  Comfort does not rely solely on language. Celebration, commiseration, even change.  For all the time that we spend pulling at the meaning of the smallest phrases, we should sometimes wipe ourselves clean. We should go where no one will understand us. We should appreciate with overflowing gratitude the other ways that two people can try to bridge a gap.  We should strip ourselves down to yes, please, thank you.  We might be amazed at the results.