Swallowing Words

In the poem, “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed the Fly,” the subject of the poem is clearly unaware that her actions will lead to her demise; yet the “I” of the poem, the narrator, presciently possibilizes the old lady’s death from the start. As the poem moves forward and the old lady’s esophageal capacity seems to know no limits, the narrator’s foresight becomes increasingly convincing and urgent until it is ultimately realized. We do not know who this narrator is or their relationship to the old lady; yet given that the narrator characterizes her both as a “lady” and as “old,” commonplace gendered and agist notions hover about her as we try to comprehend her actions. Readers might wonder if the lady has the capacity to comprehend her circumstances or the ability to rationalize her seemingly inexplicable behavior. We are given to understand that the consequences of her actions are more than likely inevitable. Moreover, we are positioned with the narrator in clear distinction to the old lady. Like the narrator, we can only sit by and witness her destruction. We cannot help her, for she is clearly incapable of helping herself

Sometimes, however, the path to negative consequences may not initially seem quite as inevitable as what befalls the old lady. In spite of having our hearts in the right place and even when we make our best ethical and considered efforts, unforeseen negative consequences can arise. In what follows, I riff off the original poem as a means of accounting for the unanticipated momentum of catastrophe that may ensue, and which can engulf us even when we strive for good. The woman at the heart of my poem is me and is not me; some of the things described have happened to me or to people I know, and others have not but could. She is, or at least parts of her are recognizable in us who work in academic contexts while in the midst of these challenging politicized times. As with the original poem, I hope you will ask how you are positioned in relation to the woman at the heart of this poem. I wonder if you have the inclination and power to intervene?

I knew a young woman who swallowed some words.

She’d been told that they were not helpful or kind.

She swallowed her words to stop being heard.

For silence, she learned, is how a woman’s defined.

But words, she thought, might remake society,

and open our hearts to the world’s great variety.

She swallowed her pain and searched for a place

built upon kindness, generosity, and grace.

I knew a young woman who swallowed their texts.

Written by men, for men, and never for us.

She swallowed that “he,” meaning all human subjects,

Women’s voices, they said, were just too much fuss.

Erased and excluded, she choked on their logics,

Waiting for equity and seeking the just.

But words, she knew, could remake society,

and open our hearts to the world’s great variety.

Adding “she,” “her,” and “hers,” might give us that space,

built upon kindness, generosity, and grace.

I knew a young woman who heard words of bias

spoken as slurs against certain peoples;

they multiplied in culture, much like a virus.

She swallowed her silence, stood up to those evils

spoken by bigots with pretense as righteous.

She believed in a world where all could be equals,

where dignity, empathy, compassion, and justice

funded our words and empowered our speakers;

then hate might be stopped and love could instruct us.

“For words,” she vowed, “can remake society.

and open our hearts to the world’s great variety,

where people are valued whatever their race

in a culture of kindness, generosity, and grace.”

I knew a good woman who swallowed her fear,

and held to her dream of becoming a teacher.

Although it was hard, her purpose was clear:

to help students see how language could feature

new visions for people based on values we share.

“Look around,” she said, with considerable directness,

“There have been some changes, but don’t get complacent.”

Some folks just decry it as political correctness.

“But, language evolves, we just must be patient.”

“For words,” she told them, “do remake society

and they open our hearts to the world’s great variety.

Ensuring we’re valued should simply be commonplace;

let’s do it through kindness, generosity, and grace.”

I knew a good teacher who swallowed her speech

when students pointed, lashed out, said she was to blame

for mistakenly gendering and forgetting to teach

with pronouns they chose and not their dead name.

She recalled how in youth she argued her cause

when as a young woman she felt words erase her.

She was surely as touchy, demanding, at odds

with elders around her who failed to embrace her.

“Of course, I’m committed to honor your preference

with pronouns and names that better befit you!

It’s just I need practice,” she pleaded with deference,

“They, them, and theirs for one person is new!”

The last thing she wanted was to hurt her dear students,

mortified, she apologized and hoped for the best;

but gossip bred followers, their cause gained impudence.

“I’m an ally!,” she begged, “a circle is needed; that’s my request.

The lines you are drawing demand we use prudence.”

“That time is gone,” they yelled with impatience.

“Your gen has wasted what this gen was due.”

She swallowed her words, there’d be no renascence,

they were justly in pain given all they’ve gone through.

it isn’t just “wokeism,” like the right would aver,

pandemic, climate change, George Floyd and #MeToo,

active shooter drills in schools rehearse unending fear.

There’s no end of traumas our young are exposed to.

and no end of triggers our students might hear.

Their words were relentless and soon became weapons

when they posted on social and rendered their verdict.

A lifelong career could be ended in seconds,

how she responded would have to be perfect.

I knew a good teacher who swallowed those words.

She’d been told that they were not helpful or kind.

She swallowed those words to stop being heard.

For silence, she learned, is how a teacher survives.

But survival sans voice might well as be death

while she served out her years in hope for retirement.

“I can’t teach them,” she said, on a voiceless breath,

and ghostlike she shuffled away to irrelevance.

Words, she could see, did make society,

but hearts might not open to the world’s great variety.

She swallowed her words estranged by this place,

as she wished there was more kindness, generosity, and grace.