Language

When I was growing up, I remember the Old Timers spoke their own Language. Their Voices had a Lilt which seemed like Melody to me. Their Language was colorful, invoking: Vivid Images, Humor, Drama, Story, Wisdom. Somehow, their Speech was efficient, quick and to the Point. They spoke volumes in a few spare words and in those words, you knew right where they stood.

Those Dear Old Ones spoke words in their own way. Those Ways defined the Place that was Home. There was no other place where Language was spoken exactly the same. Those Words were our own. The Old Ones did not follow standard Webster's dictate, nor did they feel constrained by rules of how words should be arranged. As a Child, I took comfort in what I heard. Their lovely Voices meant that I was Home.

Then Little Glinda headed off to School. School taught me the "correct way" to say and put words together. Implicit in our arrogant taught protocol was that the Language of my Elders was bad and it was wrong. For the Child, shame was a result.

Over the years, Richard and I had a lot of Education. With each level we attained, we were further removed from the Local Color of our Roots. Springing up all around us were other Educated Ones who spoke the same Monochrome, Colorless Language of the Educated Elite.

I sometimes wonder what it must have been like for our Elders to "watch us go". As I age, I can imagine that was a very sad time, for them and now I know, for me too.

One element of that shift is evident in words which will be used frequently over the coming weeks. "Molasses". "Sorghum". The Educated Elite (which also includes those who have had to carve out the identity of this word in a harsh industrial world) call the product that we make "Sorghum" or "Sweet Sorghum Syrup". They scoff at the term "Molasses".

Yet, for our Family, Molasses, it is. While I have heard the Syrup called "Sorghum", Molasses is the term we use in their parts.

The Old Me would have ditched the local language and headed to the safety and comfort of the language of the Powerful Educated Elite. The New Me knows that Local Language and Identity are being Lost. After a path through my Life with numerous dips and sways, I choose to call it what the Old Ones would have known it to be.

I do regret that the Language that I speak is the same Dull, Monochrome of the Educated Elite. For one brief moment, I should like to fall back into the language of my Elders. I find their speech as comfortable as a worn, but favorite, pair of shoes. But I cannot do that. I do find myself remembering and integrating isolated words and phrases. I like that. Maybe, over time, I will remember more.

I must say that I am glad that at last I have made peace with the Language of my Past. Yes, it is the Language of the my Past. But those Words are also inherent in who I am and who I will always be.