When I had a chat with a previous classmate in primary school, I thought of Jen.

“Don’t you know? Several years ago she was sent to private therapy.”

“For what?” 

“Depression.”

That was the last time I heard of her. No one knew what happened later.

I was shocked, and couldn’t help feeling guilty about her, drowning in the early memories that became clearer and sharper.

She was skinny, with a thin and sallow face. Prominent cheekbones, small eyes and fluffy hair that was always disobedient. Silent and taciturn, she sat in the corner with a boy who moved his desk a little bit away from hers everyday and shouted, “Get lost!”

“Keep quiet when we are talking!”

“Why don’t you just be invisible here?”

“I will tell the teacher about your cheating! You glanced at my paper!”

Although she did nothing wrong, she was unfortunately others’ punch bag.

Once, unexpectedly, she came to me with a picture in her hands. She stood beside me for a while, sweating with anxiety and asking me in a low voice about whether her work was qualified enough for the coming competition. Many classmates lowered their voices, whispered, and stared at us. I feared their views so I decided to stand against her. I glanced at her picture that was kind of wet and said, “Well. It looks kind of stupid...how could a butterfly be in that shape?”

Her face and ears suddenly turned red, being short of breaths that seemed to prevent her from crying out. Eventually she rolled her painting into a paper ball. Few days later, she was suspended for school for crazily tearing the hair of a girl who said her painting was a “stupid thing.”

Not until the years later I knew how language could be violent. I blamed myself as one of the accomplices who used violent language to bring Jen to destruction of spirits.

In middle school I found myself distinct from others who had grown much taller than me. I was the most distinguishable one who could be easily recognized by being compared with others around me; I was also the most undistinguishable one who easily lost in a crowd. I did not find such a difference important until others kept reminding me any time any place by their language.

Dwarf, Thumbelina, White Ground, they gave me lots of alternative names. Wherever they met me they called me out loud, with others either familiar or unfamiliar whispering and chuckling to each other. The words were hornets buzzing, surrounding and stinging me. I felt my cheeks and ears heated and I was at a loss for words and actions. Jokes and names were far from enough. I was held up as an object of ridicule.
For long I had no way to get out of the hurts their language brought to me. I talked less, held silence over words, locked myself in my own world so that they had no more attention or judgments on me. I distanced myself from others to have a peaceful period. But one day a boy broke up my silence and irritated me again.
“Look! You are as tall as that broom!” He laughed.

The broom left in the back of the classroom had fallen into oblivion. It leaned on the wall in a grey corner and lived in dust and rubbish. I suddenly realized I was imprisoned by those words that negated me, denied me, shifted my negative emotions and destroyed my hopeful expectations. I became a lifeless broom, being silent and resigned to accept those words, believing them to be true that I should be insignificant and invisible just because I was short. And I just realized that violent language could kill one’s happiness and confidence, especially in a time when our self-recognition and mind were still immature.

Violent language, like those hate speeches, fighting words, name calling, threats, slanderous curse, cruel metaphors, swear words, has the power as strong as a gun that kills a physical body.

As for Jen, I believed the chronic and repetitive hurts brought by others’ violent language must be a significant torture for her at that young age. I was not sure if her depression was directly related to the experiences but I had realized the languages should have destructed her spirits to some extent and brought her to the eventual lose of control and aggression.

I have seen too much language violence in our life. It is a pervasive crime being committed everyday by offenders who may just vent their anger and unpleasure but leave the victims in mental afflictions. And when we feel upset or complain, teachers and parents just tell us, “Don’t be too sensitive. It is just a joke. Don’t take it too seriously.”

Why is it that people who ruin others’ good moods and kill others’ spirits with violent language are seldom blamed or criticized? Why should the victims instead justify the language to be nonviolent by persuading themselves not to be too vulnerable or sensitive?

Always thinking of Jen, I felt regretful but it was too late to compensate anything. The only thing I can do is to remind myself, to remember I should be careful as well as responsible for my speeches and have more considerations and understanding for others. I do not need to say flowery language to cater to others but I can at least, not hurt them. Since language has power, it can be instructive but also destructive.