Words

"Write under your own name he said. There's no reason not to take credit for your own work." We were at a baseball game, and I had to squint to keep the setting sun from poking me in the eye.

"Aw, I don't know." I sipped my beer and tried to explain my reluctance to put my name on my work. The conversation started because I said I hold back my real work, my best writing. I said I feared not that nobody would read my writing, but that someone might steal it and pass it off as his or her own.

"Yaaa," he said, waving off my argument into the summer air. "Words. They're just words, and there are plenty of them to go around. Say what you want to say and take credit for it."

I had been to protective of myself. It's not that I think I write all that well, but when I create something, I want credit where credit is due. It has been on my mind lately. Several years ago, I was invited to consult with a very well-known and respected organization that provides technical support and training for agencies around the country that work with refugee populations. I was hired to do some training on the West Coast, and it went well.

I felt a bit uneasy, though, because as I was facilitating the training session, I noticed that one of the people from the organization that had brought me here was taking copious notes and collecting one copy of each handout in my presentation. Several times in the course of the day, this woman commented to me, "That was a really good point." or, "I never thought to explain it that way."

About a year later, I was on the program at a conference about connecting communities and including newcomers in community building. I sat in the front row of a large auditorium downtown. After I spoke, a group from The Organization got up to talk about cultural adjustment in the context of immigration. Looking up at the huge screen on stage, I was more than a bit stunned to see slides from my training program being used. Without my permission. Without even a nod of credit. Without any acknowledgement that I was even in the room.

My coworkers were all shooting me the "WTF" look. I wanted to stand up and shout, "Screw you! How dare you steal my work and imply that it's your own?"

The feeling took a long time to pass. A really long time. There's a possibility it still hasn't passed. Maybe this is also why I feel like it doesn't matter what name I type onto the page. Maybe it's why I can't bear to say all of those words that held in safe keeping deep inside of my head.

Words. Does anyone listen? Does anyone pay attention anymore? Does anyone go beyond the soundbite? Do words matter? Do I have anything worthwhile to say? Probably not so much.

This was actually a good month for words. I was on the local public radio station earlier in the month, and then on national network news, and very recently on NPR--nationally and in the middle of drive time. My words, my voice, my thoughts. Did anyone listen? I'll never know, but I was encouraged to learn that people at major media outlets thought my words were worthwhile enough to share the airwaves with far more important and interesting minds.

Oddly enough, I was so emotionally and intellectually drained after my tour-de-media, that there were no words left for my journal. It's unfortunate because there's actually a lot going on in my life and in my brain, and I know that getting it all out in words keeps me from getting lost in my head. My sense of direction is already starting to wane.