Abacus, abstain, abode…
Words have always captivated me. In fourth grade, whilst other kids gravitated to rock candy, I was flipping through my kids’ edition of the Merriam-Webster dictionary. I didn’t need candy when I had something even sweeter. I had words.
Brevity, bookish, betwixt…
Clutching a $10 bill, my nine-year-old self entered the book fair full of colorful chapter books, little gadgets, and candies. Rushing towards the sunshine yellow and lime green cover, I grasped the paperback pocket dictionary, carefully tracing the astronaut and ladybug on the cover with my little fingertips. As I stood in line to pay, my mom took one glance at the dictionary, only to laugh in utter confusion.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “Madison, are you sure you don’t want a book?”
“This is a book,” I retorted, my eyes fixed on the front of the line. I wanted a dictionary, and I was bringing it home with me tonight.
Cacophony, cadence, connotation…
Words were my favorite treat because they held the sweetness of deeper meaning. Like hard candies, I let words sit on my tongue, savoring every bit of sweetness as they melted in my mouth. With my dictionary—an endless candy jar—I was ready for the sugar rush that could last me a lifetime.
I’ve always been precise with my words because that is how I convey the meaning of my inner thoughts. Everything in spoken languages is dependent on definitions. During conversations, I often ask, “How do you define this word?”. Definitions reveal one’s thought processes. Differences in definitions enable us to understand subtle yet imperative differences in perspective. We might say the same words and mean entirely different things. The same words can hold entirely different meanings. Meaning constructs definitions.
Keen, kinetic, kaleidoscope…
Flipping through definitions, I wrote down my favorite words in a composition notebook: punctilious, parsimonious, pugnacious. I reveled in their sounds, letting each syllable roll off my tongue. I began using complex words because I equated complexity with intelligence. Did I understand how to integrate these fancy words naturally into conversation? Absolutely not, nor did I understand how to use words in general to communicate and connect with people. Interjecting words like “lugubrious” or “subsequently” became my not-so-subtle way of flaunting my intellect. Bravery comes in all forms—speaking like a walking thesaurus is one of them.
I learned the hard way that reading the dictionary for fun was not the ticket to popularity. Despite my vast vocabulary, I struggled to express myself. When I tried to string words, like little beads, into bracelets of meaning, they slipped through my fingers, disconnected and scattered. However, I reassured myself that even if I didn’t have friends, at least I had words.
Effulgent, eloquent, enigmatic…
Composed of pages and potential, my friends simply came in a different form. I discovered new friendships in books. Combinations of words constructed companionship and characters. Words became meaningful through stories, bringing joy and solace, transcending definitions to infuse meaning into touching narratives.
Reading became my fairy tale of “happily ever after.” I immersed myself in books beneath bed covers. Despite my mom’s encouragement to play outside, I always had a strategy. When she called, “Reading time is over, Madison, get up!”, I’d insert a few protests and pretend to begrudgingly hand over the book. But really, I had already finished that book. I kept a set of books I was currently reading hidden underneath my bed and in the sock drawer of my dresser for good measure. But I also hid from the outside world of real life and real people.
Nebulous, nocturnal, nexus…
It was simple. Why did I need people when every interaction felt like an impending disaster? Why bother with conversations that made me feel like a fly under a magnifying glass microscope? Scrutinized and dissected? Making friends was already hard; keeping them was even harder. Whenever my parents inquired about school friends, I’d scowl before confidently retorting, “I don’t need people. I have books.” They hoped I’d have “real friends,” made of flesh, not fiction. Yet characters weren’t merely “imaginary friends”; they lived within the meticulously crafted realities of my mind. Everything I’ve ever needed or wanted resided within pages.
Or so I thought. After a decade of retreating to my room, closing the door, and delving into books, I spent most of my time alone. Immersed in two-dimensional book pages, I hid from the three-dimensional richness of living. For the school play in middle school, while everyone else sat with their friends, I sat with my parents, feeling left out and out of place. The same feeling of exclusion crept in when I observed others going on vacation with friends or hanging out together after school. Although I cherished my book characters, I still needed genuine connections. The concepts of “having a best friend” and “hanging out” felt foreign to me. While people were friendly with me, that did not mean we were friends. People’s friendliness only highlighted the distance between us. Books only partially fulfilled my social needs because, as humans, we inherently needed each other. I felt a need to venture beyond fiction and embrace the stories of those around me.
Jubilant, jocular, jaunt…
I began my journey with words believing that the dictionary contained all the answers. I championed the straightforward and concise definitions it provided. However, later I realized that relying solely on dictionaries left me lacking a deeper understanding of vocabulary. Essential concepts, such as friendship, kindness, and connection, couldn’t be adequately defined in a dictionary. Friendship, for instance, cannot be found in the dictionary. Friendship is lived and breathed through moments spent with those you love.
Before college, stepping out of my comfort zone to form genuine friendships became my goal. I endeavored to understand others’ stories by asking questions — no longer seeking definitions from a dictionary but through conversation and curiosity. I wished to truly engage with people to discover the stories they held and the vocabulary we shared. One of my favorite ways to delve into someone’s thoughts is by taking a walk around campus. As an avid speed-walker and speed-talker, I synchronize my walking pace with the tempo of my thoughts. Wandering around campus and up Science Hill, my friends and I pondered deep existential questions, such as which dining hall has the best pizza (Morse and Stiles).
Luminous, loquacious, labyrinthine…
I have been blessed with wonderful friends and acquaintances in my math classes (trauma truly does bind people together) and through the Christian Union. Through late-night karaoke sessions and long runs with my close friends, I realized I always enjoyed being around people. I just didn’t know how to use my words effectively to connect with those around me. Words were the answer, but not in the way I expected. They hold meaning because of the individuals who use them and the narratives they craft. They—like us—cannot survive alone.
Abacus, abstain, abode… many words later, I still have my dictionary, tucked away on the bookshelf of my childhood room. I began as a student of words, now a student of stories. Words are not meant to be quarantined in a dictionary; they’re meant to be woven together to form stories— both on the page and in person. Words, like people, gain strength and significance when connected. When you connect words, you craft stories. When you connect people, you create meaning.
Communicating with words is how humans create connections and translate experiences and emotions. Words are not simply strings of letters woven into language. Words are strings of connections that weave people from humans into humanity.
Words do not live in precision and perfection. Words live in perspective and people.