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On the cusp of the summer solstice, a lone peony bloomed in my garden. Its dazzling fuchsia petals unfurled one by one last night until there it was in the morning sun, starring in its own day of glory. It was alone because its ephemeral brethren were already distant memories, having exploded around Memorial Day. I’d been rooting for this little underdog for weeks. One of my five peony plants just gets going later than the others. In fact, this year, I feared that it was dead and considered pulling it up until I saw a hint of growth. I thought that it might just produce greens, but, sure enough, it had a single bud that had suddenly and gloriously opened. My late bloomer.
As I gazed at it, I thought about its moniker. Late bloomer. Why was it late? Because the others were first? Was it a freak? An aberration? A disappointment? Hardly. It was a joy, a star, a vision. Its debut date was its own, not to be judged by those that had come before. If I didn’t call the others premature, why would I call this one late? In most cases, “late” implies “negative.” It is a value-laden word. After a moment of thought, I decided to change its name. My lovely flower became my “alternate bloomer.”
Ridiculous, you might say. If you look up bloom time for peonies, it will say Memorial Day. In fact, that’s incorrect. Bloom time for peonies varies with longitude and latitude, climate, and weather. I don’t know the workings of the genetics of this individual plant, or the particular ecology of the ground beneath it. Some combination of nature and nurture conspired to make this peony bloom on this day. It’s not late and it’s not early. It’s the perfect day for this plant at this moment.
My episode with the peony made me realize how much my relationship to language has changed over the last few years. As a psychotherapy educator, I had used words like “immature,” “maladaptive,” and “primitive” for defenses that I now know are lifesaving. I had taught about “maternal” and “paternal” transferences, even though not everyone is raised by a man and a woman. And I shudder to think about my use of the descriptor “childless,” suggesting that somehow that is a pathological state. I realized that my use of language—even in my private formulations—reflected biases I didn’t even know I had.
I thought about how this change in my relationship to language had occurred. Certainly, the events of the past year have made me think carefully about how I talk about race, gender, and other aspects of identity. I’ve learned much of this by reading and by consuming media. But my most important teachers have been my colleagues and students. Working in groups has made the difference. The co-teacher who helped me to teach about dyads and triads, rather than about pre-Oedipal and Oedipal relationships. The co-author who convinced me that using “their” in the singular was more inclusive than “he/she.” Without them, I might not have thought twice about words that I’d been taught and used for decades. Here are some ideas that I have developed for myself about how to keep changing my language:
1. Pay attention to my feelings. More and more, certain words or phrases just make me feel bad—anxious, sad, angry. I felt that when I thought about the late bloomer—sort of melancholy, as if I pitied the poor disappointing bud. I think that I’ll continue to use those feelings to help me to question the language I use.
2. Share writing and presentations with others. There was a time when I felt that publishing without sharing was freedom. Now it seems like hubris. I learn so much from those who read my drafts, often about my own language biases. So, I’m going to keep that up too.
3. Don’t be defensive. If someone suggests that the language I am using reflects a bias, I’m going to believe them and try not to be defensive. It’s so easy to try to explain the usage, but that generally hides a blind spot.
Recently, someone asked me when I thought we’d all get back to a time when we could say anything so long as people knew that we had good intentions. My answer was, “Never, I hope!” Our words shape our thoughts, our feelings, and our relationships. They are important and need to be ever-changing. As I write this, I see that I have an alternate bloomer on the rhododendron outside my window. I generally expect them on the 4th of July, but here it is now. What a lovely treat.
