Tower of Babel-I Never Metaphor I Didn't Like

I have always rationalized that if I used my voice to speak someone else’s words to say what I want, I could simultaneously have a voice and never speak up at the same time. I am the Queen of reciting philosophical quotes to people and answering a question with a question. Metaphors became the bricks that built my Tower of Babel, and there was no way the big bad wolf could blow over my rationalization if I had built it in metaphor. They allowed me to say what I needed to while keeping my own pain and shame from the content. Metaphors were strong where I could not be. 

When people would ask me questions, I answered in metaphors. When they wanted advice, which they often do, I answered in metaphors. When they ask what I think, I respond in metaphors. Even my poetry is strongly constructed of metaphors. Writing this, I am thinking back to all the people over the years who have angrily screamed, “Don’t you ever give a straight answer?!?” It is suddenly clear to me why I do not; no one would listen.

There is a beauty in responding in metaphors to all questions. Rather than provide an answer that is not their own, I create a simple puzzle which one must decode themselves to come to their own conclusion. As they work, they take pride in the answer they have provided, convinced they had it all along. The best part is that because they believed they had the wisdom to solve the problem independently, they think that they don’t quite need me after all, and thus they are more likely to follow my advice, convinced it was their own all along.

One of my favorites as an educator is when students request extra credit but have not completed their work. I ask them: “If I gave you eight dollars an hour, and I offered you overtime, you would make twelve dollars an hour because it’s time and a half. That’s an extra four dollars per hour.” They nod. “Ok, so what if I told you, for your work today, you can have just four dollars an hour?” they begin to whine and say, 

“That’s not fair!” “What about the base pay?” “Why are we being treated like this?”

 I smile and casually explain, “This is what you’re requesting. You’re asking me to pay you four dollars EXTRA when you haven’t earned the eight to begin with, do you see?” At this point, they usually sigh and return to their seats. Moving forward, they do their work.

Another issue I deal with is bullying. I was bullied my whole life, which has strangely left me with an attitude of disinterest in the concept. However, I deal with students who are bullied, and I meet them with a metaphor. 

“Do you know why boats don’t sink?” 

They usually shake their heads no, to which I ask, 

“What would make a boat sink?” 

And they say, “If the water got inside it.” 

“Exactly. The boat is surrounded by water on all sides, and yet it won’t sink. It floats proudly, no matter how much water surrounds it. The only thing that can make it sink is allowing the water to get inside. You are like the boat; the water is words. They cannot hurt you; You can glide freely on their backs. The only way words can hurt you is if you let them in. Don’t let them in. You are made with buoyancy to withstand these moments. Don’t go against yourself and your purpose by letting some measly amount of water sink you. Now, I won’t lie, sometimes the water gets deep, and sometimes the water gets rough, but the truth remains: it cannot hurt you unless YOU let it in.”

A favorite metaphor I have about the importance of what we say is the “Broken Plate Metaphor.”  I have often had friends come to me and explain that they have said something unforgivable, and thus they need advice on how to fix it. I always reply the same way, and I must say, I’ve never told one person this twice. I say to them, 

“Go to your kitchen, take a plate from the cupboard, and smash it as hard as you can on the ground.” I wait. 

“Ok, now what?”

 “Tell it you’re sorry. That should fix the problem. Love ya, talk to you later.” 

“Wait! What? This did not help, and now I’ve made a mess! Seriously?”

 Now, no matter how serious this is, I laugh. I know you’re laughing. I always do. Come on! They just tossed a perfectly good plate on the floor. It’s funny. 

“Yes, I’m serious. Did telling it you’re sorry not work?” 

“No. Obviously not, Amanda!” 

“Oh, ok, what if you put it back together?” 

“Why? It’s broken; I need to throw it away.” 

“Ok, then. Throw it.”

“Wait. Why?”

Giggles. “Look, you made a mess. You can clean it and get rid of the evidence that it happened, or you could take the time and effort to put it back together. It will never be as it was before, but with your work and patience, it can get pretty damn close. The most important thing is that when you look at the plate and see the cracks from where it had been broken, you must never get mad at it for being broken, but rather acknowledge that you broke it. Mistakes happen. What matters is that we take the time to fix what we broke and do not blame the cracks for loss of beauty, but rather acknowledge the beauty of the cracks for what they symbolize. Your ability to overcome, put in hard work, and change.”

“That’s a lot of effort for a plate, dude.”

“It is. Is it too much effort for your girlfriend/boyfriend?”

This is usually where they say thank you; we share our ‘I love you’ and ‘stay safe’ and end the call to fix it. My friends, male and female alike, usually don’t take this long to get the point, but I have had a few. I didn’t tell them they needed to fix it; I gave them the option. I didn’t blame them; I gave them a chance to take responsibility. In taking responsibility for the solution, they also take responsibility for the issue, and they come out of the moment a better person. 

When writing poetry, I have often used metaphors to help me through some of the darkest moments in my life. One such moment was when I was sexually assaulted. I could not find the words to say what I needed to. I could not find the peace to come to terms with what had happened, but I could create the metaphor. And so, I wrote my pain in verse. I wrote the story of how the man everyone knew as the ‘sweetest guy at work’ worked his way into my home and assaulted me in my bed. I could not come to terms with reality, so I met the truth in fantasy. That ‘good guy’ became the huntsman, and I became Little Red. Of all the wolves who had so ferociously hit on me, the ones I had been warned against, one of them became a close friend, my solace, and it turned out the wolf wasn’t so bad after all.

“The Huntsman”

The whole town knew of them

Grammy, red, and the wolf

They never spoke of the hero

The huntsman, and what he took.

The town was old and old-fashioned

Everyone was kind and true

The huntsman carried a reputation

Of loving things that were new.

Shiny new axes, leather, and trees

All the newer the better

So buzzed the bees.

And then he saw her, there in the wood,

He saw young little red,

And he thought her for food.

The big bad wolf.

He lurked nearby

Known for his anger,

and hunting and trying…

For he’d ravished before; he’d ravish again

A family member, or stranger,

A foe or a friend.

He was hungry for life.. He came here to eat

And thus, in his time

No one could beat

The big bad wolf.

Poor little red,

Innocent and sweet,

Walking through the wood,

Ground, damp on her feet.

She came across the huntsman

He was handsome and tall,

Just then she tripped,

And he saved her from her fall

How kind she thought,

A hero he must be,

And to think I have him here,

protecting me,

He was patient and kind.

He walked at her pace.

She tried to hurry ahead,

He calmed her; this wasn’t a race.

He carried her basket

On the way to her home

Cautious to keep her close

Sure not to leave her alone

And the whole time the wolf

He lurked in the shadows

Something was wrong

His tummy; it bellowed.

Why was he with her?

This huntsman from town

Why were they alone?

The wolf slowly frowned

But little Red felt safe,

As they passed lakes and streams

Grateful the huntsman

Had kept her safe by his means

He walked on beside her

Axe on his shoulder

He was strong and brave

A true soldier

I can trust him, she thought

I’ve got nothing to fear,

The wolf won’t get me

He can’t even come near.

The wolf had run ahead,

He saw grammy was gone

But he knew the truth of his role

And the one, the huntsman, won

So, he dressed up as grammy

An attempt to dissuade

Little girl Red,

From meeting her fate.

As they arrived at the gate,

The huntsman, he said,

“Let me take you in,

My dear sweet Red.

You’ve had a long journey

You’ll be needing your rest.

And in the comfort of your own bed.

It is often the best.”

So Red agreed,

Noting nothing to fear,

She just needed to tell her granny,

The granny she held dear.

So, she entered the cabin,

So dark in those woods,

And gazed upon her grammy,

once lying, she stood.

“Oh grammy, what big eyes you have”

“all the better to see you with, and thereby keep you safe”

“oh grammy, what big ears you have”

“all the better to hear you with, to hear the truths scattered around the town in shame”

“Oh grammy, what big teeth you have.”

“All the better to protect you my dear, for this huntsman is not who you think.”

Just then, the huntsman entered.

He crashed right through the door.

He took the wolf that tried to protect her

And he slammed him to the floor.

Then he grabbed his axe so shiny

Sharp, strong, and new

And he slammed it into the wolf

They heard a cry, and then Red knew.

The wolf was not the monster,

He lurked to keep her safe.

For the minute the huntsman claimed her as new,

The wolf understood her fate.

The huntsman would have to have her,

He liked all things that were new,

The wolf would die to protect her,

And her innocence, it was true.

The blood ran down the boards

Of the cottage in the wood

And the wolf was thrown outside

As the huntsman claimed his goods.

You see, he’d ravished before,

he’d ravish again

A family member, or stranger,

A foe or a friend.

But new things were his favorite

His greatest joy to possess

Was trust and admiration

From his innocents

Little Red understood as well,

She fell back in confusion and pain

She was taught to protect against villains

But were good guys quite the same?

Just then the huntsman had her

In the comfort of her bed

In her home where she felt the safest

Her innocence was dead.

And the wolf, the bad man panting,

On the floor out in the wood

He howled to mother moon

Crying for what was once good

And the moral of the story

The one we need to understand

Is that sometimes the wolf can save us

From the kind, beautiful huntsman

And the only wolf you should fear

Are those who dress like sheep

For they’ll come and destroy you

While you count them in your sleep.

Through metaphors, I have found a voice beyond my own, one that people will listen to. Whether through my stories, advice, poetry, or just conversation, metaphors have helped build the brick walls that protect me and keep me safe. Metaphors have not only given me a voice, but they have also given me the ability to help others find theirs. In a world enveloped with so much of the same, it is always a step closer to the light when we hear that unique voice shine through; it is even more harmonic when we find and hear our own.