Sharpening the Knife, Not the Tongue
beyond deception
In her conversation with Kiese Laymon, Tressie McMillan Cottom said, “Those who we seek to humiliate, we eventually seek to destroy.” That sentiment echoes in my bones. It lingers in the quiet corners of conversation and memory—where language becomes not just expression, but weapon, theater, justification. Maya Angelou once said, “Words are things... they get in your wallpaper... in your clothes. And finally, into you.” I believe her. Words settle deep in our skin, in the marrow of our being. They take root. And often, before any act of violence, there is a word—spoken, written, insinuated. Language always comes first.
Where do we go when we seek domination? What stories do we conjure to make ourselves seem higher than we are? What projections do we cast onto others’ bodies to hide our own insecurities? It is both astonishing and terrifying how language can carry so much weight. I’d argue, like Angelou, that language has launched wars, burned homes, and warped public perception. A gun might pull the trigger, but words load the chamber.
I learned this in small ways, long before I had the language for it. I remember a moment in fourth grade, in a heated argument with one of my closest friends. The disagreement, probably over something trivial, spilled into our classroom. In a moment of frustration and pride, I said, “You still can’t whoop me though.” I thought I was asserting power, protecting my ego, calling for honor. But then Ms. Harris, our teacher, turned to me and said, “Do you think that beating someone physically makes you a man?”
In that moment, she wasn’t just diffusing a schoolyard scuffle—she was challenging the very foundation of what I believed about conflict, strength, and manhood. “What if you fought with your mind?” she asked. I’ve never forgotten those words. I am no stranger to using language to attack, to inflict harm. But Ms. Harris’s intervention became an anchor, reminding me that while language can corrode, it can also cleanse, reorient, rebuild.
As I grew older, I found myself constantly under a kind of spotlight. I don’t mean celebrity. I mean visibility. I failed publicly, while others failed quietly, behind closed doors. I stumbled in front of teachers, peers, and elders who seemed always to be watching. There’s a kind of humility in knowing the village has its eyes on you—but surveillance wears a different face than community. This duality has shaped much of my becoming.
In navigating this tension, I’ve returned often to the words of Zora Neale Hurston: “No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” That line has become a kind of meditation for me. I do not weep at the ways I’ve been perceived. I do not weep that I’m not allowed—by spirit, by conscience, by community—to turn language into a weapon. I do not weep that I’ve failed, or been misunderstood, or denied the comfort of invisibility. I’m too busy building - things, people, art, reflections, conjurings, a life.
As my grandmother would say, “My joy cometh in the morning.” And I believe her. I do not mourn the labor I’ve had to give, the sacrifices I’ve had to make, or the silences I’ve had to hold. I choose not to lie to build a throne. I refuse to weaponize truths to destroy. I know too well the power of language, and sometimes, I choose silence—not out of fear, but because I no longer find use in language’s mutation.
There is an old Yoruba proverb that captures this truth better than anything I could say:
“Èpìpà ńpa ara-a rẹ̀ ní òun ńpa ajá.”
The hard tick is committing suicide but believes it is killing the dog.
The tick is language when its mutated, morphed, and made to do the work of violence.