Skip to main content

Less Buts. More Ands.

But. It’s the lovechild of Truth and Denial, second cousin to Nevertheless.

A simple three letter word that takes up less than a half-inch of nine point Arial font. Easily read and pronounced unlike the billion dollar, multisyllabic words. And so we use it a lot. Maybe the sheer convenience of But is why we default to it so often. At the same time, And - another short, easily recognizable word - is used sparingly.

I can’t help but think the world would be a better place with less Buts and more Ands.

With But, everything is a mutually exclusive event, and everything is an either/or proposition.
This pot roast is good, BUT it needs a little seasoning.
Can’t you just see crotchety Aunt Sally (or whoever is notorious for critiquing your meals) grimacing as her words mask her intent to say your pot roast is barely palatable and far beyond the help of a little seasoning?

And, on the other hand, is a connector. In the land of And, things happen in tandem and mutually exclusive events don’t exist.
This pot roast is good AND it needs a little seasoning.
Just reading that, I can practically smell the rich, earthy comfort food aroma of gravy and beef, and see a cozily lit kitchen with windows fogged from the oven’s warmth. I hear my husband anointing his blessing on this comfort food, salt shaker in hand, and I feel good about the many hours that I…um, I mean, the slow cooker put in to make it.

Now that’s just dinner and a little salt.

Other times an And instead of a But could make the difference in self-esteem, the way parents and children relate and lessen heartbreak’s blow.

I think of the insecure teen.
You’re so smart, pretty and funny, BUT you need to lose about twenty pounds.
All she heard was that she’s fat. But erased the compliment that preceded it. All of it.
And might have helped her fully accept all the good and soak it in. And maybe that would help her believe in herself enough to work on losing twenty pounds. Or maybe to like herself just the way she is.

I think of the worn out parent.
I love you, BUT I’m really mad at you right now.
Hey mom, all Emma heard is that you’re mad at her. She didn’t hear the love part, and she thinks she needs to be the perfect kid so you won’t be mad anymore…and so you’ll love her.
And might’ve helped her understand that being upset doesn’t mean you stop loving.

I think of jilted lovers.
I’ll always love you and we’ll always be friends BUT right now I want to see other people.
Guess what? The whole part that came after the BUT, that’s all you really wanted to say...isn't it? Well, believe me, your soon-to-be ex heard it loud and clear because everything in your pre-BUT speech sounded like every adult in every Charlie Brown special: wahmp-wahm- wahm-wahm-wahm-wahmp.

But. A tiny word, so simple and unassuming, yet so potentially dangerous.
We use it without thinking of the power it holds as an eraser of the positive.
We add it into conversation as causally as we would a pinch of salt in boiling water, without considering its impact on feelings or relationships.
We use it as a lubricant to casually slide in our real message when we don’t have the guts to come out and speak our truth.

Just using And more often instead of But would force us to choose our words carefully, AND make us think about the real message we want to send AND be truthful enough to say it, even when the truth hurts AND if that happened, wouldn’t the world be a better place?

I think so.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

What 6 Christmas Songs Got Wrong

After Thanksgiving, a birthday party last week, another birthday party this week and Christmas coming up next week, I am officially overwhelmed. It'd take more time than I have to explain what yet needs to be done and if you're like me, you're probably overwhelmed and don't have the time nor inclination to read it all anyway. But even with an overflowing plate, I still love the Christmas season -- from setting up the Christmas tree that we got two weeks ago and decorated only yesterday, to lighting bayberry scented candles, to every Rankin & Bass Christmas Special, and the music. Oh, the music. Songs have a way of putting you in the Christmas spirit, warming your heart and next thing you know, you're hugging a stranger in the elevator. Okay, um...maybe that's just me. But alas, all songs are not created equal; and the following Christmas songs inspire and awaken anything but peace on earth and goodwill to men. 1. Christmas Shoes : This song makes my

Racism & Prejudice: Brothas from a Different Mother

Next week I’m attending  a seminar on defining racism. Should be interesting because: 1) I’ve been living in the skin I’m in for nearly 43 years and I’d like to hear about any advancements on the topic; and 2) back in college, some class I took defined racism as movement, advancement or otherwise being prevented and/or restricted based upon race .  Embedded in the definition was that racism took two parties – someone in power (the racist) and someone whose rights were being violated. So according to that definition, racism is an action , not an attitude . One is a disabling trespass while the other is prejudice . I tend to agree. It’s my belief that Martin Luther King and the thousands of civil rights fighters stood up against racism . They stood up against actions that prevented people from the pursuit of happiness – whether that meant voting, drinking from a common bubbler, or not ending up as Strange Fruit on a Poplar tree when all they wanted to do was get from P

The Moments That Are Given

Mom! It’s graffiti! It’s art... on a shoe ! I have to try it on. Please...can I? It was my 12 year old’s first foray into heels. A big moment in our little lives. Working full-time when she was an infant had stolen other big-little moments from my camera’s eye -- the first time she rolled over, the first time she sat up unassisted...the first firsts. Newly, gladly and willfully unemployed for the first time in 15 years, I took a picture. The picture wasn’t as much of an attempt to catch up on lost firsts, but rather a net to capture a butterfly’s moment of the moment; because if history skips a generation and the math holds out, there are more years behind me than ahead. My mom died at 63. Her mom died at 47. I’m 46. I’ve checked all over my person for a stamped expiration date, from the flabby inside parts of my arms, to the backs of my knees and other parts of my anatomy that shall remain nameless here.  There is no such date. Yet, there is a possibil