“Jennifer reads too many library books” wasn’t the only comment my elementary school teachers regularly wrote on my report cards. The other was “Jennifer talks too much.”
I absorbed these comments as failures. But, through the intervening years when these comments resurfaced, I gradually decided what they wrote was not what they meant. One can never read too many library books since reading itself teaches us. Surely, they meant I should give homework more attention.
I’ve also changed my interpretation of “talking too much.” Probably they meant I talked when I should have listened. That’s probably still true. But, I’ve decided talking is a personality trait, not a failure.
This understanding came long after the little girl became an adult, and it came from another teacher. When my father died, a professor from my first year in college commented on my propensity to speak up, to challenge thought in class. He said it told him I had been raised in a family that allowed discussion, allowed me to speak even when it disagreed with them. And he saw that as a good thing. What a gift! (I’m sure he understood back then the vast enlightenment 18-year-olds possessed! He also understood sharing this enlightenment was a way for me to grow.)
I began considering that “talking too much” could be okay, even useful, perhaps. I have friends and family who are not open about their lives. That’s okay for them. They have a right to be who they are. But I have embraced the belief that I can be myself, and part of that is being open about my life.
There’s a downside. I joke that sometimes I say things that never go through my brain on their way out my mouth. I’m afraid I may–and do–inadvertently hurt someone if I’m careless. I am trying to always think before I speak.
Given all this, I still had to think through how much I wanted to talk about my recent diagnosis of Stage 1 breast cancer. It was caught early, the outlook is positive and I am well aware of how very fortunate I am. Others have been affected so much more than I. So, no real drama here other than it is the Big C.
I decided to talk.
Every woman I meet may hate me because I am going to ask if she’s had her yearly mammogram. So far my early and informal statistics reveal about a half dozen women have reported they’ve gotten a mammogram because I asked. Several others have acknowledged they need to get one.
Most recently, a young mother stopped by my house, helping her daughter with a door-to-door project. We chatted as we stood on the porch, and I asked her.
She hesitated and then said, “I think I was supposed to be here today. I got my reminder letter six months ago and set it aside. I’m calling for an appointment Monday.”
I rest my case.
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